New York Weekly, Vol. 38, No. 32
MLA Citation
“New York Weekly, Vol. 38, No. 32.” Digital Gallery. BGSU University Libraries, 16 July 2024, digitalgallery.bgsu.edu/items/show/40476. Accessed 15 Feb. 2025.
Tags
Title | New York Weekly, Vol. 38, No. 32 |
---|---|
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 | 1883-06-18 |
Rights | |
Relation | New York weekly |
Format | Published works |
application/pdf | |
Language | en-us |
Identifier | Vol. 38, no. 32 |
https://digitalgallery.bgsu.edu/items/show/40476 | |
Type | Text |
Vol 38.Francis S St.^ {New York) June 18, 1883. No. 32. LIFE. BY FRANK LYNLIE. I sometimes think life’s meager span Is but a panoramic view Of living albums, that to man, Is ever changing, ever new. Some pictures filled with gladsome cheer, The weary hours of life beguile ; And others, cloudy, cold, and drear, Bring tears to chase away the smile. Ah, tho’ the day be e’er so bright With sunbeams from a cloudless sky, The beams will fade, and gloomy night Will come, and budding hopespiust die. But darkness cannot al ways reign. The night will pass, and then the dawn Will usher in the beams again, And bid the hour of gloom begone. Orphan Jenny, SLAVE OF THE CLOAK-ROOM. By K. F. HILL, Author of “THE TWIN DETECTIVES.” CHAPTER No. 307. - I Io fire again, I declare!” \ |e speaker, a tall, slender .■^dlute face, had just entered I. girl, with a dark, -------------------- -------the cloak-room of Messrs. Nelson Brothers, on Summer street, Bos- :on. gh- pyas one Of manv The cloak-room occupied ««4 three floors we/re already full Arrived qn the scene y>f their day’s A he cL Hiff fingers were pointing to the hour of seven and tn© girls, Onq wonae ajid brun^v^, wore the same look1—a got-up-early, and hurriJdly-dressed expression, and half-fed appearance. They were neatly attired, and carried lunch-baskets, which they hid away in corners as they removed their wraps with blue and stiffened fingers. “No fire again!” The words were on many lips, and a rough-looking, middle-aged man, who passed among the girls with scant’ceremony, elbowing them on either side, caught them up with a snarl. ' “No foire is it. Bad cess to ye, isn’t it time enough f°“Nof iHs not, Mike,” replied the girl with the resolute face. “No, for I come all the way from Chelsea and my hands are so cold I’ll lose the best part of an hour.” , , “Sure an’ what do I care if ye dp?” “I know you don’t care, Mike, but to-day is payday, and if I don’t finish my cloak I’ll have to go a dollar short, and I won’t be able to pay my rent, and my landlord told me if I was in arrears again this week he’d throw mother and me into the street, and keep our things.” “And why do you bother me wid your landlord’s talk?” Mike spoke in a surly tone, and looked as disagreeable as he spoke. “Because you ought to get here in time to make the fires, and have the rooms warm before we come to work. No girl can sew when her fingers are paralyzed with cold.” “Ah! bad luck to yer No. 307. Sure ye’re always grumblin’ and kickin’. Go and complain to Nelson Brothers.” “Yes; I know how much that would benefit me,” responded the girl, calmly. an’1 s’pose ye do. Sure ain’t I doin’ as they tells me when I saves the coals?” Mike passed on to light the fires in the stoves and the shivering girls took their places at the long tables. These tables, three in number, ran from one end of the room to the other, merely leaving space enough between them for the sewing-machines and stitchers. The cloakmakers each had a large deal box in front of her; this contained her work, and a card was tacked upon each box, on which was inscribed her number! When a girl entered the employ of Nelson Brothers she lost her identity; she was no longer a free being, but a machine, and a machine has no Christian or surname—a machine has a number. So has a galley-slave! What could be more fitting and appropriate than the fact that the girls in Nelson Brothers’ cloakroom, on Summer street, Boston, should be numbered like galley-slaves ? No. 307 took her place. She removed the deal chair which was placed on top of her box. Her working-apron was spread over its contents; this she shook out and buttoned about her slim waist with purple, trembling fingers. Next she took her work out—a cloth cloak heavily trimmed with bands of plush and glittering beads. It was almost complete, and No. 307 examined it 1 with a critical eye. “I’ve measured it every inch,” she said, thoughtfully regarding the garment. “I’ve measured it every meh. It can’t be wrong anywhere, and yet my heart misgives me.” “ What’s the matter, Bella?” asked her next neighbor, a girl whose naturally merry, happy nature had not all been crushed (^ut yet. “Well, Sadie, you know I’ve made five dollars by tp-night if this will pass; but you know the dodge— they jl send it up to me, and I’ll only get four, for Uns is a fifty-cent garment; then on Monday Miss Blesston will tell me it was a mistake and give me out another garment, and Nelson Brothers won’t tKe fifty cents till this day two weeks.” Yes, I know the dodge,’’yeplied Sadie, as she put on her thimble with a wemry sigh. > ‘ You ndyer can get a garment passodi upon ! day; it always /'mah^ rK^^Jr^^^^ndhev'’and tor Nelson Brn^ow just howio pleas4^^eA‘ ana res, you nded not care, you earn money to* dress yourself, but I nave a beu-ridden mother to support.” “Well, Bella, I often say when I go home on paynights, God help those girls who depend altogether on what they earn. I don’t pay any board, and mother washes my clothes. Why, how do the girls keep themselves in the clean aprons the forewoman tells them they must wear ?” “flow? Sadie, don’t you know how ?” Bella’s voice was very low, and something like horror crept into her dark, earnest face. “Well, Bella. I truly don’t—there’s Mary Masters; she always looks so nice, and I know by her tickets she only makes three dollars a wTeek, and the other day she said she paid that for her board.” “Never mind, Sadie, there is a great deal going on in this cloak-room that you need never know anything about; thank Heaven for your good home, and don’t ask any questions about girls who are not fortunate enough to have homes also.” e Bella’s fingers were now coming back to their usual color, for the stoves began to give out a faint heat. She toiled on, now and then rising to compare the garment she was making with the sample cloak which was on a form on the floor below. As she ascended the stairs, after one of her journeys to the sample-room, she met a young girl, who gazed about her in a bewildered manner. 1 “Excuse me.” said the stranger, who was hand- ipon’t you know that everything in this house is mine. Make up your mind some time before summer. somely dressed in deep mournim Is ^1S Nel- 1 son’s cloak-room ?” “Yes,” replied Bella. ] “Can I see the lady who engages^ hands t 1 “Yes, I’ll show you the way.” _ , > No. 307 turned with her cloak (her arm and conducted the new-comer to the fovpman s desk. This lady. Miss Griffin, was a fit, black-eyed : woman, and looked well fed and spfiod with herself 1 It was fortunate she was, for n^ne else could satisfy her. . . . , She looked up sharply as the twirls presented themselves before her. , ..... “Well, what is it ?” she asked, a quick, irritable manner. , , „ ., ,, “I’ve come to look for work. •> am, said the stranger, politely. Bella walked away; she could’t afford to lose any more time. . ... “I am not a cloakmaker,” saphe girl in deep mourning attire, timidly. . “You can sew, I suppose ?”rejd the forewoman, sharpiy. Yes, ma am. . . . . .. „ The girl’s pale face wore a seised Iook; it was very evident that she was vsed to being addressed in that tone. . . . “Well, if you can sew, you cinake cloaks any fool can.” “I wish to try, madam,” . ,, “Very well. What’s your n<« ana address ? ‘‘Jenny Weaver, No. — Lyn street. The f ore woman took up a j card from a pile before her. She wrote busily ft moment, ana handed the card to the girl, sayii “Follow me.” , Leaving the desk, she wad rapidly to the rear of the huge room. “Miss Blesston!” called tlorewoman. “Yes.’m!” answered a IX cold voice from a little side room or office. , “Come here! Here’s a nhand. Miss Blesston appeared. 3 looked at the strange girl with hard, unwinkinges. She was an exceedingly i woman, with a peculiar form. An unusually ?rt waist gave her an awkward look and gait, J among tlm girls, she rejoiced in the cognomen the Giraffe. Hei face was long and flat, her coKray eyes being dull and Her expression was soberly hard and iinprom-ising that the sensitive g quailed before her. “You wish to take out ^oak ? she asked. ‘‘Yes, madam.” . „ “Very well. Come to 1 sample-room. Jenny followed her indie little inner office. A great number of cloaks wire forms stood around the room, and many otls hung on hooks. “These are our sanes, said Miss Blesston. “Look at them, and telle what kind of cloak you Jenny examined the oaks, without haying the faintest idea of cloaking in any of its many h 1* fl P1J O She felt completely bRdered, and perfectly certain that making anyne of the inany styles of cloaks before her, wfQuite beyond her meager “There is the pridist!” said Miss Blesston, Jenny took the papJrom her hand. . It was a long list, ie cloaks, like the girls, were numbered, the priceeeing affixed. “Make up your mir some time before summer, said the amiable “ttaffe,” with a snort of eon- “Excuse me, mad<o>” answered, Jenny. I am very stupid; but allais is so new to me. “What kind of clot do you want ?” replied Miss Blesston, with an aiof resignation, quite ignoring the girl’s observatia. . „ “The simplest, an easiest to make. t “Take out Numbc 74.. That is what we call old women’s cloaks.’ iTe give them to the old women who have worked s long that their eyesignt begins to fail them.” , n . . . , >7 , Worked so long Kat their eyesight fails them! Terrible words! What arorld of meaning they contain t What a dcture of helpless, destitute age I Blindness coming on; the gaunt wolf. Want, following close behind. The failing sight taxed to the utmost; the weary, cramped fingers still toiling— those fingers blackened and pricked out of all semblance of beauty—that form stooped and deformed—those eyes dulled, and well-nigh sightless, were once bright and beautiful. Once that cramped and disfigured hand was eagerly claimed in the merry dance; that form tenderly clasped in a lover’s embrace; those eyes praised in passionate accents for their starry brightness. Time makes changes. “I’ll take out number 74,” said Jenny. “All right; come to the counter.” The girl followed the “Giraffe” across the room. A counter and a row of shelves faced her. A woman was in attendance. j, “Give her a 74,” said Miss Blesston. What’s your number?” she added, turning to Jenny. “I don’t know, madam.” “Look at your card. I declare it seems to me that a lunatic asylum has broken loose lately.” Jenny’s cheeks crimsoned as she heard the cruel remark, which was addressed to the woman behind the counter in a stage aside. She examined the red card which she had received from the forewoman. She was No. 306. ( “306‘” she said, turning to the lovely Giraffe. “All right. Now you have got your garment, go and look at the samples. If you make three mistakes, you can rectify them ; if you make four, we give the garment to some else to finish, and we don’t pay you for your work. So be careful.” A bundle was handed to Jenny. The “Giraffe” had walked off, and the woman at the counter was busily occupied attending to other girls—we mean numbers. Jenny walked up stairs, with her bundle under her arm. . , . , She entered the huge room, with a bewildered look upon her face. , „ , , , A buzz of sewing-machines, a host of forms bent double over their work. A bright-faced girl was about to leave the room, with a cloak over her arm. “Can I direct you?” she inquired, pleasantly. “Thank you. yes. I am No. 306. 'Where do I go? The girl had already learned her number. “Come with me; I’ll show you.” They passed rapidly along between the rows of bending forms till they reached the seat next to the dark girl, Bella. . . , „ , . , “That is your box,” said the bright-faced girl, and hastened away. “Thank you very much,” Jenny sat down, aad drew a pin, out of her bundle. , „ , There lay before her seven pieces of cloth, cut in all sorts of shapes; a paper of pins, a number of buttons, spools of thread, and a white label or card, marked with Nelson Brothers’ trade-mark, with a space below for the maker of the cloak to write her number on, also the number of her garment. She put her hand to her forehead with a weary “What’s the matter?” asked a sharp though kindly voice, and looking up she met large black : eyes shining out of a dark, gipsy face. “I have not the faintest idea what to do next. “Come, I’ll show you.” Bella laid aside the garment she was struggling so desperately to finish, and took up that of her new neighbor. “It’s very simple—the easiest one of all; do you know anything of cloakmaking?” “No. nothing.” “Hum! Then you are like the young bears—your troubles are all before you.” “I suppose so.” The soft voice shook, the sweet, sensitive lips . quivered. ,, „ “Don’t cry, for Heaven’s sake!” said Bella, quickly. , She glanced at the simple yet rich dress of the new-comer. Her sharp eyes read the story of Jenny’s arrival in the cloak-room., Her, deep marks run; then one of the stitchers will run them up for you. It isn’t hard—why, I can make one of those cloaks in a day.” , , , “Dear me! 1 fear 1 will never be able to make it at all.” “What nonsense!” “It really seems very difficult.” “Why, my dear soul, they won’t give me a 74.” “Why?” “Because they keep them for the, old women; they take longer over them.” “Why?” The large, soft blue eyes were opened wide in wonder. . “I can make those garments in a short time, and they are afraid I’d make too much money,” replied Bella, with a bitter laugh. “How much do they pay for such a cloak ? “Thirty-seven cents.” , , The beautiful face grew still paler than it had been before. “Thirty-seven cents for makingthis whole cloak!” Her hands trembled over their unaccustomed task, and her voice faltered. "Yes; didn’t they show you the price-list? ’ “Yes; but the lady spoke so sharply, and I was so confused, I never even looked at it.” "I work at higher-priced cloaks, but I could earn more at the easy ones, for I would not be obliged to be eternally toiling up and down to the sampleroom. Why, I never can get the same kind of garment twice; I try to take out the same number, but •it’s no use. Last week I made a 65 cloak. They pay a dollar and a quarter for them ; but bless your heart, I was four days before I could get it passed.” “And how do the girls live?” asked Jenny, in innocent surprise. “How they can,” answered Bella, saaly. “I have found a very plain boarding-house. I only have part of a room in the top of the house, and 1 must find my own fire, the landlady says, and she charges me three dollars a week.” “Just so.” Bella expressed no surprise in face or tone. “And the other girl who shares my room, she told me she once worked here, I’ve tried so hard to get something to do, I even tried to go into a house and mind some one’s baby, but the lady would not have me, for she said I did not look strong.” Still Bella said nothing. All this was not new to “But I can never earn three dollars a week, and what shall I do when my dresses and shoeswear The dark-faced girl merely drew up her shoulders with an expressive shrug. “How do those girls manage? They all look nice.” "I can’t tell you,” said Bella, dryly. “But how do you manage ?” “Ch, I don’t attempt to live in a boarding-house. My mother is an invalid, and I support her.” “How in the world do you ever accomplish it ?” “By living in one room in a tenement-house, and subsisting upon dry bread and weak tea.” “Cannot you get anything better than this to do?” The question was asked in tones of the deepest sympathy, and the great soft eyes were filled with tears. “Don’t pity me,” said Bella, crossly. “I hate to be pitied. Yes, I could if I had no mother, for I’d go to service n “But you could not do the hard work.” “One never knows what one can do till one tries. Bella now seemed disposed to discontinue the conversation, and Jenny, perceiving this, ceased to nddross liei* The girl’s’ slender fingers toiled on over the stiff hard cloth, and she timidly drew near the stitchers where they sat before the windows when her cloak was sufficiently advanced to require their aid. Most of them were busy, but two were chatting together, and occasionally bursting into loud fits of laughter. , „ . . , , Jenny hesitated about addressing these girls, and they alone were idle. , , , , Their appearance repelled her; their coarsely colored cheeks, so unlike the clear hue of health, so mourning, her ignorance of sewing—she had been I rich, and now was poor. ow — “You take these pieces and put them together, so;' evidently due to art. the locks of hair plastered on now take your white cotton and baste these strips ; their foreheads, and their loud style of dress and of lasting along the seams where those white , manner, caused the girl to shrink from them. THE NEV/ YORK WEEKLY “She wants her cloak stitched, Anna,” said one, . observing her. > "Does she ? Come on. Sis; we are a bad lot, but we haven’t killed any one lately.” "If you please,” said Jenny, and she laid the garment on the machine. "Why, great Scott!” cried the girl. “Look here, Ndly!” she added, pointing to the seems of the garment sewn by poor Jenny. Another loud burst of laughter from both stitchers caused the rich color to mantle over the beautiful face and neck, and a proud rush of tears to fill the young girl’s eyes. "Don’t, Fanny!” said the younger girl, as she saw Jenny take up the unfortunate subject of their mirth, and prepare to walk away. “Don’t! Can’t you see you have made her feel bad ? She isn’t our sort.” "Oh! don’t get offended, miss,” said Fanny, in an apologetic manner. “You musn’t mind a little thing like that, now ydu are in Nelson’s cloak-room, but your cloak will never pass the ‘Giraffe’s’ inspection if you sew it as it now is. Go back like a dear soul and rip it all out.” Jenny took up her cloak and returned to her place. “What’s the matter?” asked Bella, looking up with surprise, for do what she would, Jenny could no longer keep back her tears, while the lump that rose in her throat almost choked her. "They won't sew it, and they are so rude,” she sobbed. "Oh! if you look for politeness from Fanny Poole and Nelly Graham, I pity your case.” She took up the cloak, while Jenny leaned her head upon her box and quietly wept. “It is all wrong, but never mind, I’ll fix it for you.’t And so the girl laid aside her own work, upon the completion of which so much depended, and assisted her neighbor in distress. "Don’t waste your time over me,” cried Jenny, trying to draw it away from her. "It’s not wasted.” answered the other, in her own peculiar, dry, resolute way. "Some day, I may ask a much greater favor of you.” Prophetic words; in after life recalled by much more important events. CHAPTER II. DISINHERITED. Jenny Weaver’s rich black dress, with its handsome crape trimmings, told only a portion of her story. She had been rich and now was poor. Much lay behind that. « She was the only child of a very strange and peculiar man, formerly a New York merchant. He was a very old man to be the parent of so youthful a daughter, for he had married late in life. Jenny’s mother had not survived her daughter's birth many hours, and she had therefore depended for companionship solely upon her father. Her only other female relative in the city was her Aunt Mabel, Mrs. Dawson, a motherly widow, the mother of an only son, a wild and dissipated young man, most cordially despised by all who were acquainted with his true character. all. I'll send Benson to pack mine. Say, do you want the fifty ? can’t possibly spare more.” With one last parting look of utter contempt, the orphan turned and ieft her stately home in the possession of this usurper. Left the home of her childhood, friendless, well-nigh penniless. rShe determined she would not remain in New York. She felt as if the same city could not contain herself and Bertram Dawson. So she came to Boston to seek employment, and found it in Nelson Brothers’ cloak-room. CHAPTER III. PAY-NIGHT IN THE CLOAK-ROOM. Seven o’clock struck, and the girls rose from their seats with a simultaneous movement, and taking their checks from their boxes, descended to the cashicre’s desk. Bella’s dark face wore an expression of despair. Her cloak had not passed. The keen-eyed “Giraffe” had discovered various faults and blemishes visible to no eye save her own, and it had been handed back to the girl, whose crimson cheeks and flashing eyes alone spoke her indignant sense of the gross injustice. “Another mistake!” she said, bitterly, as she flung the offending cloak across her box, and taking off her apron, retired among a hundred others to the iron sink, and sought by means of sand-soap to remove the stains from her cramped and stiffened fingers. “I’m sorry, Bella,” whispered the new hand. Orphan Jenny—No. 306. “Don’tbe sorry; I told you before I hate pity!” answered Bella, sharply. Jenny shrank away from the wild-eyed fierceness of the girl’s face. Bella washed her hands in sullen silence, undisturbed by the sobs of a round-faced girl whose cloak would not pass either. “They owe—me—four dollars—and ninety-five cents—and I’ll have to wait—two—two weeks for the ninety-five cents!” “Of course,” said the stitcher, Fanny Poole. “Haven’t you more sense than to try to pass a garment on pay-day ? You might just as well take it easy—why. you fools, that’s the reason all the cloaks are paid for in such odd money—thirty-seven cents, fifty-three cents, and so forth. Are you so dumb you can’t see through that?” “Never mind, Bella,” said Sadie, “you won’t have to put another stitch in it; on Monday they’ll tell you it was a mistake, and give you your check.” “They shall never give me another cloak while they live!” The girl’s face wore the flush of fever, and her eyes sparkled like black diamonds. She listened, and the aid: "They are in the rooflelow me. And she continued: . . "They are concoctiniome mischief. Shearose, hesitated.id then left the room, and crept stealthily down srs, and listened at the door of the room where thepn were talking. Having listened sorminutes. she returned to her room, donned thheavy vail once more, and then went stealthily dm into the basement, and stood by the cellar do< x , The old negress wasot in the basement, having gone to bed as soon add Mortality was locked in lHo fir Theee was no light; the basement, and the girl strucX^one, but gnhg in the dark to find the door, unlocked it andirew it open. She then said, in a lisper: “Sir!” Old Mortality replii "Who is there?” I . “Dom’t you know r voice? "Ag zou the girl Lw in the room?” “Whit-db you wist “To/help you.” "Lj/what manner! “I will aid you to sape, “Can you?” - “Certainly.” , x . , , . , x The detective, feing a trap which might get him iukTa worse tr;than the one he was now in, said:^ I “Why do you wisne to escape? “1 have reasons tit.” “Doubtless; but iat are they? ... "I overheard a aversation between the blacksmith and the othanen.” “What did they s’?” , “That they were>ing to come down into the cellar in an hour ort> and kill you.” “The duse you s’!” And the detectivcontinued: “The blacksmitlTcte word to you, then.” “He L “Tlu^nws he i a rascal. “I s^poseso.” . “XVnl you fill manore concerning him?” tality who stood before them, the officers were profuse in their apologies. The detective hastened after the girl, but could not overtake her before she entered a house and disappeared. Old Mortality wrote down the street and number in his note-book and then hurried away to make preparations to put in operation another plan which he had already formed. ,, , , . Half an hour afterward a respectable-looking old gentleman apreared at the door of the house, and threw something down into the area, on the flagging. Whatever it was, it commenced to burn and send up smoke, The old gentleman then commenced to ring the door-bell furiously. A servant put his head out of an upper window and ciemaiSded: “What’s all that racket for ?” The old gentleman replied: "Tumble out, all of you, and get into the street as quick as you can. The house is on, fire!” Jenny’s Aunt Mabel had been dead for about four years before the day she made her first appearance in Nelson’s cloak-room, and already Bertram Dawson had scattered her large fortune to the four winds, “Why, Bella?” The question was asked by a score of voices, fof the girls—or numbers—were clustered about thd sink, trying to remove the traces of toil from their fingers. "Because it is the last time they will ever get al. chance to cheat me out of fifty cents. I heard Ed Nelson telling a man who came to buy cloaks the other day, that he would not smoke a cigar that cost less than twenty-five cents. He can enjoy two ^4. expense. I’ll make him.a present of them.” _™„, you must be mad!” more than one voice exclaimed. “Well, ther, relese me.” “I wilMmone endition: “Whatint?’’ , , , . . “That y<u will nt seek to detain me, and ask me no questioas.” “I promise.” , , , . . , The giri hesitaid no longer, but stepping to the side of the detecke cut the cords that bound his hands andfeet, ad said: Wet ^e>” : yt out of the house.’’ ^Th^Wayout.” Ao take her hand, and led the way [and out into the air through the e at my ex] '‘Bella, r exclaime - v The night being moonlight, the de-(..je that her face was concealed by the mistio neither ask you any questions, nor deta^you. I have a request to make of you.” “What is it * =e your vail. I wish to see your ‘What is i( Upon the sudden death of Jenny’s father, the eccentric millionaire, a will was found, in which his whole fortune was left to his daughter, providing she married her cousin Bertram! This will, drawn up in his own handwriting, and witnessed by two of his servants and Bertram Dawson, filled the girl with horror and surprise. She knew her father had always disliked the young man, and she had bestowed her heart upon another—Elliot Sutton, one of the noblest men upon earth, Jenny's lover—for though no engagement existed between them, they were well aware of the love each bore the other- was a surgeon in the United States Navy, and was now far away on duty in the Pacific Ocean, on board his gallant ship, and the young people did not correspond. Elliot was poor, and he had not dared ask Jenny’s hand in marriage, or even betrothal, till he acquired at least reputation. This he hoped to do by bravery and skill. Dazed by sorrow on account of the loss of her father, whom she tenderly loved—for, with all his eccentricities, he was always kind and indulgent to her—Jenny was astounded when she heard the family lawyer read aloud the most unjust will ever penned. Her father’s whole fortune would become the property of Bertram Dawson unless she became his wife! was dGStituto; for marry him she *1“ sat Ionina Looking up the orphan encountered the evil gaze of her cousih. He was carefully attired iii deep mourning. ! , . , 1 He was assort, thick-set man of some twenty-four years. His hlair was black and cut very close. His forehead wa# low and narrow, and his deep-set eyes had a strange, yellowish, hazel tint. A sickly, sallow skin'void of habitual dissipation, and his features wese otherwise mean and insignificant. Altogether ha was about as unprepossessing a being as eyes cauld rest upon. Jenny rose,\ lovely in her deep-black garments, her long golddn hair floating about her like a sun-tinted evening cloud, her marble white and roseflushed complexion, exquisitely regular features, and large, limpid blue eyes, rendering her such a contrast to the mean, truculent man before her, that the very angels might weep should a union take place between them. "Well, Jenny,” said Bertram, coming forward, with extended hand. “How do you do?” replied the girl, coldly, merely allowing him to touch the tips of her little ice-cold fingers. “Don’t youthink you might be a little more— what’de call it—with your future husband, eh ?” "I am at a loss to know your meaning,” said Jenny, with calm dignity. "Don’t know, eh?” A fiendish grin spread over his sallow,"unhealthy face, on which too plainly was written the story of his past life. “I certainly do not.” Bertram threw himself on a rich lounge, with a harsh, rattling laugh, without one particle of heart or mirth in it. "Don’t know that everything in this house, as well as all the old man’s tin, is mine, if you don’t consent to love, honor, and thing-em-bob?” Even his small eyes fell beneath the searching contempt which flashed from the orphan girl’s eyes. "And it shall be yours, if such was my dear father’s wish, which I shall never believe.” “Don’t believe it, eh?” “No. I do not believe it!” “What about the will that Benson signed as a witness?” “I do not believe my father’s hand penned one line of it.” "And why does Benson say he did, and that other fellow that died?” "Benson is an old family servant. As you are aware, he lived with Aunt Mabel till her death, and then my father took him into his employ. And Rodney is dead. You have deceived Benson with that infamous paper, and Rodney is not here to speak for himself; but nothing will ever convince me that my father wished me to marry you. for he knew what you are.” "Oh, he did, did he?” sneered Bertram, becoming livid with rage. “Yes. he did,” answered Jenny, calmly. , Don’t give this up till you get something else.” ‘I’ll get something else.” she answered, with a strange smile, half sad. half defiant. Turning away, she hastily donned a worn plaid shawl and a shabby hat. She looked beautiful in spite of her mean attire, as she hastily turned over the contents of box 307, removing her scissors, thimble, etc., and folding up her apron, she put it in her lunch-basket. The girls stood around in awe-stricken silence. Was it possible that No. 307 was about to cast off her allegiance to Nelson Brothers? What grand future lay before a girl whose ideas soared so high? Bella grbvely counted her checks. She had worked two weeks, often barely giving herself time to swallow the morsel of dry bread which formed her sumptuous midday repast, and she had not succeeded in earning enough to keep her bedridden mother from being cast into the streets on this bitter March night. Toiling from seven to seven for a shelter and a morsel of bread! All the girls formed into lines, and as they came to the cashier’s desk, they handed in their checks. These were strips of cardboard lined or ruled, and on them the forewoman inscribed the number of the cloak above the printed words, "Finished by---” Then came the girl’s number. As the cashier had a price-list before him, and as the prices never varied, it was an easy matter for him to reckon how much Nelson Brothers owed each hand. freckled fingers/^ He counted on dollars. ryi before himJBMt. — ^Without/removinVhis dfgar, he im^/ently siglxW foiyher to pass on. X whe stood firmly, however, and said, with quiet dignity: "Mr. Nelson, you owe me another dollar. Here is another fifty-cent check.” “Go on. girl. I only pay even money.” “Here is a fifty-cent check, and I have another cloak finished in my box.” Her cheeks were like wild roses, and her black eyes glittered ominously. “Then why in-------didn’t you pass it ?” The gentleman’s (?) brow was knit. “Because your examiners will never pass a cloak on pay-day,” said the girl, Quietly. “Get out of that!” Again he waved his fat, jeweled finger. "Mr. Nelson, pay this check, for I am leaving your cloak-room to-night.” “Miss Griffin, score No. 307 off the books!” He roared out the words, and flung a fifty-cent piece before Bella. "Now, goon! WiUyouV "Yes, sir; but not before I make you a present of the work on the cloak up stairs. Buy two cigars, and smoke them to the memory of a soul; and go home and teach your daughter to sing the ‘Song of the Shirt.’ ” He stood staring at her in open-mouthed amazement. as she turned away and, thrusting the other girls to either side, reached the street, where the March winds blew upon her heated face, and the chill of the snow coming through the broken shoes cooled her burning heart. * * “You’re late to-night, Bella!” The voice was that of a pale-faced woman, who lay upon a mean bed, in a mean room. The invalid was none too warm, for no fire had been kindled in the little stove that day, and the bleak March wind did not find much difficuly in gaining access to every corner of the room. “Yes, mother, I’m late; but just hear what I’ve brought you: A bottle of port wine, and a chicken, a nice fresh loaf, and a pound of butter, some eggs, and tea, and a can of milk; and wood is coming, and coal, and I’ve paid the landlord-” “But, Bella!” gasped the sick woman, staringin amazement, for Bella had turned up the light; “Where in the world did you get the money ?” “I’ve left Nelson’s cloak-room, mother; I’ve got something else to do.” “And what’s the matter with you, Bella ? Your cheeks are like fire.” “I’ve been walking fast, and the wind is cold— that’s all. Come, mother! the kettle is beginning to sing—let us eat, drink, and be merry!” • (TO BE CONTINUED.) “Well, it don’t matter what you say. in black and white, and Benson to claim.” I’ve got it prove my "So it appears.” “Yes; and you had better keep a civil ___________ rour head, Miss Airs and Graces, or you’ll soon tongue in have the key of the street handed to you, with a polite bow by yours truly. I’m coming here to live day after to-morrow, and, as I have a large circle of gentlemen friends, all jolly fellows like myself, it mightn’t be pleasant for a single lady to stay here. I can’t shut my friends out of my house, you know.” The promising youth stretched himself full-length on the costly couch and admired the fit of his boots. Jenny turned paler than the sheeted dead. Was this possible—that she must leave her father’s house? "You had better get out before I come in ; and just let me mention one little hint: Don’t put too much in your trunks—no plate or valuables—for I’ll take care to have you well watched.” The room seemed to dance around with the bewildered girl, and she was cold as ice. "I see you’ve gone in pretty extensively for your mourning; but I don’t mind payingjor that, as it is the last, and I don’t mind even letting you have a few dollars—say fifty—just to start you. I should think among your friends you’d get a place as governess.” Still never a word passed the orphan girl’s claycold, white lips. "Sulky, eh? Then I’ll take it back about the fifty dollars. I know what you are so mad about—your precious Sawbones El Sutton. I guess he’ll keep clear, now he knows his beautiful heiress has not got one cent.” Again his mirthless laugh rang out. Still Jenny spoke not. "Are you ready to pack up and go to-morrow ? It’s inconvenient for a fellow to be kept out of his own house to suit other people’s notions.” Horsford’s Acid Phosphate Beware of Imitations. Imitations and counterfeits have again appeared. Be sure that the word “HORSFORD” is on the wrapper. None are genuine without it. 