New York dispatch. [volume], May 01, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
tier own bitterness to watch and add fuel to
tie.
“ Oh, ha han been staying in the same house
in London, and he got her invited here,” she
Baid.
He drew a long breath, and hie nostrils ex
panded, juat like a wild animal's.
“ And yon are mean enough to sit by and per
mit it,” ho eaid. “If you had no thought ior
me, one would think you would have had some
for yourselt. Ho is engaged to vou.”
She laughed—the soft, scornful laugh that
always maddened him.
“My dear Seymour, you amuse ma 1 What
does it mutter to mo whom poor Lord Guy flirts
with ? So long as he marries rao he may amuse
himself with any number ot girls. You take
things too seriously. I suppose you are still in
love with that pale-laced chit? Really, it is too
absurd I”
“ And you,” ho said, growing whiter, “are
incapable of love I”
“Thanks. Perhaps I am. If so, I ought to
be grateful, seeing that 1 might make as great
an idiot of myseli as you are doing. lor good
ness’ sake don't scowl at him; he is’quite capa
ble ot coming over and pitching you into the
fireplace,” and she laughed.
He breathed hard and clenched his hands.
“ Curse him I” ho hissed between his teeth.
•* Ourse him as much as you like, but don’t
lot him hear you,” she retorted, pleasantly.
“ Pshaw 1 be patient, my dear Seymour. Only
a week or two and I shall be Lady Kendale. It
it will commi t you, 1 promise you that he shall
not have many opportunities of flirting With
your I orr e atimer.”
“ And this is why she wanted to go and live
With that old hag —‘to be all alone.’ i'es !—left
alone to the society of that—that -ruffian I”
As if he were unable to control himself any
longer, he rose and walked across the room to
ward Guy. Diana watched him with a soft
smile. A storm of malousy and spite was raging
in her bosom, and, like a tigress, she would
have enjoyed the spectacle of these two men
tearing each other to pieces.
Guy raised his bead as Seymour Melford ap
proached, and the two men looked at each other
steadily.
“ I have to thank you, Lord Kendale, for your
kind attention to Miss Latimer during my
absence,” said Seymour Melford, his eyes glit
tering, his thin lips closed into a hard, sinister
Smile.
Do you mean because I was fortunate
enough to be near at hand and catch her when
your sudden and unexpected appearance caused
her to swoon ?” said Guy, with quite as ugly a
smile.
“ Yes, and to your efforts to amuse her at
Lady Collop’s I” said Seymour, scarcely know
ing what he said.
Guy stared at him, then shrugged his shoul
ders.
“ Miss Latimer and I are old friends,” he said
carelessly.
“Yes.” pnrred Seymour, “and you will be
almost brother and sister, will you not, when
elie and 1, and you and Diana are married ?”
Guy winced, and his brows contracted.
“Exactly,” he said, “ when those interesting
events take piece.”
“ Do you mean to suggest that they may not
take place ?” asked Seymour, still smiling.
“ Who knows what may happen?” returned
Guy, almost mad with the longing to seize him
end hurl him, smile and all, out of the win
dow.
“Then there is a doubt?” said Seymour Mel
ford sweetly. “On which side is it ? Not on
yours, lam sure. Any obstacle Fate should
put in the way ot your marriage with Diana
now would bo too great a misfortune, would it
not?" and the smile grew into a sneer.
Guy thrust bis hands still deeper in his pock
ets, so that they might be less uniree and more
under his control, and his face wont white. He
understood the taunt conveyed in the seeming
ly innocent words. He knew that the break
ing off oi the match with Diana would mean
ruin to Latch m.
“A very great misfortune,” he said; then, in
a lower voice, and with an ominous light flash
ing in his eyes, “ Mr. Melford, do you intend to
bo offensive ?”
Seymour Meltord gave an affected little start.
“Offensive I” he echoed, with a laugh. “ What
can you mean ? Surely you did not take my lit
tle pleasantry seriously ? Oh ! lam quite con
vinced of your devotion to my sister, er be sure
I shouldn’t jeet about it 1”
“ No, I suppose not,” said Guy grimly. “ But
I don’t mean to be offensive when 1 tell you that
I am not in the humor lor jesting this evening,”
and he turned on bis heel. •
Seymour Mel ora went back to the sofa, pant
ing with suppressed fury.
“ Well,” said Diana, in a low, mocking voice.
