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2 Then Mr. Darrell turned away, and I went up toward the Castle with O’Callaghan. “Now tell me,” I said to Daddy, “all that has happened since I lelt.” I did not wish to brood over the future, and bo become unnerved, “On the morning you ought to have arrived at Edinburgh a telegram came from Mibb Suth erland, saying that you had disappeared at the terminus, and that every inquiry was being made.” ■•That was untrue,” I interrupted. “I never went bo far. Now I understand why I was not traced.” O’Callagban looked at me in amazement. “ You did not go to Edinburgh 1 Miss Suth erland’s story was that you disappeared there in the crowd. She must have deliberately mis led the detectives.” “So it seems. Go on; tell me all.” “His lordship was terribly upset, telegraph ed to Miss Sutherland to employ the best de tect!', es, and started for Scotland the next night himself. I accompanied bis lordship.” “ What did you think, Daddy?” 1 asked. “I was sorely puzzled, but I blessed my stars that your ladyship had that money. And somehow,” he added, with a smile, “1 thought it would not be long before you wrote to old Daddv.” After this O’Callaghan drew himself up to his full hight and continued his narrative in a pro siao business-like tone, as if this momentary familiarity had been nu indiscretion. “ We could hear nothing of your ladyship, ind we returned home. Lord Farnmore was very ill for some days, and Miss Sutherland nursed him with great care. I discovered that his lordship was in the habit of taking large quantities of opiates, and I fancy this has much affected his nerves. When his lordship recov ered, Mins Sutherland went to the Vicarage. I heard her say that Farnmore was no place for her now that "you had gone, but she came over constantly and had long interviews with his lordship, who daily grew more helpless.” “My poor father,” I exclaimed, “ and I was not there I” “Don’t fret, mavourtreen,” said O’Callaghan, momentarily forgetting his dry relation of facts. “Sooner or later she would have found some means of driving yon away.” We were now within sight of the Castle, and I stopped walking. “ I must hear everything,” I said, “ before I go in, and there is not much time to lose.” “ One evening Miss Sutherland stayed to din ner, and, before she left for the Vicarage, his lordship called me into the library where they wore sitting. * O’Caliaghan,’ he said, ‘ you know how devoted Miss Sutherland has been to ur family; you know how careful she has guarded the secret of the past, and saved the Farnmore honor. lam sure therefore you will be glad to hear that this day week I mean to make Miss Sutherland my wife.’ ‘Oh, yOur lordship,’ I cried out, ‘ surely you won’t while Lady Stella is away !’ I could not f>r the life of me have stopped those words. His lordship’s face clouded over. I never saw him look so fierce since long and long ago. I was frightened by his anger. ‘ Lady Stella!’ he said, and bis voice was BO string it rang through the room. ‘Lady Stella has forsaken her home, and is no child of mine I’ 'I hen, honey,” O’Callaghan con tinued, growing excited. “ I did not care a straw for his anger. ‘ Lady Stella is your own flesh and blood,’ I said, ‘ and as loving a daugh ter as ever lived, but the woman you want to marry has driven her ladyship away, and, how ever well Miss Sutherland may have acted long ago, 1 swear to Heaven it’s an ill deed she is doing nowt’ ” How the old man’s eyes flashed in his excite ment I “ I may have been wrong,” he added more quietly, “ but sbure I could not hear a word said against you, mavourneen !” “ And my father? What did he say ?” “He ordered me to leave the room and the house forever. Then Miss Sutherland inter fered, and in her slimy insinuating way she asked his lordship to overlook my having for gotten myself; she was sure it was only devo tion to the family which made me hot-headed. His lordship listened, and said that, to please the future Lady Farnmore, ho would think no more about it, and ho signed to mo to leave the room. Heaven forgive me, I think I could have eh iked Miss Sutherland I But I never said a word. She gave me a look from under her eye lids which told me, as plainly as if she had said it, that she was only biding her time to make me pay for my words, but I wes so afraid ot losing the chance of serving your ladyship that I determined to stick to the Castle as long as I could. Now yon know all,” he ended, “ and you must wait here till I see if you can pass in to the Castle unobserved.” I hid myself in the trees, where the under word was thick, and O’Caliaghan lelt me. He seemed absent a long time. Oh, if I could but put a stop to this marriage 1 But 1 formed no plan, only waited with beating heart. At length O’Caliaghan returned. “ Now,” he said, “ come quickly 1 His lord ship is with his lawyer; Miss Sutherland is dressing.” Without a word we passed around rapidly te the other side of the Castle, to the terrace upon Which the billiard-room opened. Here and there on the close-mown grass there were orna mental trees, and behind one of them I con cealed myself for a few minutes while O’Calla ghan reconnoitered. In a few hours the being whom I most hated might be the mistress of my homo and I an outcast from my father’s heart I As I stood there trembling, it seemed to me, in the bitterness of my thoughts, that, xvhen once my place should be taken at the Castle, no one would eare what became of me. I saw O’Caliaghan beckoning, and in a moment I was in the billiard-hall. We passed quickly through to the library. No one was there, but the room was gayly dressed with flowers. O’Caliaghan did not alhvw me to pause an in stant. “ Now,” he said, when we were in the turret room, “lock the door isside. I must go, and, when the time comes, Heaven help you !” He went away at ones. I locked the door and was alone with my thoughts. What thoughts they were—wild and wicked when they turned to the woman who had driven mo from my home (there seemed to b»« no punishment too cruel for her)—terribly sad when they dwelt ■On my father, whose life, I felt sure, would grow more and more wretched day by day— maddening when they rashed on to all the pos sibilities of the next hour. What should Ido ? What should I do? Softly I paced to and fro In the little room, sometimes pausing with my ear to the door, listening for sounds in the library. At last there was a rustle ot a dress— the bride was probably coming. I heard my father’s step and others following ; then came a low murmur of voices. I turned to the table, where O’Callagban hjd thoughtfully left a glass ot wine, I drank it. I heard the company tak ing their places. Softly I unlocked the door, very gently, very carefully, so that there was no betraying click. Then, with my fingers on the handle, I waited. What a weight therq seemed to be in the air ! It had been very sultry all day, but now the atmosphere was unbearably oppressive. Softly I turned the handle of the door and pushed it open the least possible bit. There I was, an in visible witness of this hateful marriage. Through the chink I could see Miss Sutherland. She was dressed in white satin and brocaded velvet; she wore no vail or wreath, but one lovely diamond star sparkled in her hair. She would be a stately Lady Farnmore. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and yet they smiled. To me, at that moment, she looked capable of any cruelty. I could not see my father, but I heard him say, " We are ready.” flhe service began. I did not heod the words at first. Suddenly a vivid flash of lightning passed before my eyes, almost making me with draw my hand from the handle of the door ; it certainly rattled in my hold, but the sound was lost in a loud peal of thunder which crashed above our heads. “Ah,” I thought, “the ceremony will be stopped ! Supernatural power will prevent it; I need not interfere I” How foolish 1 was ! The clergyman had ceased reading. “We are not in the least alarmed,” said the bride quietly ; “ you can continue." The clergyman resumed his office, and indis tinctly, as it in a dream, I heard his voice, till the words demanding if there were any impedi ment to the marriage, smote clearly on my ear. As it in reply, another roll of thunder burst over the Castle, and I, feeling that I must take some part, whether for good or ill, in this scene, pushed open the door of the turret-room and stood before the wedding group. Shall I ever forget my father’s face, the terri ble working of hie features, the haunted guilty look of his eyes ? I was absolutely motionless. He staggered, stretching out his arms as he did on that night when I looked in at the turret window, then fell forward on the floor. O’Callagban and the clergyman rushed to lift him. Miss Sutherland came up to me, and seizing me by the wrist, so that her fingers bruised my flesh, she whispered fiercely : “You