New York Weekly, Vol. 38, No. 36
MLA Citation
“New York Weekly, Vol. 38, No. 36.” Digital Gallery. BGSU University Libraries, 16 July 2024, digitalgallery.bgsu.edu/items/show/40480. Accessed 15 Feb. 2025.
Tags
Title | New York Weekly, Vol. 38, No. 36 |
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Subject | Popular literature -- United States -- 19th century -- Periodicals |
Source | Story papers collection; Browne Popular Culture Library; University Libraries; Bowling Green State University |
Publisher | New York : Street & Smith, [19--] |
Date | 1883-07-16 |
Rights | |
Relation | New York weekly |
Format | Published works |
application/pdf | |
Language | en-us |
Identifier | Vol. 38, no. 36 |
https://digitalgallery.bgsu.edu/items/show/40480 | |
Type | Text |
u A WOMAN'S FAITH/’ a grand story, byJhas. T. Manners, will be begun Next Week. Entered According to Act of Congress. in the Year 1883, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of ConoressiTtshinaton. D. C----------------------Entered at the Post Office New Yorfz. N. T.. as Second ClassJMatter^ Office 31 Rose St, P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. Three Dollars Per Year. I Francis s> Smith Two Copies Five Dollars. > THE PEACE-MAKER. BY MAUD MILLER. Yes, there he sits in his easy-chair, Grandfather with his snowy hair, Asleep in the arbor this summer’s day. While the air is balmy with new-mown hay. “A peace maker” truly we know full well, And “grandfather” has a magic spell; On a turbulent spirit he has a calm. He pours it out like a soothing balm. And our house has its share of growing boys, With their merry plays and shouting noise; And if but an angry word is heard, ■“Grandpa” is there with his kindly word. With his kindly word and sunny smile, He soothes the hearts of us all the while; But ah, how he works his magic spell, Neither baby nor father nor I can tell. Some seventy years ago or more He was born on Scotland’s rugged shore; Among the heather he gained the health That “grandfather” thinks is truest wealth. How we treasure the words of the dear old man, Who has lived with us since our life began; And newer contentions can e’er arise When looking within his dear old eyes. Where lieth the charm we cannot tell, But we know that he doeth his work full well; Asa “peace-maker” in this world of strife, “Grandpa” will be all his earthly life. THE BROTHER’S SECRET 5 THE BEAUTIFUL SCHEMER. By FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE. AUTHOR OF' “IDA’S HIDDEN SIN,” “ROSE MICHEL,” “CONRAD, THE CONVICT,” “DARREL, THE DARING,” Etc. “The Brother’s Secret” was commenced last week.} \ CHAPTER VI. * S BRIGHTER PROSPECTS. fa week after her lover’s departure, Lilly deceived a letter from Clarence, dated at Paris, Love letters are apt to be sadly commonplace, but this was so full of feeling, so eloquent with fervid passion, that her eyes moistened as she read it, and when she re-read it, pressed it to her lips and heart before she placed it under lock and key as a precious treasure. Among other things, he said: ‘"Do you know why I parted with the portrait that you pronounced so perfect a resemblance ? It was because I had been more successful with a smaller one. a miniature on ivory. That I will never part with till the lovely original is mine. I wear it on my heart when I do not press it to my lips. It is a poor exchange to send you a little miniature painted by a brother artist. They say it is a speaking likeness; but if it could speak, it would murmur in your ear only this and nothing more: ‘Lilly, I love you—I love you!’ ” After long gazing on the likeness of him alluded to, and which accompanied the letter, Lilly placed it next her heart. “News that will interest you 1” cried Bessie, rush-dng into the room. “Here’s a copy of Galignani’s Messenger that one of the lodgers lent me. It was ^ent him by a friend from Paris.” :She pointed to the following paragraph: “MWe learn from Baden-Baden that a hostile encounter has taken place between two English noblemen now sojourning on the Continent—Lord E verdale and the Duke of Ashton—both impulsive young men. We cannot learn the cause of the difficulty, but it is certain that the provocation was given by the duke. The weapons, selected by his lordship as the aggrieved party, were swords. Lord Everdale was so severely, though not dangerously wound ed, that he will in all probability be confined to his room, if not to his bed, for many months.” “I’m glad of it!” cried Bessie. “That’s what I I call poetical justice. I hope he’ll suffer twice as H much as you have done. I hope you don’t feel sorry B for him.” ' “It’s a great pity!” said Lilly. ' “What—that he wasn’t killed? You dreadful / creature!” / “No; but that they didn’t fight about me. That I would have brought my name before the public.” i ^You are a very singular person, Lilly,” replied Bessie, eying her closely. “I never could make you ^QjjUexactly. Oh, I forgot—here’s another letter for you; you’re favoied to-day. And now I’m off to re li e a>rs al •5 * Lilly broke the seal. It was from her aunt, and was important enough to be laid before our readers. It was full of italicized words—a truly feminine epistle. “DARTMORE HALL. My Dear Lilly—I am glad to hear that you are recovering from your painful accident, lily prospects are improving. The earl is a perfect gentleman, and treats me with great respect. All the servants are instructed to obey my orders, for the countess is a confirmed invalid, and it would be beneath the dignity of Lady Clare, her daughter, to assume any responsibility in household matters, even if she were old enough. And now to the most important point of my letter. The earl is desirous of securing for his daughter the services of a young lady speaking French fluently and able to teach drawing, who would be treated as a companion and not a hireling. Her position would be most enviable. Could I recommend any such person? I informed his lordship that I did know of such a person, the orphan daughter of a French lady, but I doubted whether she (of course 1 meant you) could be prevailed on to accept the position. So I was commissioned to write to this orphan daughter of a French lady, and urge her to accede to his lordship’s wishes, which commission I am now fulfilling. Of course, my dear Lilly, will answer by coming down to Dartmore Hall as soon as possible. Such chances do not occur every day. I don’t think I am very blameable in using a little stratagem with my lord—that is. in suppressing the fact that I am your aunt, and of making a lady of your dear mother— a.statement founded in fact, for she was certainly a very lady-like person. As to your qualifications, I am certainly using no deception, for you speak and write French like a native. It is very fortunate that you took an assumed name when you went on the stage. Nobody will think of identifying Miss Lilly Linton, the governess, with Miss La Rose, the ballet-dancer, you have led such a quiet life that few have known you except by seeing yon in your professional character. You are not at all likely to be detected. The state of the countess’ health, and the inexplicable gloom of the earl, both combine to limit the number of the visitors to the Hall; but supposing any chance sojourner should be struck with your resemblance to a dancing-girl, he would certainly never think that it was anything more than a casual likeness. The offer was I'm only poor Harvey kinton, your father, I 0 0.1 w so tempting that I could nok s out truth, the Whole truta, and however pure in character, would never be admitted] looked so^mean^o heritor her ^runt^waT into confidential relations with the daughter of an ear} J1’ whose family dates back to the Norman Conquest. The . / position is a splendid one; the house a fine bld relic of an- | she Was 111 this perplexity a footman 1 tiquity; the salary. £100 a year. You will be able to ! and gold livery, with a smart cockade imn afford to 1O8& it-by Lilly got out. vond' ring v uethe) ri, and nothing^but the truth: be there to receive her. and thi v nicer, however well qualified should reach the hall with her 'Uggage WA..ia h» looke(J g<) mean her for ,ap o /A rsl/l o ri o ri a nn'irni’Kr.C’f-rinlr mh lr\r\ly t' tiquity ; wits Binary, ac-ruw a year. x uu win ue auw to v Imp aCUlate make a good match. The village apothecary is unmar- , leathers, and top-boots, after glancing at/ the ad------------------------------- .--------i------------ dress on the luggage, approached her. touched his hat respectfully, and said: "I beg pardon, but is this Miss Linton, who is expected at the hall?” Lilly bowed affably. "Then please to step this way, madam. His lordship has sent a carriage for you and a cart for your luggage. Is it all right?” Lilly nodded, and the footman, saying he would see to it, preceded her to a plain but handsome carriage, with the earl’s coronet on the panels, and his crest on the harness, opened the door, bent ried, and the curate a single man. Answer this in person. I shall look for you any day. The train from Paddington station takes you near the Hall. “Your affectionate aunt, FANNY MARKHAM.” “P. S.—Burn this as soon as read.’’ Of course Lilly accepted the position offered her with rapture. Though reared in straitened circumstances, her tastes were luxurious, and she had always craved to witness the interior life of the great. Promptness in action was one of her characteristics, and in less than twenty minutes she had fixed on the day and hour of her leaving London, and wrote at once to her aunt, informing her of her arrangements. She also wrote to Milford, advising him of her change of residence and prospects, and requesting him to be sure to send all his letters under cover to Mrs. Markham, Dartmore Hall, never allowing her name to appear on an envelope. Two days afterward she received a reply from Milford, expressing great pleasure at the assurance of her being so well provided for during his long absence, and promising strictly to conform to her instructions with regard to his letters. Did the parting with Bessie cause her heartfelt sorrow ? No. It must be evident by this time that Lilly Linton was a very proud and very selfish person. Her heart was like a mirror; images of persons rested a moment on its polished surface, but passed away, leaving no impression whatever. She readily forgot one who could no longer render her a service. She announced her departure from London with almost unnecessary abruptness. "But what is to become of poor me ?” asked Bessie. after a long pause of painful surprise. "Oh, I dare say you will get along well enough without me, my dear girl. I have been a sad trouble to you lately.” "You know, dear Lilly,” replied Bessie, reproachfully, her eyes filling with tears,"that I never minded the trouble. You were never a burthen to me. But you will never know how dearly I love you.” She threw herself into Lilly’s arms, and hiding her face in her bosom, sobbed like a little child. "There, there!” said Lilly, patting her head, as one soothes a child; "be comforted! I am not going into my grave!” But, though her tone was kind, her face, which Bessie could not see, was perfectly unmoved. Her thoughts were far away, wandering among the imagined splendors of Dartmore Hall. Bessie suddenly brightened up and dried her eyes, passing with the vivacity of a child from one phase of emotion to another. "But we can write to each other ?” she said. "There is no law of the land to prevent it, I believe,” said Lilly, smiling. “And you won’t mind my bad spelling and grammar?” Lilly shook her head. “You know I’m a poor, ignorant girl.” continued Bessie, “while you have all the accomplishments of a born lady. But you haven’t told me yet where you are going?” “My aunt has procured me a situation in the country,” Lilly answered, evasively, "I will write you when I am settled.” Even then she meditated shaking off her humble friend entirely. Her conscience was satisfied with bestowing on Bessie as keepsakes every article she owned that was too worthless or cumbersome to transport into the country. She gave her all the drawings that hung on the walls, but not one of those she had executed under the tuition of Milford. Yet Bessie protested, and thought that her friend was robbing herself. The day and hour of parting came, and while Bessie stood sobbing in the railway station, as the dark train whirled forth from the shelter of the glass roof, Lilly Linton, glad to escape from London, felt like a bird to which the cage door has just been opened, and was already, in fancy, treading the tes-selated fluors of Dartmore Hall. CHAPTER VIL DARTMORE HALL. Dartmore Hall was fifty miles north of London, yet the express train consumed but little over an hour in reaching the nearest station. his arm. and touched his hat. Lilly, who had never ridden in any more pretentious vehicle than a shabby hackney-coach, was still equal to the situation. She lightly touched the footman’s elbow with her gloved hand, stepped into the carriage, and sank back on the cushions with an air of languid indifference that completely imposed upon the aristocratic menial, who prided himself on his ability of detecting a lady at a glance, and who expressed his opinion to the coachman afterward that she was "no sham.” The carriage rolled along without a jolt over a road as smooth as the surface of a billiard-table, and soon came in sight of Dartmore Hall, a vast collection of buildings erected at different periods and in different styles of architecture, inclosing a spacious court-yard, with a fountain in the center, approached by an avenue of grand old oaks, and backed by a wide sweep of forest called Dartmore Chase, through the glades of which dappled deer flitted and fawns gamboled undisturbed. It was such a scene as Lilly had only beheld in the works of scenic artists, for, though the rural counties of England are full of such, sha had rarely been beyond the sound of London bells. The cart with the luggage was driven into the court-yard by a rear entrance, greatly to Lilly’s relief, while the carriage rolled up to a piazza in front, and on the steps stood Mrs. Markham, ready to receive her and conduct her to her room. Mrs. Markham received her niece with great respect, but with no sign of familiarity, so long as they were in the presence of the servants; but when they were alone in the elegant bedroom which had been assigned to the governess, she embraced and kissed the young girl, and they sat down together on the sofa. "How will this do. Lilly?” asked the old lady, glancing round the room, with a quiet smile. "Rather an improvement on the dormitory in Leicester square, eh?” An improvement! Why. there was a bedstead and bedding of royal magnificence, silk curtains, soft carpets, a collection of choice books and pictures, an exquisite toilet apparatus, and, above all, a superb Versailles mirror of colossal dimensions. Lilly wanted to examine every object in detail, but her aunt told her that the dinner-hour was near at hand—that she must arrange her dress and be presented to the earl. "Am I to dine with his lordship?” "When there is no company at the hall.” "And when there is company?” “Then you will dine with me in the housekeeper’s room.” Lilly made such changes in her dress as her aunt recommended, smoothed her raven hair nicely, removed the traces of her journey, and then directed her steps, guided by Mrs. Markham, toward the library, where the Earl of Dartmore was waiting to receive her. Lilly was greatly fluttered as she approached the presence of the great man, a novel sensation with her, for intrepidity was one of her most pronounced traits. Yet this unwonted timidity was fortunate, for her usual hauteur might have made a bad first impression as out of place in her present social position. Then the library-door opened, and Lilly, who had faced pit, boxes, and gallery in gossamer attire unflinchingly, trembled at being brought before the eye of one man. It was his rank that surrounded him with such an atmosphere of awe. But the first glance at the Earl of Dartmore gave her courage. He was Bertied, iatoRt on a volume before him, and she had time to make a rapid summary of his personal appearance as she advanced slowly toward his table through the vast apartment completely walled with books on every side. Though the father of a kgrown-up daughter, the 0" V V gux was’x. ir wark not a thread at silver in its wet He rose as She found her as kind and gracious as the earl, beautiful with a spiritual beauty that, on the confines of another world, seemed to reflect some of its ineffable radiance. Her thin face was nearly as white as the laces that surrounded it, and her delicate hand, as it reposed on the sofa covering, seemed almost transparent. On the countess Lilly made as favorable an impression as she had on the earl and his daughter. After some conversation, the countess asked her. as a favor, to read a little French to her, and handed her a volume ot “Lamartine’s Meditations.” Now Lilly’s voice was very musical and well modulated, and she accomplished her difficult task, for it is exceedingly difficult to read French poetry well, to the surprise and delight of the listener. When she took leave, the countess said: “Whenever, my dear, you find your time hangs so heavily on your hands that you can endure the society of a hopeless invalid, I need not say that I shall be very happy to see you.” “I trust your ladyship will not be long secluded, replied Lilly, after thanking her for the ivitation. “I find you looking much better than I expected.” “Mine, you know, is a flattering malady.” replied the countess; "but-----” She suppressed what she was about to say. and turning her face toward her daughter, her eyes filled with tears. But she hastily dried them, aud her countenance resumed the sweet, placid look of resignation which Lilly had noticed as the most characteristic expression. But after all. she was glad to escape from the atmosphere of the sick-room, more particularly as she was to take the first ride on horseback with Lady Clare, accompanied by a groom. The young lady lent her a most becoming riding-habit and hat with a white plume, and she certainly eclipsed her fair companion, as she rode beside her, though Lady Clare was far more splendidly mounted. , 2 No accomplishment seemed to cost Lilly an effort, and before she returned from her ride, she was cantering her pony fearlessly and keeping her balance easily. Even when, in the heart of Dartmore Chase, her horse was startled at the sudden appearance of an old bearded gipsy, her courage and presence of mind saved her from a fall. “I must look to my laurels. Miss Linton, said Lady Clare. “You will soon ride better that I do.’ On returning to the Hall, the steward handed her a note. On reaching her dressing-room she found it was from the earl, and contained an inclosure of £125, an advance which he almost apologized for begging her to accept. \When Lilly recalled the numerous stories she had he Vd of the neglect and humiliation to which de-pe $4ents were subjected in aristocratic families, Si "could but admit that her lines had fallen in - ant places. . , could it be otherwise ?” was her second ♦hr&ier proud eye surveyed .^h her mirror presented £10^ 1 experience had been g> airs - ‘hat gentle blood alw: > tj manner, in affabiht it is only upstarts > as and superiorit y. ? .tchthe tone of the so«. ■Ui j. md alarmed the envy oi jOyiifg tfie power, that was show p her mility. She kne’ u^nougb i ul silver in its wet -mility. She kne* Enough that ar- his visitors approan- .f rants’ hall in a barouidi rfi-ansio^ is the highest ate of his househo^Mm court of appeal, and that there are /no more danger- i accustomed to vail ms emotionp [ 1 >ous enemies than disappointed Denials. Lilly did not fail to detect theimineA" She shaped her course accordingly, and had the >d upon him by her beauty—of which, good word of every one in the establishment, from the new inmate of his househoz^oM^n gK ity. Though accustomed to vairina emotions [ 1 keen eye of Lilly did not fail to detect the imtneS^' sion produced upon him by her beauty—of which, it is needless to say, she was fully conscious. It was evidently a surprise, and not an unpleasant one, to find so distinguished an air in the teacher selected for his daughter. Mrs. Markham left her niece with the nobleman. He asked Lilly if she had much experience in teaching. She replied that she had none whatever. "That is of no consequence,” replied the earl, “as Lady Clare’s education has been completed. She is a good French scholar so far as books can make her one; writes the language with perfect facility. But she wishes to be able to converse fluently and idiomatically, so that she can thoroughly enjoy Paris on her first visit. There is no need of system, therefore—only plenty of talk; and it is assserted,” added his lordship, with a grave smile, “that young ladies are never at a loss about that.” At this moment a servant announced that dinner was served. The earl had no hesitation in offering his arm to the young lady, and she accepted it with confusion. They found Lady Clare in the dining-room—a lovely English girl, with a glowing complexion, soft brown eyes and hair, the whitest of teeth, and the rosiest of lips, but certainly far less aristocratic in the style of her beauty than the colorless London girl who had stepped from the stage into the privacy of a nobleman’s family. Less trained in social diplomacy than her father, she could not so well hide the pleased surprise which the appearance of the new teacher excited, and she gave her a welcome far exceeding in warmth the stately courtesy of the earl. Lilly’s prompt self-possession and quick observation enabled her to pass through the ordeal of the dinner without a single mistake. One would have said that she had been all her life accustomed to a succession of courses and the ministration of obsequious menials. Yet it must be confessed that she did not greatly enjoy it, and was glad when it was over, and she was able to retire with Lady Clare, leaving the earl to his wine and cigars. Lady Clare led her out on a balcony to admire an extensive view of hill, dale, wood, and water, lighted up by the broad rays of a full moon. “The drives about here are delightful,” said she; “but the bridle-path perfectly splendid. You ride. Miss Linton ?” Lilly knew that “it is better to confess ignorance than to show it.” and accordingly made a negative answer. "Then I shall have the pleasure of teaching you.” said Lady Clare. "You shall begin with a quiet pony, but in six months you’ll be able to cross a five-barred gate flying. And now you must excuse me, Miss Linton, for,” "she added, as a shade of gloom came over her fair face, "I want to go to dear mamma, who is a sad invalid. She has been very poorly lately—unable to take even carriage exercise. So good-night; we shall meet at breakfast tomorrow.” Lilly, fatigued by her journey, and the excitement she had undergone, was glad of the opportunity of retiring to her room, where she could sit at the window, look out on the moonlit forest, and indulge in reflection. Will it be believed that a feeling ot envy rather than gratitude was uppermost in her mind ? Though she was beloved by a handsome and gifted man. though she was lifted from privation to comfort, given honorable employment in a noble family, and surrouded by comfort and luxury—she, the child of poverty and neglect—she was guilty of repining against the decrees of Providence. "Why,” she asked herself, "should this red-faced girl, who looks like a country squire’s daughter, enjoy title and luxury, the right of presentation at court, the prospect of marrying a peer, and I, with this face and figure,” and she glanced at the mirror, "be nothing more than plain Mrs. Wilford, a painter’s wife, a life-long exile from a sphere I am fitted to adorn and triumph in ? Well may fortune be depicted blind—she is a blind and idiotic goddess.” CHAPTER VIII. A SSADPW ON THR PATHWAY. The second day after her arrival at Dartmore Hall, Lilly was presented to the invalid countess, Lady Blanche, who. in the last stages of a decline, was rarely able to leave her apartment. the steward to the humblest groom. It was decided in a full council below stairs that she was “a real lady.” In a few weeks, therefore, she was completely "mistress of the situation.” but at the same time well aware that to keep her position as a universal favorite, required constant watchfulness and self-command. Her duties were not onerous, and much of her time was at her disposal. One day. when Lady Clare had gone with her father to pay a ceremonial visit, Lilly took a long walk in the wood, and becoming tired, sat down on a rustic bench to rest herself. She had not been long seated there before she noticed, with an indifferent glance at first, the figure of a man who was slowly advancing in the direction of her resting-place along the avenue of ancestral elms and oaks. There was nothing in his appearance to excite either alarm or attention. He was certainly not one of the gipsies, and he was too well dressed for a "tramp.” Yet no sooner had Lilly looked at him that he riveted her gaze, as if a subtle magnetic influence projected by his personality had drawn her within his sphere. She did not seem to exert a reciprocal influence on him, for he was about passing without observing her even, when he chanced to raise his head, and then his piercing eyes were fixed on her face with a gaze almost impertinent in its intensity. She retorted by a coldly indifferent look, and yet she was inexplicably agitated, the moreteo when he paused and came nearer to her. The stranger raised his hat and said: “I believe I have the honor of addressing Miss Linton.” "That is my name, sir.” she replied, frigidly. "In that case, he rejoined, "I am very fortunate in meeting you. I was about walking on to the Hall to inquire after you, as I wish to see you on business/’ There was nothing offensive in his manner, on the contrary he was extremely respectful, yet Lilly felt uneasy, the more so from a suspicion, prompted by a look of his eyes, and a flush on his cheeks, that he was slightly affected by liquor. When, therefore, he sat down on the rustic seat, she moved to the opposite extremity, and infused a double haughtiness into her manner. "Your mother is no more,” said the stranger, ab-ru ptly. "I am an orphan, sir, but I cannot imagine how that fact can interest you.” "A half orphan.” replied the man, with emphasis, “Sir,” said Miss Linton, "I have no disposition to discuss family matters with a stranger.” "Of course not.” said the man, with a singular smile, “but I am one of the family.” “My mother never spoke of any relative, sir. Certainly no one came near us.” “There was one who would have come near you, had he been permitted,” said the stranger, in a low tone. "One who never ceased to think of you.” With the energy which was a part of her nature, Lilly suddenly peremptorily asked: "Who are you, sir ? What is your name ?” “No name of note,” was the reply. “I’m neither a lord nor a rich man—I’m only poor Harvey Linton.” "Harvey Linton!” repeated Lilly. "Your father, Lilly.” cried the man, extending his arms. But Lilly shrank away from him and sprangto her feet. "You are not my father!” she said. “You were never a father to me. I have that sad. sad history, by heart. You abandoned my poor mother.” "She drove me from her.” "Why? Because she could no longer endure your intemperance and brutality. You left us to struggle and to starve, unaided. Why do you come to me now ?” "For help, my darling,” answered Linton. "Your poor father is hard up.” "What reduced you to this state ?” "No matter,” replied Linton, gloomily, "Enough that I am poor and desperate.” "I cannot assist you, answered Lilly, coldly. "Then if I hang or drown myself, my death will lie at your door.” said Lilly. own misdeeds,1 "But mark my words,” said Linton. "I sha’n’t leave this life, where I’ve been very merry and very 2 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. miserable, without stating the motive of my deed in writing—without proclaiming to the world that I was driven to it by the cold-heartedness of my own daughter, the daughter of a French milliner, and herself a London ballet-dancer.” He watched her narrowly to ascertain the effect these words would have, and he saw her flinch, as if the poisoned shaft had struck home. "But I won’t resort to the last remedy.” he continued. "till I have made a final effort. I’ll go to the earl and see if I cun’tget him to wiihhold a part of your wages for my benefit. I’ll ask his lordship if he thinks it right fora daughter to live in luxury and let her father starve; ” “You are pitiless,” said his daughter. "Not content with ruining yourself, you want to ruin me.” "Are you going back to the hall ?” asked Linton. "If so, I’ll walk along with you.” She turned suddenly upon him. "How much money do you require ?” she asked, without further preface. "I can get along with a hundred and fifty pounds.” “Really ?” She said this sarcastically. "A hundred and fifty pounds is no such colossal sum,” said Linton. "It far exceeds my means, however,” was the girl’s curt reply. “What xoiU you give me ?” he asked, anxiously. "All I am worth in the world,” answered Lilly, promptly. “Then you have some lingering feeling for me?” "Not a particle,” she answered, sternly. "I should hate myself if I did not hate ybu. I am willing to give you all I am worth in the world to get rid of you—to buv your absence.” “‘And my silence,” he said, slyly. "I have done no wrong. I have danced for a living; but my reputation is stainless. You can annoy me, but you cannot crush me.” "Then the earl is aware that you stepped from the stage into his drawing-room?” “It is no question of the earl—leave him aside. All are my friends in Dartmore Hall. If I give you money—all I have in the world, as I said—reserving but a guinea and the clothes I wear, will you leave me in peace ?” "H<>w much have you got?” asked the wretch, eagerly. “A hundred and twenty-five pounds.” "I accept the terms; give metho money, and I will start for London in the next train—without even bidding good-by to my friends, the gipsies.” “Your friends, the gipsies ?” "Yes; while you have been living luxuriously under a nobleman’s roof, your father has been lodging under a gipsy’s tent. Don’t you pity him?” “I pity no man who is the architect of his own troubles. Here is your money, and there lies your road to the station.” She dropped the bank-notes she had received from the earl into his outstretched palm, and he clutched them with an avidity repulsive to behold Then he turned on his heel without, another word. "One moment!” said his daughter, and he paused to.hear what she was about to say. "When you have squandered that sum it will be useless to come back to me for more. I have yielded to your importunity once—I will yield to it a second time—never I That is my last word. You can do your worst; you will never wring another penny out of me. And if you drive me to desperation, then my blood be on your head! I have the courage to take my life if my career is ruined. You have no courage, though you boast of it, or you would have died before you sank to the level you have reached.” She turned from him and walked with a firm step toward Dartmore*Hall. She had borne the shock of this bad man’s presence, and of the cruel interview, with iron nerve, hiding the dismay which the revelation of his existence. and the danger’of his exposing her, created, xvith Spartan resolution. But the effort wrenched every fiber of her organization. No wonder that Lady Glare was shocked at her appearance when she reached the'ball. My dear Miss Linton,” she said, "are you unwell ? You are very pale.” "I never have any color.” replied Lilly. "But you are so very white—there is no color in your lips.” ‘T have taken a very long walk.” "You have overtaxed your strength. You must lie down and rest yourself. Lilly was glad to be alone, to escape observation and to battle with her painful emotions. But when the dinner-bell rang she was calm, self-possessed, and radiant. CHAPTER IX. THE PICTURE-GALLERY. The earl and the countess were alone together a the shades of evening fell; she reclining on th sofa he sitting beside her holding her thin, wb™ hand in his "Rupert dear,” said she, in a voice so low that husband had to bend over her to catch her the doctor is trying to hide my situationffror but I know very well that I must soon— bid n no reply, but the count us affected, for she felt q mee’ |)er hand. fe Ac1 ” she said, quietly. '* ‘>of me sorrowfully, n me, if-you knew hon.«, ‘ \rhe parting-come^ tq all nd—bu t it is nq^^. Vernal parting—V; again-m the^ I land where sorrow and separation asre unknown. / . dearest, lay me tqLrost in the old church-yard and let the flowers grow on my grave; but do not mock my poor dust by rearing an imposing monument to my memory—a simple stone with mv name is all I want—telling the world that I was your wife, the highest title I craved.” The earl was too much affected to speak. "That you have loved me dearly I know,” she added, after a pause,“as dearly as I have loved you —but alas! I have not made you happy. In our summer days of courtship, we thought that once united nothing could mar our felicity—that to belong to each other would be enough. Yet from the commencement of our married life your brow has been clouded; you have been gloomy, absentminded—have avoided society — even paternally failed to bring back the old light to yout eye and the old joyous tone to;your voice.” "You know I have had many cares. Blanche.” said th^-earl. “I have labored to relieve the estate from the disorder in which my father left it—have been engaged in various business schemes—have seen much trouble in fact.” "I know that—and the mysterious disappearance of your younger brother, Walter, too—Walter, who fancied that 1 loved him, and that you were a successful rival, affected you deeply—it did me.” “Do not speak of Walter,” moaned the earl, "I cannot bear it.” "I know it is a sad theme.” said the countess. < "But yet. Rupert, neither the anxiety about his fate i nor the vicissitudes of business can account for the f settled gloom that has weighed upon you from the ’ first day of our married life. I never had a secret from you-you have had one from me.” a < “I have told you all I could tell you,” faltered the ] earl. ' ’ < "I never wished to extort any secret from you.” i replied Lady Blanche. "If I have sighed sometimes to think I did not share all your thoughts, it : was only because I knew I could lighten your sorrows by sharing in them. I was neither curious : nor jealous.” “No, Blanche.” said the earl, weeping and kiss- 1 ing her hand, "you were only to» good for me. If you are taken from me what will become of me ?” “It was of that I wished to speak,” replied the countess. "You must not lead a lonely life, Clare will marry, and then what will become of you? You are still young and vigorous, and have many years of happiness before you. When I am gone it i is my wish that if you meet one who will love and console you. you will marry her.” "I pray you, Blanche,” said the earl, "do not speak of this. Let me dream that all prognostics are false, that your life will be spared—that we shall not be parted.” The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Lady Clare. The earl rose, and telling his wife and daughter that he had some letters to write and did not care to be called to supper, retired to his library, where he locked himself in. Throwing himself into a chair, and resting his arms on the table, he buried his face in his hands and indulged in an agony of grief. He loved Blanche with his whole being: his love had deepened with the progress of years; he lived in her. When apart she seemed near him in spirit; and there was not a moment of his life when he was unconscious of possessing the wealth of her affections. And now, while both were comparatively young, they were to be torn asunder. Long had he presaged the event that seemed now close at hand; long had the coming shadow of the dread messenger darkened his heart and household. But he fought off the evil prophecy; he persuaded himself, as men will when menaced by such a bereavement, that some miracle would be wrought in favor of a love so const ant and hallowed. But now, when his darling had confirmed by her own lips the dreadful whispers of his heart, that heart was invaded by the bitterest agony, and all but broken. Well was it for the earl that the blessing of tears was not denied him. To suffer such agony as he did, and not to weep, is to tread the verge of insanity. "That way madness lies.” It is your tortured, tearless sufferers who are abandoned .by reason, ami maduQss/iuds another relief in the quick action ol the pu?coi or ihe Yapia dthfe dwrk river. So, when the torrent of tears had passed away, the eari lifted his head, ano, though sorrowing stih. was calm. . He passed from the library into the long Gothic portrait gallery, where were gathered about him the shadows of the dead and gone from the founders of his race to the last descendant. In the thick- ening gloom of the evening only vague white faces looked out from the picture-frames, the draperies being lost in shadow. Neither could lie see the dusky banners that drooped along the walls, nor the rusted armor and weapons of war that were grouped in trophies here and there. He lighted no lamp, but went and sat down at the open window, and listened abstractedly to the mutterings of the summer storm that was gathering. The pitchy blackness that darkened sky and earth sniff'd well with the rayless gloom of his spirit, and he smiled wildly, almost defiantly, when the first flashes of lightning were followed by the deep-toned crashes of the thunder. Then he turned his eyes from the gloom without to the gloom within. At every flash the portraits on the wall sprang into momentary light. Court ladies blazed forth once more in coronets ami jewels; the breastplates of armed knights gleamed out like real metal, and the spear-points of the bannerstaves attracted and sparkled with electric lire. There was something startling in this array of faces springing forth at one moment into fiery life and then suddenly sinking into the blackness of the grave. It was like a dance of demons. “I will break the spell!” said the earl; and he struck a light and lighted up all the branches of a pair of chandeliers. He walked up and down the long gallery, glancing at the familiar faces on the wall, all of which seemed to watch and follow him with their spectral eyes. “it was a favorite walk of his,” he thought; “and Imre we two. arm in arm. have paced the floor for hours, weaving bright visions for the future—how false, how illusive, Heaven knowsl Hark! What was that ?” Tramp! tramp! tramp! He heard, or seemed to hear, the footsteps of a man moving up and down the long gallery from end to end. and the air seemed disturbed, as if displaced by the passing of another than himself. Surely something brushed his face—something cold and filmy! A moment afterward he smiled. It was only a bat whirling through the gallery in wild, irregular flight. He looked at his hands, “Thos ehands are white and clean now!” he muttered. “Who dares to say there ever was a guilty stain on them ?” Something like a moan sounded close to his ear. He looked round him, with a bitter, mocking smile. "Show yourself!” he said, speaking aloud. "Spirit ordevil! appear! You mock me with the sound of footsteps and of human sighs, but you take no visible form. Cowardly spirits belong n Qt to the house of Dart more!” "I make a fool of myself,” he thought; "because here I have listened nightly to inexplicable sounds, rats in the wainscot or in the flooring, very like. I have given the rein to my imagination till I half believe the servants’ stories handed down from generation to generation, all agreeing that the picture-gallery is haunted. Yet I have been here at all hours and seasons and never saw anything alarming. All these ladies and gentlemen are said at times to come down from their frames and walk the gallery in couples. Not one of the servants dares enter after nightfall with the exception of old Oswald Brand, the steward, who, like myself, fears • neither man nor devil.” He resumed his walk up and down the long gallery. All at once he paused, and looked up at a * green curtain that vailed one of the portraits—the । only picture in the collection so concealed. "I boast of my courage,” he thought; "and yet ! for years I have never dared to draw aside that ; curtain and look upon the face it hides.” He gazed upon t he curtains long and earnestly. : Either from the action of the wind that swept in at ' i he open windows and waved the rustling banners ; that hung along the walls, or by some myterious ! agency, the drapery was swept aside, and disclosed ! the life-like portrait of a young officer in the uniform of the British East Indian Company. The head bore a strong family resemblance to the earl. . though the hair and eyes were light. A mist seemed to float before the eyes of the earl as he gazed upon this long-hidden picture, but, though -dimly, still he saw, or thought he saw, the eyes of the figure move and a frown contract the brow-nay. he could have sworn that the fingers of the right hand contracted to grasp the sword-hilt. Was it supernaturalism ordelusion? One or the other. I he fancy or fact so shocked the earl in his present condition, with his nerves strung to the acqnrd of agony, that his senses failed him, his brain reeled, and he sank in a swoon to the floor. /When he came to his senses the curtain hung -before the picture again. It was furnished with brass rings traversing on a metallic rod, and it was quite possible that a gust might have swept it aside 4:ri^nd a counter-gust have replaced it. Such, at G rn®?