“Is it all arranged ? Are you going to fight
With swords or pistols ?”
“ Heavens, if it were only possible I” he
ground out.
“ But as it isn’t, you had bettor agree to hate
each pther in the ordinary polite and harmless
manner,” she retorted.l am going to my
room now. You can come and say what you
want to me up there.”
“ Good,” he replied. “ I will go and get a oi
gar, and cool myself,” and he passed his hot
hand over his loreliead, upon which great drops
Of perspiration bad gathered.
She rose languidly and crossed the room.
“ Good night, Guy,” she said, raising her face
to his. “How bored and ill-tempered you look.
Lorrie isn’t really ill, you know; she will be all
right to-morrow. Don’t upset yourself more
than you can help.”
His face flushed, then went pale again, and
- ha stooped and touched her cold lorebead with
his lips, from which he crushed back the retort
that sprang to them; for was he not bound hand
and foot, and helpless I
As ho went up the stairs to the earl’s room ho
passed Lorrie’s door, and for a moment he
paused and stretched out his hands yearningly
toward the senseless door, and her name trem
bled on his lips.
Heaven I how hard and cruel had Fate been
to them both !—not only to him, but to her; for
ho had read in the swift look with which she
had greeted Seymour Moliord not only surprise,
but fear and dislike.
Even now it was not too late, The fatal words
which would malto him Diana’s husband, and
her Seymour Melford'a wife, had not been
spoken ; but hew could he break his promise ?
—how- could ho lay Latcbam in ruins, and
bring his father’s gray hairs in sorrow to the
grave ?
With a deep eigh ho opened the door of the
earl a room and entered,
The earl was seated before the fire wrapped
in his dressing-gown, which the valet—for
whom Lady Farnham had sent—had brought
Over with him. He looked up as Guy came in,
but said nothing, and Guy went and leaned
against Hie mantel-shelf, and both were silent
for a moment or two.
Then the earl raised his head, and in a low,
mournful voice, which quivered with emotion,
said :
“ Guy, I am a wretched man.”
Guy started and looked down at him.
“ Why do you say that, sir ?”
“ Because I am too wretched to keep my mis
ery to myself. Guy I I have seen to-night how
it is with you.”
A faint flush camo and faded upon Guy’s
face.
“ I have seen how it is with you and—l am
frightened.”
“Frightened, sir?”
“ Yes, frightened,” repeated the old man with
solemn melancholy. “I had thought that
things were working well with us-that you had
forgotten the past and were contented and hap
py with the prospect of the future. But—but
to-night the vail has been torn aside, and 1 see
it all I Guy, you love that little girl still! Can
you deny it ?”
Guy s face went white, and he bit bis lip.
“ Why do you torture me, sir ?” he said bit
terly.
Tlio earl put up his hand appealingly.
“ 1 did not mean to bo cruel, Guy 1 Heaven
forbid ! Ab, thcro was no need to answer my
question. 1 read the truth in your lace when
it turned to her ; your voice, every time you
spoke to her to-night. Oh, Guy 1 what is to be
done ?’’
Guy remained silent.
“ And she, too—she loves you 1” said the old
man, bis voice low and broken.
“ Oh, say no more, sir, for Heaven’s sake 1”
exclaimed Guy, hoarsely. “Of what uiso is all
this ? What is done cannot be undone I We
are divided, poles asunder ; of what use can all
this be r”
The earl raised his head and looked at him, a
glance oi infinite piry and sorrow.
" Guy,” he said with a quiet air of resolution,
“it is not yet too late I You are divided, and it I
is I who did it I 1! I did it for the best, I call
Heaven to witness ; not for my own good alone,
but lor you, tor Latcbam’s 1 But—but I had
not seen her then.” He turned a moment, and
his bead sank again. “ I had not seen her then.
Oh, Guy, what charm has the girl wrought to
bewitch me so thoroughly ’ I cannot get her
sweet, pale lace out of my mind. It haunts me.
‘My first thought should be of you and your wel
fare ; but it is not! It is of her 1 think I Guy,
her heart is breaking I”
Guy moved so that his face was in the
ehadow.
“ Breaking 1 I know the look too well to be
deceived. And I have done it 1 My boy”—and
his voice grew tender and full of remorse—“it
must not be. I take back all I have said ; I
will undo all I have done 1 You shall go to
her——”
Guy broke in with a harsh laugh.
