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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, October 31, 1886, Image 1

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X1.11.-NO. 3.
Uttered at the Post Office at New York,
N. Y., as Second Class Matter.
The NEW YORK DISPATCH is a. journal of light, agree
■ able and Sparkling Literature and News. One page is de
• voted to Masonic Matters, and careful attention is given
to Music and the Drama.
The Dispatch is sold by all News Agents of the city and
«lb«rbs, at FIVE CENTS A COPY.
Post Office Box No. 1775,
Edwin Booth, Henry Irving,
Wilson Barrett.
Tlie Sixain and the Reality—Lovetlay tlie
Factotum—lrving’s Pleasure Trip—Tlie
First Hand in tli>« Game—Tlie Elec
tric Light and tlie Penny Dip
— Edwin Bootti—The Parting
and the Coining Guest.
‘When Henry Irving gathered Mr. Loveday into
his employ as tho chief of his managerial and busi
ness staff, he luckily secured more than he bar
gained for.
He knew that Loveday was a man of energy, in
telligence and " most excellent address.'*
But he did not know the extent of Loveday’s
mental resources, nor did he dream that this same
employee was very speedily destined to be his alter
ego— in fact, precisely the tireless worker who has
done more through his intellectual resources and
▼i-tality toward ensuring the success of Mr. Irving
and his productions, than any other human being.
Given, to the organization, Mr. Irving, Miss Ellen
Terry and the company—without Mr. Loveday and
the Lyceum would have had no greater reputation
as a leading theatre than it had when tinder the
management of Henry Bateman.
People reading in the papers of Mr. Irving and
his professional as well as social life, work and
habits, and being familiar with ht« personal ap
pearance, have wondered how this thin, lank,
stoop-shouldered and by no means physically
robust man, gets through such an immense amount
of labor, season after season, without breaking
If they knew Loveday and of his resources the
wonder would cease. And so would the admira
tion of Mr. Irving’s power of endurance.
As it is, the reader of these marvelous doings-of
Mr. Irving as an actor, director of rehearsals, diner
out, after-dinner orator, man of business, student,
contributor to the press, and bon vivant at the clubs
and the Lord only knows what else, are puzzled as
to when he rests 1
No press reporter or interviewer has ever found
,or that "the distinguished tragedian was so fatigued
that he could not talk or be seen,” nor is there any
record that he has hinted that he ever was in
the whole course of his professional life suffering
from exhaustion. If we are to believe the current
newspaper stories of his marvelous endurance, he
gets up in the morning at eight; eats an egg and
lubricates his (esophagus with a cup of coffee at
nine; goes to the theatre at ten, overhauls the
properties, goes into the paint-room and instructs
the scenic artist as to his work; dodges around into
the box or business office and directs the business
of the day; then enters his private office, writes
half a score of letters accepting half a score of invi
tations to breakfast, dine and sup with lords,
M. P.s, and distinguished actors, and to act as
chairman at special meetings, writes an essay upon
dramatic art for some magazine, and then—off he
goes to tho stage and commences, at sharp eleven,
the rehearsal of a play, which occupies his time
until five P. M. Then he pays a flying visit to his
club in full dress suit, presides at a quiet little
wine dinner, responds to a toast in an hour’s speech,
then hies him away for a pleasant drive of an hour,
after which he reads a couple of plays, receives a
few authors, plays a game or two of chess, and—
once more—eats.
Then at seven he is at the theatre in his
dressing-room, making up for Mephlstopheles,
while he is conversing with •• Wales” or Milord
Somebody—or receiving the compliments of some
distinguished visitor. After he is through his
night's performance, he gives a midnight luncheon
at the back of the |tage to eight or nine invited
guests, to whom hejiftkes great pleasure in intro
ducing Miss Terry, and two or three of his leading
ladies and gentlemen. After this away he goes to
his club—and another luncheon—holds high ca
rouse, and then when daylight is forcing its way
through the fog into the streets of London, he de
parts for his lodgings. All this in one day.
But there is no memorandum—that he retires.
Ho merely brushes up a little, takes a bath, admits
his valet to assist him in his toilet, then
begins the perusal of the morning papers. That is
the published way of it. Alas that it should be only
a fairy tale, or rather one of the devices of the sub
tle and crafty Loveday to advertise the great Mys
tery of the Lyceum, and ••keep him before the
Now what are really the facts concerning Mr.
Irving’s labors. Mr. Loveday is in fact as well as in
name the stage manager, the worker—mentally and
physically—of the Lyceum Theatre. So far as the
conduct of the rehearsals of a new play are con
cerned, Mr. Loveday is the director; he it is who
arranges the business, selects the artists who pro
vides the models of tho scenic settings and those who
furnish the historically correct designs for the cos
tumes; he it is to whose knowledge and judgment
Mr. Irving leaves the entire supervision of all the
preparations for a new production. Mr. Irving, in
reality, bothers himself very little about any of this
The press work, tho arrangements of tho adver
tising business, tho control of tho front of the
house, and virtually all the acting, management of,
as Joslin Davis would term it, "the entire show,”
is vested in tho useful Mr. Loveday.
Mr. Loveday s advice and shrewd suggestions are
the guides whereby Mr. Irving has been and is able
to so adroitly use divers members of the nobility—
yea, even the name of Wales is little else than an ad
vertisement of tho theatre and its Mephistophe
lean lessee and manager. It is Mr. Loveday who
writes or has written the set banquet addresses,
the chairman speeches, and other oratorical efforts
which Mr. Irvingafter his own peculiar and eccen
tio fashion delivers—and Loveday takes care that all
the reporters are furnished with complete copies—
in advance.
At rehearsals it makes but little difference
whether Mr. Irving is present or not,
and so is the company—and so is Mr. Loveday.
Mr. Irving’s chief study aside from the text of his
part is to devise the most eccentric and novel
method of playing it. If he were to play Mathias
in *’The Bells” or the dual role in •• The Lyons
Mail,” without his affected vagaries of accent and
extravagances of action, and act solely in accord
ance with the legitimate canons of dramatic or
even theatric art, he would attract no more aUen
rion than the most ordinary of actors. It is in these
characters, where his monkeying with comm< n
and disgruntling the queen's Eaglisb have
a free scope, that he has made himself notabla and
shining subject for burlesque imitation.
When Nat Goodwin imitates Mr. Edwip Booth or
Mr. Barrett, the audience does not laugh; but
when he imitates Mr. Irving—the audience roars—
for it is a faithful mimicry of an absurd original.
