New York dispatch. [volume], March 27, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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spends Lorrie, pushing the thick hair—the hair
that Lord Guy has kissed—back from her fore
head. “ I was only talking at random. I often
do. Don't notice me. It is a trick I bare.”
Greta glides toward her sympathetically and
soothingly.
“ Lorrie, dear, you seem out of sorts. I have
noticed that you havo lost ail your spirits, and
—and seem low and below tone. Why don’t
you tell me if there is anything the matter ?
Why not see Dootor Cox. ”
Lorrie laughs a laugh of derision.
“ See Doctor Cox 1 You talk as if anyone
could ba cured of any disease by ‘ seeing Doc
tor Cox!’ Through a telescope, I suppose,
would bo sufficient. Once for all, I don’t want
to see Doctor Cox I I hate Doctor Cox, with his
tonics and iron and quinine. I am all right, I
tell you. If there is anything the matter with
me, it is that 1 am bored to ”
“Death,” she is going to finish with, but at
the moment Jack, gun and all, bursts into the
room.
“ I say, Grefs I” ho exclaims. “Look hero I
Here’s some news tor yon——”
" ::■■•_( the door !” says Lorrie, irritably.
“ I was never mi re astonished in my life,”
he goes on, administering a kick to .lu door.
“ ’Pon my word, though, it’s a rum affair !’’
Lorrie glances at him over her shoulder.
“ Don’t be excited, Greta. I know the value
of Jack’s news. Ho has just discovered that the
world is round or that gunpowder will explode
if you put a lighted match to it.”
“ Nonsense says Jack excitedly, “ I’ve just
met Ceymour Mellord.”
“ Extraordinary I” exclaims Lorrie, sarcastic
ally.
“And ho says,” continues Jack, disregarding
the interruption, “that his sister Diana, you
know, is engaged to Guy endale I”
Greta’s bine eyes and innocent mouth open
to thoir fullest extent; Jacks face wears the
satisfied grin which belongs to the narrator of
startling news; 1 orrie still stares at the tire, but
her hands go to the edgeof the mantel-shelf and
grasp it tightly.
“ Not realty, Jack I” exclaims Greta, forgetting
in the excitement of the moment even her straw
berry jam.
“ finally and truly,” says Jack, nodding em
phatically. "Seymour Mellord has just got a
telegram. Gny proposed last night and was
accepted. Diana telegraphed! Fancy a Mel
ford becoming a Countess of Latcham I Oh,
there’s no mistake; Seymour Melford bad the
telegram in his band and showed it to mo 1”
“ Well, it is only what I expected I" exclaims
Greta in the air of “ I told you sol” “ Proposed
last night. And telegraphed this morning. How
B leased ehe must lie! Lorrie, do you hear ?
iana Meltord is to bo the next Countess of Lat
cfaam ”
1b it the silence, the immovable attitude of the
girl that strikes her, or what? Whatever it may
be, Greta grows suddenly quiet and grave,
“Go—go and tell papa, Jack,” she says in a
low voice.
“ Yes I” exclaims Lorrie, turning suddenly,
her pale lace crimson, her eyes Hashing. "Go
and tell all the village I Havo the bells rung
put it in I be newspapers ”
Jack stares from one to the other. Greta
takes him by the arm.
“ Go away. Jack,” she says softly.
Then, as be goes, she approaches the slim,
girlish figure by tbe fire.
“ Lorrie !” is all she says, but it is enough.
With a low cry Lorrie staggers and lalls for
ward, ber head resting upon her arms.
“ Lorrie ! Oh, my dear—my dear I” murmurs
Grots, putting her arms round liar.
“Hush! Don’t speak to mo! Don’t touch
me I” cants Lorrie.
There is silence for a moment. Greta can eoo
the uoor heart heaving, the bowed head ! »teying
to hold itself upright with its usual pride; then
she murmurs again:
“Oh, lorrie!”
“ Hush 1 Don’t speak to me yet ! Ob,
Heaven !is it true? Greta, is it true?” and she
grasps Greta’s arm spasmodically. “Tell me!
Do you think it is true ? People tell such lies.
It may be a—a mistake,” and her eyes, grown
suddenly larger and deeper, as it seems, de
vour Greta’s shocked face with feverish eager
ness.
“I think it is true,” whispers Greta. “Oh,
Lorrie—oh. my dear, why d dn't you tell me'!
I never guessed ”
A hoarse, grating laugh breaks from the white,
strained lips.
“ Why didn’t I tell yon? Why should I tell
you? it was nothing—there was nothing be
tween us. Nothing, except that ”
She broke off and hid her face for a moment,
then ehe raised it defiantly.
“ Why didn't I tell you that he made me love
him ?—that I loved him with all my heart and
soul ? Because we agreed that wo' would not
toll—that we would bo ree. Devon hear— -free!
Don’t blame him; he was .ree. There was noth
ing between us. He was free to go away and
make love to any other woman—to propose to
Diaua—and he has done it. That is all. Why
do you look at me like that ?” fiercely, but with
a catch in her voice. “ Don’t pity me, Greta; I
could not bear it I Don’t say a word. Juat let
things go on as they were before—before /«-
came.”
Then a sudden revulsion comes, and with a
low cry she falls forward and leans her head on
Greta’s pitying bosom.
“ Oh, Greta ! It is of no use to try to brave
it out. My heart is broken,” she murmurs
faintly. “ Broken! Greta, it is true. I did
lore him; ah, I love him still. And he—he
swore—.wore that he loved me, and that ho
would not marry any one else but me, even to
gave Latcham 1 And now, now, Greta, are al/
men like that ? Do all of them forget in a few
short weeks ?” and she clutches Greta’s arm and
clings to it, hiding her white, straining face from
the pitying, tear-dimmed eyes.
“ Hush ! hush I” murmurs Greta. “ There
may be some mistake.”
Lorrie laughs bitterly, dospairfully.
“ No, there is no mistake, she says with a
dry sob. “lean see it all. I can understand
hew she has eaught him. Caught him I Do you
hear, Greta? If ha had stayed here with me, I
could havo kept him ! But they took him away
from me, they threw him into her arms, and—
and she has stolen him from me 1”
Silence lor a moment. Not a tear comes to
moisten the dry, burning eyes, and cool the hot,
aching heart.
“ What cm I say ? Lorrie, my dear I my
dear 1 My poor child 1 I never guessed I Oh,
Lorrie, Heaven will punish him I”
"No, it will not!” retorts the hoarse, strained
voice. “ Men never are punished for such
things 1 He will marry her and her money, and
will be happy. She will teach him to love her
in time, while I—l—oh, Greta, it I could only
die 1”
"My poor Lorrie 1 When—when did this
happen between you and him ?”
Lorrie pushes the hair from her face with a
restless, impatient gesture.
“ When ? Years ago 1 ages ago I No, only a
f«w weeks 1 a few weeks I The night of the
Moes I Ob, Heaven 1” and she covers her face
with her liands with a passionate, despairing
movement. “ 1 can see him now. I can hear
•very word he said. It was the first time any
Cue had ever spoken to mo like that,’ 1 with a
■tter laugh, “ aud I am not likely to torget it !
£ut he has forgotten it, and very quickly 1”
“He is a cruel and a wicked man I” says
Creta, indignantly.
Lorrie li ts her head, her eyes flashing.
“How dare yon say that I Cruel, wicked ?
>ol It is not his fault 1 It is theirs; that hard
loarted old father and hers— Diana Melford’s I
th, Greta, I won t hear a word against him !
Lo would have gone on loving m» if they had
tot got him away ! It was not his fault, or
a ine, but -but Fate’s !" A pause tor a second,
lien she looks round wearily. “ And now what
>m Itodo ? Tell me, Greta. I can’t”—with a
itiudder— “go on living day alter day with
nothing to do but think, think, think I Greta,
f jat “hall I do ? uh, if one could only die I
< hat is tbe use of living when one’s heart is
troken. and one’s life ie over ?”
“My dear, your life is not over yet, please
Heaven I” murmurs Greta, smoothing the ruf
fled silky hair with a tender, compassionate
oand; but Lorrie pushes the band away.
“Don't preach to me, Greta. I can’t bear
that. You mean well, I know, end—and I’m
grateful; but preaching is no use. You can’t
jot him back by preaching, and that is the only
thing that will do me good ! No, tie will never
.ome buck !” with a despairing sigh. “ Never,
novel', never 1 Oh, Gny, if I had died before
you spoke io me that night 1 You see”—pite
ously—“J did not know how it had gone with
me until he spoke. I loved him; oh, yes, 1
loved him, 1 daresay, belore that—days before.