“That would do no good 1” he said. “Ahl
you do not know her. She has given her prom
ise to that-that man, and she will keep it,
though her heart is breaking, as you say.”
“ I will go to her.” said the earl, with simple
dignity. “ She will listen to an old man who
has wronged her, and comes with humility and
remorse to make reparation——”
“Too late I” said Guy grimly. “You forget,
sir, that I, too, am fettered. I have given my
word, and a Latcbam does not break his prom
ise lightly. You think—l think only of Lorrie,
but Diana——'
The old man bowed his head.
“What have I done, Guy?” he murmured,
almost inaudibly.
“ You have acted according to your lights,”
said Guy, slowly, solemnly. “It is too late
now, sir, to hark back. Neither her heart nor
mine will break; we cannot suffer more than we
have, 1 think,’ he added simply; “ and, at
least, Latcbam will be saved.”
As be spoke he passed his hand across his
face swiftly, but not so swiftly as to conceal the
misery which shone darkly in his eyes.
The old man saw it, and rose with quiet,
patrician diunity.
“No I” he said, and low as he spoke, his
words seemed to ring like the tones of a great
muffled bell. “No I it is not to late. Latcbam
shall not be saved by your destruction I No
good can come of such a marriage as vours and
Diana’s, and it shall not be. My hand made the
match, and mine shall break it. I will go to her
and toll her the truth; I wdl humble myself be
fore her, and gain your freedom. Do not speak!
Every moment since I knew the truth my
resolution has been growing stronger. I will
not go to my grave bearing the weight of your
ruined life. What is Latoham, what is all the
world to me compared with your happiness ? I
thought differently awhile aeo, but my eyes are
opened now. You shall marry the girl you love,
Guy!”
Guy stood silent ior a moment, then he gent
ly forced the old man into his chair again.
“Too late, sir 1 ” he said hoarsely “My word,
my honor is pledged. I shall marry Diana Mel
ford.”
As he spoke the window adjoining theirs was
opened, and the sound ot voices came distinctly
on their earg.
Both men looked toward the heavily-curtained
window and listened unconsciously.
“ Are yon going to faint, now ?”
It was Seymour Meliord’s voice, hard and
metallic, with a bitter, sneering tone, and
Diana’s retorted as bitterly:
“ No! Why did you toll mo with much
brutal suddenness ? Leave the window open—
I feel suffocating I When did you know this,
and how?”
“Yesterday,” replied Seymour. “I went
into his office to fetch a letter His private ac
count book was open on his desk—lo t there by
accident; he has been drinking heavily for the
last month—and
“ You examined it?” she said.
“I examined it,” he assented, doggedly.
“The items roused my suspicions. 1 opened
the sate, and got out his papers, and was not
long in arriving at the truth. The great Mr.
Melford—the successful financier and million
aire—is a fraud I He has been on the brink ot
ruin for years—he is ruined utterly and irrevo
cably.
The earl started and rose from his chair, but
Guy laid his hand upon his arm and motioned
him to be sdent.
“ We are listening, Guy I” said the old man,
in an agouy.
Guy nodded.
“ When a rogue plots, honest men may listen
—and still be honest I” he said, sternly.
Diana uttered an exclamation of rage and
despair.
“Are you sure? Sure I— quite sure?” she
kissed between her teeth.
“ 1 am quite sure,” he returned, coldly, as if
enjoying the effect he had produced.
“ And it has been going on for years ?”
“For years. Not one of the recent contracts
have been profitable, though the public have
believed that he was making thousands, and
were eager to lend him the money he has bor
rowed, and which has kept him afloat. The last
contract in Francs has been more disastrous
than the others, and it is the last straw.
" But you -you have feathered your nest I”
she said, with a sneer.
He laughed bitterly.
“ You are mistaken. I was a rich man, as
men go ; but he has deceived me—even me I—
yes, he has deceived me as he has deceived
others. Under one pretense and another he
baa borrowed ol me just as lie borrowed of the
public.” He laughed. “ I ought to have had
my eyes opened, but—l didn’t, you see,”
“Then—then you are ruined, too?”
“Utterly,” he said. “I have lost all my
money.”
“ And Lorrie Latimer, too !” she said, with a
cruel laugh.
He uttered an oath.
“Lest Lorrie I No! I have her still! What,
de you think I would let her go? Do you think
I would bear it all like this if I bad lost her ?