§t, >vas the earl’s theory when he recovered the soo> Ins faculties and his high-bred chivalric —“Ye returned to his aid. 4'd a chair, resolutely dr fixedly or th* r th . j^ee isturb hrs privacy. IjlP&PIW of iHua wueio ovixvw*. ' prohibition. When I am gone, v- -t was old Oswald, the steward. ,i crave pardon for disturbing you, my lord,” he said; “but there is a man below who insists on seeing you.” "His name?” "I think he has been here before, my lord.” "His name?” repeated the earl, impatiently. "All the name he would give was Balthazar, my lord.” "Show him up instantly,” said the earl. When the old steward, after a brief absence, returned, ushering in a man wearing a slouched hat and cloak, from both of which the rain streamed down on the rich carpet, he found his master standing on the very spot where he had left him. looking deadly pale. , The stranger did not remove his hat, but merely gave a military salute, which the earl did not acknowledge, even by nodding his head, but, after a peremptory gesture of his hand, led the way into the picture-gallery, and. as soon as they had passed in, the door was closed and locked behind them. , 1 In the presence of his master the face of the steward wore an expression of apostolic meekness, but as soon as he was alone, a look of sly, foxy cunning took the place of it, and his light-gray eyes twinkled sharply. “There is a skeleton fn every house,” he said, "secrets in every great family, from the knowledge of which we hewers of wood and drawers of water a’re suspiciously excluded. But, at least, the steward ought to be an exception. If I can’t learn what is going on by fair means. I will by foul.” So the ancient servitor stole softly up to the door of the picture-gallery and applied his eye to the keyhole. He must have seen nothing, and so he changed his tactics and listened intently; but the steward was hard of hearing, and nothing but an unintelligible undertone of voices reached him at At last, however, he distinctly heard the earl’s raised voice, saying: # “Begone, then, and do your worst. I am tired of this torture.” "To do my worst,” replied the stranger. * wculdbe killing two birds with one stone literally, my lord. This affair would certainly kill the countess. "You are a villain!” said the earl. "I never professed to be a saint,” replied the man. "I leave that for those who have titles to support, earldoms to manage, and the honor of the peerage to sustain.” "Well, sir.” said the earl, "when you came here to-night, how much did you expect to rob me of?” ‘ To rob you of ? Not one penny, my lord. But I did expect twenty pounds from your charity.” "Here they are. Rid me of your presence.” The steward, luckily for himself, judged it prudent to beat a retreat at this juncture, and he had just dropped into an arm-chair at the very farthest end of the library, and pretended to have fallen asleep, when the door of the picture-gallery opened. and the steps of the two men were heard passing him. , , , . _ A moment afterward a gentle hand was laid on his shoulder. He sprang to his feet and rubbed his GY"I beg a. thousand pardons, my lord,” he stammered; "but 1 have been on the tramp all day, and sleep surprises an old man so easily.” "Say nothing about it, good Oswald.” said his lordship, kindly. You are perfectly excusable. Go to bed; it is getting late. Oswald bowed humbly and retired. "That man is worth his weight in gold,” thought the earl. "The most faithful of my servants, the most attached to me, and utterly free from the idle curiosity which seems to be the curse of servitude.” "Mighty well,” thought the steward, as he journeyed to his room. “I have found out something. My lord is in the power of a man who extorts money from him by threats. It is something to have discovered that, but I’ll find out more—yes, all, or my name is not Oswald.” [TO BE CONTINUED], FOR AN ALBUM. Dear Clara, could my wishes bring You happiness and joy, Your life would be one living spring Of bliss, without, alloy ; But our dear Father knoweth best, He sends us weal and woe; Trust in his love, and you’ll be blest, auntie Joe. OLD SAYINGS. BY JOHN J. BYRNES. U brittle as glass, ‘Us sharp as a lance, s dull as a hoe. As gay as a dance. £ clean as a whistle, As straight as a rule, Goyal as a lover, Is stubborn as a mule. ; busy as a beaver, Is lazy as a sloth, . pale as a sheet, small as a mote, dry as a bone, ,s thin as a rail, wet as a rag, Is close as a jail. j cold as charity, is free as air, j like as two eggs, [s sweet as a pear, j lively as a cricket, ^s fine as a sieve, m’ll see this in the Weekly, As sure as you live. WEEDED WIDOW Ar. W. HANSHEW. Author o^TOUNG MRS. CHARNLEIGH.” [“A Wedded Wlow” was commenced in No. 22. Back numbers can be ad of all News Agents.] 'chapter xxiit. jTER THE STORM WENT BY. The grand 7e is at its highest, and still the belle and beauty cthe hour is absent. Mr. Thorn ,le looks round on the glittering throng about him, ]oud of what he has done, yet anxious 'lie’s appearance, with a wild, nervous for mademoelle’s appearance, with a wild, nev sort of anxlty he cannot understand himself any more than 1^ can cloak it from the gay multitude about him. In the wile history of Glandore there has never fete as this, and even the curled and been such silken darl ; _________gs of society used to her gracious Majesty’s mapificent “openings” at St. James’pause in wonder id become vulgar enough to breathe out little “Oln and “Ahs!’' of ecstasy behind their jeweled fail Lady Mgred Ruysdene, who has angled’for ^Mr. Thorndaldfor two seasons, floats by him in rose satin .andcreamy point, but he does not seem to notice lien The Duchess of Exeter, in black velvet and diampds, wanders up with an eye to business and presets two bewitchingly lovely daughters— one in ecu satin and rubies, the other in silver gauze ancturquois satin ; but Mr. Thorndale has no eyes for tiem. He bows coldly to the lady in silver and blue, scarcely looks at the duchess herself, and smiles absently at some extravagant compliment whispered Sy the stately brunette in ecru satin and rubies, but his eyes fly back to the grand entrance, where the mbtto of the Glandores is lettered in violets on a magnificent arch of white roses, and with some whispered words, not altogether complimentary to his taste, the duchess sails away with the two young ladies in quest of pastures new. The clock is on the stroke of ten, and mademoiselle has not arrived. He looks away from the grand entrance with an impatient oath and glares his black eyes over the glittering scene around him. Diamonds flaihthrough the magnificent apartment as though trickle through the tropical leaves and the parterres of flowering exotics which lend a tone of eastern grandeur to the scene. Fair women robed in priceless laces and glittering with family jewels glide by in the amber luster of gaslight; in the grand conservatory, thrown open and lighted from end to end, a band plays the latest music 4ink thc softest, sweetest, dreamiest tone imaginhW; Di^-yd^TirftceiiCe wealth alone can purchase is Here; he can lift his finger and beckon whom ’ will, princess or countess, from that patrician ' d yet Mr. Thorndale is not happy. touchesYen and then strikes, and scar-^al ceased to echo ere the rumble ' w w the first itime Mr. Thorn- he jgh the rfom, and then . knows whims coming, and floral ardf to see made- v are disappointed.xfbr the silken cu « wt unoe? the floral arch, the voice of the footim. N heard^o exclaim, “Signor Ascanio Barino and lady ’ and into that proud patrician throng the Steward of ^llandpre moves with eager step and faces his Yi divant master with a veiled lady clinging on his arnh. Mr. Thorndale has not heard his name, but he starts and grows deadly pale as he faces Mr. Bucarelli, and advancing nervously, he stammers: “I—I thought you were in London, sir. What does this mean?” And while the music is playing softly and the guests are looking with all their eyes, the steward lifts his head and answers: “It means that a life of sin has reached its end, Ashton Thorndale, and the game I have been playing for seven years has turned up trumps at last. Ladies and gentlemen, one and all, I am here tonight for the purpose of unmasking a villain and introducing to your notice my sister, formally Signora Paolina Barino, but now, by virtue of the papers in my hand, Mrs. Ashton Thorndale, that scoundrel’s lawful wife!” Mr. Thorndale uttered a gasping cry and staggered blindly back, while Paolina, tossing back her vail, faced him with a cry of love and pity. “Ashton, Ashton!” she uttered, softly fluttering forward and sinking at his feet. “Oh, my husband, I have loved you through it all!” He spurned her with his foot,and faced her brother, white with a deadly hate. “It is false, you viper!” he ground out, savagely. “The marriage was a sham, performed without priest or piety.” “The marriage was legal!” answered Filippo, boldly; “performed by Fra Ignatio Malafi, father in power at the Monastery of Santa Brigetta, in Calabria, as these papers, hidden in the tiled chimneyplace of Glandore House, prove past the shadow of doubt! Stop villain! the end is not yet. Enter, gentlemen ; I place an assassin in your charge!” And then, before Mr. Thorndale could move a foot, the curtains at the several windows parted suddenly and detachments of police moved into the crowded room. 9 The face of the cornered villain assumed that yellowish whiteness one sees on the face of the dead, a long, low, stifled cry escaped him, and staggering backward, lie uttered: “In the name of heaven, why are these people here?” “I will tell you, sir !” The voice came from the floral arch, and as every eye was turned toward it, as Mr. Bucarelli stepped back and left the opening clear, the voice of the footman announced: “Mv Lady Madolin Trevelyan, Countess of Glandore!” A shriek went up from Mr. Thorndale’s lips, a cry ran through the throng, the curtains parted suddenly. and Madolin, more beautiful a thousand times in the glory of her triumph—Madolin, clad in a shimmering robe of ivory satin incrusted in seed pearls, her golden hair falling loosely about her, the yellow lights dancing on her beautiful face, and the ‘mantle of creamy point falling back from her pearly shoulders—beautiful, suffering Madolin, Countess of Glandore, moved into the brilliant ball-room. “Mlle. Violetta!” uttered’Mr. Thorndale, with a feeble gasp. “You dare to claim this—you ?” But she smiled him down imperially, as Venus did the waves. “I dare to claim it, villain!” she answered,proudly. “I dare to claim it and to prove it as well. I am Basil Trevelyan’s wife, but until now I dared not avow it. The body of the woman buried from Guy’s Hospital was that of a stranger, yet I dared not avow this, I dared not claim my rights, because the shadow of a dreadful murder hung over me, and to let the world know I lived, was to be dragged to’the scaffold for a crime I was as innocent of as a babe unborn. But, thank Heaven, the shadow has been lifted at last. Proof has been discovered, the real assassin has been found, and before all these people, before all the world, I denounce you, Ashton Thorndale. as the murderer of my cousin, Miss Charlotte Dimisdale!” “It is a lie!” he vociferated, madly. . “It is true!” she made reply, “and the proofs are now in the hands of the officers of The law ! You have run to the end of the rope, Ashton Thorndale, and the woman you have cheated reigns Countess of Glandore at last!” And as she spoke the words her father and his Ymsniavi, MUe. moved our of the crowd and took t heir stations by her side. But Mr. Thorndale was “game” to the last. ltProve it!" he cried out, with a mocking sneer; prove it, I say! As for these other charges, I can soon beat them down, but to declare yourself Basil Trevelyan’s wife, to wrest Glandore Court from my hands, you will need stronger proof than mere words. Bring forth the certificate of your marriage, mademoiselle.” “Alas, it is destroyed—burned to ashes!” Madolin replied, and Mr. Thorndale broke in with a brutal laugh. “And you ask the law to believe your word against mine?” he sneered. “Words, empty words, mademoiselle. Without that paper it is a witness you will need. Bold schemer, you have forgotten that! What witness will you call?” ''She may call on me for one!” High on the air the strong, proud words went up, the curtains were rent aside by a powerful hand, and under the motto of his race, pale and weak, stood the figure of Basil Edward Trevelyan, Earl of Glandore! CHAPTER XXIV. PEACE ILLIMITABLE. Mr. Thorndale did not cry out this time. He knew at a glance that all his brutal schemes had miscarried, and made a sudden rush for the window. A sharp, metallic clicking brought him to a sudden stand-still, and looking upward swiftly, he came face to face with a dozen revolvers leveled by the hands of the police, and with a brutal oath he resigned himself to his fate. A cheer went up from the lips of the men as my Lord Glandore appeared, and, lifting his proud young head, he moved forward to Madolin’s side. “Who will dare to refute my testimony?” he called out, proudly. “The papers burned by you, Ashton Thorndale, are valueless, and before the world 1 claim my darling wife! Lood up, coward, and see what your schemes have brought you. You left me to brave Filippo’s care, you believed he buried me in the ruins over there, but the man you deemed a villain like yourself was a noble friend, who shall be nobly repaid. The blow you struck me stunned, but did not kill me, and while he duped you with that empty grave, Filippo conveyed me to London in the darkness of the night and nursed me with a woman’s tenderness, only begging me to remain hidden until he should find certain papers Heaven soon directed to his hand. Go, coward, go. Thank God, your crimes are no blot upon the escutcheon of Glandore, for the title was never yours, and we are ‘ Loyal en tout' unto the very end.” He turned to Filippo as he ceased speaking, and took his honest hand. “Men have doubted you, my friend,” he said, “but one knows not the value of the diamond until it has been cut, and only by passing through the fiery furnace does the rough, worthless-looking ore come forth from the shell—pure gold ! Henceforth Glandore Court shall never be without you. I ask you and your sister to remain—no longer as servants, but as my loved and honored friend!” And Filippo, lifting his lordship’s hand to his lips, breathed answer, softly: “What can I ask more than that? Byron, who read the motives of the human heart and sang them in the majesty of verse, has said, my lord, ‘ Friendship is love without his wings!” But from the feet of the man she loved only too well Paolina would not arise, and when the officers came forward and laid strong hands upon him, she clung to him, crying : “I abhorred his crimes, yet I love him to the last. He is my husband!” But hearing her words, he lifted his clenched hand and struck her on the face. “You betrayed me !” he uttered, hoarsely. “ May my curse ring in your ears to the bitter end. Go to her— go to the woman you have helped to wrest Glandore from me. I curse you as I curse her.” An officer’s hand fell on his shoulder, and lifting his blood-shot eyes with an angry cry,he flared them straight into Madolin’s face. “I loved you !” he cried out, hoarsely. “I would have made you rich and honored, and this is what you have brought me. Curse your devilish beauty! If it cannot reign alone in my heart, it shall never bloom in his!” And then, turning with an awful cry. he snatched a revolver from one of the police, and leveled it at Madolin. A flash, a puff of smoke, a loud report, and then a a woman’s anguished cry. Not from the lips of Madolin. however, not from the women of that jeweled throng, but from one patient little angel whose work on earth was done, from one who had thrown herself before her friend and given her life for Madolin’s. And when the smoke cleared off and they could see plainly, they beheld poor, suffering little Mig-nonnette lying face downward on the blood-dabbled floor. Women screamed and fainted, the men would have thrown themselves upon the assassin and rent him limb from limb but for the interference of the police, and in the tumult and confusion they stooped and picked the little cripple up. She did not speak—she did not even stir; a ragged hole in her smooth, white forehead told them death had been instantaneous, and kneeling there beside her. Madolin recalled the night when she had said: “ I will live for you, sister—I will die for you if need be I” . And she knew now the meaning of the spiritual Upveliness which had fallen on the cripple’s face those words that moonlit night in t#e little blue bj^uu-, & / ADDENDA. f TWO PICTURES. I ' PICTURE THE FIRST. The snow falls thickly through the murky air, the streets are deserted altogether, and through the silence and the solitude of the night the lamps flicker and flare across the prison walls. The click of the hammers on the instrument of death sounds with a horrid thud every now and then, and but for this there is silence all around, and with the snowflakes falling about her and her livid face looking up at the cold gray stones that shut him in, Paolina Thorndale comes down the broad steps of the prison and the door closes behind her with a sullen clang. It is Ashton Thorndale’s last night on earth, and she has paid her final visit. She does not speak as she comes down the broad steps and looks up at the walls that inclose him. She does not even think of Ascanio, who is master at Glandore while the young earl and his countess are abroad, and who believes she sleeps at this very moment, but slipping into the great stone arch near the entrance, she sinks back in her seat and folds her shawl about her. Slowly the night fades out; the sounds of life surge dimly through the London streets, but she. sits there still, her face bowed in her hands, and her shawl folded closely about her. Morning widens over the house tops; people begin to gather about the prison walls, and one of the officials, passing under the great stone archway, finds her sitting there and calls on her to wake. She does not move, and he shakes her roughly. An empty vial slips from her stiffened fingers and shat ters on the stones at her feet, the odor of prussic acid is about her, and it does not need a second glance to tell him she is dead. He rushes into the juilding with the news, and others hasten to the condemned cell. Mr. Thorndale lies face downward on his thin pallet, the same odor clings to him, and one glance ;ells them the law is cheated. Paolina has saved fim from the scaffold and joined him at the judgment bar ! They do not rail against her; they only feel that a ghastly task has been taken from their hands, and mutely wonder at the constancy of woman’s love! PICTURE THE SECOND. To the west stands the Plaza di Venturoli, to the east lies the Nunnery of St. Sixtus, the last red glow of the summer daylight falls on the waters below, and Venice to-day seems like a poet’s dream. My Lord Glandore leans over the carved balustrade, his troubled face bent on the blue waters of the canal, and his rose-scented cigarette burning out its life between his white fingers. The sun drops down in a mantle of gold and crimson, a flush lies on the blue waves beneath him, and the soft peal of the Angelus quivers on the summer eve. The curtains at the archway behind him lift suddenly. and a black-haired Venetian, clad in the picturesque costume of her people, crosses the marble plaza and touches him on the shoulder. “Signor may go in now,” she says, softly. “ It is all over, and my lady asks for him.” He wheels round sharply and looks at her. She seems to read his glance, and answers, with a smile: “It is a girl, milord, with its father’s eyes and its mother’s hair!” He bounds past her with an eager cry, and hastens to the room where Madolin is lying. “My darling—my two darlings!” he utters, fervently, and presses his lips to the little face that lies on his wife’s bosom. And Madolin, with the beautous mother-light glorifying her face, winds one soft, white arm around his neck, and murmurs, gently : “Is she not beautiful, Basil ? Bend closer a minute, till I whisper her name. The angel that brought her bade me call her—Mignonnette!” And through the glory of the sunset, she seems to seethe little cripple smile, and peace illimitable stirs the mother’s heart. [THE END. I Pleasant Paragraphs. [Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contributing toward making this column an attractive feature of the New York Weekly, and they will oblige us by sending for publication anything which may be deemed of sufficient interest for general perusal. 11 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.] “ AU Hands Below I” A good story is told of a parrot who bad always lived on board of a ship, but who escaped at one of the Southern ports and took refuge in a church. Soon afterward the congregation assembled, and the minister began preaching, saying that every one of them would be lost unless they speedily repented. Just as he uttered the sentence, up spoke the parrot from his hiding-place: “All hands below!” To say that “all hands” were startled would be a mild way of putting it. The peculiar unknown voice had much more effect on them than the parson’s voice ever had. He waited a moment, and then, a shade or two paler, he repeated the warning. “All hands below!” again rang out from somewhere. The preacher started from his pulpit, and looked anxiously around, inquiring if anybody had spoken. “All hands below!” was the only reply, at which the panic-stricken congregation got up, and a moment after they all bolted for the doors, the preacher trying his best to be first, and during the time the mischievoms bird kept up his yelling: “All hands below !* There was one old woman who was lame,,and could not get out so fast as the rest, and in a very snort time was left entirely alone. Just as she was about to hobble out the parrot flew down, and alighting on her shoulder, yelled in her ear:. “Ail hands below!” "No, no, Mr. Devil!” shrieked the old woman, “you can’t mean me. I don’t belong here. I go to the other church across the way.” T. F. E. Answer to “Wanted, a Husband.” Tn reading the Weekly, as usual. To the paragraph column 1 came, And saw an “ad” in for a husband, From a young lady, Miss Lee by name.. Miss, 1 am both gentle and loving; A bachelor, aged thirty-three; I am greatly inclined to get marred. Provided that we can agree. If of living alone you are tired, And think you’d enjoy married life, And I should fill all the requirements, We’d surely be happy for lite. You must know that I work for a living— Am toiling from morning till night— And when I return from my labor, Your smile must be cheerful and bright As for beauty, I care not a penny— Of your teeth or your hair I’ll not speak But you must be thrifty and careful, And my pay spend judicious each week. I care not for the past,, or your suitors. Or that they were of noble degree ; You must know how to cook, wash, and iron. And be a true, loving wife unto me. So, miss, when you’ve read through my letter^ Which is the plain, unvarnished truth, Please answer. I’m anxious, expectant. Still remaining yours truly—James BOOTH. A Man Never Insulted. "That man to whom you sent me insulted me,” saida voung commercial traveler, who had been only a few months in the business, to his chief in a large house in New York. “Insulted you,” repeated the chief with an expression of contempt almost sufficient to have made the novice sink into the floor. “Were you never insulted?” timidly inquired the young man. “Never, sir—not even during the period of my novitiate, which I passed through very rapidly, and I have been twenty years in the business.” "That is very strange,” said the novice, skeptical! v. "Very strange, if you don’t understand it.” ferociously observed the old commercial traveler. "I have been often badly abused. I have been ordered peremptorily to leave the premises. I have been frequently knocked down for standing on the order of my going, and several times I have been unceremoniously kicked down stairs; but,” he continued, gazing fiercely and triumphantly at the young man, "I have never been insulted. The moment a commercial traveler feels himself insulted he is no longer fit for the business.” Boarding and Breakfasting in Boston. There is no other factor in human happiness thg± can rival a cheerful temperament and the ability to look upon the bright side of every question and situation. A case in point: A friend of mine recently boarded for a short time at a house not noted for the richness or bountifulness of its fare. When asked how he liked it, he said: “Well—the toothpicks are about the best I have found this season.” A Washington gentleman, who is vouched for by those who know him best as a gourmet, as well as a gourmand, some time ago visited Boston, and while there spent the Sabbath, by invitation, with one of the “newly rich.” in the same line of business as himself, at his fine suburban residence. When he returned home, a friend said : “Well, I suppose you found P--------- pretty well fixed ?” “He!” exclaimed the connoisseur, in tones of great contempt; "he doesn’t know how to be rich. Why, they had pie for breakfast!” Dividing the Fish. A college student and an old negro went fishing and caught quite a number of fish. The negro proposed that they should be divided, and requested the student to make the division. “All right,” answered the student, and taking I^WQil and paper, counted aloud to the negro as follows.- f "A Ciohar’s a ciniier, , * A Aguris a figures / I All the small fish C Belong to the nigger; Five and four are nine. The big fish are mine.” "Golly! Gracious!” exclaimed the darkey; "If I could calkerlate like dat. I wouldn’t work annoder stroke as long as 1 lib.” 0. Harsha B. She Didn’t Cry. "I saw you at the funeral the other day,” said one lady to the other yesterday. “Yes. I saw you, too. How natural the corpse looked!” “Just like marble. "I never heard a more effective sermon, did you?” "Never. And just think of it, everybody was crying, and I reached for my handkerchief and found, to my horror, that it was a red one I had in my pocket.” "Goodness! What did you do?” "Why, I didn’t cry. How could I, wh^n every one else in church was using white?” A Little More. A gentleman who had lost his wife, whose maiden name was Little, addressed the following to a Miss Moore, a lady of diminutive statue: I’ve lost the Little once I had ; My heart is sad and sore; So now I should he ever glad * To have a little Moore. To which the lady sent the following answer: I pity much the loss you’ve had— The grief you must endure ; A heart by Little made so sad A little Moore won’t cure. A Lock of Hair. "Charlie,” she said, as she leaned her classical head upon his broad, stalwart shoulder. "I have but one request to make before our wedding.” "Speak out. dearest,” he answered, huskily. "What is it?” "I want a lock of your hair.” "Take it, darling,” he cried, snatching off a brown, vinegar-colored wig and forcing it into her hand. "Take it. Noone shall ever say I refused any request to}my wife involving an outlay of only fifteen Thoughtful Thoughts. The middle ages—between thirty and fifty. I Every living novelist is entitled to a storied earn. I The largest circulation—the circulation of the blood. Men, like swords, to be notable should be tempered. How to start a game of foot-bawl—tread on somebody’s corns. It is wise to part your heir in the middle. Solomon suggested the idea. A plumber is like a canary bird, because both pipe their way through life. The boating rage in colleges is quite natural. Miners are always handling ores. Hangback Johnson says: "De honeymoon is so called ’cause while it shines man wants for no mo’ lasses “Better is a dry morsel and quietness therewith” than a banquet washed down with Jersey lightning. “A wise servant shall rule over a son,” but a servant doing housework shall boss the whole family. “Boast not thyself of.to-morrow,” neither be ashamed of what you left undone yesterday. "Excellent speech becometh not a fool,” yet if he is rich his words are applauded all the same. “Better is the poor that walketh in his integrity,” than the rich that rideth a foolish hobby. —. “A fool hath no delight in understanding” the path of knowledge. “Rob not the poor because he is poor,” but slam society’s door in his face, because he hath no money. Those queer people who are always prating about the world’s coming to an end are again putting in an appearance. This matter is, however, easily settled by the scientific question: “If the world is round, as everybody says, how on earth can it come to an end ?” The early swimmer catches the cramps. Deeds without words convey no real estate. To P. P. Contributors.—The following articles are declined: “Taffy,’’ “Wanted—A Wife,” “She Wanted to be a Statue,” “Devoted Lover.” “May Baskets,” “Wellington W. Wray,” “Both Bight,” “His Lost Box,” and other articles from the same writer, “A. French.” THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 3 LIVE AN OPEN LIFE. BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER. Blessings often fail to reach us through the wall of circumstances with which we have surrounded our lives. —Item. Live an open life, Hedge it not about With a selfish outgrowth, On a wall of doubt. Little sins and follies Piled up here and there, Will, like coral insects, Make a reef of care. Never plot and plan, As you go your way, How by mere dissembling You “can make it pay.’’ Though you make a dollar More than you expect, You will lose a fortune With your self-respect. Live an open life, Look meu in the eye, Never doubt that honor Pays well, “by aud by.” Always be consistent With the words you preach, If you live a false life, Better not to teach. Weed your garden well, Ere the noxious plant Kill your fruit, my neighbor, Bringing you to want. Crush the dark suggestion With the hand of scorn. Then the evil action Never will be born. Live an open life, Honesty your guide, Then you may, my neighbor, Go your way with pride. Though the world may vex you With its care and strife, You will be all ready For Heaven’s open life. Stella Rosevelt, OH, THE TRANSIT OF A STAR, By Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON, AUTHOR OF “BROWNIE’S TRIUMPH,” “THE FORSAKEN BRIDE,” EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY,” “LOST, A PEARLE,” Etc., Etc. [“Stella Bosevelt” was commenced in No. 21. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXXI. A NOBLE RESOLVE. “You will remember that you have promised that I am still to be your friend; you will not avoid me and deny me the pleasure of your society because of what I have told you to-night!” Ralph pleaded, as he and star drew near the entrance of the park, and knew that they would soon be rejoined by his sister and Mr. Rosevelt. Star looked up at him with a grave face. “You shall still be my friend—I will not avoid you if you will promise me that you will build no false hopes upon our friendship,” she said. “How can I, when you tell me that there is no hope1?” he asked, yet his voice trembled and was full of pain. “May I continue to visit you when you return to New Yrork ?” he resumed, after a moment. “Certainly, as one friend would visit another; you have made my stay here very pleasant, and I should be very sorry not to see you occasionally, while Grace has become almost like a sister to me. The young man thanked her with glistening eye° and with a pang at his heart s fondly he had hoped to mf^eain had been broken. . and how rudelx Ris b^ji-^Yne gate, where they found Then theygSS^^c© awaiting them. bold saw'ata glance tnat the interview had been a sorrowful one, and Miss Meredith was bitterly disappointed, for she had trusted that Ralph would be able to win the bright, beautiful girl for his wife. Mr. Rosevelt surmised the cause of Star’s rejection of his suit, and sighed heavily, for the young man had been a favorite with him, and he would have been glad to give her to him. But he would never try to influence her upon matters of such a delicate nature ; she should always do exactly as she liked, and he knew that whoever her choice might be, it would never be an unworthy one. They parted at the door of the hotel, Ralph bidding them good-by there, as he was to leave early in the morning, and Star knew by the way that he wrung her hand that he was bidding farewell to hope as well. When they reached their private parlor she went directly to Mr. Rosevelt’s side and laid her hand upon his arm. Her face was flushed and sad, and he saw at once that she was very unhappy. “What is it, my starling?” he asked, taking her hand in both of his, and speaking very tenderly. “Uncle Jacob, I want to go home,” she said, wearily. “Bless you, child! you shall go wherever you like,” he said, in surprise, and regarding her anxiously. “ I want to go where you aud I can be by ourselves, aud where I cannot do any mischief,” she said, with a sob of pain, and he knew beyond a doubt that Ralph Meredith had proposed and been rejected. “Mischief!—tut, tut, little one; what has made you so unhappy—have you sent our young friend away in sorrow ?” Star nodded her head in reply—she could not find voice to answer him. “He is a fine young man—he is a worthg young man,” Mr. Rosevelt said, gently. “O, I know it, Uncle Jacob; but—my heart is dead, aud it can never live again. Don’t blame me, please —you know all about it, aud you know that I could not help it, and be true to him aud myself,” she returned, in deep distress. “You have done everything to make me happy,” she went on, a little more calmly, “and I thought I was beginning to be content and to enjoy life ouce more, but i cannot endure many scenes like what transpired to-night. Let us go home, where I can go to work again, aud in my duties there forget, if possible, the misery of the past, which I have been made to live over again to-night.” “We will leave Newport to-morrow, if you wish,” Mr. Rosevelt said, after a little thought, “but we will not go back to New York just yet—we will spend two or three weeks iu sight-seeing first. We will go to the White Mountains, from there to Montreal, then down the St. Lawrence and the lake to Niagara, and then home. That will give us a change and a nice little trip, besides a knowledge of something of the country. It 4s a long time since I went over that ground, and Ithiuk I should enjoy the journey, if the idea pleases you.” He was not going to let her go back to New York and bury herself at home, where she would brood over her trouble and grow pale, thin, and hollow-eyed again ; so he put it in the form of a favor to himself. Star assented, thinking, if the trip would give him pleasure, she would not say “nay;” she only longed to get away from Newport—it would be a change, aud a spirit of unrest had suddenly possessed her. She felt that other crises such as she had passed to-night were liable to occur, and she longed to fly from them. She could not bear the thought of giving pain; she had not meant to make people love her in any such mad, impetuous fashion, and she could not stay there and reject the hearts which she felt sure would be laid at her feet. So it was arranged that they should leave the gay resort the next day but one. “And, Uncle Jacob,” Star pleaded, as they were about to retire for the night, “let us not say much about it until to morrow night; let us get away as quietly as possible.” “Very well; we will leave the announcement of our departure as long as we can, without appearing to run away,” he answered, understanding her motive. The next morning Star sought Miss Meredith, and confessed with many tears her rejection of her brother. “I knew he would tell you,” she said, “but I cannot bear that you should blame me, Grace. I have not meant to wrong your brother, and I would give much to make him as happy and free from pain as he was before he knew me. Do not take your friendship from me on account of it, for I need it more than I ever did before.” And Grace Meredith, not knowing all, kissed Her tenderly, while she thought in her heart, “Perhaps I can help to win her for Ralph even yet, if I am patient.” “Do not grieve,” she said, gently, “I know you have intended no wrong. You cannot help being beautiful and attractive—you cannot help it if people zuill love you. I do not blame you, dear, in the least, and I am sure I should not think of breaking our friendship, which has been so exceedingly pleasant. Ralph did tell me something of this last night, and of course I am sorry for him, for he is a very dear brother, and a noble fellow, too; but these affairs of the heart, you know,” she concluded, smiling and flushing, for she knew something about it herself, “are entirely beyond our control.” “Thank you, Grace,” Star said, gratefully, although the trouble did not fade out of her azure eyes, “you have lightened my burden considerably; it would have been more than I could bear to make an enemy of you.” “An enemy, you dear little goose!” Grace cried, “do you suppose I would be so foolish as to wish to drive you to marry my brother if you could not love him ? I love you both too w'ell for that; and now don’t let me hear anything more about broken friendships, unless I do something to forfeit your respect, for it would cause me great sorrow to have anything mar our intimacy.” Star drew a long breath of relief, “You are very good to me,” she returned, “and now I have a little message to you from Uncle Jacob.” “A message from Mr. Rosevelt ?