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ix 4mt i Nii^iwn 3 hr jl\/v/%xi j! jjy Aiyy jjflwhjy l PfflMD BI A. J. WILLIAMSON’S SONS. M»»BT,«K>tS»» * » »w^^» r **'»*'** w VOL. XLIL—NO. 22. Entered at the Post Office at New N. Y., as Seecad Class Matter. THE m YORK DISPA W, PUBLISHED AT SO. 11 FRANKFORT STREET. The NEW W7*K 'DISPATCH Is agree flaWe Literature and News. : ®ae page is de moted tqp&aSe’Kic Jla’MtWßs, and careful attention Is given \o XusFpgttd the Drama. The IWSPATCH'is sold'by all News Agents of the city a»d Imbery,-atFIVE (MTS A COPY. TSWS F 0& MAIL SUBSCRIBERS: SUFitftS'StJBftCtUFTIONS --- $2 50 3 year TC©«UBSCRt)SERS ■ 400 “ &LL MAIL- SUBSCRIPTIONS MUST BE PAID IN AD WNCB. postage paid everywhere by the 3DBSPATCH ‘ OFFICE. Address NEW YORK DISPATCH, Post Office Box No. 1775, am Fandjplayers. -DAWRAY’S WALDA LAMAR. reales dnd Curios of an Audience— *Frcii'm‘An’s Mistake—The Play — Its ' (kirn meters — Young galvini — The Departure—From Song and -Dance to Dramatic Art, Etc. BY JOHN CARBOY. •‘A portion ©? the audience gathered on last Men ‘ dhy night at the Lyceum Theatre, was a study in '-nixed color, of human bric-a-brac. ! It was a study which made Dan Frohraan leek as ■lf he had just convalesced from the debilitating ' effects of a ten text power aermou delivered : by : the *- g.6od deacon Mallory. At sight of two or three of these first night curios “ns' they passed in. Hayden wilted and fell upon Walter Hudson and wept until a flood of tears i gave the expansive front of bia dress shirt the ap : pearaDce of a World map of the measles. •Happily Walter brought him back to'the eon- * 'keiousness of hie mission as a man and a manager, • t>y whispering in his ear—“ There’s the handsomest woman I ever saw." If there is anything which coutd arouse Brother Hayden to a condition of lively and smiling vitality from out of the depths of an apoplectic coma, it would be the knowledge that a pretty woman was within his visual range. As Walter could not give him this knowledge as a physician would brandy, by a subcutaneous injec tion—be adopted the next best method—and gave it ♦ him by air pressure through his auricular organ. So far as this weird portion of the audience wae concerned, bad its elements, scattered as they were, here and there through orchestra and balcony, been collected and grouped upon the platform in a dime museum its proprietor could have safely congratu lated himself upon having the finefit array of living curios ever before placed upon exhibition. There are always a few examples of this line of bric-a-brac visible at every first night at what may be termed the Swell Theatres. Were some of these social freaks <to put in an ap. pcftranee in the orchestra or balcony of one ol the East side theatres, the “boys” would-rise-up- William-Riley, abont as they did years ago, when the Count Johannes came forward as Hamlot. Windsor Frank Murtha’s blonde muetacho would wilt into the whiteness of age and his'blue eyes turn green, were one of these first night curios to pass in, and The People’s Charley Davis would telephone for a platoon of police in anticipation of • a riot in the house. But at your high-toned swell theatres like Wal lack’s, The Madison Squire, Daly’s and-the Lyceum, there isn’t the sort of patronage ia the front row of the third circle which will yell out, “ Hi, Jimmy, git onto his jags wid the red wiskera.*’ So, at the Lyceum on this particular Monday night, the curios—these freaks and human bric-a. brae, escaped the personal torture of having their presence vocally advertised in quotations from the clang vocabulary of the time. They wore morely starod stand their peculiarities , noted sotlo voce during tho erdre actes. ■ What were these freaks ? Who were they ? ’ What they wero may be easily said. Who they were it is not my province to reveal. Some of them were evidently beings of high •social degree; some were deodorised dudes; a few were of that class which is best described in the election returns as “scattering.” AMONG THE LEADING FEMININE PORTION of the curio contingent oh thia Monday night, the occasion being the first performance of the new play. “ Walda Lamar,” there was a display of high otoop, Mansard-roof and turrotted hats, that, with their ornaments, beads and spangios, feathers and .colors; rising into the light, reminded one of a dis tant view of the domes and minarets of Constanti nople, seen through the haze of an autumn sunrise. Abe Hummell—he of the law—sat behind one of tho. feminine foundations upon which an immense four-storiod Alpine hat had been erected, and help lessly floundered in the awful gloom of its shadow, and finally wes lost to sight. Ho bad had wrapped the drapery of the shadow about him. and laid do wn.to pleasant dreams under his scat. An in verted waste basket, coyerad with little blue and maroon crazy-quilt scraps, swayed to and fro in front of .little Jerome Eddy, and blotted out the etage fnom.bUsight as effectually as if his eyes had been converted into leaden bullets. There was ono, however—a daisy of a defiance to tho Frobman manifesto. It was a flaming red hat —blood-red—shot-to war fashion. It was the sight of that violently red and lofty hat which almost paralyzed Pan Frohman. Notably, there were, all told, only fifteen ladies, in that audience of.say, eight hundred persons, whose heads-were.uncovered. If Brother Frobman had requested the dear, consistent sex to come to his theatre with hats of the highest altitude known to the milliners’ art, there wouldn’t have been a hat visible in the house. But be is a bachelor, and he doesn’t know their disposi -iion. He should read tho story of tho Iriahman -driving his pigs to -market. There was a gorgeously attired space-stuffing re porter who occupied the seat of the dramatic eritic rOf a daily paper, wh-o talked loudly between acts to his companion, the head barkeeper of a down stown gin-mill, as to HIS opinion of tho play. There wore a “ sawsioty chappie” and his best girl who .swapped lies and wagged'their empty heads like tea <>hop images to the disgust and annoyanco of every ,s>ody within four seats of them. And half a dozen others equally entitled to places ib the list of curios and bric-a-brac. Jsut the play—and the Daurray—what of them ? t oertaiiily thoy are not included ia the schedule ? Ob, do. “Nothing so small iaihoir composite, .good my ; i3. d.” And in reference to this, tho princ’jjal business of &bo night, ; l will coma to Hecuba. ,Hecuba is always in order. WALDA LAMAR fs of the French, very Frencby. There is the old time melo-drajpatic flavor in its composition, whieh.commends it sweeetly to the sense of those who delight ia the highly seasoned article, and who, so long as their appetite is gratified rarely trouble : tkemsel-xes as to the .nicety or freshness of the in gredientc. It is in fact the drauw&zation from a French aoyel —by Henri .Wprtheimber, ;Wbe has accomplished his task cleverly—although Jw has, especially in the third act, made a materia! diversion from the plot i of tho original story. The argument of the play in. volves the love of an aetres-i -a young Russian girl /—for a nobleman; his abandonof her on pre- of visiting his mother, who asserts is dan- ill-wben in reality be is. the eve of his betrothad; the discovery ,of hie per jSdy by actress; a ease or circaevi. the subsidence of a woman’s hate in the presence of the misery which that hate has created, and then