Mr. Loveday is at present one of the brightest,
wide-awake and most industrious of the London
acting managers.
He does hie work effectually, neatly and with
dispatch, and gets his salary promptly, and with i t
the confidence if not the gratitude of his manager,
and Mr. Irving does the posing, the eating, drink
ing and grotesque and gets the honors.
It is the old story of Pecksniff and Martin
Take Miss Terry and Loveday out of the concern
and it would •• bust.”
It was Loveday doubtless who contrived Mr.
Irving’s flying visit to this country last Summer —
ostensibly •• for pleasure only.”
But would Mr. Irving have taken ths trip had
there been no other purpose than pleasure; than
his desire to meet his "dear, dear American friends”
and to treat a select party of them to a banquet at
Not a bit of it. Again, the adroit puller of the
wires—Loveday—gets in his fine work. Mr. Irving’s
•• dear friend’’—Wilson Barrett was coming over.
I can fancy
(who may some day give the whole snap away)—
holding council in this matter.
••I say Hal, my boy—we must head off this Barrett
—over there. It wont do to let him get a grip you
know. Wo can’t afford it.”
•• Oh, yes—l see—yes—but—we cannot stop him
you know. What’s your idea?”
•• You must take a trip over, close the shop here,
take Terry as a blind and, when you get there, work
the pleasure gag, give the press chaps a dinner
wine, wind and all that sort of treacle and—do
•• Eh, bless me, how?”
•• Why, damn him with faint praise, call him
your dearest friend, recommend him sweetly to the
sense of the critics—words, words, buzz, buzz,
don’t you know, and while you’re doing it, make
plentiful spread of yourself, mention what you have
done for dramatic art everywhere, what you are go
ing to do, get in the success of • Faust’ and, sub rasa,
make arrangements and have it understood—on the
quiet—that you are coming over next season—
•B7-’BB—with the farewell engagement dodge.
That’ll put a damper on Barrett and forestall him
Irom making another American tour.”
••Loveday, my soul’s delight! Reign thou here
after 1”
“ I’ll write up the speeches and cook the press by
cable. I'll make your‘pleasure’trip a corker for
Barrett. Don't stay in New York all the time, I’ll
see that you're invited to take a sail around the
coast in a yacht towed by a tugboat. Put into
Newport, then make for Boston—do the dear friend
biz on Barrett—two words of diaphanous praise
for him and whole sentences in solid chunks for
yourself; wish him happiness and yourself luck,
and speak of him kindly, but always in the same
spirit that one would of a penny dip burning in the
same place which had been illuminated by an elec
tric light—say one thing and let them see plainly
that you mean another. Convey the idea that you
are the electric light and let them imagine who the
penny dip is.”
Well, as Bill Sykes remarked, "The job’s done.’’
The pleasure trip was made and the first hand of
the game was played.
But the game is not finished. There are two or
three more deals to be made.
By the time Mr. Barret returns to New York, and
plays the final engagement of his first American
season, it is possible that it will be in the cards he
holds for him to win,
For, after all, it is the straightforward and manly,
not the tricky and machaivelian that wins the hon
or's in the end.
It is "Thebeginning of the end,” not only here
but in London.
Mr. Wilson Barrett has pursued the same course
which marks the business conduct of Mr. Edwin
Booth; he prefers that his chief advertiser shall be
his deserving as an artist in his profession and by
that he prefers to stand or fall.
He neither wines nor dines the critics for the sake
of newspaper notoriety. Some of the press com
mentations upon the acting of Mr. Wilson Barrett
wore assinine enough to that Je
them of the late his methods.
These same fellows will perhaps next season dis
cover points of resemblance in Mr. Irving’s per
formance of •• Faust ”to that of the late Mr. For
rest in “Spartacus.” It should be a matter of con
gratulation to Mr. Wilson Barrett that as ••Clau
dian” he has not reminded these hewers of reputa
tions and drawers of comparisons of Mr. Irving as
Eugene Aram.
I say it with all due respect for his memory, that
Mr. McCullough was nothing more, at his best, in
point of talent, than an ordinary leading man in an
ordinary stock company. Socially, he was a very
prince of good fellows; his largesse of dinners and
midnight luncheons—with the usual trimmings—
won him the loyal and generous friendship which
held just criticism in abeyance and carried him
forward to eminence—and to his untimely end.
—And speaking of Mr. Wilson Barrett, and Mr.
Henry Irving and his alter ego,, Loveday, reminds
me that to-morrow evening
will be seen for the first time upon the stage of the
Star Theatre this season. He is to-day the foremost
of American artists, the greatest representative of
Hamlet and lago which the American stage has pro
duced. Like Mr. Wilson Barrett, his fame is not
the resultant of claptrap advertising nor of mas
querading eccentricities; it is the reward of a loyal
and studious devotion to an artistic purpose and of
an honest abhorrence of the illegitimate devices of
the mountebank.
Mr. Booth does not require the services of a Love
day; he does not give banquets every week to the
press; he does not pose as a subject for the inter
viewers; he is not eternally rushing into print with
his opinions and views of things theatrical and
dramatic; he does not obtrude himself constantly
upon the notice of the public as the chairman of
social carouses, dub dinners, nor as the central fig
ure in receptions.
There is nothing of the circus and brass band in
his business management.
Such exponents of the drama as Edwin Booth and
Wilson Barrett dignify their art. The devices of
the charlatan are not a necessity for them. They
honor the stage with their presence and glorify it
with their talent; to them is due the homage of all
who have at heart the desire that the stage and its
mission may be ennobled and purified, not only by
its literature and teachings and in its relations to
humanity, but by the earnestness and sincerity of
its representatives.
It is said that there were sixteen complainants
against James A. Hanna, a genteely dressed young
fellow. It seems however, only one complaint was
taken against him in the Police Court, that of Louisa
Hopper, who was swindled out of $2. It appears
that prisoner was in the habit of reading the death
notices in the daily papers. The day after the
funeral of a child, he would call on the bereaved
mother and offer to enlarge the likeness or the child
to a size that they could hang it up in the front
room. He would do it cheaply, for $2. He would
present the card of a respectable photographer, and
claim that he was their authorized agent. ’ The
cards of the photographer were easy to purloin from
the sitting-room. The mother, in her grief, and
shown a specimen of what he would do, readily
parted with her child’s likiness and the two dollars.
That was the last seen of photograph, money ami
The Court pent him to tho Penitentiary for two
The Tragedy of the Vernol
A Series of Incidents Illustrative of the
Workings of the Voudou Adepts.