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 XXVII. HUNTED. The cellar was as dark as pitch. The detective, had he been able to move his hands so as to hold them before his face, could not have seen them. Rats were in the cellar. Old Mortality could hear them running to and fro, A slimy thing crawled over his hand. It was a cellar snail. The detective tried in vain to break the bonds that held him. It was impossible. Bold man as he was, horror seized him. While the detective lay bound and helpless, finding it. impossible to free himself, some affairs of in- terest were transpiring up stairs. The girl who appeared and saved the life of Old “That yor face.” "I decliir “Well.i what yov request * “WhatTs? .2not press the matter, after or me; but I have one more “That you!1 Y°ur name.” “I positivePec^ne.” And she C(»nued’- “Sir-, if yoj1170 a gentleman you will now leave mThe detect0 bowed, and replied: “I cannot/use to do so.” “Good-ni^then.” “Good-niZ- x , ,a , . x v x Old MorkV went away, baffled, but not beaten. He had audy formed a plan by which to establish the identjof this strange girl, whom he believed was Miraa- And he now hurried away to perfect this plan. , About a hour after his departure a conversation occurred ithe room where the blacksmith and the two men W0- TJie blacksmith said: “What shll we do with the detective’s body ?” “Bury it iJhe cellar.” “Do you ^ink he has really any of his men watching the hotf0?” n „ . . _ ., , •Tsharr'^at s all nonsense. He only said it to prolongiistime. and perhaps save his life.” “Well t did the first, but 1 don’t believe it will do the latter.Shall we go ?” “Yes ” The nreLinaries having now been thus arranged, the thiw out their knives, with which they intande^ "°omplish their infernal work upon Sless detective, and descending found the \cellar door ihie ::0p^ “it’sT ways caw which tot “But hi “Oh, I s fellows wl >r.” counted for. Those detectives aleton keys, and slender pincers with ve keys that are left in the lock.” nds were tied.” fpose he is one of those double-jointed | manage to unloose all the knots that can be pulipon them.” "Well,” Laid the blacksmith, “it’s of no use to cry over milk that is spilled. "What’s to be done ?” “Come with me.” He went up stairs to the girl’s room, and knocking at the door, called out: "Hey! Ivantyou!” The girl rejoined: "Whatdo rou want?” ‘‘To speakwith you.” “Waituntl I put on my dressing-gown.” In a few ninutes she opened the door, and said: "Nowout vith it.” "The deteitive has escaped. It may be much to you.” “How so?” “He’ll be here after you the first thing in the morning, if not before.” The girl, becoming alarmed, said: "What is to be done?” “You must leave here instantly.” “Where shall I go?” The blacksmith gave her some instructions, and a few minutes afterward she left the house, carrying a small traveling-bag. And, as she walked rapidly along the sidewalk, she wrung her hands, and said, in a low voice, intense with misery: "This is fearful 1 What a terrible thing it is to be hunted from one place to another.” CHAPTER XXVIII. ON FIRE. Old Mortality, having left the house where he came so near losing his life, went at once to his own rooms and thoroughly disguised himself. Fifteen minutes after he entered, there emerged an old woman, who was as different from the Italian rag-picker as one can well conceive. The old woman was as rough as the roughest; she was attired in rags. She staggered slightly as she walked along the street. This hideous old woman hastened on her way until she reached a spot near the house where the detective had been imprisoned in the cellar, and then stopped and hatched the house until the girl who had released him came out. The old woman staggered out from the hiding-place,. saying,in a bw tone: “It is a pity to frighten her, poor thing, but it is necessary forher ovn good.” The old woman beame very drunk all of a sudden, for she staggered frightfully, and reeled up alongside of the git in time to hear her say: “What a fearful thing it is to be hunted from place to place.” The old woman reeled against her, and caught hold of her arm, as if to steady herself, at the same time saying: “Yer right, my daisy; so (hie) it is.” The girl, who was seriously frightened, tried to jerk her arm away, and said: “Go away, you fearful creature.” The old woman, apparently becoming enraged at the epithet, “You fearful creature,” exclaimed: “Oh, I’m fearful, am I? Well, then, I wonder what you are, and what you’re doing now.” “I am on business.” “He, he! so am I.” Just at that moment two policemen came along, and the girl appealed to them for help, saying: “Officers! Officers!” The old woman muttered, below her breath: “Those fellows will ruin everything.” The policemen were on the opposite side of the street, and. as they came across, in no particular hurry, the old woman said, in a low tone to the girl: “If you’ll raise your vail I’ll let you go.” “I won’t do it.” By this time the two policemen were on the spot, and one of them,addressing the girl, said: “Now. miss, that’s wanted?” “This frightful old woman has attacked me in the street.” “Well, old blossom,” said one of the policemen to the old woman,"we’ll have to take you in.” The girl ran off. The old woman proved very docile, for she made no resistance to the officers, but said, in a lovtone: ‘You had better let me go. They call me Old Mortality, and if you don’t believe it look at my badge. I am on the trail of that girl, and will miss Now the girl spoke in alow, calm tone that sound- ed strangely evento herself. . --------------„—--------------------------- * ... - "I am ready to go -now—to-night, just as soon as I Mortality went to a certain room in the house and her if I am detained here much longer. You just Minnie can pack my dresses.” I sat down for a few minutes, when.she heard voices frustrated a pretty little game of mine.” “All right, glad of it; then I need not go away at I talking. I Becoming convinced that it was really Old Mor- CHAPTER XXIX. NOWHERE TO GO. The servant, alarmed, cried out: “You’re fooling!” “I tell you I’m not. Look here! “Where?” “In the area. The fire shows there.” The servant looked down and saw the fire. Supposing that the entire lower part of the house was in flames, he threw down the window and ran through the house, crying: "Fire! fire!” The old gentleman laughed and said: “I think the game will work. My girl, if you are Miranda, I will soon know it.” He retired to a convenient door-way on the opposite side of the street, and stood watching the house. , . . And now occurred one of those singular coincidences which are always happening. At the very moment Old Mortality dropped the combustible material in the area, of course not intending to burn it, the house was really on fire, and in a few minutes was burning fiercely. The inmates of the house came rushing out, some of them half dressed and crying out in fear. , Old Mortality, hidden in the door-way, observing the pandemonium, said to himself: "Can it be possible that I caused the fire ?” A moment’s reflection convinced him th at such was not and could not be the case. At the moment he threw the tow the real fire must have already gained great headway, and he continued: "Why doesn’t the girl make her appearance ?” An instant later she appeared. To the surprise and chagrin of the detective, her face was still covered with the vail. She came hurriedly out of the house, and, retiring a little way, stood looking at the Are. She spoke no word to any person. In a moment Mortality observed her press her hands together convulsively. , “Ah!” he said, “she is in trouble. She has nowhere to go.” .. Having come to this conclusion, the detective crossed the street, and going to her, said: “Good-evening, miss.” The girl replied: “Good-evening, sir.” . , , 011 Mortality could perceive that her voice trembled. and judged that she was crying. He said: "Can I do anything for you?” “No, I thank you.” “You are turned out of your house by the fire.’ “Alas, that is so!” “Have you anywhere to go ?” The girl replied, sadly: “Nowhere, ’ “No home ?” “No, sir. not at present.” “Then it seems to me you had better go to a good hotel.” The girl replied, hastily: . “We had better drop the subject.’ The detective said: "Young lady, you forget that I am an old man, and I claim to be respectable. Look at my card. I am the father of a family, incapable of injuring one like you.” "I hope so.” . “I will take you to my own house and introduce you to my wife and children.” The girl hesitated, and finally said: “Sir, you ere very kind.” “I cannot forget that 1 have daughters who may. sometime, be placed in the same relation that you are placed in.” The girl’s voice^was tremulous as she replied: “Pardon my unjust remarks. I now believe that you are a good man.” "And you will trust me ?” “I will.” , , , “You will never regret it; but before we go you had better tell me your name.” "Strange as i-t may seem, sir,” replied the girl, "I must decline to/accede to your request at the time. I < 4<)duce you by some name to my I don’tknow it ‘ , _ “Tell Mr, then Jail trim, > me, for the present, be nameless.*’ “You shall have it your own way; but at least raise your vail and let me see your face.” The girl said, in a trembling voice: “I cannot.” Have you, also, good reasons for concealing your face ?” “Yes.” “Well, then, I will not insist upon that point either; but I will trust you if you will trust me.” “I do trust you.” “Perhaps, then, you will sometime have confidence enough in me to trust me further,” “Perhaps.” “Very well then, young lady,” said the detective, “take my arm and come.” They walked together several blocks without speaking, and then the detective stopped before the door of a house and rang the bell. All the inmates were undoubtedly in bed, for it was some time before the ring was answered, and then a voice inside the door said: “Who is there?” Old Mortality replied: “I.” “Oh, I see.” With this somewhat enigmatical answer, the person inside opened the door, and said: “Please wTalk in.” The detective w’hispered: “Don’t be surprised at anything you may see or hear, and don’t, by any means, contradict me in the least” And he continued, to the girl: “Now, my dear young lady, please to walk into the house.” “Yes, for the purpose of saving her from despair, and the young man who loves her from death.” “You astonish me.” “You will be more astonished when I tell you the whole history of the case.” The detective then proceeded to give her an outline of it, and when he had done so, and also imparted to her his suspicions, she replied: “It seems incredible.” “It is the most remarkable case that ever came within my experience; and I think that, if lean procure your assistance, I will, within a few hours, reach the end of it, secure the vindication of the innocent, and bring the guilty parties to justice.” “Tell me what you want me to do.” “And you will do it?” “Yes.” “You must, then, represent me to this girl as your husband, and you must tell your daughters to speak of me as their father.” “That will be rather a delicate thing to do. It / may bring scandal upon us all.” “I will see that it does not. You consent ?” “I do.” They left the room, descended the stairs together, and entered the parlor, where they found the girl sitting, with her face buried in her hands, in an attitude of despair. Her vail was still down. She raised her head as they entered, and the detective, crossing the room with the lady, said: “Wife, this is the young lady I was telling you about.” “She is very welcome.” And (he lady continued: “Whatever my dear husband says I alwavs consent to, I assure you. Allow me to procure some refreshments for you.” > "Thanks, madam; but I assure you that I donot require any.” “You must allow me to have my own way, my dear, if you please.” “But, madam, I am a stranger------” “There, there, my dear! what does that matter? We will soon be better acquainted.” “Madam, you and your husband are so very good to me----” Without answering the girl, the lady touched the bell, and her husband, in the costume of a servant, entered the room and said: “What do you wish, madam ?” “Refreshments.” The gentleman left the room, and presently returned, bearing a tray which contained wine, biscuits, and fruit. The lady filled a glass with her own hands, and offered it to the girl, who said: “You are too good.” “Not at all, my dear,” said Old Mortality. “Didn’t I tell you my wife was one of the kindest of women, and would be to you like a mother ?” "She is, indeed.” The girl took the glass of wine and placed it to her lips without raising the vail, placing the glass underneath it. The detective looked at the lady, who said: “My dear, doesn’t your vail inconvenience you ? “No, madam.” “You had better raise it.” “Please do not ask it.” Old Mortality shook his head, and the lady desisted. A second plan had been tried by th<Qj^eteg^ five to secure a glance at the face of the mysterious girl, and failed. What was to be tried next? Would he have to resort to force and tear the covering from her face? Only as a last resort, for violence with women was something which had not, heretofore, entered into tlie experience of Old Mortality. Taking her cue from him, the lady said, in an affectionate tone of voice: “Well, of couise I do not want to insist; but since you are to be an inmate of my house, I must call you by some name.” “Call me Unknown for the present.” “How long will what you call the present last ?” “I do not know.” The lady rejoined, feelingly: “My dear, I am sure you are suffering from some trouble which, if you should tell me. I am sure I could alleviate.” The girl replied: “Pity me! Oh, pity me; for I am the most wretched woman that walks upon the earth I” The lady, caressing her, rejoined: “Tell some kind friend your troubles. It will relieve your aching heart.” “Don’t urge me. Oh, I am so weak, when under the influence of your kindness.” "To-morrow?” “Perhaps.” The girl left the lady, and sank down once m . on the sofa, burying her face in her hands. / I [TO BE CONTINUED.) ' | £ A capital detective story, founded on a mosy// trancing mystery, will be begun next week, un the title of "The Maltese Cross.” It is by Eugi T. Sawyer, a new contributpr. CHAPTER XXX. A REMARKABLE CASE. The person inside had by this time succeeded in lighting the gas in the hall. The detective said: "Light the gas in the parlor.” While this was being done, he stood with the girl in the hall, saying nothing. When the gas was lighted in the parlor, they entered, and Old Mortality said to the girl: “Will you please excuse me a moment?” “Certainly.” “I will go and bring down my wife.” “I fear I am causing you a great deal of trouble.” “Not in the least.” Old Mortality then left the parlor, and spoke to the man in the hall as follows: “My friend, did I ever do you a service?” “The greatest service. Old Mortality, that one man can do another.” “Did I refuse all compensation?” “You did.” “Well, you now have an opportunity to reciprocate.” “What do you want?” "I wish that your wife should, for the present, call me her husband.” “What!” “You may think this a strange request, but if you will allow me to explain I will do so.” Old Mortality gave a short explanation of the case he was working up. The gentleman said: “All shall be as you wish. Wait here a moment.” The gentleman was absent only a moment, and, returning, said: "You may go up, if you please.” “Where?” "To my wife’s private sitting-room.” “I wish to caution you. Your character is to be that of a servant,” The gentleman laughed, and said: “All right.” “If the girl who is inside attempts to go out while I am up stairs, detain her.” "I will do so.” “Don’t let her go out of the house on any pretense whatever. 1 believe she has been more sinned against than sinning, no matter how great a crime she has committed. Treat her, then, very kindly, I am obliged to practice deception upon her in order to do her a kindness.” Having said this, the detective went up stairs and knocked on a door. It was opened by a lady, who said: “Mr. Mortality, I am very glad to see you.” The detective acknowledged the salutation in appropriate words, and then said: "I have a favor to ask of you.” “My husband has told me something of it.” “I will tell you more.” “It isn’t necessary. Only tell me what you want me to do.” “There is down stairs a young girl.” "I know it.” “I have never seen her face, neither do I know her name.” ‘‘That is strange.” “But I believe I know who she is.” ‘And want to be satisfied?” [•‘Set in Diamonds” was commenced invNo. 18 Rank Numbers can be had of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XL. FLASHING IN THE SUNLIGHT. Those present will never forget the strong, tragi-cal, dramatic interest of that scene. The sun shone full into the room, the golden light fell on the dark old oaken furniture, on the superb tapestry, on the silent figures of those who waited the result of the search, on the detective, who wore a mask as of iinn .. He stood by the black trunk motionless, yet with a sense of triumph in his heart. The housekeeper had grown white and frightened; but the figure on which all interest was concentrated was that of the woman kneeling with her face buried m her hands. No one spoke, no one disturbed that profound silence Until the duke, with Barnes, entered the room. The duke looked at the detective, looked at the kneeling figure with the hidden face. “Your grace,” said Mr. Barton, “I find this truffle belonging to Mrs. Grey, has a false bottom, in which I am quite sure there is something concealed. I await your orders. Am I to break it open or not ?” A terrible quest on. A shudder went through the kneeling figure. The duke looked at her. If Mrs. Grey had been standing up with a calm, unconcerned face, if she had been angry, if she had protested against it, if she had cried out that she did not wish her property to be touched, the duke would have said, “No” ; but there was something in her aspect as she knelt there, something in the crouchingrtl^Jl^ bling figure that told of fear. If it had bet^n any/ other emotion than fear, he would have said, “No”;/ but fear in this case meant guilt, and justice must be/ done. “Shall I force it open, your grace ? You can see ’ that it is of great thickness; it would hold much.” Then something like life and animation came to the kneeling figure. Mrs. Grey raised her death-like face ; she clasped her hands as one who prays. “Sir,” she cried to the duke, “I beseech you to sav< me this indignity. I swear to you---” Then she stopped abruptly, and the words diec I half-formed on her lips. “She is unable to swear that there is nothing there, / commented Mr. Barton. The duke was really distressed; he did not line d* I ing anything that seemed unkind ; yet, in justice 1 I the remainder of his household, that box ought to I J broken. ( “Barnes,” he said in his turn, “will you ask tl I duchess if she will be kind enough to come here for | few minutes ? She shall decide.” They heard a low wail from the kneeling woma | and every one who listened thought and believed I to be a sign of guilt. • “Donot let her come,” said Mrs. Grey, “do not send forher!” “Poor creature,” thought the kindly housekeeper, “lam afraid she is guilty.” The duke answered her kindly. “I think it will be for the best, Mrs. Grey.” He felt in that moment, that even if she bad stolei all the diamonds, and had them hidden there, )e could not be very hard upon her. When the doors of the tapestry room openedto admit’the duchess, it seemed as though light, briefness, and sunshine came with her. She looked at he different faces in wonder; she looked at the kneeng figure and ghastly face of Mrs. Grey with fear. She went straight up to her, and held out bot^^F * < hands to her. I The unhappy woman, with a cry of somethinike / despair, caught the dress the duchess wore ar iid | her face in it. I “What is the matter ?” asked the duchess, he-eiu- I tiful face all distress. “Your grace,” said Mr. Barton, “I want y^IBr- [ mission to break open this box. Let me sfl he | matter briefly: your diamonds have been lei— | stolen evidently, as I think, by some one in tfloise / hold; they are, I believe, hidden in the hous J Aid I here a most likely place for them, and I f year [ grace’s permission to open the box, in fa^ss to | others, in justice to myself.” The duchess turned the light of her bead1.face to the woman who clutched her dress with ?alriig fingers. She laid her white hands on the bJ hesd. “My dear,” she said, gently, “you need1 Mild. Let the box be opened, J am quite sure diamonds are not there.” But Mrs. Grey did not raise her face v1 smile, glad of those kindly words. She bent Kad still lower, she clutched the dress even more fiiHngly, I F THE NEW YORK WEEKLY THE LOVE TEAT LIVED that* might have 'ook through nature tell 39B his fell the the ou.” am Laid, in a qestioning tone, wheeling ^C*Dig his cousin when the door had ulosed behind the waiter, and Mr. Dimisdale, very By T. W. HA^HEW. Author of “YOUNG MRS, CHARNEEIGH.” compelled eve»an atli^ up to nature’s’’God !’\ The Calais packet v the^hopping wavg^ prow, the light of the suY. ing to a perfect close—a^^ummpr/ sunset an artist might have raved over; 1 thaO might have calmiy to tiie wmaow. and stood look moonlit chanwel until the ienow nua :vara, cuLLingyi ’“Well?” he a qesfioning t th her sharp yvund and faQhg his cousin when about her, and closed behind the waiter, and Mr. Di “I beseech your grace,” she cried, “do not allow it to be done!” Then Mr. Barton spoke. “I am so sure,” he said, “that there is something wrong. It is through my penetration and skill we have reached so far, and if I am not permitted to do what is right, just, and fair, I must give up the case. When the machinery of justice is once set going, it is not fair to interrupt it.” He spoke angrily; he saw the haughty expression of the duchess’ face. “I am quite sure,” said the duchess, calmly, “that none of my jewels are there.” “And I,” said Mr. Barton, “if your grace will forgive me for contradicting you, I am equally certain they are there.” “The only thing is to break it open,” said the duke, hurriedly, “and so put an end to this scene. Before the box is touched, I must say that I quite agree with the duchess, no diamonds will be found there.” “For Heaven’s sake I” cried a wailing voice, then it died away. “Have no fear,” said the duchess, looking down at the kneeling woman; but the only answer was a wail, such as she had never heard from human lips. Remember, you who follow my story, how the sun shone in the room—how its light fell on the oak, the tapestry, and the living faces. They all drew near the box, except the duchess and the woman who knelt with her face hidden in her dress. A group that reminded one of a guardian angel and a penitent sinner. At the first vigorous blow give’' by the detective, a cry came from the white lips of Mrs. Grey: it was as though the blow had been struck upon her heart. Another, and another ; even the duchess turned her head to see; a crash, a sound of falling wood, a little cry from the duke, and then the detective triumphantly exclaimed: “I told you so.” What was it ? All the light of the sun seemed to be drawn into it; the rays were so brilliant no one could look at it. Flashing in the sunlight, set in diamonds, lay the *^^<gOFtrait of Lord Stair. “ When the duchess saw it a cry of surprise broke from her; when the flash of the diamonds reached Mrs. Grey she cried out in despair. For some few minutes they all stood in silence, wonder-stricken and grieved. Mr. Barton took up the shining gems. “A small, finely painted miniature.” he said, “set in diamonds. There are, I see, twenty-five of the finest water. The back of the locket is richly worked, and it is attached to a golden chain. Your grace, if I mistake not, this belongs to you ?” The duchess held out her hand and took it. The sunlight flamed and gleamed, and the rays of light fell over her fingers. Mrs. Grey raised her head for one moment; when she saw the portrait in those white hands, she cried out like one suddenly blinded. “Does the portrait with the jewels belong to your grace,” he asked, and she was compelled to answer sadly enough: “I am sorry to say that it does. It is mine. My father, Lord Stair, gave it to me.” There was profound silence for a few minutes, the silence of pity and compassion. Still the duchess did not draw her dress from the clasp of those despairing hands. “There needs no more,” said Mr. Bartoi>. “Your grace’s diamonds found secreted in this fashion, I may say now that from the first I suspected this wo-^mah was a thief.” “Why?” asked the duke. “Because I saw that which honest people unaccustomed to such things would quite fail to see. I saw that she was here in an assumed character and in disguise.” “Is that true ?” cried the duke. “Ask the lady herself,” replied the detective. “I defy her to contradict me,” and no sound, no whisper of contradiction came fr©m Mrs. Grey. It was then that the Duke of Neath went up to his wife, who still held the flashing diamonds in her hands. “Ethel, leave that woman,” he said, sternly. “L warned you from the first. Be pleased,” he said, addressing the kneeling, crouching figure, “to release the duchess’ dress,” and when he drew it away somewhat abruptly, she fell with her face on the floor. The duke led his wife away, but she cried out with pity and with fear. “Let me go back to her—let me help her, Fulke ?” “You shall not touch her,” he cried, angrily. “Such women as these are not to be even looked at by such as you. Tears came into the beautiful, pitying eyes. “Oh, Fulke, do not be hard upon her!” she pleaded. “I am not; but justice must be done,” he replied. “The question now is, where are the other jewels?” said Mr. Barton. “This is but a very small portion of what is missing. My opinion now, your grace, is that the rest of the jewels have been sent away and disposed of. This has evidently been kept, that the diamonds might be taken from it and sold. I We must find the rest.” The duke was looking thoughfully at the portrait. “&hey are magnificent stones,” he said. “Ethel, I : ■ ^p^ember to have seen you wear this?” the duchess, her clear, sweet voice vi- i with emotion. “I was always afraid of losing ? c#e nothing in the world that I value so much. ’ ^igift both from my father and my beautiful mother. She left it for me, Fulke; it was d in paper. I have kept the paper all these i it is the only line of her handwriting that I It said, ‘For my daughter Ethel, when she is <fd enough to know her father’s face.’ Oh, Fulke, - w here is the paper ? I would rather have the paper \ with my mother’s writing on it than all the dia- 1 lends in the world I Look for tlie paper, Fulke." , But she, like every one else was startled. Mrs. jfrey was standing before her with a white, ghastly i race, and trembling limbs. “Listen, listen!” she cried; “I am guilty! I am i guilty!” With a terrible cry, she stretched out her arms. “I am guilty!” she said. “Do with me as you will. I am guilty!” 1 Her arms fell nerveless—her head drooped. She i was the very picture of despair. “I knew it,” cried the detective. “I should never have believed it,” cried the duke. “It is not true,” said the duchess, and all three < spoke at once. “I am guilty,” she repeated; “say no word for me, your grace. It is useless. I am guilty.” “Where are the rest of the jewels?” asked the detective. She looked up at him with wild, wondering eyes. ; She did not seem even to understand what he meant, i “Where are they?” he asked; “all the diamonds and pearls, the rubies and sapphires—where are they 1 gone ?” ; Still she made no answer. She did not seem to understand. * “Your grace had better ask the question yourself,” said Mr. Barton. : The duke, standing at some little distance from ; her, said, sternly: “Will you answer the question asked you, Mrs. Grey ? What have you done with the rest of the < jewels?” • “I have nothing to answer—nothing to say,” she replied. “You must do with me as you will.” i “You will surely have the justice to tell me where : I may regain my lost property? Speak to her, Ethel.” “I do not believe she knows,” said the duchess i Her husband turned away angrily. “You must speak, madam,” he said, sternly. I But she only cried out the more: “I have nothing to say. I am guilty. Do with me v^-what you will!” “She does not mean to tell,” said Mr. Barton; “but if I were in your grace’s place, I would make her.” CHAPTER XLI. “I AM GUILTY. ” । “What shall I do ?” asked the duke of the detective. “Except for finding tne portrait set in diamonds, I do not see that we have made much progress.” “We have a certain clew,” said Mr. Barton, who lettered himself that he had shown extraordinary jenetration. ; “What is the use of the clew, if the woman will not ; »eak ?” cried the duke. “Nothing can be more clear ; । tan her guilt; but if she will not speak, who is to ; i lake her ? I have heard of many wonderful things, : lit I have never yet heard of any power which Vould force a woman to speak, if she did not wish to.” “Go to her, your grace; tell her that if she will give you information as to how and where you can ’ recover the lost jewels, will give you some clew, you will not prosecute her. She will turn queen’s witness. I am sure her courage has failed her; I can see that.” “A good idea,” said the duke. “I will go at once.” The duchess had gone to her room, weeping as her husband had never seen her weep before. Mrs. Grey was still in the tapestry-room, the old housekeeper remaining with her. There the duke went, and found Mrs. Grey seated in her usual chair by the window, looking deadly pale. He could not quite understand it; she certainly did not look like a thief. Her face was full of sorrow, but it was dignified sorrow; there was the light of strong resolution in her eyes. She might have been a martyr, a queen of sorrow, but she certainly i did not look like a thief. I The duke was perplexed as he looked at her. From her clasped hands and closed lips he could have fancied she had been praying; but the prayer of a thief! -the bare idea was ridiculous. “Madam,” he said, gently, “you have done to me and to mine a grievous wrong. I am not here to re-jroachyou with it, but to ask you not to make this yrong greater. I want to appeal to your better feel-। lugs. My wife has shown you great kindness, great । Mfection. I will not ask how you have requited her, tut I appeal to your memory of her kindness to tell Ac where her jewels are.” rl cannot,” she murmured. “Pardon me; that is not true; you can if you 6 j “I cannot,” she repeated. The duke’s face darkened. “That means,” he said, “that you will not.” ; She made no answer. ) “You add ingratitude to theft, Mrs. Grey,” he cried, > angrily; yet the expression of her face startled him; . it bore more of the high resolve of the martyr than j the fear of the detected thief. “I come to you,” he continued, “with offers of mer-i cy. If you will give us some certain clew to the lost jewels, you shall not be prosecuted. If you will not, ; you must suffer as the law directs.” “I must suffer,” she said, in a low tone. “My lips • are locked. You must do with me what you will.” “It is such an incredible thing,” continued the duke. “You are certainly a lady, well born, well , bred, well educated. My wife, cut of the kindness > of her heart, brings you home here, and you repay . her by stealing her jewels; it is an unheard-of case. Mr. Barton says that you are perhaps not the actual i thief; his opinion is that you have been planted here by a London gang. I think it very probable, too.” . For one half moment her face flushed, and her eyes shone with a strange light. While he was talking to her, while his words fell like a hot lash, stinging her, she was saying to herself: “I am not Mrs. Grey, I am not a thief—I am Marguerite, Lady Stair, and the portrait they think I have stolen is the one my husband gave to me. Ah, me, how well I remember!” If she had not repeated those words over and over again to herself, she would have gone mad. “I know,” continued the duke, “that you will not like to betray your accomplices, there is such a false notion of honor among thieves. If I could persuade you, for your own, for my wife’s, for my sake, to give us a clew. I valued those jewels greatly; they have been in my family for many generations. Some among them belonged to my wife’s mother, and the duchess is deeply grieved at their loss. I am so anxious to recover them that I would almost promise to reward the very thieves themselves if they would restore them. My own self,” he continued, “I should never have believed it possible, or probable, that you had anything to do with it, if the portrait had not been found in your box.” “Will you,” she asked, tremulously—“will you give me a few minutes in which to think ?” “Yes,” he replied, gravely; and she turned her face to the window. She could see the sun shining on the trees and flowers, a warm August sun; yet she felt no heat, the blood ran cold in her veins, her very heart was chilled. What was she to do 1 How little, when she indulged herself in her heart’s desire, had she dreamed of this terrible ending. It was in vain to look back now; the deed was done, and she must abide by the consequences, let them be what they might. Now she had three minutes in which to think. Where was she ? What had happened ? Before her lay the warm glory of the summer afternoon, near her stood the tall, stately figure of the Duke of Neath. It was some time before she could collect her scattered thoughts, and think connectedly. Had she done the only thing possible in proclaiming herself guilty ? If she had said she was not guilty, they would have asked her. “How she came by the portrait ?” and if she avowed the truth, the old terror and shame would revive; and her daughter, the beautiful young duchess, would be shadowed by her shame. After being dead to them for all these years, she could not let them know she was living. Believing her dead, her daughter revered, loved, esteemed her, spoke of her with tears in her eyes, worshiped her memory. Ah! better to have died a thousand deaths than for her daughter to have known that dreadful story of her love, her pain, and the threat of the Divorce Court. Better anything than that. Cheerfully, as years ago, for that same daughter’s sake, she had chosen death in life, so now she would choose prison and exile. Yet there was another branch in the matter to which she had not yet given any consideration, and she wanted to think of it. If she pleaded guilty, they, believing that she knew where the jewels were, would make no further search for them, and so they would be lost for ever. That was horrible to think of, yet how could she avoid it ? What could she do ? If she told them truthfully she was not guilty, they would ask, “Whence had she the picture ?” and the truth must come out. If the truth did come out, she believed that her daughter’s life would be marred; therefore, it must never come out. They must do as they would—imprison, punish her as they would—she would keep to her plea of guilty, and bear it! Never, through word of hers, should her daughter’s beautiful head be bent in shame—never should she know that the woman to whom she had been so charitable and kind, the woman accused of being a thief, was the hapless mother, Marguerite, Lady Stair. Anything rather than that—coldness, exile, and death ! There was the steadfast light of martyrdom on her face when she turned to the Duke of Neath. “I have thought,” she said, “and I—I have no answer to give.” “You will not tell me where the jewels are, Mrs. Grey?” “I cannot,” she replied slowly. “It means the same thing. You know what the alternative is.” “I can imagine it, your grnc& » 9iie “And you will make no effortlat avoiding it?” “I cannot,” she repeated; watmix- -v..—- - Still the Duke of Neath seemed unwilling to leave her. He paced hurriedly up and down the room, while she regained her dignity jand her calm. “I cannot bear the idea,” he said, “ of a delicate and refined woman like yourself going to prison. To me it seems perfectly horrible. Can I do nothing to tempt you, to persuade, to beseech you ?” “Nothing, your grace,” she replied, gently. “You cannot be a hardened sinner, a hardened thief,” he continued; “it is impossible. Can it be that you are a victim; that you are in some way in the hands of this gang ?” “No,” she answered; “my guilt is all my own.” “Then you refuse, definitely, to give any help or clew, however small, by which we can discover what we have lost ?” She winced at the words. “I cannot,” she replied. “You prefer the alternative—trial and prison.” “I must bear it,” she replied, and the duke, with an angry word, left the room. There was no more use in words. “I can do nothing, Ethel,” he said; “you had better go to the wretched woman yourself, and see if you can influence her.” The gentle, generous young duchess looked very depressed and unhappy. “Fulke,” she cried. “I am sure there is some mystery in it. I can never believe that refined and gentle lady has anything to do with it.” “You forget the portrait, Ethel.” “Ido not. I saw it brought from her box, but I cannot help thinking that she is shielding some one.” “I do not see who there is to shield,” he replied. “Nor do I; but I cannot think her capable of it. It seems to me quite as possible that I should be a thief myself.” “My dear Ethel, there is some difference between the Duches of Neath and a lace mender. Go yourself, and see if you can do any better.” The duchess went. She looked pale and distressed. She would have given anything she had in the world rather than this should have happened. She entered the tapestry-room, where the housekeeper and Mrs. Grey still remained. Mrs. Grey had.found her calm and dignity with the duke, she lost it with the duchess. “Do not speak to me!” she cried. “Do not come near me!—do not look at me with those kind, pitying eyes!” Tears ran down the beautiful face. “I would rather,” said the duchess, “have lost all my fortune, all my diamonds, and everything else, than have caused you such trouble.” “Heaven bless you,” sobbed the elder woman. “My husband has asked me to come and persuade you,” she said; “persuade you to tell us where the jewels are; but I cannot. I feel, no matter how appearances are against you, I feel that you cannot be guilty. I saw the portrait, set in diamonds, taken from your box; but I cannot believe you guilty—I will not.” “Heaven bless you,” sobbed the weeping woman. “I shall take those words with me even to my death.” “My great grief is,” said the duchess, “that I have lost the most precious memento I had of my dear mother; the only paper in her handwriting addressed to me; that was worth more to me than the diamonds.” Then the weeping woman drew nearer to her. “I am going to prison,” she said. “You have been kind as an angel to me. Will you, before I go, forget my misery and shame, and let me once—just once— kiss your hands ?” The duchess tried to take the trembling hands into her own, but the woman, who was Marguerite, Lady Stair, bent her head and kissed them with passionate kisses and tears. “My heaven—my all!” the duchess heard her murmur. She looked up with heart-broken eyes into the beautiful face. It was her last look on earth, she believed, on that which she loved so well. “You will always remember me,” she said, “and remember that I said—‘I am guilty!’ ” CHAPTER XLII. “MAKE NO EFFORT TO SAVE ME.” There never was so bad and miserable a time at the castle as that which followed the robbery. In vain the duchess prayed with tears that there should be no prosecution. “ Anything else you wish to ask me I will grant,” he replied. “This I cannot do. I must recover the diamonds ; they have been in our family so long. I should be doing a great wrong, Ethel, if I did not make every effort to find them. They belong to the whole family of the Neaths. I merely hold them in trust. I must do my bdo recover them. Your Mrs. Grey might save lelf if she would, but she will not.” Mrs. Grey had been ta to Clavering jail, there to await her trial at thetember assizes. No one had the least doubt of - guilt. Facts were all against her, and the strost was that she persistently refused to tell whad become of thefLewels. It was well known that tlike had not only Vered to pardon her, but to talare of her for li' \yet she would say nothing tlvould lead to the u ?ov-ery of the gems. She persistently refustherefore she must be guilty. The magistrate committed her, the solicitor who defended herunseled her strongly— to tell—to break her silen The magistrate was' so impressed with the paleeet beauty of her sorrowful face that he went of his way to have a long conversation with h He pointed out to her the difference there woibe in her fate, if she would give the clew to discovery of the diamonds. She would save self long years of imprisonment, and undo a n grievous wrong. She looked at him wibyes full of steadfast light. “ 1 cannot speak,” she i; and although on the most reliable evidence hel just committed her to prison, he vowed to himsthat she had no more stolen the diamonds thanhad. It was the same with? solicitor, Mr. Brans-combe. At first she stea- refused to have any solicitor. “ What could it profit h she said, “ when she was guilty ?” But the chaplain advised; and Mr. B^nscombe, a solicitor, who had beeiuch interested in the case, offered her his servic t “ I will ask no fee,” he s, “ unless I c] “You cannot do that,”ie replied, guilty.” He looked at her with keeyes. “ You may be guilty of liething,” he said, “ but you are not guilty of this cge,” and he saw that her pale face flushed crims He could do nothing witter; in vain he talked, persuaded, scolded. “ Other people may thinlhat they will,” ho said to her; “ I know that you hnothing to do with the robbery of the diamonds; I that in some strange, mysterious, foolish way yore screening some one else, or you are sacrificing rrself after the foolish manner of foolish women. < it not so ?” She had the same answeir him as for every one else: “ I am guilty.” “ Tell me something that an urgAin your favor,” he pleaded; “ something tl I can make the most She looked up at him wit, grave, gentle smile. “You are very good ancind to me,” she said, “ and I am most grateful t ou. Do you know the greatest service, the greajt favor and kindness you can do for me ?” “ No; but I will do it, if y will tell me,” he said. “ I would do anything to Id you.” “Do this,” she said, gen; “make no effort to save me.” “That is the only thing lannot consent to do,” he answered’ “ Ob, if I col persuade you—if yon would pause and think whyou are doing. You are are ruthlessly flinging awajmir life.A1- And he wondcred--<iIynS£‘^^ low> little laugh, as if in his wcdJthHe was something even of amusement. He cufl domore. “ I cannot see,” he said t hw or© day, “ in what way your silence benefits yu.” I “The best and wisest ations. of .our lives,” she replied, “ are not always lie actios which benefit ouyselves.” [to be coninuej], WEDDED WIDOW OR, ' [“A Wedded Widow” was commenced iu No. 23. Back numbers can be had of all Newsagents.] - CHAPTER XVI. AFTER MANY DAYS. The sun was going down i^nnpriflam me of rose, and gold, and purple; a sheei of amber lay on the channel’s waves, and the airivas opaque with yellow mist, as though that radipt arch in the western sky showered impalpable gol dust on the glow of the waters beneath. Out of theunset glory rose “the white cliffs of Albion” like pasted hillocks on a russet sky; a shadow of pearl al silver yet lingered in the darkening east, an<a flush of rose lay on the vessel’s spotless sails. Itvas ^perfect day, draw- Austria, Brussels, Copenhagen were visited; then back again to Ypres, Normandy, and finally bright Paris itself. By this time the summer suns had come again; the old illness, the old restlessness had returned, and one dusky eve when the twilight lay yellow on the Seine just as it had lain over the grave marked “Madolin,” he drew his kinsman to the river’s bank, and with his eyes fixed on the russet sky, he turned away and said: "John, the old dream of vengeance is coming back again. I cannot find peace in forgetfulness, and so I mean to seek retribution. I am going to London.” His kinsman looked at him in surprise. “Going to London, Royal?” he repeated. "What for ?” “I have told you.” he answered, in a cold, calm voice, “I am about to gratify mv dream of vengeance. I have been reading the English papers at the hotel, and I have seen a name in their columns that has set my brain afire. He is there—Arthur Negwyn is in London, and I mean to seek him, mean to strike him back as he struck me—honor for honor, and heart for heart! Hush! do not interrupt me. Mv life and soul are welded in the task, and nothing shall swerve me from my purpose now. It is your co-operation I want. To-morrow we shall start for Calais—you shall take the Dover steamer, procure a private dwelling in some respectable part of London, and in three days meet me at the Dover landing. Hire the place under your own name—never let mine be even whispered —and before another winter’s snow lies on those two graves, wife and daughter shall be avenged!” It was quite in vain to attempt dissuading him; his mind was set on tlie task; and on the morrow John Dimisdale shook hands with him, and left him standing on the Calais wharves. This is what we learn by looking back, dear reader, and we no longer wonder why Mr. Dimisdale stands alone on the white bluffs of Dover and watches, with eager eyes, that vessel steaming onward through the sunset, and the blue waves of the English channel, for it brings his kinsman iothe land of a foe; and, looking on the dancing waters beneath him, Mr. Dimisdale can see only shadows and sorrow in the future, even as there were misery and suffering in the olden past. The big red sun drops lower in the western sky. The idlers on the bluffs depart by twos and threes. A broad yellow moon lifts its luminous face over the waters. A few large stars peep silently out. At last Mr. Dimisdale stands alone on the white cliffs, with the hush of the summer eve about him. The packet steams majestically on toward the wharves that cluster about the little city beneath him. The vessel has been delayed, and he is very anxious, very nervous, as he stands there and watches it grow bigger and bigger as it draws near the shore, and it is positive relief to him when the pilot-bell clangs, and the people swarm eagerly down the wharves below. The long wait is over, and very briskly he turns away and joins that noisy throng. The packet touched the landing, the cables were made fast, the gang-plank was lowered, and then came the black string of passengers swarming from the vessel’s side. Mr. Dimisdale stood a little apart from the throng and waited for Royal Karslake’s coming. The crowd parted a little, a drooping figure came down the gang-plank, a deal of silver in the hair that used to be dark, a restless sadness in the eyes that used to be so bold, a quantity of crow’s-feet about the stern, imperious lips of old—and the ghost of the man who spoke to Charlotte Dimisdale that night on the yellow sands at Long Branch came through the noisy throng and took his kinsman’s proffered hand. "You have carried out my plans?” “To the very letter. Royal. We stop at the Lord Warden Hotel to-night, and at noon to-morrow we leave for London.” This very singular greeting was all that passed between them, and turning away, Mr. Karslake summoned a cab to drive them to the Lord Warden Hotel. , , He was exceedingly calm and collected as he stepped into the lumbering old vehicle, and sank back in the dingy cushions, but Mr. Dimisdale was very pale and very nervous, and his kinsman noticed it. “You seem agitated, John,” he said, in a solicit-uous voice. "Has anything disturbed you?” Mr. Dimisdale started a little, looked confused, and finally managed to stammer: “When we have supped there is something I wish to show you—something I cannot thoroughly understand.” Mr. Karslake made no reply. Whatever the cause of his kinsman’s singular agitation, he knew he should learn it at the allotted time, and sinking back in the faded cushions of the cab, he maintained a meditative silence until they drew up before the doors of the Lord Warden. Mr. Karslake deposited his effects with the burly porter, and passing into the hotel, the two gentlemen were conducted to their suite of apartments. Supper was ordered and served in the little parlor, whose broad, airy windows opened on the channel, giving a view to the moonlit waters in the distance, and a glimpse of the citadel, one of the fortifications of picturesque old Dover. Mr. Dimisdale’s nervousness appeared to increase as the meal neared its close, but Mr. Karslake was cool, and calm, and collected to the very last. He pushed back his chair when he had finished, rang for the waiter to remove the remainder, walked calmly to the window. and stood looking out on the moonlit chanwel unt il the fenow naa invited. ' CHAPTER XVII. "DIES IRIE, DIES ILLA. The calm white moonlight of another night flyover the streets of London. In the aristocratic quarter there was the customary quiet and sedatt-ness, but the busy thoroughfares were full of noise and life, and bustle. Out from the calm of the aristocratic quarter into the noise and glitter of the busy thoroughfares. John Dimisdale and Royal Karslake moved arm in arm. You were startled when you saw the change time had wrought in Mr. Karslake that night when he came down the gang-plank of the Calais packet, but you were almost horrified now, seeing how intensified the change had become since that hour in the parlor at the Lord Warden Hotel. He looked ten years older; he tottered like a man of ninety, and his eyes flared into every face that hurried by him in the crowd, as though he looked for her he once believed slept calmly in her lonely grave, or sought for him to whom he owed a lifelong debt ot vengeance. "Ten.” went forth from the clock in the steeple of St. Paul’s, as the two kinsmen made their way toward Trafalgar square. Over them rose the tall white shaft of the Nelson monument, around them ran the everlasting surge of hurrying humanity, and where the crowd was thickest they paused and looked around. A little knot of people moved from the walk into the paved drive of the square; half a dozen cabs came rattling suddenly into the street; the people started and ran, some forward, some backward, and then, on the noise and bustle of the night, went up a human cry of pain. A white-haired man staggered and fell; the wheels of parsing vehicles rolled across him; the cry went up again, and then silence fell. They that stood upon the walk hurried forward; a mob had gathered; the cab was stopped; and, crushed and bleeding, the fallen man was lifted up. His burning eyes flared into the faces about him, his purple lips quivered and breathed out his home, and then, with a gasping, soul-sickening cry. he shivered once and swooned. It bad all been done so quickly that Royal Karslake scarcely knew the man was injured ere he saw the people raise him and bear him toward a cab. “It is an accident, John.” he said, in a startled voice. "Poor fellow! doubtless he is killed.” The crowd came moving onward slowly—that limp/blood-stained figure in their midst—and bending forward a little, Royal Karslake looked upon that pallid, death-stricken face in the light of the glaring lamps. It was only one swift, passing glance, and then, with a shuddering, gasping cry, he turned and seized his kinsman’s arm. “Look! look!” he cried out, hoarsely. “The judg ment of God has overtaken a guilty wretch! A last thank God, at last! Powers of vengeance, its Arthur Negwyn!” “Arthur Negwyn!” panted Mr. Dimisdale, growing deadly pale. “No, no, no, Royal! It canned be —you are mistaken!” “Mistaken? Never!” came b.ick the hoarse reply. “Does the needle mistake the pole ? Does the savage red man mistake the foe he has tracked for years ? It is Arthur Negwyn, I say; it is Hermione Karslake’s lover, and though time should change him a hundred fold, though a necromancer’s power clothed him in another shape, I should know the foe I have sought for twenty years! Look, look I They place him in the carriage—they drive away. A cab, a cab, I say! I have found my foe. and I must track him to his lair 1” Aback was at the corner where the crowd was thinnest. He turned with a wild, ferocious madness and hurried blindly to it.” “Follow that carriage!” he called out to the cabman, as he sprang in and dragged his kinsman after him. “Ten pounds to you if you track it to its destination!” The door closed sharply, the cabman bounded to his seat, and in another moment they were rattling swiftly away under the London lamps. The carriage in advance of them wTas rolling onward slowly, and they had little difficulty in overtaking it. Once it stopped to pick up a surgeon on the way, and then the gentle pace was resumed. It was a long drive—a very long drive—and the clocks had struck the hour of midnight before the cab drew up to the curb, and the driver scrambled down from his seat. But Mr. Karslake was at the door almost as soon as the cabman touched the knob. “ Have we reached our journey’s end ?” he questioned, eagerly, and cabby bowed his head “ ’Tother un’s stopped ’arf a square up, sir,” he said, quickly, “ and they’ve just carried some one into the third willa there. There goes the carriage now, sir—it’s the ’ouse wi’ the lamp afore it.” Mr. Karslake drew a crumpled bank-note from his pocket, and pressed it into the driver’s hand. “Come, John, come!” he uttered, in a choking voice, and catching his kinsman’s arm, he dragged him to the little villa, where they had borne in the crushed and blood-stained figure of Arthur Negwyn. The door was half open ; a crowd was gathered in the narrow hall-way; a dim light burning in a room at the other end of the passage, revealed a little knot of men clustered around the sufferer’s couch, and moving up the low steps, Royal Karslake beat his way through the crowded hall until he reached the threshold of his foeman’s death-chamber. The flickering light played fantastically over that ashen face; the purple lips were quivering, and the open eves looked. uiu.w'k.Vy upward, as though, they . rested upon the mysteries of that life beyond the the^nopping wave^ riine — prow, the light of the suilo. about ner, ana the foam trailing away in 1 A nke, the only speck visible to the naked eye fro’^ 3 tall White bluffs of Dover to the green hills of France. You have been up there Dover chalk cliffs, of course, and the road is hcW.wto you as we drag our way up the winding, zl 'ag path, and look down on the channel belowf ^Neither are we the only ones that enjoy the majeUc sunset from this grand old outlook; for glancin a little to the left we see that knots of troops from Fort Burgoyne are grouped here and there aerss the summit of the bluffs, three or four fat old woncn lounge back in comfortable nooks, fanning iheir red faces with huge palm-leaves, and lookingvery much as though they were going through a slow process of boiling; half a dozen misses in blue md white wander about, enjoying the sunset, (and i sly flirtation with the red-jacketed troops when tie fat old ladies doze for a minute, or become too mich interested in domestic tonics to see what theiicharges are doing.) and from Dover Castle—standiig over there on a picturesque bluff, three hundred and odd feet above the sea—to the boundary of tie Drop Redoubt, somebody or something is eitter moving about, or dozing, or looking at the incGning packet, and we have any quantity of company at this “summer sunset hour.” We look casually from face to. face, and finally manage to become interested in one. It is not a dashing officer, however, it is not one of the fat old dowagers, neither is it the winsome beauty of the misses in blue and white that brings this feeling to us; for they are strangers all, and the face that attracts us is one we looked last upon in "the light of other days,” and in a far different scene from this. The gentleman standin? there is very familiar. He is a little older, perhaps—a little more wrinkles about the lips and eyes,a little more silver about the temples, and a little more bending about the shoulders and knees—but the change is not sufficient to preclude the sudden reversion of memory, and while he stands there watching the Calais packet come steaming in, we glance at him for the first time, and easily recognize Miss Dimisdale’s father in the drooping figure before us. He stands at the edge of the bluff, watching the vessel with an eagerness that leads us to surmise that its. safe landing is a matter of no small interest to him, and being of a very curious disposition, we set about hunting up the whys and wherefores, while he stands there alone. It is a very dark history we trace backward from that night by the lonely grave in the Jersey hills, and to both of the men who stood there in the yellow luster of twilight time has wrought suffering and sorrow enough to make the golden past seem ages and ages ago. Setting their backs to their native land, they sailed away to sunny Italy, trusting blindly that life might yet hold some brightness for them. A month in Genoa was enough to dispel the dream, and broken in spirit and in health, they took up a wanderer’s cross and strayed away, seeking forgetfulness as eagerly as Ponce de Leon followed his delusive dream of the fabled fountain of youth. All a vain delusion! Glorious Rome, with its ruined grandeur, brought only memories of a blighted past, and the drone of old "Father Tiber,” washing the sands with his yellow waves, sang only of “what might have been,” never of what yet might come, and breaking now under the ban of his secret sorrow, Royal Karslake began to droop and grow melancholy. Venice was visited, the Vatican, the Bay of Naples—all in the hope of reviving him, but each more vain than the other. He would die, the doctors said, unless his insatiate desire for travel led him into some land whose climate agreed with him better than the fevered air of Italy; and when a year had come and gone since the night he looked back on the lonely grave marked “Madolin,” chance led him to Spa, and under the revivifying influences of the great German watering-place he seemed to take new life and forget for awhile the shadows he had left behind. He was improving, and John Dimisdale began to hope where he had once despaired. The glories of Spa would save him, he told himself, but the hope was dashed to earth again, for after a few brief weeks at the famous watering-place, Mr. Karslake again grew restless and resolved to travel once more. In vain his cousin tried to dissuade him ; he could live in one place but a little while, he said, and if travel would bring him peace, he would purchase it at the risk of his fortune and his life. And once again the weary pilgrimage began. Antwerp, white, very nervous, got up and faced him. “Don’t be agitated at what I am about to show you, Royal,” he said, in a. wavering voice, “for God only knows what this mystery may mean. Come to the light a moment. I want you to look at this picture.” His trembling hand slid into an inner pocket as he spoke, and the photograph ot a woman came out in the quivering fingres. “Tell me who looked like that, Royal ?” he said, as he put it in his kinsman’s palm, and Mr. Karslake’s eyes fell on the pictured face. One look—only one—then with a gurgling, gasping, soul-sickening cry, he let the picture fall, and staggered blindly back. “Madolin! My God! Madolin!” Only that panting exclamation, then, with a swift and tiger-like ferocity, he planted a swift heel upon that pictured face, and looked up into his kinsman’s eyes. “How dare you show me her likeness ?” he uttered, bleakly. “How dare you recall one phantom of the past?” But Mr. Dimisdale stooped and wrenched the picture from beneath his heel. “Calm yourself. Royal,” he said, nervously. “It is indeed a phantom over which you are excited. This picture is not Madolin’s; it is that of a stranger.” “A stranger? No, no; it. cannot be. It is the face of Hermione’s child, I tell you—the face of Madolin, who sleeps in that lonely grave. How did you come by it, and where?” “I purchased it in London, Royal. The picture shops are full of them. It is the portrait of Mlle. Violetta, the reigning actress of the day.” He paused a moment, and looked in his cousin’s face. “Shall I tell you what it made me think, Royal?” he said, presently. “You sent me to London because Arthur Negwyn is there. Do not start; do not cry out. Well, the woman with that wondrous likeness is in England also. Royal, it was only bleached and snow-whitened bones we buried in the Jersey hills. Might there not have been a mistake 1 Might not this man be Arthur Negwyn, the younyei'? Might not this woman----” A cry broke in upon his words, “Peace! peace, I say!” came forth the hoarse interruption. “You set my brain afire, No.no.no; I’ll not believe it. Madolin is dead.” “But if not, Royal? If there has been a mistake— if the bones we buried were only those of a stranger —if Mlle. Violetta and Madolin Karslake are one. what then. Royal—what then?” And the face that turned to John Dimisdale then he never forgot to his dying day. “What then? You ask it—you?” the hoarse, impassioned voice replied. “Take lesson of the Roman father who sacrificed his offspring to the stern decrees of justice. If Madolin Karslake lives, a murderess exists; and a murderess must go to the scaffold! Look at me! These whitened hairs are the work of her arts; this bended frame, these sunken eyes, the child of your love lying unavenged in her early grave—all, all are the cursed evidences of her crime; and shall not justice be done? If she lives, let her tremble! The hands she has palsied shall find strength enough to drag a murderess to her doom, the honor she has crushed shall find life enough to see justice done, the voice she has broken shall find power enough to cry, ‘Behold a murderess! let blood be avenged!’ and the infamy she has sown shall be reaped according to her deeds. Hush! do not speak to me. Alive! Ah, Heaven, it cannot be. Alive—Madolin alive! My brain reels, my heart is bursting. Leave me—leave me. John, and let the past be dead again.” He staggered to the window as he spoke, and fell on his knees before it, his bowed head resting on the broad sill, his thin, white hands clasped over his throbbing temples. Mr. Dimisdale moved forward and touched him on the shoulder. "You forgive me for recalling the past, Royal, do you not?” he said, and the man before him breathed out a husky “Yes.” “I could not help it: the picture moved me. and I had to speak. But we will forget it again, Royal, and to-morrow we will start for London.” There was no reply from the figure at his feet. He was still, as though death had touched him; and looking once more on the white head drooped in . the luster of the Kentish stars, Mr. Dimisdale turned 1 away and left him there alone. Into this room Royal Karslake niioved suddenly, and advanced to the sufferer’s couch.\ The dying man was looking upward still, his lips moving, as though in voiceless prayer. Putting the< men aside, Mr. Karslake stalked forward, and"laid* his hand upon the sufferer’s arm. < "We meet at last, Arthur Negwyn/,” he said, in a cold, calm, measured voice. “Look on me, and me if you forget the past.” The staring eyeballs dropped and rested on foeman’s passionate face; the quivering lips apart with something like the bleak murmur of winter wind, and with the lamp-light touching__ death-whiteness of his brow, he closed his eyes and uttered: “ Royal—Royal Karslake!” " You know me, then Mr. Karslake said, with an open sneer. “ Memory has been as merciless to you as it has to me. The prayer of a life-time is answered—we meet at last, but it is not the meeting I have dreamed of, it is not the meeting I desired.” The waxen lids lifted suddenly, and the eyes that had death reflected in them, flared into Royal Karslake s face. “I had hoped for it—prayed for it, and God has been just,” he breathed out, hoarsely. “Yes, we meet at last, but death is between us. I am dying, Royal—I want to see you alone. I must see you alone. Send them away—all of them. For my sake —lor Hermoine’s sake, send them away and listen.” He was failing .fast; his crushed and mangled chest quivered with every effort, and blood trinkled from his lips with the utterance of each word. “ Send them away—for God’s sake, send them away !” he breathed out, hoarsely ; and hearing his words, they that clustered there passed softly from the chamber of death, closing the door behind them, and leaving the foemen there alone. The yellow lamp-light was on that haggard, death-stricken face; the eyes were again turned upward, and the lips uttered, in a plaintive wail: “Not yet, oh, Lord, not yet! Grant me a little strength—grant me an hour more of life, for suffering Hermoine’s sake.” He was dying—dying with that woman’s name upon his lips, and a tempest of passion seemed to rise in Royal Karslake’s heart. “Peace, peace, I say!” he cried out hoarsely. “I have dreamed of meeting you with the weapons of death in my hands—I have prayed to be the avenger of my own honor, yet God has robbed me of my hope. You are ill—dying—and that commends you. to my mercy. But speak again the name of the woman your devilish arts thrust shamefully into the jaws of hell, but think again of Hermione Karslake while I am here, and I will forget my manhood and have vengeance even on the brink of the grave. Beware, I say! You have left little good within me, and behold! I am a devil like yourself!” But the pale, death-dimming eyes never flinched. “Spare yourself the misery of an assassin’s conscience, Royal,” the grave, low voice replied. “Spare yourself another murder, to be more regretted than the first.” “Murder!” answered Mr. Karslake. “Whose death lies ou my head?” “Hersl” came back the swift reply. “Kill me if you will. God is just, and I do not fear, and before Him, before you, aye, even before the universe itself, I tell you that Hermione Karslake’s death lies at your door! God gave an angel into your charge; you broke her heart, you vilified and defamed her, and yet she was as chaste as ice, and as pure as snow.” I “It is as false as hell!” “It is as true as Heaven, Royal Karslake, and I call God to witness what I say. You would not believe me while I lived—I dare not meet my Maker with a lie upon my lips, and you must believe me when I die! Between us two existed only the love of a brother and a sister; sin there was not—infamy, only tne shadow of your own mad suspicions. The one woman I ever loved became my wife—the mother of my boy. God took her, God took him, and I rejoice that I shall meet them soon again.” A ghastly whiteness came into Royal Karslake’s face.' “You speak of your son as one dead,” he breathed out, hoarsely. “Answer me. Where is your boy! You dislionored my wife, he dishonored my child. Answer me, I say—where is your boy to-night?” “With God and his mother, I trust, Royal,” came back the low reply. “He died in America two weary years ago—died with his hand in mine, and sleeps iu a stranger’s land.” [TO BE CONTINUED.] i THE NEW Y01K WEEKLY. ew York Weekly ! and he will be upset all day on account of it. And from personal experience, we can testify that it is upsetting. He hates Christmas bills, and friends who want to borrow five dollars for a day or two, and ice on the door-steps, and boys coasting on the sidewalks, and big hats at the concert, and orange-peel on the floor, and women in horse-cars who want seats, and bundles of every description, and feline musical entertainments by night, and organ grinders, and colds in the head, and tight shirt-collars, and trousers too short, and poodle dogs, and a good many other things. And so do we. NEW YORK, JUNE 18, 1883. Terms to Mail Subscribers: 3 months (postage free) 75c I 2 copies (postage free) $5.00 4 months ........ $1.00 — 1 Year.............3.00 | 4 copies . . 8 copies . . 10.00 . .20.00 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, trill favor us by forwarding only One Cent Stamps. All Money Orders should be made payable to the FIRM NAME of STREET & SMITH. Great trouble, delay, and annoyance are caused by addressing Money Orders to 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 S. STREET, FRANCIS 8. SMITH. P, O. Box ‘2734. STREET & SMITH, Proprietors. 25, 27, 29 & 31 Rose St.. N.Y. We are not responsible for manuscripts sent to this office, and wish it understood that they are at the author's risk. MANUSURIRT8 WILE NOT BE RE-TURN Ell, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. .Subscribers who receive the New York Weekly tn a BLUE WRAPPER will understand that their Ascriptions expire in four weeks. This will re-them of the importance of promptly renewing theii Subscriptions, to avoid missing a single copy of the ptt)er. Change of Address.—Subscribers who desire us to change heir Post-office address, will please give us the old address in full, as well as the new one. SIX YEARS OLD. BY EDMUND LYONS. Six years ago, my little girl, Six years ago to-day, You came amid the strife and whirl Of life to cheer our way; Upon our treasure, fresh from God, We gazed with loving eyes, And fairer bloomed the ground we trod, And brighter grew the skies. Your face was as an angel’s face, It seemed to us as fair As those the dreaming masters trace, Through years of toil and care. Your feeble voice, that framed no word, Dispelled our doubts and fears, And in its every tone we heard The music of the spheres. The promise, then so fairly shown, Has never passed away; Our child, to larger stature grown, Is very fair to-day; And. better far than bright blue eyes, Smooth brow, and golden hair, Her gentle mind, not over wise, Is free from sin and care. In God’s good time the care must fall, And He will guard her then. It is the common lot of all Born of the race of men; Nor would we, for our darling’s sake, Avert His chastening mild; We know it only comes to make A woman of our child. We have no fear that wrong will rest Upon that snowy brow, Or sin find entrance to a breast So pure and guileless now. My darling! When your childhood flies, Oh, may your after years Be like the tender summer skies— With more of light than tears. comes to whisper, "Ann, ytwere wiser than I.” Poor thing! Did it ever occur to you, tier, why just here in 1883 and in the United StaUhere were so many old maids ? America has hits holocaust of young men. Millions of them wBhould to-day, in the nature oj things, be the ha; husbands of happy wives. ?e dead on South battle-fields. A mo-ment^'aleulation will sh you that these score of yea have been just enrh to make the fair girls W ’63 into "old maids.fhey gave their lovers for the Union of these Stat You cannot cut out two millions of the flowei manhood from any generation and their place:) t be empty. An accursed jest is that which its a laugh over the yet open wound of that droadiyar! Look about you and reckon the ages of the lone women. Their unmated walk among us i^erpetual reminder of dead heroes. And up yonder. Ann, whir all our weary eyes so often wander in their s6h for rest, there the Saviour himself has fored us, "They neither marry nor are given in nriage, but are as the angels of God.” Whateveie bliss of the married state, it is not the ideal sta But I do not write to comfort you. You need nemfort, good Ann, for I am sure you are not unh>y. Take you all in all, and day by day, there arew whom I meet who wear a brighter smile thajhose, good Ann, the Christian old maids. J GRE1T DETETIVE STORY! / TEEMINVITH Strange and Staring Incidents We direct especial attdon to a new serial, the opening chapters of whi will be placed before our readers next week, der the title of THE MALTESE CROSS o: THE DETECWE’S QUEST By EUGENE?. SA WEER. Matrimony on a Slender Income. Some time last March, a certain courageous young man of this city took unto himself a wife. It is generally conceded that even a man earning a good income displays considerable courage when he marries, and solemnly vows to pay landlords, grocers, butchers, bakers, dry-goods dealers, and every one else who may have painful reminders to present to him as evidence that he possesses a dear little wife. But it is impossible to properly estimate the rash boldness of the man who enters the state of matrimony, and expects to procure all the comforts of life, for himself and wife, by the judicious expenditure of a salary of three dollars a week. This was the salary of Anthony Sansberry, when he married, last March. It should be stated, however, that he had great expectations; his employer, at the beginning of the present year, having promised him an increase of salary—fifty cents per week-after the first of January, 1884. But Anthony could not wait for this great good fortune to dawn upon him. and determined to discount the prospective increase of income by getting married at once. This was a case of ‘ 'marrying in haste to repent at leisure.” He found it impossible to save money; indeed, his expenses, as might have been expected, soon exceeded his income, and in less than nine weeks his entire bank account, amounting to eighteen dollars, the saving of months, had to be withdrawn, in small amounts, to pamper his extravagant wife, who, it may be inferred, had to exercise considerable tact to even keep up appearances, and seem to live like AN OLD MAID. By Harkley Harker. Look at the list. Elizabeth of England, one of the most illustrious of modern sovereigns. Her rule over Great Britain certainly comprised the most brilliant literary age of the English-speaking people. Her political acumen was certainly put to as severe tests as that of any ruler the world ever saw. Maria Edge worth was an old maid. It was this woman’s writings that first suggested the thought of writing similarly to Sir Walter Scott. Her brain might well be called the mother of the Waverly novels. Jane Porter lived and died an old maid. Tlie children of her busy brain were "Thaddeus of Warsaw,” and "The Scottish Chiefs,” which have moved the hearts of millions with excitement and tears. Joanna Baillie, poet and playwrite, was "one of ’em.” Florence Nightingale, most gracious lady, hero- This is really one of ie most interesting romances we have ever rel, and so ingeniously is the plot-evolved thatch attention is enchained Trom the WSfy /sfilnont. when' the my^tirdus friend L , peforms, for an utter strager, the greatest service that one man can do foranother. Why does this strange man so heroicalljbefriend the ine of Inkerman and Balaklava hospitals, friend of man and beloved of God, has to this present written Miss before her name. The man who should marry her might well crave to take the name Nightingale Miss Dix, that good spirit of the war hospitals of our own once suffering land, will never be forgotten while virtue and self-sacrifice are regarded among men. Sister Dora, the brave spirit of English pest-houses, the wonder, the almost matchless, whose -----------------------story is as a helpful evangel, was the bride -of the P“e?ay'atterthedisappearan^^ couId the miter tho a princess, on the slender income placed at her dis- pealed to him for a dime, which. buy a bar of soap, to do the weekly washing. You want ten cents?!’ he asked. ‘ Do you take me for a jRothschild or a( Vanderbilt? No, madam; I am not a banker or ^railway king, and cannot advance the dime reqi&red. I am dead-broke, and shall continue in the same lamentable impecunious condition until nexi Saturday, my pay-day.” This cool reply enraged the disappointed wife, and without further parley she drove him out of the house, and has continued to "hold the fort” alone since his summary eviction. Now the lawyers are to see what they can do to increase the troubles of this unfortunate couple. The wife has sued him for abandonment; and he has brought suit to^havethe marriage annulled. The case is cited to show the folly of young people attempting to enjoy married life on an income of three dollars a week. How much better it would have been for Anthony if he had deferred his marriage until his salary had been increased to three dollars and fifty cents per week. reader add. of those whom the great world may ( yond all worlds. It is the ‘old maid/of the village who is ever first at the threshold of aJsiricken neighbor; who has no cares for self and dreads no contagion. whose hand is skillful about the sick-room, and whose eyes seem never to need sleep; who is full well knowm to be within the call of suffering far and near. It was this same old maid who closed the eyes of your dying child. Can you ever forget her ? It was she who baked the wedding cake and ran her fond old feet off for you, miss, glad in your gladness as if it were her own wedding-day. It is the old maid of the family who lives but for the convenience of others; and in every emergency the first thought of all her married sisters is, “Send for Ann.” Did Ann ever fail to respond if she was able WHAT A MAN HATES. 13 y Kate Thorn. Curtain lectures. Lectures of any kind which find fault with him. Oil-cloth beside the bed. Cold coffee. Week-old newspapers. Children with the cholic. Teething babies. Women with the neuralgia. Corns. Lukewarm shaving water, and a dull razor. Spavined horses. Picked-up dinners. Hassocks, ottomans, tidies, spindle-legged tables, old crockery, pots of hanging plants, and crochet needles left in chairs where he sits down. A man doesn’t like scenes. He hates to see a woman cry. He is naturally tender-hearted. That’s what’s the matter with him. He hates washing days, and cleaning days, and soap, and wash-bowls, and pitchers, and frolicsome kittens, left on the back stairs. He doesn’t take kindly to sewing societies, or church fairs. He doesn’t feel a neighborly love toward chromo peddlers, or long-faced lay brethren, with subscription papers to benefit some burnt out church society, and who promise him, by way of recompense, for his autograph over a hundred dollar subscription, that the Lord will reward him, and that he will be laying up treasures in heaven! Strange as it may appear, the unregenerate heart of the average man would prefer his securities in U. S. 4 per cents. A man hates to have his wife go home to mother’s on a visit. He is constantly remarking that women are the curse of the world, and that his wife is the most aggravating female on the footstool, but still he hates to have her go away, for if things go wrong there will be nobody to lay the blame on. And he dreadfully hates to see her mother coming to his house on a “little visit,” with three trunks, and a lap dog. and a pot of geranium, by way of baggage. He hates to change sleeping-rooms. He detests strange beds. He doesn’t like to find holes in his stockings, or buttons missing from his shirts. He wants his slippers to stay just where he puts them, whether it bo on the top of the writing-desk or on the key-board of the piano. He likes to have things handy. H e hates to be asked to split kindlings, and pump water on washing days. He hates to see to “that curtain fixture wnich is ®ut of order.” He hates to set up the chamber stoves. He hates to go home with nis wife’s elderly female friends, He generally has letters to write on such occasions. He hates to be told that the flour is out. and the sugar in the same predicament, and only butter enough for breakfast. He hates to get up an hour earlier than common. VICTIM OF CIICUMSTANCES? While solving thisYeTaxing mystery, the author exhibits his wonderful rgenuity in weaving a plot that is not only striking original, but so extremely captivating that it is si® to be universally admired. The story is artisticay constructed, in clear and vigorous English, am the master-hand of the scholar is indicated inhe terse descriptions of EXCITING EVENTS, SURPRISING ADVENTURES, DASHING EXPLOITS. The author has a biiliant and prolific imagination. and makes his characters act, not simply talk. His inventive powers are remarkable, and. unlike the trashy writers c the day, he is not forced to pad out a few unimprtant incidents with a series of useless questions ad answers—ridiculous twad- die in the form of a^tec ism. The characters are alwiys in action—always doing something; thas to crawl? , Who lingers at decrepit mother’s side, and is like a staff in father’s old hands ? Who keeps the old hearth blazing and the old roof-tree from being sold "to settle up the estate ?” Who loves the old farm acres, and living on, keeps them in the family so that Thanksgivings are yet observed on the very spot where you were born ? Why, it is your old maid sister, sir and madam. She yet tends the chickens and the peonies, and trains the virgin’s bower (clematis) above the porch, till the ancient mansion is a very paradise of sweet tranquillity. Ah. my God, what a day it would be if Thou shouldst call her home to Thee! How would mother live? What would father do. wandering forth alone ? Who of us would ever want to revisit the empty dwelling if her sweet face were faded from the window, or her active form departed from the What would the church do without Ann ? She is a very Protestant nun. The church is her husband and child. To be sure, it is not every old maid in the church who is so beloved, a peacemaker, a burden-bearer, leader of all charities, and friend of the poor. No, they are not all Anns; but we are speaking of Ann. She is a host in herself. See her with her pretty little flock of the children, as she passes our window now. Happy she. happy they. Who would not be an old maid earning wages of such love and trust ? And then there are in some churches great communities of the unwed, who are so vowed and vailed for conscience and for Jesus’ sake. What Puritan but has seen the passing form of the "sister” of sweet charity, with a reverent prayer upon his lips that he might be one-half as good as she ? What dying soldier on the battle-field ever refused the cordial from the hooded form in gray—the dear, brave maiden old ? What man of you dare follow where these go, who climb the attic stairs, who thread the narrow alley, who stalk across the desert, whose only question is "Where is the sufferer?” There is always something indescribably pathetic in the old maid’s face. You seem to catch at times a passing gleam of some old hope; some far-off song half-sung, and never to be finished, echoes in her voice; a face, mayhap forgotten by every one but her. seems at intervals before her meditative gaze, and is swiftly hid as you enter. Ah! what a history could she tell! God pity and God bless her! What patience is hers who has waited long for one who is unworthyl What courage to live misjudged for conscience’s sake! What fidelity to the secret shielding of another’s fault, letting all the world call it her fault, guarding lip and feature tor a score of years for love 1 . And what royal piety of memory wnich keeps its vigil by a grave, and will not so much as look upon another face, but hopes, and waits, and yearns, for a meeting in eternity! And yet she learns to joy in your joy and help you bear your sorrows. It is not true that all women were created for wives, any more than it is true that all men were made for husbands. Since the world stood there have been unmated, I believe by God’s will, among both sexes. The Bible expressly teaches this in frequency. . , , . Can there be a greater fool than she who marries for the sake of being married ?