—do let me have it then, for it must be something good.” Miss Meredith said,gayly. She longed to drive the clouds from her friend’s face. “We are going to leave Newport.” “Going to leave Newport! When ?” “To-morrow.” “If that is your message, it is anything but a welcome one,” Miss Meredith said, looking very much disturbed. “Oh, but it isn’t,” Star replied; “I was to tell you of our plans; we are going from here to the White Mountains, from there to Montreal, down the St. Lawrence river and Lake Ontario to Niagara, and then home; and Uncle Jacob commissioned me to ask you to be our guest during the trip. Will you go, Grace ?” Miss Meredith looked thoughtful. It would be a sudden start, but the trip offered great attraction, to say nothing of the pleasure she would experience in Star’s and Mr. Rosevelt’s society. Ralph was gone, and if these friends should go also, she would be very lonely, notwithstanding she had many acquaintances here. “I want you, Grace—please do not refuse,” Star pleaded, as she hesitated, and she assented without further demur. Accordingly, the next day they all left Newport, and many blank faces and wistful eyes watched their departure, for they had formed a nucleus around w7hich a brilliant circle had collected, and they would be sadly missed. The trip occupied three weeks, and proved a most delightful one also. Star was a first-rate traveler, Miss Meredith a most pleasant companion, and they all regained much of their accustomed spirits before it was over, and Mr. Rosevelt congratulated himself that he had planned most wisely. “I think it is charming to travel in this wray,” Star said, one day while they were at Niagara; “just a few of us who enjoy each other, stopping when we choose, going on when we like, and having everything our own way. I think there is nothing so pleasant as traveling.” “How would you like to go to California and the Yosemite Valley?” Mr. Rosevelt asked. “I— think I should like it,” she answered enthusiastically. “Will you go this fall?” “Oh, Uncle Jacob, aren’t you tired? Do you not need to go home and rest after so much dissipation ?” the young girl asked, but her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed with anticipation. “Do you call it dissipation to travel?” he asked, smiling at her eagerness. “I enjoy it almost more than anything else.” Almost more.’” Star repeated, quickly; “what would you enjoy more ?” “To see you perfectly happy,” he replied, tenderly; “and,” he added, “I believe that traveling does you fully as much good as anything else. We will go home and rest a week, then we will start for the far West. What do you say to my plan ?” Miss Meredith’s face lighted. “Say ‘yes’ to it by all means, Star,” she said, “and —I will go with you if you will have me.” “7/ we will have you,” Star returned, with dancing eyes. “Why, I think it would be the very nicest thing in all the world—we three, with Mrs. Blunt to look after us, do have such delightful, cozy times.” “I have been wishing for just such an opportunity for a long time,” Grace said, “and if you will take me along with you, I should esteem it a great favor.” “I think, with Star, that it would be the best arrangement in the world, and, Miss Meredith, we uhL'r ----’ ’ ' ' Uember of our party,” M^ Star looked upSinto th<w aiKlr?l^1Slu§i$^®ce. “Uncle Jacob, how gooa yod are to me/’phe said, and her red lips trembled over the wordte, for she knew that he had planned all this expressly for her sake, to keep her thoughts pleasantly employed and from brooding over the past. “My dear, do I not owe my life and all that I am at present enjoying to you?” he asked, gravely, “Remember,” he added, “ that when you are happy I am happy also, and vice versa-, whatever cloud darkens your sky,is sure to bring sorrow tome also; so let us make the most of our lives while we have them.” And Star thought with something of self-reproach: “I will never trouble him with anything again ; if I am miserable I will hide it iu the depths of my own heart. He has had trouble enough during his life. I will put away every thought of self for the future and devote all my powers to the work of making his a ‘green old age.’ I will strive to be really what he calls me, ‘ the star of his life,’ and brighten all the years that remain to him, and make him so happy and content that the memory of his early sorrows shall grow fainter and fainter. I must strive, too, to lead him to look forward to a brighter future. Oh, if I could only be sure that he is beginning to anticipate something better beyond this life. But I shall never give up hoping wrhile he lives, and if only I might lead him to God my life will have been well spent.” These were noble resolves for a young and beautiful maiden to make. It was by far a holier consecration and not wholly unlike that of those vestal virgins of old who devoted a score of the years of their fresh young lives to keeping the sacred tires always burning upon the altars iu the temple of their gods. The happiness and the welfare of the aged! How few consider it! how few are willing to deny themselves to accomplish it. But nothing of all this grave thinking was visible in Star’s face. She looked up brightly after Mr. Rosevelt’s last remark, and glancing archly from him to Miss Meredith, said: “Well, if so much depends up my decision, if I hold the fate of two such important people in my hands, I shall be obliged to say, we will go to California and be happy. But,” she added, laughing, “I warn you both beforehand that I shall not be easily satiated—I shall want to go everywhere and see everything. Yes, we will go home and rest a week, then turn our faces toward the ‘ golden gate,’ and—‘westward ho!’ ” CHAPTER XXXII. “I PROMISE.” On returning to New York, Star learned that Ralph Meredith had sailed for Europe a couple of days before their arrival. He had written his sister of his intention, his mother said, but the letter must have missed her somewhere. He had gone partly on business, parly on pleasure, she told them when questioned, as to his object; but both Grace and Star felt convinced that he had gone to try and forget, if possible, his disappointment, and to try what time and absence would do toward healing his wounded heart. The week that they had promised themselves for rest at home proved to be a busy one instead, for considerable preparation was necessary for the long journey they were contemplating, as it was to occupy three or four months. Star was glad to be at home again, and went flitting about the house, full of business and life. Her trip since leaving New York had done her a great deal of good; her resolution to try and bring all the brightness she could into Jacob Rosevelt’s waning years had seemed to rebound upon herself, for she seemed cheerful, even happy, and as she went from room to room giving everything a magical touch of beauty and grace, thoughtful of his comfort and pleasure, reading t > him, singing to him, or chatting with him, he half wished that they might stay quietly there instead of roaming again. But he knew how much she was anticipating the trip, and he would not even hint of any change in their plans. One day they were out making a few necessary purchases, when suddenly in one of the stores they came upon Mr. Richards. He looked aged and care-worn, neglected and unhappy. His face lighted with momentary pleasure, however, when he caught sight of Mr. Rosevelt and Star, and he came forward to greet them with extended hand. said, uneasily. “You have had your day of business, ____________ with all its fares and perplexities, without bother-“I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you once ing your brtin with those of other people. I’m in a more,” he said, heartily. “I amot going to reproach you either for running aw^rom us, for unpleasant as it is for me to say it, Duld not blame you under the circumstances. But is only within a week or two that I have learnea the change in your life, and, Uncle Jacob, I am merely glad that you did not lose your fortune, as ^supposed.” “Thank you. Then you do not f aggrieved over the ruse I played upon you,” repL Mr. Rosevelt, regarding him searchingly. “Not at all; it was no more th;right that you should wish to know who was vthy to be your heir,” but he sighed heavily as Ispoke, as tie remembered how unworthy his wiitad proved herself to be. “How goes the world with you Mr. Rosevelt asked, and noticing the return of t careworn look to his face. “Rather discouragingly just no I have met with some pretty heavy losses lap; don’t know whether I shall be able to pull thigh all right or not; a couple of weeks will tell theory, however.” He spoke in a desperate tone, anuere was a look in his eyes that made Star shuddand involuntarily draw closer to Mr. Rosevelt. “You don’t mean that you are ianger of going under?” he said, in surprise, and nembering how his wife and daughter had flourish at Newport. “Just that,” Mr. Richards retied, nervously; “but if it was not for the horror live of debt, and the thought that others must suf through me, I would gladly lay down my armsid give up the battle; I am tired to death of thimdless struggle to keep up appearances. But,” bedded, trying to speak more cheerfully, “I won’t re you with my troubles. How well you are both Iking ! and Star —they tell me you are the author ‘ Chatsworth’s Pride.’ I declare, I was never prour of anything in my life when I heard it. lalwaysiew you’d make your mark in the world.” Star colored; she was a trifle sdtive regarding compliments of this kind, and ner talked about her book if she could help it, eept with those whom she was sure were her true ends. But she thanked him gracefullynd then turned the conversation to some other tic, while all the time she was wondering if there w not something that she could do to help or coort him in his trouble. “Now that I have found you,” Uaid, later, “tell me where you live and I will come see you. I will not invite you to Brooklyn,” he ntinued, with a frown, “for I know you could no tome there with any comfort, though I should be gl enough to see you there.” While be was speaking Star, hadrawh a little back, so that Mr. Rosevelt was ii^eeii her and Mr. Richards, and he could not see helce at all. “Uncle Jacob,” she whispered ose to his ear, “cannot we do something to helhim out of his trouble? He looks so wild and eperate that lie frightens me; he was always kn to me, and I’ll willingly give up California or izthing else you please.” Jacob Rosevelt’s face flushed hot at these words, and a strange gleam came into hisne eyes. He appeared to take no notice? her plea, but after giving Mr. Richards their sbt and number, continued: “If you have no otr engagement, George, come up and dine with us-night, and see how cozy we are. We have dinner six, and as we leave for California Wednesday nig, I am afraid we shall not see you again.” George Richards caught his brea with a sudden gasp at this intelligence, and Star Diced again that frenzied gleam in his eyes which hunade her heart throb painfully. “California! do you?” he said, ying to speak steadily. “Well, I will come, of arse, then—for life is uncertain, you know, and' may never see you again,” he added, with a hare grating laugh. “Thank you for the invitation, ands I have no engagement, I will be on hand m sson for dinner. But I must be off now, for I have reed to meet a couple of gentlemen at twelve, ai it wants only fifteen minutes of that now.” He lifted his hat and bowed to tin, then turned away, but the white-haired gentlenu and the beautiful girl who stood looking after hi, saw the aged, dejected look return almost insta^y to his face, and heard the heavy sigh that esc^d his lips, telling of some fearful burden of care tit was wearing his life away. “So you want me to help Georgetichards out of his trouble, do you, Star?” Mr. Ifeevelt said on their way home, and his eyes rest€ fondly on the graceful figure sitting by his side, dving her pretty gray ponies. “Perhaps it was presuming in ineo ask you to do so, Uncle Jacob,” Star answered, gwely, and flushing a vivid crimson. “But 11W vet sorry for him. He was kind to me in many ways wile I was living with his family, and but for him I sbuld have been made a common servant.” “But you do not consider if I shoul assist him out of his difficulties, it would only be 4 give his wife and daughter the means to, cont inue to gratify their extravagant whims ; they haveTujfredhim, I believe, and I have no patience with them.” “Perhaps they have helped to bring him where he 1 “but ft seems to of f yoiU -• is,” Star returned, thought^1 that the burden of debt a«' \ are going to be more than b* help him to escape that, it' we have any idea of. He auy thing when “I can^. X—J^ heart to stave Ellen ter from any disgrace, 11W Rosevelt said, sternly. \ “I was not thinking of them a till, Unde Jacob, and I do not know as it would m* e any difference if I had been,” Star replied, witlia troubled look, “but I do wish to help Mr. Richads, and save him f rom—himself if possible. I am araid he is not in a right frame of mind at all.” Mr. Rosevelt made no answer,;nd the remainder ore goo* >erate < ling us -^S of the drive was passed in silene, while Star felt, for the first time since the chage in their fortunes, that she had made a request wtich was not pleasing to him. When they reached home ami he had alighted, she gathered up the reins again, siting: “I am going to drive downto the florist’s at the corner to get some jacquimimt and marechai neil roses for our table to-night—dr. Richards is very fond of them; and,” with a snile and a signifleant glance, “somebody else is particularly fond of white carnations and mignonette.” She drove off, while Jacob Rosevelt turned and mounted the steps leading into his home, his under lip quivering and a painful rush of tears nearly blinding him. “Blessed are the peace-makers,” he murmured, softly, and then went and shut himself into his own room, where he remained until his visitor was announced. When George Richards was ushered into Jacob Rosevelt’s luxurious and cozy dining-room that evening, where the table was laid with exquisite taste for three, his eyes lighted, and the look of care vanished, as if by magic, fromliis face. A basket of his favorite florers—great, fragrant, beautiful roses—stood in the center of the table, sending forth their rich perfube to greet him and filling the place with their brefih; while his observing eye noticed the tiny silver rase filled with wThite carnations and mignonette wliich stood beside Mr. Rosevelt’s plate. This little attention touched him deeply, for he knew well whose kind heart had prompted it, and with a long-drawn sigh of content he cast aside for the time the burden that oppressed him and gave himself up wholly to the cheerful influences of the hour. Star, in her brightest mood, and clad in a dainty house dress of mauve silk, embellished with pale pink bows, and a rose in her hair, sat at the head of the table and dispensed the honors as hostess with a grace and dignity which became her well. It was a delight just to watch her as her white, jeweled hands fluttered about the shining silver service, and made his coffee in the beautifully decorated china cups, while she chatted in such a bright and entertaining wajjhat it seemed to the world-vreary man as if he had never enjoyed a meal so thoroughly in all his life before. She seemed determined that not a thought of trouble or care should mar the hour, and if the conversation threatened to drift toward business topics she MTas sure to break in with something entirely foreign, telling of their trip during the summer, or relating some droll incident that had occurred while they were at Newport, vrhile ever and anon her clear, sweet laugh would ring out with a heartiness that was simply irresistible Three times after dessert she made Mr. Richards let her fill his tiny cup with the delicious coffee; then she playfully told him that she should not give him any more, but if he would come into the library, she would try and see what she could do toward intoxicating him in some other way. “I nave not forgotten how fond you are of music,” she added, smiling, “and I want you to tell me if you do not think I have improved some since you last heard me play.” She slipped her hand through his arm and led him into the library, while Mr. Rosevelt watched her with humorous eyes as she performed this labor of love. Seated at the piano, she whiled away another hour, making George Richards forget every thing disagreeable, and appear the pleasant, genial gentleman whom she used to know. “ ‘Richard is almost himself again,’ I think,” she thought, with a happy little smile, as once, after a comic song which she sang to him, he leaned back in his chair and laughed long and heartily. But this could not go on forever, and finally Mr. Rosevelt gradually led him to talk business, and asked him to tell him just what his trouble was. This changed everything, and he became at once the anxious, care-worn man again. “I do not like to trouble you, Uncle Jacob,” he terrible muddle, it is true; but—I guess there will be some way out of it,” and there came into his eyes that same Wild, desperate look which Star had noticed in the morning, and which made her shudder with a terrible fear. But Mr. Rosevelt insisted, and finally drew from him a true statement of facts. “I am sorry you are having such a hard time of it, George,” he said, thoughtfully, when he had concluded. “How much would it take to relieye you of your embarrassment.” Mr. Richards cast a startled look at the old gentleman at this question; then, while a deep flush mounted to his brow, said : “I can raise enough to meet all my present liabilities with ten thousand dollars. I have tried to borrow it everywhere, but everybody seems to have become suddenly shy of me for some reason, and I might as well be without a dollar in the world as without the whole amount. If I could raise it, it would set me on my legs again, for my credit would be good, and with care and patience I believe I could retrieve my position.” Star almost held her breath while she waited for Mr. Rosevelt’s reply to this. To her infinite surprise he turned to her. “My dear,” he said, gently, “you shall return some of the kindness of which you told me this morning; I think you understand what I want you to do.” He glanced as he concluded toward the private drawer in his desk, where he always kept his checkbook, and she knew that he wanted her to go and fill out a check for the amount that Mr. Richards had named. She arose, went to the desk, unlocked the drawer with trembling fingers, and drew forth the book. Opening it she tilled out a check, as she had often done for him during the last few months, then tearing it out, carried it to him with a pen tilled with ink. He turned it over and wrote his name on the back without a word, and then returned it to her. She took it mechanically, but stood irresolute for a moment looking at him, while her cheeks grew crimson. “Give it to him, dear—it is to be your gift,” Mr. Rosevelt said, glancing at Mr. Richards, who sat staring at them both in blank amazement. A brilliant smile parted Star’s red lips ; she shot a grateful look at Uncle Jacob, and advancing to their visitor’s side, laid the check down before him. One glance at the figures, and the overburdened man bowed his head upon the table with a groan. “I cannot take it—I cannot take—and irom you of all persons!” he said, brokenly. “Why not from her?” Mr. Rosevelt asked, huskily. “All that I have belongs to this dear girl, and, as I have told her many times, I live only to make her happy. She asked me to do this to-day after we had met you, because, she said, you had been kind to her in the past, and she longed to help you out of your trouble. So take it as her gift, my boy, make the best use of it that you can and welcome.” George Richards groaned again, while he reached forth and grasped the old man’s hand, wringing it in silent gratitude, yet overwhelmed with shame and remorse as he remembered all that he and the fairhaired, gentle girl standing beside him had suffered while they were members of his family. He bad no words of thanks to offer for this generous help in time of need, but if ever a world-weary heart was relieved of a burden too heavy to be borne, his was, when at length he folded that precious bit of paper and put it away for future use. When he arose to take his leave, he took both of Star’s hands in his and drew her aside, where he could speak to her alone. “But for you,” he said, in unsteady tones, “I should have been a ruined man a week hence. To tell you that I am ashamed to receive this gilt from you, does not express half what I feel, when I look back and remember your position in my family. But you have bestowed it so kindly and delicately that it would be churlish in me to refuse it; and—you have taught me a lesson which, God helping me, I will never forget—a lesson of forgiveness and charity; and no one in my house shall ever be treated unkindly again, no matter what their position may be,” he concluded, with stern resolution. “Please forget all the past, Mr. Richards,” Star returned, sweetly, but with evident embarrassment; “I never entertained any feeling save that of gratitude and good will toward you, for you proved yourself interested in my welfare in more instances than one while I was with you.” “But,” she added, solemnly, while she clung tightly to his hands, and looked into his eyes with an expression which made them droop guiltily before her, “will you not promise me that, no matter how dark the future may be to you, no matter whaf trials or disappointments may come to you. never again meditate doing yourself an irrep wrongV' 1 fore A streak of dusky red shot across the man’s head, while his veins filled out hard and full. wiiat “Star!” he stammered, “what do you mean?—' do you know ?” t tlYou know what I mean ; I read it in your eyv ’ heard it in the tones of your voice this mon A But oh ! my friend,” and her voice was full of tea^ ’ “remember that you are ‘ bought with a price’— • not your own; promise me.” L ^^'q/raised her hands and kissed them reverentl/7 T two hot tears rolled over his cheeks and dropiY 11 them in the act. promise,” he whispered, hoarsel/; ^; both trying to cheefS/iYL rshes for the future. y I ; as “Good bight, and good-by,” the yvnrng tones that sounded to him like an angel’s v."fee, as she stood in the door-way and watched him go down the steps. “ Be sure to come and see us again when we return ; the latch-string is always out, as they say at the West, for our friends.” A mighty sob burst from the overcharged heart of George Richards as he reached the street, and the tears—tears of mingled remorse, gratitude, and relief-rolled thick and fast over his face. “Thank God,” he murmured, fervently, “for the light of that ‘ star ’ in the midst of what was worse than Stygian darkness; but for its friendly beams and cheering influence, I should have been lost indeed.” He had proceeded some distance when he stopped short and seemed about to retrace his steps. “ How thoughtless of me,” he muttered, impatiently; “I meant to tell her all about Lord Carrol; he deserves to be set right with her, and she deserves—well, nothing can be too good for her; but they knocked everything out of my head by their unexampled generosity. I will not go back to-night,” he added, after thinking a moment, “I will write her to-morrow the whole story.” But the morrow brought its busy cares and perplexities, and his resolution was forgotten; after that it was too late, for he did not know where to address her during her absence, and so Star still believed her lover to be false, and still mourned her shattered idol. (TO BE CONTINUED.) Correspondence GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. No Manuscripts Wanted.—We want manuscripts, and shall accept none from time until the summer is over. Manuscripts will not be returned, under circumstances. NO this any [We request our correspondents to coniine their queries to questions of general interest. Our apace is too valuable to waste it upon unimportant subjects, such as information regarding old coins, business firms, other matters of a nature likely to interest only inquirers.] and the the Country Girl.—'The year 1816 is what is known as .... “year without a summer.” Judging from the temperature at the present writing, ther e is little to fear that the present year is to be a repetition of it, as some of the weather-wise have predicted. Old New England farmers former ly referred to the year as “eighteen hundred and star ved to death.” January was mild, as was also February, wth the exception of a few days. The greater par t of March was cold and boisterous. Apr il opened warm, but grew colder as it advanced, ending with snow and ice, and winter cold. Buds and flowers were frozen in May, ice formed half an inch thick, and corn was killed. Frost, ice. and snow were common in June. Almost every green thing was killed, and fruit was nearly all destroyed. Snow fell to the depth of three inches in New York aud Massachusetts, and ten inches in Maine. July was accompanied with frost and ice. On the 5th ice was formed of the thickness of window glass in New York, New England, and parts of Pennsylvania, and corn was nearly all destroyed in certain sections. In August ice formed half an inch thick. Corn was so frozen that a great deal was cut down and dried for fodder. Very little ripened in New England and the Middle States. Farmers were obliged to pay four and five dollars a bushel for corn of 1815 for seed for next spring’s planting. The first two weeks of September were mild; the balance of the month was cold, with frost, and ice formed a quarter of an inch thick. October was more than usually cold, with frost and ice. November was cold and blustering, with snow enough for good sleighing. December was quite mild and comfortable. J. C. J. L.—Among certain Eastern nations precious stones were associated with the months of the year, and the fortunes of a human being were believed to be intiu-enced by the stone which belonged to his birth-month. The garnet is the stone of January, and insures “constancy and fidelity in every sort of engagement.” The amethyst belongs to February, and he who is born in that month should wear it as a “preservation against violent passions and drunkenness.” March has the bloodstone, which “gives courage and wisdom in perilous undertakings and firmness in affection.” April has the blue sapphire, which ‘‘flees from enchantment, and denotes repentance and kindness of disposition.” May is repre- sented by the emerald, which discovers false witnesses, and insures happiness in love and domestic felicity.” The agate belongs to June and “causes its wearer to be invincible in all feats of strength, and insures long life, health, and prosperity.” To July belongs the ruby, which “discovers poison, and cures all evils springing from the unkindness of friends.” The sardonyx “insures conjugal felicity” to him who is born in August. The chrysolite “preserves from despair” him who is born iu September, i o October belongs the opal, w hich is not only the stone of “misfortune,” but also of “hope.” The pearl, which means “tears and pity,” belongs to November. To him who is born in December, the light-blue turquois assures “prosperity In love.” Disputant.—You are in error in vour assertion that “a fish cannot drown because it is in its native element.” Fishes breathe aerated water, the water in most cases being taken in the mouth and expelled through the gills. Should a fish be caught in the upper part of the mouth, it is scarcely possible for it to set the muscles in action w hich move the gills, while the rod is applied as a lever to the line, and as no aerated water can be respired, the fish drowns. In running water also, a fish lies withits head against the stream, because with its head down the stream it is compelled to travel more rapidly than the water, or the water will find its way into its gills and by becoming stationary will suffocate the fish. All fish need air, and cannot live without it; though some kinds can exist with less than others. In support of this we sometimes see all the fish of a pond killed, when the ice every-where covers the surface, and no air can be obtained. Again, if a hole be made in the ice of a closely locked stream or pond, the fish will dart to it from all points in order to obtain the air. William W. W.. Newport, R. I.—Javelle water will remove mildew7. We presume you can get it at any drug-ist’s; or you can make it yourself. If you wish a large quantity proceed as follows: Stir five pounds of chloride of lime in two pails of warm water; dissolve ten pounds of glauber salt (sulphate of soda) in one pail of water; also four pounds of sal soda in one pail of water. The contents of the four pails of water can be poured together and kept in any suitable tigiit vessel. The materials are cheap, and the mixture easily made. A small quantity may be thus made: Four pounds of sal soda to one pouml of chloride of lime in one gallon of water. Put the sal soda in a vessel over the fire, add one gallon of boiling water ; let it boil for ten or fifteen minutes ; then add the chloride of lime by throwing it, free from lumps, into the soda water. When cold, pour into a jug, or large bottle, and cork tightly. Soldier's Orphan. — 1st. The custom of decorating soldiers’ graves with flowers w’as inaugurated by the Grand Army of the Republic on the 30tb of May, 1868, when it was resolved that it should be observed annually on that day. The date was not selected because it was the anniversary of any important event connected with the war for the Union. The custom has since become general throughout the North, and people of all classes join in strewing with flowers the graves of the dead, not only of soldiers, but in many cases of deceased friends. 'The day is called Decoration Day from the nature of the exercises, and iu many (States has been made a legal holiday by legislative enactment. A similar custom prevails iu the South, but earlier in the spring, as the season is further advanced. 2d. “Lost—a Pearle” will cost, in book form, $1.50. Trade, Boston.—The term “boycotting” originated as follows; Captain Boycott was the agent of the owner of an estate in Ireland, and the tenants having become dis satisfied with his methods of managing the, estate, asked the landlord to remove him. This he declined to do, aud the tenants and their friends refused to wrork for or under Boycott, and they made an agreement among themselves that none of them or theirs should assist or work for him during harvest. His crops were thus endangered, but assistance arriving irom Ulster, the harvest was gathered under the protection of troops. The tenantry then decided to still further extend their system of tabooing by including all persons who had any dealings with Boycott. All such were not only to be ignored aud treated as total strangers, but no one was to sell to them nor buy of them. Celt.—The term “Emerald Isle” was first applied to Ireland by Dr. Wm. Drennan (1754—1820), author of “Erin,” “Ulendalloch,” and other poems. Is is used in the following stanzas from the first named poem : “When Erin first rose fiom Y)e dark swelling flood God blessed the green islamv; He saw it was good. The Emerald of Europe, it sparkled, it shone In the ring of this world the most precious stone. “Arm of Erin, prove strong, but be gentle as brave, And, uplifted to strike, still be ready to save: Nor one feeling of vengeance presume to defile The cause or the meu of the Emerald Isle.” Western Boy.—The reason for the saltness of the ocean is that salt is a mineral which prevails largely in the earth, and whiph, being very soluble in water, is taken up by the ocean. Lakes and rivers also, even those that are considered fresh, hold in solution some degree of saline matters, which they contribute to th*’ ocean. As in evaporations from the sea, the,a?1* O*Y?U?11U8 in wliile the vapors fall as rain, antiearth and carry some of its mine> ^8 compared 1 le greater saltuess^f con feuded, aud wmh ?0Un continually growing salter, from wXr to the the water free from salt, and the retdiu oi the atei to the sea, taking with it salt from the land- R. R. T.- 1st. We will send yod “Natural History of Birds” for in American Waters” for $2.50. 2d. We winti.y an d tn d the method of working the problem, n 1 4th of the world is estimated to be about >,400,000,000. 4tm We are unable to tell you the S Many of the family are dead, and ^Xce over such an extent that we have b&n unable to tiace the pedigree beyond Job himself, g-h- A da.m was the oldest man that ever lived and died e See “Etiquette Department.” 7th. water and dandruff. Put half an ounce into aYj 'Yf wash the head with it twice a week. Aitei wai d 1 mse on iu clear water. Green- Eyed.-We are frequently in the receipt of letters from persons whose sole trouble, is ^^t thevai e j , u . and thetr letters are all expressive ot wretchednese in a greater or less degree. In most cases we beiiet e it m gins I without a reason, and very often creates the etil it un-reasouably suspects. Unless an eihu t is made tc> o\ elcome it, in time it will killJove-there eftf Ye Ttiv+m aml^KUaist hold sway. ThJeiefoie, it mil De bet-terWF^MAfrowit <,«• wfiun mid prevent you from making yourself diB&greea.bie tivyour friends, if you come to a realization that your troubles are imagina.iy. A Friend.—Lotta (Charlott^ Crabtree) was born in New York city Nov. 7,1847. Her parents moved to California when she was about six years of age, and at eight years she made her debut as a child vocalist. Her first appearance as an actress was made in 1858, in the character of "Gertrude,” in the “Loan of a Lover,” in Getaluma, Cal. She made her first appearance in this city at Niblo’s Saloon, June 1, 1864. She has since traveled as a star, aud is yet one of the most popular and successful star actresses. She is uot married. Almira.—To make scrap-book paste, dissolve a teaspoonful of alum in a quart of water; when cold, stir in as much flour as will give it t he consistency of cream, being particular to beat up all the lumps ; stir in as much powdered resin as will lay on a dime, and add six cloves. Put in another vessel a teacupful of boiling water, set over the fire, pour the flour mixture into it, stirring well all the time. It will soon be like mush. When cool, lay a cover on it; keep it cool. For use, soften with warm water. It will keep twelve mouths. Blanche, Flushing, N. Y., and A Reader—A. correspondent who had been agreat sufferer from toothache for many years,writes that since using flour of sulphur as a tooth powder, he has been wholly free from it. He says : "Rub the teeth and gums with a rather hard toothbrush, using the sulphur every night. If done after dinner, too. all the better. The sulphur preserves the teet h, and does not communicate any smell whatever to the mouth.” E. C. T.—1st. Brown’s Grammar aud Parker’s “Aids to English Composition” are among the best works of that class. 2d. We do not know where you will get the German translation of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” 3d. We appreciate your words of commendation, and hope to gratify you very soon by commencing uew serials by both Mrs. Holmes aud Horatio Alger, Jr. R. B., Brooklyn.— Write to the young lady aud tell her that as your feelings in regat d to her have remained unchanged, you wish to renew the proposition made to her some two or three years ago. If it meets with favorable consideration, ask her to return an answer in an envelope which you should inclose to her. R. L.—1st. We know nothing of the Rapp colony of Pennsylvania. 2d. You have been misinformed. The Government is not obliged to furnish maps of the United States free of charge. You can buy one of any stationer, or find one iu a railroad guide. Pitchfork, Muscatine, Iowa.—The French method of polishing furniture is first to cleanse it of all greasiness, and then use powdered Tripoli aud boiled linseed oil applied and rubbed on with a lag. Alary Smith.—It would cost from $250 to $300 to piint and bind five hundred copies of a book such as you describe. Errors in spelling, punctuation, etc., would be corrected by the printers. SL 4lban».—1st. Neither of the stories named has been published in book-form. 2d. We will send you Bryant & Stratton’s “Common School Book-keeping,” with blanks, for $1.05. J. B. Adams.—In the West generally, and in Arkansas particularly, (in the latter we believe by legislative enactment) the name of the State is pronounced Arkansaw. Sadie.—1st. The “g” in flageolet is soft. 2d. Page’s “Theory and Practice of Teaching” is a very good work. We will furnish it for $1.50. B. A. Y. Z.—1st. The story named was published in Vol. 23—fifteen years ago. 2d. The little chap’s legs will probably get stronger in time. A. L. W., Chicago.—Yes. Most druggists keep preparations of yellow dock root and sarsaparilla. A Constant Reader, Philadelphia.—Bathe your feet iu a weak solution of alum water. Alisstrust, New Orleans.—We have not been able to find the r ecipe you desir e. Lizzie, Boston.—We know of no preparation that will remove wrinkles. 4 u Old subset I bet —Burn sulphur iu the rooms infested with moths. Perseverance.—The right to dramatize any of our stories is reserved. Founge. —Brooklyn. New Beader—A. letter mailed to the paper by name, at Los Angeles, Cal., will reach its destination.-Train Boy.—W& are unable to give you the information in r egard to the hospital.------------------------Reader.—1st. We cannot find the book. 2d. The paper- named is not now in existence.---- Quizzer.—Cawlus is the Latin form of Charles, usually spelled in that way on coins. So Cawlus III. may mean Charles III. of France, Germany, or Spain.-------------Norfolk and Charles, Shrei’e, O.—We will send you Graham’s “Hand-oook of Phonography” for $2. It is a self instr uctor.- A. F. D.-June 16, 1845, came on Monday.-------------Constant Reader.—1st. Consult an engine-builder. You will have to get it made to order. 2d. Send your or der for- the goods, with the money, direct to the New York Weeklx Purchasing Agency.-------------------------------------Bay View.—Write to the American Agriculturist. THE NEW YORK WEEKLY FOR ALL TIME. ev York Weekly NEW YORK, JULY 16, 1883. Terms to Mail Subscribers: 3 months (postage free) 75c ] 2 copies (postage free) $5.00 4 months............$1.00 J 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, will favor us by forwarding only One Cent Stamps. GF* All Money Orders should be made payable to the FI UM 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, <>. Box 2734. STREET & SMITH, Proprietors. 25. 27, 29 & 31 Rose St.. N.Y. BY EDMUND LYONS. “My darling,” the mother told her, “Your sailor, I know, was true; But his heart to-day is colder Than was ever its love for you. The words that his lips have spoken Will never again be said. Nor his last long sleep be broken, Till the sea gives up its dead. “Then why do you pine in sorrow For one who for aye is gone? To-day seems dark, but to-morrow May show you a radiant dawn. Deep down in his ocean bed, dear, Regardless of all your love, He sleeps the sleep of the dead, dear. Unrocked by the storms above.” “Ah, mother,” replied the daughter, “He never may claim my hand, But under the stormy water, Or safe on the firm, dry land. The heart that my darling cherished Forever and aye I gave ; And if on the deep he perished, It lies in his ocean grave. “But something tells me, dear mother, The pitiless, cruel sea, Though sparing never another, Will restore my love to me. It may be my hopes deceive me, And he with his shipmates died, But my faith will never leave me, And so—let the Lord decide!” to groaning bds of lordly sappers, to please the devil before than rose, till sll hell laughed. How, think you, wd it look, vrit in golden letters above the bar <he popular saloon: “Eat aijrink to the glory of God?” A Storyf Pith and Power, BY AAVORITE AUTHOR Woman’s endng faith in the object of her love, despite circurances so suspicious and distressing as to excus total loss of confidence in man’s honor, is beauilly and effectively exemplified in A GRAD LOVE STORY 0 BE COMMENCED NEXT WEK! NEXT WEEK! Deb THE TITLE OF We are not responsible for manuscripts sent to this office, and wish it understood that they are at the author's risk. FjF MANUSCRIPTS WILL NOT BE RE-TURNED, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Subscribers who receive the New York Weekly in a BLUE WRAPPER ivill understand that their Subscriptions expire in four weeks. This will remind them of the importance of promptly renewing their Subscriptions, to avoid missing a single copy of the paper. Change of Address.