Brought to the Verge of the
A Gambler who Was a Square
mot.uk the MAST’EB.
It is all very well for people who do not' live
where it is practiced and who know nothing about
it, to deride the occult knowledge of the Obi, or
Voudou priests and priestesses, but there are plenty
of intelligent white people in the Southern States
who have a zery well-grounded fear of those prac
titioners of "the black art.” It is beyond question
that the Voudou charms do seem, at times, to pos
sess a supernatural potency, producing results that
are beyond explanation by any reasoning that ex
cludes demoniac influence; bnt, apart from that
’ consideration, the Obi adepts may justly be dreaded
as the most cunning poisoners in the world. They
? know many secrets of the most deadly character
concerning mysterious vegetable poisons, the effects
and presence of which, in the human system, are
( unrecognizable by the best science of the white
s man. It is quite within their power to kill as by
the lightning’s stroke, or to sap the vital forces by
’ slow degrees, or to fnflict the most agonizing tor
} tures that will seem to be the operations of some
well-known disease, and neither in life nor in death
can the keenest diagnosis, or even the autopsy,
’ bring to light the mysterious forces of nature that
they employ. This horrible knowledge it is that in
real-'ty accomplishes what they beguile the super-
* stitious negroes and even many white people, into
believing is the work of their
although there are not wanting events that seem to
r prove that not all of their sorceries are equally
r simple of explanation.
1 A series of events that occurred in New Orleans,
j in 1853 and the two succeeding years—now recalled
> by publication in the little French paper titled La
. Semaine, in connection with mention of the recent
1 death of an old time gambler named Lum. Quintard
> —appears to afford illustration of both kinds of
r Obi power (toxic and occult) and is well worthy of
translation. It is as follows:
’ In the Autumn of 1853, Cecile Vernol, the daugh
-9 ter of Baptiste Vernol, a widower who kept a small
a shop near the French market, was married to
Clarence Dupuy, a young man employed in a confi
dential position by a large commission house. Cecile
f was only seventeen years old, somewhat frail in
i appearance, but very beautiful, and her union with
Dupuy was one of affection on both sides, or at
3 least seemed so to all who knew them, and was so
deemed by themselves. Dupuy was young, had
indeed, but barely attained his majority, and of
f rather a hare-brained, vivacious disposition, fond
of pleasure and amply appreciative of his own good
r He was by no means Cecile’s first suitor, but the
only one besfde himself who had ever awakened
even a passing interest in her gentle breast was a
1 gambler named Lem. Quintard, a bold, handsome,
i manly fellow, whose profession caused her father to
j vigorously antogonise his suit and even to hasten
her into a wedding with Dupuy. Cecile was just
beginning to fall in love with Quintard, who often
made business at Vernol’s store in order to see her,
when her father told her she must not do so and,
, like a good little girl, she obeyed.
Five months after Cecile’s marriage, her sister
Terese, who was
came home from Cuba, where she had been living
for several years. When she ran away from home
> with a Spaniard named Garcia, she sent back word
( from Havana that she was married to him there.
Her father affected to believe it, and Cecile—inno
’ cent little creature—really did so. When it suited
’ her to return home, she told her f ither that her
husband had died of yellow fever, and had left her
comfortably provided for with the name of Sonora
5 Garcia, and ample means for hertO live in a manner
that her defunct lord would haye deeniod of
wKat he was pleased IcTcbnsicTer his Illustrious name.
Perhaps if she had com© back poor, old M. Vernol
1 it gaey tp welcome, believe gud
forgive her. Be that as it may, he unfortunately
did all that. Poor little Ceci’e had nothing to for
give, and no feeling in her heart lor her sister other
than love, unbounded confidence, and unstinted ad-
• miration.
Terese was well worthy of admiration, physically
taller than her sister and more robust, her charms
were much more fully developed. Her eyes were
brilliant and bold, her lips full and very red, her fig
s ure that of a Juno. She was altogether a much more
brilliant personage than her modest little sister, and
when to her charms of face and form she adde’d the
fascination of her innimitable singing of some in
tensely amorous Ilabanese guarracha songs, she
quite took captive the fickle fancy of her good-look
-1 ing brother-in-law, M. Dupuy. A guilty intimacy
very soon existed between them. That might not
I have done much harm—except from a moral point
of view, of course—had it not led to
for the unsuspecting wife. Terese conceived a vio
-1 lent and ungovernable passion for her faithless
brother-in-law, and wanted him all for herself. If
she could only manage to get Cecile out of the way,
she thought that she could cajole him into marry
ing her. It is not believed that Dupuy was at this
time in any degree cognizant of his sister-in-law’s
ulterior designs, though there can be little doubt
that later he became Involved in them, and perhaps
i did something to forward them.
The very nature of her first attempt upon Cecile
’ seems to argue against his complicity, lor it was
nothing less than an endeavor to bring about a
guilty intimacy between the young wife and the
gambler with whom she came so near to falling in
love before her marriage. The little secret of that
faint budding of a romance in her otherwise un
eventful life Cecile had confided to Terese, and the
latter made it her business as soon afterward as
possible to form the acquaintance of Lem Quintard.
She met him at a French ball, and adroitly turned
the conversation with him to the subject of her sis
Lem frankly admitted that he had loved Cecile
very much.
" Do you love herjyet sufficiently to make an effort
to win her favor ?” asked Terese.
"Yes, I love her; but I would sooner lose my right
hand than seek to bring dishonor or unhappiness to
her. What good would it do to win her love now ?
She is married,” he replied, despondently.
“ Bah ! You a man, and talk like that!” laughed
Terese. «• You don’t know how women wish to be
But to her infinite surprise the American, gam
bler as be was and desperado, had too true and
honorable a leve for the pure young woman whom
he had once hoped to make his wife than accept
her sister’s plainly hinted offer to betray her to his
"No,” he said; "if she would have married me
I’d have gone into some respectable business and
never touched a card again, except perhaps in a lit
tle game of draw among gentlemen; but that possi
bility is all past. My luck was dead against me
and the game is closed. I only hope the little girl
may always be as good as I like to think her and as
happy as I would like to make her.”
The more he thought about that conversation the
more he realized that for some reason he could not
yet fathom Terese really plotted some
and he determined to put Cecile upon her guard if
he could find an opportunity to give her a warning.