—who marries because she is “getting round the first corner, and it is time” ?—or because “all her friends are being married off, and she dreads to be left alone” ?~or who marries “to get a support,” in this free land of plenty and many open doors to women’s industry? Poor dazed creatures, taking up with the next pair of pantaloons and waistcoat that offers, "before they get round the last corner,” aged thirty-five! But the genuine old maid is not of such poor stuff. She knows her own worth ; she has counted the stored wealth of her true woman’s heart, and she has made high resolve not to bestow that wealth without some adequate return. She is right ; and generally one of her married sisters, sooner or later, constantly ■ 010 reader is Aely fascinatea Dy the FRESH AND I IRITED SCENES. All the characters are ‘ vitally delineated; but for vividness of portraitup we think our readers will award the palm to "Hrkinson, J. B„” the happy-go-lucky actor, who igures conspicuously as THE DETECTIVE’S CHUM We confidently believe that this story will popularly admired as ore of be THE BEST DETECTIVE STORIES. "The Maltese Cross*' will be commenced next week. Correspondence GOSSIP WITH READERS 4ND 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.] Reader, Syracuse, N. Y.—It has heretofore been held in this State that a person from whom a divorce has been procured, and who marries again during the life-time of the persons procuring the divorce, was guilty of a misdemeanor or oi contempt of court; but by a recent decision of the Court of Appeals, the highest legal tribunal in the State, it is pronounced bigamy. The case was tried originally in the Court of General Sessions, in New York city, last November, the counsel for the defendant claiming that in contracting the second marriage he was guilty only of contempt of court. Judge (lildersleeve held that the second marriage constituted bigamy, and the defendant was convicted. The case wras taken to the Supreme Court, which reversed the action of the court. The district attoney took the case to the Court of Appeals, which reversed the decision of the Supreme Court, and ordered that the prisoner be brought before the General Sessions and resentenced. The question is thus for the first time definitely settled, so far as this State is concerned. Harry Bluff.—Sailors’ Snug Harbor is on the north shore of Staten Island, about eight miles from this city. It consists of a home for superannuated seamen, a hospital for seamen, and an asylum for sick, destitute, and infirm families of seamen. The institution was founded by the proceeds of an estate left for that purpose by Captain Robert R. Randall, a retired seaman, who at the beginning of the present century owned a consideracle amount of property in the neighborhood of Broadway and Tenth street, The institution is supported by the “Seamen’s Fund and Retreat,” to which all American sailors leaving the port of New York contribute. The place is very pleasantly located, has spacious grounds, and the old tars are allowed the greatest freedom, many of them spending their time making baskets, knitting nets, whittling toyboats, etc. Mexican Vet— 1st. Santa Anna’s cork leg is in the Patent Office at Washington. The leg and its owner parted company at the battle of Cerro Gordo, where the Mexican general was pursued so hard that he had to mount a mule and make his escape, leaving his leg in his carriage. Two companies of the Fourth Illinois regiment were the first troops to reach the carriage, and Private Abe Waldren, of Company G, was the first man to lay hands on it. Sergeant Gill and Privates Sam and Frank Rhodes, of the same company, bought the leg for a small sum, and took it home with them to Pekin, Ill. in 1861 or 1862 they sent it by General McCook to Washington, and he deposited it in the Patent Office. 2d. The bronze cent pieces run one hundred and twenty to a pound. L. Gladstone, Philadelphia.—In cases of jaundice, the diet should be plain, wholesome, and nutritious. In their season, fresh vegetables and ripe fruit should be partaken of freely. Cold water should be the principal drink; or drink and medicine may be combined in the shape of five drops of muriatic acid, and three drops of nitric acid, dissolved in a tumbler of water slightly sweetened. The acid sponge bath, made by mixing three parts of muriatic acid with two parts of nitric acid, and adding as much of this mixture to water as will make it about as sour as weak vinegar, is valuable in jaundice. Only a quart of water need be taken. When applied with the sponge, the solution, if of the right strength, will produce a slight tingling of the skin. Buckeye.—1st. Cincinnati is the plural of Cincinnatus. who was a Roman senator and patriot of the sixth century. The Society of the Cincinnati is the name of an association founded by the officers of the Revolutionary army after the peace of 1783, its object being to commemorate the success of the revolution, and to perpetuate sentiments of patriotism, benevolence, and brotherly love. The societies representing the different armies which took part in the late war are of a similar character. 2d. The city of Cincinnati was named in honor of the society, it is said, by Gen. St. Clair, about 1789. 3d. Ohio was called after the river of the same name, which, in the Indian language, means “beautiful.” Bona Fide.—For a line of two hundred yards a telephone constructed on the same principle as the toy called the “lovers’ telegraph,” will answer the purpose. The tubes may be made of tin, about four inches deep and of the same diameter. Cover the ends with sheepskin, tightly stretched, and connect the two by a cotton thread orj a fine copper wire, passing through the middle of the bottom of each, and held by a flat button. If the thread is used, it may be supported by suspended loops. The tighter it is drawn the more distinct will be the sound. For a greater distance, you should buy one of the cheap telephones sold by dealers in electrical apparatus. R. W. F., Dewiston, Me.—The new iron steamboat Pilgrim, of the Fall River line, is the largest steamboat plying on the Sound. Her length over all is 387 feet; beam, 50 feet; beam over guards, 87 feet; depth of hold, 14 feet. She has two saloon decks above the main deck, and 280 first-class state-rooms, with accommodations for 560 passengers. She has a beam engine of 5,000 horse power, with a cylinder of 110 inches diameter and 14 feet stroke. She is lighted with 900 electric lights. Subscriber, New Bedford.—1st. To answer most of your questions would involve several days’ searching in the classics and mythological lore. We suggest that you visit a library where you can have access to works of that character. 2d. The coffee plant is usually kept pruned down to about five feet, to increase its productiveness and for convenience in gathering the crop. They begin to yield in four years from the seed, and continue bearing for twenty years or more. W.— The Suez Canal is about 100 miles long, of which 75 miles are actual canal, while for 25 miles it passes through lakes, a portion of which afforded water of sufficient depth, but the greater part of which required excavating. The width, except at those places where it runs through high ground, is 325 feet at the surface and 72 feet at the bottom, and the depth 26 feet. Where it runs through high ground the width is 195 feet at the surface. W. H. Rillibrew, Perry, Ga.—The best trotting record for one mile is 2:10 1-4, made by Maude S., at Rochester, N.Y., Aug. 11, 1881; best two miles, 4:46, by Monroe Chief, at Lexington, Ky., Oct. 21, 1882; three miles, 7:21 1-4, by Huntress, in harness, at Brooklyn, N. Y., Sept. 21, 1872: four miles, 10:34 1-2, by Longfellow, to wagon, California, Dec. 31, 1869. Old Vet., New York.—1st. The attempt to set fire to a large number of the leading hotels in this city was made on the evening of the 25th of November, 1864. One of the incendiaries, Robert Kennedy, was arrested and subsequently hung. 2d. Barnum’s Museum, on Broadway above Spring street, was destroyed by fire March 3, 1868. Mrs. Harris.—The better plan would be to get a piano and employ a music teacher. Having the instrument in the house, you would be able to practice at odd times, and thus make more rapid progress. There is nothing to be ashamed of in the fact that you have not had opportunities earlier in life to gratify your musical tastes. Reader.—1st. See a geography or encyclopedia for the geographical divisions, cities, towns, and boroughs of Ireland. 2d. There is a statue of Father Mathew, the temperance advocate, in Cork. We do not know the date of the unvailing. 3d. It is impossible to trace proper names. Mary Harris, Elmira.—The hymn “Ninety and Nine,” made famous by the evangelist singer Sankey, was written by a young woman named Elizabeth C. Clapham, the daughter of a Scottish lawyer. It was first published in the Children's Hour, a paper published in Edinburgh. T. G. W.—You make the same mistake many others do, in confounding square measure and cubic measure. The former is surface measure and the latter solid contents. Any school arithmetic will show you the difference. Westchester.—The geographical center of the United States is at the north-east corner of the Indian Territory. You can readily determine it by taking the extremes of latitude and longitude and halving the distance. C. Cook.—1st. The East River, at the Fulton ferry, is 731 yards wide. 2d. The Delaware River, at Port Jervis, is comparatively narrow, probably about a quarter of a mile wide. Miss Mary M., Cohoee, N. Y.—You cannot bleach or lighten the color of your hair without injury to it. Wild Bill, Tucaon, Arizona.—We know of nothing that will prevent the growth of superfluous hair. Sufferer.—Perspiration of the hands may be abated by bathing them occasionally in alum water. Patience.—Bathe your eyes in tepid water night and morning. J. Wallace.—A very good hand. If you cannot secure a teacher in book-keeping, get the rudimentary series of nooks of instruction, and devote your evenings to the Alnyou can do is simply to decline and unlady-like to a trieim^r i^eAude not obtain the indorsement of the press aim 'public.-——. W. A. P.—We cannot obtain the photographs and autographs of our contributors.-----Muskegon.—The play named is what maybe termed a “comedy drama.”----- E. H. Bowling.—Feb. 5, 1868, came on Wednesday.-- M. Stone.—We cannot tell you the date of Easter in 1463.------T. M. Powell.—Write to Leggett Bros., Chamber street, New York.--------Ten Years' Reader.—Col. Richard French, the proprietor of French’s Hotel, died several years ago.---C. W. AL—November 2,1866, came on Friday.-Willie Vailing.—“Little Buckshot” is out of print.—-H. G. W.—We look upon all lottery schemes as more or less fraudulent.--L. Garahy.—The problem referred to was answered a few weeks subsequent to its appearance. Thanks for the solution, however.----Jas. Brown.—For regulations governing membership in Chicago Board of Trade, address a letter to the secretary of that body.-Eliza McC.—1st. Consult a physician in regard to the curvature of the spine. 2d. See a directory for addresses of teachers of elocution---C. C. J.—1st. The firm is still in existence and at the same place. 2d. will send you the “American Hoyle” for $2.-------Post No. 1.—There is no such agency.----------Engine.—1st. A “wind engine” is something not in our line of knowledge. 2d. Consult a practical machinist.-N.—Yes.- S. E. W. -Consult a physician as to cause and remedy.- Typo.—Parker’s “Aids to English Composition” you will find a very useful work in your endeavor to improve your style of letter writing.-M. I), and E.—There is hardly anything so vexatious as the “law’s delay.” In many cases it is of course unavoidable, but in that you cite it would seem to be owing to neglect.-----Mrs. T. Knott.— 1st. We will send you the papers containing “Queenie Hetherton for $1.98. It has not been issued in book-form. 2d. The “Pettigrew Papers” are out of print.--Mrs. L. N. Howard.—The story named has not been published before.----Constant Reader, Salem.—The value of MSS. depends on their merit, length, and the reputation of the writer. We suggest that you affix a modest figure at first —say $5 or $10.------Thos. Clark.—We know nothing of the so-called “mineral rods.”---Railroader.—It not in- frequently happens that an author writes for a number of periodicals. It is rather the rule than the exception.- R. M. Pattillo.—Write to Dazian, 26 Union Square, New York.-----S. A. Ragg.—German can be learned without a teacher, but the progress is not so rapid. The following MSS. are declined: “All’s Well that Ends Well,” “Perry’s Vindication,” “Down in the Gutter,” “Farewell,” “The Flirtation,” “Jim’s Smart Trick,” “Frozen on a Door-step,” “Terra-Cotta Hair,” “A Widower with Two Girls,” “Bliss,” “May,” “An Enigma.” “The Story of the Cross,” “Life is What We Make It,” “In God’s Own Time.” “A Young Mother.” Providence, R. I.—1st. Babies are usually short-coated at the age of six months, depending, of course, upon the size of the child, some infants requiring to have their skirts shortened at the age of five months, and others not till seven or [eight. As much variety is noticeable in the charming little short clothes for babies in arms as in the larger dresses. 2d. A pretty style has the English or “Mother Hubbard” yoke of tucks; the outside of the sleeves has several lengthwise tucks, and the skint is finished with six tucks and a deep embroidery. Shirring is also a great feature of these little dresses, which are often shirred to the yoke and again at the knees, with an embroidered flounce below. 3d. Summer wraps are usually of pique, with Hamburg embroider y, or of fine cashmere, with silk embroidery. 4th. The only difference between the cloaks worn by little infants and those of a year old, is in the length, no change being practicable in any other direction until the wee creature is on its own feet. 5th. Dressiest cloaks are of white Surah, trimmed with Mauresque lace, and cost about $25. Pique cloaks cost from $8 to $10, and those of basket cloth $4.50. “Mother Hubbard” cloaks of white cash-mere come at about $7 to $8. 6th. Lawn caps or lace caps, lined with softest silk, are the seasonable coverings for baby’s head. Pretty caps of French lawn, tucked, corded, and feather-stitched, and trimmed with ruffles of lace, cost from 50 cents to $2 ; and guipure, Irish point, or Italian lace caps, trimmed with satin ribbon ruching and loops, from $1.50 to $4. An elegant cap of real Valenciennes will cost $7. “Helen W. T.,” Wheeling, W. Va.—Fine Swiss or lawn embroidery is seen oftener than lace on white gowns, unless the material is very sheer. A simple but extremely becoming toilet has a short skirt of fine white lawn. A frill of the material forms the foot trimming, and above this are two ruffles of fine embroidery. The attached drapery is a much-wrinkled tablier in front, with the usual bouffant effect in the back. The edges are finished with an embroidered ruffle, and on the left side is a detachable cascade of the embroidery, while on the right side are long loops and ends of pale-pink moire ribbon. The basque is smooth fitting, and has the front turned in after the V fashion. A frill of embroidery outlines the lower edge of the basque, and turned-back cuffs of the embroidery are on the sleeves. A soft kerchief of mull, following the V lines in its graceful folds, is worn at the neck, and is caught with a silver bar very near the waist. At the center of the two points, formed by the back, is placed a sash of rose-colored moire ribbon, quite wide and arranged in long loops and ends. Rose-colored mitts might be worn, and the fan could be either pink or white satin. A large cluster of natural pink roses might be in the hand. With such a toilet varied effects could be obtained by the employment of different colored ribbons, or by their utter neglect. The skirt pattern is No. 8,602, price 35 cents; and combined with it is basque No. 8,603, price 30 cents. “A. M. B.,” Boston, Masfc—The beauty and grace of the Watteau style of drapery were never more admired than they are this season. Their development in model No. 8,588 is accomplished in such a simple fashion that the process is equally applicable to thick or thin goods. Plain and figured foulard cambric are combined in the construction, and the effect of the combination is stylish and summery. Summer silks in fine lines or small checks will often be made up m this way and trimmed with laces, fringes, and ribbon ends. The India silks which come by the piece, in plain and flowered combinations, will often be selected for such costumes, the plain material being used for the skirt, and the flowered portion for the over-dress, each being mingled with the other in the garnatures. Such silks are extremely light in weight, and wear welL They may be obtained in all tints. We can send you pattern No. 8,588, price 40 cents. “A Constant Reader,” Salem, Mass.-1st. We shall soon commence a story by Mrs. Holmes. You have indeed waited patiently to see her name at the head of a story in the columns of the New York Weekly. 2d. The French Complexion Mask will cost $3, complete, with cosmetics. 3d. It can be worn at any time when convenient to yourself. We usually recommend wearing it at night, for then one is not apt to notice the disagreeable feeling as much as during the day-time. The effect upon the skin is to make it soft and white. 4th. We should think if your complexion is dark from illness that you would do better to consult your family physician than by trying cosmetics or any artificial means of improvement. Send P. O. order to Street & Smith’s New York Weekly Purchasing Agency, and they will forward the mask complete. “W. B. J.,” Troy, N. Y.—1st. We can send you a very pretty ring for $5—onyx, set in gold. The circlet is a flat, solid band, grooved near the setting, and supporting a squre onyx with a raised engraving, representing a head in antique style. 2d. A vest chain of rolled gold for a lady’s watch will cost about $7. A very pretty double chain is a twisted cable of Roman gold in five strands, and has two sliding guards, which are spheres of dead gold, set with a row of rubies and pearls, alternating all around. The chain measures twelve inches from the button-hole bar to the swivel, and has a short pendant chain for a charm or locket. “A. C. J..” Jamesville, N. C.—1st. Embroideries and machine-made laces are used in profusion on light summer toilets. The Oriental and Pompadour laces are extremely dressy, and the rich Irish point embroidery is • the leading style in that garniture. 2d. Yon^x rons are wearing breakfast-caps of bright tint— stamped with gay flowers, and trimmed with ruffle white Oriental lace and an Alsatian bow of the mull. Tinted linen lawns, in ecru and gray grounds, withfigu. in white, are a novelty for summer wear. “G. W. F.”—At quiet weddings a traveling dress or reception toilet, with bonnet to match, is considered most suitable. Gray, deep blue, strawberry, terra cotta color. > and aarnet, cashmere, Surah, vailing;, or Ottoman silk / vx^oitabie colors for a quiet bridal toilet, and our mode adapted lor tbe purpose, i t has a palmer vest trout, and bouffant back draperies, and the’ she skirt is trimmed with three small box-plaited flounces and is draped across the front wih a full apron. “Lulu K.,” Rochester, N. Y.—Gloves to match one of the colors in the costume are usually selected, and one, or sometimes both, are removed at the commencement of the marriage ceremony, especially if it takes place in church. \ Those who regard marriage as a sacrament would not \ feel justified in accepting it with gloved hands; and in any case it is no doubt much better taste to remove the glove than to resort to the unnecessary expedient ot cutting out a finger of it, or of removing the wedding-ring after the ceremony. “Laura D.,” Kalamazoo, Mich.—Switches of the finest French hair cost according to weight anti length—one weighing three ounces, and twenty-six inches in length, $11; thirty inches, weight four ounces, $13; the same weighing five ounces, $15 to $18, according to the evenness of the hair. Rare shades are always more expensive, especially gray or pure white, a medium-sizea switch of the latter costing from $50 to $100, and if of a bluish tinge, more expensive 3tilL “M. C.”—The sample of cashmere is a very pretty shade of garnet, and may be trimmed with Surah silk the same shade; or if you prefer figured goods, there are numberless pretty brocaded novelty goods that may be purchased for every price from fifty cents and upward. “Anna.”— 1st. Wear chamois gloves whenever you go out, and you will find that your hands will whiten and soften. 2d. Black velvet skirts will be worn this season, and brocaded grenadine, nun’s vailing, or pongee silk ■would make a suitable overdress to accompany one. “C. F ”—Shades of yellow, brown, and gold are seen in many of the new imported spring bonnets and hats. Recent Publications. The Ladies’ Work-Box. Edited by Mrs. Virginia Ingram. “Mrs. C.,” Lockport, N. Y.—To skeletonize leaves, the first consideration must be in selecting leaves that are finely veined and healthy; if they have been injured by insects, or are too much spotted from one cause or another, they are valueless for skeletonizing. When a good store of leaves is gathered, proceed in the following simple and comparatively inexpensive manner: In a quart of boiling water dissolve four ounces of common washing soda. Add two ounces of slaked quicklime, and boil about fifteen minutes. Allow the solution to cool, and then pour off all the clear liquor into a saucepan. Another heating is necessary now, and, when at the boiling point, place the leaves carefully in the pan. Let it boil altogether an hour, and, to replace the water lost by evaporation, add a little from time to time. It will now be necessary to test the effect of the first hour’s boiling, for which purpose take a leaf and rub gently between the finger and thumb in cold water. If the cellular matter does not come off easily from the veins, boil them again for a short time. When the fleshy part is found to have softened sufficiently, rub the leaves gently, one by one. under cold water until the perfect skeleton is exposed. At first their appearance will be a dirty white color. To make them a pure white, bleach them in a solution of chloride of lime—take a tablespoonful of lime to a quart of water, and add one spoonful of vinegar to the solution. In about fifteen or twenty minutes they will be perfectly white and clean-looking. Dry them in white blotting paper beneath a gentle pressure, when they will be ready for mounting, or any ornamental purpose they mav be destined for. “Mrs. L. W.,” Long Branch.—Young misses and children will follow the example of their elders in choice of materials and combinations. Surah slips, with wThite overdresses, will be the dressy suits for little girls, and the various flannels, satines, ginghams, and zephyrs may be accepted as suitable for all country and summer resorts. LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JOSH BILLINGS. With a Characteristic Sketch of the Humorist, by Francis S. Smith. Also, One Hundred Illustrated Aphorisms. Publishers, G. W. Carleton & Co., New York. This little book supplies a public want. All admirers of Josh Billings— and they are numbered by the million—have long desired to know something of the private life of an author whos« philosophic humor has amused and edified and instructei them for so many years. As Mr. Smith says in his sketch “The reader can get a very fair idea of Josh Billings’ per sonal appearance from the likeness that adorns the title page of the book, but to know the man as he is, he mus be seen in social life;” for when at his best he is one*d^ the most entertaining men in existence. He has a vast fund of side-splitting anecdotes, which he tells as no other can tell, and his mind is full of quaint ideas and funny notions. But it is not alone as humorist that Josh Billings shines among his associates; he is admired as a philosopher as well, and no one can converse with him without being impressed with the shrewdness of his thoughts on nearly every subject. It will be seen that he comes, as he would express it, of a good stock, his father and grandfather both being distinguished citizens of New England—one born in Massachusetts, the other in Vermont. He commenced his adventures at the age of fifteen, and they are related in the volume before us in a very attractive style. The one hundred illustrated aphorisms are gems in their way. Be sure to procure a copy of the book. It contains much matter that will interest every reader of the New York Weekly, for which paper Josh Billings has written exclusively since 1866. Price of the volume, 25 cents. Ward detectives have been abolished in New York city. It was found that under the old system the ward detective, instead of endeavoring to suppress illigitimate business in his precinct, was the habit of levying a periodical tax upon the pjo-prietors of disreputable places, as a reward for n*n- । interference. THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 5 THE PAHPE^SDEATH-BED. BY FRANCIS S. SMITH. I am dying, slowly dying. Here on my pallet hard, And echo mocks my sighing In this terrible poor-house ward. No sound of a petition Goes upward for my sake, They call me, in derision, A tramp—a human wreck. And yet—sad recollection !— Ere trouble came to me, I owned the deep affection Of wife and family. I had home and friends and treasure, And envied none on earth; My days were days of pleasure, And my nights were nights of mirth. What wrought this change 1 Oh, Heaven, Let me not think of that! My temper was uneven, Injustice on me sat. God knows the power that swayed me At the accursed beginning, And that a wretch it made me, “More sinned against than sinning.” But I will cease complaining— My murmurings are vain; There is naught for me remaining But cold contempt and pain. A pauper bed, a pauper sheet, Are all that’s left to me, In a pauper house, the last retreat Till death shall set me free. Come death, kind death, relieve me! Set free my burden’d soul! No earthly ills can grieve me When I reach man’s destined goal. I will welcome thee with pleasure. And to thy bosom creep, Finding solace without measure In an everlasting sleep. THE DOCTOR’S SUBJECT. By Mrs. S. A. McLane But I dislike maneuvering above all things; I will not stoop to that, even to gain my end. Whoever she is fated to have, she will have, according to my way of thinking.” On reaching the hotel, Constance retired immediately to her room, where, after locking the door, she threw herself upon the bed in silent anguish of heart. Now that she could no longer doubt the truth of her former lover, all those tender feelings, so long in abeyance, were called forth. "Yes, I really love him after all.” she murmured. “I can never forget the past—the beautiful past, when we, like children, wandered arm-in-arm through those pleasant scenes, seeming almost an Eden, from our love for one another. Oh, how can 1 wed Paul, under the circumstances, and not perjure myself at the altar, as Mrs. Wentworth said? Oh. those words are burned into my brain! I must do right, whatever the consequences.” With this resolution she became more calm, and soon after arose, bathed her eyes, which were red with weeping, and after arranging her toilet satisfactorily, she proceeded to Mrs. Ellery’s apartments. "My poor darling.” said Mrs. Ellery, in sympathizing tones, as Constance seated herselt by her side and drooped her head upon her bosom, while the lady in a caressing way encircled her form as she spoke. "You are in trouble—I can see it. You heard what Mrs. Wentworth said, and it has made you miserable, and so you think you must be disengaged from my son.” "Oh, no. dear mamma. That is notwhat I wish, for I do certainly think a great deal of Paul, and I never expect to see that young gentleman again, who is probably wedded to some one else by this time; but I do not wish to deceive Paul; he ought to know of that little episode.” "And he shall know, my dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Ellery, "but not now would it be worth while to bring up old affairs, especially as we intend so soon to join him. Then you can talk together. You can enlighten him as to your past, and he can tell you all about his past, and you both can decide what to do about it. But now, my dear, be as happy as you can under existing circumstances. “You may meet the young man, or you may not,” continued Mrs. Ellery. "If it is your destiny, he will probably appear at the last moment. Although decked for the bridal, you were not intended for Mr. Wentworth; so you did not wed him. If you are not intended for my son. you will not marry him. There will bo no coercion in the matter. “Believe me, you are destined for whatever lot awaits you; so cheer up, my love, and take all the good of life while you may, for trouble comes fast enough, even to the most merry-hearted, and sorrows often arise in the happiest homes. But, ‘sufficient unto the day is the evil thereoff.’ ” Constance raised her head from the bosom of the friend who stood in so sacred a relation to her. and the old smiles gladdened again her lovely countenance. “You are so good.” she murmured. “Such a sympathizing friend, and know just how to deal with every case. I am sure you are right, and I should prove most ungrateful not to accede to your desires in this respect.” Mrs. Ellery kissed Constance, and the subject was not renewed. Mr. Wentworth, tt was declined by Constance. She would not tnile him further, only until she found her friend&ho had strayed, she knew not whither. As thejassed through the crowd Mr. Wentworth re maid: “Miss Ellery, yiseem like an old Mend, as I remarked before. Ihaps I have know you in some other sphere; wbknows? Any wav^t seems as if you belonged Ue!” and as he speke he fixed his gaze full upone astonished girl at his side. Why, Mr. Wenbrth! what do voumean ?” she returned, and he 1.............. ~ heek paled at the bare thought of recognition. . "Perhaps I did ong to tell you this,” he said, as if to apologize put I could not refrain from speaking my thouts as they occurred.” It cannot be wdered at, perhaps, when all the circumstances of t case are taken into consideration,” she found ice to reply. “You refer to thinaccountable resemblance of yourself and one Jved and lost!” lie remarked, turning his gaze ain upon his companion, who blushed violently die spoke. Constance bowecbr head, vexed beyond measure at her want of ^-control. At this moment, reatly to her relef. Dr. Ellery came along. She inediately introcuced the gentlemen to one auotk who shook hands quite cordially. After a fei^marks, she bsde Mr. Wentworth good-by, andalked away witi her father. The young man deavored to gdn her notice again during the eving, but she w® so surrounded by acQuaintance&d friends, tmt he found it next to impossible train a hearing. “Well, I shall bidtay time,” he said, mentally. “The bird will soon in the snare, >r I am greatly he said, mentally. ----------- — in the snare, >r I am greatly mistaken. There ia mystery somewhere, lam sure!’ he muttered,yt-aloud. "I agree. with yotjhere,” spoke the voice of Dr. Long, at his elbow. Womankind is full of mystery, and the more sheshibits, the more interest she inspires in us gentlenn.” His friend agreed wh him there.and they sauntered through the Hlliant crowd in company, chatting gayly togettr, but with a world of unrest within. Dr. Long meant toret at the mystery if he could, and Mr. Wentworth leant to capture the young lady, who at this monmt was endeavoring to find a way out of this unfomnate entanglement. On their way home. sirs. Ellery, being informed of what had occurred, ipproved of Constance’s action in the matter, butidvised her to be very cool toward the gentleman a future. "If he suspects your flentity,” she said, "it will certainly raise a breeze; and who knows how much trouble it may cause.” “I will be very circuirspect. mamma, in future,” replied Constance; "aid if the worst comes to the worst----” (' “We can vanish fromffie scenes! action,” interrupted Dr. Ellery. “Itvill not be long now before we embark, and the quicker the better. I say. We have seen all that is wrth seeing, and I am tired and disgusted with foreign life, and the land of our fathers will be doublywelcome.” [“The Doctor’s Subject” was commenced in No. 30. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.] CHAPTER IX. A STARTLING ENCOUNTER. One morning, while Mrs. Ellery and Constance were visiting a famous picture-gallery, a gentleman, with an elderly landy on his arm, approached the spot where they stood examining a work of art. "Constance!” exclaimed the gentleman, gazing with wonder upon the young lady before him. Constance Quickly turned, and met the gaze of Mr. Wentworth and his mother, fixed intently upon her. This on counter was so unexpected that she knew hardly how to act. If she had had presence of mind enough, she might have drawn down her vail at the outset; but there she stood the picture of consternation. Her face flushed, then paled to an alarming extent "What is the matter, my love said Mrs. Ellery, coming to the rescue. Constance was still so shocked that she could not reply, but the gentleman bowed and apologized thus: "I hope you will excuse me, madam, but I was so struck with the remarkable resemblance of this ^oung lady to one I knew in the United states, I • P.HWre, almost, that she was Miss Constance Wal-T A; and yet how could she be, when I attended young lady’s funeral.” This young lady is my daughter, sir,” said Mrs. Ellery, frigidly; “therefore could hardly be the lady who died in America.” "Of course not, madam,” replied Mr. Wentworth, deferentially. “I did not for a moment suppose her the young lady in Question; only the likeness Hwas so striking—so extraordinary!” • ^"Yet we meet our doubles frequently, as we .^rrney through the world. There is nothing so y remarkable about it, as I can see,” said Mrs seemed so astonished—so c6nfounded, if I may use the term,” said Mr. Went- "Of course she would be somewhat flurried when addressed so familiarly by a strange gentleman, Constance being really her name,” remarked Mrs. Ellery. "I was wrong —I see it now, madam; and, mother,” he said, turning to the elderly lady near him, "I will leave you here to make due apologies, while I go hither to speak to a friend.” He then bowed low to Mrs. Ellery, glanced once more in the direction of Constance, who, during this colloquy, had been attentively examining a work of art near—her face in shadow—and withdrew. Mrs. Wentworth seated herself before the picture Constance was studying, where Mrs. Ellery also was seated. "I hope you will excuse my son. really,” began Mrs. Wentworth. "It was very rude in him, madam, I know; but then, he was so startled by the striking resemblance of your daughter to a lady that was once his betrothed wife, that he lost his usual selfpossession. The circumstances of the case will, I trust, go far to excuse him.” "Oh, certainly, madam,” returned Mrs. Ellery, politely; "such mistakes will occur.” Mrs. Ellery paused in some perturbation. This was the very gentleman who was the betrothed of her daughter, ere she, as they supposed, died. The trouble was not yet over with; she must be wary; and as she thought thus, she glanced uneasily toward Constance, who was busily engaged in the examination of a work of art, as if nothing of moment had occurred. Wishing to learn a little further in relation to the affair, Mrs. Ellery resumed: “I infer, from what you have just said, that the young lady in Question died ere her wedding-day arrived.” "Yes, yes,” replied Mrs. Wentworth, in hushed tones; "just as they were on the point of being wedded.” “Howshocking!”exclaimed Mrs. Ellery, evincing much interest. “Was death caused by an accident?” “Well, we hardly knew what was the cause,” replied the lady. The physician pronounced it brain fever, induced from over-excitement; but I have other views of the case. Unrequited love was at the bottom of it, I think.” “You surprise me!” exclaimed Mrs. Ellery. “Yes; that did the mischief, I am well assured,” continued Mrs. Wentworth. “But, there! my son would hear to nothing of the kind, and believed in her to the last. For my own part, however, I never could think much of one who was ready to perjure herself at the altar to please an old dotard of an uncle. You look surprised; but you will be more so when I tell you what I afterward learned. “A strange young man was discovered kneeling by the corpse, whom no one seemed to know, and who really seemed heart-broken at the time; also a wreath of immortelles was placed on the casket by the same hand. As Mrs. Ray, the seamstress, seemed to know the young man, she was interrogated concerning him. She at length admitted that Constance had a lover, but to favor the uncle she had broken up the match by pretending that he was faithless; whereas a truer heart never beat than his for the unfortunate girl.” How very sad!” returned Mrs. Ellery; and she arose as’she>poke, in'order to change the subject,and fearful lest Constance had heard all. “You will please excuse us now, madam, as it is time that we were at our hotel,” and she glanced at her watch in antanxious way. “Oh, certainly ” said Mrs. Wentworth; and she bowed pleasantly as the ladies hurriedly withdrew. Constance droppea ner vail to hide her face, which was marble-like in its pallor, thus indicating that she knew all. Her feelings we will not attempt to describe, as she walked by the side of Mrs. Ellery, who talked incessantly upon one topic and another, but never made the least allusion to the strange encounter above narrated. llery was very sorry, and inwardly vexed, She was alniost sure that Constance had heard all; and if she still loved that young man, what must be her feelings at this moment ? .