tho reunion of the woman and the man she adores. As with Camille, it is the story of a liaison— minus the finale of Pbtisis. It has but one positive and dramatic situation, and of the eighteen characters forming its cast, it has but two having any distinc tive dramatic value. Those are Paul de St. Germain and Walda Lamar. There are, aside irom these, only three others—sketches of character —worthy of mention, as having place in the recital of the story. One of these is Romanville—a comedian of the Odeon—which, did M. Pigott, its representative, understand its nature, might be given an artistic prominence; the second is Andre Latour, which is made notable by the occasional brightening touches of comedy work given it by Mr. Sothern; tho third is that of Adele Regnier, 4n which Miss Adeline Stanbcpe has but the opportunity of a scene in one act for the display of her talent, although it is this woman whose hatred of her rival is the cause of re voaling to Walda the falsity of her‘lover and the fact that he has left her to marry tho young girl to whom he is affianced. This young girl, Louts© de Valdaure, is ONE OF THOSE INNOCENT WEAKLINGS common in stage literature, for whose presence there -is no particular reason, and whose disap tpearauce from the scene is scarcely noticed. Miss Enid Leslie impersonated this nebulous being with a commendable amount of vacuous inertia. What becomes of her after the second act is known only to the Lord and the author, and it isn’t likely either of these will bo asked for any information concern ing her fate. Life is too short to bother about tri fles. The fate of the malicious, plotting. Regnier is made known in a vague speech by Bomanville, to the effect that she has been horribly burnod, through her skirts having caught fire while she was playing'upon the Gymnnse stage. The action of the play is in the first act alow and has little interest save in tbe scene between Wald a and Regnier; in the second act lies the entire strentb' Of the play, and the third act, like the dea con's old' One-horse chaise, drops all to pieces at once. It merely means that a woman’s spirit of revenge, weakened by an infusion of pity and fur ther diluted with tears, is changed to an all-trust ing love for the noble and suffering hero of her liai son—her only lover. I have said that there were but two persons in the cast' of any special importance—Paul de St. Ger main and Walda Lamar. They come high, but we must have them. No drama of the French school is perfect without them. Having them, let us see wbat they amount to socially and in their relations to each other. Paul de St. Germain as he is presented and taken at his best, is a liar; he is treacherous, weak minded, selfish and bombastic by turns. Yet he is a nobleman and a hero. True, he winds up his career in tbe last act repentant, declares Walda to-be the only woman he ever loved, embraces her and swears to marry her as soon as he returns as a hero from the battlefield. Claude Melnotte goes through substantially the same sort of heroic repentance, but there is some thing of manhood in bis character, loyalty in his atonement and sincerity in his love. That is tbe sort of a hero St. Germain is—not. MR. SALVINI. in liis impersonation of the character is solemnly and heavily tragic and at times oppressively and automatically mechanical in speech and action. There were evidences of a tutelage from the elder salvini in his measured stride, in the pitching for ward of his head and in the constant rolling of his eyes upward. At times he almost suggested the presence of a Roman gladiator, ill at ease in a modern dress suit. Nevertheless, he has a robust, manly presence, there is much that is acceptable in his efforts; there is visible a sincerity of purpose, the evidence of study and an ambition to be worthy the name he bears. As yet he has not acquired the one great es sential in tbe art of acting—that of forgetting him self and converting h s personality into that of the character be represents—of feeling rather than fish ing for the meaning of the text and nature of the part. His intellectual resources and that broader, more comprehensive knowledge of dramatic art which experience will bring him, will teach him that acting is not merely a matter of shrugs, spasms and “make up.” - Miss Dauvray as Walda Lamar was something in tho way of a revelation, following, as this “ new de parture” did, the milk-and-water heroine of Bron son Howard’s “One of Our Girls;” her vain effort in his inane and pointless “Met by Chance” and her trial of Peg Woffington—her performance of Walda was like an unexpected flash of lightning from a clear sky. I overheard one of the full dress curios, as he was passing out at the close of the second act in search of his constitutional clove, say to hia companion : “Bob, them critics that’s been damning Dauvray with faint praise, must have heard something drop just now—eh?” * Yaas, they did—the act drop.” Her impersonation of this Russian girl, free and unhampered in tbe exposition of her nature, the strength of her passions, the simple confidence in the honor of the man she loved, and her awful and implacable thirst for vengeance when he had aban doned her, was more than a revelation. It was a flash of artistic effect which lightened up this stage as it had never been lightened before. And by a little woman with a physique one would imagine scarcely equal to the task of dancing a jig. Bnt this-same supple little body played Peg Wof flng.ton, and wasn't her jig in that as saucy and lively a jig as ever a Peg Woffington threw off from her high French heels and pointed toes ? And—l won’t say how long ago it was—didn’t she lo the song and dance and all that sort of tomboy work which has been tho stock in trade and made the fortune of Lotta—who has no more idea of sen timent than old lady Crabtree has of generosity ? Away back in those years I saw tho little Cali ; lornia Nugget or Nell “do her variety tip”—in iomevvacnous play, tho name of which I forgot— tnd really I do not think that now, as the Dauvray, , she is any the less lively, or that she makes her ‘ #teps any slower. From jig dancing, or from the maudlin, namby ! pamby comedy gush of Bronson Howard—who : ought to know bettor than write such slush—to such ; a strong and demonstrative character as Walda La i mar. is not a rovelation; it is an additional proof of ' the truth of the oft-repeated assertion that “ when a woman starts in to have her own way, no one can tell where she will stop.” Dauvray started with a jig and a banjo; she has gained tho hight of French melodrama and a dagger —and she has no i lea of ending at this point. lam only sure of one thing in this regard. She will not go backward to Bronson Howard. Ido not mean to say that this drama of “ Walda Lamar” ia perfect ly any means, or that the char acter of its heroine is entirely fitted to the capacity of Miss Dauvray. But Ido say that she has made it fit her remarkably well. It is as if she had taken a ready-made dress sev eral sizes too large for her little form. Taken it as Dodson and Fogg did Mrs. Bardoll’s case—"on spec.” And then holding it up to her critical friends said: “See this—won’t I look stunning in it ?” “Fit you? Bah, it’s big enough for a woman double your size. You’ll look like a guy in it.” “ Like a guy, eh ? Willi? That’s all you know about tho business. Como and see me in it and we’Jl see who knows best.” She gets in her fine work on this thing. She makes it fit, she puts it on, she wears it proudly. But then up come her hypercritical cynical frjends. admit that there is something of a fit, that it gives .a becoming grace to the form, but Ah, : tha£ ever omnipresent loophole—But. But ho.Wfijauch better it fitted the woman for wncai it w£??x?rigiDa’Jy made I Theo she co.mts back at them with: “ Bu(t it wasn’t originally made for anybody in particular. It was to sell. I bought it, being tho flrsf comer took a fancy to it. Now i bow do j’ou know it We Sited anybody else bettor ihay !f m ?