have killed your father by this farce 1” Then I remembered that he had heart dis ease-1 remembered it with a shudder, for those horrible words of Miss Sutherland’s might be true, and I might be my father’s mur derer I CHAPTER XIII. “A PAINFUL SENSATION, AS IF SOME ONE HAD STRUCK ME.” I stood in an utterly bewildered state while my father was raised from the ground. He was carried to his room, and we all followed. I no ticed that Miss Sutherland whispered to the clergyman, Mr. Langdale. As soon as my fa ther "was laid on his bed, Mr. Langdale told Miss Sutherland to send at once tor a doctor, and suggested to me to go to the library, as I could bo of no use. We i.oth left the room, but I went no further than' the passage outside my lather’s door. When Miss Sutherland saw me standing there she said, sharply: “ t is quite useless for you to stay here— your ; resence can only injury Lord Farnmore— an I cf course you will be forbidden his room.” How cruel, how vindictive, seemed to me the flash ot her eyes I ‘ 1 am not in any one’s way,” I returned, quietly; “ i shall stay here for the present. Flease send lor Doctor Bracebridge at once.” She seemed about to speak, but checked her self nd went down stairs. In a few minutes my lather’s door opened, and Mr. Langdale came out. “ How is my father ?” I asked, quickly. “He is not yet conscious,” be answered, sternly. Seeing that I did not move, Mr. Langdale spoke again. “ ill you come with me to the library? 1 should like to speak to you.” “ Please speak here,” I replied. “ I will not leave this spot just yet; we can be quite undis turbed here.” Wo withdrew a little into a deep window at tho end ot the corridor, but still within sight of my father s door. “Lady Stella,” he began, “you must be 1 aware that, humanly speaking, you were the cause of Lord Farnmore's illness, seeing you was evidently a great ebook to him. It would be advisable, therefore, that you should keep entirely out of sight, and leave everything to Miss Sutherland, who is a most estimable per son, and tor whom Lord Farnmore has evident ly a great affection.” I was too sad, too heart-broken, to be angry; I only felt a dislike to Mr. Langdale and a de termination not to leave my post. “My father need not see me; but I shall re main here.” 1 could not say another word. We shall see what the doctor says,” Mr. Langdale replied, tartly. I remained in the same place for nearly an hour. O’Caliaghan did not leave my father; no one came to me. At length Doctor Bracebridge arrived. Ido not think he saw me as he passed into my father’s room, where he remained for a tong time. How I watched with beating heart lor his coming I When he appeared at the head of the stairs, Miss Sutherland was advancing to meet him, also Mr. Langdale. They would take the doctor away and not let me hear what he said. I sprang" forward. “ Miss Sutherland, 1 wish to sleep here to night,” were the doctor’s first words. “Can I have the room which opens into Lord Farn more’s ?” “Certainly,” Miss Sutherland answered. “ Will you come to my boudoir ? I should like to speak to you. I think it is better that Lady Stella should not accompany us,” Miss Suther land added. I had crept up to the doctor. He turned round and looked at me for the first time. He had keen, penetrating eyes. I had always liked Doc tor Bracebridge; but the moment be looked at me that evening I felt he was my friend. “I think itwoulS M much better it sheejme,” be said firmly". “This wXy, I suppose?’ 1 be added as he turned toward the other end of the corridor and entered a room which was specially appropriated to Miss Sutherland. Of course no further objection to my presence was offered, and we all followed. “ I understand,” said the doctor, “ that Lady Stella’s sudden appearance was the cause of the attack which Lord Fftrnmgre has had; but I must tell you that the state of bis health for years past "has been such that this might have happened at any moment. ’ Oh, how relieved I felt I I could have thrown my arms round the doctor’s nock at these words. “I do not say,” he continued,” “that Lady Stella’s unexpected appearance may not have accelerated the attack, and it is imperative now that nothing should agitate Lord Farnmore.” Miss Sutherland began to look quietly tri umphant. “Exactly,” put in Mr. Langdale; “and for that reason I should advise that Lady Stella should keep entirely away from Lord Farn more’s room, and that my estimable friend Miss Sutherland should manage everything. You are of course aware that this lady was to have been Lord Farnmore’s wife to-day?” “Her dress leads me to suppose so; but that has nothing to say to the matter. You have the higher office of ministering to men’s souls, but I claim supreme control so far as their bodies are concerned,” Doctor Bracebridge said this good-humoredly, but quite firmly. “ I forbid Miss Sutherland an 3 Lady Stella alike to enter Lord Farnmore’s room; he must be left entirely to O’Caliaghan, to me, and to a professional nurse whom I will telegraph for. Miss Suther land will kindly carry out all my directions for Lord Farnmore’s comfort, and, as to Lady Stel la, I suppose she can be somewhere near—in the room on the far side of Lord Farnmore’s tor instance—and she must be satisfied with thia.” He sat down and wrote a prescription; then he turned to Mies Sutherland and gave her some directions. “ Kindly see to this yourself,” he added; “ do not trust to servants.” She could not refuse to carry out his wishes, a® toft the room. “Now, Mr. Langdale,” Doctor Bracebridge went on, “ I do not think we need detain you— there is no immediate danger. I wish to speak to Lady Stella, if you do not mind leaving us alone. " I will see Miss Sutherland,” said Mr. Lang dato, rising, “ and, if she wishes me to remain here to-night, I will do so.” He looked deeply ofl'ended at being consid ered of so little importance, and spoke pomp ously. He left the room, and, as the door closed, Doctor Bracebridge laughed softly. “ What tools men are,” he said, “to think their paltry little feelings ot any consequence 1 Now, Lady Stella, while we are atone, tell me what ts the meaning ot all this. Why aid you appear like a ghost or an avenging spirit at the feast?’ “ I wanted to stop the marriage.” “Yon have succeeded. ’ “ Oh,” I said, desperately, “ papa will recov er, will he not?” “ I cannot tell—l hope so; but you seem to be in direct antagonism to Miss Sutherland, and I must understand things a little, as I have the charge ot Lord Farnmore. It is quite natural you should dislike a stepmother; but Miss Suth erland seems a good sort of person, and you appear to have acted rather unwisely.” He looked at me very piercingly, as If to read nay thoughts. “Deetor Bracebridge,” I answered, frankly, “Mtos Sutherland has acted so cruelly, so de ceitfully, to me, I am sure she cannot make my lather happy. Oh, I cannot tell you all 1 Will yen be my friend? Don’t let her drive me away from my lather.” “ You have eloquent eyes, Lady Stella, and I promise to do what I can; but it will be difficult to d® much. You are very young, and Lord Farnmore was going to marry Miss Sutherland; that she was about to te Lady Farnmore gives her a certain authority in the house. Every thing would be easier if some near relative of your lather’s could come and stay here.” “ He has no near relative living; the Duchess of Clayton is our nearest relative, and she is euly a cousin. ” “ Well, she is very kind; I know her, and will speak to her. I will also speak to Miss Suther land. Now I am going back to Lord Farn more.” He rose and left the room. I do not know how long 1 sat there, my el bows on the table, my head buried in my hands. Something throbbed in my head and prevented me from thinking connectedly. Everything was hi a tangle. I seemed wicked, not Miss Sutherland. Why had I forgotten that my fa ther had heart disease ? Why should I have been blinded to everything by my hatred of Miss Sutherland ? She was kinder, better far than I. Oh, if papa would only recover, I would be gentle, submissive to her! She might marry my father—l would say no word. What did it matter about me ? Oh, if I had only some one to talk to—some one to trust some kind, loving woman I Then I broke down and sobbed piteously for a long time. When I raised my head it was growing quite dusk, and Miss Sutherland stood beside me. 1 thought she had come to tell me of my father’s death. “ Papa ?” I gasped. “Don't bo frightened,” she said; “he is con scious now, and we may hope that he will re cover.” She spoke much more gently than usual; she seemed changed somehow. “Iwish to speak to you, Stella,” she went on. “ I see how wretched you are, and I am sorry for you. Perhaps I have been unjust to you. Why should we be enemies ? Are you willing,” she added, “to listen to me without prejudice and ill-will.” I bowed my head. 1 was subdued, remorse ful. “ There are many things in the past history of your family which you do not know; but per haps some day you may understand all. I have been ol use to Lord Farnmore. and he knows that he can entirely rely on me. Had you cared for me at all, we might have united in trying to make your father's remaining years happy, for, though not an old man, he will not live long. As it is, be would have been utterly alone had I not consented to be his wile, and that one poor com fort you have put an end to, and by your rash ness’ have endangered Lord Farnmore’s life. There is little that either of us can do for him now.” She turned away her head as if trying to con ceal her emotion. “ Why did you never speak kindly to me be fore ?,’ 1 cried. “Is it too late, Stella?” she asked, as she laid her hand on my shoulder. I felt puzzled. 