But about that time old man Vernol died, leaving
his store to Cecile and her husband—Terese, as he
said in his will, being already sufficiently well pro
vided for, and as Dupuy gave up his place in the
commission house te manage the inherited busi
ness and was consequently almost constantly at
home and Cecile never went out alone, Quintard
could find no opportunity to speak with her. He
tried to write, but found it so difficult a matter to
put on paper, that he gave it up and waited. While
he was watching for a chance to see her, however,
and informing himself as well as he could about
what was going on in her family, he became aware
of the li.ason between Terese and M. Dupuy, which
was already a subject of gossip among the neigh
From that he shrewdly divined what the elder
sister was planning, and his anxiety for the woman
he still loved was redoubled, as also the vigilance
with which ho watched for some new develop
ment. One. thing he positively made up his mind
to, that if he fcund any other man being made use
of fcy Terese, as she had sought to use him, ho
would kill that man. What danger other than that
might threaten Cecile be could not imagine.
It was not long, however, before he observed, by
casual "iiiwpes of Cecile, that her appearance was
sadly a'.rered for the worse. Her eyes wore deeply
sunken, her cheeks hollow, her complexion sallow,
her form bowed, her step slow and tottering. As
he expressed it to himself, she was
His idea was that she had found out the relations
existing between her sister and her husband, and
that the latter was wearing her life out with brutal
ity to make her submit uncomplainingly to the sit
uation. M. Dupuy had never before been so near
to sudden death as he was when Lem Quintard
got that idea. Fortunately for him, however, Lem
noticed that a doctor was making regular visits to
the house, and soon learned through the profes
sional gentleman that Cecile was suffering from
some mysterious and very serious ailment, that
seemed to affect both her body and her mind, and
that there was no evidence of any such trouble as
he had surmised.
That suggested to him a new suspicion and, hap
pily, the right one. He at once set himself to watch
Terese, and ere long discovered her making visits,
in as secret a manner as possible, to the hut of an
old black hag known as Musette, who had the repu
tation of being a Voudou priestess.
Musette was regarded with fear and awe by those of
her own color, and there were few white people cog
nizant of the evil fame she bore, who did not at least
share the fear of her. Certainly no white person
went to her with any good purpose. But Quintard
could not readily see any way to interfere. Speak
ing to Cecile, or the sorceress, of his suspicions,
would only put them on their guard, and possibly
hasten Cecile’s fate.
To go direct to Ceci-Ie would be useless, for he
could bring no proofs to her that would be suffi
cient. to her guileless heart, to sustain such an
awful charge as he would have to make against her
sister. As for speaking to M. Dupuy, that was out of
the question, for he vehemently suspected the hus
band of being a party to the damnable work that
was going on. Meanwhile, Cecile was gradually
but surely going to her grave, and her physician
was powerless to stay her progress.
At length, one night, while Lem. was dealing
faro, a phrase made use of by one of the players be
fore him gave him the inspiration that he needed.
The man's words were :
Within five minutes Lem. had called the case
keeper to take his place behind the deal-box, put a
friend at the case, and rushed out of the house.
He hurriedly betook himself to a shanty, in the
lowest part of the city, inhabited by an old Voudou
man named Moluk, whose fame as a sorcerer and
familiar of devils was then higher than that of any
other of the numerous Obi-men in New Orleans.
Moluk claimed to have been a chief in Africa, and
in the prime of life was no doubt a magnificent
specimen of the savage, with a gigantic frame and
a countenance full of pride and ferocity. But now
he had got to be old, very old, was bent almost
double, and all that remained to him of his former
external self was the fiendish malignancy and cun
ning of his face. It was only necessary to look in
his face to see that he was one who would not scru
ple at anything, and if half was true that was told
of him, bis Obi-lore gave him a terrible power.
Quintard gave him literally a handful ef gold, and
then told him, without mentioning any names, the
matter that perplexed him and without speaking of
"How long,” asked Moluk, "has the woman been
pining ?”
" Three and a half months.”
"Describe how she has failed and what her pres
ent condition is, as sharply as you can.”
Fortunately, Lem had sufficiently closely ques
tioned the physician to be able to comply very ac
curately. Moluk did not interrupt him, but only
grinned appreciatively, and when ha had conclud
ed, said laconically:
"That is what-I fear,” replied Lem, "and 1 have
come to you to work more powerful charms to save
her. - ’
"The only one in New Orleans, beside myself,
who knows bow to bring a person to the condition
she is itu w Musette.”
"I lure seen the woman’s sister go to her
"Ah! Why didn’t you say so before? It would
have saved time. Il Musette <s not crossed, the
woman has only two weeks yewb live. Thatcharm
works out in four weeks, and after it is done not
all the doctors in the world can tell what killed her.
Musette has skill, aad it is dangerous to cross her
in her work; at least it is for one who is not her
master. But I am her master. She is afraid of
" I will give you another handful of gold if you
will cross her and save the woman.”
••You will? Then it shall be done. Go away
now and come back to-gnorrow night at twelve
o’clock. If Ido not let you in at once when you
Quintard returned to the Obi-man’s hovel at the
appointed hour, found the door barred and re
ceived, for some time, no answer to his knockings.
But he could hear inside a crooning noise and a
penetrating, pungept smoke stole out through*The
crevices about door. The shutters of
the one window were fastened inside and he could
see nothing inside. At length be was admitted.
Moluk was stark naked. The room was filled
with an offensive smoke. A circle enclosing two
interlaced triangles, the points of which touched it,
was drawn in black on the floor and outside the
circle fresh blood was spattered about. A lamp
burned with a blue flame in the centre of the
geometrical figure. Moluk, waving a bloody wand
about him, adjured him to step quickly inside the
figure. To the excited fancy of his visitor, the thick
smoke seemed to roll away from the circle sur
rounding him and to take vague, serpentive forms
that unduleted and crawled. He could almost
have sworn that he saw glimpses of fiery eyes
among the smoke. Moluk put in his hands a
small, rudely-shaped figure of a woman, made in
;oft clay.
Said the black magician, *‘is tlie woman’s enemy,
Whatever is done to it will be done to her. When
it is pierced with this thorn, the pain and weakness
in the woman you wish to save, at the place corres
ponding to where you touch with the thorn, will
depart from her and fly to the woman who has
caused it. Some of it will go, too, to Musette, but
she must expect that, and when she feels it, she
will know her master’s will and will fry no more.
Afterward, I will relieve her. The person who must
use the thorn upon the figure is the one who is
afflicted, and before she uses it the first time, she
must say three times over, ’Great master! help
me !* If she does not know who has put the spell
upon her, you need not tell her. Perhaps you had
better jnot, under the circumstances. ’The results
will be proof.”