>' NEW YORK. SUNDAY. MARCH 13, 1887. No doubt Walda Lamar MIGHT HAVE FITTED SOME OTHER ACTRESS BETTER than it fits Miss Dauvray. But inasmuch as no other person has tried it on, further argument is useless. She has invested the character with a quality of strength, with an expression of grace, of artistic finish and a command of resources, both mental and physical, which few, if any, imagined she possessed. There was visible in this example of her varied talent but little of the mannerism which has hith erto been notable and apparently Inseparable from her acting. Because I have written these words of deserved praise of Miss Dauvray’s performance of Walda La mar, Ifion’t want some a'ssinine fellow to write a note asking me what Clara Morris would do with the part. I know that she would play it after her methods, and that the waits between acts would consume more time than the acting of tho play itself, and that there would be no certainty of th© night’s per formance ever being finished. I know that the Dauvray would plow through it if the stage were encircled by a cyclone, with an earthquako and a dynamite explosion underneath. Her energy, her persistence, her evident desire and determination to use all tbe means at her com mand to promote the better interests of dramatic art, have been sufficiently commented on by the press. Suppose the press devotes something of its criti cal space hereafter to her claims as an artiste. In Walda Lamar she has given occasion for such comment. Do the little, hard-working woman justice. THE STORY OF A FAMOUS CRIME. The Mnrd*cr ot Mr. Ftatrlclc O’Connor. HOW THE CRIMINALS WERE CAUGHT. Bravery of fha Woman and Cowardice of the Man. A curious application at the Southwark (London; Felice Court brings to mind again wbat might al most be called a famous crime. A woman came to seok adyice ae to the best way of making good her claim to be a daughter of O’Connor, who was mur dered by the Mannings in Bermondsey in 1849. The applicant's mother has just died, at the age of eighty-six, and on her death-bed confessed that O'Connor was the father of her children. This con fession gives the children certain expectations, and they wish to trace the history of O’Connor, and to have access to reports of the trial. The magistrate suggested a visit to the British Museum for these researches In ancient history; while he incidentally remarked that he perfectly well remembered the trial. The application at the Police Court has led to an article in the Daily News, in which the story of the Mannings is retold: THE MURDER, On the 9th of August, 1849, Mr. Patrick O’Connor, an elderly man, who had been a gauger in the serv ice of the customs, was missed from his lodgings. Search was made for him high and low without ef fect, until, on the 17th, his body was found in the back kitchen of an empty house in Minver plaee, Bermondsey. The house had been occupied by a Mr, and Mrs. Manning, known to have been ac quaintances of O'Conner, and they had left it abruptly soon after the fact of his disappearance had been noised abroad. Immediately after the murder Mrs. Manning had visited O’Connor’s lodgings—by no means for the first time—and, as it was afterward ascertained, had carried off a considerable amount of railway scr p and all the money she could find. She returned to her house and remained there for two or three days, during one of which the police made a cursory in spection of the place, under the belief that the missing man was most likely to be found there. On the 12th. under the assumed nameof Mrs. Smith, she fled with her plunder to Edinburgh. On the 17tb, as already stated, the house was searched by the police and the discovery of the body made sus picion a certainty. O’Connor’s remains were found buried under one of the kitchen flagstones in a grave about a foot deep, filled with quicklime. The body was lying face downward, with the legs doubled up and tied tn the haunches. Three days after “Mrs. Smith’’ was apprehended in a private lodging-house in the Scottish capital, through tbe instrumentality of a stoca broker to whom she had offered O’Connor s scrip for sale. In eight days more her husband was in the bauds of justice. The pair had separated in their flight and he was tracked to Jersey. He did not long keep their secret. While his wife was stoutly protesting her innocence— which, by the way, she did to the last—he made a statement charging her with the crime, It was to the effect that, having induced O'Connor to come to dinner, she asked him to go down siairs to wash ids bands, and, as he reached tbe passage leading to the kitchen, she put one arm around bis neck and shot him with the other. His gra<vo was ready and the rest did not take long. THE TRIAL. The trial commenced at the Old Bailey on the 26th of October, 1849. It continued over two daye. and it filled in with copious and crushing circumstan tiality tbe outline already sketched. Minning had been a railway guard; his wife had been a lady s maid. They had been married but two years, and when they stood together in tbe dock the man was but thirty years of age and the woman twenty eight There could be no doubt of the nature of the relations between O'Connor and Mrs. Manning, nor ef the fact that Manning was perfectly well aware of them. It is hardly too much to say that the murderers had neglected no precaution that might connect them with the crime. Manning had consulted a medical student who lodged with them as to the effects ol laudanum in stupefying a man, and had observed that Mr. O’Connor was a person of considerable property. He bad also requested his lodger’s opinion on the probable fate of a mur derer in the next world. When they bad completed their preparations for tbe deed, they gave tbe lodger notice to quit. He leit on the 28th of July. Then they bought the lime and a crowbar, and Manning was very indignant with tbe man who brought tbe crowbar home, because it was not wrapped up. Later on, Mrs. Manning bought a shovel. While O’Connor’s grave lay waiting for him, he saw it more than once in his visits to the kitchen to wash bis hands, when taking dinner or tea in the house. Mrs. Manning, in reply to his questions, said tbe landlord was repairing the drains. When all was ready, there was another attempt to get him to din ner, but at first it failed. A second invitation was more successful, and on the 9th of August ha left home to dine with his “Maria,” whoso invitation he had happened to show to two friends that afternoon. A little later, on tbe same day, he was seen again; but after that none but the Mannings saw him alive. There was no dinner waiting for him at Minver Plaee, only the bullet, the crowbar, and the grave. He was once more taken down stairs to wash his hands, and he never returned. ACCUSING EACH OTHER. As the trial proceeded the wretched creatures, through their counsel, bandied accusations one the other. The woman declared that the man Kvas the murderer, but the man had the last word, in a long confession published after the execution. In this he laid the whole blame of the conception upon his wife, and said that rage, rather than cu pidity. was her original motive. O’Connor had ir ritated her by refusing to lodge in the house, and she said she would have her revenge if she were hanged for it. Manning's statements are only to be taken for what thev are worth, for he was certainly a most consummate sneak and scoundrel. He de clares that he pointed out the risks of the crime, and then its wickedness. “I asked her what would become of her soul if she committed an act of murder?’ to which she said, “We have no soul; alter we are dead we ar© like lumps of clay, and there ia no more thought of us.” When O’Connor came in to his last dinner, or semblance of a dinner, the dish-covers were on the table, but there was nothing beneath them. He at first declined to go down stairs, but tbe murderess told him that Miss Massey, a lady he supposed he was going to meet, was “very particular” about clean hands, and then he went. Manning, who was in his own bedroom, then beard the report of a pis tol, and his wife came upstairs and said: “ Thank God, I have made him all right at last!” “She insisted on my going down stairs. Upon my reaching the kitchen I found O’Connor resting on the grave. He moaned; and, as I never liked him well, I battered in his skull with a ripping chisel. ’ When the woman went out in the evening to search O’Connor's lodgings, she left Manning alone with the body. But he could not remain in the house, and he went into the garden, and sat on the wall, and smoked a pipe with a neighbor. The pair evidently lost faith in each other from the moment of the crime. The woman ran away at last, without telling Manning when she was going, or where. She was fiercely defiant in the dock after conviction, and declared that she bad not had a fair trial. They were both sentenced to be banged. The man did not say a word; the woman snatched a handful of roe Irom the front of th.® dock and threw it among ibe barristers, exclaiming: /•Bag©, shameful Engiaod J'* smliss art THE LAST SCENE. ] On Wednesday, the 14th of November, 50,000 per sons waited outside Horsemonger Lane jail for the last scene. The crowding was fearful, and from time to time tho injured Were dragged out of the crush with ropes. Just before the culprits were pinioned, the woman consented to sao her husband and speak to him—for the first time since the crime. Two warders sat between them. He leaned over and spoke to tier in an imploring accent, and they both rose, shook hands, and kissed each other sev eral times. Manning was a coward to the last, and during the pinioning asked Calcraft if he should suffer much pain. Not if?ije kept still, he was told. Tho woman nearly fainted'at the sight of the hang man. and on recovering shp asked the surgeon to bandage her eves, which was done. In this way she was led to the scaffold, passing over her own grave—like O’Connor’s, lined with quicklime. It was an agonizingly long journey, for the whole pro cession had to mount by a narrow staircase to tbe very roof. Th© man appeared first and then the woman. The 50,000 spectators received them in perfect silence. As they stood side by side, both blindfolded, ho held out his pinioned band toward her, and one of tbe turnkeys guided it to her e. Then the drop fell. Mrs. Manning was hanged in black satin. Black satin has never been in fashion since. She Cried “Rats,” “Rats.” A. Oelcstial Laundryman’s Ili bernian Ooolc. A Novel Compact wh’ch Broke Up in a Fight- A Celestial laundry man was the complainant in an assault and battery case which was tried in Justice Rhinehart’s court ia Williamsburg last Thursday afteriioou and tho defendant was au Irish woman. The case created a good deal of amusement for the spectators on account of the novel compact ■which existed between tho litigants and the break • log off of which culminated in a fight, in which tho Chinaman, according to his own doleful tale, told in very good English, got badly worsted. •CHARLEY WING is the name of the laundry man and bls establish ment is at No. 346 North Nin,th street, and the de fendant is Mrs. Teddy a buxom widow. From the testimony given by Mr. Wing it would ap pear that Mrs. Brannigan about three months ago cultivated his acquaintance in his laundry, where she went to get some points in ironing. “ She chucked me under the chin.” said Charley in broken English, "and said that I was a nice Chinaman, different from the other heathens that would not be let into this country. I said she wrs a fine woman, different from the California Irish women, and that I would disclos© to her tho secret of ironing. She caught my queque and asked if tbe China women wore ones like them. I said thev did. She asked how a Chinaman could be distinguished from a woman, and I told her. Bho laughed and chucked me again under the chin. “ She came in next day again and brought some soiled clothes which she wanted to have lauudried. She said she bad no money to spare, but that she would do my cooking and bouse cleaning to make up lor the washing of the clothes. She was SVCH A NICE WOMAN I consented. She said she had only her own and her little boy’s clothes to have lauudried, but after the second week she had a whole lot of women a underwear and skirts. I told ser that it was too much, but she said that it was all right, that she had some visitors at hor house who would depart the following week. Her friends not only seemed to remain with her, but they increased iu number to such an extent that up most Of iny time washing clothes for them. I talked and reasoned with her to no purpose and then protested, but she threatened to use iny own irons on me. She used to taste what she was cooking every few minutes, until by tbe time the meal was placed on tbe table for me, there would be little of the original quantity left. “ Two women came into my place last week and left baskets of clothes with me and said that it was all right, that they were friends of Mrs. Brannigan’s, and that they would pay her as they had been doing right along. THEY POKED ME IN THE RIBS and said they heard that I was in love with her. I got mad and threw their clothes into the street. They broke all the panes of glass in the window. If I knew them I would have them arrested. When I told Mrs, Brannigan she said that she dil not know who they were, but I did not believe her. “ I told hor that I wanted to withdraw from the agreement, but she said she would sue me if I did so, and I was afraid. 