—Subscribers who desire us to change their Post-office address, will please give us the old address in full, as well as the new one. One night when the snow had drifted Close up to the cottage wall, The latch of the door was lifted, And she heard a footstep fall. The faithful heart was rewarded, And, saved from the flowing tide. The sailor her prayers had guarded Had returned to claim his bride. A WOMN'S FAITH s OR, THE MYSTERY ? A BUNCH OF PANSIES, By CHILES T. MANNERS, THE FAMILY DOCTOR. By Kate Thorn, He is a very important personage, the family doctor is. 4 He is dignity personified. From his decision there is no appeal. If he says you must die. die you must! It would be a piece of brazen effrontery on your part to attempt to live. The doctor has said it, and of course he knows what is best for you. From our youth up most of us are taught to respect anA obey the family doctor. All through the measles, and tm^umps an(j tjie chicken-pox, and over the shoals and t*v^vsai1(jg of whooping-cough, he carries us safely, „ doseg of sak_ us to keep up good heart, by his help we shall pull through, and he calls our mother “my good woman,” and reniarks. sententiously, that a great deal depends upon skillful nursing. We look at him with reverential awe. and wonder what the world Wpuld be without him. and whither we should drift^f family doctors and ipecac had not been incluc«d in the scheme of creation. The family doctor should be tall and slightly bald-headed. Baldi/ess gives the impression that his brains are trying to push through, and that long and anxious thought over disease (and fees) has taken the hair from the seat of so much anxiety. He should be neither fat nor lean, but a happy medium the two. If he be too fat, then fat ladies who want0otf)B lean will and it he be him, for they will naturally think that he would use his own medicine and heal himself, if he had such a medicine. He should not let himself down to the level of common humanity by showing emotion of any kind. Let him becalm under all circumstances. Death and distress are every-day affairs to him. It may be a sad thing for you to lose your wife or your child, but you must not expect your family doctor to forego his comfort on account of it. He is above everything of that sort. Your friends are simply “cases” to him, and he values them according to the “interesting” phases their disease Eresents. Do not expect him to hear anything you ave to tell about the attack, etc.; he judges by the symptoms. He is too much pressed for time to listen to any description of “how Sammy was taken,” or “how Mollie vomited, or purged, three hours in succession.” He is a medical man, with M. D. and B. M. and F. R. 0. S., and most of the rest of the alphabet to his name, what does he care about your opinion ? He can form his diagnosis without any extraneous help. Oh, the dignity of pulse feeling! Oh, the majesty there is in dealing out powders 1 Oh, the awful and terrible mysteriousness of that small trunk which accompanies him everywhere! How condescending when he looks at your tongue! What a grave and wise expression he wears when he takes out his watch and listens to your heart-beats! That very watch has something awe-inspiring about it. It has marked the decline of so many human vitalities; it has measured out the few days, or weeks, of so many of our fellowsufferers. The family doctor should aim to use Latin phrases always, when speaking of medicine or diseases. It cheapens him if he talks so that anybody can understand. Let him call the ear-ache tympanitis, by all means, and talk vaguely of hypertrophy and angina pectoris, etc., etc.—always getting in a big word which nobody understands when he can. It gives him consequence. It makes those who listen think he is running over with wisdom. And they will have confidence in him, and take his pills and senna in the full assurance that a cure is inevitable; and we all know that faith in the doctor often does more for us than his medicine. Every well regulated man and woman respects the doctor’s opinion, and bides by his advice. If he says go to bed at dark, and get up at daybreak, it must be done, no matter what the result. If he says stop eating and live on oat meal, oat meal takes a rise at once. The family doctor is an autocrat on a small scale, and he knows it and enjoys it. Who would dream of taking a dip at the beach without his permission? Who would think of snuffing mountain air without his sanction ? He cuts down our shade trees, he puts ventilators in our houses, he sells our feather beds at auction, he buys saddle-horses for our girls, and gives old Eort to our wives; he frowns down on dainty, hWheeled boots, forbids round dances, and sets nis sage face resolutely against late hours and French bon-bons. But where he is greatest is when a rival practitioner is spoken of. Then it is worth a good deal to see him. Contempt appears in every line of his countenance. Silence is more eloquent than words. If the rival could behold him he would wither in his boots, unless he were a very brave sort of rival. But when the young, new doctor is mentioned, then he hears the remark. And he wishes the “young fellow well and hopes he may make a living somehow. Shall be huppy to put any little job in his way. Always proud and pleased to assist the struggling,” etc. If vou want to witness indignation royal, get sick and cull in the other doctor. If you can stand before the storm, then indeed are you made of the stuff of heroes. If you die he may forgive you; but if you live, you may be sure he will never disgrace his pills and powders by putting them inside your anatomy. He will give you a wide berth, and tell his friends that he does not care to act as medical attendant to people who are toolhardy enough to put themselves at the mercy of quacks! The family doctor is an inst itution, and a needful one. We respect him in spite of his vanity, and we swallow his abominable potions with the teeling that the best of us must have some bitter with the sweet. EAT AND DRINKJTO GOD’S GLORY. By Harkley Harker. How can a man eat and drink to the glory of God? At first sight it may not seem so easy. You may suppose that you have to cut off a slice of beefsteak, and. holding it on your fork, stop to say to yourself: “I am about to eat this meat to the glory of God.” Then you swallow the morsel. In this way you proceed, slowly, with your whole dinner, and all meals. But would that be fulfilling the Scripturd command, “whether we eat or drink, let us do all to the glory of God?” Instead of such mechanical liter-ality, suppose you think of it in the following way: When you stand by old ocean, watching the sublime swell of its broad bosom, listening to the rhyming strophe of the breakers, cooled by its grateful breathings, does it not seem to say to you: “Think who made me. Ponder, little creature; and see in me the great God. I am holden in the hollow of His hand. I remind men of the Creator. I cause men to worship Him. I cannot be looked upon and God’s glory be forgotten.” Do you not see. then, how a great, good man can also “live in God’s glory?” If one is so grand a human creature; if brains, body, and heart are all so superior and used for other men’s good that no one can meet the man without exclaiming: “Oh, a TloriQus creature! The noblest thing God ever to bri was an fi°nest man I” Does not that man live tain! ^ory UDto Him who gave him life? Cer-otheY he causes other men to think of God; causes inen thank God that such a man was ever QrLted; and, in a word, reflects honor upon that Being who gave him his being among other is^ut now suppose a miserable wretch, whose life tc/a curse to his fellow-men. To look upon him is s/exclaim. “I wonder why God ever made such a ffeoundrel!”—as if God did not make him as beauti-3Ail and harmless in babyhood as you were, reader— Jnd you query. “What good is he to any one?”' Hie higi eating like the hogs, a disgusting glut he repulsive. You see him drunk lik o^ gn bi^bl “AiaF11® sight is repulgvff-V^°!lA^ arFi^ulMV it ne oe your brother union creation. Evidently we have struck imk «»'d1ov ,b«“—constitutes the antithesis of “eating and 5 will nor call on drinking tor God’s glory*” Dare I write it, that the drunkard and glutton live for God’s disgrace, in the eyes of His other creatures? No; for the Infinite can yet get Himself glory, in sparing such a wretch through mercy; in patiently, lovingly sending unto him the Saviour of sinners. But I dare write this: The drunkard has done his best to disgrace the Hand that created him. The glutton; the lustful slave of his animal passions; the thief; the liar; the lazy good-for-nothing; the injurious; all these have done what they could to cast doubt upon the wisdom of the Creator. It is not their fault if men do not question whether there even be a God—since such as they live on, and their victims perish by their cruelty. Sing Sing prison tempts me to ask. Can there be a God ? The rumseller puts the same skepticism into my mind. What can be more repulsive than the thought of being such a man that you disgrace the Creator! To disgrace a father, one’s family and friends is terrible. But to disgrace God! Who has words to describe that? To eat and drink to God’s glory, then, is simple enough in theory. It is to eat and drink like a rational man—with temperance, continence, decency, and thankfulness. Indeed, eating and drinking are but synonyms for one’s whole life. I have seen a crowd of business men assembled, in business hours too, about an up-town residence. The front steps were thronged, the door-ways pressed full of people. The spacious apartments were filled to repletion. A solemn hush rested over the assembly. There was a cold, white face to be seen in the casket which reposed between the parlors. When the preacher said in his prayer, “Oh, God, we thank Thee that this dead man ever lived among us,” a subdued “Amen!” ran like a murmuring wind through all the vast assembly. When, oqe by one, the neighbors drew near to look upon that face, men thought of God, because the dead man’s life was for God’s honor. His kindness to the poor reflected God’s kindness; his honesty and truth pointed to the True One: his self-sacrifice reminded observers of One who died for others on the cross. This dead man’s very dying was “for the glory of God;” for all men felt that God must have taken him, and so they all looked up steadfastly toward that heaven whither it seemed he had just gone. A good man’s peaceful death proves that there is a heaven. I have myself seen the “glory of God.” like a radiance, beaming from such dying faces; and. seeing, have believed. He who is patient in trials, strong in hardships, courageous in dangers, sweet-tempered in persecutions, and loving amid enemies; he makes men believe in God—for we know that without God no man can do these things. How beautiful is that life which is permitted to do honor unto the Hand that fashioned it! I have often thought that little children lived “for the glory of God.” For myself, I cannot see a babe upon the mother’s breast, with its tiny hands reaching about the neck that feeds it, but I seem to see the goodness of the Creator, His exquisite contriving for exquisite happiness. There at least, on this shadowed earth, are two perfectly happy beings—that child and that mother. Then observe the innocence of childhood. It speaks of the purity of Him who made the children so pure. Watch their gushing joys; they tell you of the Creator’s beneficence. Who ever held his own little child in his arms; nay. what mother, surely, ever gazed down upon the sleeping face of herchild, and did not clasp it, crying, instinctively, “Great God, I thank Thee for this gift!” And so the child leads your thoughts to God, and moves you to praise God. The children, then, live for His glory. To eat an honestly earned loaf is to eat for God’s glory. To eat your own bread, and not another’s, is for God’s glory. To eat a half-loaf, while the poor eat the other half, is for God’s glory. To eat what is set before you, asking no questions for conscience’s sake; to eat the bread of contentment with thanksgiving; to eat that which is wholesome and healthful, thus preparing yourself for your daily burden; to eat rationally, i.e„ as a reasoning being would, which is differently from the ravenous beast or the loose horse at the oatbin; to eat with neatness, deliberation, and considerately of others at your side; to eat with pleasant flow of kindly greeting and friendly speech, especially at the home breakfast-table or at the last domestic meal of the weary day; this is eating for Author of 'THE LORD ? “THE BLE1 FLAW P LYLE,” “OCTAVIA’S PRIDE,” KARNE EMERALDS,” “THE IN THE DIAMOND,” “DIGGING HIM DOWN.” \ SILVER BRAND.” This is a delihtful love story, with an ingenious and fascinating ?]ot, fresh and spirited incidents, and characters o ably drawn that they are certain t@ rank among he most worthy creations of fiction. The previous works of this gifted and popular author are todwell known to make praise of the forthcoming sory necessary; but we must assert that in the stoiyof A Woman’s Faith “Thomas Barker, this is your bar. God Almighty has a bar, tool You sent my husband from your bar to the bar of God I You will follow in less than ten minutes!” , _ , “Seize the woman!” exclaimed Barker, cowering-“she’s crazy!” ........ , “Seize the woman if you dare! she screamed, as she ground her teeth together. “Not all the driveling, drunken idiots in your hellish groggery can avert your fate. You die to-night!” Then she turned and dashed out. “What did the woman mean?” asked Barker, white with fear. , ..T “She’s gone anyhow,” said one of the loafers. I think she is a regular loony. . ,, In a minute she returned with the ax raised high above her head. j. “Thomas Barker,” she shrieked, you die tonight. You die now! You’ve sent my husband to to the bar of God. and now you’ll follow him! The bar-room loafers sprang forward to prevent the awful deed, but she was crazed beyond control, and she dashed them aside as if they had been helpless children, t L , “Ha! ha!” she laughed; “it cannot be averted. The die is cast. Thomas Barker, I send you whirling to the bar of God!” , , One of the loafers seized the ax. but she hurled him across the room as if he had been a mere plaything. and with terrible swiftness she raised the weapon again, and Barker’s head was cleft entirely through. It was an appalling sight, and the horror-stricken loafers rushed from the room. Mrs. Wray burn never recovered her reason, but was a raving maniac to the end of her days. the spirit, grtce, and pungency of May Agnes Fleming are uniquely combined with the dramatic force of Charles Reade ; and, in many of the more impressive scenes? the thrilling intensity of the writer just named is undoubtedly surpassed. We unhesitatingly declare that this is one of the most entrancing romances we have ever perused— graceful in style, "vigorous in diction, unique in plot, and in every.respect 1 Tjove Story fan opening chapt,< ---------- A BAT -ROOM TRAGEDY. 13y JEJ. Elliott MlcUride. The scene of odr little story is laid in the village of Northfield. Richard Wrayburn had been an industrious mechanic, and had prospered, but in an evil hour he commenced to drink, and before many years had passed away he was a drunken sot and a degraded being. It had gone on from bad to worse until now. if he did a day’s work, it was only that he might get some money to enable him to continue his drinking and carousing. Through all their poverty and distress his wife had clung to him, vainly endeavoring to persuade him to leave his evil companions and his evil ways. She took in washing, and did other laborious work, and in this way gained a scanty subsistence for herself and family. It was in the month of November, and the night had closed in dark and stormy. Rachel Wrayburn and her children were huddled together over a smoldering fire, endeavoring to keep themselves warm. They had eaten a scanty supper, and the children were waiting in fear of their father’s coming. “I tan’t do to bed,” said the youngest child, Harry, “ ’tause papa might turn home and hit me adain, lite he did the other night, when he was bad and looked so awful. No. I’ll sit up and wait, and when he turns home I’ll hide behind mamma, so he tan’t strife me adain.” “And 1 don’t want to go to bed either.” said Emma. “I’m afraid to go bed. Minima,” she continued, “don’t you wish papa would die?” “Oh,” exclaimed the mother, “you don’t know what you say. He is your papa, and it is wrong to talk in that way.” “I know he is my papa.” replied the child; “but he isn’t like other papas. He drinks, and gets wild, and scolds, and swears. Oh, I wish he would die. and then we would be so happy and have no trouble.” “Do not talk so, my child.” said Mrs. Wrayburn; “but,” she continued, addressing her oldest boy, Charlie, “I am afraid something has happened to your father. If you will stay with the children I will go down to Barker’s saloon and see if he is there.” “But,” said Charlie, “he sometimes doesn’t come home until nearly morning.” “I know,” replied his mother; “but something tells me all is not well. I must go. I will leave you to take care of the children. If they get sleepy put them to bed.” And the woman took an old shawl, faded and worn, and drawing it over her head, started out. It was about a mile to the saloon from where they resided, and half way between the places there was a crossing—the place where the wagon road and the railroad crossed. When she arrived at this place a sight was presented to her eyes which chilled her with horror and turned her immediately into a raving maniac. By the light from the old tin lantern which she carried she saw her husband a crushed and shapeless mass. It was supposed that he had fallen on the track, and being in a drunken stupor or benumbed with the cold, he was unable to rise. The down express, •which had passed only few minutes before, had crushed the life out of him and mangled his body in a fearful manner. “God of heaven!” she exclaimed, in her frenzy, “has it come? Is he dead? is he dead? Then Barker shall die, too! He sold him the accursed rum—he drove him to death. He shall die to-night.” She turned and sped homeward. She approached the house stealthily, and seizing an ax she retraced her steps, going down the road as swiftly as she had come. She paused not at the crossing, but muttering, “He shall die to night,” she hurried on. Barker’s saloon was a groggery of the lowest kind, and in the four years preceding Richard Wrayburn had spent all his money there, robbing his wife and children of the necessaries of life so that he might pour the damnable fluid into his throat, in the vain endeavor to quench his neverending thirst. Emigration a Belief for Ireland- The most sensible plan for the relief of the poor and unemployed in Ireland is emigration and colonization. All who can get away, whether by the expenditure of their own means, or through the assistance of friends, should emigrate as soon as possible. By reducing the population, the competition for the possession of land at ruinous rents would be to a great extent prevented, and those who remained could secure farms at reasonable rates. Emigration on a large scale would bring the land owners to their senses. When tenants are scarce, the natural tendency is toward lower rents. The only effective way to touch the feelings of the avaricious, who grind all they can out of the poor and helpless, is through their pockets. Reduce their income, and they will soon see the necessity of humanely treating the tenants who remain, by giving them land at rents which will enable them to live like Christians, and not like cattle. A NOVEL NOVELETTE, By Hill TSTye. days so that Harry could go over to Oshkosh and spend Christmas. I therefore wrote a letter to Harry in which he said he had, no doubt, been hasty, and he was sorry. It should not occur again. The days had been like weary ages since their quarrel, he said—vicariously of course—and the light had been shut out of his erstwhile joyous life. Death would be a luxury unless she forgave him, and Hades would be one long, sweet picnic and lawn festival unless she blessed him with her smile. You can judge how an old newspaper reporter, with a scarlet imagination, would naturally dash the color into another man’s picture of humility and woe. She replied—my proxy—that he was not to blame. It was her waspish temper and cruel thoughtlessness. She wished he would come over and take dinner with them on Christmas Day and she would tell him how sorry she was. When the man admits that he’s a brute and the woman says she’s sorry, it behooves the eagle eye of the casual spectator to look up into the blue sky for a quarter of an hour, till the reconciliation has had a chance and the brute has been given time to wipe a damp sob from his coat-collar. I was invited to the Christmas dinner. As a successful reversible amanuensis I thought I deserved it. I was proud and happy. I had passed through a lover’s quarrel and sailed in with white-winged peace on time, and now I reckoned that the second joint, with an irregular fragment of cranberry jelly, and some of the dressing, and a little of the white meat please, was nothing more than right. Mr. Bevans forgot to be bashful twice during the day, and even smiled once also. He began to get acquainted with Fanny after dinner, and praised her beautiful letters. She blushed clear up under her “wave,” and returned the compliment. That was natural. When he praised her letteis I did not wonder, and when she praised his I admitted that she was eminently correct. I never witnessed better taste on the part of two young and trusting hearts. , , After Christmas I thought they would both feel like buying a manual, and doing their own writing, but they did not dare to do so evidently. They seemed to be afraid the change would be detected, so I piloted them into the middle of the succeeding fall, and then introduced the crisis into both their lives. It was a success. , , I felt about as well as though I were to be cut down myself, and married off in the very prime of life. Fanny wore the usual clothing adopted oy young ladies who are about to be sacrificed to a great horrid man. I cannot give the exact description of her trousseau, but she looked like a hazeleyed angel, with a freckle on the bridge of her nose. The groom looked a little scared, and moved his gloved hands as though they weighed twenty-one pounds apiece. However, it’s all over now. I was up there recently to see them. They are quite happy. Not too happy, but just happy enough. They call their oldest son Birdie. I wanted them to call him William, but they were headstrong and named him Birdie. That wounded my pride, and so I call him Earlie Birdie. Josh Billings’ Philosophy. FUEL, One ov the very rarest things that men ever do, iz to do as well as they kan. The world is well supplied with phools. but the biggest one haint been born yet, and possibly never will be. Thare are but very few so great that they can all-wuss afford to be simple. A weak man who knows hiz weakness, iz a stronger man than the fitrong one who don’t know hiz power. Brevity iz a wonderphull power. I beleave it possible to express the same idea in 2 words with 10 times the power yu kan do it in 4, The eyes are but the windows ov the soul. We may have a very keen eye vision, and see but little after all. It iz so eazy to be happy, and kontented. when we are suckcessphull, that I wonder whi we ain’t all ov us successphull. Menny ov the grate pedigrees we have among us seem to hav sprung from sum suckcessphull blunder. made bi sumboddy’s ancesstor, about six hundred years ago, more or less. Angels are brite, and beautiful, in their place, but if they have not got muscle, and grit, earth iz no place for them. Thare iz no rule for buty, if thare waz, thare wouldn’t be more than a haff dozen butiful wimmin in the world. Az it iz now, thare iz millyuns ov them. A slave haz but one master, but he who iz a slave to himself haz a thousand. Mankind after all owe as mutch ov their success to their ambishun, and vanity, az to enny virtew ^hey possess. Ilua ywiiij lUIL, bl looking forward, the the other very short. S®eins very long, to I never hav known a person yet wffb lived to 'bo” one hundred and ten years, or more, and then died, to be remarkable for enny thing else. All phools may be helthy, but not necessarily happy. Praktis helps mutch, but all fust klass phiddlers are born so. The devil waz the author ov the fust excuse. The principal value in a foxes skin iz in the chasing ov it. for the sake ov the tail. The lazy allwuss admire the industrious, and intend, sumtime, to immitate them. Humor and pathos are twins, nestling side by side in the same kradle. Prosperity iz a grate flatterer—adversity flatters no man. No man ever gits so wicked but what he kan giv good advice. Thare iz no kind ov awkwardness so awkward az affektashun. It iz sum satisfackshun to know that noboddy but a loafer kan abuze us. I never wrote a novel, because I always thought it required more of a mashed-raspberry imagination than I could muster, but I was the business manager, once, for a year and a half, of a little two-bit novelette that has never been published. I now propose to publish it because I cannot keep it to myself any longer. Allow me, therefore, to reminisce. Harry Bevans was an old schoolmate of mine in the days of and although Bevans was not his sure enough name, it will answer for the purposes herein set forth. At the time of which I now speak he was more bashful than a book agent, and was trying to promote a cream-colored mustache, and buff “Donegals” on the side. Suffice it to say that he was madly in love with Fanny Buttonhook, and too bashful to say so by telephone. Her name wasn’t Buttonhook, but 1 will admit it for the sake of argument. Harry lived over at Kalamazoo, we will say, and Fanny at Oshkosh. These were not the exact names of tfc^e towns, but I desire to bewilder the public a little in order to avoid any harassing disclosures in the future. It is always well enough, I And, to deal geptly with those who are alive and moderately muscular. Young Bevans was not specially afraid of old man ^Buttonhook or his uouy ^ean dome, ini fact, except Miss Buttonhook; but when she sailed down the main street, Henry lowered his colors and dodged into the first place he found open, whether it was a millinery store or a livery-stable. Once, in an unguarded moment, he passed so near her that the gentle south wind caught up the cherry ribbon that Miss Buttonhook wore at her throat and slapped Mr. Bevans across the cheek with it before he knew what ailed him. There was a little vision of straw hat, brown hair, and pink-and-white cuticle, as it were, a delicate odor of violets, the “swish” of a summer silk, and my friend, Mr. Bevans, put his hand to his head, like a man who has a sun-stroke, and fell into a drug store and a state of wild mash, ruin, and helpless chaos. His bashfulness was not seated nor chronic. It was the varioloid, and didn’t hurt him only when Miss Buttonhook was present, or in sight. He was polite and chatty with other girls, and even dared to be blithe and gay sometimes, too, but when Frances loomed up in the distance, he would climb a rail fence nine feet high to evade her. He told me one day that he wished I would erect the frame-work of a letter to Fanny, in which he desired to ask that he might open up a correspondence with her. He would copy and mail it, he said, and he was sure that I. being a disinterested party, would be perfectly calm. I wrote a letter for him. of which I was moderately proud. It would melt the point on a lightning rod it seemed to me. for it was just as full of gentleness and poetic soothe, as it could be. and Tupper, Webster’s Dictionary, and my scrap-book had to give down first-rate. Still it was manly and square-toed. It was another man’s confession, and I made it bulge out with frankness and candor. As luck would have it, I went over to Oshkosh about the time Harry’s prize epistle reached that metropolis, and having been a confidant of Miss B.’s from early childhood, I had the pleasure of reading Bev’s letter, and advising the young lady about the correspondence. Finally a bright thought struck her. She went over to an easy-chair, and sat down on her foot, coolly proposing that I should outline a letter replying to Harry’s in a reserved and rather frigid manner. yet bidding him dare to hope that if his orthography and punctuation continued correct, he might write occasionally, though it must be considered entirely sub rosa and abnormally entre nous on account of “Pa.” By the way, “Pa” was a druggist, and one of the salts of the earth—Epsom salts, of course, I agreed to write the letter, swore never to reveal the secret workings of the order, the grips, explanations, passwords, and signals, and then wrote her a nice, demure, startled-fawn letter, as brief as the collar to a party dress, and as solemn as the Declarat ion of Independence. Then I said good-by, and returned to my own home, which was neither in Kalamazoo or Oshkosh. There I received a flat letter from William Henry Bevans, inclosing one from Fanny, and asking for suggest ions as to a reply. Her letter was in Miss Buttonhook’s best vein. I remembered having written it myself. Well, to cut a long story short, every other week I wrote a letter for Fanny, and on intervening weeks I wrote one for the lover at Kalamazoo. Bv keeping copies of all letters written, I had a record showing where I was. and avoided saying the same pleasant thing twice. Thus the short, sweet summer scooted past. The weeks were filled with gladness, and their memory even now comes back to me. like a wood - violet-scented vision. A wood-violet-scented vision comes high, but it is necessary in this place. Toward winter the correspondence grew a little tedious, owing to the fact that I had a large and tropical boil on the back of my neck, which refused to declare its intentions or come to a focus for three weeks. In looking over the letters of both lovers yesterday I could tell by the tone of each just where this boil began to grow up, as it were, between two fond hearts. This feeling grew till the middle of December, when there was a red-hot quarrel. It was exciting and spirited, and after I had alternately flattered myself first from Kalamazoo and then from Oshkosh, it was a genuine luxury to have a row with myself through the medium of the United States mails. Then I made un and got reconciled. I thought it would be best to secure harmony before the holi- One of Ned’s Best. A stirring story, by Ned Buntline, based on facts of recent occurrence, is almost ready for publication. One of the leading characters is a brave, but rash and impulsive boy, who thoughtlessly drifts under the evil influence of bad companions. The scenes picturing the lad’s remorse, on realizing the enormity of his conduct, are portrayed with masterly vigor and impressive effect. Every boy must derive enduring benefit from the perusal of this powerful story. For this reason alone, aside from the deep interest of the narrative to old and young, it must receive the enthusiastic commendation of parents and guardians. It is penned in the author’s unique and pleasing style, and is really one of ned’s best. Etiquette Department. S. R. O., Baltimore, Md.—It is customary for the gentle > man who is the head of the household, in the ordinary family circle, to sit at the side of the table, in the center, having plates at his right hand, with food near by. When all the family are seated, and all in readiness, he will serve the guests who may be present; he will next serve the eldest lady of the household, then the ladies and gentlemen as they come in order. The hostess will sit opposite her husband, and preside over the tea, sauces, etc. Anxious Inquirer.—1st. A gentlerifan should not be offended if a lady that has declined an invitation from him is seen dancing with another. Possibly she did not despise the one, but she preferred the other; or she may have simply redeemed a forgotten promise. 2d. Special evidences of partiality should, however, as much as possible be avoided at places where all should be courteous to each other. Miss A., New York.—You are not obliged to invite your escort to enter the house when he accompanies you home, and if invited he should decline the invitation. But he should request permission to call the next day or evening, which will be true politeness. Ethel.—1st. Ushers at a wedding are usually selected from the near relatives and friends of both bride and groom, and are usually young men in society. 2d. Their duty is to wait upon the guests into the church, and assign them their places. E. A. B., Boston, Mass.—1st. It is not in good form, when narrating an incident, to continually say, “you see,” “you know,” etc. 2d. Do not try to force yourself into the confidence of others. If they give their confidence never betray it. Emily M. S.—1st. Any house-furnishing store can supply cake molds, and any cook-book directions for icing. 2d. It is best to sign your own name, as well as a ficticious one, when writing to the correspondence column. Violet.—If the gentleman has asked you to consider rourself engaged to him you should have requested him }o consult your parents before you were in any way pledged. E. E. #.—Excepting the first set, it is not etiquette for married people to dance together at either a public or private ball. L. L. W.—A gentleman should not insist upon a lady continuing to dance, when she has expressed a desire fo sit down. W. C. I.—A. lady who undertakes the duties of a housekeeper but lives with the family, not with the servants of the house. The crazed woman entered the groggery, leaving the ax at the door. A few loafers sat around, evj- the glory of God. Heaven knows what wickedness the ax at the door. A few loafers sat around, evj-there may be in eating; what Quarrels have begun dently waiting for another drink before they would Mrs. Wray burn raised her Ituere ..—„ —_________________ _________ _______„ — over the breakfast-table that have embittered many days. And Heaven knows how men have sat down , UUUbiy waiving 1UL €bllV«LL I stagger to their homes. I hand and exclaimed; THE NEW YORI WEEKLY. NOTHING. BY GATH BRITTLE. Before there was a sign of Earth, Of Sun, or Moon, or Star, a trace— Yea, long ere Time himself had birth, I filled the boundless realms of space. If you would seek to learn my name, Straightway to modest Wisdom go; He’ll say that long before you came ’Twas all that he could ever know. But fools, who, puffed with windy pride, Where’er they dwell, know only me. Claim knowledge of all else beside, Above, below, in earth, in sea. Although I am deformed as Vice, I am as Virtue just as fair; I am of honest men the price, And I, alone, can truth impair. By every hero I am feared; The coward braves me everywhere; By the proud atheist I am revered ; For me the saint will falsely swear. The Eastern despot, who, ’tis said, Takes any word of protest ill, I can myself with ease persuade To act against his sovereign will. The miser wastes me every day, While o’er a penny’s loss he weeps; And yet I am, most strange to sajr, The only thing the spendthrift keeps. Heard by the deaf, seen by the blind, I give the troubled conscience rest; I’m scorned by every humble mind, While pride and greed with me are blessed. ’Tis only Wisdom who can tell The only name that I can bear; The fool, who knows me very well, To own acquaintance would not dare. EVELYN RODNY OR, The Irish Refugees By GEORGE HENRY QUINN [•‘Evelyn Rodny” was commenced in No. 34. numbers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.] Back CHAPTER VI. “WHAT MEAN YOU, WOMAN?” "What would you. Sir Highwayman?” cried Mrs. Redmond, in stern, unwavering tones, as the carriage door was opened by the burly masked figure that already stood peering in upon them. “What would you ? The knights of the road, in other days, were wont to be more chivalrous when they chanced to encounter defenseless females. But chivalry and honor are words, it would seem, which Sir Peter Ormsby’s na.ture has not allowed him to comprehend.” “Madam,” responded the intruder, with mock politeness, and in a feigned voice, “it grieves me that the necessities of my position should compel me to inconvenience you even for a short time, and my regret is the more profound from the fact that I am deeply sensible of the high honor you do me in giving me credit for a resemblance, supposed or otherwise, to one of the chief magnates of your beautiful county.” "The disguise with which Sir Peter Ormsby tones his voice, and that behind which he hides his face are alike unavailing in this instance,” returned the widow, scornfully. “But it is pleasant to learn that he has become at once more cautious and more generous with his added years of experience, inasmuch as he now seems to recognize the fact that the mask,while giving to himself more security from detection, is far less hideous to his victims than is the countenance it covers.” “What mean you, woman ?” Sir Peter exclaimed, in his own now trembling, but no longer disguised voice. “I thought my words were plain,” she replied, calmly; “I will repeat, however, that by hiding his murderous countenance on occasions like the But enough of this. Will you have goodness to let us resume our journey? Or will you first require us to deposit our jewels with you?” “No. madam, you mistake us entirely. Y'our blundering coachman was driving you in a wrong direction, and we have only knocked him on the head for his stupidity.” “Oh, that is all! The life of a coachman is apparently of little value in the estimation of Sir Peter Ormsby; the law may, however, judge differently. But as you have kindly relieved us of our stupid driver’s presence will you now have the goodness to go your way, and permit us to continue our journey ?” “I will not only permit, but aid you to do so, though not exactly in the same direction in which your stupid servant was driving you.” And calling to some one in the darkness behind him to mount the box and drive on, he impudently sprang into the coach and seated himself beside Evelyn. to follow him. This Evelyn would have positively declined to do but that a warm pressure from the hand of her stern friend urged her forward ; and, then, trusting to that friend’s superior judgment, she followed passively and in silence. The rain was still falling in torrents, but they were not long exposed to it, for, almost immediately after reaching the questionable shelter of the old hovel to which Sir Peter had led them, they were hurried unceremoniously into a close carriage, much larger and heavier than their own, Ormsby only condescending to answer their indignant demands as to the meaning of this transfer by saying, in his harshest tones, that they would learn in a very short time, and that, so long as they should remain quiet and passive, no harm should befall them. With this assurance, they had to content themselves, and now, cut off from every ray of light by the close-drawn blinds of the carriage windows, they were driven away they knew not whither. Three hours later the vehicle again drew up. and the door having been thrown open, they were compelled to alight, this time in total darkness. Judging from the close, hollow echoes which were given back to the sound of their footsteps, they believed themselves to be in a narrow, vaulted court of masonry, and this opinion was speedily confirmed by the baronet’s words. “Be sure, Tom,” be said, "to close and lock the doors of the court after you have passed out. Now be off at once I” “All right,” replied the other; and the coach began slowly to recede from their vicinity. "Come, ladies,” said Sir Peter’s voice, "follow me.” “It is impossible to do so in this worse than Egyptian darkness.” replied Mrs. Redmond. "Here, then,” he responded, “take my hand, and I will guide you.” "Heaven and its Divine Master forbid!” she ejaculated, in a horrified voice, and starting back from him with a shudder. “Miss Rodny may not be so timid. You will take my hand. Miss Rodny, that I may conduct you in safety to the apartments in which, for a day or two, you are to be detained.” "No, never! Heaven forbid that I should be compelled to touch the hand of a treacherous and cowardly assassin,” was the loud, haughty reply, whose tones, with many an echoing voice, rang through the vaulted passage. "Assassin! Who is an assassin? What mean you ?” demanded the gtiilty wretch, in a hoarse, frightened whisper. “Surely the treacherous murderer of Robert Gormlay deserves the title which has just been applied to him.” Mrs. Redmond hastened to rejoin, at the same time placing her hand repressingly upon Evelyn’s arm. “Ha. ha. ha!” laughed Sir Peter, in a reassured voice, “those who cause the death of traitors are not accounted assassins by our just and enlightened code of laws; and no one, unless it be the hangman, has a right to complain of the premature execution of an outlaw. But we cannot stand here all night, and since you’ll not take my hand, you may take the chances of a fall, in following me through the unlighted passages we have to traverse. Come!” And without another word he led the way through a narrow door in the wall of masonry. This door, whose oiled and noiseless hinges were evidently goverened by a powerful spring, was so very slow in closing after Evelyn, who was behind, that she was deeply impressed by the fact, and was almost persuaded to believe from it that some one was closely, yet silently, following her footsteps. As soon as the loud click of the self-adjusting lock announced the shutting of the door, our unfortunates became conscious, owing to the greater closeness and oppressiveness of the atmosphere, and to the seemingly denser gloom, that they were threading a narrow, subterranean passage, and an overpowering fear, that this was to be their tomb, swept into their hearts. Along this, and several other equally dark avenues, connected by doors, they followed the guiding sound of the baronet’s footsteps, till at length he paused, saying: “Here is a spiral stairway which, if you prize your necks, you will exercise some caution in mounting,” and then they heard him begin the ascent. Up, up they climbed, seven long flights, pausing an instant on each of their several landings to gather breath, and then, struggling through a very narrow aperture in the wall, they found themselves in what seemed a roomy chamber. "We have but little farther to go,” Sir Peter now said, "and when you shall have recovered your breath, we will proceed.” "We are ready; lead on,” was the answer. “Come, then.” And, walking heavily on the carpeted floor, that they might be able to follow him by means of the sound thus produced, he moved forward through what to them appeared to be several other similar apartments, turning many times at sharp angles, and retracing, they were almost certain, some portion. at least, of the ground they had traversed since entering the little door at the head of the last flight of stairs. At last the sound of their conductor’s footsteps abruptly ceased, and, a moment after, they heard him strike a match on the wall,and saw him lights larere lamp which stood o« not xm^vHnfortably furnished ^chamber in which they found themselves. ) "Miss Rodny will find books in one of the (suit of apartments assigned to her,” he said, touching his lighted match to the wick of a small lamp which he retained in his hand; “and I trust that she will do me the favor to make herself perfectly happy while she remains here.” me to visit the chamber in which thel trunk, taken from the carriage after that nighmoXAev-ing to decay. On openingthe box rnd accidentally came in contact with a hi spring, which, opening a small aperture, discla secret receptacle at the bottom. In this Kplace I found a number of letters which were portant, save as a proof of the affection that exDetween my late cousin and his pretty wifi among these letters there was a miniature uss of a lady bearing such a striking resemblto Miss Evelyn Rodny, that, in my first astment, I fancied that that young lady must haHor it to be taken; and to lend a greater color oi to this untenable view, the name ‘Evelyn.’ int, ladylike hand, was written at the bottom may not be necessary to add that I would nerobably have remembered that Old Rodney, iilast will and testament, had made me the gun of the interesting owner of Vale Cottage, h;aot been for the discovery of her exact likene my deceased cousin’s trunk. Now, what tyou. Is she the daughter of Sir Roderic and Limsby?” At mention of the miniature, and itsnblance to Evelyn Rodny. Carson had again fd. and a strange light had suddenly dawned i eyes—a light which, overspreading his coiunce, expressed both recognition and that kinstonish-ment which one displays at makingeat discovery that he feels he ought to havea before. The baronet, unwatchful, because spicious that his confederate was dealing douad not, however, observed these charges, anerefore, he had no thought but that Carson’s i delivered in a calm voice, was as truthful ass unhesitating and straightforward. “It is a difficult question to answhe said. “We know nothing of the history, fa connections, or even of the birthplace of tliy whom Sir Roderick married. She may havi a sister or a brother who might have been father or the mother of Evelyn Rodny. If soould account for the respmblance. Who w:. Rodny, and who was his wife?” “Clearly nothing to my lamented c<’s lady,” returned Ormsby, with a sneer. "Yiust try again, Tom,” he continued, flippan‘that hypothesis won’t work; for if either of tlhad been related to the late Lady Evelyn Ormsley themselves would have known it. and. thaly did not have even the most remote idea of sudiing, is, I think, abundantly evidenced by the that they never spoke of it either to me or to one else through whom it could come to me; lave been deprived of your usual rest, Tom. Wlyou shall have had a good sleep, I will expect a 'er judgment from you. Good-morning.” “Good-morning,” the other respoi, and at once left the apartment. “Curse that Redmond!” muttered baronet, when he was alone. “Her dark insinms have disturbed me more than I am willio admit, even to myself. How did she become constant attendant and devoted friend of this gho bears such a singular likeness to the pictuiher who sleeps in the church-yard on the ban kite Loire? I fear I am sleeping on a loaded mine Then, after extinguishing the lighte passed into an adjoining chamber, which was sleeping apartment, and retired to partake ofch rest as the wicked may enjoy. I do not approve,” he then added, “of Miss Rodny being allowed to travel at so late an hour without a proper escort, and though it may put me to some inconvenience, I shall constitute myself her protector for the present.” “I would have felt much more grateful to Sir Peter Ormsby if he had left us to ourselves,” Evelyn rejoined, for the first time breaking silence since the advent of her enemy. “Ha!” she added, “the coach is turning. Where are you taking us, sir?” “To a place of safety,” he sneered. “This lonely road, on such stormy nights as the present, is filled with dangers, and, as your guardian, it is my duty to secure you from them.” “Any road over which Sir Peter Ormsby is permitted to travel becomes dangerous,” interposed Mrs. Redmond, with quiet scorn, “and had we known that he was abroad to-night, we would have taken care to remain within reach of honest people.” “Had you remained, as you both should have done, within your own doors, you would have saved yourselves much trouble, and me great inconvenience.” “What have you done with James, our coachman ? Surely you have not murdered him!” Evelyn exclaimed, in a tremulous voice, a vague dread that the man had really been slain now taking possession of her. “Oh, no,” the baronet answered, ironically. “Your coachman is only taking a nap under the hedge where, in his sleepy stupidity, he threw himself a moment after we came up.” In stating that the coachman had not been murdered, the baronet spoke the truth much less by intention than by chance; for he knew that his confederate, Tom Carson, after knocking the poor fellow from the box. had leaped from the horse on which he was mounted and struck the already senseless man two or three severe blows any of which would have broken an ordinary skull, with a loaded riding-whip. These blows, though delivered with all the vil-j strength, had. however, failed to produce death; and. when the brutality of the assailant’s nature had been sufficiently fed. he dragged the inanimate body to the cover of a neighboring hedge, and left it there to feed the crows or to recover as the case might be. But James, as we have intimated, while rejoicing in the possession of a passibly keen wit. was not by any means without a strong cover to it, and therefore, with the cold rain beating in his face, he was not long in so far recovering from the effects of the ill-treatment he had received as to regain some portion, at least, of his consciousness, and with it a very distinct, not to say painful, memory of the attack. But where was the carriage, with Miss Evelyn and Mrs. Redmond? He did not know. But the question must be answered, and that, too, without a moment s unnecessary delay. The indignation which coursed through the veins of our heroine and her companion at the outrage perpetrated upon them by Sir Peter Ormsby had swept almost every thought of fear from their bosoms. They were certain, from the constant jolting and swaying to and fro of the coach, that they were no longer on the highway; but whether they were pursuing some by-road or traversing the fields the excessive darkness prevented them from discovering, an? their anxiety was fast becoming intolerable, when, after the lp,pse of about three-quarters of an hour the vehicle was suddenly drawn up and stopped before what appeared to be a dilapidated shed or hovel, standing alone on a desolate moor. Here, when Tom Carson had opened the door, the baronet alighted, and then commanded them < And then, passing through a massive oaken door, which he carefully locked behind him, he bent his steps along a hall that, covered with pendant cob-webs and the accumulated dust of years, presented a most forlorn and gloomy aspect. On gaining the farther extremity of this corridor, he turned a sharp angle into a narrow hall which led to the left, and which he followed almost to its termination at the side wall of the tower; then he entered through a heavy door, an apartment similar to the one in which he had left our heroine and her companion, save that the carpet, the tapestry, everything that this contained was deeply shrouded with the evidence of long and uninterrupted disuse and neglect. From this chamber he passed into another which, elegantly furnished, and lighted by a large chandelier, presented a cheering contnist to the melancholy decay and gloom through which he had just come. CHAPTER VII. LOSS OF FAITH. The cleft into which Gormlay had sodenly descended at the moment in which tldvancing policemen had discharged their carbiipresented to the eye of the casual observer the aarance of being only a small gap or notch in theged brow or edge of the cliff; but trusting imply to the assurances of Con Redmond, the yotman had boldly swung himself over the verge, mot without considerable difficulty and much ger to his life, had succeeded in effecting a safeding on a narrow shelf that protruded from thee of the precipice. Here he paused, and became an ative and amused listener to Con’s well-acted if; and it was only when he heard the policei tell his young friend to “be off, and stop bm’ there,” that he began to grope about in thedaBss for an avenue by which to essay a descent the surf-swept beach, two hundred yards below He soon discovered, at a point a litbelow his present level, a fissure which appearectend horizontally into the very bowels of the moain. Into this, after a careful examination, he penned, pursuing its gradually descending, countill, at a distance of some forty yards from theiranco, he came upon an abrupt turn, immeduy beyond which the rift descended almost verjdicularly, and down which he had to dim laating his hands and knees on the jagged fdnff rock to which he was compelled to cling. HP Any reached the bottom, and fell fainting amon£ thyet, slimy rocks. But Gormlay possessed a will of i on, id though the fearful ordeal through which hehadist passed had taxed his energies to their utuosbxtent, he soon succeeded in strugglingto hisFeetnnd then, shaking off the numbness that waslghi\g for the mastery over his faculties, conuencid to look about him for a passage by jWhiclLt£er t he little cove where ne believed the Cfount D ir’s boat to be awaiting him. t At last he stood, to his waist in on the verge of the little indentation, amif*^ adows of which he hoped the rescuing boaPy concealed, and, calling, in a guarded voice, at i the French language, "Armand, are you the ^received an instantaneous answer in the affiiMve, and, in the same moment, a boat shot out jm under the overhanging rocks and darted swly toward the spot, and in a few moments our^ro was lifted into it. After greetings had passed byeen the two friends, Robert detailed at length b story of his escape, which, it being already knot to the reader, need not be repeated. Meanwhile the boat, propelled l! strong arms, was rapidly nearing the count’ gallant little schooner, which lay idly rocking un the billows at a distance of some two miles frothe headland, and as Gormlay completed the talef his perilous adventures, the vessel’s side was ached. A few Placing his little hand-lamp on the mantel, he threw himself into a huge, cushioned arm-chair, and said, aloud: “Well, whoever she be. I’ve caged her at last, and neatly. The stupid coachman, if he ever recover, will not be able to tell who attacked him, and even if he should have a faint suspicion of our identity, he will only get laughed at if he give it breath. So we are in no danger from him; while the young lady’s coach, having been driven several miles in a direction almost diametrically opposite to this, will afford no clew. It will be found at the old hovel today by some bog-trotter whose astonishment will be so profound that he will run bare-headed through the county alarming everybody, and then, perhaps, remembring the famished horses, he will return to loose them from the ownerless vehicle. The rain, which is again descending in torrents, will obliterate all trace of our carriage after the transfer, and the old hovel on the moor will gain another ghost or two, that’s all. With Robert Gormlay and his father both dead, and that imp Con Redmond hunted through the country, that he may be given a free ticket to the antipodes. I think I may again consider myself perfectly safe. This cursed Redmond, though, bothers me more than anything else. What shall I do with her ? Her dark hints, and the peculiar tone in which she uttered them, nave given me an uneasiness that I have not felt before in many years. Does she know anything of the past ? Bah! it is impossible!” this point in his meditations he was interrup-ed by a low rap sounding upon one of the panels of the oaken wainscoting with which the walls were lined. Rising, he went to that part of the wall from behind which the noise had proceeded, and. after touching a hidden spring, swung back one of the panels, disclosing a secret entrance to the room. “Well, Tom,” he said, as Carson stepped through the opening into the apartment; “have you returned the horses to the stable? And is there no danger of some one of those inquisitive grooms discovering that the tired animals have not been in their stalls all night ?” “I have not only returned them to the stable, but have carefully groomed them with mv owh hands. And as regards your second question. I may safely say that there is not a shadow of danger, for I took good care, before setting out last night, to see that every stableman at Ormsby was stupidly drunk.” A decantor of the stimulating liquid was placed upon the table, and when each of the villains had tossed off a liberal quantity from it, the baronet again spoke: “In your brother’s letters, written you from France, was mention ever made of the expected birth of a child ?” This question produced a sudden and marked change in the countenance of Ormsby’s confederate. But, though the man started visibly, his face blanching to the leaden pallor of a corpse, the baronet attributed the emotion to another than its real cause; and Carson’s answer, delivered in a firm voice and with a steady eye. was well calculated to confirm his employer in this opinion—that there was nothing being concealed from him. “No ” he said; “my brother’s letters gave me no hint of such an expectation. The two communications with which he favored me subsequent to your cousin’s marriage, simply stated, in their allusion to Sir Roderick and his lady, that both were well.’ ‘But why have you conceived this sudden idea that Sir Roderick Ormsby left an h<4r?” I 1 ell you,” the baronet said, after a consid- erable pause. “A few days ago something impelled minutes after and the little craft, nder the pressure of a freshening breeze, was fljig swiftly away through the gloom of the impendiistorm. On reaching the deck of the i-cht, Count D’ Honfleur, after giving the necessa orders to get under way, had conducted our hero the elegantly furnished cabin, where, aided I an intelligent and active valet, the young man is speedily divested of his ragged, wet, and mudbiled garments, his wounds dressed, and himself abited in a suit belonging to his entertainer, wl we may here state, was an old fellow-student wi Gormlay at a Paris university. “Your goodness has forgotteqnothing which could add to my comfort,” said Gen lay. As soon as he was alone, Gorlay took up his pocket-book—it having been remepd from his wet garments on his entering the menced to search for Evelyn’s lej ibin—and com- ------------------ „ iVf3r, which, it will be remembered, he had placed f re, after receiving it from Con Redmond on the iffs. “Ah, here it is, and unharmed claimed, as he drew it forth from he joyfully ex- 10 innermost re- cess of the pocket-book, where, yapped round and round with many thicknesses of lat her, it had, fortunately, or unfortunately, rat hi, escaped all injury from the water. “Unharmed how fortunate that I deposited it in a place so swure I” On removing it from tbe reoqitacle in which it had lain, a smaller sheet beside it disturbed by his hand, fluttered, with a slight, rustling sound, to the floor. The noice attracted his attention, and, stooping, he picked the paper up, and was not a little surprised to find in it his own acte of the day previous, to her whom he believed to be the author of the letter he was about to open. “This is strange!” he muttered, with a shiver of undefined fear, and turning many shades paler, as with unsteady fingers, he tore the envelope from the precious document which we have seen our heroine write at the dictation olSir Peter Ormsby. Whiter grew his face, and older his heart, as rapidly glancing along the neitly written lines he gathered in the whole fullnes of their flippant, hollow-hearted meaning. Theglad light that had beamed from his eyes when contemplating the superscription, turned to a dmgerous, glistering fire as he read the postscript. The anxious, trembling Angers with which he hid taken it up, now laid it back upon the table witi that cold precision which belongs to nerves of seel, and in a single minute, that warm, confldiig, generous-hearted man was transformed into a hardened, icy block of cynicism. “Oh, woman! woman!” he exclaimed, in a low, stony voice, while his lips curled themselves into an expression of the bitterest contempt. “Woman, false-hearted as you are! empty-souled, and more crooked than the unshapely bone from which you were fashioned! the devil irdeed knew you well when he singled you out as the vehicle of man’s destruction! Till now, I have laughed at the cold cynic who wrote that 'your vows are writ in sand,’ but ’tis plain he knew you better than I, and better would it have been for me if I had given a more credulous ear to his warning.” He paused, and, bowing his head upon his hands, remained buried in profound thought for many minutes. The rain was pattering heavily upon the sky-light windows, but he heard it not, and the little vessel that, flying with many a dangerous roll before the northern gale, bore him on, was totally forgotten in the agony of a woe which swallowed up everything but the memory of itself. At length, arising slowly to his feet, a laugh, whose every breath seemed a separate needle-point issuing from his white, scarcely parted lips, he exclaimed: “And I have loved this pretty thing—this animated oiece of mechanism, which, in my blind stupidity, L thought was human. And—ha, ha!—it seems I am still a fool, to suffer thus at loss of a bauble, ’pon which half sense wxould not bestow a thought.” Once more he paused, and, nothwithstnnding the ' heavy lurching of the vessel, walked, with a firm step, and in frozen calmness, several times fore and aft the cabin floor. “And Con Redmond, why did he not betray me. ; grasp the wealth that the British government had offered for my head, and destroy forever the last lingering memory of my former faith in human honesty ? , But his meditations were cut short by the entrance of Count D’Honfleur who, as he gained the foot of the stairs, exclaimed: “What are you still doing here? Brooding over the past, instead of preparing yourself, by much-needed rest, for the duties and enjoyments of the future. Come, go to sleep at once, or you will kill yourself; and I cannot permit my friend to thus deprive me of himself.” | “It would have been impossible for me to sleep, even if I had retired.” Gormlay answered; and then, lifting Evelyn’s letter, which still lay open on the table, he handed it to the count, adding: "Read there the evidence of a perfidy than which anything you have ever heard or dreamed of heartless selfishness cannot but be far less complete I” “Ah! the faithlessness of some supposed friend in whom, ignorant of his real character, you trusted,” the count responded, in a light tone of voice, and taking the letter from the refugee’s extended hand. Instantly, and with a visible start, his keen, dark eyes became riveted to the page; line after line, and sentence after sentence transferred themselves to his mind, till, at last, the end was reached, and his astonishment was complete. "Well, what, is your opinion ?” calmly asked our hero, as the count laid the letter on the table. “I don’t know,” returned the other; "I must have time to reflect.” “The words are very plain, and I think much time should not be needed to comprehend them.” “You profound men often think wrongly; by dropping your hooks to the bottom you catch the mud only, and not the fish,” was the Frenchman’s quiet rejoinder, as, with a shrug of the shoulder, he threw' himself on the cushioned transom, and turned his face resolutely from the light. Perhaps fifteen minutes had elapsed when he started up, exclaiming: “I would as soon believe myself a cheat, or what is worse, and therefore impossible, believe my own unparalleled Cecilie unfaithful! No, no, it is a dream, a forgery, a trick of legerdemain, with which we have been deceiving ourselves!” Gormlay only replied by pointing to the letter. “Yes. yes,” cried D’Honfleur, impatiently, “I see it; but ink and paper can lie. while the soul that is visible fn the eyes of Mlle. Evelyn is incapabie of falsehood ?” “I deceived myself with that opinion once---” “And you will only be undeceived when you return to it,” interrupted the count. At this momenta loud noise, as of rushing feet on the deck, attracted their attention, and D’Honfleur said, hurriedly: "The unusual sounds we hear from the deck are most likely due to some unimportant cause. Be so good as to excuse me, and remain below, while I ascertain what it is.” In his haste, as he sprang up the companionway, and out upon the deck, he failed to properly close the cabin hatch, and, an instant after he had disappeared, a loud, hoarse English voice penetrated to Gormlay’s ears. In the fog they had nearly run into another vessel, which proved to be her majesty’s cutter Dauphin, Lieutenant Hodges commanding, who had been ordered to lay off the coast, with orders to search all suspicious craft for escaping rebels. After the signal had been responded to, the British officer signified his intention of sending a boat to the yacht, to examine the papers, and go through the formality of a search. “I have nothing to do with your British rebels,” prevaricated D’Honfluer, "and I shall submit to the search only under protest.” Then turning, he exclaimed, in alow voice, and in the French language: “Go, Jaques, find the strange gentleman, and give him your wet garments. Arm yourselves, every man; and remember, all of you, that the stranger is one of the crew! Do not forget that there are now seventeen of you!” Meanwhile Gormlay, having left the cabin on hearing the first words of the Englishman, had been a quiet listener to all that had passed. Jaques, therefore, encountered him sooner than he had expected, and, divesting himself of his water-proof coat and glazed hat, presented them to the young man. Gormlay, rapidly donning the India-rubber suit, was about to turn away with the intention of rejoining the count, who was now standing in the vessel’s waist, when Jaques detained him, saying, this time in his own language: “Monsieur will pardon me, but perhaps ho has papers that should be hidden or destroyed, before the Englishmen arrive.” “Ah, thanks,” returned our hero; “you have, by your timely warning, prevented me from committing a great error.” _ , , And proceeding into the cabin.Aie took up Evelyn S letter, and placed it together with every other scrap of p*aper he possessed in the pocket-book from which they had some time earlier been removed, and openingthe cabin window, dropped all, silently, into the sea. ‘There was a time.” he muttered, bitterly, "when, to save any scrap of paper she had thought good enough to write upon, I would have periled my existence ; but that time is past forever.” And springing up the stairs, he reached the gangway in time to mingle with the men, as the British officer, and all but one of his boat’s crew, leaped on board the yacht. The count, feeling that protestations would only have the effect of arousing suspicions which would add to the probabilities of his friend’s discovery, remained haughtily silent, and so the search began without opposition. The vessel’s papers were first carefully inspected; the cabins, state-rooms, forecastle, hold, the very top-hamper—anywhere that a man, even of Lilipu-tian proportions, could have been concealed, was then searched with the utmost rigor; next and last came a keen scrutiny of the vessel’s crew, and the morning, having fully dawned, Count D’Honfleur trembled at thought of the increased probability of his passenger’s discovery and capture: but how much greater and more painful would have been , his misgivings if he had known that the commander of the searching party was a young officer who, though having no sneaking acquaintance with Gormlay, had frequently met him in Dublin, and had a thorough knowledge of his personal ap-> pearance. This fact Gormlay himself had long since dis-, covered, but from his calm exterior, no one would have suspected the anxiety that reigned within. Chatting vivaciously with the owner of the disguising st it in which he was habited, it must indeed have been a keen eye that could have detected the cheat and discovered that the ready jokes which issued from his lips were cracked across the rough edges of a broken heart; and when the young officer at length stood before him, he smilingly said, in (he almost inimitable patois of Brittany: “Monsieur will find in me a Breton who is not British.” „ . "Ah!” exclaimed the officer, gazing fixedly into eyes as unwavering as his own; "I think I have met you before, and not in Brittany either.” “Will monsieur be so good as to tell me, in a language which I shall be able to comprehend, if he likes my personnel/T coolly quizzed the pretended Breton. “The calmness which you so well assume does not deceive me, Robert Gormlay, I arrest you in the queen’s name!” was the officer’s stern reply. “Ha! the breeze freshens!” at this instant ex-’ claimed the count. “To the halliards, boys! Haul aft the fore-sheet! Ease away the main! Hard-up : your helm! So—there! she pays off handsomely!” “Stand to your arms, men!” roared the British officer to his crew. “Sir Count, your life shall pay ’ for this treachery on the spot!” And as the cutlasses of his men flashed from their scabbards, he leveled his pistol at the brave Frenchman’s head. (TO BE CONTINUED./ without his hat to fetch the parcel, which he had left in charge of a friend. “Come along!” said he to the unsuspecting clerk. “Mr.------is at liberty, and will see you immediately,” at the same time taking the case of jewels from the other in the most natural manner possible, and preceding him bareheaded, with all the confidence of an inmate of the house, toward the principal’s office. At the threshold of that apartment he paused, politely holding the door open for the clerk to enter first, at the same time introducing him by name. The instant the misguided man had passed him, our friend turned, slipped out at the house door, which opened into a side street, and vanished, diamonds and all. THE MALTESE CROSS A SHREWD DODGE. A short time ago a respectably dressed young man called upon a well-known firm of jewelers in London and requested to see the principal on business. Shown into the private office, he stated that he had a valuable necklace of diamonds, the worth of which he wished to have assessed, with a view to disposing of it, if he could obtain a fair price. The jeweler was willing to entertain the negotiation; and the applicant departed, promising to return with the specified articles for examination an hour later. He immediately proceeded to a diamond merchant in Regent street, where he represented him-sels as being in the employ of Messrs. So-and-So— the firm whose premises he had just quitted—saying they wished to purchase a necklace of stones of a certain value, and requesting that samples might be sent at once—no unusual or suspicious order, but an affair which might occur any day in the ordinary course of trade. Some necklaces of brilliants were selected and placed in a case; and the supposed messenger, with a confidential clerk in charge of the diamonds, took a cab, and were driven forthwith to the Strand. “Wait a moment,” said the swindler, who got out first; “I’ll just see if the governor is disengaged,” and went in, leaving the clerk and the diamonds in the vehicle. The governor was disengaged, and consented to a private interview and consideration of the diamonds at once, the young man returning to the cab j OR, THE DETECTIVE’S QUEST TALE OF BRAVE DEEDS AND STARTLING PERILS. By EUGENE T. SA WYER. [“The Maltese Cross” was commenced in No. 33. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XI. IN T H e TOILS. Emily Somers rapidly recovered her health, if she did not regain her former elasticity of spirits. The light had gone out of her life, but not all of its purposes. One object now animated her, and caused her to look forward with pleasure almost to th^ time when she might exert all her efforts towtfrd the vindication of her dead lover’s memory. She was a brave girl, as well as a beautiful one. Nature had been lavish with her favors, and besides giving her a handsome face, a strong constitution, and a figure of matchless symmetry, had endowed her with rare intellectuality. The anonymous note she regarded as but an artful device of Hugh Chester, intended to mislead her and induce her to remain in a state of abeyance. If so, it failed in its object. Being in the dark as to the movements and plans of her unknown friends, she was determined to make certain investigations herself before asking for the aid of others. As soon as she was able to walk out of doors. Rhe announced her intention of taking a ride in the Mrs. Chambers endeavored to dissuade her, to no purpose. Her mind was quite made up on the point, and arguments and expostulations were unheeded. "But.” persisted the widow, who was a comely little body, of a cheery disposition and real motherly ways, although she was childless, “you know the roads are not safe. What if”—with a shiver—“what if you should meet a highwayman!” "The roads are quite safe now; and, besides, I shall be prepared, answered Emily, calmly, “for you know I can shoot as well as a man.” "Yes, yes; but you don’t want to shoot anybody. “No, unless------” , 4 There was a peculiar gleam in her dark orbs, but she did not finish the sentence. Mrs. Chambers gave up the attempt, after declaring that she should accompany her. . , Emily willingly assented to this proposition, and thev started the very next day. Bill Acker was under the window of the livingroom on the very evening of Chester’s arrival in Tularcitos, and gained some startling information. The window was partially raised, as the evenings were quite warm and pleasant, and the shrubbery beneath offered an excellent place of concealment. The ladies were discussing the preliminaries connected with their cont emplated journey. "I have not yet told you, Mrs. Chambers, said Emily, when everything had been mapped out, "why I desire to go into the hills.” "I have not asked you, my dear. I supposed you had some good reason for it, and that tbe matter must have concerned you alone, or you would have confided in me.” “It has been my intention all the time to tell you, for you are now the dearest friend I have in the world.” , . . She sighed, and the widow regarded her compas-sionately. She continued: “I wish to go to the spot where the body was found.” , , "Goodness gracious! what on earth do you want to go there for?” "To look for evidence,” was the grave reply. "But the place has been looked over, and it is not likely that you can find anything. I don’t like the idea one particle!” and the little widow fidgeted in her seat. "You need not go, then.” was the quiet response. “Yes, I will go!” and she arose excitedly. "You know you can’t keep me back, for I won’t allow you to run any risk. Dear me, how unfortunate it is!” Emily looked at her inquiringly. "What is unfortunate?’’ "That I can’t shoot a pistol.” Emily Somers smiled—the first time for months. “I don’t think we shall have occasion for any pistol-shooting; uso don’t borrow any trouble, please.” They conversed longer, but Acker had heard enough. His eyes were rolling wildly and his legs were unsteady, as he found his way out of the yard. “What if they should find ii?” he gasped. What to do was the question that next confronted him. "I have it!” he muttered, after thinking over the matter for some time. "It’s got to be done anyhow, and one time is as good as another. Chester wants the girl abducted, and he has only kept back on account of her sickness. Now she’s well, he’ll want the job done, and if he was here I’d get the order. I’ll chance it, for I haven’t time to get word to him. I will just have time to see Malt and his paid and fix things up in shape. Aha, missy!” he chuckled, "you’re a good one, and you mean business, but you won’t make the riffle this trip—not if /know it.” He went to the stable, had his horse saddled, and soon was galloping eastward toward the hills of the Coast Range. A few miles out, he turned to the south and took a trail that led to the sources of the Arroyo San Ysabel. The morning that saw Emily Somers and Mrs. Chambers leave San Christano for the eastern hills was a delightful one, and the ride along the valley was keenly enjoyed, at least, by one of them. A few miles out, and, as they were approaching the sloping foot-hills, Emily turned to her companion, who was abreast, and said: “Do you know that my desire to undertake this journey had its origin in a curious dream ?” Mrs. Chambers looked at her in surprise. “I am not naturally superstitious, nor given to placing the slightest credence in dreams, and yet an impression was made by the dream I speak of that I cannot remove, strive as I may. It is now as vivid as ever, and my hours of wakefulness since have been haunted by the things I saw in that trance. I mean to test their accuracy.” “It must have been a wonderful dream.” “Indeed it was. I had fallen asleep, after thinking for hours of the cloud that hung over poor Arthur’s memory”—her voice faltered as she spoke —“and wondering if the truth would ever be made known. Soon I found myself in dreamland, and I thought I stood upon the crest of a hill which I well remembered, for Arthur had more than once described the spot in which he was confronted by that bloody spectacle. I saw the murder in my dr earn I” "Miss Emily! What are you saying ?” “I saw the man shot down by an evil-looking creature, and 1 saw the body rifled. But that was not all.” Mrs. Chester Was now gazing at her with intense amazement on her usually placid countenance. “The murderer took the booty and went down the mountain side. He was dreadfully agitated, as he evidently feared discovery. He went crushing through the chapnrral and underbrush, not stopping to look behind. Before he reached the creek bottom below he dropped something.” “What was it ?” “I could not see. though I tried ever so hard. Then I lost sight of him. There was a blank for some time, I know not how long, and at last I saw the man with the evil face coming up the hill again. He was looking for something, for he searched the brush and peered in every direction. TherA wrr n look of fornblo anxb lv in hir blondshut eyes, and he raved like a madman, 1 knew what he was looking for. It was the thing he had dropped.” “Did he find it?” "No, and I saw him go away at last. Then I found myself looking about me, and my eyes fell upon a large oak tree at some distance away. On the ground at the foot of it I saw an animal which resembled a badger. It was just outside of its hole, and was trying to force something into it, but the thing was too wide and would not go in,” “What was the thing ?” “It was a small book—a pass-book, or something j like it. Then I awoke.” 