1 tried to forget her treach ery. “ I don’t know,” I answered. “In many ways perhaps I have been wrong.” “ Let us try to be better friends,” was her re ply. “And now,” ebe added. “ will you leave this door open? And, if the doctor requires anything which you can attend to better than the servants he will call you; I am going to lie down for half an hour.” When I was alone again I began to think a lit tle more clearly. I lelt softened toward Miss Sutherland; but I could not forget the forged letters. My thoughts reverted to Mr. Darrell. He would soon be waiting, and I had promised to go to him or to send O’Caliaghan. The latter I could not do, the former 1 now disliked doing. I might be wanted, so I would wait till Mies Sutherland returned. I rang the bell, and one of the underhouse maids answered. I sent her for a dark dress. I longed to take off the white dress which seemed so out of place. The girl brought me a dress, and 1 changed in the boudoir, so as not to leave my post. No one called me, and the time crept on. Dinner would be at eight, and 1 should be expected to appear. If I waited much longer, 1 could not possibly meet Mr. Darrell. It seemed inconsiderate, aiter all his kindness, to leave him waiting, perhaps lor hours. I did not know where to write to him or how to com municate with him. Presently Doctor Brace bridge came in. “ Lord Farnmore is decidedly better,” he said cheerily; “ and now will you kindly allow me to write some letters of importance ?” In a few minutes he had everything be needed. “ Am I wanted now?” I asked. “ Not in the least,” he replied. “ You found Miss Sutherland more amiable, did you not ?” “ Yes. She seems touched by poor papa’s state.” “ Ab, well, perhaps she is not such a bad sort | of person as you However.. 1 do not ' think she will try to inter ere with you ai ! prebent.” “J have to tli-nk you for I’.i I -al ! rm’---. I “I’irhakib *•'.er\ v; j < n NEW YORK DISPATCH, SEPTEMBER 5 1886. end,” eaid Dr, Bracebridge, as he eat down to , write. I did not feel buoyant at hie words, but 1 was less despairing. i I left him to his letters, and putting a shawl ' over my head, for it had grown chilly, I slipped j out of the Castle. Miss Sutherland was lying down—l was not wanted ; I felt I ought to keep i my appointment with Mr. Darrell and see him for a moment. I hurried throu ;h the wood ; he must have been waiting quite halt an hour al ready. As 1 approached the spot where I had pa’rted from him that afternoon, I heard voices. I stopped a moment, and then walked on more cautiously, f had not gone much further when I saw Miss Sutherland and Mr. Darrell. Ho held her hand, and was bending over her, talk ing earnestly. I stood still instantly, with a painful sensation as it some one had struck me. •‘I am not quite such a ruffian as you imagine,” I heard Mr. Darrell say, “ and I do not forget the past so readily as you do.” “To tell you the truth,” Miss Sutherland re joined, “ I don’t trust you ; but 111 try to do so if you will promise not to trifle with Lady Stel la’s feelings as you have hitherto done.” Before Mr. Darrell could reply I turned away and ran, I scarcely knew whither, into the wood. My cheeks burned; I was ashamed ot having overheard conversation not meant for me, indignant with Miss Sutherland, with Doug las Darrell—yes, above all with Douglas Darrell. For several minutes 1 ran along the wood path, then I went more slowly, and my heart sank within me. Some spring of energy seemed sud denly snapped. I would do anything that any one wished; what did it matter about me? 1 retraced my steps, and before long came to the spot where Mr. Darrell still waited. Before he perceived me I saw him smiling. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” I said. “Thank you for all your kindness. There is noUiing to tell you except that I stopped the marriage, and that my father is dangerously ill.” (tried to speak naturally ; but a girl of seven teen is a poor diplomatist, and my tone was stiff and constrained. * * “You are blaming yourself for this. Lady Stella. That is weak. Remorse is stagnation. Act; don’t oste time in regret.” “ I certainly am weak enough to regret having caused my father’s illness. Thank you again for having tried to help me. There is nothing more to be done.” Bowin", I turned away, not even taking his hand before parting from him. I walked back to the Castle, my head throbbing, my hands burning, and yet vaguely asking myself why was all this excitement of feeling? I sought Miss Sutherland at once ; that which was in my mind to say I would say without delay. I found her in her bed-room. “Miss Sutherland,” I said quietly, “just now in the wood 1 overheard a tew words which passed between you and Mr. Darrell. It does not seem honest not to tell you exactly what I heard.” I then repeated their words. Miss Sutherland smiled. “I don’t mind your having overheard us,” she responded—“indeed I am rather glad ; but I fear you are too frank for the world, and peo ple will take advantage of your simplicity. In my turn, I will be candid. It has probably never occurred to you that Mr. Darrell has made use of you for his own ends. He wished to put a stop to my marriage with Lord Farn more; he was unscrupulous and successful. Long ago I was engaged to Mr. Darrell; it was an engagement which I broke ofl when I learned his true character. Does that explain things a little to you ?” “Yes.” . “Now it is the dinner hour; let us go. In future we will try to be friends.” As we passed out of her room together she kissed my cheek. I did not go to bed that night. My room was next to my father’s, and from time'to t me I stole out into the corridor and listened, hoping to hear how he was. Twice I saw O’Caliaghan. HU dear faithful face was lull of concern. “Don't fret, honey,” he said. “His lordship is coming round.” The second time I srw O’Callagban he told me there could be no further change for some time: he entreated me to go to bed, promising to call me if be had any news for me. After that I stayed in my room, but I did not go to bed. It was a miserable night; my nerves were so strained that the most trivial things which I re membered seemed to give me keen pain. Over and over again I repeated to myself my words to Mr. Darrell, over and over again Miss Suth erland’s words to me. Why had I said that? Why had she said this? And every thought hurt and maddened. The only reflection which gave me a moment’s comfort was that my state of mind must change, and that time must dull the acuteness of my feeling; the next day I could not be in quite the same mental condi tion. Thank heaven, I had a touch of philoso phy in me I I wrote to Lord Roland that night. My letter was affectionate- too affectionate, I think, for expression outstripped feeling. I believed my self sincere; I could not detect that this ap parent warmth toward Lord Roland was the back-water of indignation with Mr. Darrell. In my letter I said no word respecting the latter. As mornmg dawned I dropped asleep in my arm-chair. My letter to Lord Roland lay on the table. When I awoke it was broad daylight, and Miss Sutherland stood beside me, a cup ot tea in her hand. “I brought you this, Stella,” she said; “I thought it probable that you had sat up all night, as I did myself.” I thanked her and took it. “ How is my father ?” I asked. “Better—his breathing quieter, greater calm in his face. Dr. Bracebridge seems hopeful.” My eyes now fell on my open letter. Mias Sutherland must have seen it. Without a mo ment’s hesitation I said: “ I do not wish to be misunderstood any more; I am engaged to Lord Roland.” Somehow I felt strangely as I spoke; I felt as though this acknowledgment was closing the gates to hope and life. There was a sudden light m Miss Sutherland's eyes, which to me scarcely seemed that of sympathetic pleasure at my tidings. “ I did not notice your letter,” she said; “you need not have confessed. But lam heartily glad; and I am sure this news will give Lord Farnmore joy when he is well enough to hear it.” Then some one knocked at my door, and called Miss Sutherland, and I was left alone. I