“0& h°w * give up Constance to anyone else ? she said to herself. .“How could I bear the disappointment of not having her for my son’s wife? CHAPTER X. SOCIETY ABROAD. The Ellery family, during their sojourn in Paris, had seen much of the gay world. In order to be conversant with the best society abroad, and desirous of bringing to notice their interesting daughter Constance, they had been in the habit of attending each soiree of the season, and numberless balls and assemblies where the elite did most love to congregate, and the utmost display was expected in the affair of costume, elegant surroundings, etc. And now the height of Mrs. Ellery’s ambition had been attained; an invitation to a royal reception and grand ball at the Tuileries had been extended to the family. It was in the days of the empire. For this royal notice they were indebted to an officer of the legation, a friend of Dr. Ellery, who had spoken favorably of him at court. The evening of evenings at length arrived, which ushered into the royal gates a gay and fashionable crowd, who swept up the errand staircases in a continuous stream, all life and animation. The grand halls were ablaze with light and beauty, and all that art could do had been done to enhance the loveliness of the scene. Among the late arrivals were the Ellery party, somewhat excited, withal, at the expected ordeal, yet brave and undaunted when ushered into the royal presences, as any true Americans may be supposed to feel who are not inspired with much enthusiasm on such a rare occasion, or does not feel the illusion which royalty ever begets. As they advanced, they were the observed of all observers, especially Constance, who, dressed in a bewildering costume, which I will not attempt to describe, appeared the embodiment of loveliness and grace, and when presented to their majesties, was accorded more than common notice by them, and many were the inquiries made concerning her, and many were the encomiums passed upon her superior beauty and gentle grace of manner. Within the embrasure of a window there stood two young men, one, Albert Wentworth, and a young gentleman friend, who styled himself Dr. Long. "There, Wentworth,” said the latter gentleman, with enthusiasm, “do you see yonder vision of loveliness ?—the fairest of all the beautiful women here assembled, and the sweetest, according to my Wentworth, in reply, his heart seating strangely at sight of Constance, and in an unaccountable way. “Who is she ?” “Why, Dr. Ellery’s daughter. You have heard him spoken of, no doubt ?” returned Dr. Long. “I do not remember to have heard of him, but I have met her before on my travels. Are you acquainted with the young lady ?” “Perfectly, Wentworth; her father is a particular friend of mine.” “Then, pray do introduce me!” exclaimed Mr. Wentworth, excitedly. "I must know the young lady at once!” “Why, Wentworth, what ails you?” returned his friend. “You do not say that you are struck at last, and by the most exclusive young lady of my acquaintance ?” "Exclusive!” echoed Mr. Wentworth. "One would think, by your manner of speaking, that you had been jilted, or run off the track yourself.” “Well, to speak plainly, I never was on the track. I endeavored to show her some attention, but my company was declined—not ungraciously either. She wished me for a friend, she said, not a lover; so I became a friend of the family.” "Avery wise plan, truly,” said Mr. Wentworth. “Now, doctor, you must present me, by all means, to this charming young lady; for, to tell you the truth, I am smitten. She is my beau ideal of what a woman should be.” “Well, come along,” said the doctor. “I know that she is very fastidious; still, who knows but you may be the right one after all ?” As Mr. Wentworth accompanied his friend through the elegant drawing-rooms in search of Constance, he mused thus within himself: “A perfect representation of Constance, if ever there was one, only more mature, more stately in deportment, and more gracious in manner. Still, no difference in looks; and that smile, so charming, is the same. I am‘drawn to her by an irresistible impulse. I am determined to win her, if possible, and if I do not succeed, it will be by no means because I have not tried my best arts.” Constance was chatting gayly with a young friend whom she chanced to meet in the royal saloon, whither the party had wended their way. A coterie stood a little aloof, awaiting a chance to be presented. As Dr. Long and Mr. Wentworth approached, the young lady with her escoit vanished, and the field was clear. Dr. Long came forward and was greeted pleasantly by Constance. “Miss Ellery, allow me to introduce to you my friend, Mr. Wentworth.” Constance turned, and beheld the one of all others whom she desired to shun. Her heart sank within her, but quickly rallying, she bowed graciously to the gentleman, and with a smile, remarked: “I believe that I have met you before, Mr. Went- , worth.” No one would have suspected by her manner, so gracious, so self-composed, the deep agitation that underlaid it all, and much as she detested dissimulation or duplicity in any form, she felt that in this case she was absolved from all blame. “Oh. yes,” he replied, his thoughts reverting to the scene in the picture-gallery; “you indeed seem like an old friend. Constance blushed violently at this remark, and a feeling of uneasiness took possession of her, while Dr. Long looked on wonderingly. He felt there was a mystery somewhere. One or the other was play- । ing a part, which he was determined to ferret out, eventually. Constance again rallied, and with considerable ; composure started a new topic, and soon the con- I versation became general. At this the music sounded, and the dancers < formed along the floor for a quadrille. < An invitation from Mr. Wentworth to make up a set was the result, which Constance could not very < well decline, but which she felt was most unlucky at this time, and might prove a serious matter. I "Oh!” she thought, as from time to time she met ; the earnest gaze of her partner fixed intently upon her in the pauses of the dance, "oh, if I get well < out of this, never-never will I place myself in such < a position again.” Her partner thought differently. “Now is my chance,” he said to himself. "Let me : improve it while I may. It seems unaccountable 1 how shyly she regards me. Ah. if I did not know i better, I should certainly think Constance before < me. I am half inclined to believe there is a mystery I somewhere. 1 The dance ended; a promenade was proposed by i' "Well, doctor. I am not so sure but that I have seen a ghost,” he replied; while, as he spoke, a deep sigh escaped him. "You have reference to the younglady who passed out as I came in, I presume?” queried the doctor. "Yes; and if I did not kow of a certainty that my Constance "was no more. I should think her the same being. Why, man, I am half inclined to believe her to be Constance Walford herself.” “Ah,” thought the doctor to himself, “the poor fellow’s troubles have affected his mind, else why should he think and talk in this manner ?” , "I am not demented, neither is my mind impaired by trouble.” said Mr. Wentworth, instantly divining the thoughts of his friend; "but, as I have always said, there is mystery in this case. Now listen. Thereupon he gave the doctor an account of what passed between himself and the lady, and his discovery of the birthmark through the displacement of the bracelet. , , x x “Whew!” ejaculated the doctor, amazed at what he had heard. “How did the lady act, and what did she say for herself ?” . , . "Not one word; but she snatched her hand away from me in a hurry, and turning, shot through the door as if pursued.” , , ,(T , “Well, my friend.” said the doctor. I will take upon myself to clear up this affair—let me alone for that. Meanwhile let us leave this place, whose air is too oppressive to be beneficial, and rejoin tne company in the drawing-room.” “As you say,” replied Albert Wentworth. Lead The gentlemen immediately returned to the company, but looked in vain for Constance. “Ah, she has left, no doubt,” said the doctor to himself. “She has fairly run away from friend Wentworth, this time. Let me once get a hearing of her father, and this mystery will be one no longer.” [TO BE CONTINUED.! StellaRosevelt, OR, THE TRANSIT OF A STAR, It was Miss Meredith—Grace Meredith she had told Star she was called—who spoke, and looking up, she found a pair of brilliant dark eyes looking \ into hers, a handsome face smiling down upon her. while a musical voice acknowledged the introduction with evident pleasure. "I expect you are the 'star* whom I have been wishing to know for a long time,” he said, significantly, as he took the hand she held out to him, and thought he had never seen a lovelier face in his life. Star thanked him with a charming smile for his interest in her, and introduced him to Mr. Rosevelt. then turned to Miss Meredith to escape from the § raises which she saw he was longing to pour into er ears. , The young man was somewhat chagrined at being thus summarily disposed of, but he was too polite and good natured to betray it. and did his best to make himself agreeable to the old gentleman and win his good will. Gradually, however, he managed to attract the attention of the young ladies, and then the conversation became general, and they chatted pleasantly for several minutes, until, at a look from Star, Mr. Rosevelt declared they must go, "for he was not used to late hours, and Star, he knew, was nearly worn out with the excitement of the day.” Mr. Meredith regretted that they must leave, but begged, with his most captivating smile: "May I have the pleasure. Miss Gladstone, of coming with my sister to call upon you!” "Certainly,” Star answered, graciously, for she was pleased with both brother and sister. “I shall be very happy to have you do so. We live---” “Wait a minute. Star, and I will write our address down foi them; it is so difficult to remember numbers I am afraid they will forget,” and taking a leaf from a small note-book that was in his pocket. Mr. Rosevelt wrote both street and number and passed it to young Meredith. Star thought he looked surprised as he read it. Was it because of the humble locality ? she won- By Mrs, GEORGIE SHELDON, AUTHOR OF •‘BROWNIE’S TRIUMPH,” “THE FORSAKEN BRIDE,” EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY,” “LOST, A FEARLE,” Etc., Etc. [“Stella Rosevelt” was commenced in No. 21. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XI. A PROPOSAL FW MB. WENTWORTH. A day or two after, Dr. Lpng, with his friend Wentworth, called upon the Elerys at their hotel. Constance did not app^iQqOfrs. Ellery received them. After a few mo^fnts oF^SMsmtion on indifferent topics, Constance was inquiSfor. Miss Ellery is too fitigued to a^ar, having passed the evening befoie out untiia late hour,” returned Mrs. Ellery, frifidly. After this the conversation begn to flag, and soon the gentlemen arosito go. Ms. Ellery bowed formally as they took ther leave, jad no invitation to repeat their call was esended’t them. “I say, Wentworth,” sai. Dr. Dug, when beyond hearing distance of the mnsidn. 'something is not right, I am afraid, Mrs. llery dd not appear herself on this occasion—a ^ry geiial lady she has ever proved at other times-and l noticed was particularly formal and coo, especially when her daughter was inquired for, Nov what does all this mean ? If you, my friend. ,^s-«ng for the daughter, as you say, I call it a cut diect.” “Yes,” said Mr. WentwortU, j reply; "It Is plain that I am in disfavor with ther all. The reason I cannot make out.” "Perhaps you had better givup your pursuit of the voung lady,” suggested th doctor. “Never! never!” was returnd in decided tones. "But it is plain that MissCustance also regards you with aversion, my friend. How are you to succeed under such difficulties ?” “Well, doctor, I shall do all ; can to win her, and if she will not, on any consideation, consent to become Mrs. Wentworth, then J suppose I must desist from my purpose.” Dr. Long laughed as he remarked: “I must say you are the most persevering of fellows, even in the face of defeat. Why not seek for one of the many charming girls who (does care for you. and will feel complimented at your notice.” “For the simple reason that jiot one of them look like her,” replied Mr. Wentworth, J impressively. "Constance Ellery is the simile d>f a lady who would have been my cherifl©d wife, liiad not death called her from my arm^J' „ “Ah, that alters the c*> rej.ointBd the doctor. "What was her name, if •' allo >w me to be so inquisitive ?” ■***- “Constance Walford gloomy CHAPTER XXIII. MR. ROSEVELT’S STORY. Jacob Rosevelt stood not far away during the conversation between Mr. Appleton, Miss Meredith, and Star, and a proud light beamed in his eyes as he listened to their praises of the girl whom be had learned to love so well. But it was nothing new to him that Star was an authoress; he had known it for nearly a year. That was the secret that she had whispered in his ear, when, after Mrs. Richards’ terrible accusations. they had been left alone, and she had begged him to go away with her to make a little home of their own, telling him that what she should receive for her book, together with her hundred pounds, would be ample for their support until she could graduate and obtain a position as a teacher. She had written it that first winter; for after Mr. Richards had vetoed his wife’s plan of making her a servant, and insisted that she should be sent to school, there had been many lonely hours which would have been very irksome to her if she had not spent them in this way. Her studies that winter were not hard; she had no associates to help her pass the time pleasantly, and so her heart had overflowed in this way, and she had penned the charming little romance which had at once set everybody to wondering who the author might be. This was the package with which she had stolen forth so early one morning, taking it with fear and trembling, y et with something of hope, to the great publisher. . j , . _ , , When she was shown into his office, and made known her errand there, he looked at her in wonder, astonished at the temerity of one so young and simple as She appeared to be, in bringing her manuscript to him and asking him to publish it. But the (Referential yet winning way in which she made herappea/1, and the influence of her loveliness, won a re’iuctafft promise on his part to look it tones. 1 & '* “Indeed! thesame b tiw lady is dead ? u i ' “That fact alone pre' claiming this lady as my betrothed; r.As iY alike,” replied Mr. Wentworth. tT "Ah. a very singular cclim ee!” and the doctor fell to musing, while hislfrieM, devolved the subject anew in his mind, determined not to give up the pursuit of the girl of his heant, let what would oc- , OVHe Uia. so, VUO xion-tAy AVlth ^>^Wou auite sure an amused sirtile, and expecting after a casual glance nt its contents to be nauseated with some j sickly sentimental love-story. cur. Although after this the^yobig people met frequently in social circles, yet Mi. Wentworth found no occasion to prefer his suites intended, for Constance seemed ever so surrounded by her own particular friends and acquaintances, and so formal, withal, that it seemed an utter impossibility to get even a chance to approach his divinity; but at length fortune favored this persevering swain, and they met face to face in the jonservatory of a mansion, where they were enjoying an informal evening with their friends. Constance had gone thither to view the floral display which was said to be lovely in the extreme. She was passionately fond of flowers, and these especially, being all that was represented, filled her with the keenest delight. Bending over a rare exotic, inhaling the fragrance of its odorous blossoms, she was suddenly startled by a voice near, and upon raising her eyes, beheld Mr. Wentworth standing before her. She looked appalled at beholding him, and instantly her cheek paled with inward terror, for she knew by intuition his object in thus obtruding himself upon her notice. With a violent effort she commanded herself, and bowed formally to her visitor, without speaking. "Miss Ellery, you are surprised, without doubt, to see me here, an intruder, it may be; but when you come to learn the object of my visit, you will overlook my boldness, I trust; ascribing it to the true cause—the great love I bear you.” "Why, Mr. Wentworth! you surprise me beyond measure!” ejaculated Constance, blushing a rosy red, as she spoke, and vexed within herself for her want of self-possession. “Pardon me, Miss Ellery,” he said, “but what I assert is the truth. No other woman do I love with so ardent an affection as yourself, and here I offer my heart and hand for your acceptance. Say, darling, will you be my wife?” These words fell like a thunderbolt upon the ear of Constance. The man of all others which she had so striven to avoid, to make this proposition to her. What a position for her to be in. “Oh! if some one would only enter,” she thought; and she glanced uneasily around her, but saw no way to rid herself of this importunate lover, who had followed her up so many weeks, and was so determined to win her at whatever cost. “Mr. Wentworth,” she began, but he hastily interrupted her. "I do not wish an answer now,” he said. "I will give you a few days to consider the question, so important to me.” "I can answer you now, Mr. Wentworth, as well as any other time,” said Constance, feeling a little more self-possessed. “I shall be obliged to decline the honor you intend me, but hope that you will still consider yourself a friend to the family.” “Constance, I cannot take your answer now. Do not doom me to a loveless life, for no other woman can ever take the place in my heart I offer you. Oh. do reflect a little upon it for my sake,” and he cast upon her an imploring look. r “If I do so, my answer will be the same,” replied Constance. "I cannot wed where my heart is not interested. “But my case is peculiar,” said the gentleman, in a pleading tone. "You are the exact image of one I loved and lost. Even that tiny mark, a blood-red heart, on your wrist, is the same. What a coincidence. What does it mean ?” and as he spoke he caught her hand in his, in an excited way. Constance Quickly withdrew her hand from his clasp, and adjusted her bracelet hastily. “Had he recognized her bythatlmark at last? She would leave him immediately^” she thought, and seek her friends in the drawing-room.” So she bowed formally, without speaking, and quickly turned away and sought her friends in the drawing-room, where, in a few moments, with her escort, she left the gay scene. Meanwhile, Albert Wentworth stood like one bereft of sense, looking at the door through which Constance had passed, powerless to follow from sheer amazement. He was rudely awakened, however. to a sense of his condition, by the entrance of his friend, Dr. Long. "Why. Wentworth,” he said, “what is the matter? You look as if you had seen a ghost.” But he became strangely interested in it at once, and read on and on, now with smiles, then melting into tears, until it was finished, and pronounced a “little gem;” while he was convinced that a sensitive, reined, and talented girl had thrown her heart, and perhaps something of her own life, into those touching pages. He sent a note to her at once, asking her to come and see him again, and when she obeyed the summons, he questioned her about herself, how she had come to write her book, and what incidents had suggested it. She told him that the scene of her little romance was laid in Derbyshire, England, and that many of the incidents were connected with her childhood; and the tears sprang to his eyes as she related to him something of the misfortune which overtook her in the death of her mother, the subsequent loss of her father, and how she was obliged to come, a stranger, to this country; of the tempestuous voyage across the ocean, with its thrilling events, and that as soon as she could complete her education she intended to become a teacher. JJe was greatly interested in her, and told her that he should publish her book, and if the first edition sold well, she should have a thousand dollars, and a certain per cent, on all other editions. It seemed like a fortune to Star, who had not thought of receiving anything like such a sum, and she went Pack to her duties with a joyful heart to await the issue of her book. Mr. Appleton was so pleased with her that he saw her often after that, and having received a card from her for the commencement exercises of Professor Roberts’ seminary, he decided he would go; and the little package which he had given her in the presence of Mr. Richards, was a copy of her book, which had just come to him from the hands of the binders; and it was he, too, who, admiring her fine essay, begged it of her, and sent it, with those few, flattering remarks which had so annoyed Josephine, to the next morning’s papers. Star had put no name to her work, telling Mr. Appleton that she did not care to be known as its author; and he, too, thought it best, since it was her first experience in literary matters; so when she had told him that her name was Stella, he had put a simple star in place of it. But the book had sold beyond even the publisher’s most sanguine expectations, and when it became evident very soon that a second edition must be published, he asked her to allow him to put her name to it, as everybody was besieging him to know who wrote it. But she was firm, and insisted upon having his promise that he would not betray her until after her graduation and her eighteenth birthday. When he wrote her a check for the promised thousand dollars, she had taken it directly to Mr. Rosevelt. "Now we need have no fears for the future,” she said. wTith a proud smile, as she put it into his hand. "You must have every comfort, Uncle Jacob, fruits and wines, and everything nice, to make you strong and well. There will be more coming, you know, as the other editions are sold, and when I begin to teach I shall have my salary besides.” The old gentleman was deeply touched by her thoughtfulness for him—he could not speak for the choking sensation in his throat, but drew her gently to him and kissed her fair forehead, feeling that she was the only gleam of sunshine which his life contained. Now as he stood by and heard her praises sung, and knew that she would have the fame that belonged to her, he exulted over it; and when a little later she came to him and slipped an envelope into his hand, saying: “It is another check. Uncle Jacob, which Mr. Appleton has just given to me. Please take care of it, for you are my banker, you know; and,” a tear starting to her glorious eyes, “I believed I never expected to be so happy again as I am to-night.” he thought his own cup of joy was nearly as full as hers. She was indeed a star after that all through the evening, and held a right royal little court, receiving and making the acquaintance of the admirers of “Chatworth’s Pride,” until she became so weary that she longed to get home to quiet and rest. As soon as she could find an opportunity to do so, she drew Mr. Rosevelt to President Hunter, and made her adieu. Just as she was turning, away some one touched her on the arm. “Miss Gladstone, allow me to present my brother, Mr. Ralph Meredith.” dered W They then exchanged good-nights and parted. When they reached the street, Mr. Rosevelt said: "I am going to call a carriage, dear, for I know vou are just ready to drop from weariness,” and Star did not object, for she was indeed exceedingly tired. When they reached home she insisted upon making a cup of tea for Uncie Jacob, saying that he was not accustomed to such late hours and dissipation, and “besides.” she added, with a smile, “she felt like having a drop herself.” , . , , But the old gentleman was so absent-minded over his tea, that she felt almost guilty for haying kept him up so late, and feared he would be ill to-morrow. She put away the tea things when they were through, and was about to light her lamp to retire, when he stopped her, saying: "Star, my dear, come and sit down upon this ottoman by me. I have something I wish to say to you.” She obeyed, wondering what had happened to make him look and speak so gravely. “Are you really happy to-night, my child?’ he asked, tenderly. . . A startled look came into the girl’s eyes at this question, and her heart leaped with sudden pain as her thoughts went bounding over the sea to one, to whom she had given the first grand passion of her soul. , , , "Uncle Jacob,” she answered, gravely, though he could see the Quiver about her lips, which she tried in vain to repress, "I am happier than I ever expected to be again. It is useless to regret or mourn over the past. 1 have tried to be sensible over it but sometimes I am afraid I have not succeeded very well,” she said, with a smile that was a trifle bitter. “If,” she added more brightly a moment after, “that one episode could have been left out of my life. I believe there would be nothing to mar it now ” "I would that it could have been so,” Mr. Rosevelt sighed. “But I want you to listen to me for a little while. I know it is late, and you ought to go to rest, but I particularly wish to tell you a short story of my life, to-night. It is a page which has been turned from sight for many years, and no one has over read it save myself. You nre about entering upon a new era in your life. I have learned, to love you very tenderly, my child, and I want to bind you yet closer to me.” , "Why, Uncle Jacob, you do not think I have any idea of going away from you, I hope,” Star said, in “No, for I have grown to feel that you belong to me. I want you to think so, too, and I am going to tell you why. Fate—or Providence, I suppose you would say—has thrown us together in a strange way, considering all things. Do you remember telling me on board that ill-fated steamer, that your name was Star Rosevelt Gladstone, and how surprised you were when you learned that my last name was the same as your middle one ? . . “Yes. sir; and I still think it a strange coincidence,” Star answered. . , . _ , „ “Perhaps you will be more surprised when I tell you that you were named for me.” Star looked up astonished at him. “How can that be possible ?” she asked. "In this way,” Mr. Rosevelt returned, a.sliade of pain crossing his face. “When he^be1ore nnf a^out his friends. Indeed he did little girl of my own. she would like me to cai\%™ Stella Rosevelt, and that is how you came by it ’ ” " ;Where is my grandmother, papa?” I asked. She is dead,’ he said, and immediately left the room, looking so pale and miserable that I never dared ask him anything more about her.” “It seems strange that I should be the one to tell £ou about her,” Mr. Rosevelt said, thoughtfully ‘and I am puzzled to know why he should have been so reticent. Did your father ever have any trouble with his family?” “Not that I know of; and yet.” Star said, flushing, there was some trouble about his marriage with mamma, though that seems to have been on the part of her family rather than his. Mrs. Richards once twitted me about mamma—who was a sort of cousin to her—having married beneath her.” "I do not see how that could have been, for the Mr. Gladstone who married Stella Winthrop was a very wealthy and important man in the county of Devonshire—at least I was told so—and if your father was his son he might have married almost any one he chose, and have conferred an honor in so doing. But this is not telling you my story. "When Stella Winthrope was of your age. and I three or four years older, we met at a large reception in London. That meeting was fatal to us both, for we loved from that hour as true lovers ever love. For six months the world was like Paradise to us and then I was called away to the far East on business for the firm with which I was connected. (I am an American, but most of my life has been spent abroad.) ‘‘If I was successful in my business undertaking, it was agreed that I might claim my bride when I returned at the end of two years. The vessel on which I sailed was wrecked—! have had more than one such experience you see.my dear—and it was reported that every passenger on board was lost, while only a very few of the crew lived to tell the story of the disaster. But I was fortunate enough to secure a large cask, and with this I managed to keep afloat for two days, when I was picked up by a sailing vessel bound for the Philippine Island. “My first work upon reaching land was to write to Stella and tell her of my safety. But my letter never reached her, I also notified the firm that I was all right, and should proceed directly about the business upon which I had been sent, but they knew nothing of my connection with Miss Winthrop, and accordingly did not communicate with her. I kept writing at intervals to my beloved, but never heard anything in return. At last, in despair. I wrote to the firm telling them of my engagement, and asking them to notify her of my safety, and give her my address in case she should have happened to lose the one I had given' her. In reply they said that the Winthrop family had gone abroad for an indefinite stay. Of course this was a great trial to me. and I was exceedingly impatient; but my two years were over at last, and I turned my face toward England once more. I had succeeded in my business beyond my most sanguine expectations, and I looked forward to the immediate fulfillment of my hopes when 1 should return. My first duty on reaching London was to acquaint my employers with the result of my transactions, and my next thought was for Stella—my bright Star. Never for an instant had I doubted her fidelity—I believed she would be as true to me as I was to her, and my heart beat high with hope as I bounded up the familiar steps leading to her home and rang the bell. I asked for Miss Winthrop of the maid who answered my summons, and she stared at me as if she thought me demented. “ ‘Miss Winthrop!’ she repeated, ‘there is no Miss Winthrop, sir, she was married and went away nearly a year ago.’ “‘Married!’ The word was like a thunderbolt to me, and in an instant all the light went out of my life—my heart was paralyzed. I staggered from the place and hid myself from every one for a week. Then I gained something of calmness and courage to go out among my friends and try to learn how it happened that Stella Winthrop had married. As I told you before, it was reported that every passenger on the vessel in which I sailed was lost—those of the crew who were saved affirmed that such was the case, and my betrothed had believed that I was dead. She grieved herself almost to death over my loss, and her parents fearing they would lose her also, took her abroad and traveled for many months. It was during this absence that the firm received my THE NEW YOM WEEKLY letter relating to her, but were unable to learn her address, as sue was moving from point to point, and so could not communicate with her. "Six months after learning my fate she met Mr. Gladstone in Paris. He fell in love with her and offered himself to her. He was a gentleman in every sense of the word, was kind and sympathetic, and she liked him as a friend. She told him the story <>f her grief, and that she could never marry. Me did not sneer at her ‘girlish folly,’ as many would have done, but comforted her, speaking so kindly nnd regretfully of me that he won even a warmer place in her heart. He was patient with her. and when at length a second time he asked her to marry him. she told him that she could never love him as she had loved me. but it he could be content to take her with what respect she could give him. and ihe duty she would strive to yield him, she would become his wife. He told her he w<>uld be content, and they were married a year and three months after I sailed on the fatal voyage. “They traveled several months longer, and when at length on their return to London, only three or four months before I arrived there, she learned that I had not perished, but was soon expected back, the shock nearly killed her a second time. Her husband was all kindness and attention, took her immediately away again, and showered everything that wealth could buy upon her, and after a time children were born to her, and those now ties aroused her to her sense of duty as a mother. I never saw her, for I had not courage to look upon her dear face, knowing that she was the wife of another, for I never ceased to love withan uffection that amounted to idolatry, They told me that she had two children—two noble boys, one of them resembling her. the other his father; that she was a tender, faithful mother, and very much beloved by every one who knew her. “That was forty years ago, Star, and for thirty I have not heard one word concerning either her or her family; but I have lived my life out alone-I could never take anyone to my brokew heart; and perhaps, if your belief is true, my chml, and I can ever be made clearly to see it, I may find my lost love somewhere in the great future; but I do not need to tell you that my past has been one long season of longing and regret, of sadness and loneliness.” His voice broke, his lips quivered painfully, and it seemed for a moment as if he must break down utterly. Star softly slipped one of her small hands into his. and the sympathetic little act comforted him greatly. His closed over it, in a strong, yet tender clasp. "You pity the old man’s weakness, don’t you, dear?” he said, with a sad smile; "but it is not easy to open the secret chambers of one s heart when they have been closed for forty years.” "When first I saw you.” he continued, after a moment, "there was something in your face that touched me—a light in your eye. a sheen on your hair, that somehow smote a familiar chord in my heart. I watched you, although you were not aware of it. and felt sorry for you during that dreadful storm at sea, for your white face and great startled ey< s appealed to me as nothing had done for many a year. But I would not yield to it. I had shut my heart to every one; I had vowed that I would never love any one again, and I mistrusted every one who sought to win me to a better mood. But when thaf lurch of the boat threw you directly into my arms, and you clung to me in such a helpless way, I could not resist you, and some good angel prompted me to gather you close to me and make you rest upon me. When you told me your name, the shock nearly unmanned me—‘Star Rosevelt Gladstone,’ you said —ami I knew as well as if I had been told, that you were in some way connected with my lost Star, and I watched over, you all the night through, feeling almost as if some sweet spirit had been sent from her to me. to give me a little ray of comfort at the end of my long, loveless life. "When, the next morning, you told me that your grandmother had named you, and that her name was Stella Winthrop, I had not a doubt—I felt convinced that you must be the child of one of her sons. You thought it merely a strange coincidence, but I knew better, and all my boasted coldness and hardness melted away, and I began to love you then and there. When that dreadful explosion occurred. and you urged me to save myself, as ‘doubtless I had dear friends’ and ‘you had no one to love you —when you refused to leave me. and took up your station by my side to die with me, as we both believed, I felt, as if something of the spirit of my lost love was shining through you. Then your tenderness toward, and your care of me—your heroic selfdenial and efforts to save my life while we were helplessly afloat on the mighty ocean—your sweet voice singing those hymns of faith and cheer, completed the conquest of my hardened nature. I can never make you understand how disappointed I was, on arriving in New York, to find you gone. I meant to tell you something of myself, and learn your own destination, so that I might see you once in awhile. this is to be a gala day, and I want you as fine as possible.” Star laughed and tripped away to obey, and coming back after a few moments with such a bright and happy face, that Mr. Rosevelt thought she had never looked so lovely before. All the morning they drove—four long, delightful hours—hours that were always a pleasant memory afterward to both of them; and many who saw the nicely dressed old gentleman with the fair, bright, golden-haired girl beside him in their elegant carriage, thought what a green old age must be his, with so much to make life pleasant. About one o’clock they turned toward the city once more, and Star said, with a sigh of pleasure: “Uncle Jacob, I believe there never was such a perfect day before, and I’m sure I never enjoyed a birthday more; you were very kind to plan this pleasure for me.” The old gentleman’s eyes twinkled. Her delight, her bright, animated face were such a joy to him, “If I had only been rich as I used to be, I should so like to have made you some nice present to-day —a watch, for instance,” he said. "You gave me something last night which I value far better—your confidence,” Star said, softly. “I should like a watch,” she added, after a moment, "and I mean to have one some time. When I have earned it. you shall go and select it for me if you will. But what have you done with your own, Uncle Jacob ? You had a very nice one when I first met you, and I remember seeing it on you after the wreck.” “Watches and I have not had much in common during the last two years,” he answered, evasively, and she thought perhaps he had been obliged to sell it since he became poor. All at once the carriage stopped in a quiet street up town, which Star noticed, was lined on both sides with elegant brown-stone dwellings. ‘‘What are we stopping here for?” she asked. "A good woman whom I used to know lives here, and I thought as we were in gala attire to-day, I would like io stop and make a call, and—introduce my Star to her,” Mr. Rosevelt said, preparing to alight. He helped Star out, and together they went up the marble steps. Mr. Rosevelt rang the bell, and then took a card from one of his pockets, and with an arch smile, said: "It al most seems as if we were really fine people, doesn’t it, dressed In our best, riding about in our fine carriage, and sending our cards in at a bi ownstone house!” “Yes, indeed; and it would be such fun if we could keep it up for awhile,” Star said, gavly. “But,” with a regretful little sigh, “like Cinderella of ol<l, I suppose we shall soon be aroused to the fact that our coach and horses are gone, and find the stern realities of life staring us in the face again.” Mr. Rosevelt laughed. “Would you like to be a fine lady. Star?” he asked. "I don’t know,” she answered, thoughtfully. “I believe I should like to try it for a little while, just to see how it would seem.” There was not time for any more conversation, for the door was at this moment opened by a neatlooking servant. She appeared to recognize Mr. Rosevelt. for she greeted him with a smile, and then her eyes wandered inquiringly to Star’s lovely face. She invited them to enter, and conducted them into a handsome drawing-room on the right of the hall, when, taking Mr. Rosevelt’s card she retired, leaving them alone. “What a lovely room,” Star breathed, as her eyes loved about the apartment, over the beautiful pictures, the bright, rich carpet, the carved ebony furniture, upholstered in warm-hued satins, choice bric-a-brac, and all those flne things which add so much to a place like that. "Your friend must be a ‘fine lady,’ with plenty of money,” she added. Mr. Rosevelt merely nodded his head in reply, while he watched the door with evident impatience. It was soon slowly opened, and a familiar face appeared in the aperture—a face all beaming with smiles of pleasure and good-nature. "Mrs. Blunt!” cried Star, in astonishment, and springing toward the woman she grasped both her hands warmly: “Yes, Miss Star,” the woman returned, half laughing, half crying. “I am Mrs. Blunt, or I’m much mistaken; as I sometimes imagine I may be when I get to thinking about everything, and how strange it has all turned out. How well you’re looking, miss, and it does my old eyes a wonderful sight of good to see your bright face again.” Star thought her language somewhat ambiguous, but everthing seemed rather ambiguous just then. ‘Do you live here?” she questioned. "Yes. I live here; or---’ “Have you been in New York long? and why haven’t we seen you before? and what are you laughing at?” i mein that way. I am goingtake care of you. But you can still make me so ©brtable. We can ■ . still have nice times together^ I shall be very . proud to introduce the youngithoress of Ghat- ; worth’s Pridii’ as my icard an^ure heiress. 