But when be spoke, when he put his arms
round mo and kissed me——” sue stops, and
a quick shiver runs through her. “Greta!”
in a hoarse, dry whisper, “it is Diana ho will
kiss now, not me—not me 1” sad she hides her
face.
What can Greta do ? What can the best of us
do at such limes but preach patience to the tor
tured, breaking heart ? And Lorrie will have
no preaching.
“ ( ome up-stairs to your room, dear ! Come
ar.d lie <lown, clear I” murmurs Greta, getting
frightened.
“Come and lie down !” says Lorrie, mock
ingly. “ Why should 1 lie down? I’m not ill.
[ haven't got a headache ! If I lie down to the
day ot my de th it wouldn't bring back the
past, wouldn't alter things. Do you think”—
sharply, fiercely—" that I am going to take to
my bed, and play the maiden all forlorn, wear
the willow, and cry my heart out? How little
you know roe :” with a short, harsh laugh.
“ No, I’d rather die here on the spot than wear
my heart upon my sleeve to let all the women
at Carshal peck at it 1 Get me—get me a glass
oi wine 1” aud she almost pushes Greta from
her;
Greta goes to (he sideboard and sorrowfully
does ns she is bid. Her hand trembles more
than Lorrie s, as she takes the glass and emp
ties it.
‘• There ! I am better -better already,” with
a wild laugh, and a sudden flush upon her
white, strained ace. “‘ He loved and he rode
away !' 1 used to laugh at tbe deserted damsel
in the poem, Greta; I don’t feel much like
laughing now it has come to my turn. Do I look
like a deserted maiden; do I look as if I had
been”- a pause, as the crimson grew deeper in
the lovely taco -“jilted
Greta gazes at her pityingly, tenderly.
“ Come to your room and rest, dear,” she
whispers, bqt Lorrie turns aside impatiently.
“ No, I will not I To have Jack wondering
what is the matter—
“lf Jack knew,” says Greta, her gentle face
growing red and ansry-looking for perhaps the
first time in her lite—“if Jack knew, Lord
Kendale would not laugh much, neither, Lor
rie.”
Witli« start Lorrie turns and oatchos at her
win.
“ Greta, Jack must not know I No one must
know! Do you heart Understand!’ hastily
aud fiercely. “ I will have no one told. There
are to be no-no scenes between Jack and Gny
—I mean Lord Kendale ! No, it is not his fault
—it is mine as much as his 1 It is no one’s but
Fate’s ! Jack must not know, nor pups e, nor
any one. Only you and I, Greta; and I wish
that I had not told you. But,” and the lips
qui er, “it was too much to bear quite alone I ’
Greta puts her motherly arms round her slim
waist and draws the beautiful bowed head to
her bosom.
“ Oh, my dear, if I had but known before I
What things I have said, not knowing ! How I
must have stabbed yonr poor heart!”
“ It doesn’t matter,” responds Lorrie wearily.
“My poor heart, as you call it, is beyond stab
bing now. It feels,’ putting her hand to her
bosom, “as if it were numbed and—and dead.
Hush—what s that?” for there ie the sound of
footsteps upon the gravel outside.
Greta looks up quickly.
“ It is Seymour Mellord,” she says warning
ly. “Como away, dear 1”
But it was too late, for Seymour Mel ord opens
the door.
‘‘l beg your pardon," he saya addressing
. Grots, but looking with covert scrutiny al
Lorrie a back. “I thought Mr. Latimer was
here.”
“ I’ll fetch him,” says Greta. “ Are you com
ing with me, Lorrie?”
But a spirit of defiance and stubbornness has
taken possession ot L orrie.
“ No,” she says slowly and,going to the piano,
hurls it open, and begins playing, loudly, wild
ly.
Seymour Mellord stands and looks at her un
der his half-1 iwered lids, his white liands hold
ing his hat with a tight, nervous grasp behind
him. There is not a point in the expression of
the pale, lovely face that he does not mark and
notice; be knows lull well the meaning of the
dark shadows under the eves, the pallor of the
lipa, that used to bo as “ rod as a rose in June,”
aud he knows that the time has come wheu ho
can stretch out his hand and grasp the prize ho
has been plotting for.
“ That’s a dashing piece of music. Miss Lor
rie,” he says, drawing a little nearer the pia
no.
“ It is !” says Lorrie curtly, her hand striking
out wild chords ou the bars.
“ What is it called ?” he asks.
“ You must speak louder, I can’t hear," she
says.
He repeats the question, and comes still near
er, so that he is standing just close to her el
bow, his eyes looking into the sad, pale face.
‘“The March of the Men ot Harlech,”' she
replies curtly. “ And so ’’—she forces herself
to say—“ Diana is to be the Countess of Latch
am ?”
She has to face the thing sooner or later, bet
ter begin at once; but po one will ever guess
what it cost her to frame the words.
“Yes,” he says with a smile. “’The Count
ess of Latcham! I ace you havo heard the
news.”
“ Good news travels as fast as ill, now-a
days,” says Lorrie.
Her heart feels broken; there is a dull, ach
ing pain in her head, a sound of buzzing in her
ears, but still she manages to force a wan
smile.
“ So it does,” he assents, in his soft, pleasant
voice. “I hope—l am sure—Diana has your
good wishes, Miss Lorrie 1”
“ Every one of them I” ehe assents, with a
wild laugh. “ What are the usual wishes, Mr.
Seymour ? ‘ Long life, and wedded happiness,’
isn’t that it? One likes to Jtuow, you know!
Oh, yes, I wish her every happiness, and ”
She pauses to quell the quiver of her lips.
“ And Lord Kendale, too !’*
“ Thanks,” lie says, then ho sighs. “ Miss
Lorrie, my sister’s engagement ought to havo
made mo verj r happy, don’t you think ?”
“ 1 should think so.” she answers absently,
her fingers touching the keys mechanically.
“Aud yet it has not wholly done so,” he goes
on, his eyes fixed on hors, which stare at the
maker’s name on the piano with a dreary, Bai
lees vacancy. “ Her happiness only makes my
longing for such happiness more acute 1”
“ What d i you mean?" says Lorrie, with a
start of attention. “ I—l bog your pardon, I
was not listening. I have got a headache to
day ” She puts her hand to her forehead.
“ Lorrie, can you ask ■” he says, bending his
head. “You know what it is that I want to
make me happy! You know that I love you;
that I have loved you for a long time, and that
I can never be happy until you are my wife I"
Lorrie does not start, but she sits looking
straight before her like one dazed.
“For months past I have fought against the
passion that has taken possession of me,” he
goes on, bis face growing paler, his sunk eyes
darkening under tbs emotion which absorbs
him; his voice, which he is striving, with
all his force, to keep calm and quiet, so
that he may not frighten ber, quivering;
“I have told myself that you were too
beautiful, too good for mo to lift my eyes
to; I have told myself th at I should never
win your heart, but it was all in vain. My love
has grown and grown until it has overmastered
me——” His hand falls on the back of tbe
chair and grasps it tightly. “ I am never
happy when I am out of your presence; I am
never with you, but I look forward achingly to
the moment when I must leave you I Miss
Lorrie, lor Heaven’s sake, listen to me and give
me a favorable answer! I love you I Will you
accept my love? ’
As he speaks lie touches—it can scarcelv be
said that lie lays his hand upon her—her arm.
Then Lorrie awakes. With a start she turns
full face to him—the face so white and wan, and
burdened by the crushing blow that Guy has
dealt her; white and wan, but still how lovely 1
“ What ia it you are saving ?” she says, put
ting her hand to herbrow. “You—you want
me to marry you ?”
His lips form the affirmative, his eyes speak
it with passionate eagerness.
A faint shudder runs through Lorrie’s
frame.
“ You—you say you leve me!” she says, piti
lessly.
" You know it I” ia all he answers.
“ Aud—and you want me to marry you!
Why ? You don’t ask ms if I love you.”
It ia cruel—the cold, hard, unyielding tone—
and he winces.
“ I—l will teach you to leve me, dearest 1” he
murmurs.
Again she shudders.
“ Listen to me,” he murmurs in bis soft, in
sidious voice. “I am not unreasonable, Lorrie.
I know that I have taken you by surprise, but
I can be patient. Don’t tell me that you do not
love me, and that there is no hope for me; for
Heaven’s sake, don’t tell ms that! There ie
always hope when a man loves as 1 love you,
with all my heart and soul!—you are my heart
aud soul, Lorrie I See, now; you can make of
me what you will. I—l am not a good man I”
—the perspiration starts out upon his forehead,
and his lips tremble—" but—but if you will ac
cept my love, no man, however good he may
be, could make you happier I Lorrie, my life,
my late is at your feet! Don’t send me away
without hope. At least, tell me that you will
try to love me 1”
“ Trv to love you ? Try? Can one lovo by
trying ?”