added a postscript to my letter to Lord Roland, saying that I had been obliged to tell Miss Sutherland of our engagement, and therefore it need be no longer a secret from any one to whom he wished it made known. CHAPTER XIV. “ YOU PROMISED ME FRIENDSHIP.” From day to day my father improved—at least, there was a flicker of life which grew a little stronger by slow degrees. He began at last to apeak a little. For some weeks O’Calla ghan, a professional nurse, and the doctor were his sole attendants. Doctor Bracebridge was kind to me, and gave me full particulars of my lather’s case. What mattered it what name was given to my father’s illness ? The fact which I grasped was that papa would never be really well again. At length he asked tor Miss Suther land, and every day she sat with h.m for an hour or two, but he did not ask for me. Ot what use was Ito any one ? I pined and drooped at Farnmore Castle. Doctor Bracebridge noticed this, and suggested a change. I broke down when he spoke to me, and I told him that the only possibility of happiness for me would be that I should find some means of ministering to my father’s recovery. The doctor shook his head. “ You crave far more than human power. There is one thing,” he added suddenly, “ which might soothe him. His mental condi tion is peculiar; from observing him closely, I leel assured that ho reproaches himself con stantly for som§ act. Ido not wish to pry into family secrets, but you are his child, and maj r know more than I do. If you could find any means of removing that remorse from his mind, the progress of his disease would certainly be slower, he might be spared to you for many years. I thought,” continued the doctor, “of trying the effect of your presence, but he seems to have forgotten your existence; and 1 fear it would be a dangerous experiment, unless you could simultaneously give him soms mental comfort.” “ I cannot do that.” “ Then it would be better he should not see you. In that case I repeat that you ought to have a change.” The long-cherished scheme rose in my mind. Could I bring peace to my lather? It seemed to me now that the effort would be an atone ment. If investigation should only prove my father’s guilt, then I must bear the secret in my heart to the grave. “ Thank you,” I said gently; “perhaps I may go away for a while.” That’evening I spoke to Miss Sutherland on the subject. I told her that Doctor Bracebridge advised me to go away, and thought it danger ous for my father to see me. She seemed to ponder a little after I spoke. “ You wish to go ?” “ I do, and I don’t. I feel ill and useless here, but I should not like to leave if there were any possibility of my father becoming worse.” “ I would telegraph for you at once. With whom do you propose going?” “ With Lord Roland’s sister, Lady Dal chester.” “ Your father could have no possible objec tion to your traveling with such an escort. You will want money,” she added. “Of course you know that since Lord Farnmore’s illness his solicitor manages his affairs, and pays what ever is right; he, no doubt, would supply you with money if Doctor Bracebridge deems it right that you should go away.” That night I wrote to Lady Dalchester; and it was arranged that I should join her in London in a fortnight. 1 knew that several times since my father’s illness Mr. Darrell had called at the Castle to inquire for him. I did not wish to meet Mr. Darrell; nor did I know if he ever asked to see me, until one day, after my departure from Farnmore had been decided on, I chanced to pass through the hall a moment after the foot man had answered the entrance-bell and had closed the door. I casually asked who had called, and the servant replied: “ Mr. Darrell. He asked for your ladyship, and ; answered, as usual, according to Miss Sutherland’s orders, that your ladyship could not see any one.” “ You did quite right,” I said quietly, and I walked on. Perhaps John would have been ' n or;- i> he could have read my ! li U‘4b s. : T!.e uii- i'pi reached lor my departure, and 1 unit ( J ili.it ...iss Sutherland was always on the ; m •; t-cpt the servants whenever there . was a ring at the hall door. It provoked me ; that she should take the responsibility of re fusing admittance to any one who asked forme, . but I was too unhappy to attach much import- ' ance to anything she did. | Two days before I was to leave Farnmore 1 was in a more depressed frame of mind than i usual; everything seemed so hopeless to me. I was going on a wild-goose chase, without a clew to that which I wished to discover, without friends to help me. Miss Sutherland noticed my gloom, and suggested that I should take a ride. She seemed to be unnecessarily urgent that 1 should go early in the day. I was willing to try any means of rousing myself. I was ready at eleven o'clock, but somehow the butler had misunderstood my order, and had desired the groom to bring round the horses at halt past eleven. Miss Sutherland’s annoyance was very marked, though I was not in the mood lor observing much. At last, after a tiresome delay of half an hour, the horses came round, and I mounted. Miss Sutherland came to thh door and waited to see me off—a most unusual atten tion on her part. I had not "one far beyond the park gates when I saw Mr. Darrell approaching. I bowed, not meaning to speak "to him-as yet I had put my horse only to a walking pace—and, to my surprise, Mr. Darrell came direct to my horse’s head. “ I wish to speak to you, Lady Stella,” he said, qu etly. He did not erffer to shake hands, and the ex pression of his face was peculiar. I could not possibly have refused to listen to him ; he com manded, I obeyed. As he spoke he walked by my side. I had not to bend to hear his words; though low, bis voice was very clear. “ I am a peculiar fellow,” he continued, “and people, as a rule, don’t like my ways. You promised me friendship—foolishly or wisely, who knows?—and Ido not mean to let that friendship cease.” I blushed. I felt suddenly that there had not been sufficient grounds for my coldness to Mr. Darrell; but f was proud, and I nothing. I know, engaged to RolanS-and in parenthesis l&t me sat ” he interpolated, with a bright smile and a glow in his strange eyes, “ that all the world of women, if they did but know, wpuld envy you. You are engaged to Roland, and he is my closest friend; J will not lose him.” His tone was very emphahc. * “You do not suppose,” I stammered, “ that He gave a significant wave of the hand. “ When a man is in love as Roland is, judg ment, friendship, everything goes before the breath of love as dust goes before the wind.” “ You have no right to suppose that I would try to influence Lord Roland against you,” I said Indignantly. Mr. Darrell smiled. “ Lady Stella, your manner toward me has completely changed ; Heaven knows why, I don’t. However, as far as my experience goes, there are but two causes for a woman’s change of manner toward a man with whom she has always professed to be on ordinarily friendly terms; the one cause is not to be thought of in connection with you, the other is that she thinks the man insincere.” The last cause I knew to be the true one; but I was unwilling to admit it, unwilling to say that 1 had overheard his conversation with Miss Sutherland. Had he spoken of it himself, I would have acknowledged having been in the wood that evening; but my feelings had been too contused on that occasion to allow me to broach the subject. To escape from the posi tion into which I was being driven, I said quickly “ The first cause you alluded to of a change of manner in a woman, what is it?” He raised his head and looked at me stead ily- “ Do you wish to know ?” he asked. His glance swept over me. I quivered be neath it. A moment later I felt it was an ab surdity to be thus affected ; but at that instant I could have got off my horse and begged his forgiveness on my knees ! I did not do it—oh, no—my bearing in no way changed ! “No, I think not,” he continued, in his usual tone. “It would pain me and vex you to say it, and we will put it aside as impossible. I con clude that you distrust me, and I am resolved not to allow the distrust in your mind to creep into Roland’s.” It was Lord Roland’s friendship he feared to lose, not mine; this he made sufficiently clear. “ i assure you you will take unnecessary trouble; 1 should never dream of interfering between Lord Roland and his friends.” “ I have a little programme which I mean to carry out,” he went on, taking no notice of my words ; “it may affect many people, you among others. I have had two real friends in my life —one when I was a lad, who in the year—never mind the year -disappeared out of my li.e, and indeed of all lite, so far as I can make out; the other friend is Roland. Somehow I have a queer fancy that, if I find poor Cyril, I shall se cure Roland for life.” “ Really, Mr. Darrell,” I said, “ you speak most mysteriously. Ido