1 told her on Monday last that I wanted some Chinese cooking done. I got her four skinned squirre.s, and she put them in the oven and roasted them. Next day I gave her four more, und told her to take off the skins her self. She cried: “ • RATS ! RATS 1’ “.and then threw them at me. I told her she should cook them or our agreement would be broken, but she wouldn’t do it and called me dirty names. I ordered her out, and she struck me on ths head with a flat-iron and kicked mo and struck me with her hands.” “ I wouldn’t cook rats for tbe baste, an* that’s what the matter is,” said Mrs. Brannigan. "He thought to come his Chinese thricks over me, but I’m a dacent woman; an’ then to get rid of me, he gave me rats to akin an’ cook. I'f he could come his other thricks over me it would be all right.” Mrs. Brannigan was put under SIOO bonds to keep the peace. The Confidenee Game. IT DIDN’T WORK_VERY WELL. A young man, of Jewish cast of face, named Lewis Hoves, obtained $8 by the confidence game. Henry Ditman Is janitor of the house No. 172 West Ninety fifth street. His landlord, Philip Houseman, lives next door. Ditman said the prisoner was around his place three days. He told him his father had died recently and left him $69,4)00,. and he intended to Invest a part of it in real estate. As he had partly made up his mind to purchase No. 172, the janitor, believing he was to have a new boss, very obligingly showed him tho several flats. This was Wednesday. Thursday night he called again on Ditman, and said he had mad© up his mind to buy the corner house, for which ho wa* also janitor. Friday morning he made another call and saw him and his landlord, Mr. Houseman. Hoves had a big paper with him, which looked very business like, and he again asked to see the flats up-stairs. At every flat he impressed on the minds of the tenants that he would be their landlord. They then came down-stairs and found an express wagon at the door. He went to it, returned, and said be had got some hardware. There was $7.80 to pay on it; he had no change, but had a check in his pocket, which be would get cashed in a few minutes. Ditman at first demurred—he had a family to support Be lieving that it would, be the better policy to keep in with his new boss, he let him have SB. Hoves then went to the express wagon, said something to tbe driver, who drove off. Tho fellow then returned and wont up-stairs alone, and called on each tenant, and said he had just purchased the house and tried lo collect the rents. Hoves told Ditman that he had just bought the house, and that was why he let him have the money. The prisoner was up three days trying to make a bargain with Mr. Houseman. He did not seo Mr. Houseman till twenty minutes after he had given the SB. He was then talking about coming up next day to make a deposit of SI,OOO. Philip Houseman said he lived at No. 170 West Ninety-fifth street. Mr. Ditman was janitor of his house next door. The defendant came with a gen tleman to purchase the house next door, but didn’t. Cross-examined—The fellow.didn't tell him that he was going to be the.agent for a party that was going to purchase it. He went over to Brooklyn with Hoves, after his janitor told him he had beat him out of SB. He did not borrow $3 of the jani tor's money to treat the prisoner, but he spent about as much as that on him. because he said he had only a check with him and had written to a friend for $1,600.- He went around with him and treated him. Defendant said a friend named Bernstein had sent him up to negotiate for the purchase of this house. Ho had known him for years. They met in the Morton House, on Union Hquare, and he said if you see anything good to buy I’il- give you five per cent, commission to take care of it. Mr. Houseman, recalled, said he thought the feb low was “crooked,” aud went over to Brooklyn with him to see where he was to raise the money. Before that he said he had a house and lot on Hes ter street, but he hadfordered the tenants out and was going to build on it. He wanted him to show it; he said no, let them go over to Brooklyn and see his friend. They went to Nineteenth street, Brook lyn; then to No. 293 Tenth avenue; then to No. 115 North Fifth street, Williamsburg, looking for this friend of his that was to put up the money. But never a friend in all their journeying did they meet, and he caused his arrest. Ralph Harris, of No. 44 Baxter street, and Simon Harris, of No. 69 Division street, said the young man was a decent, honest peddler. John Wyckoff said the prisoner was introduced to him by a gentleman. He told him he had been left $60,000 by his father, and he had property on Hes ter street, and wanted to buy some property on Tenth avenue. “ Did he get any money from you V‘ askod the Court. ••No; 1 did not put any stock in him,” said Mr. Wyckoff. Hoves was sent to the Penitentiary for six months. MONS. BOULAILD’S ESCAPE. The Quarrel Over a Game of Billiards. The Murder of Charles Cassette. Circumstantial Evidence which Pointed to An Innocent Man. The Basket Found in the Bush Which Brought the Crime Heme. When the elder Cassette died, he left his son, Charles, a large fortune and a handsome villa at St. Denis, in the suburbs of Paris, Franco. Two years later, Charles Cassette married, and, after a year of happiness, lost his wife, who left an infant son. Charles's aunt, Madame Fermat, came to take care of his household affairs, and Charles soon resumed the habite of his bachelor life. There was a Monsieur Groult, an attractive and kindly roan, around whom many friends, chiefly young men, gathered. Monsieur Groult’s rooms were on tho Rue Prony. He was wealthy, had am ple leisure and was fond of receiving his friends in an informal way of an evening. Sometimes they amused themselves with billiards and sometimes with cards. Before his marriage, Charles Cassette was a very frequent visitor at Monsieur Groult’s, and after his wife’s death he resumed his former intimate relations with that gentleman, which had been in part suspended during his brief married life. Among the most frequent visitors at Monsieur Groult’s, was Monsieur Boniard. who also resided on the Rue Prony. Monsieur Boulard was about thirty-five, somewhat ostentatious, and of a very flcry temper. On the evening of September 12th, 1867, some half-dozen gentlemen were at Monsieur Groult s. Among them were Charles Cassette and Monsieur Boniard. They were playing billiards, and Mon sieur Boulard lost his temper over the game. It was well known among his associates that Monsieur Boulard had been iusiduously paying court to a certain Madame Lazaro, whose husband bad repu diated her. It was also known that there was a rival in the person of a Monsieur Ampese, who was richer than Monsieur Boulard, but neither so young nor so good-looking. When Monsieur Boulard los-i his temper, as already said, Charles Cassette, thoughtlessly, but in a spirit of fun, remarked: •* Ah, well. Monsieur Boulaad is to be excused, perhaps. It may bo that a rival has got ahead of him." AN ASSAULT. Boulard grew furious with passion and aimed a blow with the cue at the head of Charles. It missed the spot aimed at, but came down with some lor co on Charles’s shoulder. Charles, who was remarkable for his good-nature and self-possession, did not resent the blow, but stood with bis cue to the ground, quietly puffing the cigar smoke from hie mouth, withdrawing it for a moment to say: “ An assassin, eb ?" This doubly incensed Boulard, who used violent and abusive words, and would have renewed the as sault if Monsieur Groult had not interposed, say ing: •‘Monsieur Boulard, as you well know, gentle men who visit me here come with the express un derstanding that under no circumstances whatever shall there be any gambling under my roof." Monsieur Boulard bridled his wrath and quitted the party, breathing words of vengeance upon Charles, against whom he hurled vituperation and curses. “He will challenge you," said Monsieur Groult, “and you must decline to fight. Everybody knows that before your marriage you fully established your reputation for courage in half a dozen affairs of honor, and that you are perhaps the best swords man in Paris. Remember that yoa can no