It is almost of herself that she asks the ques
tion, but ha answers it, passionately, eagerly.
“ fee. Every day ot my life shall be devoted
to winning your love, Lorrie ! Not a whim, not
a wish, shall go ungratified. You said that you
were ambitious; 1 am ambitious also—for your
sake, not my own ! The world lies before me;
with your love to inspire me I can do, I will do,
great’things I If you desire a title, I will win
one lor you. Money, wealth, shall be yonrs at
once
bhe rises, shuddering faintly, and yet not so
faintly but that he sees it and maddens at the
sight, as he remembers how site slid into Guy’s
arm when he told her of his love that night in
the lane.
“ I—l cannot!” she breathes. “ I—l am very
grateful I You are very kind ! I—oh, let me
go I" for he has iallen on his knees and is
clutching the edge of her dress with the pas
sionate impleration of a man who sees his prize
escaping him at tbe moment whea he deems it
secure within his palm.
"Wait! Listen to me, Lorrie I I only ask
you to listen ’tome ! Think what it is I offer
you. The love of a man, not of a boy who will
forget you in a month !”
Lorrie winces as it s]te bad been struck, and
the cofor comes into Her pale face.
“ All my heart and soul,” he goes on pas
sionately, and yet in a voice that is scarcely
above a whisper. “ A place in the world which
you shall help me to make still more worthy oi
you. Lorrie, think of your father, your brother
and aister! I will watch over them and
guard them aa if they were my own—as
they shall be. Lorrie, I have yeur father’s
good word "
“My father I You have spoken to him ?” she
murmurs.
“ Yes,” be says. “1 am not ashamed of my
love tor you.” Again she winces. “I have 1
been straight to him and opened my heart to
him, and he-be wishes me well. Lorrie,
think 1 Don’t give me your answer now, wait
and think ! liemember how dearly, how truly
I lovo you 1 Trust to mo, aud havo no fear for
the future; I will make it bright for you, and
for all you love.”
He pauses, breathless, and his hand relaxes
its grasp of her dress.
“I—l will say no more now,” he says, with a
quick catch in his breath. "Ln an hour. I will
wait in the garden ”
The door opens, and Greta hurries in. She
is pale and frightened-looking, and doos not
draw back even when she sees what is happen
ing.
“ Lorrie I Papa! Come quickly!” she says,
and she is out again.”
CHAPTER XIX.
“ SOT TOIUTO AND PLOTTED IX VAIN.”
Lorrie paying no more heed to Seymour Mel
ford than it he had been ons of the hassocks,
rushes after Greta into the study.
At his table sits the rector, his head bowed
upon his hands. Beside him stands Jack,
with hia hand upon the old man’s eheulder,
while Greta is kneeling at his feet, trviag to
draw the trembling hands from before his face.
“ What is it?" demands Lorrie, pale, startled.
"Pupsie, are you ill?” and she pushes Jack
gentlv on one side aud takes his place.
At the sound ot her voice the rector groans.
“ Ch, my children -my poor children !" ho
moans, and his head sinks lower.
“ What is it ?’’ saya Lorrie, looking from one
to the other imploringly. “What has happen
ed? Can’t eituer ot you speak ? Pupsie, tell
mo -what ia it?”
For a moment there is silence, then Greta
draws herselt up and winds her arm lovingly
round the old man’s neck.
“T 1 11 her, dear,” she whispers. “ Don’t giro
NEW YORK DISPATCH, MARCH 27, 1887.
■up all hope, dear. “See, here is Jack and Lor
' rio with you, dear, dear papa
“ How can I tel! them ?" moans the poor old
j man. “My children,” and he raises his head
and looks at them with an awful look of in sery,
“ I have ruined you 1 Your father, who should
Jiave guarded and succored you, has robbed
you I"
Lorrie’s face grows wbite. Has ho gone mad?
is the dreadful thought that flashes through her
mind.
The rector shakes his head, as if ho road the
thought in her eyes.
“No, Lorrie, no ! lam sane enough. It is
quite true, alas 1 Tell her, Greta—l—l can
not I” and ho sinks back and covers his face
with his hands.
Grets lays her hand upon Lorrie’s.
“ We are in great trouble, dear,” she says,
tremulously. “ But it is not ot ourselves wo
must think, but of our dear father.”
“ Yea," says Lorrie, going to the old man and
kissing him. “But what is it? It oan’t be
very dreadful. We are all here alive and well.
Papa is not ill.”
“ Lorrie,” says Greta, “papa has lost all his
money -—”
“We are ruined," says the rector, with a
groan of remorse -“and I have done it!”
“ Ituinod I” says I orrie, vaoantly. The word
conveys no meaning to her for the moment
“How can wa he ruined? We are poor, I
know, but” she looks round to assure herself
that the reotorv root still stands above her head
—“ but we havo always been poor.”
“ Lorrie,” says Greta, gently; “ poor pans has
met With a great misfortune. lie has”—ehe
does not understand it hereeU and speaks ths
words with tne vagueness o: intense ignorance—
“he has beon-spoou'ating I"
Jack's face grows long and dismal.
“Speculating I” echoes Lorrie, bewildered.
“Yes. 1, who should have guarded my poor
children s money as I should have guarded my
own life, have flung it in the gutter! lam
justly punished, but my poor children 1 my
poor children !’ moans the rector. “Jack can
you ever forgive me? Lorrie—” Ho stops,
and the tears well to his eyes. “Oh, Lorri e,
Lorrie I I must have been mad ”
“Hush, bush I” murmurs Greta.
“But, tc'iaf is it?’says Lorrie desperately.
“I- I don’t understand I Jack, oan’t you tell
mo?”
“Be quiet!” he says, and he draws her on
one side and whispers, “ Father has been doing
something with some stocks or shares, and they
have bit him-they always do, you know. Ho
has lost every penny of the money mother left
him, and we are”—he shrugs his shoulders in a
bad way,”
“Buinad, utterly, utterly ruind I” sa vs the
rector in a voire ot dull despair. “Greta, my
child, let them know the worst. I have told
you; I cannot go over it again. It—it would
kill me I”
“Yes, papa, I will tell them,” says Greta
soothingly. “Lorrie, we shall have to leave
the rectory, you and Jack, and I, end do
our best in the world to help poor papa.”
The rector bides his face in his hands. “We
shall be very, very poor for a time: but wa
must not lose heart. Papa will take some
pupils"— her voice breaks at the prospect ot tho
broken old father toiling with some half-a
dozen noisy boys; the old man who lias grown
so accustomed to the quiet of his pleasant homo
—“and—and we must all do our best to cheer .
him up I It was dpue lor our good -what he did
—“ poor Greta still understands nothing of how
tho money has gone—“ and—aud we love him
better than ever, dear 1” and she clings tenderly
to the old man.
Jack draws Lorrie outside.
“ That isn’t the worst of it, Lorrie,” he says,
gloomily. “This is an unlimited company fa
ther has been going in for, and ho will lose
more than he has got. The bishop will inter
fere, and,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’m
afraid, Lorrie, we shall all—the poor old father
as well—have to turn out.”
Lome sinks on to a chair in tho hall, and sits
staring before her. The second blow has come
upon her so suddenly, so quickly after the first,
that she is too bewildered and benumbed to
fully realize it.
And yet through all the numbness oome the
words Seymour Mellord has just spoken:
“ I will guard and watch over yours as if they
were my own—as they shall be I Think of your
father, and Jack, aud Greta!”
Tho words were meaningless and empty in
her ears then; but how full ot significance are
they now I
Jack goes up to her, fumbles for bis pipe and
lights it, then lays his hand upon her shoulder.
“ Don’t give in altogether, Lorrie,” he says m
his bluff, kindly fashion. “ I’m still in the
front, you know. I’ll buckle to, now, and put
it ail right; there must bo plenty ot things a
fellow can do, if ho only knows where to look
for ’em. Don’t give in, Lorrie.”
She raises her eyes to h s.
“ I am not giving in,” she says, in a dull,
dazed voice. “I am thinking—that is all.”
“By George, we shall ail have to think now,”
he says, pacing up aud down. “ Poor old dad !
I wouldn’t mind so much it ho weren’t so out
up. I’m airaid it ho has to turn out of the rec
tory it will ”
He pauses, and there is no need to speak.
“ Kill him says Lome, in a hushed whis
per. “ les, it would kill him.” She rises, and
going to the window, presses her burning fore
head against the cold glass. “It would kill
him I" ehe murmurs to herself, twice—thrice.