No, no! The money—what do I care for it? I
am young and still have my brains. The world
lies before mo, and with her ” —he drew a long
breath—“ with her I could lace poverty all the
rest ef my life.”
“You are a fool 1” she hissed. “ Brains 1 and
you talk of saddling yourself with a penniless
wife! Let her go, and marry money—you are
young still ”
“bilence 1” he said with another oath. “Y’ou
—you drive me mad 1 I tell you I love her—l
toll you—bah 1 You do not understand. You,
with your heart of stone and iron. Leave her
and me alone. We shall not trouble you. But
you, what do you mean to do? Will you marry
that fellow now that you have lost the power ot
keeping their rotten house from falling about
their ears ?”
There was silence ior a moment. Guy’s grasp
on the earl’s arm became like a clasp 01 steel as
they waited for the answer.
It came with a low, mocking laugh.
“ Will I marry him still ? Yes, I think so.”
“Then you love him 1” he said, in a tone of
cold surprise.
She laughed again, this time with scornful
contempt.
“ Love him ! Love a man who is in love with
another woman I Do you take me for a fool ?
I have never been very sweet upon him, my
dear Seymour, but lately, I think—that—l
have hated him 1 Let me ’think. ’ There woe
silence for a moment; the earl sank back in his
chair and hid his face in his hands, but Guy
stood like an image carved in stone. “Yes,
Seymour, 1 will marry him There will be,
there must be something left out of the wreck
of Latcbam, and that will be better than nothing
Beside, I shall be Lady Kendale; I shall be the
Countess ot Latcbam before long; the old man
is breaking fast.” She laughed a soft laugh of
evil, malicious enjoyment. “By hook or by
crook, the marriage must be hastened; ha must
not know what has happened till it is too late.
Seymour ’’—she paused and drew a long breath
—“you asked me to-night how I could be so
mean as to let those two carry on under my very
eyes ? You thought I did not mind it. If you
knew how I have chafed and maddened under
it. But I shall have my revenge now. He will
marry me for my money, will ho ? Marry me
to save bis name and his house ’ Seymour, I
shall have my revenge, don’t you think, when
I can say to him, ‘ You have married the daugh
ter ot a swindler, and you haven’t saved your
precious house after all.’ ”
Seymour Melford laughed a low, sinister
laugh.
“Good!” he said. “Good! Diana, I am
proud of you. Yes, that will be best. There
will be something out of the wreck, and you will
be a countess. Nothing can rob you of your
title. Yes, you are right; you shall marry him;
the wedding shall be hastened. I will keep
things afloat until then. What money have
you ?”
“ I don’t know. There is some at the bank,
I think. You shall have it; and there are my
jewels. He has given me some handsome
presents—take them.”
They heard her cross the room, then Sey
mour’s voice again.
“ Thanks. I can trust you Diana. You have
proved yourself sterling metal to-night. Can
yon keep it up ?”
She laughed.
“ You will see. Seymour, the thought of my
revenge almost reconciles me to the loss of our
money. If you would only throw over that
pale-faced Latimor girl "
“No more of that,” he said, angrily; “ once
more I toll yon that the thought of her consoles
me for all that I have lost. Our marriage, like
yours, must be hurried on. Once she is mine,
I can face the world fearlessly. It is the thought
of losing her which drives me mad—mad. You
do not understand ”
“ No,” she said, contemptuously. “ What is
there in her that makes fools of both you and
Guy
“ Silence 1” he said, furiously. “ You shall
not mention her name in connection with his.
Oh. my darling ! my darling 1”
She laughed scornfully.
“ You had better go if you are going to rhap
sodize,” she said, sneeringly. “It is not
for her sake that 1 advise you to drop her. I
shall enjoy her dismay when she finds that the
man she has been scheming for is not the son of
a millionaire, but of a swindling bankrupt I”
“ Scheming for 1” he repeated furiously. “It
is I who have schemed for her I Ah, vou don’t
know all, Diana; all I have waded through to
win her. How I got the father into my toils,
and bound her hand and foot to mo 1 How I—
but no, you do not understand! You have no
heart ”
“ No,” she assented scornfully; “ I have only
a great thirsty longing ior revenge, and having
got that—and my countess-ship—l shall be con
tent You had better go now. I want to be
alone to think. Oh, I can see that old man’s—
the earl's -face, and my Lord Guy’s, when they
learn the truth 1 Latcbam brought to the ham
mer, and the heir married to a bankrupt’s
daughter I Seymour, I wouldn’t exchange my
prospect lor yours, though I don’t possess a
heart! You make take your Lorrie Latimer,
but give me my coronet and my.revenge 1 Good
night 1 Close the window now.”