1 "Bless yo>^-child!” he conned, his flne face . glowing wit sappiness. "De you suppose it is going to be|l comfort to me to to make you hap-। py, and give you everything ywish after all your constancy, patience, and self-iial for me? Don t you suppose I enjoyed Atting this house for you after my tenant gave it up so six months ago i And don’t you believe, too, X Mrs. Blunt was glad to come and be housekor for us! and he turned kindly to the woman o had been stand-, ing in the background duringese explanations. , “You may be sure I’m muebstaken if I wasn t, she returned, eagerly, her e: gleaming with delight, and her gratitude fore position shining through her homely, but goo<atured face. "And I am very glad too. lithe nicest arrangement in the world,” Star saiheartily; and just to think,” glancing around t elegant apartment with a sigh of supreme contpt, "that I am to be surrounded with all this beaz! It is like a fairy tale, or a dream of enchantnt.” “I told you I had the best stress in the. world, Mrs. Blunt said, chuckling; at we didn’t imagine anything like this, Miss Staiiat Sunday when we were stoning raisins and steiing currants. “No, indeed,” Star answd, laughing. But you don’t mean^otell me th/ou consider me your mistress ” "I never’d ask for a bet.” the woman said, earnestly; then, turning tor, Rosevelt, she resumed: “And now. sir. won’t you ease eat your lunch and tell the rest of the stordterward? for everything will be spoiled waitim “Yes, indeed—yes, indeeto be sure we will. There, Miss Gladstone, sitiwn by your tea-urn, and make me the best cup om thaKwas ever brewed, while I serve you to me of that tempting salad.” He forced her gently inther chair, and going around to the opposite sidef the table, began to wait upon her in the most cvalrous manner. “Ah! this is what I call <nfort, dear, ’ he said, in a satisfied tone, after MrBlunt had withdrawn to see that the strawberriesid cream were properly served; “this is what I he been dreaming about fora whole year, and nowfter we have appeased our hunger—and, by the w, I believe I am halffamished, or else Mrs, Blu’s efforts in the culinary line are wonderfully accessful—we will go over the house, and see everything suits you. What are you looking at tbclock for ? Your school days are over. Miss Gladshe.” Star laughed somewhat irvously and flushed. “I was looking to see >w many hours would elapse before the^clock vuld strike twelve, and wondering if it would disfive the spell that is on me.” "No fear of that, Starlin The hours, days and months, and years, I tru, will roll by and bring you only joy and pleasurevith no rude awaking. You are to have everytfag that you want, and mind, by that Ido not nan just what you need, and have you stop Cbcounthe cost on those pretty fingers of yours as I han seen you do so often. You shall have music and painting to your heart’s content. You shall lavoa pair of ponies and a phaeton of the style; and, in tact, little girl, itW^takeyou a good while to find the bottom of m^urse But, how do you like your tea service ? I cY^e it mvself, and had it marked expressly for you’ "It is perfect!lovely,” Star replied, as her eyes roved admiring over the beautiful and costly equipage, upon $,ch piece of which there gleamed a star in delicate?rost work. "I’m glad you like it. And now, my dear, suppose you open tbit, small box by your plate. Star gave him awondering look—indeed all her looks had been woulering ones during the last hour —and opened a 11 tie white box, which had until now lain unnoticed beside her plate. She found insidea morocco case, and springing back the lid of this, an elegant little watch and chatelaine were to her delighted eyes. "Uncle Jacob! lemnot tell whether I am awake or dreaming,” she cited, a rosy flush spreading over her whole face, "it is the dearest little watch in the world. And is this star on the case made of dia- honor. She gazed mutely into his eyes for a full moment before she spoke. "You wish to see Sir John Sydney, perhaps ? she asked, coldly. "You will find him at Waltham Court-House—perhaps by this time in prison, where he should have been long ago,” , Lionel Vernon strode over the threshold, and closing the door behind him, turned the key ; then he faced his daughter with a stern, white face, and a look in his eyes not good to see. But she returned the gaze with the same unflinching defiance as of old, "Well ?” she queried, calmly. He smiled scornfully, watching her meantime as a cat watches the tiny mouse upon which it is preparing to spring, . , “Have you any business with me, sir? she demanded, sharply, growing tired of his scrutiny. "I have come to ask—nay. demand of you, he answered, slowly, "what hand you have had in this ridiculous affair?” j "Meaning the arrest of Sir John Sydney ?” questioned Geraldine. "Meaning the arrest of Sir John Sydney,” he re- "All. And. Lola, since I have found you here alone, I beg you to listen to me, for I cannot wait to tell you my story. Darling, I love you 1 I have loved you since first I saw you! Sit down upon this seat under the lime tree and listen—will you, Lola, while I tell you the shameful story of my But I never forgot you; and when I visited my nephew in the West, and met only coldness and neglect, simply because of my misfortunes, I could not help contrasting it with your kind attention to an entire stranger. heartless people and came to my ii1 ’th the same reception, when be- ys fawned at my feet, flattered * Juhad more I xoved me, no oue -$nd incumbrance, dul pust ^e/und youi Heavenly kinder) heart glow again. Still, I tro. finding my only brother’s ®Band selfish, thaf I was not o ® ►d® p ®jade me mistrust everybody. The young girl’s astonishment seemed to increase, for the woman appeared strangely and was shaking with inward laughter. "I’m laughing because I’m so glad to see you. I ve been in New York a month, and haven't been to see you because the last time I sa\^ Mr. Rosevelt he told me he was going to bring yob to see me soon ; so I’ve been content to wait.’l MrsXBlunt explained. x \ I monds?” „ “Yes, diamonds are none to good for my star. “And you had thiswaiting for me, even when we were talking about my having a watch, while we were driving ?” “Yes; I was only sounding you a little to see it you would like a witch best, or something else. Now if you are through put it in your belt and come with me.” he said, rising from the table. She followed his example, and together they passed from the beautiful dining-room ow into the hall, and thence to another room on the frpnt of the house, which was flttecl up as half library, half music IU. L iLV; VI. V I 1 . v 7 r .— Star wondered if the present oehunant of that I furnished thrpi >er triends in tne-amwrboi&-ht~^^^^ her mends in me arawmg-r6oi surely a new departure, and not exactly in’accordance with Mrs. Richards’ ideas of th© treatment of room. • - a , In it there s^tood a new Steinway piaifio. with a richly carved Jase, arid pearl.keys. The tnandsomo bookcases, eawh surmennted by books qf popular authors, werelfllled witi choice volumes^while the ' other furniture, upholstered in olive and crimson, was most iuxiifcious. z Frora hero weij; p stairs, and over the drawing-ropmVrOy^.. » , c 11^3^111 g^suitofrooms in it’ J chamber?was °nrtain.s. with a spiOdfl tO niaK^; rthesame kln<l hung at the window/, and •< toilet articles were m 3 ® h5® g gade me mistrust everybody “o^Scaso^ grow to be like them. But 13 have remained a day beneath 1 *• T cliAiilrl n»Anft tn xr awk : I should have gone my own I becamp rest ed and recruited. ~mv you came to me the next -1 -■ rival, and cheered me with vour thoughtful little gift? I . must be artless—she must red to stay awhile, and test and i have been a blessing to me L(lear, I began to love you for my ow I love you for your own. J my story now, and you must go io _ , -morrow will be your birthday, and we m celebrate a little in honor of it,” Mr. Rosevelt concluded, patting her softly on the shoulder. Star lifted a flushed and tearful face to him. "Uncle Jacobi” she cried, tenderly; "it seems as if you are really that to me now; and I am so glad that you have told me how you have loved my grandmother, and I shall try more than ever after this to make your life as bright as possible. I do not see how any one could ever have treated you unkindly or disrespectfully.” Uncle Jacob smiled fondly at her. “I know there is one at least who treats me kindly for my own sake, and who would share all her laurels with me. My child, I was very proud of you to-night.” "And I of you,” Star added, quickly. "I never saw you look so nice—so like an aristocratic old gentleman,” He laughed, such a bright, hearty laugh, that she wondered to see him so pleased over (her little compliment. "Now, good -night.” he said, rising; "I want you tp be as fresh as possible to-morrow.” He led her to the door of her room, and then, with a softly breathed "God bless you!” sought his own. God bless you! Those words rang in Star’s ears. Was he beginning to believe in her God after all ? She hoped so—she prayed so. But she did not go directly to bed, as he bade her; his story had strangely stirred her heart, and she could not rest until she had decided some questions that were troubling her. She opened a drawer of her dressing-case, and taking that worn portfolio to which we have before referred, from it, unlocked it, and drew forth a sealed package. "Papa told me to wait until I was eighteen before I opened and read it,” she said, musingly; "but a few hours can make no difference, and I feel now as if I must know if he was her son, and why he never would tell me anything about his family.” With reverent fingers she broke the seals, a sob rising to her lips as she thought whose hand had fastened them there, and how tenderly it used to stroke her hair and call her "My bright little Star!” The package contained several papers, and it took her more than an hour to examine them ; but when she had read them through, there was a look of wonder in her large blue eyes, and an almost blank expression on her white face. CHAPTER XXIV. "what are we to do next?” Star Gladstone’s eighteenth birthday dawned as bright and charming as it was possible for a morning to be. At eight o’clock she and Mr. RoseveIt' sat down to their breakfast, and a merry meal they made it. for both appeared in the best of spirits, in spite of the sad and exciting events of the previous evening upon which they had conversed. About nine, a handsome carriage drove to their humble abode, and the driver rang, and asked for the "gentleman and lady who were going for a drive in the park.” Star looked surprised as she peeped from the window and saw a pair of sleek, coal-black horses, with their silver-mounted harnesses, and the shining. velvet-lined coach. "Uncle Jacob, did you order that carriage to come for us ?” she asked. “Yes, my dear.” he said, with an expression of satisfaction, as he. too, looked out and saw the team. "It is not often that I ride, as you well know, but when I do, I like to go In style. One ride a year in "ship-shape” would satisfy me, where a halfdozen in some broken-down hack wouldn’t give me a bit of pleasure. Now, put on your hat. and tuck some roses in your belt, as you did yesterday, for servants. "Take off your hat, dearie.” Mrs. Blunt continued. "for I have a nice little lunch waiting for you.” "A lunch?” repeated Star, in amazement, and with a puzzled look at Mr. Rosevelt. who was regarding her attentively. “Yes; I had orders to get up the nicest lunch I could for my old friends, and I’m much mistaken if I haven’t done it,” the woman replied, with an air of satisfaction. "You must have a very kind mistress.” the fair girl said, as she drew off her gloves and removed her hat. "I have, the best in the world.” the queer creature returned, with a chuckle. “But come, I’ll show you the way to the dining-room.” Mr. Rosevelt arose, and, drawing Star’s hand within his arm, followed her to a room on the opposite side of, and further down the hall. As she opened the door. Star saw a charming dining-room, furnished in costly woods of different colors, its floor inlaid in an intricate and lovely pattern. In the center stood a table, covered with a hejfvy white damask cloth, and spread with a glittering array of silver and cut glass, and where, also, a most tempting repast was awaiting them. Mr. Rosevelt led his wondering companion to one side of the tables and, looking down upon her with the fondest look in the world, said, in a voice which was not quite steady: “Star, my dear, my pure-hearted, faithful little friend. I here formally install you as mistress of your own table and of your own home. This is to be your seat henceforth—mine opposite—and, my darling—for such you have become to me—I trust you will be as happy as an old man’s love, gratitude, and wealth can make you.” Star had grown suddenly pale while he spoke, and regarded him with puzzled expression. "I do not understand.” she said, clasping both her small hands around his arm and leaning heavily upon him. "I will tell you,” he answered, tenderly. "When you met mo on board that ill-fated steamer I was a very rich man. When it was wrecked, and I had discovered that you were the grandchild of the only woman whom I ever loved, and also what a kind, tender little heart you had, I formed a sudden resolution. I had always, as I told you last night, been flattered and cajoled by my relatives, who knew I was rich, and I resolved that I would test their sincerity. If they stood it I would divide my fortune into three portions, one of which should be yours, the others theirs. If they did not, it should all be yours, if you proved the true, noble character which I believed you to be. That was one reason why I was so keenly disappointed to find you gone when I went to bid you farewell on the steamer; but I meant to search for you all the same. And so I pretended to be the poor old man whom you remember coming to Ellen Richards that night. You know the result. No one was true to me or kind to me but my Star. Yet I had become so suspicious of everybody that I resolved to study even you thoroughly before I committed myself; and so I concluded to wait until you had completed your education before telling you of my actual position in life. It was very hard, though, when you were in such trouble that last night in Yonkers, when you told me your secret about writing your book, and offered to share your little all with me 'because I was not happy there,’ and I was sorely tempted to tell you all, surround you at once with everything to make life beautiful, and place you in a position far above the daughter of the woman who had treated you so shamefully. On second thought, however, I deemed it best to wait until your education should be completed, for then you would be more free to enjoy the good things of life.” "Then you have not been poor at all,” faltered Star, as he paused for a moment. “No; I have had abundance. I own this house, and have for years. I own a block on Broadway, and—well, little one. there is enough to enable you and me to do pretty much as we like for the remainder of our lives,” he answered, with a fond smile. “Then I cannot take care of you. I thought I was going to make you so comfortable, and that, with teaching and the income from my book, we could have such nice times together,” Star said, wistfully, and hardly able, even yet, to comprehend the change in her circumstances. Mr. Rosevelt patted her softly on the shoulder, though a tear sprang to his eyes at her words. I “No. dear,” he returned, "you cannot take care of costly china, mbst Wt? y decorated. The boudoir, or sitting-room1, ( . ed up with every con- venience, and all thoi puetty trifles which young girls so much admit! cawpeted with wreaths of forget-me-nots and lolden-hearted daisies. The furniture was covered with' richest brocade of the same design, while £he full length mirror in its massive blue and gold frame, revealed, as Star went up to it, a beautify maiden, with shining hair, gleaming eyes, smiling coral lips, and glowing cheeks, a fitting tenant for this lovely bower. "Allow me to introduce you to the heiress of Jacob Rosevelt, the millionaire,” said the old gentleman, taking her hand and bowing before the fair apparition in the glass. "How do you like her ?” "I can’t tell just yet, she is such a new creature; but,” with a roguish look up into his eyes, "I’m very fond of t he millionaire.” "Thank you, Miss Gladstone, your favor is most highly appreciated,” he returned, laughing. "But come, you must see my bachelor den,” and he led her across the hall to a room over the dining-room, and here she found every comfort, if something less of elegance. Opposite her sitting-room there was a great chamber, furnished in crimson and gold, while up another flight were the servants’ rooms. Mrs. Blunt’s room was on the lower floor, where she could conveniently overlook her assistants at all hours. "It is like a story,” Star said, when they had been the rounds and came back to the library, "and now what are we to do next, Uncle Jacob ?” Her plans had all been for work, and now that she found there was to be no more toil or care for her— nothing but pleasure, and what her own sweet will dictated, she hardly knew where or how to take up the thread of her life again; therefore the query: “What are we to do next, Uncle Jacob?” [TO BE CONTINUED.] ------------------------ SEVERE THREAT By Mrs. E. Burke Collins. [“A Severe Threat” waa commenced in No. 25. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXVIII. WORSTED. Geraldine paced slowly up and down the floor of her sumptuous chamber; her head bent, and a look of triumph upon her pale, statuesque features. Eor her hour of vengeance was at hand; that for which she had longed so earnestly, and to gain which she had been willing to lay her life down, was hers at last. For the man whom she hated had been tracked down; he was in the hands of the Philistines, and Samson himself was no sooner shorn of his glory than this man would be. Her cheeks glowed with the fever of excitement, her dark eyes shone proudly at the thought of his humiliation, and that she had had a hand in bringing him down to his proper punishment. Unnatural, you say? Alas! poor Geraldine was but a type of many a woman whom injustice and wrong and bitter humiliation—the outraging of the finer instincts of a better nature-have perverted,and metamorphosed a noble woman into an avenging fiend. She did not vet know the result of Sir John’s examination at Waltham Court-House. Lola had not returned, but something assured Geraldine that all was as she desired, and she was willing to wait for further knowledge. There came a faint tap upon the door of tharvom at last, and thinking it Lola, she hastened to open it. She drew back with a stifled cry. for there upon the threshold stood her father—her father whom she had not seen for many months. She gazed into his face a moment in perfect silence. Not her father any more! No, between Lionel Vernon and herself there rested a black, unbroken shadow—hei own ruined, blasted life, and—his dis- turned. , , , , She laughed a low. mirthless laugh. t “I will tell you,” she answered, "I did everything in my power to help Lola! Gave her free access to the rooms where she felt intuitively that she would : find the evidence of his guilt: and she found it, too! 1 sent then to Waltham for a couple of officers, and had the gentleman taken away. I trust that he will sleep in Waltham jail to-night.” "Girl, you have gone mad!” "I have been mad.” she interpolated, passionately; "mad and blind to allow myself to be deceived as I have been! Father—no, I cannot call you by that sacred name—never, any more! I had a father once—how long ago it seems! But —you—you standing there before me now—you, Lionel Vernon. I no longer acknowledge! You have no further claim upon my filial affection—upon my respect! You deceived me basely—forced me into a distasteful, an outrageous marriage by an avowal of crime, which that marriage would serve to cover up, that you might escape the punishment that you felt you so richly deserved. I believed you. Ah, God, why do women always believe ? I trusted you—were you not my father ? And it was my duty to believe your assertion. I allowed myself to be the sacrifice made to appease the wrath of the gods of vengeance and retribution ; and now mark the result I Look upon your work, Lionel Vernon ; does it not satisfy you ? My life is ruined—a blackened desert of despair! I have committed a deadly sin in submitting to this unholy marriage! I am Sir John Sydney’s wife in name only. He dare not enter my presence ; he has never ventured to pollute my lips with his kisses —I would kill him first! But my whole life is blighted : mv future a colorless blank; and all for naught, Lionel Vernon—all for naught! I know the trutn at last, you see.” o He had drawn back a few paces, his face working convulsively with strong emotion; it had grown deadly white, and a strange, wild gleam came into his keen eyes. He came nearer at last, and laid one hand upon his daughter’s arm. “Geraldine,” he said, slowly, beginning to understand that he was only leading a forlorn hope, yet nerving himself for the task before him, "in view of all existing circumstances, and acknowledging my own past errors in judgment, I have come to ask you to be more just and reasonable. # Forgive, as yo would be forgiven.’ Withdraw this infamous charge against the baronet; loved or hated, he is all the same your husband, my child; and in your position as Lady Sydney, you have power to set him tree, and rectify the mistake that you have made. Let by-gones be by-gones, and strive to make the best of a bad bargain. It cannot last long, for Sir John is growing old. and he has dissipated so recklessly that I doubt if he troubles you many months. Will you consent, Geraldine ?” She turned abruptly to an Indian cabinet which stood near, and took from it a tiny dagger—that same dagger, with its gleaming blade and jewel-crested hilt, with which she had confronted her husband on that wretched wedding eve. She took it now, and silently turned the glittering point to her own heart. "Do you see that weapon, Lionel Vernon she asked, in a strange, calm, metallic voice. “Well, sir, take your answer—I would drive that blade into my own breast before I would consent.to do as you advise. How dare you prate of forgiveness, and travesty the holy words of One whose doctrines you are too wicked to comprehend, by telling me to forgive as I would be forgiven? Lionel Vernon, if 1 believed, when this weary life is over, that he. Sir John Sydney, could by any accident enter the world of departed spirits—that Heaven where all the souls are happy—I would rather remain outside! Purgatory would be preferable to a better place, were he til01*0 “Blasphemous!” cried the old man, angrily. ‘‘Geraldine, you are beside yourself. If you do not soon attempt to control your wicked temper, you shall be placed in close confinement.. Do you know that, in your present frame (if mind, it would be an easy matter to pronounce you insane—and treat you accordingly ? I begin to believe that Sir John is about right, for he thinks that a removal to a private insane asylum would be—-” "Dol understand vou, Lionel Vernon, to say that Sir John Sydney contemplates removing me to an insane asylum?” . p "It is the proper plaee for you,” her father re-: “and if he is held a prisoner, the , Will bring : ..daul'K^dgMir ^sned^his Inore, does that wretch. Sir John Sydney, threaten : to place me in an asylum for the insane ? And he : knows that I am not mad!” • Lionel Vernon smiled a disagreeable smile. ' "He knows that you are nor, mad. certainly, only so far as your senseless hatred and persecution of • himself is concerned. And he does contemplate removing you to an insane asylum, there to remain ' until you return to your senses. For answer. Geraldine turned to a tiny, curtained alcove near. It held a piano, and the crimson velvet curtains were drawn closely. She lifted them slowly, and Lionel Vernon, saw, with a quick start of alarm and dismay, that Geraldine’s maid sat there, white and still as a statue. "You have heard what Mr. Vernon has said, have you not ?” Geraldine asked, addressing the frightened girl. “Yes, my lady; I heard it every word.” "Repeat those words as nearly as you can.” “He said, my lady, that Sir John was going to place you in an insane asylum, although he knows that you are not insane, to force you to submit to his wishes.” “Very good! You would be able to repeat those words in a court of law ?” "I would, my lady.” Geraldine smiled triumphantly. “I think that you are worsted in this battle, Mr. Lionel Vernon,” she said, coldly. And, crushing an imprecation between his set teeth, the miserable villain left the room, and the house itself. Geraldine breathed freely once more. The blow was warded off. and, for the present, she was safe. CHAPTER XXIX. DADY VENETIA’S OATH. Lola had left the court-room, and had gone out to breathe the fresh air, for she was very faint and weak from excitement, and the rehearsal of her mother’s wrongs—that sad story of an unhappy marriage, sin, shame, and crime. The memory of her mother’s tragic fate overcame the poor girl, and it seemed—for going all over it again brought back the sting afresh—as though it were more than she could bear. She hastened away, out into the little strip of green yard behind the court-house, a small place where a shriveled and stunted rose-bush was trying to hold its own with a painful air of incompetency, and a tall lime tree waved its branches and whispered softly to the breeze’s wooing. Up and down she paced, striving to control herself, pressing her hands over her heart, as though to still its wild tumult, her dark eyes shining like glorious stars, a bright red spot glowing on both marble-like cheeks. All of a sudden she came to a halt, and a low cry escaped her lips, although she would have given anything for power to repress it, for there before her, tall, handsome, and stately, stood Lloyd Vernon, his dark eyes fixed upon her startled face. He held out both his hands eagerly. “Lola !” he cried. She felt intuitively that something had happened. She had never seen him look like that before; never before had he seemed so care-free—so almost glad. She laid her hands in his without a word. They were quite alone. The crowd still thronged the court-room, and Lola dreamed not of the important events which were there transpiring; for the time all recollection was blotted out. She was alone with the man she loved. No one else had ventured into the little court-yard, and it was surrounded by a high brick wall, which shut them out from prying eyes. For a moment it seemed like Paradise to the two standing there. But, alas! there is no Eden upon earth now; and in its place the avenging angel, with the terrible, flaming sword. Lola was the first to find voice. “When did you come home?” she queried, not daring to glance into his face. "Home?” he repeated, with bitter emphasis. "I have none. I arrived in England two days ago. Lola, I have heard all, all the strange, wild story-how my sister was rescued—and by whom—from her terrible fate. I have you to thank, bright, brave darling, that she was saved-” “But to be lost again,” interrupted Lola. “Oh, Mr. Vernon, you do not know how nearly insane I was when I found that he—that wretch—had carried Geraldine away again, first stealing from me the only proof of his own crime, of whose existence I knew. You have heard all?” she added, with a quiver in her voice. past?” , , _ Pale and trembling, she faced him bravely. "Lloyd Vernon,” she faltered, "you forget yourself! Where is Lady Venetia?” "lam free!” he answered. “Lola, for Heavens sake do not imagine that I would insult you by words of love without the legal right to speak them! I am going to tell you my sad story now, and let you udge for yourself wherein I have sinned and have 3een sinned against.” And, sitting under the waving shadow of the lime tree at his side, Lola listened while Lloyd Vernon repeated the sad story of his past. He spared Lady Venetia nothing, but revealed her machinations and her bold plot to secure him as her husband because of the mad passion which possessed her heart. , ... So absorbed were they under the whispering lime tree that they did not perceive the slender figure which crouched directly behind the tree—a white, white face, with steely eyes glinting with a murderous light, and a revolver pointed—pointed straight at Lola Gordon, one white, jeweled finger upon the trigger. . lam going to record something now t which 1 know my readers will not credit. They will sneer at the idea and laugh the tale to scorn. But, sitting there, Lloyd Vernon suddenly heard a voice—his mind engrossed by the story of his love which he was repeating—a faint voice, which whispered in his ear. It said, softly: "Zook!” . He started in amazement. Again it whispered, faint and far away: ''Look behind you!” , He sprang to his feet and wheeled abruptly. He saw the kneeling figure of Lady Venetia Chandos, the weapon pointed straight at Lola. Suppressing an oath, the young man sprang forward and dashed the weapon aside. „ .... . , . There was a loud report, and the ball buried itself harmlessly in the green grass a few feet dis- With a gesture of loathing, he caught Lady Venetia’s arm in a vise-like grip, and drew her upon her feet, confronting her with a face pale and cold as marble. , , _ , "Murderess!” he hissed, his teeth crushed together hard, his eyes glinting with the fires of hatred burning in their dusky depths. For the second time you are defeated in your murderous designs! I have a mind to kill you where you stand, you false, cruel, treacherous thing 1” She turned her turquois eyes upon his face, and laughed. "I have sworn to kill her!” she panfeed. “So sure as any harm befalls her,” returned Lloyd Vernon, sternly, “I will take your life! You have no longer any claim upon me, or my forbearance, thank Heaven!” , . , She started, and her face grew slowly white; but the devil lurked in her bewildering eyes. "What do you mean?” she faltered. "I mean this, Lady Venetia Chandos! The farce of marriage between us is at an end. 1 am a free man, and you can marry whomsoever you will. When you go home to Chandos Park you will find the news awaiting you. A year ago I warned you that I intended to apply for a divorce on the ground of incompatibility of temper, since that plea is recognized in some States of America, and I cared not upon what ground of complaint I founded my attempt, so that I could honorably procure my freedom, A notice of the application was sent you long ago. I have just returned from America; a judgment has been rendered, giving us both our freedom, with the privilege of marrying again. The former marriage is a dead secret here. You can wed whomever you please, and no one will be the wiser in regard to your first matrimonial venture. I care not what becomes of you, my lady, so that you never cross my path again.” She had stood quite still while he was speaking. Her pallid face was unaltered; but there was a curious gleam in the depths of her beautiful eyes. Until now she had never believed that the divorce would be granted. Suddenly she sprang forward, and falling upon her knees before the two who watched her with strange emotions, she lifted her white face toward Heaven. Her long golden hair, falling loose, fell over her shoulders, reaching to the ground; her face could be no whiter—it was absolutely corpselike. She lifted her two small, jeweled hands, and tore the wedding ring from her finger. "Here!” she panted, tossing it upon the green grass at his feet, “ 'with this ring I thee wed: .Those were the words, Lloyd Vernon! See! I give it back to you! Go 1 marry the woman of your choice it you dare! But listen! You and the serpent yonder, who stole from me my very hopes of Eden; hear me swear once again the oath that I have already sworn. So help me. Heaven 1 if you wed that woman at.your ; side, you shall rue it to your dying day! I will make her existence a hell; and when I am readw^ r -will take her life! I care for nothing in this wo and, as for a future life—ha! ha! what can be worst- : than existence here ? Do you understand me ? Do you believe me ? While I live, Lola Gordon shall never be your wife!” . And Lady Venetia Chandos kept her oath mvio-’ L1A loud cry from within the court-room startled them; and as Lady Venetia arose and swept > them, with superb disdain, Lloyd and Eola put tlif<.y\ ’ griefs aside and entered the building, making i tneir way into tn© still crowded court-room. A ) strange scene was taking place; they paused in consternation and alarm! CHAPTER XXX. AN UNEXPECTED WITNESS. "Here!” repeated the voice which had answered (most unexpectedly) Sir John Sydney’s frantic demand for positive proof of his own guilt. Every eye was strained with eager interest, as a woman arose and pressed forward through the throng. She made her way to the front, the crowd opening respectfully for her to pass. Human curiosity could endure no more, and not one person in that vast audience would have forfeited his chance to hear what was about to be divulged for any imaginable sum. As I have said, Lola had left as soon as her evidence had been given, and consequently knew nothing of what was now taking place. The woman advanced. The judge wiped his spectacles, and gazed upon her in blank surprise. "What is the meaning of this interruption?” he demanded. The woman turned slowly, and lifting her thick vail, disclosed an elderly, care-worn face, with strongly marked features, piercing black eyes, and grizzled hair which had once been the same ebon ue. "You are examining Sir John Sydney on the charge of the murder of one Stella Gordon, are you not?” she questioned, her language quite correct, though with a strong foreign accent. The judge bowed, impressed somehow to treat her civilly. "We are, madam. But what is that to you?” "A great deal, your honor. I have evidence most important. Sir John demanded it, you will observe, and you will find, if you choose to listen, that my testimony will quite fill the bill desired by the gentleman himself.” “Let the witness be sworn,” commanded the judge. “You are aware, madam, that this is merely the preliminary examination; no counsel expected---” “And I tell you,” interrupted the woman, eagerly, "that I kno w enough about the affair to hang the guilty party! Isn’t that enough ?” “Let the witness be sworn,” repeated the judge, . imperturbably; and the ceremony was performed. “Your name, madam?” demanded his honor, settling himself to the task before him with an air of resignation. “Your honor, may I ask a favor?” was the woman’s strange reply. “1 would like the prisoner to identify me, if you have no objection.” The judge nodded. “As you will,” he returned. "Sir John Sydney, look at this woman—this witness just sworn—do you know her name ?” Slowly the baronet turned his blood-shot eyes upon the old woman’s face. All the blood seemed to forsake his own, as his white lips faltered, involuntarily: “Zingra\” She smiled. "I thought you would recognize me,” she cried, triumphantly. “Ah, John Gordon, your game is up! Now. your honor” (and she turned to the astonished judge), "if it please the court, I am ready to proceed.* My name is Zingra Delle; I suppose I am of gipsy descent, but I never knew my parents, and was only a poor, friendless, stray creature, until Stella Gilroy gave me a home and treated me like a human being. It was in the pretty village of Greenfields, Lincolnshire, that I first knew her. She was an orphan and beautiful—well, you have only to look upon her daughter to know what she was like then; she was young, too, and had no one to protect her; so when she fell into the clutches of that wretch, Sir John Sydney, she was like a dove in the talons of a hawk. He courted her under the name of John Gordon, and represented himself as a a artist, traveling about the country. He won all her love, and there in pretty Greenfields they two were married, lawfully married, and I—Zingra Delle—and the clergyman’s brother were the witnesses. The record can be found at the little Church of St. Stephen, at Greenfields. Well, they lived in Paradise fora time, and the I little Lola was born. When she was a small child, John Gordon insisted on taking his wife and babe away to the south of France, and I insisted on accompanying them. I had never liked John Gordon, as he called himself. I doubted and distrusted him. But I never dreamed of his real rank and station; I THE NEV YORK WEEKLY. 