“It’s an awful mess,” says Jack, stillipacing
to and fro and pulling at his pipe disconsolate
ly. “There's no time given to a fellow to turn
round and look up some mone.v. These sharks
will be down upon us In a day or two and take
every penny we’ve got. Shouldn’t wonder it
they sell the furniture from under us. I can’t
think now the poor old governor can have got
let into it.”
“ Soil the furniture!” says Lorrie, in a slow,
dull voice. “ Sell the furniture and turn him
out of tho rectory. Yes, Jack, you are right, it
would kill him.”
For the first time two great tears roll down
her cheeks.
“ Don’t cry I” says Jack. “ I’ll go and—and—
hang it if I know what to do or where to go!
Wait I By George !” as if struck by a sudden
idea. “ I’ll go to Seymour Mellord. I don t
know whether he understands anything about
thia kind of business, but his father will, any
how. I’ll go and call upon him and toil him
what a moss we’re in ”
“Stop!” says Lorrie, and her face whitens as
she catches at his sleeve as be hurries to tbe
door. “Do nothing of the kind—yet. Wait l”
“Why? What's the matter ?” he says. “Oh,
I see 1 Yes. You would not like it,” then he
stops short. “ Well, 1 don’t know what to do 1”
“ Go-go back to papa,” she says, in a dry,
harsh voice. “Go and comfort him, and—and
wait till I come,” aud she moves toward the
door.
“ But where are you going ?” he asks.
She points to the study door.
“ Go and comfort him and wait till I come
back I”
He goes slowly into the room and she pauses
for a moment, with her hand pressed to her
bosom, her eyes raised witu a wild look of de
spair; it passes in a moment or two, and with a
set look upon her beautiiul face, a hard, cold
determination in her eyes, she opens the draw
ing-room door.
Seymour Melford is standing by the window.
At the sound of the opening door he turns and
comes toward her.
“Lorrie, what has happened?” he says, but
his eyes drop before hers and the question
sounds false and strained.
But Lorrie does not notice it.
•• I havo come to give you my answer,” she
says, and her eyes fix themselves on the ground
heavily.
“ Ah 1” and ha draws nearer.
•' Wait 1” she says, putting out her hand as if
to etop him. " You—you asked me to marry
you.”
" I did—l do 1” he says, fervently. “It is
the dearest wish of my heart—”
She stops him with a gesture.
“ You—you do not expect me to—to love
you ?”
Slowly, mechanically the words drop from
her lips.
“ I will wait tor that,” he says; “wait with the
sure hope that I shall win your love 1”
“ You will be content with—that ?” she says.
“ I will be content—more than content 1” he
assents.
“ Just now,” ehe pauses, “ you spoke of—of
money—wealth.”
“ I did,” he says. “ I know it will not weigh
with you
“ It does !” she says, moistening her lips an<L,
crushing down tho weight of shame and misery
that threatens to rise and overwhelm her. “It
does weigh with mo 1 It—if—l asked you to let
me have some money—now,”—she can scarcely
go on, but she makes an effort, her eyes burn
ing, her lips quivering—" if I asked you to give
—to lend me some money now, would you—
would yon she cannot go further.
“ Would I givs it you?” he says eagerly, the
light ot triumph, aye, and of passion, beginning
to gleam in his eyes. " Yes; every penny I
possess 1 With both hands,” and he stretched
out his hands.
“Then Ido ask you,” she says. “Not for
myself—not for myself, but, but,” she covers
her face with her hands and sinks into a chair.
“Lorrie, dearest 1” he murmurs, bending and
taking her hand to his lips. “ I know I Yonr
father is in trouble 1 I feared it 1 Can you
doubt that I would help you 1 Why, whom
should you come to but me ? How much is it,
dearest ? See i” and he tears open his coat and
takes out his check book. Ho had brought it
in readiness. “ There!”—and he jumps up
from the table where he has written something
in the counterfoil—" take that to your father,
dearest, and tell him if he wants more, only so
much greater will be my happiness in giving it
to him. No-not to him, but to you—my dear,
dear wife 1”
Lorrie takes the check in ber trembling
hands.
“ Can you—can you understand the shame I
feel, I wonder ?” she says dully. “ But it is tor
him -for him 1”
“ There is no shame, dearest 1” he murmurs.
“ All I have now is youra and for ever,” and he
ventures to put his arms round her and kiss
her forehead.
And Lorrie submits—for her father’s sake I
Certainly Mr. Seymour has not toiled and
plotted in vain.
CHAPTER XX.
“THE HOBSE THAT DIED SO AWKWARDLY.”
“A diamond braco'et the day before yester
day, and a necklet to-day 1 My dear Lorrie, I
do tuink you have the most generous of sweet
hearts says Grots.
It is seven days since the Wheal Rose Min e
exploded, seven days since Lorria sold herself to
save her father, the first seven long days of the
bondage which is to last till lile ends, audGreta
stands in the breakfast room holding up to tho
light a magnificent necklet in which sparkle
those precious stones which, since the days of
klueen olieba, the lair sex have most favored.
Lorrie is silting at tbe davenport in the atti
tude which she always assumes when compelled
by dire necessity to anew, r one o her corre
spondents, that is, with her small baud thrust
into her hair and an expression ot utter and
intense boredom eloquent not only in her face,
but in her whole form.
“What?” she says, just looking up. “Ob,
yes, very pretty.”
“ Ifory pretty I” echoes Jack. “Listen to her.
Her young man showers gold and diamonds on
her and she says ‘ very pretty 1’ as if they were
things from Margate. ‘ ery pretty !’ ’i’on my
word, Lorrie, you taka things very coolly; any
body would think you'd been engaged to a mil
lionaire since you were :n your cradle.”
“Perhaps I was,”she says wearily. “Mar
riages are made in Heaven, yon know. I wish
you wouldn’t bother me while I’m writing. Gre
ts, what ought I to say to this old nuisance ”
aud she yawns and stretches her arms wearily.
“ Who is tbe old nuisance?” asks Greta, slow
ly and reluctantly conveying tho necklet to its
sat.n case.
“ old Lady Collop !” replies Lorrie.
“Lady Lollop?” says Jack. “Didn’t know
she was alive. Never saw her but once, and
that was wheu I was a young 'un. I remember
she told me that I ought to go aud wash my
hands, and 1 hated her from that moment ac-
COribuKly."
“. obody else know she was alive till now,”
says Lorrie. “ There ought to be a law forbid
ding relations who haven’t seen or heard of
each other tor years to break out into sudden
correspondence.”
“ Come, now, Lorrie," says Greta, as usual
ready to spring to the de.eace ot the absent,
“ it was really very kind of the dear old soul to
write und wish you happiness.”
“ Was it ?” says Lorrie dreamily. “I’m not
sure of that. Suppose I’d been going to marry
tbe sheep ” —I regret to say that this is the cog
nomen always applied by Lorrie to the meek
faoed curate—" with his hundred and twenty
pounds a year: do you think old Lady Col.op
would have written then ?”
“ oe.er I ’Tain’t hkuiy I” remarks Jack em
phatically.
“Not” says Lorrie. “ But because lam go
ing to marry the son of the great Mr. Mellord,
the ‘ dear old soul ’ thinks it would be worldly
wise to expend a sheet o: paper and an envel
ope upon Mr. Mellord’s future daughter-in-law.
ho is Lady Collop, Greta ?”
“ Lady Collop is a sort oi a kind of a second
cousin fourteen times removed from the guv’-
uer,” breaks in Jaoa. “ Bhe is the widow of a
city knight, my dear Lorrie, an eminent tallow
chandler in the city, who became alderman and
Lord Mayor, and was rewarded for living
through twenty years ol corporation feeds by a.
grateful sovereign, who made him a knight.
Old Lady Collop declares that the CoMops came
over with William the Conqueror; but don’t
you believe it, my sweet ch id. The Collops
were never heard of until .Sir Samivsl made
tallow and a fortune. She lives in Manchester
Square, and ie deeply and unpleasantly good.
You mustn’t sneeze on Sunday, and you go to
bed at nine on week-days. The meals consist
of tracts and old numbers ot the ‘ Sunday at
Home,’ and Lady Collop is firmly convinced
that everybody who thinks as she thinks is
bound for the happy land, and those who don't
aro bound lor the other place. That’s the sort
of old lady ehe is, my dear; and now you know
bow to answer her letter.”
“ But 1 <Jon’t,” says Lorrie, with a grimace,
digging the pen into the blotting-pad impatient
ly. “I’ve written four lines, but they are such
anawlul succession of fibs that 1 shrink back
appalled. ‘My dear Lady collop’—now she
isn't dear to me at all. That’s number one !