By the time he had finished speaking, the smoke
was entirely dissipated, and when Quintard looked
down at the floor the black lines that he had seen
upon it were also gone. Everything in the hovel
was in its accustomed state of'squalor and dirt.
By the liberal use of money, Quintard bribed
Madam Dupuy’s maid to admit him to her mis
tress’s room on the very night following his second
visit to Moluk, while M. Dupuy and Terese were
away together at a ball. He found her in bed. Her
lower limbs were prralyzed. It was the beginning
of the end. In twelve days more, if its progress
should not be stayed, that leaden death would have
possessed all her being. Her mental faculties were
very weak. She obeyed him like a child, without
even seeming surprised by bis presence in her room
or questioning its cause. When he asked her where
her greatest pain was, she told him, "In the small
of my back.” "Repeat after me,” he told her:
She did so. "Again.” She obeyed. "A third
time.” She again repeated the words,
•• Now thrust this deep thorn in the bit of clay,” he
directed, bolding out to her the little figure;
" there, at that point,” indicating the part corre
sponding to the seat of her greatest pain. She sub
missively did as he commanded. In a few moments,
with a smile and a sigh of relief, she exclaimed :
•• My pain is gone—and—yes—l think I can—oh !
lam sure of itj I can move my legs.”
"Poke the thorn in its head,” he directed her,
and she obeyed. The effect was almost equally
felt. She looked at him for the first time with an
air of startled surprise aud demanded:
"What are you doing here ?”
Her mind was cleared. She could understand
him now. In a few words he told her that she had
been the victim of voudou spells; that he had
found it out and had come to save her; that a very
wicked woman had won irom her her husband's
love and tried to take her life, but now her afflic
tions had fled from her to the woman who had
caused them, and she would be saved. Poor Cecile
had no suspicion that it was her sister Terese, of
whom he was speaking. She didn’t doubt what’he
told her. for, as a true creole, a fear of the voudou
powers was born and bred in her, and she accepted
his guidance as that of an almost Divine Saviour.
He left the manikin and thorn in her hands and
went away.
Half an hour later Terese was brought home from
the ball, with her lower limbs
shrieking with agony and with as little mental con
trol as her sister had nossessed but an hour before.
But the truth burst upon Cecile in an instant and
Terese, when charged with it, no longer had the
strength of mind to deny anything. In her horror
of the treachery that surrounded her, Cecile stag
gered backward, swooning and.clutching at the top
of the bureau beside which she was standing, to
save herself from falling, unconsciously thrust the
thorn, which she happened to be holding, through
the breast of the clay figure that laid upon the bu
reau. In the instant that that occurred, Terese ut
tered a frightful scream, clapped her hands to her
heart aud fell back dead, as if her heart had been
M. Dupuy committed suicide, which was the
most decent thing he could do under the circum
stances, and alter a suitable delay Cecile became
the wiie of the American who had always loved and
had saved her.
Foisced Politeness. —Mrs. Hendricks,
the landlady, and Mrs. Simpson, who keeps a rival
establishment around the corner, were returning
from market when Dumley chanced to meet them.
He almost swept the ground with his hat.
" That is Mr. Dumley, my fourth floor back,” ex
plained Mrs, Hendricks.
" Indeed !” said Mrs. Simpson: "what a very po
lite and defferential young man.”
" He is three weeks behind with his board,” re
plied Mrs. Hendricks, grim y.
A Blunder Which was Turned
to Good Account.
The Man Who Put Something
Under the Table.
How Monsieur Cliauny’s Jewelry
The Wrong Cab, The Wrong Fare,
and The Wrong Thief Who
Got the Plunder.
Monsieur Chauny, a tanner by trade, unexpect
edly came into possession of a large fortune in 1857,
by the death of an uncle, who had for many years
been a wine merchant in London. At that time
Monsieur Chauny was residing at Falais, in Nor
mandy, France. He immediately removed with his
wife and daughter to Paris, and, after a time, set up
a fine establishment on the Boulevart de Courcelles.
Though previously in a humble condition, he was
by no means an ignorant or boorish personage. He
accommodated himself to his new circumstances
with wonderful tact and resolved to reap as far as
possible all the benefits which wealth put within
his reach. He procured the best masters for his
daughter, and his wife did not fail to glean all the
knowledge she could from the instructions given to
her only child. In 1863, when the daughter, Helen,
was in her twenty-second year, she made the ac
quaintance of a young man named Morlaix. He
was poor, but handsome and well informed on most
subjects. He held a subordinate position in a
merchant’s office and received only a small salary.
Nevertheless Helen Chauny was deeply in love with
him and resolved to unite her fortunes with his at
all risks. The marriage greatly enraged Monsieur
Chauny, who swore that thenceforth he would
disown his child. After a short trial, however, he
allowed his indignation to cool down and made his
daughter an allowance, on which she and her hus
band might have lived with tolerable comfort, pro
vided economy was practised.
Unfortunately, however, Morlaix, relieved from
the necessity of labor and under the impression
that his rich father-in-law would soon grow more
generous, became dissipated and associated with
companions who were not persons of character.
His wife remained faithful to him in spite of his
loose conduct, and through her intercessions, join
ed with those of her mother, a permanent reconcil
iation was effected and Morlaix and his wife went
to reside in the Chauny Mansion.
Morlaix, sensible of their improved condition and
anxious to obtain the good opinion of Monsieur
Chauny, was for a time very cautious in his be
havior, and by degrees so won the regard of his
father-in-law that the latter plainly assured the
young man of his favor and intention that his
daughter should not suffer on account of her mar
In 1865 Madame Chauny died. After this Mon
sieur Chauny appeared to be overweeningly attach
ed to his daughter, and was unwilling that her
husband should leave her almost entirely to him.
After the period of mourning had passed, Monsieur
Chauny took his daughter into society and to the
opera, placing at her disposal an elegant and valua
ble outfit of jewelry which he had presented to his
wife on his first acquisition of fortune.
Morlaix soon after this resumed his former habits
of dissipation and spent most of his time with a
woman named Madame Ferriere. All the money
he could get from his wife or borrow from his
friends—for there were men ready to lend when
they supposed that before long the entire fortune of
Chauny would be under the control of his son-in
law— Morlaix speot on this person, and yet she was
never satisfied. She arranged in her miiid a seheaiA
for her own benefit, which she propounded at what
she considered a propitious moment, to Morlaix.