The earl and Guy heard Seymour close the
window, and a moment or two afterward stood
listening to his footsteps as he went along the
corridor to his room. Then the earl groaned,
and rose totteringly.
“Latoham 1 Latcbam is gone 1” he murmur
ed, forgetting that in pleading tor Lorrie he had
been reconciled to his loss.
“Yes,” said Guy hoarsely; “Latcbam is
gons I”
“But you are saved I” cried the old man, and
he put his arms round Guy’s neck.
CHAPTER XXIX.
“MISS MELFORD I COME TO OFFER YOU YOUR
FREEDOM.”
All night the god of dreams hovered about
Lorna's pillow. Lady Farnham had told her to
go to sleep, and she had obeyed; but through
her sleep the dreams came thick and fast, as tail
ing leaves in Vallambrosa.” At one time she
was sitting on the old rectory wall, listening to
Guy; and once more she was watching Gypsy
sailing over the course with Guy; always Guy,
in the very forefront of her vision. Then Sey
mour Meltord would rise, and stepping in be
tween them with his insidious smile, would
stretch out his arms as if to embrace her, and
always at this part of her dreams she would
wake with a shudder and a faint cry of tear and
horror.
l ong before the dressing boll rang she woke,
and realised her position. Seymour Melford
had come 1 Her tyrant and master had arrived
to remind her that she still belonged to him,
doubtless to exact the lullilment ot the bargain
which, for the dead lather’s sake, she had made
with him.
She dressed slowly, and, with the desire for
solitude which the unhappy always experience,
she went downstairs and into the garden.
The morning sun was bringing the sweetness
out of the flowers, the birds were singing blithe
ly on the trees, all nature seemed reioicing in
the glad springtide, an.l w.th a longing to get
away Irani the house which contained the man
she had promised to marry, she wandered on
NEW YORK DISPATCH, MAY 1 1887.
beyond the wide stretching lawn to where, in a
little cluster ot oaks, the keeper’s lodge stood.
Then she heard the clanging of the breakfast
bell, and with a sigh was turning back, whan
she heard a step behind her and saw the man
she detested close upon her.
“ I saw you from the terrace, dearest,” he
said, taking her hand. “ Are you better '?” and
he scanned her face anxiously.
“ Yes, yes,” said Lorrie. “I am quite well;
it—it was nothing. The room wis hot '.”
“ And I came upon you too suddenly I” he
put in. “It was stupid and thoughtless of me 1
You look pale still, dearest! Will you not take
my arm ? ’
She declined with a gesture.
“ Let us sit down for a minute or two,” he
said. “It is so long since I saw you, and I
seem to have so much to say.”
“ The breakfast bell has rung I” she said, but
she sat down on a rustic seat under the trees.
“ The breakfast will wait,” lie returned.
“Lorrie. can you not guess why I have come ?”
“ No,” she replied faintly, her eyes fixed on
the ground.
“Because I could not stay away from you any
longer, dearest,” be went on. “I seem to hive
been separated from you for years, and-and 1
could not endure it any longer. Lorrie, have
some pity on ma; think what I have suffered !
You wore so nearly my wife -to have the cup ot
bliss dashed from my lips, and then to have to
go away from yon and stay away so long—so
long! Dearest, you will not keep ma in suspense
any longer, you will be my wie soon, Lorrie?”
She turned white to the lips and glanced at
her black dress.
“ It is such a short time since —since he died,”
she breathed almost inaudibly.
His face darkened.
“Four moths ago I” he expostulated. “Ah,
Lorrie, think oi the living as wrll as the dead I
If you knew what this delay cost me-it you
knew how ardently I long to call you mine, my
very own.”
“ Give me a little longer,” she pleaded. “ A
month? ’
“ No, dearest,” ho said, aad his thin lips
tightened. “ Not a mouth ! I cannot, Lorrie 1
I may have to leave England again in less than
a month, but I cannot go without you I Why
should you refuse ? Is there any reason ? Is it
because you wish to draw back ? To break
your word—solemn as an oath ?”