•‘I am very grateful to you for your kind
wishes’—l’m not a bit grateful. Number two.
‘ And for your pretty present of Doctor
Growles’s “ Midnight Reflections.” ’ It's not
pretty, and I hate the sight of Doctor Growles’s
‘Midnight Deflections i’ Numbers three and
four:— 1 which I shall ba sure to read every
evening before retiring to rest, as you re
quest.”'
“My dear Lorrie 1” exclaims Greta, trying
not to laugh, while Jack bursts out with a
“ haw, haw,” which makes the ornaments
dance.
“A lot you’ll read it! Here, I’ll tell you what
to write,” he says, “ ‘ Dear Lady Grimes.’ ”
“ All right,” says Lorrie, getting a new sheet
and thrusting her hand into her hair afresh.
“Go on, Jack, i’ll write every word.”
“ ‘ What on earth made you write to me, and
what do you suppose I want with Doctor
Growles’s miserable book? I wouldn’t read it
if you sent ma the twenty pound note which
you ought to havo sent, you st.ngy old nui
sance. in my opinion Doctor Growies would
have been much better employed in snoring at
midnight instead of reflecting, and I mean to
make curl papers of the whole wretched vol
ume. As to my marriage, I shall be happy if I
am to be happy, and i shan’t bo any tho less
miserable for your good wishes, which are the
first I ever received irom you since I was born.
With love Irom usall. Youra .’ ”
“ Hight,” says Lorrie writing calmly. “ Two
‘ a’s ’ in miserable, or only one, Greta ? Jack,
you shall dictate all my notes of thanks for con
gratulations and presents. You do it so well,
yonr style is so neat, and your language so
much to tho point. Got an envelope, Greta ?”
Lut Greta, advancing resoluteiy, takes the
letter and consigns it to the flames.
“Upon my word, you two are incorrigible,”
she says, still struggling with her laughter.
“Jack, you make Lorrie ten times worse th n
she might be; go and do something I I declare
lam never easy a moment for ear of the mis
chiet you two might be getting info.”
“ Yes,” says Jack, eyeing Lome severely, “a
young woman who is so near the brink ot ma
trimony, ought to sober down, oughtn’t she,
Greta ? Weil, good morning, girls; i leave you
to fight it out, only don’t ask me to write any
more letters lor either of you.”
Sober down I
Greta, as ehe hears the words, glances at the
beautiful face bent over the davenport, and
chokes back a little sigh.
Lorrie doesn’t want “sobering down.” To
day, for the first time, notwithstanding Greta’s
reproach, has she shown the slightest disposi
tion toward mischief ot any kind.
She does not go about tho house sighing, or
even drooping; she wears no “ willow willow,”
as she herself would put it, but there is a
change in her which, though none of tbe others
seem to observe it, Greta’s loving eyes are quick
to note.
Once she has attempted to say a word; to ut
ter a note ot warning as to the terrible conse
quences of tho engagement, if Lorrie s heart is
not In it, but Lorrie stopped her.
“Don’t let’s say anyth.ng about the past,
Greta,” she said, with a little shudder, and a
dash of color in her pale face. “We will
suppose, if you please, that I was born yester
day, that I never had any past, that Lord Ken—
that a certain person never existed and that I
am subject to dreams, aud imagine things that
never occurred.”
So Greta hae, perforce, held her tongue, oven
when she has seen the beautiiul head bent low,
the lovely eyes gradually growing deeper and
more thoughtful and absent, and has noted that
tho laughter, which used to ring all over the
rectory, is now silent and missing.
And all goes on tho same in tho old house,
excepting that tbe rector has grown suddenly
older and more listless, and that he has ceased
to complain of Lorrie’s noise and mischief.
Between the old man and hie youngest daugh
ter there seems to havo sprang up an affection,
which is even deeper and more sincerely tender
than of old.
He is never at rest or happy unless she is
near him ; she sits lor hours in the quiet study
by his side. Sometimes not a word passes be
tween them; but ever and again the old man
will put out his hand and stroke her silky hair,
or raise his eyes and regard her with a wistful,
mournful tenderness.
Is it possible that he guesses at the sacrifice
she has made for his sake ? It may be so, but
ho says nothing. Indeed, what would be the
use ot speaking ot it, even it he knew the
truth; for has not Seymour Meltord paid the
price, and has he not got that for which he baa
paid?
Lorrie has promised to be his wife 1
There is scarcely an hour of tho day that he
does, not repeat the words to himself over and
over again. Ho repeats it whenever he sees
her, whenever his eyes rest upon tbe fair, girl
ish face, with its red ripe lips and its glorious
wealth of hair; whenever they gaze upon the
lithe, graceful figure, every movement of which
stirs his passion to its depths.
Lord Guy may love Lorrie more truly end
nobly, but it is a question whether he lovee her
more passionately, more fiercely than the man
who is ready to dare and do anything, however
vile er base, to gain her.
Greta has called him a “ generous sweet
heart,” and it is a just description. All that
money can obtain he is ready to lay at Lorrie s
feet He rarely comes to tho rectory but what
he has some present in his hands, some rare
and beautiful article ot the cost ol which the
unsophisticated Latimers have little idea. And
Lorrie takes them with a smile that is as cold
as a winter's sun upon a window pane.
She is always ready to see him, always trill
ing to go with him for a walk or a drive, bni
the smile, the expression in her eyes is always
cold, aud calm, and unmoved.
Sometimes he is driven almost to despair by
it, and is tempted to take her in his arms and
crush the color into her face, the warmth into
her eyes, but he restrains himself. “Every
thing comes to the man who can wait I” he tells
himself, and he will wait until she has learned
to understand his love and to return it I
Menwhile, Lorrie can read in the society jour
nals of the almost daily record of Lord Ken
dale’s doings. Tbe coming union between the
Melfords, who rose from the mud, and tbe old
family of the Latehams, has boon quite a god
send to the papers in the dull season, and they
are never tired of dilating upon tho length of
Lord Guy’s pedigree and the extent of Miss
Mellord’s wealth. Her beauty and Wbr dia
monds supply many a paragraph to the hard-up
and all this Lorrie, sitting quiet
iome, reads.
' Reads how Lord Keadale, who is visiting
with Miss Diana Melford and her father at Lord
So-and-so s, shot so many brace of pheasants,
or rode or walked so far. She roads it all with
that tight contraction of the heart which comes
when we are reminded of the loved one lost, ef
happier days gone from us forever.
Sometimes, tn the silent watches of the night,
she fancies she can hear his voice as it spoke to
her that night in the lane; see his face; but
ever and always there comes between her and
him the cold, feline, beautiful face and clear
voice ot Diana Melford, and Lorrie, shutting her
eyes, trios to crush tho memory of tho past out
ot her heart.
One day Mr. Seymour Melford goes into his
office at Lime street to draw ft check for tbe
necklet aud bracelet which I.orrie has taken so
calmly, little guessing at its cost, aud as he fills
in the slip converses affably with Mr. Wheeler.
Ho is always smoothly and soltly affable with
everyone, and Mr. Wheeler, tbs confidential
man oi business, bas never seen his secret prin
cipal out of temper or even irritable.
Kot even wheu the great Wheal Rose shares
ran down to nothing, aud Mr. Seymour Melford
lost so much money I
“ Any news, Wheeler?” ho says.
“No, sir, not much,” anil the'confidential man
tells him what is necessary. “Things are very
quiet at present.”
As lie speaks, a man rushes in with the
peculiarly hasty step whi h city men, and city
men alone, acquire, and begins murmuring in
Mr. Wheeler’s ear. Mr. Seymour Melford steps,
oat-like, into a smaller room, or division parti
tioned off by gl«ss, and puts on his gloves with
leisurely ease. The man onlv stays &■. e minutes,
then dashes off again, and Mr Wheeler, with
exoitement in hia face and manner, hurries up
to his principal.
“ Some news has just come in sir,” he says in
a quick whisper. “ n ormation of tbe greatest
importance—it it is to bo relied upon.”
“ Oh .” said Seymour Melford, buttoning the
last button ot his glove. “What is it?”
It is about the Wheal Rose, sir.” says Mr.
Wheeler, and so mysterious and important is
tbe information that, though they are alone, ho
bends forward and whispers it into his em
ployer’s ear.
The cane falls from Seymour Melford’s hand,
and he starts—visibly starts.
“ What i” he says almost fiercely. ,
Mr. Wheeler, a little surprised at the re
ception which his intelligence has produced, re
peats it.