more place your life in jeopardy in so foolish away, for it is another's now. Your child has thegfirst claim upon you, and for his sake you must decline firmly this challenge, if Boulard sends it." A CHALLENGE. Boulard did send It, and Charles declined it. Bou lard had immediately informed Madame Lezare of what he had done and the cause of it. She exhorted him, for her sake, to recall it, and made all kinds of promises; but Boulard was inexorable, swearing that he would have the life of young Cassette, Now Madame Lazaro was perfectly aware of Charles' wonderfnl skill with the sword, and foreboded the result to Boulard; for she knew what Boulard didn't know—namely/that Monsieur;Ampere, his rival, had taken himself off, and purchased the smiles and ca resses of a pretty actress at the Gaiete. Consequently she did not wish to lose Boulard, to whose terms she was ready to agree as the best that offered. That afternoon Madame Lazare, who was greatly excited at the thought of losing Boulard, for she was just then in great pecuniary straits, conceived the idea of visiting Charles Cassette, and beseeching him not to accept the challenge. She started by rail to St. Denis. MADAME LAZARE’S VISIT. When she reached the depot, Paul Mechain, a friend o' Charles, was awaiting a train for the city. He was present at the rooms of Monsieur Groult the previous evening and, anticipating that a chal lenge would result, went to see his friend, and left disappointed because he wouldn t fight He recog nized Madame Lazare, whom he knew by sight only, and wondering what could have brought her thither, watched her movements and saw her go to the villa occupied by Cassette. Mechain returned to Paris and on quitting the train met Boulard. “Ah, Boulard,” said Mechain, “I have just seen a friend of yours." “ Who Is that ?" Boulard asked. “ Madame Lazare," was the reply. “Where did you see her ?" was the next question. “Going into the villa of Charles Cassette at St. Denis, about half an hour ago," he answered. Boulard grew scarlet with passion and exclaimed: “ That accounts for it! I have just been to see ■ her and I was told that she was sick with a severe headache." Mechain laughed sardonically and bade him adien. Boulard rushed to the depot, close at hand, and took the first train to St. Denis. It was himself, then, that Caasctte referred to as the rival ahead of Boulard. ASSASSINATED. On the morning of September 14, many In Paris were shocked At the announcement that Monsieur Charles Cassette had been murdered at his villa at St. Denis, the previous night. The evening ot September 13 was very warm. The air was sultry and there were murmurings of thun der in the distance. Madame Fermat testified at the investigation by the Judge of Instruction (the coroner), that a lady called upon Charles late in the afternoon, and, after a stay of about fifteen or twen ty minutes, departed. From her description, it was evident subsequently that the lady was Madame Lazare. Charles then retired to his library and soon afterward ate a light dinner. He told his aunt that he was going to be busy with his accounts and re turned after dinner to hia library. The library opened upon a terrace, beyond which was the garden. There wore two windows in the end of the room and one in the side, and Charles's library table stood so that when he sat at it his back was to the side window and within four feet of it. All the windows were open. As a groom was pass ing to the stables in the rear of the dwelling soon after daybreak on the morning of September 14, he observed that the lights were burning in tho library and that the windows were open. Ascending the terrace, ho looked into the room and saw Charles Cassette lying forward upon the table. Entering the room, he saw a pool of blood upon the chair and floor. Ho alarmed the house hold and it was discovered that Charles was dead and cold, having received a fatal wound in the back. Nothing in the room appeared to have been dis turbed. A safe in a vault in the further end of the room was open, but it was not known that anything was missing. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. The police worked vigorously on the case. Mechain informed Monsieur Groult of the visit of Madame Lazare to the villa, and Monsieur Groult felt it his duty to inform the authorities of this fact. Madame Lazare was sent for and questioned by the Judge of Instruction. Then the fact q! the quarrel at Monsieur Groult’s house came out, and also the challenge and Charles’s refusal to fight. Next, Mechain communicated to the police his meet ing with Boulard as he was returning from St. Denis, and his wrath’at hearing that Madame Lazare had vjsited the villa. This led to inquiries which disclosed the pres ence of Boulard at St. Denis on the night of the murder. One Debelee, a blacksmith, said that he saw a man answering the description of Boulard watching the villa and that, wondering what it could mean, he set himself to watch the man. At dusk the man climbed the fence and walked up the side of the grounds, where trees and bushes grew, toward the dwelling. He thought that perhaps the man was a lover of one of the domestics, and that any how it was none of his business, so he departed. Boulard was arrested and vigorously questioned. He admitted having been at St. Denis and also that be had climbed the fence and gone toward the house. He believed that Madame Lazare was there, and that this explained Cassette’s remark at Mon sieur Groult’s that a rival might have got ahead of him. On reaching the villa, he saw Charles Cassette seated in his library, writing, and that satisfied him that he must be mistaken. Then be quitted the place and returned to Paris. This explanation was unsatisfactory, and Boulard was held lor the murder of Charles Cassette. A PEDDLER’S BASKET. The villa was not more than two hundred yards from the river Seine. On the afternoon of teptom ber 17, three boys,amusing themselves on the bank, found a basket hidden away among some bnuljoa’ It was a square, flat basket and contained hour glasses, weather glasses, pen wipers, grotesque pa per weights and small wares of that description, i OFFICE, NO. 11FRMPORT ST. The boys covered up the basket, went to the police station and informed the authorities. An officer went with them for the basket, but it was gone. The officer cuffed the boys’ ears and swore it was a trick they had played upon the police, but the boys solemnly averred the truth of their story. This oc . currence was soon bruited in the neighborhood and then an old man. who sold pigeons and barnyard fowls, came tremblingly to the police with the bas ket in his possession. He said that he was near by and saw the boys examining something in the bush. When they wore gone, he went and found the bas ket, which he carried homo, covering it with his blouse. WAS THIS THE ASSASSIN ? When the wide awake detectives beard of the find ing of the basket, they directed their attention to it. It was evidently the property of a peddler and had been hidden away for some purpose. Was it possible that the peddler had had anything to do with the crime at the villa, for which Monsieur Boulard was under arrest ? Inquiries were set on foot to And out the owner of the basket. No one, so far as could be ascertain ed, bad seen any person about St. Denis during the day preceding the murder, carrying such a basket. The inference was that the owner of it had coma from