7 never dreamed that he was a baronet, neither did the woman whom he wedded ; she lived and died in ignorance of it all. "For years we lived in the south of France, John Gordon coming occasionally for a few days’ visit. Lola grew up, and was well educated at the old Convent of St. Mary’s. But, as the girl grew older, she became possessed with the demon of discontent. She never loved her father; she seemed to. doubt his truth and honor. He had not come to see them in a longtime; finally, his visits ceased altogether, and only the money which he sent served to remind the girl that she had a father. The baronet was foolish enough to mail his letters to his wife from Waltham post-office; so, knowing his whereabouts, she at last yielded to Lola’s entreaties. and came to Waltham. Almost the first person whom she met after her arrival was her husband. He was terribly annoyed at her unex pected appearance; and, at last, ended by placing his wife and child, with myself, in a cottage buried in a lonely lane, making her swear to keep secret the fact that she was his wife. We lived there for several months, Lola sometimes singing at the rich houses, and thus making a little money—which we needed sadly, for the villain finally ceased to provide at all for his family.• “One night, Lola went to sing at one of the fine houses’ I, as usual, accompanied her. After a time, a violent storm burst forth; and I, knowing that the girl had come out unprovided with a cloak or thick shoes, resolved to hasten back to the cottage and procure them. Arrived there, in the darkness and fast gathering tempest, I was startled by hearing voices within. Something prompted me to go to the window and glance in. Gentlemen, I swear to you that I saw John Gordon—that man yonder—stab his wife to the heart, and she fell dead upon the floor. In my horror, fright, agony. I ran from the spot, shrieking and screaming in wild despair. On, on I flew, never pausing until I was back at Waltham. There 1 found, to my dismay, that Lola had gone home. Knowing the horrible sight that would await her there. I started to return ; for I would have died to have saved her from that awful spectacle. But, half way through the forest. I was seized by some one, and a cloth thrown over my head, and I was borne away. “When I opened my eyes again, I was on board a vessel, far out at sea. I soon discovered that the captain—a villainous fellow—had been bribed to put me out of the way; but Heaven interposed, and at last, after months of hardship and privation, I have managed to get free; and just in time, thank Heaven, to give my testimony. I swear that John Gordon, or Sir John Sydney—that man yonder—is the murderer of Stella Gilroy Gordon, his wife!” A deep silence fell like a pall, broken by an unexpected apparition. Hurrying through the crowded court-room, pale as a specter, came Geraldine. She moved forward, and, in a low, tense tone, demanded to be sworn as a witness. "A witness, mv lady!” gasped the astonished judge. "I do not understand you. Surely not against Sir John Sydney?” Her white, resolute face grew sterner. “Against Sir John Sydney, your honor,” she answered. curtly. “But, my lady, the law does not receive testimony from a wife against her husband. You are Sir John Sydney’s wfife, my lady,” She drew her lithe form up proudly, and glanced fearlessly into the face of the judge. “You are mistaken,” she replied. “I am not Sir John Sydney’s wife!” (TO BE CONTINUED.) lovely moss-rose, bird, mottoes, lilies, winter and UV moonlight scenes, all beautiful Chromo Cards, name on, 10 cts. Branford Printing Co., Branford, Ct. 32-4eow LADY AGENTS can secure permanent employment and good salary selling Queen City Skirt and Stocking Supporteis, etc. Sample Outfit free. Address'! QUEEN CIT Y SUS- PENDER CO., Cincinnati, O. 32-4t-eow A f Agents wanted! can get 5 A UXu 1 XLAI 1 A I orders daily the year round, ■i v ai v ft «a iv ■ ^2 profit on each order—outfit free. Send at once for circular and terms. SAFFORD ADAMS & CO., 48 Bond St., New York. /A V7 Send us 6 cents in stamps, and we will -L> X k5. send you by mail an article you can have lots of fun with all summer. WESSON MANUFACTURING CO., Providence, R. I. 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Knowing the value of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla. by observation of many other cases, and from personal use in former years, 1 began taking it for the above-named disorders. My appetite improved almost from the first dose. After a short time the fever and itching were allayed, and all signs of irritation of the skin disappeared. My catarrh and eough were also cured by the same means, and my general health greatly improved, until it is now excellent. I feel a hundred per cent, stronger, and I attribute these results to the use of the Sarsaparilla, which I recommend with all confidence as the best blood medicine ever devised. I took it iu small doses three times a day, and used, in all, less than two bottles. I place these facts at your service, hoping their publication may do good. Yours respectfully, z. 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Fowler A Son, Northford, Ct. 30-2-eow JOSH BILLINGS DUST PUBLISHED: The Life and Adventures of the Famous Philosopher and Humo.ist, A minister’s son so misbehaved himself as to tire the patience of the “head” of the school. Finally the “doctor” said to him, after a gross act of misconduct: “You must prepare yourself for a severe whipping.” When the appointed time came the doctor was on hand, with his rattan, and laid it with considerable unction upon the boy’s back. Nothing but dust followed. The subject of the discipline was entirely at his ease. “Take off your coat!” was the command. Again whistled the rattan around the boy’s shoulders, but with no more effect. “Take off your vest, sir!” shouted the doctor. Off went the vest, but there was another under it. ‘ Off with the other!” and then, to the astonishment of the administrator of justice, he exposed a dried codfish defending the back of the culprit like a shield, while below there was evidently stretching over other exposed portions of the body, a stout leather apron. “What does this mean ?” said the doctor. “Why.” said the rogue, “you told me to prepare myself for punishment, and I have done the best I could.” From Porugal and Spain. Gentlemen:—Thougl not in the habit of praising patent medecines, whidi for the most part are not only useless but injurious. I have constantly used Hop Bitters for the pad; four years in cases of indigestion, debility, feebhness of constitution and in all diseases caused by poor or bad ventilation, want of air and exercise, overwork and want of appetite, with the most perfect success. I am the first, who introduced your Hop Bitters in Portugal and Spain, where they are now used very extensively. Youry very truly, Baron DeFonte Bella. Profession de ehemie et de Pharmacie, Coimbra university, Coimbra, Jortugal. GRATIA’S TRIALS By L UCY RA ND A LL COMFOR T, Author of “CECILE’S MARRIAGE,” “THE WIDOWED BRIDE,” etc. [“Gratia’s Trials” was commenced in No. 19. numbers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.] CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE dark is made light. It is only necessary for us to go back a few days to the frosty February twilight in which Gratia Kempfleld fled so wildly from what seemed to her the avenging Nemesis of some hideous fatality. The sullen roar of the ice-freighted East River seemed to her like a friendly, inviting voice; the chill rush of the blast, a hand laid kindly on hers, drawing her toward the misty confines of the great unseen. JOSH BILLINGS Embracing a true Record of his Life and Experiences from birth down to the present day. Fully illustrated with portraits, &c. To which is added over One Hundred of his choicest and wittiest “Sayings,” with numerous comic illustrations. A handy little volume, prettily printed and bound in paper. Price 25 cents. G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, New York. *¥* Copies sent by mail all over the United States, postage free, on receipt of 25 cents, by the NEW YORK WEEKLY, 31 Rose St,, New York. A BOY PREPARED FOR PUNISHMENT. FM THE OLD WORLD. fn the great London (Eng.) Times. Amoige many specifics introduced to the public for ihqre of dyspepsia, indigestion, derangements if rious kinds, and as a general family medicineone have met with such genuine appre-ciationasop Bitters. Introduced to this country but a com rati vely short time since, to meet the great deiufl for a pure, safe, and perfect family medicine, >y have rapidly increased in favor, until they are.viout question, the most popular and valuablemcine known. Its world-wide renown is not due the advertising it has received; it is famous by son of its inherent virtues. It does all i that is claid for it. It discharges its curative powers wiMt any of the evil effects of other bitters ■ or medicieieing perfectly safe and harmless for the most la woman, smallest child, and weakest । invalid tois Few are the holies indeed where । the great is^very has not already been hailed as a deliverer icwelcomed as a friend. It does what j others affc b do. Composed of simple materials, : it is a marl of delicate and successful combination. Nothing muting. Every ingredient goes straight to the maiat which it is aimed, and never fails. Pleasant thepalate, agreeable to the stomach, and thoroughljlective as a cure, it has won for itself the confideeof all.—Times, Loadon, Eng. A Few Ublicited Letters From Thousands Received. Feb. 9. 1882. I have tril experiments on myself and others with Hop Biers,and can easily recommend them as a pleasanndeffieacious medicine. I have found them special useful in cases of congestion of the kidneys, as villas in bilious derangements. Rev. J. Milner, M. A., Rector to the Duke of Edinburgh. U. S. Consulat^ANCHESTER, Eng., Nov. 8,1882. Gentlemen>&c.e writing you of the great bene-flt I had derivdbm taking “Hop Bitters,” I gave a friend a botthho had been suffering much from dyspepsia andstygish liver, and the change was marvelous; heapeared another being altogether. He had tried ami other remedies without any benefit. I couldmeover a dozen other miraculous cures. Ahur C. Hall, Consular Clerk. London, Eng., Sept. 1.1882. o I am pleased testify to the good effects of your "Hop Bitters.” ye been suffering a long time with severe pain helefujde and across the loins, anti having trie^Jff^Tufrgo-called remedies without any benei am glad to acknowledge the great relief I have;aineilfrom your medicine. Chables Watson. T Lhester, Eng., Aug. 18,1882. Gentlemen:—I w^roubled with a very bad form of indigestion for ag time, and tried many things in vain until I got se -‘Hop Bitters,” and on taking was quite curedid remain so till this time. It is now three months since I was bad. F. Bell. From Rev. J. C. Boy<M. A. Oct. 30, 1882. Dear Sirs:—I have ely finished my first bottle . of Hop Bitters.” having for many years . suffered acutely fro^ojiyatic gout (inherited) I feel so much better. an»m walk so much more I freely, should like to coiiue the use of it. I write to ask how many bottlesu will let me have for £1. । so that I may always income in stock. From Oi Ireland. Dublin, Nov. 22.1882. You nuje interested to learn that one of the most emineitudges on the Irish bench (a customer of mine) Ugly approves of your Hop Bitters, having receive! mt benefit from their use. T. T. Holmes, Chemist. Iiexandria Palace 1 T Lohion, Eng., April 18. 1882.) I find Hop Bitters anost wonderful medical combination. healthful, bhd-purifying and strengthening. I can, from analysis, as well as from medical knowledge, highly reconmend them as a valuable family medicine. * Bar^a Wallace Gothard, Su pt. London, Eng.. Feb. 1,1882. Gentlemen :—Fok^v ?„I have>een a sufferer from kidney^nd cT^vS^g your Hop Bitters suffefing them t0 a“ No/ich, Eng., June 20,1882. To the Hop Bitters Co, GentlemenHaviiOffered for many years from biliousness, aceompmid with sickness and dreadful headache (being Teatly fatigued with overwork and long hours ofbusiness), I lost all energy, strength and appetb. Iwas advised by a friend in whom I had seen sch beneficial effects to try Hop Bitters, apd a few Mtles have quite altered and restored me to bette health than ever, I have also recommended it bother friends, and am pleased to add with the like 3sult. Every claim you make for it I can fully endrse, and recommend it as an in- comparable tonic Yours faithfully. S. W. Fitt. - j'roni Germany. Katzenkchhof, Germany, Aug. 28,1^81. Hop Bitters Co, Dear Sirs:—I live taten your most precious essence Hop Bitters-and ] can already, after so short a time, assure youthatlfeel much better than I have felt for months. I have had, duing the course of four years, three times an inflamaion of the kidneys. The last, in January, 1880, wa the worst; and 1 took a lot of medicine to curethe sune, in consequence of which mv stomach got erribj weakened. 1 suffered from enormous pains,haxQi bear great torments when taking nourishmeiitTnd sleepless nights, but none of the medicine was d the least use to me. Now. in consequence of takig Hop Bitters, these pains and inconveniences hde entirely left me, I have a good night’s rest, and in sufficiently strengthened for work, while I al way had to lay_down during the day, and this almost ewy hour. 1 shall think it my dut y to recommend theBitters to all who suffer, for I am sure I cannot thait the Lord enough that I came across your prepaation, and I hope He will maintain you a long tine to come for the welfare of suffering mankind. Yurs very truly, Paulle Haussleb, Gebr. Rosler. For an instantWhe sank rather than knelt on the ice-glazed surface of a huge rock which had rolled to’the very edge of the tides, with a dim idea of murmuring some brief prayer, and uttered aloud the sweet, familiar words: “ 'Our Father which art in heaven.’ ” Before she could speak the next phra.se of her childhood’s prayer, a soft, warm hand fell on hers; she started with a low cry, and saw, standing close beside her, a woman dressed in the peculiar black robes of the Sisterhood of St. Hildegarde. ‘‘What is it. my poor child?” Sister Madeline asked, kindly. “Is it sin, or sorrow? Know that neither is beyond the help and pardon of the Father whose name you have just spoken.” Gratia tried to break away from the mild, detaining grasp. “Let me go!” she cried, “let me die! Only one brief plunge into those cold waves, and the restless fever will be done forever. Oh, let me go—it is no kindness to hold me back!” “But Sister Madeline put her arms resolutely about the struggling young girl. “Nay,” she said, “I am a woman like yourself; I, too, have lived and suffered, but it is all past. Come with me.” “ Where ?” “To a place where no one shall question or doubt you—to a home for the homeless, a refuge for those who have no hope left. I do not know what has driven you to this extremity, but if guilt-” "Oh, it is not that,” Gratia answered, sobbing softly on the kind black-draped shoulder. “I am innocent—indeed, I am innocent. 1 have tried to do my best, but it is of no avail—the whole world is leagued against me, and it were better far that I should die!” “You are not the first one who has said and thought so,” said Sister Madeline, greatly encouraged by the girl’s simple words; “and yet you, too, will learn in time how kindly the Father cares for us all. Come 1” “But I do not know yet where you are taking me to.” “I am going to St. Hildegarde’s Home, where I live.” “How did you come here?” The sister pointed to a knot of rude shanties at no great distance, clinging, as it would appear, like lichens to the rock. “Do you see that little cabin to the right, with the stove-pipe chimney coming out of it?” she said. “There is sickness and death there. I have visited the house every day, but I shall visit it no more. Death has come at last. As I came out I saw you crouching by the river-side, and I hurried toward you lest I should be too late.” Gratia resisted no longer, but rose and followed Sister Madeline, as she would have unquestioningly followed the beckoning hand of a guardian angel. Sister Madeline had come, truly, just in time to save the perishing soul. Tn the Sisterhood of St. Hildegarde they found her sufficient employment to make her feel herself no burden on them, and she was fast regaining, not only physical strength, but a healthy, cheerful tone of mental elasticity, under the kindly guardianship of the sisters, when tltis unexpected call happened to press her into the ranks of active service. She had started and colored when Sister Agnes told her where she was to go, but she had not shrunk. "All places and people are alike to me now.” sho had told herself, even while the blood rushed with wild, uneven pulses through her veins at the idea of seeing Hugo Falconer. "Yes, Sister Agnes, I will gladly go.” And although the glad surprise in Colonel Falconer’s face, as he looked upon her, was like the very breath of life itself to her hungering heart she controlled herself by a determined effort, and held up a warning finger. “Gratia!” he cried. “Oh, Gratia, my lost darling! my recovered treasure!” "Hush!” she answered, resolutely. “I am not here as Gratia. I am here as the nurse sent by Sister Agnes.” “But you will let me tell you----” “I will let you tell me nothing untill have wrought the work that I came here to do. Dear me, now, Colonel Falconer—you cannot fear but that Ida— my little love, Ida—will be safe, even in my hands.” And so he left her, wondering in what school the slight, delicate young girl had learned the lesson of that dignity and self-command, whose influence he himself could not but feel. But after the long weeks of weary watching, when at last Alberta was sitting up, and Ida. strong, sought to recognize and speak to those around her, Gratia ran down into Colonel Falconer’s presence, one day, shawled and vailed. “You are not going. Gratia.” he exclaimed, starting up from his seat at the library table. “My mission is accomplished,” she answered, quietly. “Yes, I am going.” “But you are not," he retorted, drawing her to a seat. “I have much to tell you first. Our lips have all been sealed up to this moment, because anything like excitement in the sick-room has been i strictly forbidden, and you have been too resolutely I faithful a nurse to afford us any other opportunity.” And heftold her all that had transpired since that day she had fled from tIm hnta], - - . I narrator’s face, while the Kint crimson \ came anti went. iXtiulYy, upow r* “1 knm>v it must one day be so, she s|iid. in alow, I tremulous tone. “I knew God was too just always to let tliA' dark shadow rest upon my life. But, oh 1 I thought the time would never come!” “Gratia, do you suppose that I ever, for an instant, believed you to be guilty?” “I do not know, Colonel Falconer. What else could I suppose?” “I would have staked my life on your innocence, dearest. Nor is this all I have to tell you, Gratia. Do you remember the day I saw you standing beside the azaleas, at Melworth Hall?” “Yes.” “Well, I have loved you ever since. I have treasured your dear image in my heart. You cannot go and leave me now, Gratia. I want to keep you always by my side—as my darling, cherished wife!” And that was Hugo Falconer’s wooing!” Mrs. Falconer, whose views on many subjects had been changed since the violent death of her youngest and favorite son. received the tidings of Hugo’s engagement more graciously than he had imagined she would. “She is very lovely, to be sure.” the matron admitted. "I never saw any one grow and change so in so short a time; and she has certainly been a great blessing to us all during this fever; but I did hope. Hugo, that you would admire Miss Melworth.” , , , . . ,, “So I do,” her son answered, smiling brightly, “and all the more because she was kind to Gratia. But I never could love her, even if my heart were not already given to another.” Alberta was genuinely angry, but her indignation was of no avail, Gratia Kempfleld was unmistakably queen ot the situation—engaged to be married to her brother, and the darling of little Ida’s affectionate heart. Alicia Melworth who had just returned to New York, after a lengthened tour through the United States, came at once to con-gi atu I ate them. , , “I always knew vou must have a story, you darkeyed little wild-flower.” she said, "because you looked exactly like the heroine of a novel. But why didn’t you take me into your confidence? However, I’ll forgive you if you’ll have a splendid wedding before I go away with six bride-maids, of whom I am to be chiefest.” “I would rather be married quietly,” pleaded Gratia- „ , „ ,, , "But you see you can t be, nodded Alicia, with all her old gracious willfulness. “Alberta and I shall manage that for ourselves.” “It is not yet three months since poor Robert died,” said Gratia, resolutely. “If I am to bo married at all, I shall wait until the year is up. "And then I shall not be here,” said Alicia. Oh. Gratia, can you not persuade Colonel Falconer to let you be married from Melworth Hall ? There is no one who loves you half as well as I do, and it would be so charming.” „ . But Gratia persisted in her own way this time, and Alicia was forced to abandon the cause. "Well, then, if I am not to be here at the eventful ceremony.” said she. "I shall give you my present, now, Gratia—the set of pearls you have clasped so often on my neck and wrists.” She laid the blue velvet case in Gratia s lap, with the great gleaming pearls lying coiled up within, like links of frozen tears. "Of course I could bring a newer and more stylish set here,” she said, “but these are the Melworth pearls, with a history attached to each gem, and I thought you would like them better because I had worn them.” ,. „ , x . And the light in Gratia’s soft, uplifted eyes told her that she was right. The presents were showered in abundantly, as the time of the wedding drew near, for Colonel Falconer was a personage ot too much importance in metropolitan society for any neglect to be shown to the girl whom he had chosen to be his wife. Back CHAPTER XXXIX. "married at grace church.” The Widow Kempfleld, formerly our old friend Miss Almira Bassett, was in New York making a short visit to her friend, Mis. Keturah Peabody, who kept a millinery store cn Eighth avenue. “There’s nothing particular for me to do. now that I’ve let the farm on shares,” said Mrs. Kempfleld, with whom it might be supposed that sorrow agreed, she looked so fat and oily and blooming, in her rustling black gown and widow’s cap. ‘Poor dear Ira has left me everything he had in the world, and I don’t need to trouble myself pecuniarily. “To be sure.” said Mrs. Peabody, whose own better half had died wit hout leaving anything, because of the simple fact that he had nothing to leave. “And now you’re here, Almira, you can lend me a hand with Rebecca’s wedding things.” “So she’s to be married at last,” said the widow, a little acidly—she would rather have indulged herself in elegant leisure, while “sponging,” as it were, her bread out of poor Mrs. Peabody. “We^R ‘ it’s time I””- “Yes.” said Mrs. Peabody, proudly, “she’s to be married next month. Julius Di so way’s got a situation in an insurance office, and he’s taken a floor through on East Forty-fourth street,,andfurnished it elogant! Would you iike to go up and see it this afternoon ?” “Well, I don’t mind,” said Mrs. Kempfleld, indifferently. "It’s ’most a pity to stay indoors such a glorious spring-day.” "Besides.” said Mrs. Peabody, glancing at the clock on the mantel, "I kind of want to stop in and take a peep at a big wedding there’s to be at Grace Church, at three o’clock, and we shall have time enough, if we step lively.” “A wedding, eh ?” said Mrs. Kempfleld, who had sufficient of the womanly instinct about her to take interest in all that appertained to the hymeneal altar. Whose wedding?” "Well,” said Mrs, Peabody, "I heard about it from Alice Hawkes, who used to trim for me, before sho got uppish and went to work for Madame Grandil-lotte. Madam Grandillotte furnishes the hats for the bridegroom’s family, and a fat job she’s made of it. I don’t doubt,” Mrs. Peabody added, curiously, "that rich folks will pay any price. It’s Colonel Falconer, one of those rich Fifth avenue Falconers, and the yonng lady, they do say. it the most beautiful creetur the sun ever shone on 1” "In that case,” said Mrs. Kempfleld, "I’d like to see her.” “And although of course my Rebecca’s to be married in a plain way at home, yet I never lose a chance of getting an idea. If you can't use it yourself, it comes handy in trade. It’s to be a full-dress wedding—the dress and all brought straight from Paris.” “What’s the bride’s name?” asked Mrs. Kempfleld. “1 don’t know—some odd-sounding name like it was took out of a novel. They say the fashionables hain’t talked o’ nothin else for a month.” ‘ They can’t have much to talk about then,” said Mrs. Kempfleld, with acerbity. “It's just in our way,” said Mrs. Peabody; “and, as they say a cat may look on a king. I guess there won’t be no difficulty about our squeezin’ in. though I did hear as any one must present a card to the usher afore they could be let in.” “Fiddle!” said Mrs. Kempfleld. “I’d like to see any usher that could keep me out!” And. duly attired in the splendors of their choicest wardrobes, the two widows and the brideexpectant started forth on their walk. Mrs. Kempfleld little dreaming whose wedding she was about to witness.” It was a bright morning in early spring, and the street in front of Grace,church was blocked in with carriages. “My! what a squeeze!” said Mrs. Peabody. “I’m afeard we’re late. Almiry.” “I’ll get in, or I’ll know the reason why!” uttered Mtv^Ksmpfield, between her set teeth, as she puslred herself in front of an elegantly dressed lady. The usher at the door looked in vain for the requisite square of pasteboard. "Your card, ma’am, please,” he said. "I’ve left it to home,” said Mrs. Kempfleld, confidently pushing past; and the usher could but submit. “Well, I never!” uttered Mrs. Kempfleld. audibly, as she crowded her portly form into one of the reserved seats beyond Hie mystic silken cord, and beckoned Mis. Penbody and Rebecca to follow. One of the officials, shocked and scandalized, was about to interfere, but the usher, who now came up the middle aisle, beckoned him to.desist. “It’s some rich old relation, who has money to leave, I dare say,” he whispered. Nobody else would dare to act so. Let ’em alone—we don’t want a scene in the church.” While Mrs. Kempfleld was yet staring round her. there was a sudden silence then an instantaneous turning of heads, and the next moment the wedding-march of Mendelssohn rolled out its tumult of rich chords upon the Scented air. as the bridal-party slowly advanced up the grand aisle. First the four ushers, then six bride-maids, floating clouds of snowy silks and tulle, with the groomsmen, whose regulat'on black garments seemed only designed to act as foils, next the bride and groom. “I can’t see her! Plague take that big knot of feathers in front!” cried Almira, in a stage whisper. “Move your head, ma’am, can’t you,” with a Soke of her parasol-end at Mrs. Reginald Chevis, of [adison avenue, who occupied the obnoxious position. fThat astonished lady drew herself slightly to one side; but too late; rtnd it was not until the marriage ceremony was over that Mrs. Kempfleld had a satisfactory glance. Her eyes, slowly traveling up the bride’s figure, and mentally estimating the value of everything she had on, as she glided gracefully down the aisle upon her husband’s arm, had had at length reached her face. in^e ? a.dBjck, short "Gratia!” <^Ad Gratin!” "My Btep-daugU •Peabo(ty.rLu m J iffffi Rome! It’s she, h$J ,Gratia no other! Well, well! womiere never wih cea twMind she,is the bride that half New York, is talking about—that is married to the rich Fifth avenue gentlemah! My stars alive! I wish, now----” But she stopped here, Wishes were of no partic ular avail at this stage of affairs as she was wis^ enough to know. When at last they contrived to make their way out. crushed and jostled in the soft, aristocratic tumult of the crowd in which they felt like denizens of some other and humbler world, the carriages were thundering away down Eleventh street; the wedding was over. And Mrs. Kempfield had had the very questionable satisfaction of seeing the brilliant marriage of the step-daughter whom she had so openly hated and contemned. Verily, Gratia had striven “against wind and tide;” but she had conquered at last! [THE END.] HOW TO BE MARRIED. All weddings are attended with more or less ceremony. If the wedding takes place in church, it is customary to reserve the front seats in the body of the church for the relatives of the young couple. It is the height of rudeness for any one, whether clergyman, bridegroom, or any member of the bridal train, to keep the bride wajting. The clergyman should be within the rails, the bridegroom and groomsmen should be in the vestry-room by the time the bride is due at the church. The bridemaids may receive the bride in the vestibule, or may accompany her to church. The bridal party should meet in the vestry-room. Then the bride, leaning on the arm of her father, heads the procession, the bridegroom, with the bride’s mother upon his arm, follows, then the groomsmen and bride-maids in couples follow, At the all ar the bridegroom receives the bride, and the ceremony begins. . The groomsmen stand behind the bridegroom, the bride-maids behind the bride. The bride and bridegroom remove the right-hand glove in some churches, in others it is not deemed necessary. The bride stands on the left, of the bridegroom. When all is ready for the ceremony, the bride’s father stands near, behind her, ready to give her hand to the bridegroom, when the clergyman asks, “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man ?” while the first bride-maid has drawn off the bride’s glove, which she holds till the ceremony is over, and may afterward claim as her guerdon or badge of office. , j The service being over, general congratulations ensue, beginning with the clergyman and the married pair shaking hands. When the wedding takes place at the house of the bride, it is customary to divide the room, either by folding doors or a curtain, and allow the bridal party to be grouped before their friends see them. If however, this is not convenient, they enter in the same order as in church. It is somewhat customary of late for the bride and the groom to walk arm-in-arm to the altar; but it is against established etiquette—the bride should walk with her father; or if orphaned, with whoever takes the father’s place on the occasion. • The bridal dress and the costumes of the bridemaids are not matters that come so much within the province of etiquette as of the fashions, which vary as the winds. All that etiquette requires is that good taste shall guide the whole of the arrangements. Black coat and pants, white gloves, vest, and tie. are generally selected for the bridegroom and groomsmen. ________ ORNAMENTS FOR HOME. A pretty ornament for a window sash is an old hat. Ram it up to the brim and trim with Hamburg edging. A cheap and dressy bedroom curtain is made by pinning up an old shirt by the sleeves. Never ask for soup twice. It is very ill-bred to sit at the theater and call out“supe!supe!” . An inexpensive and improved tidy is made from an old dishcloth: trim with tarred rone and ornament with bows of red tape. Attach a fish-hook at the top and the guest will carry the article to his next calling place, hitched to his coat collar instead of dropping it in the front hall as usual. A lovely toilet cushion can be evolved from a large white turnip; trim with Honiton lace, brass bugles and passementerie, fluted up the back and gored in the center with a polonaise of gunny-bagging and demi-train of crash toweling cut Pompadour. This will make a simple but tasteful addition to the toilet-table. 8 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. THE TEST OF HOME. BY NATHAN D. URNER. Three travelers, happening themselves to find On an inhospitable desert coast, Each vaunted high the home he’d left behind, With what might tend to ratify the boast; When all agreed that they together should Seek one another’s home-land, as it chanced, And thus decide whose best the test withstood By what in its behalf had been advanced. “My home is in the Southland,” murmured one; “Deep in the tropic’s heart, it is an isle Most loved by Heaven, the darling of the sun, Whore Nature queenliest is wont to smile. I love its vales, its flowers of gorgeous light, Its woods primeval, and its moon and star, Which mellower there than elsewhere gem the night— For these I pine when from its bourne afar.” “The temperate zone my home embosoms,” said The second; “and, if groves less mighty rise, And flowers of tamer colors, than are spread By Nature through your island paradise, The wondrous beauty of our maidens there Glows nowhere else beneath the azure dome. For sight of this, beyond the world’s compare, I fondly yearn where’er abroad I roam.” Then said the third: “The Northland, where I live, Is most by winter’s freezing blasts swept bare, Yet holds a treasure that I would not give For all you both so vaunt as blessings rare. It is one trusting, loving heart, which still Awaits my coming, though long years have past. Come ; to decide each by its test, we will First seek your birth-spots, and my own the last.” They sought the tropic home land, but a storm, A fierce tornado the soft valleys through, Had devastated all its glories warm, Which Nature in long months could scarce renew; While all the maids, whom he had left behind Whose home the temperate zone embosomed. Had long their beauty to swift Time resigned, Or such as were not married, strayed, or dead. But trusting Love a welcome had for him Who in the Northland had been cradled well. The other travelers felt thei^eyes grow dim As in his arms the faithful maiden fell. “His be the palm !” they cried, with one accord; “For, not in fleeting charms, the test of home Is where Affection keeps its rich reward, The wanderer’s lode-star whereso’er he roam!” “Poor Dolly.” whispers Fred, “you are everybody’s scapegoat;” then he aded, “but you will not scape goat when I set Nirs. McCurdy’s on you some day. What have you bin doing to poor granma now, Dolly?” I ansered nuthing. “Yes you have; naughty girls do not deserve strawberries,” an’ he took mine an’ et them all up as quick as he could; he had already eten two large saucers; there were no more. I think Fred is rather gredy about his eting—he did it for a joke. “Come now,” said he, “what have you done to your good granma ? Own up!” I didn’ mean to do anything, only when she was in the parlor when the minister called, I took her string of gold beads out of her box jus to play that kitty had a collar for a few minutes; I was real sorry when kitty got restless an’ run away fore I could get the beads off. She jumped over the fence an’ crawled under Charlie’s father’s barn. Charlie tride his best to get her, but she seemed to get frightened an’ run way off. She came back las night after we were in bed, but she had losted off the beads. Granma says she prised them because they were her grandmother’s, an’ a airloom; she cannot keep a single thing. I am always in her boxes. I shall be sorry if she goes to Aunt Susan’s, for then she will not give me five cents a day to let her things alone an’ be a good girl. Fred said he thout his granmother could infest her money in sumthin would pay better. * * * * * A NAUGHTY GIRL’S DIARY. By the Author of “A BAD BOY’S DIABY.” No. 5—She Stays Away from Sabbath School. To-day I went to spend a nour or to with my frend. Maggie, acrost the street. As I went up the steps I heard a couple going by say: “What a lovely child I A perfect little angle!” Then I went in the hall, an’ I heard Mrs. Sloane say up stairs: “Dear me, there comes that plage! I’d send her home this fraid I’d make her ma mad.” I don’t understand why some everlasting little minit if I was not people think I’m such a naughty girl, when even the folks that don’t know me call me a little angle. When Mrs. Sloane spoke that way I would have gone home, only I wanted to tell Maggie something she must never, never tell so long as I live an brethe about Charlie. His father is bilding a house to rent on the street next to ours. We have lots of fun playing with the shavings an blox, I wanted to tell Maggie to-morrow the men would not be there to work, cause it is Sunday, an’ Charlie is going to get the key out of his father’s pokkit, so we can run away from Sunday school an’play there all thefore- noon. We will have a real nice time. Maggie is going to try to come too, only she is very sory she may not beanie to Recount of her sisters '^ing in the class. ■?-..