“It—it is a lie! It is impossible!”: says
Seymour Melford savagely; then he recovers his
self-possession and picks up his cane. “ I beg
your pardon, Wheeler,” he says in his usual
affable voice. “ You took me by surprise rather.
Of course tbe rumor is not to be rel.ed on. It is,
must be false 1”
“ Then—then you will take no steps, sir?"
says Mr. Wheeler respectfully. " The person
who gave me the information is generally to be
rebed on —
Mr. Seymour smiles, and shakes his head.
“ This will be tbe exception wliioh proves the
rule,” he says. “I don’t believe a word of it.
Good-morning," and he goes out bumming an
air, and leaving Mr. Wheeler stating after him
ia amazement.
At the corner of Fenehuroh street there is
always a small crowd, composed of men who,
having nothing to do, are doing it so as to pro
duce as much inconvenience to those persons
who have something to do. There ia such a
crowd this morning, and as Mr. Seymour Mel
ford's daintily and tastefully dressed figure, in
ail its Grecian neatness ot outline, comes up
Lime street, a man—suspiciously like Mr.
Levorick—emerges from the crowd, and sidles
up to him.
“Good-morning, guv’nor,” he whispers huski
ly, Irom behind his hand; “ can I have a word
with you?”
Mr. Seymour Melford’s finely-pencilled brows
contract, and his lips straighten, but he replies
affably enough.
“ Well, what is it?”
“ It’s about the ’orse," says Mr. Leverick,
glancing round with his habitual caution.
“What horse?” enquires Seymour Melford
blandly.
Mr. Levorick stares at him, then closes one
eye.
“ Oh, come, guv’nor; we ain't overheard. I
mean ’ —and he lowers his voice —“Lord Kon
daie’s horse Gipsy; the one that died so awk
wardly, you know.”
“ I know that his horse died, yes ! It was in
the papers,” Seymour Melford replies, almost
pleasantly. “But 1 don’t know anything more,
and i don t think I want to.”
“ Oh, come: be fair !” Leverick mutters, with
suppressed Impatience. “ What’s the use of
playing that game, Mr. Melford? The job was
done as you wished, wasn’t it? And I was
paid I I don’t say 1 wasn't, but Ido say this,
guv’nor, that if t’m not got out of the way
there’ll be trouble.”
“ To you, you mean?” suggests Seymour
blandly.
Leverick swears.
“To both ot us,” ho says. “It I’m taken I
don’t keep my month shut, Mr. Melford, not tor
a miserable five-and-twenty pound. Why, the
job was worth a hundred——”
Seymour Melford nods.
“ You say you ought to be sent out of the
way ?” he asks thoughtfully, fixing his eyes on
tho pavement.
“1 do!” exclaims Leverick emphatically.
“They're making inquiries at the stables—kick
ing up more fuss than I expected even, and
they’ll trace it to me presently, see if they don’t.
Better send me across the water lor a month or
two, guv’nor. A couple of pounds a week—
what are you looking for, Mr. Mellord ?” ho
breaks o r to inquire, for that gentleman had
been looking up and down the street quite anx
iously during the last minute.
“1 was looking for a policeman,” ho says quite
pleasantly.
“ A policeman ?”
“Yes,” blandly. “Lam going to give you in
charge for poisoning Lord Kendale’s horse,
Gipsy, and for endeavoring to extort money
from me.'
Mr. Leveriek’s face grew livid.
“You bra :en it out, you do, do you?” he
snarls. “ Give me in ciiarge, and 111 swear that
you paid me to do it! I’ll prove that you made
a pot of money by the horse’s death •”
He stops, tor the smile on Mr. -eymour Mel
ford’s face grows almost augelic in its intensity.
“My friend, I never made a penny by the
death of Lord Kendale’s horse,” he says sweet
ly—“ not a single penny.”
“Then what did you put me up to doing it
for?” demands Mr. Leverick, almost desperate
in his astonishment.
“That is my business,” retorts Seymour.
“ And now, let me give you one word of advice.
If you chance to see me again, don’t stop me or
attempt to speak to me. The very next time
you do so I shall give you into custody. What!
Bribe you to poison the horse of Lord Kendale,
who is going to marry my sister, Mias Mellord I
My good friend, you are too sharp a fellow not
to see that no judge or jury in the world would
believe so ridiculous a charge as that. Good
morning. Stop I” Taking out hia purse he se
lects a shilling and throws it toward him. “Get
yourself a drink, my friend, and think the mat
ter over. You will see it in its proper light, no
doubt,” and with a smile he walks on.
Mr. Leverick looks after him in amazed in
dignation tor a second or two, then raises his
loot, dashes it down ou the unoffending coin,
and, with sundry oaths, grinds it on the pave
ment. But truth compels me to add that a mo
ment or two afterward he stoops and picks up
the ill-used coin, and slinks to the nearest pub
lic house.
It is never quite safe to tread even upon a
worm; perhaps it would have been wiser if Mr.
Beymour Melford had sent his tool, Mr. Lover
iok, across the channel, even though it should
have cost him a little money.
(To be Continued.)
DIGGING EOR’LIBERTY.
BY AN EX-REBEL.
I made my entry into Camp Douglass, near
Chicago, the 3d day of January, 1864, and may
be pardoned for the remark that it was a cold
day for me, in more senses than one. Two
weeks previous to my debut in Chicago society,
I was m Arkansas, uniformed In the bap-haz
ard fashion of the Confederates of that period,
and when I came to be railroaded up North and
found tho thermometer down to nine degrees
below zero, I could hardly hold my teeth in my
head. There were about 5,000 prisoners there
in tho stockade, which was simply a board fence
twelve feet high, and they wero provided with
rough shanties and stoves. A Northern man
would have kept comfortably warm in tbe quar
ters, but it was hard work tor tbe prisoners to
keep fingers and toes sway from Jack Frost.
Indeed, there were many cases of actual suffer
ing, though the Federal Government made the
best arrangements possible. The trouble was
at ths camp instead ot at Washington. After a
certain hour of tbe evening all lights must be
out and everybody in bed, and when the stoves
grew cold the frost and wind drove into the
shanties st a hundred points.
There were only six of us in the shanty to
which I was assigned, while some held eight,
ten and twelve. We were within seven feet of
the fence, and as we were all men from one
regiment and all captured at the same time, we
felt that we could trust each other. Tbe ides
ot aa escape was broached in February, but it
was the 15th of April when the first real move
was made.
The only show was to tunnel under the fence
and oome out by night. There was a guard
stationed on elevated platforms about the in
closure by day, and at night a chain ot sentinels
walking regular beats outside the fence. We
calculated on a tunnel not less than thirty feet
long, and it was begun by taking up some of
the flooring in the back end of the shanty.
Visits of inspection were held twice per week,
but there was not a day in which some official
was not liable to come poking around.
The floor of our shanty rested on sleepers
clear of the ground. We could therefore stow
away a great deal of the dirt under tho floor.
We worked only at night, and that in reliefs of
two. We first went down four feet, and then
started off on a straight line for the lencs and
beyond. We were almost at the fence before
we had to carry any of the dirt ont-doors. We
managed to scatter a quantity around our house
without exciting suspicion, and the rest had to
be accumulated during the night and carried
out in our poekete. It was slow work when we
reached that point, and on two or three differ
ent occasions we came very near being exposed
by officials dropping in on us. There were
several rainy days about the time we were un
der the fence, and lor a week our- tnnnel was
full of water. When that soakert away.we went
at our work again, and on the morning of tho
14th of May the last man to crawfish out of the
hole reported that our tunnel was well beyond
the sentinels’ boat and ready for the breaking
of tho crust.
If wo had had the making ot the weather we
could not have planned for a better night. It was
dark and misty, with every chance in our favor.
During the afternoon we drew lots to see who
should go first, and itfell to me. We had noth
ing to pack up, and •the whole six of us had only
eighty cents in money between us. It was
planned that we should separate as soon as clear
of the hole, and each was to take care of himaolf
as best ho could. That was a long afternoon, I
can tell you, and even when it wore away and
night camo we had to wait many hours yet.
Some wore for going at elevon aud others a tore
i o’clock, but we finally moved at 11:15. We
I fastened the door ot the shanty and crept into
. tho tunnel one a;ter the other, and I was soon
lat the ar end of it and digging upward. I was
, hard at thia work when I felt the ground break
through betifnd me, some one uttered a yell,
and then came the cry:
“ Corporal of the guard—Poet No. 13 !”