Her lips quivered, but she forced them to
form the words, “ No, I will not break my
word !”
“My darling 1 I knew you would not 1 I knew
I could trust you," be exclaimed, taking her
hand, and raising it to his lips. “ You will marry
me betore the end ol the month, dearest ? And
we will go away together, man and wife.”
“1 will do as you wish,” she murmured
faintly.
A flash oi triumph and satisfaction rose to his
face.
“Now you shall go to breakfast,” he said,
with a smile. “Gomel" and he offered her his
arm.
Lorrie drew back slightly.
“ I—l think I would like to stay hero a little
longer,” she said, in a low voice. “ i want to
think over this. No”—for his face darkened—
“ I will do as you wish, I will obey you—”
“ Obey I That is a hard word to use, dearest.”
“ Leave me a little while,” she pleaded; and
he went slowly and reluctantly.
Lorrie sat staring betore her. It was as she
had dreaded; he had come to exact his part of
the bargain. Her father's death had saved her
four months age, but wiiat would save her now?
Nothing, nothing I
With a long -sigh she rose listlessly to go
back to the bouse, when she saw standing be
hind the seat from which she had risen no other
than her patient of the hospital, Mr. Leverick.
She was nervous and over-strung, and she
started and clutched the back ot the seat as she
pronounced his name.
The man stood in a meek and humble atti
tude, with bent head. He was much worn, and
the clothes hung upon his emaciated Irame as if
he had shrunk within them. He etook looking
at her with a dog-like air of devotion in his
sunken eyes, waiting for her to address him,
and shuffling his hands together over his stick,
upon which he leaned in a week, nervous
fashion.
Lorrie smiled at him reassuringly.
“is it really you, Mr. Leverick ?” she said;
“you surprised me. How did you come here ?”
“ Yes, it’s me, miss,” he said in his feeble,
husky voice. “ I—l—hope you ain’t angry,
miss.”
“ Angry ?— of course I am not 1” said Lorrie
encouragingly. “ But how did you come here,
of all places in the world ?”
“They discharged me from the hospital,
miss,” he said, “ and they gave me the money
you left for me.” He stopped and looked at her
tearfully. “ 1 want to thank you, miss, for all
your goodness, but I can’t—l can’t 1 I haven’t
got words 1” and his hands moved restlessly.
“ Oh, you have thanked mo already in the
nicest manner possible 1” said Lorrie. “Won’t
you sit down, lam atraid you are still weak.
Were you wise to leave the hospital so soon, do
you think?” she added, looking at his haggard
face and the unnatural brightness of his sunken
eyes.
“ Yes, miss, they said I could go,” ha replied.
“ I—l went to your house in London to tell you
and thank you, and they said you had gone
down here; they gave mo the address.”
“ And you came all this way to thank me 1”
exclaimed Lorrie touched by such gratitude.
His eyes sank be ore her gaze, and the old
cunning look came into them.
■‘ They said I was to go into the country, miss
—that you had leit the money for me te go, and
—and 1 thought I would come here. It was as
good as any other place, and I thought I might
happen to see you.”
“Oh!” said Lorrie. “Well, lam very glad
to see you, Mr. Leverick; and you are sure you
are stronger? Where are you staying here?
You mnst let me come and Seo you. Lady Col
lop will be glad to see you, too.”
“Thank you, miss, thank you,” ho said. “I
got a night’s lodging at the inn in the village—
the‘Latcbam Arms’; but don’t come and see
me, miss, please,” he said.
“No ?” said l orrie. “ Why should we not ?”
He looked up with a shifty glance.
“Because 1 don’t want anybody but you to
know that I’m here, miss, please,” he said.
“Why not? Are you afraid of any one?”
Lorrie asked. “Surely there is no one you
have anything to fear from. Oh, I forgot, you
told me that you have an enemy; he is not aay
where near here, Mr. Leverick?”
“ Yes, he is,” he said slowly and reluctantly.
Lorrie looked at him with a suspicion that his
mind had been weakened by the accident.
“ Well, I will tell no one that you are at Lat
cham, as you do not wish it, Mr. Leverick; and
is there anything else I can do for you ?”
“Nothing, nothing, miss,” he said huskily.
“You have done too much already—more, a
great deal, than I deserve. I’ll go now, miss,”
he added, in the awkward, embarrassed manner
of his class.