6 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. “And now?” “I have come out here to find that book, and I feel that I will succeed.” •There was silence for a time as they rode on. They took the trail leading southward, as Bill Acker had done the night before, and soon found themselves on the top of a hill. They were within a few rods of the spot where Franklin Cui I is, the banker, had met his death at the hands of an assassin. Emily Somers betrayed some agitation when she recognized the locality as one of the scenes in her strange dream, but she did not hesitate in her pur-. pose. “This is the place,” she whispered. “Let us dismount.” They secured the animals to a tree by the side of the trail, and then went forward. After examining the spot of the murder. Emily Somers went to the northern side of the trail, and looked down the steep declivity, lined with chaparral and underbrush. “I must go down there,” she announced, with determination. “Must you? It is so steep, and I am afraid of the consequences.” “Have no fear. I am a California girl, and can take care of myself. It is of tln^ utmost importance that I should go. You can remain here with the horses. It is broad daylight, everything is quiet about here, and you will be in no danger.” Mrs. Chambers would have expostulated, but a look in Emily’s eyes checked the utterance of the words that rose to her lips. Down the steep declivity went the heroic and devoted girl in perfect safety, and she was soon lost to the sight of the little widow. A cattle trail somo distance down was found by Emily, and she followed its windings and deviations, guided more by instinct than reason. At last she stood upon a small knoll, and gazed about her. Below was a creek bottom, dry and white with alkali. To the east extended acres and acres of chaparral. To the west, and but a few rods away, was a'small grove of live oak trees. One tree in particular attracted her attention, and caused the color to mount to her pale cheeks, and her bosom to palpitaie with excitement. It was a monarch of the mountains, and towered high above its companions, while its gnarled limbs stretched over and shaded a part of the creek. Without a moment’s hesitation, and with an ex-clamaiion of satisfaction, she hurried forward in its direction. As she came upon a small clearing, which revealed the base of the tree and its immediate surroundings, a swift cry broke from her lips, and she stumbled forward, and fell at full length within ten feet of the trunk. Buth(*r hand clutched something as she reached the ground, and held it in a vise. It was an ordinary bank-book, and around it, to keep it from opening, was a piece of crimson elastic. The head of a badger protruded from his hole close by as she reached the clearing, and when she fell the animal vanished into his underground retreat. For some moments Emily Somers lay there trembling convulsively, but at last she rose, with her face paler than ever and with the book in her hand. She looked at the cover, and upon the outside was the name, Franklin Curtis, written in ink. Not a muscle moved when she looked upon the name, so fraught with painful memories, nor did she evidence any astonishment. She had anticipated just such a revelation. The elastic was removed and the book opened. Glancing carelessly at the first pages, she saw that they contained ordinary banking entries. She was about to close the book, when a small paper, folded like a note, dropped from between some of the leaves at the back and fell to the ground. It was with a strange feeling in her heart that she stooped and picked it up. With nervous fingers the note was unfolded, and her eyes dilated with horror as she read the following: “San Cristano, Feb 2, 18—. “Mr. Curtis : Johnson offers to compromise the Ras-ario Ranch matter. He will take $2,000 and put you in possession. He is crippled up with rheumatism and can’t come to town, but I will have a lawyer at his house tomorrow if you will come out, and then the whole thing can be settled. I will meet you on the top of the hilt, on the San Ysabel trail, one mile south of the county road at 4 P. M. Yours, etc,, H. CHESTER.” “No, no!” she exclaimed, “that is not the man I saw in my dream. And yet Hugh Chester is capable of anything. If he did not actually commit the murder he must have incited it. I will discover the truth.” This led her to review in her mind the testimony given at the trial. The two men who were with Chester when Arthur Lamont was discovered standing over the dead body swore that the dead man was a stranger to them, and Chester had testified that his meeting with them was quite accidental, and accounted for his presence in the hills by stating that he had been looking at a stock range, which he had thought of purcbasiag. No mention was made by Hugh Chester, or any witness on the stand, of a man named Johnson, or of any contemplated settlement of a laud difficulty. The more she thought of the matter, the more was FvlyaAv Sinkers, coxwiucea Vhat—IUiizU — instigated the murder. Placing the book in her bosom, she turned to retrace her steps, when she was startled by a piercing scream. From her position in the clearing, she could see the trail, and glancing instinctively in that direction, she beheld Mrs. Chambers struggling in the grasp of two ruffians, while a third held the horses she had left behind. What should she do? Ske was a woman, and the odds were against her. . Another scream burst upon her ears, this time of agony. The die was cast. Grasping a small revolver, which she took from her belt, she started like a deer for the scene of the outrage. CHAPTER XII. A MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER. When Barton Blake, the detective, grasped Junius Brutus Parkinson by the wrist and pointed to the Maltese cross, his fnime shook with emotion. “Who are you?” he demanded. The tramp did not appear to partake in the slightest degree of his companion’s agitation. He was, to use a familiar, if not altogether elegant expression, “as cool as a cucumber.” “Who am 1?” “Yes; who are you?” “My friend, I am an actor!” At that moment a horseman dashed rapidly past the hotel, and Parkinson, freeing himself from the detective’s grasp, darted down the stairs. Blake followed in hot haste, and both beheld the form of Pete Henry vanishing in the distance. “We have been wasting time,” remarked Parkinson ; “that man must be shadowed.” “The very thing I proposed to do.” returned Blake. “That was my purpose in releasing him. My horse is ready, for I gave orders to that end before I followed you to the room, and I’ll be after him in a twinkling.” Sure enough, the detective’s horse was there before them, hitched to the railing. “And what must I do?” “You must go to San Christano and ascertain if a Miss Emily Somers is still at the house of Mrs. Chambers, a widow, and if so, watch over her until you hear from me. I will send you word, by hook or crook, within two or three days at furthest.” When the name of Emily Somers was mentioned, a peculiar expression was visible on Parkinson’s “I understand,” he said; “and her foes before my stalwart arm shall disappear like the mist before the morning sun. The simile may not be a good one, but yon will find I am.” Blake was by this time in the saddle. It was a bright moonlight night, a circumstance greatly in his favor. “Good-by!” he said, as he rode off. Remember!” “Trust me!” was the determined response. Barton Blake, as he galloped over the road, mused for awhile on the singular discovery he had made. Why was that peculiar mark on the tramp’s hand? Who was he?” “It cannot be! Pshaw! it is impossible! The grave cannot give up its dead!” But he told himself that on the next meeting he would have a full and satisfactory explanation. The road Henry traveled, and which the detective followed, led up the canyon, keeping company for miles with the windings of the Arroyo San Ysabel. The horse the latter rode was a magnificent animal, and he soon found himself able to hear the clatter of horse’s hoofs in advance. On reading the curiously spelled note found in Hugh Chester s pocket-book, Blake had made up his mind if that “Kaiv” could be found, strange developments would be made. Where was the cave, and what was it used for? The detective was in doubt on the first point but entirely satisfied with reference to the second. It was, he rightly conjectured, the rendezvous and hiding-place of the gang of horse-thieves and rode agents commanded by Hugh Chester. Where would Pete Henry be most likely to direct his steps on this night? Toward the cave, by all means, to warn his companions in crime, and take measures to guard against an invasion. He knew he was engaged in a perilous enterprise, and that he might never reach civilization again ; but his spirit was undaunted, and he knew no such word as fear. Reaching the top of a small eminence, he saw Henry in the act of crossing the Arroyo three.hun-dred yards below. As soon as he crossed the road agent, to the detective’s surprise, dismounted, and led his horse into a thicket. Barton Blake could see all these movements plainly, but owing to the protection of a clump of manzanitas growing by the side of the trail, as it turned towa i d the creek, Henry could not see him. What could the road agent’s motive be? The detective instinctively grasped the truth. Since he had started on his “piping” mission, he had prepared his mind for some strange maneuver on the part of the pursued. Pete Henry was no fool. He had not accepted the invitation to leave Tularcitos without a suspicion of the detective’s object. Blake believed that Henry had anticipated pursuit, and that he was now laying for him. He was on his guard, and now began a silent battle. which for one had an unlooked-for termination. The detective had dismounted almost upon the instant that Pete Henry reached the ground, and tying his horse to one of the manzanitas, he left.the trail and crept lightly down the bank, so as to flash his revolver easily. Skilled in woodcraft from his hunting experiences in the Golden State, Blake’s movements were cautious and almost noiseless. He calculated that he would have the advantage over Henry in this—that his opponent, expecting his intended victim would walk into the trap, would not exhibit much caution when once in hiding, and would therefore betray his presence. Ever and anon Blake would stop and listen, but no sound broke the stillness. Henry must be in his covert, waiting patiently for his opportunity. The detective went on until he neared the Arroyo. He was speculating on how he should cross, when a slight noise, like the crackling of dry twigs, attracted his attention, and caused him to crouch behind a row of wild-rose bushes that fringed the Arroyo’s banks. Some one was approaching. A moment later and Blake, peering through the branches of the bushes, saw the head of Pete Henry emerge from the chaparral on the other side. He was in a stooping posture, and his object in taking a cut-off to reach the trail was evidently to ascertain, if possible, the reason for the non-appearance of the detective. The decisive moment was approaching, for Henry, on crossing the Arroyo, could not fail to notice the form of his enemy behind the bushes. With a cocked pistol in his hand. Henry cautiously picked his way over the stones that at this point formed a sort of crossing, and soon landed on the other side. But his feet had no sooner touched the bank, than a powerful form darted forward and clutched him by the throat. Now ensued a terrific struggle. Henry was a muscular man, and his strength was prodigious, but he was no match for his powerful and scientific adversary. Besides, he was taken at a disadvantage, and the gripe of the detective’s fingers on his throat caused him to drop his pistol and give utterance to a gurgling and inarticulate cry. He tried to relieve himself of his deadly incubus, but without avail. Then, pressed by the detective, who summoned all his strength, he fell over like a log to the ground. A curious and rather surprising incident now took place. The weight of their bodies falling upon the loam of the bank caused it to give way. and they both rolled into the cool waters of the Arroyo. The sudden and unexpected immersion induced Blake to relax his hold on his enemy and to stagger to his feet. His next move was to seize the unconscious form of his victim and drag it to the land. The Arroyo was shallow, like most of the mountain streams of California, and the rescue was effected without much risk or trouble. Placing the body of Henry upon the sandy bank, the detective stood regarding it with a look of mingled surprise and disappointment. He had not intended to kill the fellow, nor to provoke an attack, for either would militate against the very object of his midnight pursuit. Henry dead and giving no sign would leave the secret of the cave as impenetrable as ever. He turned to glance at the spot where he had left his horn, when there was a surprising diversion. Something rushed at him from behind and bore him to the earth. Instinctively he knew what it was. Henry had been shamming on the bank, and the cold water douse had acted as a restorative. The battle was not yet over. Taken by surprise, Barton Blake was for the nonce powerless to make any exertion. “Now, curse you, Mr. Deetective, the tables are turned!” Henry was on top of his would-be victim, and the words burst from his lips in triumph. But a new surprise awaited him. Marshaling all his energies, Blake, with an almost superhuman effort, raised himself half a foot from the ground, with I he heavy weight upon him. and as suddenly rolled the road agent over. But Henry still retained his hold, and the two became locked in a deadly embrace, and for some mo- ments nothing could be heard but their heavy and labored breathing. The next n ve was to find Henry’s horse. Neces- sity demand I extreme measures, and the animal was led som listance from the trail and then shot. His tracks covered, and his way clear, Blake looked up hi own horse, and soon was galloping furiously ah ; the trail. He needed ist, but there was no sleep for him that night. What woul the coming day bring forth ? (TO BE CONTINUED.) Dr. E. CU it to realize H sford’s Acid Phosphate, A Reliable Article. TER, Boston, Mass., says: “I found ___________le expectations raised, and regard it as a relialp article.” Orpian Jenny, of her five hundred dear friends. She kept up a sort of soft, low-toned accompaniment to Mr. Cax-ton’s conversation, and heartily enjoyed the items which had to be whispered. Philip left early, and as he walked home through the moonlight, made up his mind as to the course he would pursue. “I’ll do it!” he said, emphatically—“I’ll do it! Bevor goes to Europe next week; I’ll get him to arrange everything for me. I can’t stand this life any longer; it will drive me mad. And Bella—poor, dear girl!—1’11 do it!” Whatever resolution he came to. was, he thought, forced upon him by circumstances. Like all cowards, he put the blame on others, and he determined to follow his own selfish inclinations, let the consequences fall where they might. He would be happy in his own way. and let others suffer if they must. On his table he found a letter from Bella. Her mother was alarmingly worse, and, the doctor said, had not many days to live. “I’m glad of it,” said Philip. “That will remove the last impediment. Now I’ll be happy in my own way. and let the worst come!” SLAVE (F THE CLOAK-ROOM By K. F. HILL, Author II “THE TWIN DETECTIVES.” [“Orphan J»iny” was commenced in No. 32. Back numbers can Ifeobtained of all Newsdealers.] CHAPTER XIV. PHILIP’S RESOLUTION. Bella Blair did not recover her usual healthy, cheerful splits, though comforts such as the mother and laughter had not known for years were around hem. The spring was cold and backward, and Mrs. Blair did not grow stronger as the days lengthened. Her improved health did not last; by the end of April she wasagain an invalid, and Bella could not leave her. Philip chafed under this disappointment, more especially as his father urged an early marriage, and their interviews were beginning to become stormy oims because Philip still delayed his departure for Europe. One morning the two men almost quarreled over the matter as they sat in the elder Mr, Rath-burn’s library. “I won’t marry for another year,” said Philip, stoutly. “Why not?” “Because I don’t want to.” “That is a great reason,” said Philip, the elder, with a sneer. “It is sufficient.” “No. it is not. Blanche Ashton is a beautiful girl, and an heiress; she is past twenty. How long do you think she’ll wait while you shillyshally?’-’ “I wish I’d never seen nor heard of her!” muttered Philip, biting the end off a cigar. “Oh, you do? Well, as your word is passed, and, what is of more importance, mine is. also, you’ll have to marry her or take the consequences. Her father was my most intimate friend; he intrusted me with his only child and her whole fortune, and you made no objection to the engagement when you entered into it.” “I was a boy—what did I know?” “And now you are a man—what do you know?” The old man glared savagely, and his sou’s eyes fell guiltily. “Nothing,”he replied. “What can there be against such a marriage? Blanche is beautiful, rich, and amiable.” “1 don't believe she is amiable.” Philip looked as sulky as he felt. “ Well, I don’t care whether she is or not—you’ve got to marry her, and you may as well do it this year as next.” “I won’t marry for another year.” “You said you were going abroad?” said the father, wisely ignoring his son’s last remark. “Well. I consented lo Postpone the wedding till your return—that was* ^e weeks ago, I believe—and here you are still.” His son said Nothing, and the irate father went on: The road agent was getting more than he had bargained for. In>grave doubt as to the result, he bethought himself an expedient. t and with / . . 7*_t f — "P. and .—— dur knives we can settle this on a square deal.” The detective may have been foolhardy, for he would have won in the end under the existing conditions. But he was brave and impulsive, and scorned to take advantage of a “kicker.” Without considering what might be the issue, he promptly responded, “It’s a whack.” and then both released their’holds and sprang to their feet. The apparent error of Blake in trusting Henry in any respect whatever was soon made manifest. As he arose the road agent drew his knife, an ugly-looking Chinese cleaver. and without giving the detective a chance to reach for his weapon, sprang at him with murder in his eyes. But Blake had guessed his enemy’s purpose, and as Henry rushed for him he ducked his head, and with lightning quickness struck the on-comer in the pit of the stomach. The road agent reeled from the force of the blow and the loss of his breath, and as he was falling Blake gave him a stunner under the right ear, whick swung him partially around, and then sent him flying through the air until he fell sidewise with heavy force to the ground. Then silence ensued, save for the deep panting of the victor. Cautiously now Blake approached the body, and the moonlight fell upon a face distorted with agony. Something out of the ordinary had transpired. Examining the body with more attention, Blake made a singular and startling discovery. Henry was bleeding profusely from the wound in the left side, in the region of the heart. In falling, the cleaver had been held without object, with the arm bent so as to turn the blade bodywards, and his whole weight falling upon it had driven the point through his vitals. The detective perceived that human skill could avail naught, and raising Henry’s head, he was gratified on observing signs of returning consciousness. “The fall has partially stunned him, but he may be able to speak before he dies,” muttered Blake, to himself. Henry opened his eyes, saw the detective bending over him, and guessed the truth. “I’m done for, I reckon ?” “Yes,” said Blake, gravely. “You have but a short time to live.” The wounded man seemed to be in but little pain, and yet he felt that his vital forces were weakening and that his life was slowly ebbing away. “Did you—fetch me ?” “No, you stabbed yourself.” “Me!—stab myself! How?” “When you fell, it was upon the point of your knife.” “Ah!” he gasped, and from this time on his words came with difficulty. Blake foresaw that the end was approaching, and realized what the remaining time might do for him. “You are dying,” he said, “and you can do no more harm.” “No. I am sorry now that I ever went wrong.” The remark was favorable to the detective’s plans. “I am glad to hear you say this, and if you tell me something I want to know, it may help you on the other side.” “I’ll tell you my opinion of the whole business—I believe you have picked up some other woman— some ridiculous infatuation; and I tell you what it is—if I find out anything of the kind. I’ll turn you out of my housp, and you may make your own way in the world the best you can.” .Philip fenflwWv n-'iiUx though this ^athr ^absujl nonsense! 1 soiwe oc nws I wnow for sons, th apprecia . “I knc„ nip, you!are a good fellow. I know you neitML^^ ink nor gamble; in fact I have always felt”^ of your correct behavior and good reputation^,J ’s why I can’t understand why you object to ml?® ng.” “I don’t loveBlanche, father.” said Philip, for he saw that his parent was mollified. .J was no more ----------- I WTSiryou nau now for sons, then you would “What do you want to know ? ter ?” “Yes.” “Chester has not treated me you. Speak quick—what is it ?” “Where is the cave ?” “The cave—yes, the cave,” he “Follow the trail till you reach a Is it about Ches- well and I’ll—help repeated, huskily, flat. It’s mine—in my name—Johnson.” “Your real name is Johnson, then ?” “Yes, but never mind. Then you cross—the Arroyo—at a point directly east of a—small—log-cabin. Go up the hill till you come—come ” “Yes, yes.” “Come to a sycamore tree by a—large rock, cave—is there.” He sank back and his breath grew shorter. The shadow of death was upon him. “One question more. Henry, or Johnson,” the detective, with eagerness. “Look at me. „ me but one word. Who killed Franklin Curtis ?’ “Bill—Bill—ah-----” The said give His jaw dropped and all was over. Barton Blake laid the body down and rose in a tremor of excitement. He had discovered the secret of the cave, and as for “Bill,” he would find him. He prepared for instant action. Dragging the body into a thicket, he covered it with dead branches and leaves, for he had no time then to give it decent burial. A search of the pockets revealed nothing. “Love! Thiit’s all a parcel of stuff and nonsense. There is no srch thing except in novels. I never was in love in my life, and my married life has been all right enough. Philip smiled grimly as he thought of the married life referred tc. His mother lad been a society belle, and the style of her dress, lier manner, and the whirl of excitement she still lived in, were much more suitable to a girl of nineteen than a matron of fifty. Sometimes the husbind and wife did not meet for a week at a time, for Mr. Bathburn was not fond of parties, receptions, etc. Philip had never known a mother’s care or devotion. Sometimes, in his babyhood, a brilliant, being had come iato the nursery, which he inhabited in company wilh a Swedish nurse, and he remembered dimly in the vague past crying for chains and sparkling ornaments worn by this lovely creature. He never remembered crying for her. Now, and ever since he was a fine-looking boy of some eight or ten years, his mother and himself were on excellent terms. He knew just when to kiss her without disturbing the delicate bloom imparted by Moucher’s art. He was handsome, and an agreeable escort. She liked to hear the people express their surprise that he was her son' “1 married when I was a baby!” she generally said, in an explanatory tone. Such was the happy married life alluded to by Philip’s father in such a triumphant manner. “Well, father, it is useless for us to argue, for our ideas are not alike on this subject. I’ll travel a year. Perhaps absence from Blanche may make me more alive to her perfections.” “I hope so. I’m sure. You could not make a better match. She’s worth a cool three millions, all invested to the best advantage.” “Yes, her fortune is sterling eighteen carat gold,” replied Philip, with a bitter smile. “You may depend on it, or 1 would not recommend her,” said the father, not observing the sarcasm. “Well, you will go to Europe at once, my boy?” “Yes. sir, without any more delay than is necessary to procure my outfit.” “You’ll sail?” “From New York.” “Well, we can’t see you off.” “I’m glad of it. I have a perfeet horror of leaving people, and saying good-by.” “And you will stay away a year ?” “Yes, sir,” “Well, a willful man must have his way. Come, let us join the ladies.” The lecture over, they adjourned to the parlor, where Blanche sat at the piano, and Mrs. Rathburn before the fire, a screen, in the latest style of high art, being carefully placed where it would preserve her delicate complexion. A gentleman leaned over Blanche, his fine face very near hers, as he turned over the music before her. “Ah! Mr. Caxton, good evening!” said Mr. Rath-burn. “How de do ?” added Philip, as the guest bowed low. Blanche looked beautiful in a dress of sea-green silk, embroidered in silver, a spray of ivy crowning her pale, straw-colored hair. Philip sat down near his mother. She was a simpering, faded beauty, and he knew she liked attention. Caxton seemed devoted to Miss Ashton, who flirted with him very openly in the presence of her betrothed. perhaps to excite his jealousy. Philip knew the man well. He had spent a fine fortune, having lost the greater portion of it at the gaming-table. He was a needy fortune-hunter. The evening passed, the two Philips restraining with difficult y the yawns which they longed to indulge, for the conversation was dull to the last degree—the subjects being Mrs. Knox’s reception, Mrs. Kenny’s departure for Europe, the art-rooms, the last opera, etc. Caxton seemed to enjoy it all; he was a lady’s man, and well posted in gossip, which he talked openly, and scandal, which, somewhat to Philip’s surprise, he whispered to Miss Ashton, sinking his voice that the others might not hear. Blanche appeared to like it, now and then laughing softly at some racy remark made on some one CHAPTER XV. MR. NELSON’S BENEVOLENCE. Old Janet and her young friend enjoyed a good supper, the result of Mr. Nelson’s advance of the five-dollar bill. “You must stay here. Janet,” said Jenny, “for he wants to talk about taking out work, and you understand it all so much better than I do.” The old woman said nothing, but took her place by the stove while Jenny worked at some point lace she was making in hopes of earning a few dollars. About half-past eight o’clock, a knock at the door announced the arrival of the benevolent Mr. Nelson. He came in bowing and smiling, carefully dressed and perfumed. “Good-evening, Miss Weaver. You see I have not forgotten my appointment.” “No, sir. Take a seat.” Jenny rose to receive him, and he beamed upon her; then suddenly becoming aware of old Janet’s presence, his smile quickly vanished. “Ah, Janet, good-evening.” He seated himself and looked around the room in pretended surprise. “Really, Miss Weaver, you must find more comfortable, more suitable quarters.” “This room is not uncomfortable, and it is very suitable, to my pocket-book.” “Yes, you are new to our business, and of course you will earn more as you become more proficient.” “I know girls that have worked for you for six years, Mr. Nelson, an’ they can’t earn over four dollars a week,” said Janet, suddenly striking into the conversation. Mr. Nelson looked very much annoyed, but endeavored to conceal his vexation. “Well, Janet, you knoW some people are stupid.” “Yes, an’ it’s clear impossible to earn a decent livin’ when work is paid for at sic prices.” “Well, you will be glad to hear, Janet, that I have an order for any quantity of light jackets and ulsters for the spring trade. I don’t think we will have any dull times in the cloak-room this spring.” “I’m pleased to hear it,” said Janet, coolly. “What are you doing now. Miss Weaver?” inquired Mr. Nelson, eying Jenny’s delicate work with curiosity. “Making point lace.” “That is very pretty. I think I saw some ladies of my acquaintance doing such work.” “That will be your dochter ?” struck in Janet. ‘ No, it was not my daughter,” replied the gentleman, testily. He did not wish his grown-up daughter brought into the conversation, when he was trying to pass himself off as a young man. “What do you do with such work, Miss Weaver, sell it ?” “If possible. It is very expensive: the materials are costly, and the lace is valuable.” “Would that work pay to do all the time ?” “No. it is loo slow.” “Mr. Nelson looked relieved. “About the work we are to take out,” said Jenny, who saw no reason to prolong the interview, “can we have it to-morrow?” “Certainly; whenever you wish.” “Shall you pay for it with checks?” “No; I will pay for it privately.” Janet stared in astonishment, for these arrangements were all new to her. Mr. Nelson had no excuse for remaining any longer, so he took his departure, with many protestations of friendly feeling for the orphan girl who had become one of his hands. “Well, Janet, you see Mr. Nelson is a good-hearted man, after all,” said Jenny, when their visitor had disappeared. “Hum! Good-hearted? I dinna like his kind o’ good heart. I’m thinkin’ he’s got a bad, black heart; bur. he’s Iosin’ his time cornin’ here.” “I don’t understand you. Janet.” “No, my lass; but I understand mysel’, an’ I understand Ed Nelson, tae.” “Well, I must say I think you are rather prejudiced.” “Veery weel, lass; wait an’ ye’ll see.” saT^ut^-^P1 mrffiM&d to bed. but her young friend which jwas destinedth. working at the delicate lace, than herself. , . < ., . . . , Mr. kelson walked away from the humble home of the orphan girl he was pretending to befriend, with an angry frown upon his face. “The first thing to do is to separate her from that cursed old Scotchwoman.” he muttered. “How shall I accomplish that?” He thought deeply on the subject. “I have it!” he said, at length. “I’ll consult Madame Claire.” He turned about, for he was crossing the Common, and went back to MacDonald street. He walked rapidly to the end farthest from the acqueduct, and rang the bell at the door of a neat dwelling. It was quickly opened by a smiling girl, with many gay ribbons about her throat and head. “Good-evening, Amelia,” said Mr. Nelson. “Good-evening, sir,” responded the girl, pertly. “Has madame any company?” “Just gone—two gentlemen.” “Can I see her ?” “Walk in; she’s all alone.” visit is over. Will you try then to coax this girl to board with you?” Madame considered a few moments. She did not like the idea of this new lodger, but she did not wish to offend Mr. Nelson, and she was fond of money. “Yes, I’ll try.” “And you will go to see her at once, get acquainted with her, and buy her lace ? Here’s her address.” “Ivas a leetle hard up jes now,” said madame, hesitatingly. Nelson drew out his pocket-book and silently handed her two ten-dollar bills. She accepted them, while herblack eyes sparkled like beads. “You vas a prince in generosity,” she said, bowing with a certain grace. “And you will do as I request?” “Veil, I’ll try.” “If you do you’ll succeed. No—no more punch. Good-night.” He hastily left the house, satisfied with his evening's work. He was a middle-aged man, the father of a daughter who was three or four years Jenny’s senior, yet that night he had deliberately planned her ruin. She worked in his cloak-room at starvation wages. She had been robbed of her all. It was in his power to prevent her from earning enough, should she use her utmost efforts, to keep a shelter over her head and buy bread. He would take care to do so, and last, but by no means least, he intended to part her from her only protector, the old bushel-woman. Truly Mr. Nelson had reason to be satisfied with himself. CHAPTER XVI. BELLA IS SURPRISED. Mrs. Blair did not die, greatly to the surprise of her physician, and to the no small disappointment of Philip Rathburn, she recovered her health in a measure. She would never be well again, for in addition to other ailments her spine was seriously affected, but she might live for years, always a helpless invalid. Bella met her lover after ten anxious days watch- ing by her mother’s sick-bed, and told him truth. “You may as well go to Europe and forget Philip,” she said, sadly. “I will never leave mother, and she may live for years.” the me, my ex- Philip looked gloomy, but did not of course __ press his resentment against Mrs. Blair for living. Mr. Nelson proceeded to the back parlor, where lady sat engaged in the comfortable enjoyment of glass of hot punch. a a “Vhy, Meester Neilson!” she cried, springing up with remarkable agility, considering her size, which was remarkable also. “It is late, madame; I must apologize.” “Not tat all.” Madame smiled all over her face, thereby displaying magnificent white teeth Madame was very dark, as she had a perfect right to be. for sho was a West Indian, with more than a slight suspicion of colored blood in her veins. She was a fine-looking woman of about forty, and had she not been so extremely fat would still have been counted handsome. “I have to solicit a favor of you,” said Mr. Nelson, when he had taken a seat and been provided with a glass of punch similar to the one the lady had mixed tor herself. “It vas granted if in my power,” answered madame, politely. “There is a young lady in whom I take an interest---” “Oh. you vas one reskel! Not anodder von?” laughed madame, shaking her finger at the cloak merchant. “Oh, this is a very quiet, respectable girl, I assure you.” “An’ vat you doing vith her, den ?” “She is working very hard to get along, and I want you to encourage her, and get her to make some lace for you. She makes beautiful lace, and I thought maybe you would like to learn how to make it yourself.” “It vas the point lace ?” “Yes; I see the society ladies making it.” “And dis good girl, she makes it ?” “Yes. She is a New York girl, and, before the death of her father, was very wealthy.” “Poor ting! I’ll buy her lace. Send her to me.” “And, Claire, I want you to coax her to come and live with you.” “No,” said madame, slowly, shaking her head. “No!” repeated Mr. Nelson, in no slight surprise. “No; I vas not having dos kind of ladies, for dey gives you avay.” “But I want to part her from an old Scotchwoman who has got hold of her, and I don’t know any one I would like so much to see her with as you.” “I’d do a great deal for you, but not dat; it’s out of my line.1 3SUH8 Madame seemed disposed to be firm, and stirred her punch resolutely. Mr. Nelson looked angry, and it seemed as if a coolness was likely to spring up between the old friends. “I’ll pay you well,” said the gentleman, after awhile. “I am not vrightened for de money, but dos proper ladies dey is always prying and peeping; an’ my old parson and his daughter is coming here all de vay from Antigua, an’ dey is to stop vith me, an’ I vouldn’t have them hear not’ing, for all de money in Boston.” “Your parson ?” “Yes; de Rev. Henderson. He is going to Canada to make one visite to his old home, and he vill stay vith me.” Mr. Nelson stared aghast. He knew this woman’s character, and here she was anxious to retain the good opinion of a clergyman! Madame’s was a many-sided character. “When does your pastor come?” he asked, after a pause in the conversation. “Next veek.” “And how long does he remain?” “About ten days.” “Well, it’s all right. I’m willing io wait till his “I know I cannot keep you here, for your father will listen to no more excuses. Leave me, Philip, and forget me.” Her strong, brave nature could not keep the tears out of her eyes, or the sobs from her voice. “I’ll never leave yon, Bella. Do you know what I’ve made up my mind to do ?” His weak face wore a resolute look. “No, Philip.” Bella’s face was full of anxious expectancy. “I’ve made up my mind that I won’t go to Europe nt nil ” “But your father?” “Well, I’ll manage him. I have a friend who is going, and I’ll send letters to him pre-dated, and my friend will mail them for me. I’ll tell them I am moving about constantly, so they won’t write many letters to me. I’ll get all the money I want before I start.” “And where will you be ?” “In New York, in a snug cottage, with Bella and her mother.” “What!” Bella’s brown face, pale already from watching beside her mother’s sick-bed, actually turned white. “Oh, Philip!” she gasped. “Bella, I’ve made up my mind to something else.” Rathburn placed his arm around her and kissed her fondly. “What is that?” asked the girl, frightened by the unusual look upon his face. “I’ll marry you, Bella. I love you, and I am not scoundrel enough to do you an injury.” A sudden, swift joy lit up Bella’s face into grand new beaut y. “Oh, Philip!” she cried, clinging to him with a world of passionate love in her voice and eyes. “Yes, I’ll marry you; a secret marriage it must be, I’m sorry to say; but it shall be firm as it can be made. I’ll go to New York and take a house and furnish it; when your mother is well enough to move, you will come on; I’ll meet youcon the boat at Fall River, and we will live happy ever after, as the story-books say.” Bella was radiant with joy; this was a great, an unexpected happiness. Bella went home through the spring twilight, her heart pulsing with joy. She returned to the mother for whom she had made up her mind to sacrifice that which was far-dearer than life—her honot—a happy girl. The invalid was fretful, and the little bunch of violets Bella brought,her had no power to soothe her. “It seems to me,” she said, with the unconscious selfishness of a sick person—“it seems to me that you delight in being away from me.” “I left Miss Muller with you. mother,” replied Bella, genHy, as she removed her hat and cloak. “Yes; Miss Muller is very kind and good,” returned Mrs. Blair, for the nurse was present. “Miss Muller is all I could wish; but I wished to speak to you very seriously, Bella. I have something to tell wish.” ’ sav all Bella felt alarmed; she knew not why. for Blair had all the nervous fancies of an invalid, and was constantly making mountains of mole-hills and having “important things to tell Bella,” which turned out in the end to be the merest nonsense. “Very well, dear; I must begin by telling you that I have had a visitor—a very singular, though, I believe, well meaning person.” The girl felt still more uneasy. Philip had warned her so frequently to keep clear of gossiping neighbors, and she knew her mother’s weakness for fraternizing with strangers and making confidants of them. When Miss Muller left them alone—for she always went home at night, Bella sat down to hear the history of her mother’s visitor. “She came in by telling Miss Muller she was an old friend,” said the sick lady. “But that was an untruth, wasn’t it?” “Yes ; I never saw her before in my life.” “And what did she want?” asked Bella, eagerly. “Ridiculous! She wanted to sell a lot of paints and washes for the face. ’ “Ridiculous! I should think so. Did she imagine you wanted to paint your face?” “Yes, it was absurd,” said Mrs. Blair, guiltily conscious of a bottle of “cream of magnolia buds” concealed in her bureau drawer. “Well, I see nothing serious in this, mother; the woman was a peddler.” “Well, but, my dear Bella, wait a little. You are always so impulsive.” Bella waited. It would have tried the patience of most listeners to hear Mrs. Blair tell the simplest incident; but Bella loved her mother too fondly to grow impatient. “This lady—her name is Moucher, and she has parlors where ladies go to buy powders and beauti-flers, and she told me that far older women than . me fix up so that they don’t look twenty-five. She says it is so wrong for ladies to give up attending to their appearance so early in life, and she said— don’t laugh, Bella; you are so unfeeling—that I might have secured a wealthy husband, when your poor dear father died, if I had not given up trying to look nice; and, indeed, there may be some truth in it, for I was only thirty-two—no five—quite a young woman.” “Never mind, mother, that is all past and gone Why should you let this woman come in here to disturb you with such nonsense?” “Everything is nonsense with you, Bella; but as for me. I can’t forget that I was once counted the prettiest girl in Brockton.” Bella sighed. A vain woman’s vanity is the Iasi: feeling that dies. “Well, mother, why should you talk of this to- . night ?” “Because I think there was some reason in what the woman said.” “Even so, it is too late to worry over it now. I think this woman must be excessively silly to come here and worry you with such talk.” Mrs. Blair sighed, and drank a glass of lemonade before replying. “I never can understand you, Bella, and I suppose I never will; but the conversation Untended to speak to you about was not what the woman said about me, but what she said about you!” “About me!” exclaimed Bella, turning pale, and half-starting from her seat. “Yes, about you,” rejoined her mother. “You know, Bella, your conduct has always been rather incomprehensible to me. You work every day, and you won’t tell me where.” “What does it matter, mother. I have found better work than Nelson’s ?” “Well, I wish I had known just what to tell Miss Mousher.” “Why should you tell her anything?” asked Bella, displaying, for the first time, some impatience. “Because she told me a very strange story. She says there is a lady on Beacon street—a society belle and heiress—Miss Ashly, or Ashford, or some name with ashes to it—who has a lover, and he has fallen in love with some sewing-girl, and the young lady has found it out. and is, quite naturally, very indignant.” Bella spoke never a word. Her mother did not observe her silence, but. went on: “Miss Moucher is in search of this girl, and she traced Philip Rathburn—that is the young gentleman’s name—to this neighborhood, and she thought I might know some girl about here who had a gentleman waiting on her. She has been watching all the houses in the block, and she was quite surprised when I told her I had a daughter, for she has never happened to seo you.” THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 7 Bella drank some of her mother’s lemonade before she could speak. “Why did you mention me, mother?” she asked, calmly—so calmly that she was surprised herself. “Well, I told her that you were a sewing girl, and that, you might possibly know the other sewinggirls in the block.” “But I do not,” cried Bella. “I don’t know one girl who lives on this block. You forget how short a time we have been here, mother.” “I told her so; indeed, I gave her quite a little sketch of our past history, and she was very much interested : she said I had such a graphic way of relating it, all. I really felt quite flattered.” “Oh. mother! mother! You have ruined me!” said poor Bella to herself. “Yes, she was so much interested, and so pleased to hear you were earning so much money. I did wish I could tell her just what business you were in, but I thought it was best to be quite frank, and acknowledge that I did not know myself.” “But, mother, why was it necessary for you to take a perfect stranger into your confidence ?” “Why. my dear child, we have nothing to conceal, and she told me all about herself.” “It is always a mistake to trust people you know nothing about.” “Well, my dear Bella, I never heard any one have such extraordinary ideas as you. What have we ever done that we need be ashamed of ?” “Nothing, mother; but why should we tell peddlers our whole history?” B<-lla spoke, as she felt, bitterly. “There, Bella! you are finding fault again.” Mrs. Blair fell back on the coward’s refuge, and burst into foolish tears. “I am not finding fault; but I cannot understand why Miss Muller, who is paid to take care of you, should allow this woman to come in here with her prying questions, and learn our private history, wnich we ought to keep to ourselves. I’ll speak to Miss Muller to-morrow, or discharge her, and remain home myself. It is better for us to suffer any privation than be subjected to such insolence.” Bella looked angry, and spoke indignantly. “I’m sorry, Bella, that you consider me such a lunatic that you have to stay home and watch me,” sobbed Mrs. Blair. “I don’t consider you a lunatic, dear mother, but Ido think that you are no match for this sharper in your present weak state of health; if you were strong and well, you would soon rid yourself of such a prying, impertinent peddler,” “Perhaps you are right, Bella,” said poor Mrs. Blair, whose mind changed as often as an April wind. “When you get better, mother, you will be very angry with this woman for coming into your own house and passing her insolent remarks about sewing girls on this block, when your own daughter is a sewing girl. Am I not as good a lady as her Beacon street heiress she tells you about ?” “I should think you are, indeed.” Mrs. Blair had now come quite around to Bella’s opinion. She did not dare, however, to mention to her daughter that she had invited the zealous Moucher to return the following day for more information. “She is a forward, bold woman to come here with such talk.” said Mrs. Blair. “Never mind, mother. I’ll discharge Miss Muller to-morrow, and slay home to wait upon you myself.” Bella went out before she retired for the night, and dispatched the following telegram to “Philip Bathburn, Revere House, Boston”: “Don’t come near this block. Miss. B. A. has spies about. Wait till you hear from me. B * * * Next day Bella received a long letter from Philip. In it he urged her to meet him on Tremont street at a certain corner, where they had often met. He said: “Come, Bella. I wish to leave for New York to-night, and I wish to be. first of all. tied hard and fast to the only woman I can ever love. I have had an interview with my father; he thinks I am off to Europe. After I leave Miss B. A. will call off her watch-dog. Don’t disappoint me. darling, or I shall risk everything and come to you. Be there at the usual hour; take a carriage and outstrip the watchdog.” Miss Muller was not discharged that day. only carefully warned to admit no one to Mrs. Blair’s presence. Bella, ordered a carriage to meet her at the ferry. She was at the appointed place, and Philip’s face beamed with joy when he saw her. He sprang into the carriage, and they were borne swiftly to the residence of a clergyman in Cambridge. Philip had a marriage license in his pocket, and the lovers were soon made one. “Bella returned to her mother with her wedding-ring in her bosom, and the first person she encountered was Miss Moucher. 