•‘lf anything happened to your wife," she said,
‘•Chauny’s interest in you would cease and you
would be cast upon the world penniless. Now, if
you bad a true and tried friend who had influence
Over Chauny, it might be different.’*
"What scheme have you on hand?" Morlaix
asked, suspiciously.
" Well," was the answer, "I may as well be plain.
What is to prevent my becoming the wife of Mon
sieur Chauny ?’’
Morlaix stood for a moment confounded. The
audacity of the suggestion almost paralyzed him.
A little reflection, however, showed him tint the
thing was, perhaps, neither impracticable nor im
"Itis a great idea," he said. "How would you
carry it out?"
" I have thought It out already," she replied. "I
will go to the opera some night when Monsieur
Chauny accompanies his daughter thither. You
must be a good that night and go with
your wife. You will recognize me in the box as
your friend the Countess So-and-so, a highly distin
guished lady of rank who has recently lost h hus
band, You WiP. introduce Chauny to mg
A yljl Invite him to my apartments. l r’*
•‘ What 1 here ?" exclaimed Morlaix.
"Oh, no,” replied the woman, with immovable
effrontery, “ to the apartments you wi 1 hire for me
for the occasion in a fashionable neighborhood."
" I hire for you I with what ?" said Morlaix.
"Oh, you must find the means to it somewhere;
think what is at stake," was the reply.
After further planning and plotting, the scheme
was resolved ’em; and, in order to procure all he
could from his -wife, Morlaix was to be considerate
and attentive to her for a few days, at least. He
went home early that evening.
When he reached Monsieur Chauny’s dwelling,
great consternation reigned there. Helen Morlaix
had been seized the preceding night with a fit and
had lain ever since in an unconscious state. Three
of the first physicians had been summoned but had
done nothing, and Monsieur Chauny, at the sug
gestion of a friend, had sent for a young doctor
e *vho had recently been very successful in extreme
cases. The physician was expected every moment.
Monsieur Morlaix wont to his wife’s apartments,
where she lay pale, even ghastly, and motionless
and insensible. Monsieur Chauny was heartbroken
and left the room in order that Morlaix might vent
his grief alone.
But Morlaix vented no grief at his wife’s condi
tion. The thought which filled his mind was what
Madame Ferriere had suggested—that if anything
happened to Helen he would be turned on the
street penniless.
The diamonds! The case of precious jewels
which had belonged to Madame Chauny, and which
Helen had had for some time in her possession.
These were better than nothing. Oh, there was the
case under a lace handkerchief on the dressing
table I
Monsieur Morlaix heard a step outside. He
seized the case and put it on the floor, under the
dressing-table, the curtains in front hiding it from
When he arose, the young physician, just sum
moned, had entered the room. Monsieur Morlaix
bowed and retired.
Dr. Henri Foulain had his apartments in the Rue
St. Lazare. He had just returned from a very long
and exacting attendance on a hospital case of a
capital nature and was exhausted. Nevertheless,
when he found a telegraphic message from Mon
sieur Chauny awaiting him, he went right out,
jumped into a cab, and started up the Boulevart
Malasherbes, first ascertaining that the driver
knew Monsieur Chauny’s residence on the Boule
vart de Courcelles.
Dr. Foulain’s eyes caught the light in Lembecy’s
cafe, and the hunger which already gnawed him,
seemed to set its teeth afresh. He resolved to eat’
and stopped the cab.
Half an hour before that, Jean Jemappes, a
forger and thief, had driven to Lembecy’s in a cab,
and told the driver to wait As Dr. Foulain entered
the cafe, Jemappes was preparing to come out. He
came out, and, supposing that the cab in front of
the door was the one in waiting for him, opened the
doorand sprang in. The driver, thinking that his
fare was inside, drove off to Monsieur Chauny’s
residence. Jemappes, supposing the cabman to be
his own peculiar cabman, who Knew his haunts,
lay back and was lost in thought. Suddenly the
cab stopped before a splendid dwelling, and a set
vant in modest livery opened the cab door, and bade
•‘ the doctor" follow him.
Jemappes for a moment hesitated, but only for a
moment. He was a man of daring and resource.
Here was a mistake, evidently, but it was not of his.
Something might come of it favorable to himself’
Certainly no harm could result. So he followed the
servant in a magnificent hall and was met by a
stately gentleman, who appeared tosufferfrom deep
••Dr. Foulain," said he, "my daughter, my only
child, was stricken down in a fit last night. She
has lain unconscious ever since. My friend, Mon
sieur Bezons, recommen led me to summon you.
Do all you can, and I will amply compensate you.”
Jemappes bowed and was instantly led upstairs
by a servant. As he entered Madame Morlaix’s
bedroom, he saw a gentleman putting something
under the dressing table.
••There is something singular here," he thought;
"while the woman is dying, there is something to
be bidden away. I will see about it."
He removed his overcoat and laid it on a chair.
Then lie motioned the servant to withdraw.
As soon as the man had quitted the room, Jemap
pes looked around to see that the coast was clear,
lhen he went to the dressing table raised the cur
tain in front and saw a morocco leather case. Ji.,
lifted it and placed it within the folds of bis overcoat
There was no time to lose. Placing the coat over
his arm so as to conceal the case, he quitted tho
room. The servant, who was waiting outside, ac
companied him down the stairs. Mona. Chauny
met him at the bottom. Jemappes, the man of in
finite resource, was cool.
"The case is most serious,” he said. "I under
stood it in an instant. lam going straight to my
residence for the necessary medicine, which will
effect a speedy cure.”
"Thank God I*’ exclaimed Monsieur Chauny:
" here Is your partial recompense,” and he thrust a
roll of bills into Jemappes s hand.
" I will return immediately,” said Jemappes, and
hastened out, thrusting the money into his pocket.
He got into the cab.
"Drive to the Place de I’Etoile,” said he, and off
the horses dashed.
At that moment a cab, containing the real Dr.
Foulain, was rushing toward Monsieur Chauny’s
residence from the direction of the Boulevart Mala
sherbes. When its occupant alighted, ho hastened
past the porter.
"I am Doctor Foulain,” the new comer said, and
hurried on. In the hall he was met by a servant. i
•‘ I am Dr. Foulain,” he said.
The servant gazed in amazement.
Monsieur Chauny came irom a reception room
and confronted the stranger.
•• I am Dr. Foulain.” he repeated.