•‘ Good-by, Mr. Leverick,” said Lorrie. “ You
must let me hear how you get on, and mind, if
you want anything—any money or anything—
you must let Lady Oollop or mo know.”
“Thank you, miss,” he muttered; “but I’ve
got the money you left for me, and it will last
as long as I shall want it,” then touching his
hat, he turned to go, but hesitated and looked
back.
“ Would you mind telling mo, miss, if Lord
Kendale is stopping here?”
Lorrie’s face grew crimson, and to her annoy
ance she saw that the man e sharp eyes had no
ticed it.
“Yes,” she said ; “ Lord Kendall is stopping
here at Lady Farnham’s. May I not tell him
that you are well enough to leave the hospital ?
Ho will be glad to hear it.”
“ I know that, miss ; I know his kind heart;
but, no, don’t tell him, or any one, please.
Good-morning, miss, and Heaven bless you.”
His manner was so strange that Lorrie stood
a moment looking after him. Presently it
occurred to her that ho bad appeared near her
very suddenly, and that ebe had not heard him
approaching. Had he been in hiding near her
and Seymour Melford, and overheard their con
versation ?
Still thinking of the man and his strange
manner, she went back to the house.
A tall figure was pacing up and down the
terrace, and her heart leaped, as it always did
when she saw Guy.
Thinking to avoid him, she went up some
side steps instead of the centre ones, but he
saw her, and came toward her ; and stretching
out both hands, seemed about to utter an ex
clamation, his eyes glowing with a strange look
of gladness, but checked himself.
“Are you better?” ho said, holding her
hands, and looking at her with this new, strange
look radiant in his face. “ Oh, Lorrie I
Lorrie 1”
“ What is the matter ?” she asked, almost
frightened at his tone.
Nothing, nothing,” he answered. “ That is,
I cannot tell you yet.”
She drew her hands away from his, and
looked at him with troubled questioning.
“ You cannot toll me ? What is it ?” she
said.
“ No, not yet. But, Lorrie, if you knew the
weight that has been lilted from my heart—
there, I dare not say any more, even to you.
Go in to breakfast, and—and bear with me.”
Full ot a feeling that would have been fore
boding but for his looks and his words, she
passed into the house.
As she did so Diana swept into the room.
Her proud, beautiful face looked rather paler
than usual, but she smiled round and kissed
Lady Farnham with her usual self-possession
and serenity.
“ Better, Lorrie ?” she said, carelessly, nod
ding to her. “ The room must have been very
hot, dear Lady Farnham, for I got a headache
that kept me awake. Where is Guy ?”
“Ho has had his breakfast,” said Lady Farn
ham. “Ho was on the terrace a moment or
two ago.”
“The inevitable cigar, I suppose?” said
Diana languidly. “ I wonder what would hap
pen to the male portion of the human race
if tobacco were prohibited ? Where is my
brother?”
“ Here, to answer for himself,” said Seymour
entering, and he went and seated himself beside
Lorrie.
It was not a very lively meal, notwithstand
ing that Seymour Melford and Diana kept
talking.
Guy's strange words were ringing in Lorrie’s
ears, and she sat silent. Lady Farnham and
Lady Collop were busy with their letters, but
once or twice Lorrie caught Lady Farnham’s
glance resting upon her with a singular look ot
tenderness and, as it seemed to her, pity.
Lorrie rose and left the room in a very little
while, and Diana and Seymour drew apart to
the window.
“ It is all right,” he said in an undertone.
“ She has promised to marry me before the end
of the month. I can sUve off the buret up &s
long as that, T think.”
“ She. she ! always she !” murmurtW Diana
spitefully. “What of my marriage ? You are
thinking very I ttle of my welfare, I expect.”
He looked round before replying.
“ You are unjust; 1 have not forgotten your
welfare. This morning I intend writing to
father, telling him to write to the earl and ask
that the marriage may take place at once, as he
is leaving England. We stand on a volcano,
but all will yet be well for both of us it we play
our game carefully and steadily.”
Almost as he spoke the door opened, and Guy
entered.
Diana turned and .looked at him, and in an
instant gleaned from liis face a warning ot what
was coming. Seymour, too, read the signs of
the approaching ‘storm in the stern fixed gaze
which he bent upon them from his dark eyes.