This was repeated several times, and pretty
soon the corporal and a couple of guards from
the relief arrived. The sentinel on the beat,
who was a big, heavy man, had broked through
into our tunnel, and, in the fall, had broken his
log. While I was held prisoner in the hole, the
others crawled back, knowing that the jig was
up. It did not take the corporal many minutes
to discover the true state ot affairs, and then I
was hauled out by the neck and made the butt
of ridicule. When escorted back to the shanty
the five men were found fast “ asleep,” but
were turned out and sent to the guard house to
keep me company. We were reduced to half
rations for thirty days, but no further punish
ment was meted out to us.
on a broaWay cab.
BY F. A. STEARNS.
{From Tid-Bits.)
Three ladies are standing at the corner of
Broadway and Eighteenth street, waiting tor a
oar. Two ot them are going up town, the other
has not finished her shopping yet. They have
been talking withontinterovssion tor three con
secutive hours, but have lots of things to say
yet before they part, and the oar is only a few
rods distant. They are blocking the way, so
that every one who crosses the street has to
walk around them, but they don't mind that.
The oar nears them, and all three m»ke frantic
gesticulations, which the driver feigns not to
see. The lollowing dialogue ensues:
No. 1—“ Why, he won’t look at us I”
No. 2—“ The mean thing 1”
No. 3—“ Well, upon my word 1”
No. 1—“ Yes, ho is going to atop. Come, Car
rie I”
No. 2 (to No. 3, who is not going to take the
oar) —“Oh, Fannie, when yon are at Gros
grain's don’t target to look at that lovely -”
Conductor— “ Step Lvely, ladies, please.”
No. 2 (continuing her remarks)—“ Dolman
that I told you about.”
No. 1—“ Oh, yes, do, Fannie I It’s perfectly
magnificent, and only two hundred dollars—
marked down, because it's so late in the sea
son, you know. Well, good by.”
No. 3—“ Good-by.” They kiss. “IsbaHcer
a inly look at it, and if I like at it I’m going to
make Will buy it for me.”
Conductor—“ Are you going up town, la
dies?"
Nos. 2 and 3 (in unison)—“Well, good-by.”
No. 1—“ And, oh ! Fan, do give my love to
your ma and tell her that just as soon as I can
I’m coming round to spend an atternoon with
her. And tell Will that— Well, upon my
word, the car has started 1”
No. 2—“ I wish I had that conductor's dum
ber. I’d have pa go down to the office and make
a complaint against him.”
No. 3—“ Never mind: here is another oar.
Good-by.”
Nos. 1 and 2—“ Good-by." Car stops.
No. 3—“ Say, Carrie, give my love to all the
folks.”
No. 2—“ Yes, I will. Good-by.”
No. 3—“ Good-by."
No. 1—“ Good-by.”
Then they get on board the car, and tho care
worn conductor wearily pulls the bell strap.
Thera are no vacant seats, but a gentleman
gets up and offers his. Then this altercation
tallows:
No. 1—“ You sit down, Carrie."
No. 2—“ No, you."
No. 1—“ No, I’m not a bit tired.”
No. 2—“ Neither am 1.”
No. 1—“ Now, Carrie, I insist 1”
No. 2—“ No, Lulu, I want you to take it.
At this point the matter is settled by a second
gentleman, who rises and offers them his seat.
They reward him, as they did the other man,
with a frigid stare, and sit down. Then the
conductor comes m for his fare. He stands on
one foot, a far-away expression in his eyes, and
listens to this dialogue. He knows Irom tong
experience that it is the regular thing on such
occasions and cannot be dispensed with.
No. I—“ Now, Carrie, yon really must let me
pay this time.”
No. 2—“ No, indeed, I sha’n’t. You paid yes
terday.”
No. 1—“ Yes, but you paid for the luncheon.”
No. 2—“ No matter, Lulu."
(Has great difficulty in opening her purse,
and by a singular coincidence so does her
friend.)
The little dialogue continues about two min
utes longer, and culminates in the sacrifice of a
dime by Lulu, to tho secret joy and outward
chagrin of Carrie.
Presently Lulu stops in the midst of an ani
mated conversation to exclaim:
“Why, he’s taken mo past my street, the
mean thing I He knows just as well as 1 do
where I want to get out. Well, good-by, dear.”
She signals the conductor to stop the oar and
he does so. But she lingers to tell Carrie about
Mamie Magruder’s trousseau, and how it didn’t
come from Worth at all, but was made at home
by Mamie’s cross-eyed aunt. The tired-look
ing conductor, to whom this sort of thing is an
old story, starts the car again. Then Lulu
kisses Carrie and makes a frantic rush for the
door, heaping reproaches upon the conductor,
who only says:
“ Cau’t stand waitin’ all day, miss.”
And when she has alighted and the car is on
its way again, he says to a sympathizing male
passenger on the rear platform:
“ Talk about biles I Job orter had a job as
hoss-car conductor, he had."
HUMOR oFtHE'hOUR.
BYTHE DETROIT FREE PRE33 FIEND.
FIBHING vs. PROHIBITION.
Joe—“ Where are you going to spend the
Summer ?”
Eli—“ I was thinking of going to Maine on a
fishing trip,”
Joe—“ Going to Maine to go fishing? Why,
man, that is a prohibition state ?”
WANTED A WINK.
“Gwino to be any cholera heah dis Summer,
boss ?” bo was asking on the market yesterday.
“ Can’t say. Are you intereated ?”
“I ar’. Ize got to move, an’ Izo got my
choice between rooms down cellar an’ rooms in
de attick. Il de cholera’s cornin’ Izo gwino up
whar’ I kin git de veutilashun. If it haiu t don
Pze gwine down cellar an' save fifty cents a
week. If you see anythin’ in do papers please
gimme de wink.”
DECIDEDLY COOL.
“Willit bo convenient to settle this bill?”
asked a collector of a business man he ap
proached.
“ Now that is what I should say was cool—
decidedly cool,” answered the merchant, as ho
ran his eye over the items.
“ Anything wrong, sir ?’’ inquired the man,
solicitously.
“ Well, it’s rather a eool affair all through,”
responded the merchant, as he paid the account.
It was an ice bill.
ON THE DOUBLE QUICK.
He was a very sleek stranger, and ho ad
dressed old Farmer Horuypalm in the very
smoothest of accents.
“ Yes, sir, I’m selling this patent right, but
only to the very best of men, and I can let you
have it on the very easiest of terms.”
“ What are they ?’’
” Why, all you have to do is sign this paper,
agreeing to pay us seventy-five per cent, of the
price received for the machines—you reserve
the remainder as commission.”
“ Do you see that gate ?” queried the farmer,
pointing to his front yard gate.
“ Oh, yes, sir ! ’
“ Wall, I’m gwine in far the ole mnskit, bnt
of you kin make that gate aginst I git back to
the door, you’ll be.purty well out o’range.”
He made it and severs: seconds to spare.
DELICATE LITERARY QUESTION.
Boston Girl No. I.—“ Is tho earth masculine
or feminine t”
Beaton Girl No. 2.—“ Why, the earth is femi
nine, of course. The Latin word terra, signify
ing earth, is leminino. The poets, when they
personify it, always allude to it as feminine.”
Boston Gjl No. I.—“ But, my dear, Coleridge
does not. Coleridge treats it aa masculine.’’
Boston Girl No. 2.—“ Preposterous 1 What
authority have you for such a statement ?”
Boston Girl No. I.—“ Why, my dear, in the
poem ’ Kubla Khan’ you remember tho follow
ing lilies occur:
" ■ And from thia chasm with ceaseless turmoil
seething.
As it tho earth in thick, fast pants were breath
ing,'etc.
“ Now, I want to know if Coleridge doesn’t,
jnst as plain as can be. represent the earth as
dressed tn male attire?”
Boston Girl No. 2.—“ He most certainly does.
Yon have made a great discovery. Let us lay
the whole matter before the Browning Club.”
SHE WENT.
“I came down here to go out on the Lansing
train,” she said to Officer Button at the Third
street depot yesterday morning, as she held a
satchel in one hand and an umbrella in the
other.
“Yes’m—train goes in thirteen minutes.”
“How are the stoves in tho o»r*
" Perfectly sate, ma’am. All the cars on that
road can roll over twice and not take fire.”
"Bridges all safe?”
“ J niirily so. The bridge inspector has just
finished his trip.”
“ Don’t the rails ever spread on that road?”
“J over.”
“How is it about collisions ?”
“They don’t have any.”
“ Any chance for some other train to run into
the rear end of ours l”
“Not a bit.”
“ Well, I don't know bnt I’ll take the risks
and go, tmt I want you to understand that if
anything does happen by which I am killed off,
my eld man won’t take a cent leas titan two
thousand dollars, and mebbs he 11 want the
barial expenses to boot.”