Paris and probably had not reached Bt. Denis before duak. These peddlers not uufrequently started on foot from Paris after purchasing their wares and made their way to some place twenty or even thirty or forty miles distant before they began to offer their goods for sale. The detectives exam ined the wares to see whether they could obtain a hint as to where they had been purchased. They were articles of a nature, however, which might have been bought in a hundred different places. When they were ready to give up the inquiry for the peddler, a question put to one ot the porters at the railway station at Bt. Denis brought out the fact that, by the first train which went into Parison the morning when the crime was discovered, a person age of a noteworthy description had taken passage. A DESCRIPTION MATCHED. “He was about five feet high.” said the porter, “and had on an ordinary gray blouse. He wore a skull cap and very long hair, which hung in heavy curls down his back. His lacs was shav-n, with the exception of a mustache, and that was of uncommon length, falling down at tach side, below his chin. One thing in particular I noticed, was that, over the right shoulder, crossing the back and chest, and meeting under the le:t arm about the waist, was a broad leathern strap with a hook at the end." “This is our man without doubt,” said one of tho officers, “ and we must look lor him in Paris.” They looked for him in Paris for three days, with out success. Finally, one night on the Boulevard, St. Germain, there came strutting along a short man with long curly hair well greased, and a long mustache waxed and twisted. This figure attracted the attentiou of Thiboumory, one of the detectives, who had been on the caso at St. Danis. True, the man was dressed more like a swell than a peddler. He wore a tall, shiny hat. asuxtottt of broadcloth, trousers of bright blue, with a light stripe, and patent-leather boots. An elegant scarf was about his throat, and light kid gloves encased his hands, in one of which beheld a cane. In company with this splendid creature was a tall woman of vast proportions, dressed in a gaudy silk gown and highly adorned bonnet. Thiboumory followed this couple. They crossed the Pont St. Germain, and went to the Rue St. Antoine, where they entered a wine shop kept by ono Stemler. The officer waited for them, and traced them to a house on the Rue Ste. Marguerite, the door of which the woman opened with a latch-key. AN ARREST. Thiboumery was at a loss. He eould not get out of his bead the impression that this was the man who had left St. Denis by the early train for Paris, and the morning of the discovery of Charles Cas sette s murder; he hastened after Pigalle, his asso ciate, and consulted him. They returned together to the Rue Ste. Marguerite and waited until day break. Soon afterward the door of the house was opened and the gentleman of the previous night appeared. Pigalle showed no hesitation, and going up to the man he clapped him on the shoulder and said : “My gay little friend, I and my companion here think we knew you.” The man started and turned palo. Then he wrig gled away and said : “Let me alone. It is not safe for you to assault a man in daylight." “Now, come,” eaid Pigalle, “we want your com pany. I and my friend here are detectives and there is a little matter at St. Denis into which we wish to inquire." The man dipped, got clear of the hand of the offi cers and started on a run for the Rue du Faubourg St. Antoine. Here Thiboumory’s powers as a quick stepper came in and he started in pursuit. Alter a brisk run the officer captured the man in tho Rue d'Aligre. Soon afterward Pigalle. who was a very big, stout man, came up, and the little man was re moved without further trouble. On him were found over 700 francs in bills, a letter to a lady and a card-case, evidently new, the card within bearing the name. “Monsieur Napoleon Tiphaine." Next morning the porter at the railway station at St. Denis was brought in secretly, and he identified the man as the one who had taken the early train to Paris. A FIND. Thiboumery, meantime, visited the house on the Rue St. Marguerite and asked the big lady for Mon sieur Tiphaine. She knew no such person. “Ah, well," said Thiboumery, “he isaeuriou fellow, is my little friend with the long hair *’ “Why, that is Jacques Ramchaud, the peddler!’ the woman exclaimed, “who has just oom© into a small fortune." “That’s the man," said the officer. “Now, where can I find him ? Im his uncle.” “No —, Rue St. Jacques, on the top floor," was tho reply. Thither went the officer, and as the landlord ob jected to have the door of Ramchaud’s room broken open, ho unlocked it with a master key. Thibou mery found a gray blouse, a pair of oordurov trou sera and thick boots; also a leathern belt with a hook at the end. In the pocket of the trousers the officer found a slip of paper, gummed together at the ends. On tho outside of this paper circle was written “ 1,009 fr. C. C." “This explains it," he said, and, calling the land lord, he put a seal upon the door and directed him, at hie peril, to allow any one to approach the roonr Then Thiboumery carried away in a bundle the clothes which he bad lound and put the slip of pa per in his pocket-book. . THE THEORY OF THE CRIME. The theory was that the peddler had placed his basket in the bush by the side of tho river and prowled around to see what he could pick up. On the side of the villa ground next the river, there was a stone wall, and over thia the peddler climbed. Passing by the end of the stables, and down by the side of the villa, he had come upon the open window of the study, with hia back to which Charles Cassette sat. Peering in, the peddler had seen the bundle of bank notes, which Charles had probably taken from the safe for some purpose un known. The avaricious wretoh could not bear the sight, and drawing a knife, possibly a large clasp knife, sprang in, plunged the knife into his vic tim and, seizing the notes, departed. Probably he had returned to the bush and stayed there until he thought it was time to catch a train into Paris. Ramchaud stoutly denied the crime, but it was shown that Charles Cassette was accustomed to put bis money up with a paper slip around the notes, and the writing upon the slip found in Ramchaud’s pocket was identified as Charles's. On the trial all the circumstantial evidence wa." brought out in a very strong light and the peddler was convicted of murder with extenuating circum stances. He was sentenced for life to hard labor. Maurice Moriarty’s Luck. HE GETS OFF, BUT HIS FRIEND FITZ GETS A MONTH. There was a quarrel and fight between Jim Fitz patrick and Maurice Moriarty, in front of the cloth ing establishment of Betsy Silverstein, No. 97 Baxter street. She said the two met in front of her door and commenced to growl. They then threw off their coats, not worth a button, and began to pitch into each other at an awful rate. Terrific blows were given and received, but somehow they went over the shoulder or under. Finally they clinched and there was considerable “ fibbing.’ Then the cry got up, “Cheese it I—the cops I" The fellows then broke and Moriarty picked up his coat, while Fitzpatrick, in the confusion, took two of Mrs. Silverstein’s hand-me-down coats and made off with them. Officer Murphy said he arrested Fitzpatrick; an other officer arrested Moriarty twenty minutes after the theft and fight. Fitz went back to Baxter street, drunk, and he arrested him when in full flight and a woman in hot purfuit behind. He had stolen a wash from tho roof. Moriarty said he never saw Fitzpatrick. Passing the woman's store, a Jew came after him and charged him with stealing two coats. He gave the Jew a rap on the side of the head for his impu dence, when the officer came up and arrested him. Fitz said he had trouble with a man in Canal street and he went in the yard to wash the “claret” from his “bugle." Coming back through the hall way. he found a lot of things under the stairs. There seemed to be no owner for them, and he picked them up. The Court discharged Moriarty, but sent Fitz to the Island for a month. Milk Watered Twenty-eive Pei: Cent. —Henry Pracht, of No. 210 Sullivan street, was found guilty of selling milk adulterated twenty five per cent, with water. Defendant said he had been there eight years, and never knew that he sold adulterated milk. Dr. Isham said a look at it, or the feel of it by the fingers, would show that the milk was watery. “Have you bad this man before?” asked the Court. “ No,” replied ths doctor. “It was a citizen that wrote to the Health Department, requesting atten tion to bo given to his milk. He said in his com mii’iicatio i that the milk was so bad he had to return it." •• Where did yon get the milk ?" asked Ibe Court. •• From Air. JStiliuao, No. 536 East Thirtieth street.” “Cue hundre i do lars fine,” said the Court. PRICE FIVE CENTS. ~~ f ..m. ~ - - ■■■ ■ ■■■ Trirr— ON THE SLO3E. Beyond those sunset bars of gold. Which light the waves of the purple sea. Near the crystal river, the pearly gate. Know you are watching and waiting for me. Not weary, not fearful, for Time with you Is never measured by lingering years, And tho golden points on the dial’s face Are numbered by smiles, aud not’.by tears. To-night as I walk on the lonely shore, And list to the mournful surge’s beat. I think of the music that falls on your ear. Of the beautiful blossoms that lie at your feeV Aud 'tis joy to know that no grief of mine Can darken a brow so bright and fair; Yet I sometimes fane* my spirit can feel A gleam from the glorious radiance there. A boat will lie shortly on yonder wive. The Boatman be drawing toward the shore- His call of warning I soon shall hear, And the soft, low plash ot His ready oar. He will bear me safely. His arm is strong. Till the walls of the golden gate I see; And when I reach it your task is done. There is no mare watching and waiting for me. BEWITCIWLORIIIE. BY A NEW AUTHOR. CHAPTER XIV. "1 DO NOT LIKE TOC, DOCTOR 1T.1.u” Ten days of tho month during which Guy ha» promised tho earl he will refrain from writing to or seeing Lorrie have elapsed. It is after noon tea-time at the Rectory, afitHjorrie and Greta are sitting in the gloaming, with tbair cups in their hands and their feet on the ~ fender. Of late Lorrie has been unusually silent and thoughtful, and Greta, as she looks at her now, fancies that she has grown somehow thinner and more “ womanish.” Her bewitching face is just as beautiful and irresistible as ever, but there is a depth—is it of sadness ?—in the dark eyes which seems to grow more settled and constant each day. Jack had chaffed hor about the measles, Greta remembers, and she wonders, half fear fully, if Lorrie is really going to be ili: only half fearfully, for it seems impossible to imagino Lorrie in anything but tho most robust and vital health. Outside, under the veranda, two sots of feet are heard pacing up and down; they belong to the rector and Mr. Seymour Meltord. Lorrie listens to them in contemplative si lence for some minutes, then she says: **? “Greta, I wonder what papa and Mr. Melford find to talk about ? They have boon trotting up and down for nearly an hour now.” Greta laughs. “The new school-house, politics, or some other of the many topics gentlemen find to talk about.” “They must be inexhaustible, then,”retorts Lorrie; “for Mr. Mellord seems to spend all hia spare time here. He was here yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, and he and pupsio always go off to the study together, or prowl round the garden, talk, talk, talking. Yesterday afternoon I saw them with their heads together over some paper.” “The plan of the school.” “No, it wasn't,” says Lorrie; “I know that a mile off. It was seme printed paper.” Greta yawns. “I don’t know what it was, I’m sure. It is very nice of Mr, Melford to amuse papa.” “ Very nice,” assents Lorrie grimly. “ Papa hasn’t too much company, and he is always glad to see him.” “Yes; I wonder Mr. Melford doesn't live here,” remarks Lorrie not very amiably. Greta laughs her gentle, good-natured laugh. “It would be very pleasant; he is always so agreeable and well-informed.” “He is our Admirable Crichton; but all tho same I’m glad he doesn't take up hie abode at the rectory.” “I dare say ho feels rather dull at the Pines, now Diana is away,” says Greta. “If we owe the pleasure of his society to Di ana s absence, I for one shall welcome her re* turn with enthusiasm,” remarks Lorrie. Greta looks at her with mild surprise. “ I can’t conceive why you dislike Seymour Mellordso much,” eho says. Lorrie makes an impatient gesture with her hand, which screens her face from the fire. “•I do not like you, Doctor Fell, the reason why I cannot tell; but I do not like you, Doctor Fell 1’ ” she replies. “ I don’t like Seymour Melford, and I’m afraid 1 shan’t grow to like him." . “lam sure h© is most attentive io you,” say® Greta, pleading for the absent, asall good-na tured people do, and, as is always tho case, making matters worse. “ I know he is,” retorts Lorrie impatiently. “ He is always dancing about me with a chair or a glass, or something or other. lam afraid to drop my scissors or lay down a book, for if I do he is sure to pounce upon it and hand it up, as if he had nothing belter to do than pick up the articles I ehed.” "People don’t often complain of too much at tention,” remarks Greta smiling. “I Ante too much attention!” retorts Lorrie petulantly. “ I would rather a man threw things at my head than have him always at my elbows like a lackey. Nearly all my time is taken up in saying, ‘Oh, thanks !’ ‘Don't trouble 1’ to Mr. Seymour Melford." "That’s because you don’t like him,” says Greta sagely. “If it were any one else, now — Lord Kendale for instance—you would be civil enough.” Lorrie screens her face with her other hand, and so hides the faint flush that rises. "Perhaps,” she says shortly. “ I don’t see any use in discussing it, however. Lord Ken dale is not likely to trouble mo with any atten tions for some time to come As she speaks the window opens, and Sey mour Melford steps in, followed by the rector. The younger man's taco is just as usual se rene, softly smiling, “ Greek but there is a flush ol excitement and restlessness upon the rector’s refined countenance, an expression which Lorrie thinks, wouderingly, ts generally upon it whenever Mr. Seymour Melford is at the rectory. "* “ Will you have some tea?” asks Greta. “You must have found it cold out there, 1 should think.” “It is rather chilly,” assents Seymour Mel ford, coming to the fire, aud looking down at the slim figure leaning forward in its chair in an attitude which Millais would have been glad to paint, together with tbe beautiful face, with the play o the lire glare upon it. “ Can I hand you. another cup, Miss l orrie ?” “No, thanks,” she says coldly. “J have had..