"A mistake,” said Monsieur Onauny. "Dr. Fou
lain has just been here and has gone for medicine,
to return immediately.”
"7 am Dr. Foulain,” said the stranger, equally
amazed. •• lam Dr. Henry Foulain of the Rue St.
Lazare. Here is the message which you sent.”
Monsieur Chauny took the telegraphic dispatch
from the gentleman’s hand and was more surprised
than ever.
Monsieur Chauny explained.
" There is a great blunder or an infamous trick,”
said Dr. Foulain. " 1 had been out all day and was
depressed and nervous for want of food. I stopped
my cab at Lembecq’s cafe on the Rue Malasherbes
and went in to take some refreshment. On my re.
turn I found the cab gone. I say that there is some
serious mistake, it may boa crime.”
"Come upstairs,” said Monsieur Chauny, in a
voice scarcely audible.
When they entered Madame Morlaix’s apartment,
her husband was standing in the middle of the
room, white as a spectre and trembling all over.
" There,” said he, articulating with difficulty and
pointing to the dressing table; "there—the jewel
case was there, and it is gone 1”
" Ab, that explains it,” said Dr. Foulain, calmly.
Then he turned to the patient and made a careful
" She will cease to breathe before daylight,” he
Next day detectives were at work looking for the
impersonator of Dr. Foulain and the thief of the
precious jewels. They found the cabman who
drove him and put him down at the Place do
"I observed when he paid me,” said the driver,
"that his nose was turned toward his left ear.”
"It was Jemappes," was the remark of the detec
tives, simultaneously.
That night they caught the manat the station,
about to start forCalais. He was identified despite his
spectacles and the artificial appendage to his nose,
which made both sides even. When he was search
ed nearly all the jewels were found concealed about
his person. He told with absolute composure how
he had been attracted to the jewelry. As for Mor
laix, he had disappeared. But he had first forged
a check on the bank for 20,000 francs, using the
name of hia father-in-law. He had then visited the
handsome Ferriere’s apartment and, finding her at
her milliner’s, had taken her jewelry and about a
thousand francs in money.
Within a week he was caught endeavoring to take
passage on a ship from Marseilles. From him and
Madame Ferriere, as they recriminated each other,
the facts material to this narrative were obtained.
While Jemappes went into seclusion with forced
labor for five years, Morlaix received the heavier
sentence of twelve years.
Counsellor Edward Brown, the Hon. "Jimmy”
Oliver, made a big fight for his client, who was
charged with till-tapping. The amount obtained
Was trifling—only two silver dollars.
The complainant, Edward Higgins, a very bright
boy, said he was in the employ of James Higgins,
grocer. On the 19th he had four silver dollars in
his drawer, and two were taken. He did not hnow
personally anything about the stealing of them.
He missed them from the drawer between two and
three o’clock. Nobody had come in the store be
tween the time of seeing the dollars and missing
them, but the prisoner.
Mr. Oliver asked if he saw the prisoner go near
the drawer. No, he was outside attending to a cus
tomer. Prisoner came in aud wanted to buy some
crackers, so he said. He asKed how much a pound
they were, Witness said fifteen cents. Meantime,
two men called him outside, aud one priced his
cabbages, the other his potatoes. After prisoner
went out of the store he discovered his loss.
In answer to Mr. Oliver, witness said the loss
might have been discovered fifteen minutes or half
an hour after Brown left. Witness was slight
confused by counsel, who asked him if he
nobody was in the that
ife said nbT"*’ -a. f
•‘ You say this man wAs near the drawer ?” * .
"No,” replied witness.
"Do you mean to say that no other person came
in the”store ?” asked Justice Murray.
" That is the only man came in the store,” said
the boy.
" Are you sure no other person came in the store i
during that time ?”
"Yes, sir.” 1
Counsel then took the boy, and asked him why
he would swear nobody came in tho store during
that half hour. He replied that he did not see any"
body. ;
Then they came to the arrest of Brdwn. Higgins <
told him there were two dollars missing from the
drawer. Brown said it was a mistake. Higgins 1
said there was no mistake about it. There had been ■
four silver dollars in the drawer and there were
only two now. Brown then said, " Here’s your two 1
dollars, go Tong,” and he ran to Eleventh avenue.
Mr. James E. Chanfrau described how the sneaks
operated. There were three. He was sitting at his
window on the opposite side of the street and saw
the prisoner go in the grocery store: then another
man stepped up to the coal box where there were
some cabbages. Another man came up and called
the boy to bargain for some potatoes. The prisoner (
then stepped to the counter and hia hand (reached
around to where the till was. He could not see the
till, but the arm and hand went around to where it 1
was. The two men outside went east, tho prisoner
came out and went west. Neither of the throe (
made a purchase, Ho put on his coat and went over I
and asked the boy if he had lost anything. Tho boy
looked in the drawer and said two dollars were *
gone. He sent the boy after an officer. Brown said t
when brought back, "Don't disgrace me; come to t
the house and I'll give you tho two dollars.” He
gave the two dollars to the boy, who showed them (
to him. |
Officer Pettit said be arrested the prisoner at the
corner of 120th street and Lexington avenue, three *
o'clock in the afternoon. He had been chased by a f
number of citizens and took refuge in a hencoop.
He had only five cents in his pocket.
Prisoner said he lived at No. 2% Congress street. 1
He was up to Harlem on a visit to his sister, and he
went in to price some crackers to give to his sister's 1
children. No one was with him. His sister lived in 1
112th street between First and Second avenues. He »
gave the boy two dollars rather than be arrested
and lose his character. His wife that morning gave
him the two dollars to get his coat out of pawn to f
be presentable in looking for a situation.
The defendant’s wife said she gave him the two
silver dollars to get the coat out of pawn. They
had been married three years but had no children. -
The Court said the case was too clear to give the 1
prisoner the benefit of the doubt, and sent him to 1
the Penitentiary for six months. *
Tore Out a Mustache.
Wm. Thompson (colored), licensed runner for the
Cosmopolitan Hotel, lost one side of his mustache. *
He charged John Reardon, known to every hack
man on the west river front, with pulling It out.
On the 29th of July Thompson said ho was standing I
with his hand inside of the door of Mr. Murphy’s
hack, listening to something he was reading, when J
Reardon came up and " pulled a big piece of my
mustache out.” Mr. Thompson produced the short, T
shiny, crispy hair that was dropped by Reardon on r
the pavement. ,
Officer Lyman said he didn’t see the assault, but
Thompson came to him and asked to be protected, t
He saw blood on Thompson’s lip, where the hair
had been pulled out. Ho asked him if he wanted a
Reardon arrested; he said no, he would get a war
rant for him.