not see why all this affects me, or why you should have made such a point of giving me an account of your friend ships.” I laughed nervously as I ended. “I wanted to say ail this. 1 have tried to sect you time after time. It your feeling toward me had been friendly, you would never have re fused over and over again to see me.” I would have interrupted him at this point, but he did not give me time. “As the affianced wife of Lawrence Roland, your good-will is important to me. I should not dream of trying to win the good-will of Lady Stella Fortescue; nor perhaps should I care to fight for it. As it is, however, lam on my defense, and I’ll make you think well of me.” He raised his hat suddenly, bowed, and turned away across the fields to the left, through a wicket-gate, followed by his dog, a huge bloodhound. My eyes rested on the sav age-looking brute, and involuntarily I thought of Mr. Greville’s dog. Had not Mr. Darrell called his friend “Cyril?” Was this another link? In years gone by Mr. Darrell had known Miss Sutherland Could it be that . I had dropped the bridle on my horse’s and I suddenly discovered that he was standing stock still in the middle of the road. To what silly conclusions I was rushing be cause of a few strange coincidences ! Poor Mr. Greville’s dog must have died long years ago, and hundreds of men might have the name ot “Cyril.” Yet I felt irritated that I bad been so formal with Mr. Darrell and had not talked more openly to him. It was too late now. Stung by this reflection, I put my horse into a canter, and, with the fresh air blowing in my face, I tried to forget my confusing thoughts. Ah, the glorious woods ot Farnmore, how I loved them 1 They glowed now with the last glory of Autumn, most gorgeous ere it dies. All these lands through which I rode, this no ble home, would one day be mine. Must Farn more come to me darkened by a ghastly mys tery? Oh, I should hate the dignity of the ivy-clad towers, the beauty of field and fell, the sheltering grandeur of the woods which had waved in Spring tenderness and Autumn volup tuousness over generations of our race, if here my lather should die with gnawing remorse in his heart, and if I, the only being who loved him, could not lift in any measure the gloom from hie last days I At the end ot the week I left Farnmore. Dad dy and I had many a private talk before I left. I told the old man that I could not rest content ed till I knew something more of my mother’s tragic story. He seemed very grieved that I would not let the matter rest. “it will only bring you more sorrow, ma- , vourneen,” he would say again and again; but he gave me all the information he could. O’Caliaghan had the gifts of his race, and so graphically did he describe the house where my mother died that I seemed to see it as he spoke. Ho could tell me nothing of Mr. Gre ville’s relatives. In vain 1 insisted that he > must have sometimes mentioned members o his family, and begged O’Caliaghan to try tore call their names. “ Maybe he had relations,” was O’Callaghan’s i reply; “but I never heard tell of them. He • was brought up abroad in the same family with her ladyship, your mother; but, often as I’ve i been in the room when Mr. Greville was stay t ing at therCastle, I never heard him talk of kith [ or kin.” O’Caliaghan seemed to think that this search I was about to undertake was perfectly useless, but that I must be indulged in my whim as one indulges a capricious child when its fancy will do no special harm. The day before I left Farnmore Daddy man aged that I should see my father without being seen. He was asleep, and I stood in such a po sition that he could not see me even if he open ed his eyes. His stern, handsome face looked gentler, more peaceful than I had ever seen it. I longed to stoop and kiss him, but I dared not; I could only stand there with dim eyes and quivering lips, not knowing if this were the last time I should ever look on the only face that in my memory was linked with childhood, home and love. As I turned away, this thought came strongly into my mind—that my mother must have loved her husband dearly, and could never have been treacherous to him, since to me she had transmitted this- passionate affec tion for my father, which endured in spite of all his coldnese and severity. I lelt my father’s room, and walked with bent head through the corridor, down the stairs, and across the hall into the library. Slowly I paced up and down the room. I hoped no one would come near me till the misery of that hour had passed. As I passed to and fro, to calm my mental ag itation by physical motion, a letter lying on the ground eaught my eye. Involuntarily I stooped and picked it up. It was open, and I placed it on the table without a thought of seeing its contents; but the opening words I could not avoid seeing. Tho letter began, “ Dearest Au relia.” I went no further. Well, it was no bus iness of mine if Miss Sutherland had hosts of correspondents who addressed her thus affec tionately; but in that moment I had recognized the writing as Mr. Darrell s, and I laid the let ter down with a feeling of contempt lor the man. After all, he must have written those ridicu lous letters to me which he had said were not his. Why should he be so deceitful ? What was his object ? Was he mad or wicked ? Who were my friends? Who were my enemies? I could not stay in the room with that letter; ly ing there, it seemed to me a loathsome thing. Ah, there was no one whom I could trust—no one ’ Daddy was good and true; but he thought me a fool to believe in my mother’s innocence. I was very desolate, and my thoughts turned to one faithful heart that was open to me, to strong arms which were outstretched to shelter me. In this bitter hour Lord Roland’s love seemed my onlj’ refuge. (To be Continue 1.1 . A OVAL TOM MACDONOUGH’S ESCAPE. Some time during the month of June. 1809, the American brig “Sarah,” of and from Nor folk, Va., entered the port of Liverpool with a full cargo. She was commanded by Captain William Brown, and his first mate was Tom Macdonough, a trne-bearted Yankee sailor, who hailed from somewhere in the little State of Delaware. After the brig had been duly.en tered at the Custom House she was soon cleared of her cargo, and within one week alter her ar rival she was loaded for home. Ono pleasant evening—the one preceding the day on which the brig was to sail—Tom Mac donough took a stroll up into the town, was seized by a press-gang, and in less than half an hour found himself on board an English frigate which lay at the mouth of the harbor. “A fine set of men,” said the English captain, as he ran his eyes admiringly over the stalwart forms of the impressed seamen. “They will just fill up the list of our maintopmen.” “Are you the commander of this frigate?” asked Tom, addressing the man who had just spoken. “Captain Downie, at your service,” replied the commander, with mock gravity. “Then, sir, of you I demand my immediate release. lam second in command of an Ameri can brig now ready for sea, and no power in England can legally detain mo.’’ “That won’t go down, youngster,” returned the captain, with a sneer. “You are a little too young for such an office. The king needs men, and you must take your chance with the rest.” “ Do you mean to say that I am to be detained on board your ship ?” “Certainly,” “Then, sir,” replied Tom, while his eyes flashed fire, “you will do it at your peril. Al ready have your people run up a heavy reckon ing. and the day shall yet come when your king will have to settle it. lam exempt by your own laws from impressment, and you know it.” The captain showed a little anger as our hero spoke, but turning to one of his lieutenants, said: “ Mr. Monson, have these men’s names en tered, and then station them and mess them,” and without further remark he walked aft to his cabin. In a moment Tom’s mind was made up, and without resistance or remark of any kind he al lowed his name to he entered on the purser’s books, and his station and mess to be assigned him, after which a hammock and bedding were served out to him, and he was directed to “turn in” as soon as possible. The frigate was well guarded by sentries, there being two upon the poop, one at each gangway, one on the forecastle, and one on the bowsprit, beside those which were stationed at various posts below, so that no further notice was taken oi the new-comers, after they had re ceived their bedding, excepting to give the sen tinels additional caution with regard to watch ing well that no one left the ship unless he was passed by the officer of the deck. Tom’s hammock was already clewed, and hav ing hung it up, turned into it without undress ing. The night was warm and sultry, and as a means of giving a circulation of iresh air the gun-deck ports were lowered, and from the place in which our hero swung he could look out upon the water as it sparkled beneath the