HAD THE CHANGE.
The other day when a Michigan avenue grocer
was in a great hurry, and his store lull of cus
tomers, ho wanted some change, and handing a
five-dollar bill to a young man who had been
asking the price of plug tobacco, sent him out
to get small money. The messenger returned
in "a few minutes and laid four dollars and a
half in sil, er on tbs counter.
“ How’s this ?” queried the grocer. “It was
a five I gave yon.”
“ Exactly.”
“ And here’s only lour and a half.”
“ I know it. The other halt is in my pocket.”
“You band it over, or I’ll have you arrested.”
“Go ahead, my friend. I’ve been right there
before, it’s simply breach o’ trust, and such
cases don’t bold water in our courts. You cau’t
oven get a warrant.”
“ You scoundrel I I’ll call an officer I”
“ And I’ll wait I”
The grocer ran out and found the patrolman
and told him the case, and was replied to with:
“I can t arrest hitn without a warrant, and I
don’t believe you can get a warrant.”
He went back to tho store to lick the placid
sharper, but the Utter pealed off and put hint
self on tho de ense. and the job was abandoned.
“ 'that ails yon,’ he said, as he prepared t»
depart, “is lack of gratitude. I could have
kept the whole five, but my conscience wouldn’t
allow it."
boyFanlTeagle.
AN ATTEMPT AT ROBBERY.
CFrom the Youth's Companion.)
In tho freah water ponda and brooks of Now
England, particularly tho middle and northern
portions, there is a fish which the Loys call •
“sucker,” and which, in some localities, attains
to a weight of three or four pounds. These
su. Iters begin to “run,” as tho saying is, just
after the ice breaks up in the Spring; and for a
time, whde the water is still cold, they offer a
substitute on the dinner table for pickerel, trout
and bass.
Hence it is tho custom of tho boys and young
mon, and sometimes tho older men, to go “suck
er ng” in tho evening—provided with birch-bark
torches and four-lined spears—and boisterous
sport often results.
Tho writer was one of the boys, who, in com
pany with another ton-year-old lad, went to one
of the “sucker brooks,” in tho town in which
we lived, one Saturday alternoon. It chanced
to be a day when tho suckers were passing up
Irom the pond into tho brook, and by blocking
up a sluice way at tho mouth of the’ brook, wo
prevented them from getting back into the pond.
Haro sport followed for an hour or two, and wa
had, to show for it, two noble strings of fish,
weighing nearly thirty pounds each.
Slinging the strings over our shoulders on
our spears, we then sot off for homo, croud as a
couple of kings.
Wo had to cross a high ridgo of pasture land.
On arriving at the summit, we wars tired w.th
our loads, and sat down on a lodge of rock to
rest. While sitting here, my companion sud
denly cried out:
“ Oh, sea them two great hon-hawks sailing
round up thero 1”
Two big birds, hawks wo thought they wero,
though they looked very largo, wore circling
slowly far up in tho sky overhead. Boy-like wi
watched them, and soon discovered that they
were approaching the ground, also that each
had a white head. On oven wing, with scarcely
the perceptible flap of a pinion, they sailed
around.
“I never saw such big hawks !” exclaimed
Jimmy. “ What do you suppose they’re sailin’
round us for ?”
“ Maybe they want our suckers,” I said.
“ Wai, I believe they do,” cried Jimmy, “ lor
I can see thoir eyes, peekin’ down at ’em I”
He had no sooner spoken, than one of the
hawks, poising for an instant, suddenly flew to
ward us, and, with a loud roar of its wings,
passed like a flash of light over our beads and
mounted into the air again. The next ins tai t
the other flew toward us, and then the first on i
again.
This continued for several moments; firs
one of the birds and then the other darted to
ward us. At each dive the bird came closer b
our heads. We grew alarmed, but were deter
mined not to lose our fish, and jumped up au(
began to brandish onr sucker spears and striki
at them as they flew at us. This show of resist
ance seemed only to exasperate the great birds
: hey swooped closer, hissing loudly as thej
passed our heads, and snapping their yellow
bills.
In striking at them wo had both got soma
paces away from our fish, when suddenly, with
a still lower dive, one of the eagles, for such
they were, seized my string iu his claws and
dragged it along the ground for a number of
rods, I, meantime, rushing after him, trying to
give him a blow, but was unable to quite reach
him.
The bird had clutched two of the fish in hia
talons, and, tearing them off the string, he rap
idly mounted into the air and sailed away with
a triumphant scream.
Hearing a clatter of stones and a loud scream
behind me, 1 turned to see Jimmy doing battle
with the other eagle, which had swooped down
upon him at the same moment that its mate as
sailed me.
Jimmy had dealt it a tremendous blow with his
spear, and knocked it down, ft stood on the
ground, with one wing trailing out, but scream
ing savagely, and evidently ready lor battle.
Without further ado we both dashed at the
robber, and beat him with our spears. But we
found our match. The big bird met us fully
halt way, screaming and jumping at us with the
ferocity of a bulldog, and every clutch of its
talons tore out great pieces from our jackets
and trousers. In less time than I havo given
to describe his att ck, we found ourselves
scratched and bleeding freely, with our jackets
and trousers in strings.
I had had quite enough ot it, and backed off
as fast as 1 could, thinking dubiously of what
mother would say when I got homo with my
torn clothes. In fact, both ot us wore whim
pering and the eagle still screaming.
Seeing me on the retreat, Jimmy turned and
ran, too. But the eagle followed him, and with
an exultant shriek, struck its claws into his
back. There it hung, screaming loudly, and
Jimmy running and crying.
My heart was in my mouth, but soeing Jim«
my’s danger, I plucked up courage and gave
chase after them. We ran down through the
rough pasture lor a hundred yards or more,
and then Jimmy cut the race short by tumbling
over a cradle knoll.
The eagle still oiling to him, flapping its
wings, but turned upon mo as I ran up. With
a swing of tho long spear handle, I struck at it
sidewise, and fortunately hit its head with tho
iron shoulder of the tines. It tumbled over,
stunned, and Jimmy jumping up, we both
threshed and pounded it to death with the
spear and the atones. 1
We then sat down and had our cry out,
stanching tho blood from our scratches —some
ot which were ugly cuts —and patching up our
clothes so that wo could look docent to go
homo.
We then got our suckoro, and I remember
that we dragged tho eagle alter us with an alder
withe. Tho folks at homo pronouncod it «
pretty large specimen ot a bald, or white-head
ed eagle; but Jimmy and I had supposed we
wore fighting a hen-hawk. The eagles wore, of
course, attracted by the smell of our jfish.
AMERICAN FABLES.
CONSIDERABLY AFTER THE PER
SIAN.
THE PEASANT AND THE ROBIN.
A Peasant, who had a Fino, Largo Cherry
Tree, loaded with Fruit, discovered that tho
Blue Birds were after tho Cherries, and ho
called the Bobins around him and said :
“Behold, the Blue Birds are Bobbing mo of s
Tenth of my Cherries. It you will Drivo them
away, it will be a Favor which shall bo Duly
Rewarded.”
The Robins Agreed, but in a day or two the
Peasant found that his Frnii was Disappearing
twice as Fast as Before, aud he brought out his
Shotgun with the Exclamation :
“Those Whom I hired to Watch tho Thieves
have Robbed me the Most I”
mohal:
Hiro a Lawyer to Help you Down the other
Heirs.
THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE BUG.
A Grasshopper and a Bug met on the King's
Highway by Chance, and the Bug, Who la
Truth was a fine-looking Insect, surveyed the
Grasshopper for a while in Disdain, and thou
Observed :
“If I had your Logs I should want to Shoot
myself I Why on Earth Nature Made you in the
Shape She did, is more titan I can Cooper."
Just than a Horse came galloping along the
Road, and the Grasshopper evaded Death only
by a quick Spring, such aa Nature designed him
to Make. The Bug, handsome in Looks but
Siow iu Movement, was Crushed to a jolly under
an iron-shod Hoof, and a Scboolma’am who
came Along just then remarked:
“ moral:
“ Never go back on a Bow-Legged man.”
THE THIEF IN COURT.
A Thiet who had been Arraigned in Court for
Stealing a Bolt of Cloth, sought to Mitigate hia
Punishment by saying:
" Your Honor should take into Consideration
the Fact that, while I could have Stolen two
Bolts, I only took one.”
“ Certainly, ’ replied the Court, “I see how it
is. There ie a Chap here who stole two Watches
when ho needn’t have taken but one, and I’M
make your sentences alike.”
mohai. :
Don’t Monkey with tho Law.
Beauty
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