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Suddenly a new idea occurred to her. and she made her last appeal. “Mrs. Grey,” she said, “I have failed in my mission. utterly failed; I am sorely disappointed; my husband and my father will be the same. I have failed. As a last resource, will you see my father, Lord Stair ?” A perfect daze of pain seemed to fall over the pale face and violet eyes; a look like that of a hunted animal at bay crept into them. “My father,” continued the duchess,“is a kindly, generous man: he has had a great sorrow in his life. Let him see you. Mrs. Grey.” “Your father, Lord Stair!” she answered, in a low, hoarse voice. “Lord Stair come here to see me!” She paused, for the rush of memory was too strong for her. The concert-room where she had seen him first—the garden at Inisfail where he had wooed her, where he had promised to take the risk of the happiness of her life—the long months spent with him at Oakcliffe—all rushed over her. She swayed to and fro, like one who walks unsteadily in sleep. “lam quite sure,” continued the kindly young voice, “that even if you will not trust me, you will trust him. My father gives to every one a sense of protection and comfort. You would trust him ?” “My only trust is in Heaven,” she replied. “I have no other.” “But you will see my father? I urge it, because I know good will come of it. He wanted to come.” Mrs. Grey repeated the words after her with the air of a person perfectly dazed. “He wanted to come and see me?” she said, slowly—“to see me?” “Yes; but I persuaded him to let me come in his stead. I—I thought I had some little influence over you, and that I could persuade you to trust in me?” “I cannot see Lord Stair.” she cried, vehemently. “I will not see him. If he should come here. I shall fall dead.” She stopped, suddenly remembering all that the passion of her words would betray. “I will see no one here in this vile place-in this vile dress. If you have a heart of pity, heart ’of grace, do not brine: Lord Stair here I” “Why should you fear to.see him ? He would be most kind to you !” Ah, why ? She would rather see the flame of lightning which should strike her dead than see him. She controlled herself; she felt that her agitation „.................... ......... and emotion must betray her. The duchess was her—to Jet her pass out of our lives—never to think looking at her with wondering eyes. ’ of her again. She repeated it so often that I am “I wish,” she continued, “that you would see him; but I forget. You wish to keep mur secret, and he would know at. once whcthc you were Phebe Ashern or not.” She asked with faltering lips: “Does he, your father, remember Pheie Ashern?” “Yes; she was a tall, fair woman, te says, and though he saw little of her he could recognize her face. He would like to see her. He thinks she would know more than he does of the list hours of my mother.” A softened, tender light came into th sad face. “Does he think so much, then, of this lost mother?” she asked. “Yes; he thinks of her always; he ks thought of her continually. He loved her very dearly. She was the only love of his life. If you woPiiebe Ashern you must know how he loved lui, and how it would comfort him to see you—to know if you were with her when she died—to knowhowsie died.” “Hush!” said Mrs. Grey. “I canno bear it. I cannot see Lord Stair. It is all a iristake,” she added, wildly. “I could tell him nothiig. I wish— ah. Heaven!—I wish that I were dead!’ There was such utter despair in herwice that the duchess of Neath was startled; there was something almost more than human in theory. “I will say no more about it, since t distresses you, Mrs. Grey. Must I leave you with this miserable sense of failure, unable to elicit misinformation from you over matters of vital interest to me. and equally unable to fulfill the desire .of ay heart, and help you? Must 1 leave you so?” “There is no help for it,” answered Mrs. Grey; but the pain and disappointment on thebeautiful yoking face seemed more than she could be&r. “I would give my life twenty times owr if it could be different/’ she said. “Do forget me. I hate myself for the trouble I have brought ino your life. Leave me now, for I have borne as mich as I can bear. Do not come back to me ever again. Do not look so pitifully; it unnerves me. Do not come back to me. When these five years are over I shall go away from England. I shall go to America, and so pass completely out of your lives. Forget me. and all the trouble that I have caused you.” Tears came into the dark eyes lookingso wistfully at her. “It grieves me to the very heart,’’ said the duchess, “but I must do as you wish.” Something of relief came over Mrs. Grrey’s face. She drew nearer to the young girl. “You are a great duchess,” she said, ‘and I am a poor prisoner; the distance between us is as great as great can be; will you for one moment bridge it over ? It is the last time we shall nriiet. the last time my eyes will look on a face that has been like the face of an angel to me. May I kiss your face before we part. ?” As she listened to the plaintive words, spoken with sad, sweet dignity, the duchess said to herself: “Whoever else she may be, she is certainly not my mother’s maid: that is neither the Aoice nor the manner of a maid.” She went to her, and clasped her arms round the graceful, fragile figure; tears were raining down her face. “I came to help you.” she said, “and ] am leaving you more anxious and distressed than €ver. I cannot bear to think this is the last time we shall meet. I do not know what binds my heart to you, but something does; I do not know why I love you, but I do love you with all my heart.” Mrs. Grey knew; she knew it was that sweet, subtle love between mother and child that speaks even when it is not understood. She, too, threw her arms round her daughter, and they stood for one minute locked in a close embrace. “I shall take the memory of that with me to my dying day,” said the prisoner. “Go now, my dear; I have kissed your face, I want no more.” For half a minute she was standing1 on the terrace at Oakcliffe, holding Little Sunbeam in her arms, kissingthe dimpled baby face and the rings ol dark curls. “Go, my dear,” she said. “I have cone to the end of my strength. Good-by!” . “Good-by,” repeated the duchess; but, the words died on her lips, and she passed out of the cell with a keener and more bitter pain at her heart than she had ever known before. When she had gone, when the matron had locked the door and the prisoner was alone again, she realized what that interview had been. She fell on her knees with bitter tears, with passionate cries for Little Sunbeam. Little Sunbeam whom she had loved and nursed, the child for whom she had sacrificed her whole life, the child for whom she was willing even now to die, so that t^e bright ness and happiness of her life might be secured. Little Sunbeam, who had loved her, whose voice had called after her, who had cried for her, who had fallen asleep in her arms, who had nestl/d to her breast, the love, the joy, the pride of helfe ’^e. How had she resisted her, how had she ret ned a deaf ear to all those entreaties, those praye i those tears'. She had kissed her face, the same lautiful face that had lain on her breast, and the i/’^mory of it would go with her to her grave. L Little Sunbeam, whose tiny^otsteps had been music to her ears! She had go>ft, glie^ad passed out of her.life, leaving it all daCf? cold. a(nd bare. When the matron retiirned, banging $orno work for the prisoner, she was startled at reeling her lying on the ground; she had fallen, ahd she lay silent and motionless where she fell. It was but the work of a minute to raise her, to send hurriedly for remedies, to lay her on the hard, miserable bed. She recovered soon, but the matron and the woman with her were puzzled at the continual repetitions of that cry of Little Sunbeam. The matron grew alarmed as The hours wore on. She called in the doctor, she did everything that was kind for her; but the only words that fell from the pale patient’s dips were these: “Do leave me; leave me alone to die.” When she grew better and able to think, she began to wonder afresh how it would, end. What should she do if Lord Stair came to see her? He would most surely recognize her. and then all would have been in vain. He would not spare her now, any more than he would have spared her years ago. He would denounce her, or he would leave her in scornful silence, hating her more bitterly than before. When she had gratified the longing of her heart in going to live near her daughter, she had not foreseen this danger—the danger of meeting Lord Stair. She would not see him, let come what might. The matron was much astonished a day after these occurrences when No. 44 asked if she could see the governor of the jail. Captain Mayne. Of course her request was granted, and the governor looked with no little curiosity at this thoughtful woman, of whom he had heard so many strange things. “A perfect lady.” was his first comment. “A beautiful woman, with a story in her face,” was his second. He bowed, and then felt astonished at himself; it was hardly the rule to bow to prisoners, but, for the moment, he had forgotten the prisoner in the sweet, dignified woman. “I am sorry to trouble you,” said No. 44, “but I want to ask a question.” “I can answer any question you ask,” replied the governor. “Am I compelled,” she said, “to receive any visitors here against my will ?” He thought for a moment, then answered; “No; you are not.” The prisoner bowed her head with gentle dignity. “That is all I wanted to know. I decline, I refuse to see any visitors; can I be compelled to see them against my will ?” “No,” he replied again. “I am glad—I am thankful.” she said, gently. “I am dead to the world, and I do not want the ghosts from my past life to haunt me.” “I understand,” he answered; “you shall see no visitors. You have no exception to make to the rule ?” “None whatever,” she replied. And then the interview terminated, the governor of the jail more puzzled by this one beautiful, sadfaced woman than by all the rest of his prisoners put together. In the meantime the Duchess of Neath had left the jail, gre’atly disappointed. Her husband, with the carriage, awaited her outside the prison door. The duke was angry when he saw traces of tears on the fair young face. “You ought not to have gone, Ethel,” he said; and she answered, meekly: “I have done but little good by going. Falke. I have completely failed.” But when Lord Stair heard the story, he said: “I am more dissatisfied than ever, and now I am quite determined to see her myself.” CHAPTER LIL A STOBY QUITE IMPOSSIBLE TO UNDERSTAND. “I will go and see her myself,” said Lord Stair, when his daughter had given him a full description of her interview with Mrs. Grey. “I must see her, for it is a story quite impossible to understand.” “I do not think she will see you,” replied the duchess; “when I mentioned it to her she almost died of agitation.” “Why and how did you mention it?” asked Lord Stair. “Because I could do nothing with her. I could not persuade her, I could not influence her; she would not trust me, and I told her how good and kind you were, that she could not do a better thing than tell her story to you ; but she would not hear of it. She seemed so frightened that I was half afraid she would die in the cell.” “Why should she be afraid of seeing me?” he I asked. “That was her secret, papa; she would not tell me; in fact, she told me nothing except that the greatest kindness we could do her was to forget quite sure she meant it. She told me that when her term of imprisonment was over, she would go to America, and she prayed me to leave her, and ndver to come back.” “What an extraordinary thing!” cried Lord Stair. “I am quite sure now.” said the duchess, “that she is no thief; I am equally sure that she is not a lady’s-maid. I am more puzzled than ever.” “I cannot imagine why she will not see me,” said Lord Stair. “It was not merely that she would not see you,” replied his daughter; “it was the extraordinary emotion and agitation at the sound of your name even that puzzled me.” “It confirms your thdory, Ethel, that she is really Phebe Ashern.” “No,” said the duchess, sadly, “I do not think she is Phebe Ashern.” “Then why should she dread seeing me? If she be a stranger, as I suppose, what need to fear? I do not know that I have ever seen this Mrs. Grey in my life. Why need she dread seeing me? If she is Phebe Ashern, there is a sensible reason in refusing—she would fear many things in that case.” The duchess shook her head. “I have quite abandoned that theory, papa,” she said. “Mrs. Grey is no more Phebe Ashern than I am.” “Then, willing or not. willing,” he replied. “I shall go and see her myself. I hate all this sense of mystery. Ever since t he lockets have been found I have been miserable—I have no rest; I find myself always wondering who that woman is, and what she has to do with us. If she were really Phebe Ashern, that would explain everything.” “She is not, and nothing can be explained. I am quite as uncomfortable as you can be, papa—quite. My thoughts are never away from Holloway prison, and the mystery there that concerns us.” They discussed it during the whole day, in every shape and every fashion, until the duke declared that he was tired of it and wanted a change. Still they never came to any nearer solution of it— who the woman was, in what manner she was connected with them, what was the mystery that infolded her. Lord Stair adhered to his resolution; he applied for permission to see her, and the permission was accorded to him, but he received a formal notice saying that, the prisoner herself declined to see him. In vain both governor and matron urged her to accede to the request so urgently made; she would not hear of it, and she thought herself safe—he could not force his way in; he had asked permission, he had been refused, and there would be an end of it; they would tire soon of t hese perpetual efforts; the duchess would respect her wish, and certainly not come again; and when Lord Stair found all his efforts unavailing, he would desist, and gradually she would be forgotten. She comforted herself with these theories, but they were hardly correct ones. Lord Stair and the Duchess of Neath were too deeply interested to be able to forget her even for one minute. Lord Stair was at a loss wjien the refusal came. It did not change his decision, but it made his resolution difficult; to accomplish. Ele consulted an eminent lawyer, who told him that he believed he could find some legal precedent for such a visit. “If it be simply for the purpose of identification, you could see the prisoner without being seen,” said the lawyer. You have but to get permission from the authorities.” “Can Ido that ?” asked Lord Stair. “I am sure you can,with the requisite permission. It. is not long since I went to identify one of the greatest thieves in all England. I saw him through the grating in the cell door; but he did not see me.” “It do<‘S not seem fair—not quite fair,” said Lord Stair. ‘If it were a man I wanted to see it would be right enough ; but I hardly like to play the spy upon a woman.” “It is your only chance,” said the lawyer. Still Lord Stair was long before he could bring his mind to it. “Tell me, he said one day to the duchess—“tell mo exactly what she is like, this Mrs. Gray ? I believe that I am losing my senses over her.” “What she is like ?” replied his daughter. “I can describe her best as I first saw her at Clavering. It seems so long ago! She was tall, graceful, and dignified—thin and worn; but with a most beautiful face—the most beautiful and the saddest I have ever seen. The strange thing about her then was the color of her hair and her eyebrows, which did not seem to belong to her face; now I find out that this was her disguise. I saw her hair; some of it had fallen from underneath her prison cap, and it was of beautiful, pure gold.” “Pure gold ?” cried Lord Stair. “Yes. as I saw her in prison, she looked much more beautiful than she had done at Clavering. She is so fair—lilies and roses are but poor comparisons ; her eyes are lovely, but so sad; she looks as though she had had a life-time of sorrow. Do you know any one who answers to that description. papa?” “No.” he replied, thoughtfully, “I do not. I wish that I could remember Phebe Ashern better. I know she was tall and fair—but one thing I am quite sure, I should know her if I saw her.” Lord Stair was just, a little puzzled as to how he should proceed; he was quite determined to see her^-the end. he declared to himself, justified the mervurt. Tie faits miseiauie, unww- Portable; a wretched sense of mystery and perplexity hung over them all, and it could only be relieved by the identification of the woman. All his instincts were against the plan which the lawyer had suggested, seeing her when he himself was unseen. There was something most repulsive in the idea, yet, what better could he do? If he saw that she was Phebe Ashern there was no more to be done—the whole mystery would then be solved and lie bare. If she were not Phebe Ashern, why—and when he reached that point Lord Stair did not know how to go any further. If she were not Phebe Ashern he did not know, nor could he guess, whom she could possibly be. The day came at last when he made up his mind to go to Holloway and take his chance. If he could not see her by any other means, he must have recourse to that, which he disliked so much. It was the end of July when he went from Oakcliffe to Holloway, determined to end the mystery. He had a long interview with the governor, Captain Mayne; he told him that his sole idea was to identify the woman, and the governor agreed with the lawyer, that as the prisoner had declined to see him, his only resource was to have a glimpse of her as she passed down the corridor, as he could see her through the grating of the cell door. He consented to it at last; and that. July afternoon, while the sun shone over the land and the world rejoiced in music and fragrance, he went along the gloomy corridors that led to the cell of No. 44. The matron was with him and the governor. He had brought with him the two lockets, he hardly knew why; he had brought with him the letter, written so long ago, in which his wife Marguerite, Lady Stair, had bidden him farewell. No July sun shone in those gloomy corridors; a faint flash of light fell on the wall. His heart beat as it had never done before. The matron came before him and silently opened the small slide through which one could see the cell and its occupant. She stood silent for one half moment, then moved aside gently, with a look on her face as though she had seen something that was pleasing and beautiful. Slowly she made way for him. Lord Stair could never, in after days, explain or express the curious sensation that came over him as lie took her place. On the wall opposite the glow of the light lay strongest. Perhaps that had somewhat dazzled his eyes, for when first he looked into the cell it seemed full of shadows. Nothing was plain, clearly de-flned, or distinct. Self-luminous shadows, and then after a few moments a figure rose softly before them—a graceful figure. The lace was t urned from him, but there was something in the graceful poise of the head, in the graceful bend of the neck and slope of the shoulders that seemed strangely familiar to him. A figure seated where the light from the small window fell full upon her, a woman’s figure, that, in spite of the stiff prison dress, was full of grateful lines and curves. He watched it for some minutes with dazed eyes; there was no sound; the governor had turned away, the matron watching him intently as he watched her. Slowly, with soft, sweet grace, the woman rose. She turned from the window to the table. Then it seemed to him that he rhust have suddenly gone mad, for out of the shadow—the soft, luminous shadow—he saw clearly and distinctly, advancing toward him, his wife. Marguerite Stair. There was the beautiful face, the soft rings of golden hair, the eyes like wet violets, there the beautiful mouth, with its sweet curves. For one moment Lord Stair thoughUhe had'gone mad. His wife, she was unconscious of his presence, and stood looking at some work that she held in her hands. Marguerite Nairne, pale almost as when he had first seen her in the garden at Inisfail, but with such sadness in. her face and eyes as he had never seen. He tried to cry out, but his lips were closed and dumb; they had grown white and cold; he could not open them. It was Marguerite Nairne! Why should the memory of the scene in the garden at Inisfail come back to him? Why should the symphony of Bach’s seem to ring through his heart and brain? He can almost feel the light touch of the acacia leaves as they fall: he could hear his own voice “I will take the task of your happiness and your A printer may be regarded as something of a life*. I will answer to Heaven for them.” soldier, because he is always at home with his That was what Jie had said—those were the words I Quad. lie had registered in heaven, and tlie words which stood there .against him even then. That was his promise—this the fulfillment. He would take the whole responsibilities of her life and happiness—she was here in a prison cell. He would have laughed aloud at his madness if those white locked lips of his c6uld have opened. His wife Marguerite was dead; he had seen her lying dead in that ghastly room at Cliffe Station; he 11ad followed her to her last resting-place in the family vault at Cliffe. Who. then, in Heaven’s name, was this woman with his lost wife’s fair face and eyes? CHAPTER LIII. “you are marguerite stair.” The next moment there came before his eyes the marble tablet raised to her memory in Cliffe Church, “Sacred to the memory of Marguerite, Lady Stair.” Yet here, if there was truth in the noonday sun. here was the face of his wife, the facethat he had believed had been long buried from the sight of men. He was so completely bewildered, so utterly dazed, that he could hardly form a thought. Would the vision pass, would the beautiful face and figure, the soft eyes and tender mouth disappear. They could not be real; whatever semblance the woman might have, she was not, could not be. Marguerite Stair, for she had been dead and buried more than seventeen years. Just then the beautiful face was raised to the window as though somewhat impatiently seeking more light, and then when the light fell more fully upon it, and every sweet, line was plainly shown, he knew, no matter who lay buried in the vaults at Cliffe, this was Marguerite Stair. He tried to utier the name Marguerite, he tried to cry out. but his lips were still locked and dumb. After a time the paralysis left him, and he turned from the door. He went up to the matron, who looked in wonder at his pale face. “You must open that door,” he said; “this woman there is one risen from the dead.” The matron in a quint voice spoke to the governor. who came to Lord Stair. “Have you indentifled her?” he asked. “Yes.” was the reply, “sho is a woman risen from the dead.” Captain Mayne looked at him. half thinking he must be mad. “I tell you,” cried Lord Stair, “that you must open the door, that I must see her. must speak to her. If the sun shines in the skies, if there be truth in heaven, if I am not mad, but sane and well, the woman shut up there as a thief and a prisoner, is my wife, Marguerite Stair; my wife whom I believed I saw dead more than seventeen years ago.” “It is impossible,” cried the matron. “It is quite true,” repealed Lord Stair. “Open that door; I must see her—must speak to her alone.” The matron looked at the governor as though silently asking what she should do. “Under the circumstances,” said Captain Mayne, “it will be best to do as Lord Stair wishes. Open the door.” “I am sure it is right,” he cried, eagerly. “You can see there is some great mistake, some terrible mystery. My wife has been dead more than seventeen years—yet she lives there. If there should be any informality, never mind, I will make it all right. Open the door and let me go in alone.” Both governor and matron were too surprised to offer any resistance; they were accustomed to every kind of eccentricity, but a woman said to be risen from the dead was certainly a novelty to them. Lord Stair watched like a man in a dream while the door was slowly opened. He went in alone; the governor and the matron both drew back. He closed the door. No human eyes should look on that scene—if this woman weje really Marguerite, his wife.” , , She was sitting with her back to the doorand her face to the window, the better to catch the light for her work. It was a strange coincidence that the sun, which had not until this moment reached the window of the cell, should, at the very instant, suddenly shine full upon it, and send a golden light on the bare walls, for, blessed be the goodness of Heaven, the sun shines everywhere. Neither work-house gates nor prison bars can shut it out. The sunlight forced its way in; it fell on the graceful figure, on the delicate white hands, on the beautiful face, and the prison cap. She did not look round at the opening and closing of the door. The matron was in the habit of paying her little and unexpected visits. He went up to her. Only Heaven knew the agitation, the emotion, the passion of pain and suspense that tore his very heart—only Heaven knew. , “Marguerite,” he said, slowly. He saw the sudden tension of her figure, the sudden shudder. “Marguerite,’' he repeated, “for Heaven’s sake rise, and let me see if it be you 1” [to be continued.! [A new emotional story, by Bertha M. Clay. author of “Set in Diamonds,” will soon be commenced.] Merrvweather’s Philosophy. A POWERFUL MOTIVE. “Can you name any motive that is stronger than Christian love to induce a man to move cautiously and steadily along the road of life?” inquired a Sunday-school teacher of his class in a popular city church, recently. The hand of a ragged urchin in one of the back pews went up impulsively. “Well, Johnny, what is it?” the teacher inquired, encouragingly. “I know suthin’ wot is stronger’n that ’ere motiff bizness.” “Name it.” “Five bull-dogs, an’ Bill Jones a sickin ov ’em on, jest after you sped over the fence outen his apple orchard. That makes a feller git right along up the road,” was the triumphant reply. Johnny spoke from sad experience. a predicament. There are a great many very serious predicaments in’life, but we are just now betting our last nickel on the flery-eyed predicament that overtakes the fellow that waltzes his very best Sunday girl to a five-dollar lawn fete with just fifteen little miserable cents in his pocket after the gate money is whacked up. The entire cold-blooded combination seems banded together to humiliate and distress him. Some little fairy in gipsy attire waltzes up and pins a twenty-five cent bouquet on his girl’s pink lawn dress front, and holds out her hand to him foifthe filthy lucre. He perspires fearfully, and claws about in his breeches for the quarter which he knows well enough isn’t there. Then he excuses himself and begs the money from the first friend that will negotiate a loan. Then the ice-cream! How he dodges about in remote corners, under the pretense of a violent headache. How he shuns every booth and pavilion as if they reeked with a veritable pestilence. What strange [fancies flit through his feverish brain. He outlines a future book under the title of “Two Hours or so in Hades.” He knows it will take. Everybody will know just how it is himself. It will strike a sympathetic chord in every impecunious masculine heart. He comes away a raving maniac. His hair is as white as snow. His girl concludes that he is a “mean, stingy old thing.” and advises him to take a walk. He walks. He walks away from that lawn fete, and kicks himself several blocks for his thoughtless imbecility. He will never attend another lawn fete. SEA-SICK. “So you have turned sailor. Ben ?” we remarked to a friend of ours, who had recently secured a situation on one of the Lake Superior steamers. * I did turn sailor,” he replied; “but I’m not sailing now as much as I was.” “What’s the trouble? Wasn’t the pay satisfactory?” “Yes, the pay was all right.” “Didn’t, they treat you well?” “You bet. Gilt-edged treatment.” “Then why didn’t you continue?” ‘‘Sea-sickness,” with a grimace.” “Was that all ? You should have weathered it through.” “I tried hard enough, but it was no go. I threw up everything. And the worst of the business was, right between a hunk of pork and a plate of beans I threw up my situation. I couldn’t help it. I tried hard enough to keep the thing down, but that kind of funny business was too much for me. It would come.” And Ben walked on, and hired out the next day as a hod-carrier. An epilectic has a fitful career. Fishes travel on their shape and fln-ish. A marital knot is seldom tied without a little fingering. In the bright lexicon of city youth there is no such word as flail. Sally Oglehard calls her best young man a flambeau because his top is a decided soirel. If you meddle with submarine followers in their avocation you are certain to hear divers opinions. A mountain is closely allied to a female gossip because its highest endowment is it s’speak. The naughty lad who has acquired tlie habii of posting himself at the keyhole of the parlor door on occasions when his sister’s beau just drops in as lie is going by, will probably become a greal orator, for lie’is never so happy as when he’s ’peaking. Uncle Jonas Merryweather. 8 THE NEWfORK WEEKLY. HOME MUSIC. BY NATHAN D. URNER. Outaide in the garden the blithe birds flute Their ignorance of all aches and cares; Indoors in the shadow his voice is mute, Though his song is swelling, as well as theirs: But to birds outside and to bard indoors How like and unlike the tuneful founts, Though the song they trill and the song he pours In either case from the full heart mounts ! 44 Tra la la, tra la la I” ’Neath the bending spray, Whence the warble floats, is the wind-rocked nest, Where the mother-bird drinketh the roundelay, With the fledgelings keeping about her breast. 44 Weave, weave and rhyme/” By the busy brain. Whence the poem spins, is the hearthstone free, With the little wife and the children twain, Now at elbow chirping, and now at knee. Oh. worthier than the insensate trill Of the throats outside is the song that here Distills from the heart, whose inmost thrill Is for loving dependents, fond and dear 1 They sing for pleasure, and he for bread, And his pure home-music is that which tells Of anxious soul and of scheming head Through work-a-day lives, like a chim^ of bells. His rhymes are the mingling of many keys. His little ones prattle and laugh through them, There are wifely tones in their harmonies, And smiles contented their lives begem. The pur of a sewing-machine, the sweep Of a floating robe, and the kettle’s hum At the ingle-side, with the flames a-leap, Through his varied melodies go and come. Oh, sweeter and worthier this than all The cavatinas on hedge and spray, Though knitted the brow, and at duty’s call The music born in this homely way! It beads on affection’s thread the pearls Of thought and song with a cadence free, And a sail of silver to fate unfurls In voyaging on to the unknown sea. A NAUGHTY GIRL’S DIARY By the Author of “A. BAD BOY’S DIARY.” IX.SHE ALSO GOES ABROAD. Yes. Blanche and I went to Europe before we came back. That is how we got losted so even Mr. Pinkerton could not find us until we arived on the other side an cabled back to my father I was all right. For ten days my whole family was in dred-ful suspension—what had become of Dolly? The police were set on my tracts. Every body tride their level best to find the poor lost little girl; my picture was put in the Graffic; my brother never went to bed for seven days, he surched day an night; he would not eat, jus swallo a cup of coffy an off agane. Mary says she would hardly have knone Fred, he grew so pale an hagard. It is too bad that cruel child Rosalind Rossmore should have made us all so much trubble; it was all her fault, i never, never will name my next new child after her. she dont duserve it! Fred declares she is not one whit worser than me—we are a team—he will bet on me evry time. It is rong to bet. It seems Fred lurned more slang in colledge than greke or latin. Miss Rossmore was quite ill of numonia getting chilled in her wet bathing dress till she called a frend an had them bring her a cloak to go up to the hotel in. I have promised I will never do such a thoutless trick agane. The worst is her long gold braid fell off on the hotel piaza in the mist of the crowd as she was helped to her room; it made her feel sicker to have it come off. for she was very proud of her hair, but it was picked up by Mr. Livingston Vandergilt, an admirer of hers, so she had it agane when she got well, but they say she is in lo spirits. I enjoid my trip across tho oshun very well in-dede; if it had not been for thinking how bad my parens mus feel not to know where Dolly was I should had a splendid time; so I tride not to think of my parens and suceded very, very well in-dede. I did not have Fred’s ecspense book along, so i did not kepe my diary reglar. but I member lots i will got it down from time to time. Most of the pasingers were very much sirprised indede to find i was going to Europ. My goodness grashus the questions I had to anser after one of the ships otlsers notised me siting by myself in the cabin when the sterner wa^ well out in the bay going out 40 dollar opra glass overboard; it gave him quite a novel sensation when I fell overboard myself, as there might be sharks around, he was a good while swimming round foye he pict me up, an’ it was de-liteful to imagdin we mite both make a dinner for the cretures; he aded “little Dolly looked like ‘the cherub that sits up aloft.’ with her curls flying that day I climed up the rigging.” the folks were friten-ed, but I told them i had climed too menny apple trees to be scared up there, but alas, alas, Blanche could not hold on as well as I, an’ she got a fearful fall that smashed her brains out on the deck, an’ we buried her next day by tying a small bag of shot to her feet an’ slipping her off an old gentleman’s backgamon board—I was sory the board went too, for he liked to play backgamon on deck. Thank my stars I did not drop the emigrant woman’s baby I borrode to play with after Blanche was buried at sea overboard; it is luccy when i stumbled the baby only fell down the companyun way—it fell plump on top Miss Riddle’s head an’broke hertortos shell comb, then bounded off an’ hit the cabin boy in the face an’ made his nose swell up an’ bleed awjul, but it didn’t hurt the dear little thing very much, only put its fat little shoulder out of joint. The ship’s surjon fixed it back again; but the woman would not lend me her baby after that, an’ Miss Riddle was so angry her comb was broken an a blue spot on her fprrid, she didn’t speak to me agane, when it was the baby did it. I did not fall on her head, I am sure, so why should she say to another lady I was the horridest little pest she ever came across—she did not pity my parents now, she persumed they were only too glad to be rid of me. Mr. Godfrey, he heard her, an’ lie said: “Beware! I am Dolly’s friend. I consider her a very intresting little girl; she has begiled the teje-um of the voyidge; I was sufring from onyway til she gave me somethin to think of. Reflect! I have kep a strict account, an’ she has asked jus’ eleven thousand. 