beams of the bright moon. Tom lay quiet until midnight, but as yet be could think ol no means of escape. Shortly after that hour had passed he heard the relief guard called, and in some ten min utes the corporal of the first guard came down upon the gun deck and unlashed the hammock which hung next to his own, which operation being performed,he proceeded to undress him self, hanging his clothes as he did so upon the clews of the hammock. The lour hours’ duty had given the corporal an excellent appetite t. r sleep, and in less than five minutes a:ter he touched the mattrass he began to snore. “Now or never,” thought Tom, “is my chance,” and with this idea in his mind he slip ped quietly out from his hammock and pro ceeded to divest himself ot his own clothes. This having been accomplished he very un ceremoniously substituted those of the snoring corporal in their place, and then sat down upon the breeching ot a gun to meditate farther up on his plans. One bell struck, and the sentinels passed the usual “ all’s well.” Then Tom heard the cor poral as he started to go his rounds, and ere long he descended the main hatch ladder to visit the posts below. No sooner had the ma rine officer passed the galley than our hero sprang up the ladder and gained the spar deck. The officer of the deck was aft upon the star board side, the sentries were walking their posts with regular tread, while the old quar termaster stood upon the po >p, with his night glass under his arm. The sentries performed their walk upon gang boards raised even with the bottom of the hammock nettings, and running forward from the ladders. The lar board gangway was shaded from the light of the moon by the awning, and walking deliber ately up the ladder Tom looked over the ship’s side. “ Sentry,” said he, in a mumbling sort of a tone, “ what boat is that at the boom ?” “The second cutter,” returned the marine, showing by his manner that he had ne suspi cions of the spurious corporal. Tom immediately walked aft to where stood the officer of the deck, and, being quite assured by the mistake of the sentry, he pulled his cap down over bis eyes, and, touching his visor, re spectfully remarked: “ I should like to overhaul that second cut ter, sir, for I think there is rum aboard of her.” Tom knew he was playing a desperate game, but liberty was to be the result oi success, and he flinched not a hair. “Ha! the villains!” uttered the lieutenant. “Up to their old tricks again ! Go, corporal— get down into the boat, and if you do find rum in her, they’ll cateh it!” Tom started quickly forward, but just as he got abreast of the fore hatchway he saw the Si mon pure corporal’s head rising above the combings. The marine ascended no higher, lor with one blow of his fist Tom sent him back from whence he came, and then sprang quickly out through the port upon the swinging boom, and, having reached the place where the sec ond cutter’s painter was made fast, he hauled the boat up and leaped into her. The flood tide was setting up the river very strongly, and, quick as thought, Tom cast off the painter and rapidly dropped astern. “ Help ! help !” shouted our hero at the top of his voice; “ the boat’s got loose !” “ Get out a couple of oars, you lubber !” cried the officer ol the deck, as he jumped upon the poop on hearing the cry, where he arrived just as the cutter was sweeping past the quar ter. “ Ycu can hold her against the tide.” Tom did get out a couple of oars, but the mo ment he got them balanced in the rowlocks he commenced pulling lor dear life, and, to the ut ter consternation of the lieutenant, the boat be gan rapidly to shoot up the river. All the sentries on deck were immediately called upon the poop, and their muskets were fired at the deserter, but though two of the balls whistled near the boat, yet none of them did any harm, and the next moment Tom heard the third cutter called away, but he knew the men were all sound asleep in their hammocks, and so he felt secure. It was ten minutes be r ore the third cutter cast off from the ship, and long ere they could reach Tom he had gained the shore and was running at a remarkable speed toward the city, which he reached in safety, and before two o'clock he was on board his own brig. The next morning the “Jarah” dr pped down ' with the ebb tide, and as she paased the frigate Tom saw the second cutter swinging in her usual place, and, as he gazed on the proud flag that floated at the Englishman's peak, he mur mured to himself: “If I live, I’ll s me day take the pride from those proud tyrants.” H--W literally was that saying fulfilled ! Tom Macdonough had been Decatur’s favorite mid shipman at the siege of Tripoli, and “ wherever Decatur led he dared to follow.” Subsequent to that brilliant chapter in the pages of our his tory occurred the event which is embodied in our sketch ; but five years afterward, on the 11th of September, 1814, Thomas Macdonough met one of j nglancl’s proud fleet on Lake Cham plain. At the first broadside the British com modore, Downie, fell, and at the end ot a fight which lasted two hours and twenty minutes, without intermission, Commodore Thomas Mac donough was the conqueror of Champlain. He had gained a proud victory—he had indeed humbled the pride of the tyrant, and that day's achievement forms one of the brightest pages in the history of America. Commodore Thomas Macdonough—the hero of Tripoli—the conqueror of Champlain. He was a noble and true-hearted man, and a terror to all enemies of his country. Peace to his ashes, and everlasting honor to his memory. THE TRAIN BOY. DEATH OF “LITTLE PEANUTS.” (From the St. Paul Globe. ‘The little train boy was dying. On his death bed the sufferer lay, his emaciated face and hands exciting pity and concern. No mother’s hand smoothed his brow. No mother’s tears and sobs marked the going out ot his young life. Father, brother and sister he had "none. A waif upon the world he, from childhood’s tenderest hours, had made his own way. Alone had he waged the battle of life, and from news boy and bootblack to train boy he had worked his own advancement. An accident in which he hid lost his leg placed him in the hospital. The amputation proved too much for his constitution and slowly but surely his lite flickered and was going out. A brave little patient, he bore all his suffering without complaint, save that he was anxious to get up and take bis “ run,” as he called it. No one told him that his days as a train boy were at an end. A fever set in and he became delir ious. Train talk he constantly indulged in during his delirium and made imaginary “ runs” into St. Paul on the Milwaukee road. Weaker and weaker he became. The nurse and physician watched beside his couch. His brow was covered with the dew of death. His last “run ” on earth was soon to end. “De box is on board,” said the dying boy, addressing an imaginary conductor, “and yer can’t start too soon ter suit me.” They bathed his brow, these strangers—the nurse and the physic.an, and listened to h s strange words. “ Dere’s jest one thing,” excia .ned, the I.'.th en fferer, as if talking to a comuanio “it ; should get kilt on ary of dese hero collision, ' dat silver ticker oh, yer know my watch, goss ter Cully. Oh, what yer givm’ me. Don’t yer know Cull? Why, Cully's my old pard. Him and me done worked togethee too long fer mo ter forget him.” “Dere’s Winona,” he said, as if on his “run.” “I’ll take der peaches trough for luck. Oh, it's no good. Der won’t buy of me. I’ll try der orange racket. ’Taint no better ; and here we is at Hastings ” “De.mist is on. I can’t see der river,” he said hoarsely: “ and here we is at St. Paul, at ” Little “Peanuts” was dead, A WAGER. FOLLOWED BY A GRUESOME JOKE. During the evening of the day on which the battle of Balaklava was fought, the 25th ot Octo ber, 1854, a dozen of us were seated around a fire lighted before the tent occupied by the first lieutenant and myself. The night was chilly and damp, as we had lost some good friends during the fight. A silence had succeeded a dull story related by a chasseur, when sudden ly we were started by the big voice of Captain Dumon, ot the 2—th Dragoons, saying : “I wonder if I will see again in this world this poor Boscal, cut in two by a cannon-ball this very afternoon.” “I hope you will not,” replied a lieutenant of hussars. “ Why do you hope that?” asked the captain. “Because he would frighten the life out of you if one of these nights he came to visit you,” replied the lieutenant. “Hussar, Ido not permit you to insinuate that anything supernatural or natural may frighten mo, Captain Charles Dumon, of the 2—th Dragoons,” exclaimed, angrily, the brave soldier. “ Pshaw ! sweetly, dragoon, sweetly I I have seen men just as courageous as you are and believe yourself to be, going into trances through ’fright,” replied the lieutenant, with the greatest calmness. “job did np| see that, and I