=. nn» summer hou»e,4rAV I iw. ■ hedake. “Yes. mam,” said I r ram sorry your hed akes. I gess it would n<?c ake so hard if your husban’ would come home urlier nights; Does he want to kill yon- Mrs. Sloane? Mama says he is killing you krbyim>fies. Are you part dead now? I shall cry evrything if you die, an’ I shall be sure to come to the funrel, for I have never bin to one.” Maggie’s mother jus’ looked at me sirprised; she did not anser me; that is alwas the way, folks do not anser when I want to know things. I looked at her sharp, but I did not see she was dead anywhere ; so Maggie pulled my dress to come out in the garden with her. We had a jolly time playing with our dolls an’ taking tea in the summer-house. Wesodea good deal after we had tea; we made Maud Evelyn a entire new sute, blue silk skirt an’ jakkit to wear to church. Maggie borrode her muther’s work-basket, an’ we made it out of my sister s pale blue sash ribbon, a luvly shade. Then we thout we would walk down street an’ show her off ; she dearly loves to be showed off. I flxt her vail so it hided the place where her eye ought to be witch Fred jounced out, and took a walk. — past the stores an’ hotel. Mr. Slicer was ing out of his store to go to the hotel dinner. I am sick in bed, I am disgraced, 1 am resolfed to run away where no one wil suspect I am Dolly Muggins. My papa has whipped me, mama said the job was too big for her. Fred is a heartless brother, he says he has herd of whiped cream, an’ now he has heard whiped scream. How can he jest when his little sister is in misery? My father is a crewel man. No one seems to pity me. I have been sobbing for two hours all alone in my room. Oh! how hard it is to be very, verv hapy, enjoying yourself evry minit betteren you ever did in your life, then suddenly to be rudely snatched away—like you were a wicked person being tooken to jale—an’ shooken, an’ talked to awful, an’ get no supper but a whiping by him you loved so well! I aknowlidge it was bad to run away from Sunday school. I wish I had not done it, for I am fond of being a good girl, un I love my techers derely. Poor, poor Charlie! I ecspect he got a whiping worse than mine. His father is very strikt about keeping Sunday. I noticed he took Charlie by the coder an’jerked him considerable. We did not go to our Sabbath school this morning when our folks thout we did. I was rather sory Mary made me wear my silk frock. It was such a lovly sumer day, she said ide better wear it, for I was afraid I might soil it playing with the shavings. Charlie could not find the key, but we ran away an’ got there. We climed in the sellar window jus’as esy as anything. When we went up stairs it was as we ecspected, the sun shone in the windows, ’cause there were no curtains. There were plenty of blox, an’ nice long curly shavings made me sorry Maggie could not come. We played so hard we forgot to go home to dinner, besides I was afraid to go ’cause my frock was; spoiled. Charlie was afraid to go too. ’cause his summer sute was^spoiled, but he said he would go, only the job was not flnisht. We mus’ finish it. My stumik felt very hungry when we saw the sun set. but we would not go home till dark. When it was dark we could slip in an’ change our close. Jus’ then we heard a noise. The hall door opened, an’ our fathers came in, looking very serins. “Yes, here they are, sure enugh!” said my papa. Then he stoped an’ held up his hands like he was alarmed. Charlies father stoped also. I was sory they came so soon, for we had not quite flnisht the job. Charlie had plastered the parlor, an’ I had painted it. The mortar was all mixt in the seller, in a big flat box on the flore. Poor Charlie had to carry it all up in a hod. It was hard work, only it was such fun spreding it on with a trowl, Charlie liked to do it. The paint was in a large bucket in the pantry. They had bin painting the roof red; there was a good dele left, with a big brush; so I was buzzy as a bee all day painting the mantel an’ doors an’ base bords. Charlie said it would save his pa money to pa the workmen to do it. He could not do the seling, but he got a great dele of the walls done. I mos’ flnisht mine. When papa brot me home, the first words mama said, were: “Oh. what a site!” Fred burst out laughing like he was taking laughing gas to have his teeth out, but mama said this thing had gone too far—my father had got to whip me; an’ he did. This is a ruff world for children. My brother jus’ come past my door singing: “She’s all ray pliancy painted her, She’s lovly, she’s divine.” Fred could not live two days if he did not make fun of his little sister. I s’pose he prefers to the fack that I got some of the paint on my hands an’ face; he says I am beginning too urly; I do not tone my colors down as fine as Miss Price. Charlie’s father said he would not care so much if Charlie had not mixed his barrel plaster paris with the mortar so it all set. an’ if I hadn’ painted those black walnut doors an’mantelpice. It is too bad vrhen we tride to save him trubble an'ecsponse. smart cnrmJEw?7 —wex are 2 very I ..J I n.m. L/’Wigry, an mos yvish I had never been found in Nurse Nobb’s basket. C Fred has jus’opened the door to inform me he will take me to the city to-moro an’ sell me to the museum for a Indian child; he says he is need of money, an my war paint will make me valubal. “Take a green watermelon-------” . “Why Jakie.” interrupted the old ladyjia t you mistaken ? I thought the mellon must tjpe. “Cut the melon into four halves,’’litmued Jakie. I „ “But there ain’t but two halves to any Its. said his grandmother. J “Then soak the watermelon in a pinth ? said Jnkie. j “Oh, dear me! how do you supposeBn Pfit a watermelon into a pint cup?” chimed* the old lady. “I ain’t here to tell the whyfore anie whereases,” retorted Jakie, “I’m just readings. Put it in a skillet and fry it for five days.” [ “I wonder if Mrs. Brown sent me sud recipe as that,” spoke up the old lady, but Jaki4pt on: “Then put it in a quart bowl, and pdoyer it a gallon of vinegar, taking care not to Ithe vinegar.” f “I’d just like to know how you are pour a gallon of vinegar into a quart bowl wi>ut spilling any.” But Jakie continued his reading: “Then sift a peck of red pepper tfcfiigh a milk-strainer over the melon, and to the tule and yolk of six eggs throwtn the old hen that ddthem, and one cup of butter, four sticks of cinamon drops, two tablespoonsful of quinine, and rm it through a clothes-wringer. Then let it stand til It ferments. Then put it in a tin can, and tie thecai to a dog s tail. This will stir it up some. Theryu can serve when cold.” And Jakie slid out of the door,feeing the old lady looking like a wrinkle on amonwent. Etiquette. Engage in an argument with evern person you meet. ,e _ Never listen to the other person, fonf you do you may forget what you want to say. Always talk of your private, personal, and family matters, while conversing with strangers. They like to listen to long accounts of hoi you had the rheumatism. If you are a professional man, always discuss professional matters in the presence of non-pro-fessionals. .. If a person makes a mistake in grammar, or calls a word wrong, always correct him, especially when there are several people around to hear you. If a man has a glass eye, or a wooden leg, or a wig, always refer to it. . , Never talk in a mild, gentle, and musical voice, but toot up high and loud. Drown other people s voices if you can’t drown their ideas. Ablie & Omas. The Wonderful Dck. “Why, John, did you hearthafeed Osgood invented a lock which could shuttings which could not be shut before,” said a taiative lady to her husband. , L “I would thank him all my lifiif he could shut with it what I have tried twentyears in vain, answered John. -----L , “What is thatin astonishment. “Your mouth.” x . , , _ And John thought, presentljthat a volcano had exploded under him. Sure of Hi* “Well, Pat,” said an EnglisMan to an Irishman, “if Satan was to come alongow, which would he take, me or you ?” “Me, of course,” said Pat. , , . . “Why, what for?” saidlhe klishman, looking a little surprised. “Because he would be suref yon at any time, so he would take me, for he is b sure.of me.” Sub true tn« A school teacher wasTriig to make a boy understand subtraction; but hjniled. At last he asked: “If your father, for ijtance, would bring you twenty caramels from thlity, and told you to give ten to your younger brow’, how many would you keep ?” | “Why, twenty,” answeijithe boy.” GrainiticaL A teacher in grammaisked who in the class could parse the word “cowng.” A small boy said he could, and did, as follcs: “Courting is an irregu|i active transitive verb, indicative mood, third pfeon. singular number, and agrees with all the girim town.” How Long HeDould Eat. “I could eat meal as fas as your old mill could grind it,” said a boy, gettUimpatient for his meal, to the miller. “Ah! how long ?” said tfemiller. “Till I starved to death?the boy’s reply, MiiirhPd aA‘1s. stances must control the entertainments which follow the marriage of a widow, and no fixed forms can be arranged for them. A quiet taste and refined sentiments are the best regulators of these civilities. C. C. W.—1st. Visitors should always give the servants who have waited upon them some little presents, either in money or its equivalent. They have had extra work in waiting upon them, and therefore deserve extra compensation. 2d. You should always call at an hour when you would expect to find ladies prepared to receive visit ors, and not at lunch or dinner time. L. L. C.—For yachting parties, young ladies wear either flannel suits of navy-blue, or white, plainly but prettily trimmed with woolen braid, jaunty sailor hats, undressed kid gloves, and thick boots. A large parasol is necessary for comfort. Warm shawls should be provided, no matter how oppressive the day. A yacht may put out to sea in a calm to return in a gale. M. N. P., Madison, N. Y.—1st. Gentlemen do not smoke when driving or walking with ladies, nor on promenades much frequented. 2d. Never stare at any one; it is a rule with no exception. At the morning wedding only bride-maids, ushers, and relatives remain to witness the departure of the newly wedded pair. J. C. W., Providence, R. I.—If a reception is to follow, an invitation to a wedding requires an answer, for a hostess needs some idea as to how many guests she has to provide for. The sending of a present is a personal affair, and is not necessitated by the reception of an invitation. Clara N., Worcester, Mass.—When reading an original paper, or a selection from any .writer, the paper or book should be held in the hands in a natural manner and the pages turned as required. Otherwise the delivery becomes a recitation, and not a reading. TRUE TO THE LAST. Uy M. Silingsby. Squire Burleigh left the Merrimeeting Inn at four P. M., December 13th, 1822, for a five-mile ride to his residence in Ashburnham. He had been sitting as trial justice upon some trifling matter, and when he started for home, a severe snow-storm had just set in. There was a deep snow already on the ground, which rendered the roads almost impassable, so that the present signs of the weather did not promise to improve them. The squire was still a young and vigorous man, wealthy for a resident of an agricultural community, and highly respected by all who knew him. He had been married a dozen years or more, but Mrs. Burleigh, who had been a person of feeble constitution from inheritance, had borne offspring only that he might endure a parent’s agony in seeing them perish one after another in infancy and early childhood, till not one of the little flock remained to bless and brighten his existence. He was thinking even now, as he rode along through the blinding storm, of the last little golden head that had vanished in October, and the six little mounds in the snow in the churchyard of Ashburnham. The road from Merrimeeting Inn to Ashburnham was an unfrequented, back-country one, and as he reflected sadly upon the loss of his little ones, he saw an object by the road-side that resembled a human form, covered with snow. He reined in his horse suddenly and took a more careful survey of the ob- A man who had Just learn Fpoker, but who had not sufficiently mastered intricacies of the game, bet wildly his hand, was told ky- willing, but the flush was weak! < 4 “What is u puzzler. It- went dovu AXe/aSs until it came ^na> slmPlQ urchpi^ wh(^^|^ ’Perhaps it is a A man who hat He s grown to be a pqS,'ed gentleman, any-au 9Id lady, gamg fuudiy as she spoke at the shining bald head Wer son, just returned after a long absence. / ig fondly as she spoke ject. He was so far satisfied with his conjecture, on a second examination, that he alighted from his sleigh and approached the motionless, snow-covered object. He excitedly brushed away the accumulated snow from that part of the object that bore resemblance to a human head, and the next moment his hand came in contact with the rigid, frozen features of a corpse. A further examination of the body showed it to be that of a woman, and in spite of the wan and sorrowful face, a young and dnee beautiful one. She was poorly clad and held something closely wrapped in the folds of a faded shawl. He undid the shawl, and discovered therein, still alive, though seemingly much benumbed from the exposure to which it bad been subjected, a male infant, some five or six months old. , „, „ It was too chilled to show much sign of life or animation, taking but little notice while being lifted from tho cold embrace of its dead mother. He remembered meeting a woman struggling wearily along through the snow, on his way down, some five or six hours before, and, so far as he had noticed, her appearance corresponded with that of the dead. He had observed, also, that she carried, closely muffied in her shawl, what he supposed at the time to have been an infant, though he had seeirno part of its face or body uncovered. With some little trouble he succeeded in placing the form of the dead woman in the bottom of the sleigh, and then wrapping the babe snugly within the folds of his heavy fur-lined cloak, and pressing it warmly to his bosom to insure extra warmth, he drove rapidly into the village of Ashburnham. The post-mortem examination^ eliciteji norther Eh^*^|)6sufe and exhaustion; and from a letter of an anterior date, found with some small change in a pocket of her dress, dated from New Bedford, addressed to Mrs. Rosina Somers, and signed by Oliver Slocum, shipowner, stating that Jesse Somers, second mate of the Dolphin, had been lost overboard , “Hello! little girls,” says he, very taking a promenaid?” We went jus’ com-to eat his pleasant; Yes, sir, I ansered; “we are taking our children put for their helth; it is very helthy to kepe them in the open air. Are you coming to see Mary to-night? I hollered after him, ’cause I forgot it at nr st. He kind of stoped an’ said “he didn’t know.” There were ’bout seven folks waiting to see if he said he was going. “O,” said I, “you can’t fool me, Mr. Slicer. You know you are coming! What did you say to her before you kissed her sev’ral times over the gate las’ night ? .What are you talking about, Dolly? Run along an; play with your doll—there’s a good girl!” 1 am talking about what you said to her over the gate before you kissed her. You said, ‘Will you make it September, darling ?’ Say—say, Mr. Slicer what is it you want my sister to make in September,? Tell me, tor I want to know.” But he jus’ huried on as fas’ as ever he could into the hotel to get his diner. Evryboddy laughed at him; i should think they would, not ansering a civil question. .rjgllfc’ ; you kepe a sharp watch on Slicer.” said the clerk in the drug store, who was going to his dinner also. “You make him anser if she said yes, an’ I’ll give you a glass of soda water with pineapple sirup.” “You give me the soda an’ I’ll tell you what she wispered to him.” “Agrede,” said he. “She told him she could not possbly before Octo-^,Eook ?° l011^ t0 £et ready. ‘Dear Tom,’ said she, 111 make it October for your sake, seeing you are so pressing.’ ” ^9 ,Vaek an’ ffave me tlie soda water. He said Jie had bout made up his mind ’twas no use his going to see my sister any more—Slicer had cut him out; so after Maggie had dranked her soda an’ 1 had my second glass, I tol’ him I was glad he wood not come any more. I had heard my sister say she beloved in darwin’s theory since she became aquainted with that young man in the drug store. Then I asked him what darwin’s theory ment but he had to hurry to his dinner and he wood not stop to ecsplane. Mary had a fit of histeriks before tea. She took a walk down town, an’ when she returned she had it Her face looked very funny when she laughed an’ cride both at unce. I was almos’ fritened. She it was all my fault she was so nervous, she will t0 church tomoro, she will not show her face fox - month, it mite better be in the papers. I asked her did she mean her face in the papers, if so she had better stop crying first—she said she ment her engagement to Tom Slicer. Mama looked at me sadly an tol’ me 1 was a great cross—sum times she wisht they had no child who was such a unmidgetated cross, yet I am sure I have bin very plesant lately. I am glad Mary will not go to church tomoro, she will not miss me when she comes before sunday school is out. When Fred came home to tea he said he was very glad his girl’s gate was a good ways off-if his girl had a little sister like me, he should go to dacotah to live. Granma did not come down to supper; she has been laying on her ioufige this afternoon kind of sniffling and mon-ing. Mama says granma has made up her mind to go to aunt Susans to live for a year; she cannot stana it here any longer—she wants to be quiet. It is too bad, when she has a nice room an’ evrything she can t be quiet, but that child is too much for her. Papa fround at me when mama told him that. Pleasant Paragraphs. [Mostof our readers are undoubtedly capable of contributing toward making this column an attractive feature of the New York Weekly, and they will oblige us by sending for publication anything which may be deemed of sufficient interest for general perusal. It is not necessary that the articles should be penned in scholarly style • so long as they are pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be remedied.] My Love. Where yonder oak tree’s branches climb, And cast their shadows grim, I met her every day, for time To recollection dim. No meeting we had e’er proposed— Mere whim of destiny thus disclosed. With passion, unrelenting, I Had asked her hand and heart; She smiled, and, blushing quaintly shy, Vowed nevermore we’d part. How long we tarried in embrace I know not—time makes rapid space. Off to her house; the day had come; Hour of untainted bliss. But stay! Oh, horror! not at home ? “Speak !” (to her pa), “what’s this?” “Sorry, lad, but too late you’ve come ; She’s skipped out with the butcher’s son.” J. M. Bilger. He Would Skate. While visiting a friend of mine last winter, I - heard there was good skating about one mile from v^Jage. I decided to go. After buying a pair * of skates I proceeded to the pond. It was crowded. l What a glorious chance to let these countrv 31od-, hoppers see that city folks can skate as well as ’ themselves. So I began to put on my skates, but after half an hour, during which time I was per-► spiring at the rate of a quart a minute, I gave it : up. A boy came along and I gave him 25 cents to ■ put them on for me; I felt relieved. “Now,” thought I, I will make these fellows’ hair curl. I will make their girls ashamed of them.” In this happv mood I started for the ice, got to it, put one foot on it, and stopped. A boy about ten years old offered to help • me. I looked sternly at him, but said nothing. After standing a little while to recover myself I put the other foot on the ice. My spirits rose. I struck out with my right foot, and a moment later I sat down. I thought one of my straps was loose, though a few ignorant fellows said I fell, and they laughed. The idea of my falling! I had not begun to skate yet. I told them why I sat down, and they only laughed louder. This was too much. I was getting mad. I made a desperate attempt to get up. I succeeded. The crowd cheered. I felt encouraged. I struck boldly out, and the next moment I was gazing through the ice at something I thought I saw at the bottom of the pond. It must have been a delusion. I did not mean to come down so hard, but in my anxiety to discover what had called my attention I forgot all about what the consequences might be. The result was that my nose began to bleed, while some of the crowd asked me if I was hurt. I answered that I was not, and that I was subject to'bleeding of the nose* About this time my nose had increased to about the size of a three-cent apple, and I had to pull it to one side to look ahead of me. or look sideways. I rose to my feet and stood still. I did not like to move. I was not afraid, oh, no, not at all! I only wanted to look about me. At that moment the crowd broke away. I looked for the cause. Two young men were racing. One came straight for me, and shouted for me to get out of the wav, but before I could think what it all meant we collided. I fell on my back, while the other fellow brought one of his corn-fields square on that outraged nose of mine, while the other foot plowed through my shirt-bosom, and tore about two .'square inches of skin from my chin. This capped the climax. I fainted. They carried me to the hotel on a sleigh. As soon as I recovered, I took them skates, went into the back-yard, took an ax, and knocked them , into pieces about as big as a match, and swore never to buy a pair of skates again. They told me I acted nobly. Next time I go to skate I won’t go on ' the ice at all, but will laugh at every one who falls. ’ “Brown-eyed daisies sjmbering in a field of cream is what a Western^et calls freckles on the face of a pretty girl. “Hey, Johnnie! I want go fishing to-morrow. Do you think you can get je some worms?” “Can’t smornin —too busy; but iiebbe„you can get ’em off my brother Bill—he’s g<>’em.” “How do you know ? Oh, I heard the doctor tell mammy so this mormn’.” “Jane,” said a father, “I thoightyou hated stingy people,, and yet your young nan----” “Why, pa, who said he was stingy?” “)h, nobody,” replied pa, only I could see he vas a litle close as I passed through the room.” “Have you given electricity atrial for your com-Plaiut madam ?” asked the midster, as he took tea with the old lady, “Electricity ” said she. “Well, yes, I reckon I has. I was struk by lightning last summer and hove out of the \Mndow, but it didn’t seem to do me no sort of good.” “You made a fool of me!” said an irritated man to Ins wife. My Jove,” she sweety responded, “you do yourself injustice. Call yourself a fool, if you wish, but remember that zou are in all respects a self-made man.” ’ Do you’want to kill the3hild ?’exclaimed a gentleman, as he saw a boy tip the haby out of its carnage onthe walk. “No, not quite,” replied the boy; bPt 1 f I can get him to b<',wl loud enough, mother will take care of him while I go and wade in the ditch with Johnny Bracer.” Enthusiastic professor of physrs, discussing the organic and inorganic.kingdoms: ‘Now, if I should shut my eyes —so—and drop iiy head—so—and should not move, you would say 1 was a clod. But I move, I leap, I run; then what do you call me ?” Voice from the rear: “A cltdl^pper.” Class is dismissed. F. Duval. Pick ed Waterme’on, Old Mrs. Jones borrowed Mrs. Brown’s recipe for making watermelon pickles. Being unable to read, and a trifle deaf, she got her grandson to read for ner. Jakie took the paper and commenced: Etiquette Department. P. y., Galveston, Texas.—There are some daughters who cannot get along with tbir own mothers, and marrying, bring reproach upon the mothers of their husbands, and discord into home.' that were always peaceful ones until they entered then. It is the manners that does all this. A daughter wb has been trained to show the same consideration for numbers of the family as for persons outside it, whose goal opinions she desires to win, will not bring the appl of discord into the home which her husband takes heito, even though there be a mother-in-law in it. Such caises as she may fancy she has for complaint she will slut up in her own heart, and her love for her husband wil increase in proportion to the love and respect which h(shows his mother; knowing well that good sons makegood husbands, and that where true affection exists in s home circle, it is the work of a demon to seek to disturb ii. W. W:, Hartford. Conn.— Afteraninterchangeof cards,the acquaintance drops, unless followed by an invitation upon one side or the other. When a first invitation is not accepted, and no reason is given for it other than that expressed in the usual form of regret, the invitation ought not to be repeated. Among the people of the highest cultivation it is binding to show one’s appreciation of a first invitation by a cordial acceptance, if one desires to keep the acquaintance, and by allowing nothing that can be controlled to prevent one from going. Still, circumstances may be such as to make it impossible, and then an informal note of explanation is courteous. A Husband—The internal movements of the house belong entirely to the wife, and no good ever resulted from unnecessary interference. Let a man keep to his own province, and assist his wife to do the same, and the wheels of the household will move in harmony without any jarring or rumbling. If you will endeavor to study your wife’s happiness, without yielding to her caprices, you will not be likely to gain the reputation of quarrelsomeness. IF. W. W., Brooklyn, L. I.—If a man is liberal to the poor, and subscribes to public charities, and attends church regularly, always lending a willing ear to the solicitations of his minister, men will pronounce him a Christian, yet they cannot know how his account stands between himself and his God. and you cannot judge of society by the demeanor of some of its members. Harry J., Philadelphia, Pa.—1st. A gentleman on horseback, who sees that a lady wishes to stop him, will dismount and walk by her side, leading his horse, for there are few occasions on which it is permissible to stand while talking in the street. 2d. A lady may permit a gentleman who is walking with her to carry any very small parcel that she has, but never more than one. Mrs. B., San Francisco, Cal.—The formalities which follow the marriage of a widow can seldom be regulated in the same manner as those of a younger bride. Circum- in a gale, off the Cape de Verde Islands, they arrived at the very sensible conclusion that the man lost overboard must be the husband of the dead woman, and the father of the child. The woman was buried at the expense of a few charitable persons, and the little Jesse Snowe Somers, as he was called, was adopted by Squnv Burleigh. No further clew to the identity of the persons supposed to be his parents was ever afterwards obtained, so that Squire Burleigh and his wife finally came to the conclusion, to use a familiar expression, that “finders should be keepers ;” so that it naturally came to pass that the child soon came to be regarded in precisely the same light as one of their own offspring. Two years after the adoption of little Jesse, Mrs. Burleigh presented her husband with an infant daughter, who, contrary to all expectation, lived and throve, and in defiance of the oft-recurring precedent of hereditary, grew fat, chubby, and rosy, and was never known to have a sick day, excepting from those almost unavoidable ailments incident to childhood. As little Florence and her adopted brother grew up together, everybody observed the remarkable fondness which they seemed to evince for each other. When Florence Burleigh was sixteen, she was as perfectly matured as most young ladies of twenty, and Jesse Somers was a fine, robust, manly, intelligent young fellow. Years before, through the gossip of outsiders, they had become conversant with the fact that no blood relationship existed between them, and the remarkable affection which they had felt for each other before, believing themselves to be brother and sister, now deepened into a tenderer and more absorbing love, for it was based upon that divine quality, inherent in the soul, which unites forever two trusting, loving, and undeviating lives. Almost before Florence was in her teens, the two youthful lovers had sacredly pledged themselves to each other. Squire Burleigh engaged in law and speculation, knew nothing of all this. He was too absorbed in the dry details of his practical life purposes, to be very observant of the subtler warp and woof of love, weaving on its more flowery measures in his own household. When Florence was sixteen, she was acknowledged the loveliest girl in Ashburnham. Lawyer Guppy was a bachelor of forty, and in the receipt of a handsome income from his professional practice. He was avaricious, unprincipled and cringing, and bore a similar relationship to Squire Burleigh that another* but more classical pettifogger bore to Sir Giles Overreach. To those incapable of arriving at a just estimate of character, Guppy would have been considered all that is desirable in a suitor; but Florence was favored with an intuitive perception of his nature, and she shrank from and repelled his insiduous advances. When a purpose once entered the head and animated the heart of Guppy, the stubborn current of his unrestrained selfishness drove him irresistibly on to its fulfillment. He was not to be put off by a simple maiden’s frowns. He knew a course worth two of that. He laid his grievances before the squire, and wound up with a proposal for Florence’s hand. The squire was elated at the condescension and preference of Guppy, and promptly accepted him in Florence’s behalf. The fair victim was summoned, and the intended honor to be conferred was proclaimed. The proud-spirited girl gave a pointblank refusal, and rushed with rebellious haste from the presence of the conspirators. The squire was astonished, afterward bewildered, then indignant. Guppy suggested that there might be a rival at the bottom of it. “Impossible!” roared the squire, indignantly. “Take no offense, squire,” expostulated Guppy. “I merely hinted at the possibility of such a thing.” “I am puzzled at Florence’s conduct,” the squire admitted. “She has always been so used to submitting to my wishes in everything--” “If I might suggest,” meekly interposed Guppy, “I should hint, at a venture, that the rival I have reference to was not outside of your own family circle.” “What ?” queried the squire, with wide-open eyes, “is it Jess you are driving at?” “I think, if you hadn’t been blind, squire, you would have seen it before this. Everybody else has noticed it.” “Zounds!” roared the squire, in a tempest; “then I have warmed a viper into life that he might sting me! He shall leave the shelter ef my roof to-night, and forever.” There was a family consultation ; the facts in the case were elicited; the soft-hearted—the squire, in his rage, said “soft-headed”—mother could see no impropriety in Jesse loving Florence, or Florence lov- ing Jesse; but the outraged squire, who took a more worldly and practical view of the matter, was inexorable ; and young Somers was indignantly driven forth from tlie only home he had ever known. Mild, inoffensive, Christian Mrs. Burleigh stole like a thief into her sleeping-room, weeping great tears as she went, and smuggled out an old stocking in which she had deposited her own scanty savings, and throwing her arms impetuously around the son of her adoption, she adroitly thrust stocking and all into his overcoat pocket. The squire, frowning inexorably in the farther corner of the room, did not detect the maneuver. She did not mean he should—she dared not, for she had felt the weight of his tyranny for thirty years. “Don’t forget your old mother and Florence, darling,” she whispered between her sobs. “Let your poor old mother know where you are, and how you are getting along.” The angry flashes in Jesse’s eyes were subdued, and he bowed his head on her shoulder, and wept for twenty seconds. “Enough of that foolery!” roared the squire from his corner. “Let him begone!” “You shall hear from me sometime, mother dear, and when you do, you shall be proud of me,” he whispered hoarsely—“proud that you pillowed the head of the little unfortunate, not ingrate, as he called me—upon your sacred bosom!” Then, turning to the irate squire, with flashing, tearful eyes, he added aloud, and with a sweeping impetuosity and dignity that made the stern tyrant quail: “As for you, man—I wall not own you, or honor you with the name of father—I will yet live to bring you to judgment, and to a most bitter repentance of this day’s work!” His attitude at the conclusion of this withering sentence was that of a youthful martyr and a prophet. He turned to look for Florence to take his farewell of her; but she was not in the room. She had slipped out unperceived from their midst. For an instant he looked disappointed, and then, brightening, as though a happy thought had struck him, he caught up his valise, and with a proud and self reliant air, he strode firmly over the threshold, out into the great world which lay all unknown before him. He passed down the shortest lawn, and on reaching a grove of horse-chestnuts’, which shut out the view of the house, he found Florence anxiously awaiting him. Their interview was brief, their parting tender; but they were hopeful of the future, and promised eternal fidelity to each other. From that hour, for five long years, the persecutions of Guppy became constant and unremitting, and the squire abetted him with alternate threats and entreaties. But the heroic Florence was not to be moved. She remained firm and unshaken through the stormy ordeal—true to her first promise. When her persecutors importuned, her invariable answer was: “I shall marry Jesse if he ever returns. If he never returns, I shall never marry,” and from this fixed purpose they could not move her. Guppy and the squire, during these years, had grown to be bosom friends. They wrere both actuated by the same selfish motives—money, worldly influence, power, and together they plunged recklessly into speculation to advance this object. They invested everything at a venture in one of the luminous Wall street bubbles, and it burst with a grand explosion, and the squire and Guppy, and all their worldly possessions, made but a small fragment of the debris. At this time they had not heard a word from J esse, but Florence did not despair. She was yet young, only twenty-one, and in her hopeful nature she could And many an excuse for his protracted silence. The stern squire was completely crushed and broken. To stem the current he was forced to levy a heavy mortgage on the old homestead that had never before suffered from a like indignity. It was a terrible—a stinging wound to his overweening vanity and pride, and in six months, from the full habit of an inflexible and overbearing tyrant, he shrank into absolute leanness and inertia, and before the expiration of a year, he had shriveled up into a prematurely withered old man. It was now a hard struggle with the Burleighs for a subsistence and to pay the interest on the mortgage. The squire had lost all life and energy, and preferred sitting in the chimney corner, brooding dreamily over the past, to mixing, as of old, with the busy, struggling world. Any one knowing him half a dozen years ago, would have failed to recognize him now, although almost the entire change might have been said to be the result of a single year. Guppy had long since ceased to importune Florence, and for this glorious respite the brave girl was heartily thankful. Guppy was intent on business. He was comparatively a young man yet, and could not hope to retrieve his fortunes by marrying a pauper. He therefore quietly withdrew from the field, without offering to the impoverished squire the slightest explanation of his conduct. In this way was our brave heroine released from the thraldom of a double persecution. o . One day Florence returned from a visit to a neighbor, triumphant with a new-fledged purpose—a pur-y^q^characteristic of her self-denying nature. She Had heard or a youn^ woman who had earned three hundred dollars in a year in the new mills at Lawrence. She announced her determination to go there, as soon as she could make preparation, and earn the money with her own hands to pay off the mortgage. She might as well be useful, she said, as to pine away in solitude and inertia. Florence was now the master-spirit of the house. She guided and controlled everything. She procured the daughter of a poor neighbor to assist her mother, and in four days her preparations were complete. On the evening preceding the day on which she was to make her first venture Into the world, while the little family were seated In the midst of the strange silence which had fallen upon them, there came a knock at the outer door, and the little servant admitted a stranger through the dim twilight. For a moment he stood motionless in the shadow of the door-way. Then came a well-remembered voice out of the gloom: “Mother! Florence!” The two women rose up simultaneously, and with loud cries of joyful recognition, they threw themselves into the arms of the intruder. “It’s Jesse! Oh—” “My son! my darling boy 1” and all were weeping together. The squire looked on bewildered : then his withered face gradually brightened with intelligence; a smile played for an instant around his compressed lips, and he softly, almost inaudibly murmured, “Jess, my boy I Poor boy! Heaven be praised !” It was indeed the wanderer, the outcast returned. “Mother ! I have come back to you,” he said, “ and to my darling wife-sister, but not as poor and friendless as I went. I am rich—rich enough to buy a score of Guppies ! and—no thanks to myself—without lifting a finger! It was simple luck—I think I must have been born to luck. “I found my father four weeks ago—he was not lost on the Dolphin, as that Slocum letter purported— and he is the owner of twenty ships. He sought for mother—I mean my natural mother, not the dear one here that I know and love so well—but could never obtain a trace of her. He gave me twenty thousand dollars in hand when I left Philadelphia, three days ago; and now, darling Flo, I have come to claim you, and to pay off the mortgage. I have heard of father’s misfortunes, and I forgive his harshness to me with all my heart.” The old man sobbed aloud: “I don’t deserve it, Jess! I don’t deserve it!” Items of Interest. Botanists report the discovery, among the flora of the far West, of a plant which resembles the human leg. If it resembles the leg of the young man who wears tight pants, it can be nothing remarkable. The stalk of the sunflower or the artichoke does that. There are 184 occupations open to women in Massachusetts. Forty-three years ago there were only seven. The yearly wages of each female range from $150 to $3,000, and there are in that State 551,158 females who earn their own living. Dram-shops in San Francisco pay licenses according to their receipts. On sales of over $10,000 a year, the license fee is $100 a month; on sales of $5,000 to $10,000, $40 a month is paid; on less than $5,000, the fee is $10 a month. Gen. Robt. C. Schenck was a sufferer from Bright’s disease, and his physician prescribed a diet of milk and tomatoes. For one year the general confined his diet to these two articles, and is now cured. A baby, born at the New Haven almshouse, was born with four upper and four lower teeth. It must have had pre-natal information as to the quality of beef furnished that institution. A circus visited Fulton, Ky., and took in $47. There was one case of small-pox in the town, and the residents shunned close contact. The circus suffered. The Treasury girls in Washington live so far in advance of their income that most of their salaries are mortgaged three months before they are due. A co-operative store was 'started in Meridian, Miss., four years ago, with a capital of $50. Last month the sales amounted to $5,860. A home for aged and destitute authors is to be established in Versailles, France, by the Baroness Rothschild. The rich California widow, Mrs. Hopkins, has built a $14,000 barn on her property in Great Barrington, Mass. |