9 hundred an’ 66 questions since we left New York harbor! There’s a feet for you! Also, she has strode the watry pathway from New York to Liverpool with the treasures of the pasingers. It is not evry little girl could lose your kensington ’mbroidery, my aunt’s camel’s hair shawl, the steward’s silver spoons, my opra an* iglasses, an’ dimond ring, an’ a few other small trifles, in the briny deep, to say nothing of ruining the captain’s compass. Don’t slander Miss Dolly! Ime her frend. She’s a brite, active child, an’ I am indetted to her for settling the question which has trubbled my mind for some time—‘to wed or not to wed. that is the question.’ Here he looked strait at Miss Riddle’s face. She blushed an’ looked ankshus, so he sloly aded, “I shall never wed.” I wonder why. After that Miss Riddle seemed to hate me. I asked her how old she was. cause I wanted to know, but she would not anser me. Then I asked her did she want Mr. Godfrey to get married, an’ she would not say. Mrs. Godfrey made me lie in my berth to have my dress washed and mended, anether little girl gave me 2 pear stockings, so we got there in 9 days. He telegrafed to papa: “Your daughter took the City of Brussles insted of the Long Branch boat. She is safe an’ tolraby sound. Will be consined to you per return steamer. Will see her off. Godfrey.” When that teligram was brought to our house there was a scene! Mama fell into papa’s arms, Fred sat down in a chair an’ remarkd, that’s Dolly all over.” grandma stood at the top of the stairs an’ scremed. the news flue, the hole town rushed in pur house, but I think I ought to have the reward because I found myself. Mr. Godfrey rote a few lines to my parens by me: “The whole ship’s company, crue and pasingirs have helped take care of Miss Dolly; it took us all. We hope she will get safely home, but have our douts. She fell overboard a few times, set the ship on fire twice, almost killed herself with my cloro-form, broke her arm falling into the hold, broke the barometer, put pepper intp the cook’s duff under theimpreshun it was jin*j6r. almost killed a little baby, an’ otherwise amused us. She is a nice, lively little girl. I got quite fond of her. an’ sometime, after my return, will call on her. with your per-mishun. Respeckfully, Allyn Godfrey.” I am overjoid; I will see him agen. I am very fond of him. Charlie is glad I am home; he is sorry he did not get the watch, but he is glad I am not dead, so * can carry his books when school opens an’ lend i him half my lunch when he etes hisn all up at re- 1 ‘•R. C. P.,” icket, R. I.—A suitable bonnet to be worn with a ig costume of garnet silk would be a garnet chip 1 Over the left side, and extending across the frqht be a monture of pale pink rosebuds; the under-faculd be of pink Surah, and the ties of pink Ottomann. “J. Wondelldwater, Mich.—1st. We can send you the “Life andntures of Josh Billings” upon receipt of 25 cts. 2dang Mrs. Charnleigh” is now in book form ; price $er copy. 3d. “Sensible Etiquette, by Miss O. B. Wiill cost you $2. “Mrs. D..” lyn, E. D.—Bathe the face in awash of tepid water alk in equal quantities, and try applications of cold cor vaseline to soothe the irritation. “W. D. T.,’ke your blue gingham by model No. 8,631, price 4ts. Trim it with coarse white embroidery or to lace. “C. A. Abboetroit, Mich.—We can send you a book on etiquette f and also one for $2. Both are good works. “L. S.”—A Jm outfit for an infant can be furnished for $43, whiclides a baby basket trimmed and furnished. THE TECH OF THE MILL. lTa.xn.es L. Uowen. “Why, Datyou talk as though you doubted me!” “No, Ethie no! I don’t want you to think that—you m’t think so! But your father is so kind to and treats me so well, and loves you -so muthat it does seem to me that if he knew hQie happiness of both was bound up in it hould not refuse. He has known me from chilod. I have been in his service now these five ye ever since I was large enough to do a man’s v—and he knows who and what I am.” “Yes. Danihat is all true, and I do not wonder that you feel ou do. But mother knows better than you or h know what his ambition is for me. and she ires me that did my father suspect our love he only would not employ you for another day. biould forbid our even speaking to- pettier ** “And then)aniel cried, impulsively, “I could claim you. are could defy the woxld to keep us from each ot!” „ “No.no; now—not yet! For the present we must wait anyone. We are both young, we see each other ey day; let us be patient for a time, and hope for best. My father.as you know.is very kind to me. i!l love him as a child should love a parent, and Juld not willingly displease him. “I wish yowed me as much as you do him! ’ The voice vpetulant. but the tones showed that the speaker mot distrust his companion. Ethie bit her lips iiomentary vexation. “Daniel Delf. you must not talk so to me!” she exclaimed. 5u know that I love you more than I love any onlse on earth, and if duty called me I should folltyour fortunes wherever they might lead. But atesent it is better as it is.” And DanieIho knew that she spoke the truth craved her jlon for the unkind reflection, and they parted. . . , The scenes devoid of a certain picturesqueness, could sreely have been called romantic, for the conversah just recorded had taken place in the interior o rude saw-mill, rising almost from the bed of a Iwling mountain stream known as “The Branch The swirl of the water among the rocks, the par of rain upon the roof, and the ceaseless teaf the great upright saw through the massive log ingled with the voices of the lovers, while a bracef antiquated lanterns gave an uncertain distimess to the chill interior. It was earhutumn. and a long drouth had prevailed, but, n<the first considerable rain was fall- ' ’ ream was high .enough to allow the ing of the mill, which was pressed but it was all in vain, though the explorations were carried tar below the limit of hope, and with the coming of daylight the party made their way back to the mill with sad faces. As the water was now subsiding, and there seemed no danger of further damage, the men repaired to their homes, Mr. Crittenden among the number. On entering the house he was met by his wife with an inquiring glance which voiced the question she would have asked. Sometime before a neighbor had told her the sad news, but, in the hope that the worst might not be true, Mrs. Crittenden had kept the tidings from her daughter. , ., "It’s no use hoping, he said; we ve got to give A despairing word fell from the hearer’s lips, at the same moment that Ethie. who had wondered at her mother’s constrained air and manifest agitation. appeared on the scene and eagerly demanded: “Who is it. father? I know that there is some one hurt—why will you not tell me what is the matter?” . , ... . . “Why, girl, don’t you know that Daniel is carried down stream, and we can’t find--” , Before he could complete the sentence the maiden, with a cry of terrible anguish, sank at his feet in a S^‘Why, mother, what is the matter with the child?” her astonished father demanded, as he lifted her to a lounge. , T “Don’t ask me now; you’ll know soon enough. I should think you would know without asking.” exclaimed Mrs. Crittenden, wildly; and both gave themselves to the restoration of Ethie to consciousness until finally she came back to life and gazed anxiously into the faces of those bending over her. “Tell me. father.” she pleaded, piteously, did I hear aright—that Daniel is—lost ?” . “Yes, my dear girl. I know it is sad, for Daniel was a good boy; but there is no doubt he was carried down and drowned, or dashed to death on the rocks. No one could live in such a flood.” “And I loved him so much—so much\” Hugh Crittenden sprang to his feet, and gazed first on his wife and then on his daughter. “So that is it! Why, you never breathed a word of this to me!” , . “No. father; I did not speak of it, for I feared it would displease you; but indeed I could not help it!” The father bent over and kissed his daughter, resting his broad hand upon her brow. “Well, I don’t think it would have pleased me over much; but I’d be glad to see the boy right here now. and I’d tell you to be happy with all my heart —that I would!” . The man’s eyes were filled with an unusual moisture, and he moved toward the door, when, on the threshold, he stood face to face with Daniel Dewolf I The young man was drenched and muddy, but there was no question of his identity, and in another moment he was the center of a happy family tertaining. and, like the canary and bullfinch, can be taught to do all kinds of tricks. The best food to give them is canary and mawseed, to which should be occasionally added some green meat, such as chick weed or lettuce. The cage should be the same as for the bullfinch, and should always be provided with plenty of water for bathing. THE SKYLARK. When caught young or brought from the nest the skylark makes a most excellent cage-bird, singing during the whole winter, spring and summer. When caught old it seldom answers in a cage, being too timid, and very difficult to tame. It should be fed with a mixture of mawseed, bruised hemp-seed, powdered biscuit, and a little hard-boiled egg, chopped fine, to which may be added a little raw beef, lean and scraped fine, or a couple of meal worms. A little green food occasionally, chopped up, agrees with them. Some birds will also eat canary and millet-seed, and groats of oats, which may be given them in a sepa-rate dish The cage should be from 12 to 18 inches long, and height and depth in proportion, the top. instead of wire, being covered with cloth or netting. No perches are required. The bottom should be covered with dry sand or gravel, and a sod of turf be placed in the middle of the cage on a little table about two inches high. The boxes for feeding and for water must be outside the cage. The woodlark may be treated the same as the skylark, and the cage may be the same, with the addition ot perches instead of the green sod. Both these species of larks are sold at $3.50 or $4 each. THE BLACKBIRD. The female lays from four to six eggs of a pale bluish green, spotted with pale amber, and sets from twelve to thirteen days. Their food may be of two different kinds, viz : A piece of stale bread or roll, soaked in water for a few minutes, and pressed out and mixed with the same quantity of coarse barley or oatmeal, with sufficient milk added to make a thin paste. This must be given fresh every morning. The other mixture is made of bruised hempseed, carrots (grated), in equal quantities, and well mixed. This latter is the preferable of the two. as it does not turn sour so quickly. A little hard-boiled egg or fresh meat chopped fine may also be added occasionally, and dried currants, well washed, may be also constantly kept in their cages. The cage should be at least two and a half feet long, and high in proportion, and the perches three-quarters of an inch thick. The thrush must be treated the same as the blackbird. “Well. well, my dear fellow.” cried Mr. Crittenden, as he wrung the young man’s hand, “we all supposed you were dead. Tell us all about it. “There is not much to tell.” said Daniel, modestly. “I was awakened by the water, which was so high that I feared the dam might be in danger, and I lighted the lantern and crossed the bridge to go up on the other side and look at it. I had scarcely reached the opposite side of the stream when the dam above gave way and took the bridge with it. I could only cross the Branch to get back by going up to the Four-Mile bridge, and the water was so high, and traveling so bad, that it took me a long time; but here I am.” “Well, my boy, I’m very glad to see you back here, and I was just saying something to Ethie I about you; but she can tell you all about that later on. Get your clothes changed, and we’ll have some breakfast—there’ll be time enough to talk business ing, and the continual ruing of the mill, which was pressed with demanefor lumber which had been delayed And the result of it all was that when the mill was rebuilt and enlarged the following season, it was put in the care of another, for Daniel found a place in the store as the partner of Mr. Crittenden, and at the big house on the hill, which was the envy of all the neighbors, there was a partnership of a more tender nature, of which the reader hardly needs to be told more. the narros. i had not knone anything was rong, cause evry thing looked like it did going to long Branch. Lots of peple had bin looking at me very sharp, so’s me an my doll felt very shy to think my stockins were soiled an my frock tore. Blanche turned her face an stared out the windo, an i took panes to sit on the torn place at last, i tucked my stockins under me, too, but they began to wisper about me an ide me so sirprised I began to wish we would get thdre sooner. 1 guess they spoke to the oflser, for he came after awhile an’ asked me who I was. Half the pasingers crowded round to lissen. i did not think they were very polite; but i ansered as pritty as I knew how, “Dolly Muggins, sir; an’ this is Rosa’s little girl, blanche fluer de lee,’ an’ I made Blanche look round an’ curtsy. “Where are you going. Miss Dolly.” says he. “To Long branch, of course, sir,” i replide. Oh. dear me, I do forget so when I write fast. I know I ought to be riten I. not i, an’ I ot to put captals to my proper nouns, but I can’t stop. “To long branch!” echoed he; an’ then the folks about me all gaspid O, like somethin’ had biten them. “Then you are not awear you are on the sterner city of Brussels, bound for liverpool, little Miss Dolly?” he asked agen. frowning an’ biting his lips; “you are not awear you are on a 10 days voyidge across the sea, eh?” he continued, very sharp. “Where are your father an’ mother—are they on board?” I said: “Yes, sir. they were boarding at the Westt End,” witch made the pasingers laugh. “Are they here on this ship?” he asked. I said no. an’ began to cry like my heart would break, i was so fritened to think I was off for urope in that stile, my curls unbrushed, my frock torn, not a cent of spending money to buy pictures an’ statuse when i arived there; i felt I should be a disgrace to our famly. “Poor pretty little thing!” said the ladies; “poor child, what will you do with her, purser?” “Throw her out to the fishes, of course, now the pilot boat has gone,” he answered; but he laffed when he said it. an’ aded: “I think you ladies will have to agre to take care of her. ’ “Call her the Child of the sterner.” said a elgant young gentelman. with a waxed mustash twice as nice as Fred’s. “Or the Murmade,” sugested another. “My maid shall look after her.” said a pale lady in depe morning. “Poor darling, how did you hapen to come on the ship ? How perfectly dred-ful your parens will feel!” “Les pull up the cable an’ telefone ’em,” said the waxed mustash. “This is no laffing matter, my nevu,” answered the lady. So he tost me a gold peace an’ told me to go out an’ buy a clean frock; he was full of fun. They all asked me bout a million questions; I got quite interested ansering them, so I forgot to cry any more; i told them all about how Rosa an’ me got carried off to the city an’ what we did there; so the young gentleman was delited; he knew the Rossmores well; he remarked to his aunt my father was probly a influenzal person; but it I was very mischevous of Rosa an’ me to leave her | sister to catch cold in the bath-house. I told them ; how I took Blanche out for an airing, how we got losted an’ took a strete car to try to find the Long Branch boats, how the conduckter put us off cause we had no change, how I saw a big boat an’ peple hurrying on. so I walked close to a lady with 2 children an’ sliped on. because I was homesick to find mama, an’ I thout it was the right boat, an’ I told them if I had dremed I was going abroad I would cess. P. M.—I forgot to write in my diary about the return voyidge. It was very pleasant. I was put in the charg of a nice servan’ girl who wanted to come to our country, but had no money; so Mrs. Godfrey engaged her to go to her house as watres, an’ paid her to take care of little Dolly. She says it was ;he hardes’ gob she ever undertook—it did not seem to me so very hard, but the captain said he had to dubble the watch; but I don’t know how folks can dabble their watches—If I could dubble mine I would give Charlie one. It was not my folt we were cot in a cyclone an’ I blew off the deck an’ had to be rescude at terrible risk to six salors; it was not my folt we colided with a nieeburg an’ stove a hole in our forard department, that we had only gone a few miles from it when we would have sunk if we had not bin tooken off by anuther ship; it was not my folt a Frenchman comited sui-side by jumping overboard, though some peplo said i was the reson he did it. Some of them called me Jonah insted of Dolly; i wonder why. It seems ukeadremel have been to Europe an’ back!< I VltiXLixjv n, , i id (ifcftuu ouxuu du/ .m' take more money with me. i would like to see the Alps an’ the French dolls. bythelowwir. , , , . . . , Daniel’s as tant had long since gone home, but the former il volunteered to run the saw well Litw th© nig and Ethie had come through the storm, with aail of hot coffee and a lunch; and it ’’ supposed that the opportunity was pass without the exchange of a few dearment. for the young couple were Daniel’s as into the nig may be readi not allowed t sentences of <|dearment. for the young couple were ardently in lob. The situation is made reasonably plain by theironversation. Hugh Critteden. the father of Ethie, was the one man of the seiion in which he lived. From a small beginning he had become comparatively wealthy. His were thitmills, the country store, the postoffice, the loaV magistracy—in fact, the business and social lifo of tho little community revolved at The Ladies’ Work-Box Edited by Mrs. Virginia Ingram “Byrl D.,” Hillsdale,—1st. Your sample is a very pretty shade of blue, the material is all wool lace-bunting, and could be very stylishly made from the following models: The “Adrienne” basque and “Josefa” walking skirt. Cream-colored Oriental lace would be suitable trimming for such a costume. 2d. Price of basque pattern, twenty-five cents; skirt pattern, thirty cents. 3d. A plain black, French kid button shoe is the most lady-like, and will make a large foot look much smaller than one of light colors. < Do not get very high heels to your shoes or slippers, as they are no longer considered fashionable, and never were comfortable or sensible. 4th. Silk mitts or gloves are very stylish, as are also tan-colored kid gloves, with long loose wrists. You can get very handsome openwork silk mitts, in all the light shades of colors. 5th. The hat should be a becoming shape, and the material may be manila or any braid that you fancy, and the trimming may be of Surah silk, and there may be daisies or blue forget-me-nots mingled with the Surah to complete the trimmings, or if you prefer you can use the Oriental lace in place of the Surah silk. 6th. If a bonnet is worn by a girl of fourteen years of age, it should be one of the quaint poke, or gipsy shapes. * “Mrs. J. J. D.,” Sing Sing, N. Y.—1st. A handsome wrap may be made from model No. 8,607. Price of pattern, 30 cents. 2d. Such wraps are made of Spanish net over a foundation of thin Surah, or satin, and elaborated with lace applied. Cashmere, nun’s vailing, and, indeed, all materials used for independent wraps, or to complete costumes, make up handsomely in this way, and braid, fringe, or any decorations suited to the texture of the goods may be employed in the elaboration of the mode. 3d. Lace and embroidery are seasonable trimmings for almost all classes of goods. 4th. For a lady of medium size it will require four yards and one-eighth of material twenty-two Indies wide, or one yard and seven-eights of goods either forty-eight or fifty four inches wide. “Mrs. J. L. B.” Marlin, Texas.—1st. Black is worn for all out-of-door occasions more than any of the deep dark shades of color, because it admits of almost any tinge of color being used to brighten the toilet. Black and gold are old artistic combinations. 2d. Parasols are verv showy, and, for the street, of large size. The more recent are striped in high colors, or of tinted silk, with floral designs, which are usually detached, though their graceful forms and exquisite shading save them from being very conspicuous. 3d. There is no limit to combinations this season. Suits, laces, ribbon trimmings of all kinds, and even gloves, partake of it. “L. L. P.,” Binghamton, N. Y.—1st. Very narrow ribbons are a great rage, and are used for clustering loops and ends as rosettes and ornaments for the corsage instead of bouquets. 2d. Pekin striped silks will be worn in every color. Plain and changeable silks of every tone are in I vogue. 3d. For rich silks the palm-leaf design is most J popular, and is inwrought to imitate cashmere designs. : Favorite shades are electric blue, garnet, crushed strawberry, etc. 4th. Polka dots are now no longer of one color, but are variegated or iridescent, or, if self-colored, are placed alternately in contrasting tones, or in triplets of black, crimson, white, etc. “Henrietta.”—A summer outfit for the mountains is an easy matter. A dark blue flannel, well made, Jersey basque, plaited skirt, close paniered drapery; all-wool flannel, no trimming, but stitching, and small gilt buttons. You will want one print, perhaps, but it seems as if you might begin and end with flannel; it is the only wear in the mountains. For indoors a tine wool or cashmere, made plain, color clarat or peacock blue, with sleeves full to the elbow, and then set into a deep cuff, which should । be edged with narrow lace ruffling. have fixed up better an’ taken my money out of the bank my grandma put there for me, an’ then I could have pirchased some presents for my famly. I wished I had my own doll along and not Rosas. She might not like me taking Blanche, speshly if she should u© very seasick. I asked them if it hurted dolls much to be seasick. Mr. Godlrey Uh?, nice young gentleman) said it could be prevented _________ _________,______________________ from becoming fatal by plenty of chloroform, so I tical model, and la suitable for the lower part of almost borrode his bottle nex day when his stateroom was next, his aunt’s, an’ I gave Blanche so much I mos killed myself. I was found dead, but survived after a time. I regret it all elaborated on our close, cause dear Mrs. Godfrey neded some she was so il for a day or two. Mr. Godfrey says it was the stormiest “C. D. N.”—The box-plaitetL skirt is a simple and prac- passage he ever experensed. I don’t know why he said it. unless to quiss me. for the water was smooth as glass all the way over. We made it in 9 days. He thanked me very politely for doing them the honor to come along. It would have been munotnus if Miss Dollyhad not made it so very lively. He said it was plesaut for him when I droped his any style of costume for street or house wear, as it is adapted for use either with a polonaise or a basque, with or without an overskirt. It is suitable for any class of dress goods, including woolens and washable materials, and consists simply of a yoke with a box-plaited skirt attached. “Julia F.,” Stamford, Conn.—1st. Model No. 8,612, price 40 cents, would be a very stylish pattern from which to make a costume of pongee, foulard, figured and plain muslin, and also as well adaped to woolen material. Handsome silks, but plain and figured, will be especially pretty made up after this model. his pleasure. It was but natm^T'iat the father should take great pride in his swejkand beautiful daughter, now some nineteen yra* of age. There was. in fact, no limit to his ambitiot! jn her behalf—an ambition which Ethie io longer shared, since her heart was given to Darnel Dew)1 ft a worthy young man in her father’s empjby, whcLj fortunes she would be quite content to s bare. . “She mus>u go intr society in the cities,” her father had ;aidonl the evening before our story opens. “She is qudifled, and she’ll shine there— mind what I tell yoi. she’ll shine there!” For a week the storm had continued almost without cessition. So great a rain-fall had scarcely been known, and th^Branch, which had shrunken almost to a succession of pools, now roared and dashed with frightul energy past the old brown mill. All day loig, and far into the night, the keentoothed saw tore its way through the endless succession of log3. and Daniel often gazing out upon the mad wate-s fancied that they reflected his own heart, for truti to tell, he was far from calm. He loved intensey, but it was by no means clear to him how his bve was ever to wear a more hopeful phase than atpresent. And when at last the gates were shut, ant the wheel ceased its revolutions, he would retiie to the little “office,” in which a couch had been placed, and divide the few hours of rest between sleep and futile efforts to see beyond the dark vail of the future. The “office” was a narrow room, built out from the side of the mill, and projecting directly over the bed of the stream, and the flood dashed by now so close to the flooring that it almost seemed he was pillowed on the whirling eddies; but when his emotions were most aroused he welcomed the companionship. and its very madness was its lullaby. But one night there came a strange commotion in the hamlet along the stream. Some one disturbed by a sick chili was further startled by a heavy crash and roar from the darkness without. He flew to the door, and his worst fears were confirmed. Plainly enough the crashing and splintering of timbers came to his ears, mingled with the grating and crunching of great stones borne along by resistless force. Then followed the roar and sweep of an immense body of water suddenly liberated and overwhelming everything in its course. There was but one explanation possible, the dam had given way, and the great mill-pond was added to the already swollen current of the branch. From house to house the frightened messenger ran. and in avery short time a half-dozen men with lanterns were hurrying through the mist and darkness toward the pond. The dam had been located perhaps a hundred rods above the mill, where a large region was overflowed, but long before it was reached all doubts were removed. The current was immensely swollen and laden with debris, while much of the bordering land was overwhelmed, so that at last the effort to reach the dam was given up. and the party turned their attention down-stream. A few rods above the mill a highway crossed the branch, but where there had been a heavy bridge high above the water they could discern only a straggling wreck, crumbling away each moment under the resistless energy of the flood. The bridge had gone bodily with the current. Hugh Crittenden had not formed one of the first Earty. for his house was more remote than those of is neighbors, but now they saw the flashing of lights about the mill, and heard cries of alarm. There is something to pay there!” cried one, and all ran about the great piles of logs and made their way to the structure. Hugh was there, with a friend or two. and all were in the wildest excitement. The mill was wrecked, and trembling under the force of the mad current which rushed through the lower part of the structure; but it was not that which filled those present with horror. At the rear the door leading to what had been the office—Da.niel’s sleeping-room—was torn from its fastenings, but it opened only upon a seething, howling waste of waters. The little “annex” had been torn from its place, taking away a section of the mill, and with all that it had contained had gone down the turbulent stream. “Dewolf—where is he ?” gasped more than one, and Hugh Crittenden, very pale but calm, made all the answer that was in his power: “God knows, men; I don’t. There is no trace of him here.” “Then he must be in the river,” cried Nathan Goodman. Daniel s assistant in the mill, “for I was here till late, and he was very tired and sleepy I left, and said he should shut down and go to bed soon and fry to get a good night’s rest, which he hadn’t had since the storm began. Poor fellow! If he’s gone into this flood he’ll never wake again.” “Possibly he may have been thrown ashore somewhere,” suggested Mr. Crittenden. “While there is hope we must try to find him. Some of you men with lanterns follow down the bank—we may get some clew of him.” The search was made, and thoroughly made, for apart from the promptings of a common humanity the missing man was a favorite with his associates; THE KREMLIN. The ancient citadel of Moscow is called the Kremlin. It is an almost triangular inclosure, containing many magnificent buildings, among which are cathedrals, palaces, monasteries, and other costly and beautiful specimens of architecture. This inner city, as it may be called, is surrounded by walls twenty-eight to fifty feet high, and about one and a quarter miles in circuit. At each angle there are towers, battlements, and embrasures, with smaller towers between. Five gates give entrance to the Kremlin, and each gate possesses historic interest. The principal entrance is known as the Gate of the Redeemer, and is so reverenced by all Russians that no person— not even the emperor—passes it without uncovering the head and bowing to the faded picture of the Saviour above it. All the Russian emperors since the days of Ivan the Terrible, and including the present emperor, Alexander III., have been crowned in the Cathedral of the Assumption, one of the sacred edificesol the Kremlin. FEATHERED SONGSTERS. THE NIGHTINGALE. The nightingale is about five inches in length; the top of the head and the back is of a grayish brown, breast ash gray, and throat white, with dark brown wings and tail. When caged and well treated they will sing for six or eight months during the year. The cage should be at least fifteen inches long, and a foot high, and have three perches, two below and one above. The top should be of a green muslin, or something of that sort, and it should hang down to the upper perch, on which the bird generally sings. This precaution keeps them shaded from view, as they are of a very timid nature. The situation should be changed as little as possible, and punctual attendance to their wants is more necessary to this bird than any other. They should be cleaned at least twice a week, and the bottom of the cage well covered with dry gravel, and a daily bath be given. Their feet, which are very tender, should be looked after, and if dirty be cleansed in luke-warm water. In winter they 1 should be kept in a warm room. Their food should be carrot, hard-boiled egg, table roll or biscuit and boiled sheep’s or calf’s heart, in equal quantities grated together, to which should be added half as much ants’ eggs as the whole of the other mixture. This food must be made fresh every morning. A few meal worms given occasionally is also beneficial. Moulting in a nightingale generally amounts to a disease, and at this period they must be well looked after. The ants’ eggs, before being mixed with the other food, are better soaked in hot water, and the number of meal worms should be increased by two or three, and a spider be given them now and then. Prices for these birds vary from $15 to $25 each. OTHER BIRDS. Japan robins cost $5; tropicals, $2 to $10; red birds. $2.50; scarlet tanagers, $4; rose-breasted grossbeaks, $4; Baltimore orioles, $2.50; cut-throat. $2.50 per pair, silverbeaks, $2.50; blackhead nuns. $2.50; whitehead huns, $3; three-colored nuns, $3; St. Helena finches, $3; zebra finches, $4; Shanberry finches, $3; Napoleon weavers, $5; Bishop weavers, $6; Paradise weavers, $5; white Java sparrows, $7 to $10; and gray Java sparrows, $3. Trained starlings are sold from $10 to $50, and the ordinary starling for $4 each. Robbins bring $3 and linnets, $2.-2^. Y. World. Items of Interest. HOW THEY MUST BE TREATED TO HAVE THEM SING. The nightingale of America—the mocking-bird— is a native of the Southern States, where thousands of them are taken from the nest before they are fledged, and reared by hand. They are often sold for fabulous prices, although the general price for young ones is $5 each, and for older birds from $12 to $25. During the breeding season, which commences in March and ends in September, the female lays five eggs of a light-green color, with brown spots and blotches. The mocking-bird is particular as to its food, and should be fed and watered every day at the same hour. The cage should be large and kept very clean, with plenty of gravel at the bottom. Its food should consist of prepared mocking-bird food, and during the moulting season berries, grasshoppers, spiders, and occasionally a meal worm or two should be given. He should also be kept out of draughts, and with these precautions a bird will live the average life of ten years. THE BULLFINCH, which is a native of Europe, has no natural song, but is gifted with the ability of imitating, with wonful accuracy in a sweet, flute-like tone, almost any air that is whistled or played to it on an instrument, and this makes it a great favorite among lovers of birds. The male has a short, thick bill of a black color, head large, neck short, and stout body, and is six inches in length. The head, wings, and tail are black, the back dark gray, the breast blood-red, the rump white, and the claws a brownish black. The female is smaller, and the plumage duller. She lays four or five eggs of a bluish or purplish white, speckled and streaked with purple and reddish brown. The manner in which they are taught to sing is to take them from the nest when young and place them in a cage in a darkened place, when the tune it is desired they should learn is whistled to them several times a day, but principally in the morning and evening. No other bird must be near them at the time. Some birds can be taught a couple of tunes in three months, while others will take nine months; some again will only learn part of a tune, and others will not learn at all. If they do not know their lesson by the time they are nine months old they will never learn. THEIR TREATMENT. The bullfinch should be fed on summer rapeseed, to which maybe added a little canary and hemp; sugar. sw**et cake, or such like delicacies spoil their tastes, and should not be given. A little green stuff or sweet apple in water is good for them. The cage should not be over a foot square, with a flat top. They should be cleaned weekly, and be given plenty of gravel. Those that like to bathe should be given an extra dish or cup filled with water forthat purpose. Their claws should be cut twice a year, but to do this they must be handled very gently, as they are easily frightened, and harsh treatment often causes their death. The bird becomes very much attached to his feeders, and will, if always attende.1 by one person, come out of the cage and perch on his finger, and whistle at his command. Their general disorders are moulting, hoarseness, and epilepsy. They generally live from five to six years. Wild bullfinches sell for $2.50 each, but tamed ones are worth from $10 to $50. THE GOLDFINCH. This is one of the handsomest of all wild birds, and the most admired of all the finch family. It is 5 3-4 inches in length, the front of the head is a fine crimson, cheeks white, top of the head black, the back is brown, and the under part of the body whitish. The wings are black and yellow spotted; tail black, with white spots. This funny little fellow has such a way of turning his body rapidly from side to side as he utters his sprightly notes as to be quite amusing and en- A dog owned in Portland. Me., has quite a fancy for traveling. When the freak takes him, he goes aboard the Boston boat and makes a quiet trip to the Hub. When the boat reaches that city he disappears in the crowd, but never fails to return and make the homewar d trip at night. No one knows where he spends the day after leav ing the boat, nor how he manages to keep posted’orftl boat’s departure, which is two hours earlier in winter than in summer, but he never gets left. Among the largest individual holders of government bonds are Wm. H. Vanderbilt, who owns $37,000,-000; Mrs. A. T. Stewart, $30,000,000; Jay Gould, $13,000,000; James Flood, of California, $15,000,000; . D. O. Mills, $4,000,000. The Rothschilds possess $400,-000,000 of U. S. bonds—nearly one-quarter of our bonded debt. The Baroness Burdett-Coutts-Bartlett has $20,-000,000 in our bonds; the Duke of Sutherland, $5,000,000; and Sir Thomas Brassy, $5,000,000. A Turin jeweler has made a tiny boat formed of a single pearl, which shape it assumes in swell and concavity. Its sail is of beaten gold, studded with diamonds, and the binnacle light at its prow is a perfect ruby. An emerald serves as its rudder, and its stand is a slab of ivory. It weighs less than half an ounce; its price is one thousand pounds. As a theatrical country, Italy heads the list, with 348 theaters; next comes France, with 337; Germany, 194; Spain, 160 ; Great Britain, 150; Austria and Hungary, 132; Russia, 44 ; Belgium, 34 ; Holland. 22 ; Switzerland, 20; Sweden and Norway, 18; Portugal, 16; Denmark, 10; Turkey, 4; Greece. 4. Just before typing lynched by the Iowa mob, Isaac Barber asked for a chew of tobacco. After some difficulty and a delay of five minutes, a plug was secured for him, and he started on his long journey with a mouthful of the weed. In this instance the use of tobacco prolonged life— about five minutes. A woman in Galveston city has a baby that is forever getting into mischief. When she hangs up her wash she hangs the baby to the clothes-line with clothespins, so she can keep an eye on it. Large quantities of mutton are exported from New Zealand to England, where it sells for fourpence per pound, an advance of one hundred per cent, over home prices. A man has invented a chair that can be adjusted in 800 different positions. It is designed for a boy to sit in when he goes to church. In Yazoo county. Miss., a cow died with hydro-{)hobia from eating the hay on which a mad dog had been ying. A Quaint Story by Bill Nye. That popular humorist, Bill Nye, has written for the New York Weekly a droll story of two modest lovers. It appears in another column, under the title of “A Novel Novelette.” BOYS’ STRANGE EXCUSES. Most youngsters from constant practice get fertile in inventing excuses. “Why, Georgie, you are smoking!” exclaimed an amazed mother, who came upon her little son as he was puffing away at a cigar. “N—no. ma; I am only keeping it lighted for another boy.” “Did you break that window, boy?” said a grocer, catching hold of the fleeing urchin. “Yes sir.” “What do you mean by running off in this manner ?” “Please, sir, I was running home to get the money. I was afraid if I didn’t run home quick, I might forget.” was the instant explanation. It must have been an Irish boy who wrote in a postscript; “Dear father, forgive these large blots on my letter, but they came while the letter was passing through the post. I write this for fear you should think 1 made them myself.” At a juvenile party, a young gentleman about eight years old kept himself al<»of from the rest of the company. The lady of the house called to him: “Come and play, or dance, my dear. Choose one of those pretty girls for your wife.” “N t likely!” cried the young cynic; “no wife for me! Do you think I want to be worried out of my life, like poor papa ?” |