defy you to prove it,’’cried the captain, now furious. “ I did see that; and lam ready to bet you a good dinner at fifty francs per capita, that with in two months J, or somebody else, will cause you such a fright as will be remembered by you till your last hour. Dy you accept my wager ?” “ Most certainly I do, on the condition that all ot us here present now, or what will be left of us after the taking of Sebastopol, shall feast at the expense of the loser, cost what it may.” “ All right, dragoon.” “ All right, hussar.” As the “taps” sounded we separated, bid ding good-by to each other. The battle of Inkerman was fought on the sth of November, 1854, eleven days after the battle of Balaklava. The night following was exceed ingly cold. It was about 11 o’clock P. M., and every one was asleep in our camp but the sen tries and grand guards. Alone in his tent, Cap tain Dumon snored, buried to the nose in the layer of fresh straw, discovered God knows where, by his faithful but not over-scrupulous orderly. Near by him was his big sabre, and under his pillow, made of his horse’s saddle, a pair of pistols showed their brass work, shining like gold. Suddenly a human form, wrapped in a white mantle and wearing on the head the regulation helmet of the dragoons, under which appeared a face deadly pale, entered the tent. The apparition seemed to slide rather than walk. It approached the captain and called him by his name. The captain awoke, sat up, rubbed his eyes with his fist and said: “ Who is there ? What do you want ?” “ Has the grave changed me so much that Charles Dumon, my bosom friend, cannot rec ognize in me Prosper Boscal, killed eleven days ago at Balaklava ?” “Is that you ironically replied the captain. “ Well, I thought the Russians to be better kill ers. With us French, those that we demolish never come back to visit their former acquaint ances. Meanwhile, Prosper Boscal, my depart ed friend, you will greatly favor me by return ing to whence you came from. You must ex cuse me, my dear, you being dead, have time to sleep, and I, being alive, have not. Then, good-by, my respects to all in Sheol, please, and take care not to get cold by playing truant dur ing such a Siberian night.” “Dumon,” sadly exclaimed the ghost, “you know how much I did love you while on this earth. In order to see you once more, to bid you an eternal adieu, to give you a last shake of the hand, I have left the spirit world. In stead ot the friendly reception that I have the right to expect from you I get only sarcasm and derision. Take care, Dumon, one never goes unpunished that insults the dead.” “Go to Hades I Let me sleep. If, in two minutes, you have not vanished, I will finish that Russian job, and I will do it properly, you can bet. Get out, and mighty quick, too, or else 1 will accelerate your departure with the point of my sabre.” “ I will remain with you ten minutes more. Your menaces are foolish, your sabre is a play toy, and you are powerless, Dumon.” “ I am foolish and powerless and my sabre is a play-toy 1 Do you want to get acquainted with it ? Leave this tent immediately, you night prowler. Will you go?” “ No, not before ten minutes.” “ Then, take that,” and the captain, drawing his sabre, made a thrust at the ghost, who, stretching forth his hand, seized the blade, which remained in it, separated from the hilt, held by the captain. “ You see, Dumon I there is your blade,” and the apparition threw it on the mantle spread over the straw. “I see nothing. Horns of the devil,” yelled the captain, and grabbing his pistols he fired both snots at the ghost. “ As I have returned the blade of your sabre to you, now I return the bullets from your pis tols,” said the ghost, throwing two pistol bul lets on the mantle. Perspiration could be distinctly seen on the captain’s brow, and as he panted for breath he muttered: “ That is strange, very strange. Perhaps it is the truth the dead may leave their graves. How pale he is !” “ The ten minutes have elapsed, Dumon. I must leave you forever. I forgive you, and there is my hand, and I am gone.” Capttiu Dumon took the hand offered in his own. It was icy and stiff—the very hand of a dead man—and, as he shook it, the whole arm following the impulsion given, fell heavily on the straw. Captain Dumon of the 2—th Dragoons, one ot the bravest officers of the French army, uttered a terrible cry and fell back senseless. “ You have lost! You have lost I” cried we, entering his tent. He was speechless and unconscious. We rubbed his face with snow, and one of the men ran for a surgwin. It was a long time before he revived, and we were all of us making piteous faces. For my part, I was ashamed of myself. When he recovered he admitted frankly that he had been thoroughly frightened, and two days after the taking of Sebastopol we feasted at his expense, but five of us were missing. They slept their last sleep, far away from the country tor which they had given their lives. A little explanation is necessary, it was not his sabre that Captain Dumon tried to use against his visitor, but a broken one picked up on the battlefield, the bullets had been taken out from the pistols, and the arm that fell on the straw had been given to me by our surgeon ma, or. SOME NOTED LIARS. With a Few Instances of Their Feeble Fiction Efforts. (From the San Francisco Post.) “Lying ” Jim Townsend is a noted Bohemian in Nevada, and well known in California. Meis a genial, convivial soul, whose lies harm no one, but are rather evidences of the abnormal de velopment of the power of exaggeration. He is credited in Nevada with having been the origin ator of some of Mark Twain’s best jokes, in cluding the story of the man who took a con tract to run a tunnel a certain distance, and having dug through the hill in less distance than that specified in the agreement, completed his contract by running the tunnel the rest of the way on trestle work. Jim was taking a stroll with a friend and talking over old times, when he asked: “ By the way, did you ever know ?” “ No, 1 think not.” “ Well, sir, he was a wonderful fellow—the greatest mathematician that ever lived. You could propound the most difficult problem in mathematics to him and he would give you the answer oil-hand at the snap of your lingers, while other people of reputation in that line would use a quire of and a gross of lead pencils, and take a week to reach the same re sult. Why, I’ll tell you what that fellow could do. He could go into a graveyard and rub his head against a tomb stone and tell you how ■much the corpse weighed when it died.” Walking up town from the C. & C. shaft, one day, with Dennis McCarthy, of the Chronicle, Jim Townsend looked up at the steep side oi Cedar Hill, and remarked : “ I suppose you fellows in Virginia think that's pretty steep, don’t you ?” “ Well, rather,” remarked Dennis. “ Why, that’s nothing,” said Jim. “ Down in Lundy, where I’ve been living, they would select that ground for the location of a race track.” Speaking of lying, every old Californian re members Captain Jim Baker, immortalized by John Ph i nix as “Truthful Jeems ” His habits ot exaggeration were so notorious that San Franciscans prided themselves in possessing in him the champion of the world in that line. But one day an English sea captain came here who had achieved a brilliant reputation as a liar, and the sea captains then in port brought the two together at a d nner at Martin’s old res taurant, on Commercial street. When the wine was flowing freely the conspirators proceeded to draw out their guests. “ I presume you have seen some very severe snow storms in yo ir travels ?” said one, ad dressing the English captain. “ Yes, sir,” be replied ; “ I have seen the snow titty feet deep on a level, extending over miles of country up in Siberia.” “ And you inuot have seen some nretry severe storms yourself, ( "aptain Jim ?” sa.d an other. “ W ell, .1 should say so,” repl ed Truthful. “ • >1 was o n.; o>er the Serra Nevadas w ,u p a Ham rm i wn-n uti bad neaiuy rv. cued im^summ' 4 A»rtvd to snow, an I i’ll swear that it fell at the rate of an inch a min ute.” “How long did this continue, Captain Jim?” “Three days and nights, by , sir.” RUN bOuLL A HOUSE THAT HAS AN ECCEN TRIC MASTER. (From the Baltimore News.) There are a good many queer people in this world. Just at present Baltimore contains as odd a personage as Charles Dickens’s Mr. Dick. He is a bookkeeper who runs his house by rules. A reporter of the News, who recently visited his residence, says : Placards of rules wore placed in every room for the guidance of its occupants, and for their violation sundry penalties are provided. In the ball the following rules were posted, the placard being wedged in the crevice of the mirror in the hat-rack: Please hang your Int up. Please wipe your feet. Please do not take away our umbrellas. Please put your umbrella in the rack. Enter the parlor by