Mr. Murphy said he was sitting in his cab read
ing a paper and Thompson was standing listening. C
Reardon came up aud grabbed him by the mus- j
tache, and what he got hold of he pulled out.
Thompson had not spoken a word to Reardon. Y
Reardon, in his own defense, said; "I just took o
bls mustache by the two fingers and gave it a
twist. I did nothing to his mouth, directly or in- v
"Why did you do that ?” asked the Court. (l
"I thought nothing wrong.”
The Court fined Reardon SSO. He is well able to -
pay the tine.
If iboiopson commences a civil suit and obtains
judgment, lie will easily recover the amount of the
verdici. jj
Tho fact that Reardon can be mulcted civilly,
saved him from being s.nt to the Penitentiary by P
Go to the forest shade.
Seek thou the well-known glade.
Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie,
Gleaming through moss-tufts deep,
Like dark eyes filled with sleep,
And bathed in hues of Summer’s midnight sky.
Bring me their buds, to shed
Around my bed
A breath of May and of the wood’s repose;
For I, in sooth, depart
With a reluctant heart,
That fain would linger where the bright sun glowfl
Fain would I stay with thee I
Alas ! this may not be;
Yot bring me still the gifts of happier hours!
And let their o.tor so t
One bright dream around me waft
! Of life, youth. Summer, everlasting flowers.
'• My dear Natalie, I really think it necessa
ry,” Madam said gravely.
Nat shrugged her pretty shoulders. She sat
curled up in a aueer little childish way on one
side of the wide window-seats of the drawing
room, the blaze ot the setting sun shining full
upon her. She wore a thin black dress dotted
with little gold stars,and had a pale yellow rose
ather throat. Very quainland pretty she looked,
very small and childish, and a little rebellious
too, just then.
“ But, Madam,” she began deprecatingly, and
then stopped.
“But what, my dear ?”
“ It seems so absurd.”
“ Does it 1 In what way ?”
“ I’m too old to have t governess. Why .
tossing her curly head—" i’m grown up 1”
“ You are not particularly formidable,” said
Madam, smiling as she looked up from the lace
work with which her line hands were busy, and
across at the little brown lace.
“No, but I am old. Why, it was my birthday
last week ! I’m older than Ned."
“ Twenty-one isn t such an awful age, Nat,”
I interposed. “ And you don’t look more than
seventeen, you know.”
“Neither would you if it wasn’t for that ba
by mustache of yours,” she retorted, leaning
forward to pull a flower from outside of the
open window, and tossing it toward me.
Nat was very fond of bantering me about my
mustache, not treating that adornment with b
any means the respect which it merited, but J
was too used to it and too warm and comforta
ble now to do more than laugh lazily. Madam
Went on:
“ My dear, the fact of your age renders what
I say necessary. If you were a few years
younger I should not trouble you with the mat
ter yet. You must know that Ido not want my
little daughter to boa dunce.”
Wonderfully gentle and kind was my stately
mother’s manner, very fond and caressing. She
had always been aflbeti nate to me, but not in
such a tender and loving fashion as she was to
our little nut-brown maid-1 had got into the
habit of calling her that—it suited her so well.
Nat gave her shoulders another pettish little
shrug, and her bright lace clouded slightly.
“ I suppose I am a dunce,” she said rather du
biously, “ but somehow I never felt so before. I
don’t think the girls in Jamaica ever did know
much—none that I knew did. No one seemed
to expect them to.”
" • They stare not at the stars from out theirjattice,
Nor dsal—thank Fate lor that I—in mathema
Skin terposed, laughing—" eh, Nat?”
F But NaJ had not read Byron, and only stared
at me. My mother gave me a glance which
told me that she would :eel obliged if I hold my
tongue, and took up Natalie’s last words.
“But you are not in Jamaica now, my love,
and you must remember that English notions
are different from those that prevail there.
You would not like, in a little time, I am sure,
to find yourself terribly behind the girls of
your age in the things which a lady is expected
to know. For instance, at Roxborongh the
other night it must have been very annoying to
you not to be able to play your own accompani
“Alice played it for me,” said Nat.
“But if Alice had not been there ?”
" Then Ned would,” said Natalie, giving her
shoulders another little shrug.
She was a willful little'puss at all times, but
she was more so than usual this evening.
Madam’s suggestion, made but a lew minutes
belore, to the effect that she should have a gov
erness, had put her out—and me too, for thlt
matter—though, to be sure, there was no dis
puting the fact that she was a most woiul lit
tle dunce. She could read, of course, and read
aloud really well, but her writing was the
queerest of spidery scrawls. I do not
think she knew one rule of arithmetic
from another, and I am afraid that her knowl
edge of geography and history was absolutely
nil. She had picked up a good deal of
French and a little Spanish, and un
derstood the lingo of the blacks, but thia
last was hardly an ornamental accomplish
ment from a modern English point ot
view. She could not dance, and had not the
slightest acquaintance with any musical instru
ment, although she could sing with remarkable
fire and passion- she bad a splendid, rich ring
ing voice that it was a treat to listen to. Madam
was very proud ot this one accomplishment of
hers, and I brought it forward now in Nat's,
“ At any rate, mother, all the governesses in
the world couldn’t improve her voice,” I said.
“ Her voice ? No, but it should be trained
properly,” returned Madam. “ Come, Natalie
—do not look so woe-begone, my dear. You
love music so much, surely you would like to
play yourself?”
“ Ned plays for me whenever I Eke,” said
Nat. " Oh, Madam ’’—she descended from the
window-seat, and, kneeling down, put her
round cheek caressingly against my mother’s
hand—“ do say I need not have a governess I I
have been so happy since 1 have been here, and
a horrid governess would spoil everything.”
“My dear child, what nonsense I”—Madam
spoke with a suggestion of impatience in her
clear tones. “ You surely do not suppose that
I mean to engage some grim woman and send
you to school to her 1 I shall try to find some
one not much older than yourself—some one
who will be a pleasant companion for you.”
“But I don’t want a companion,” she pouted.
“ I have Ned and Alice Deeping. Oh, Madam”
—raising her black eyes beseechingly—" do say
that you won’t make me have one I”
“ If I did, yon would be the first to blame me
in the time to cumo, child,” Madam replied,
patting her cheek lightly as she rose. "I can
not have my adopted daughter, and an heirew

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