the first door to the left. In the parlor he found a similar poster. It was fastened to the shade of a droplight, and at night its lettering was brought into conspicuous prominence by the light under it. The placard read thus: Ph ase do not soil the photograph album. Please do not finger the oil paintings to see if they are genuine, for they are. Please do not touch the mineral specimens on the side-table. Please do not move your chair from the posi tion it occupies. Please close the piano after using it and pub the music where you found it. If you found it out of its place put it where it belongs. No visitors entertained in this parlor before 2 P. M., and between the hours 6 and BP. M., and after 10:30 P. M. Any visitor calling at an hour when no entertainment is allowed will be compelled to await the arrival of the hour when some member of the family is permitted to enter. Young men will please observe the rule that no visitors are entertained after 10:30 P. M. Members of this family are prohibited from occupying this parlor "except to entertain callers. The rules are rough on visitors, but the re porter learned from a regular visitor to one of the young ladies of the house that they are rigidly enforced. Suspended from a chandelier, whi h over hangs the dining-table in the dining-room, was a placard which read thus: Please take your time in eating. Please replace the different articles in tho casters. Please do not put your elbows on the table. Please sit upright in your chair. Please eat with your tork. In the kitchen the servant girl kept such a close watch upon the reporter that he could n >t copy the rules he saw over the dresser. He got a few furtive glances at them. They were very long, and outlined in detail the cook’s du ties, such as the amount of salt, pepper, and other condiments to be placed in certain arti cles of food, the amount ot four required for biscuits and rolls lor each meal, when butter was to be used, etc. There was a place for every pan and pot, and each was specified. Even tho am unt of coal re juired for a day’s use in the kitchen stove was set down. There was a special injunction that everything was to be kept neat and clean, ana any failure to do so would be detected by the master of the house, who would inspect the kitchen every day. The servant.girl was allowed to receive company on one night each week, and she was permitted to take Sunday night to herself, provided she would return by 10:30 P. M. Violation of the rules was punishable by her being kept on duty on Sunday night and refused company either for one, two or three weeks, as the magnitude of the offense might justify. The harshness of the pater-familiaa was brought into full play when he devised the rules for the bed-chamber which his two daughters occupied. The placard was of the same pattern as those in other rooms through out the house—twelve inches by eight, plain black lettering, surrounded by a broad black border. The placard was suspended by ribbon from the top of the mirror frame, and the card cov ered the top of the glass. It was probably placed in that position by the father to insure its being seen long and often. Every time that either ot those young ladies ties her bonnet stnngs, arranges her hair or gazes into tho depths of b.er blue eyes, she cannot help seeing that placard. Any young lady must know how often, then, those rules meet the eyes of the fair occupants of the room. They read thus: My daughters will refrain from using cos metics, paint, powder and other such stuff, on every occasion. Tight lacing is prohibited. No conspicuous jewelry must be worn. Rose-water is the only perfumery permitted. The teeth and nails must be carefully brush ed at least twice a day. The bureau drawers must be kept in prime order. No high-heeled or tight-fitting shoes allowed. No garments should be thrown haphazard on the chairs. The lights in this room must be extinguished at 11 P. M. promptly. It is unnecessary to add that my daughters will say their prayers before retiring at night and after rising in the morning. Similar rules are placarded in the chamber occupied by the father and mother. Even the son is not exempt, and he is told how often to shave, what Kind of cravats to wear, etc. a vail. Tho Way a Young Woman Knew the Lost Heirloom of a Lower Chest. (From London Truth.) I must tell you something that happened once in a country town, where dishonesty in the edu cated classes is not so safe as it is in cities. A girl I knew was one day ransacking an old dower chest, and found, among other things long laid by, an old-fashioned white lace vail. It was about one and one-fourth yards in length, and was quite a yard wide. The design was heavy and rich along the edge, and the rest was “spriggled” with small orange buds. It had been the wedding vail of some anceters. The lace was beautifully fine old brusaels, and of course was valuable. The girl was so de lighted to find it rolled up among a lot of old linen, that she impetuously dragged it out ot the chest, and, in doing so, caught one corner of it on a wretched nail that lurked unseen in side the big box. However, she darned it so skillfully that it hardly showed, and she used to wear this vail as afichu, and lovely it looked. One very hot day, at a. garden party, she leit it in the bedroom of her hostess, and, coming up to get it in the evening, could not find it any where. It had disappeared, and though she was very sorry just at first, she soon forgot all about it, as girls will. She married and went to India with her husband. Her mother left the village. But last year when my old friend was home with her husband on furlough, they met some old acquaintances who had a place near their former home, and being asked to go and stay with them, they accepted. On the very evening ot their arrival there was an amateur concert got up by the musical people about, and of course every one went, Jeanie and her husband among the rest. They sat immediately behind a girl whom Jeanie had known formerly, and whom she recognized with pleasure, only waiting for a pause in the performance to attract her atten tion. This, however, she did very effectually before any pause came. In a very piano part of thO solo that was being sung, a loud whisper rang quite audibly through the room. This was Jeanie, who had found her long lost vail, recognized her own dainty little stitches, and uttered aloud, “My darn !” The girl be fore her turned around, as did every one, and when she saw Jeanie she grew as white as the lace itself. You see, she had thought herself quite safe in wearing it after all that long time, thinking Jeanie was in India. A MAN’S’t'wO PHASES THE BURLY MATE AND THE SICK CHILD. (From the St. Paul Globe.) An anxious mother sat on the forward deck of a Mississippi steamboat and held in her arms the emaciated form of a baby girl. The little patient’s face was white, and the blue veins stuck out of the cha’.ky sur ace in undue prom inence. The little one’s eyes were closed, but not in sleep, as the drowsy lids were half opened now and then as some person passed along or her attention was otherwise attracted. They I closed again wearily, as if the exertion was too j great to keep them open. ‘The burly mate came up to direct the deck ' hands to remove certain freight that was stored along the ca in deck. His oaths had been beard by the passengers as he urged the negro roust abouts to per.orm their work. The negroes apparently were afraid of him. He appeared to be exceedingly cross even for a steamboat mate. His immense form, fat face and round body attracted the attention of the sick child as ho passed between her and the setting sun. She opened her big blue eyes and looked at him. lie spoke in a deep voice and thundered at the men. Sho continued to look at him in amaze ment. “ Your little one is sick, madame ?” queried the burly mate, addressing tho anxious mother. “ Poor little bairn. You look about tuckered out yourself, madame.” At thia moment the boat passed very close to shore, so near, in fact, that the wild .Lowers on the bank were visible to the sick child. Tbe boat grazed along the bottom and soon struck a sand-bar and stopped short. i “Baby wants flowers,” lisped the little suf ferer as*she noticed the blooming banks. The mate went below. The mother at tempted to quiet the little invalid without suc cess. She had set her heart on the flowers and would not be satisfied, it was some time be . fore the boat got off the sand-bar, and dur.ng • that time a burly man had taken a small boat ’ and gone ashore. He gathered quantities of ■ i wild flowers. When he came back he too c them up on the cabin deck and gave them io tho I sick child, who was delighted. I The anxious mother thanked the Imriy mate 5 I for his kindness. 'I be mate held the tmy hand • o. the baby tor a second and went bemw, and 1 booh ho was beard swearing at the roustabout*