Instinctively the two plotters drew closer
together, but Diana smiled serenely still, and
Seymours lips were twisted into a forced amia
bility.
“Mr. Melford,” said Guy, “I came to speak
to your sister, but I am glad that you aro pres
ent, lor, as her nearest relative, what I have to
say concerns you as well as her.”
“What on earth is the matter?” said Diana,
with a forced laugh. “ One would think you
had come to announce a death, Guy* you look
so tragic.’’
“ I feel tragio,” he said, in a low voice.
“Miss Melford, I look to you to make my task
as light as possible. I have come to offer you
youf freedom from the engagement between
us.”
She never moved, but Seymour started and
turned crimson.
“What!” he exclaimed. “You—you mean to
break your promise to my sister?”
“1 have come to offer her an escape from
hers,” said Guy, calmly, though his heart was
beating furiously. He was willing still to say
nothing of the conversation he had overheard
on the preceding night, was willing to hide and
cover up their treachery, if they would have
it so.
He waited a moment, then he said :
“ Have you nothing to say, Diana ?”
She drew a long breath, and her teeth
clenched.
“What oan I, a woman, say to such an in
sult?” she breathed.
“It is no insult!” 1< returned, his eyes flash
ing, his lips quivering under the effort at self
control. “ I offer you your freedom 1 Here, in
the presence of yoSr brother, 1 beg you to break
the engagement between us, to break it here and
now, and without a word more than is absolutely
necessary.
She drew herself up.
“it is well that you do so in the presence of a
man 1” she said. “ I leave him to protect and
avenge me !” and she made a movement as if to
leave the room.
Seymour stood silent and motionless for a
moment, then he said :
“Stay, Diana I Perhaps Lord Kendale will
be so gracious as to condescend to give us an
explanation of this declaration. I imagine that
it is not usual for men, even in his exalted class,
to break a solemn contract without a word of
reason.”
“ I ask you—for your own sakes—not to press
me I” said Guy, gravely. “ Let us part here and
now, without another word. Do not ask my
reason I”
Diana burst into a scornful laugh.
“ You are right, my lord,” she said. “It is
not necessary. We know your reasons well
enough. You find it impossible to marry one
woman while you are in lovo with another.
Seymour, the ge//tiejnan who has been so good
as to offer to make me his wife, is jilting me in
this fashion ior the sake of the worthless girl
who has promised to be your wife ! Thank
Lorrie Latimor for this, and Lorrie Latimer
alone I”
Seymour’s face went livid, and he made a
step forward ; but Guy held up his hand warn
ingly.
“ Stay where you are, Mr. Melford,” he said,
in a low voice. “Y«ou and I can talk with
greater freedom when there is no lady pres
ent.”
Then he turned to Diana.
•’ Will you not lot the matter end here?” he
said, gravoly; “for your own sake I ask you to
do so.”
“No I Coward 1” she hissed. “Consent to
be cast aside like a worn-out glove 1 All the
world shall know what kind of man Lord Ken
dale of Latcham is, and how ho treats the wo
man who has been weak enough to plight her
self to him 1”
“Good!” he said, and his lips set sternly.
“ Now listen to me, both of you. As there is a
sun in Heaven, I would have kept my promise ;
yes, though I lost every hope of happiness in
do ng so. You sneer, Mr. Meltord I—l under
stand and appreciate that sneer 1 You want to
say that I should have kept it because of the
money that would have saved Latcham. I don’t
expect that you will believe mo when I tell you
that I thought more of my honor even than the
ruin of my house. I would have kept my word
at any, at all costs, believing that your sister
still cared for me ; but/’—he paused and looked
at Diana steadily— 0 Miss Melford, my father's
room adjoins yours ; I was with him last night,
and heard every word that passed between you
and your brother,”
Diana shrank back, and an oath burst from
Seymour's white lips.
“You—you curl” he gasped; “you desert
her because we are ruined—because she ca-nnot
bring you the money for which you sold your
self I”
The veins in Guy’s forehead swelled like
whipcord, but he controlled himself still.
“No!” he said, sternly; “that is false, and
you know it 1 I tell you we hoard all— all !
Heaven I” he burst forth, in a different voice,
turning to Diana, “do you force me to remind
you ot the shameless, unwomanly words you
used? Do you force me to say that I reuse
the hand of the woman who marries me not for
love’s sake, but for that of hate and revenge !”
She shrank back, overwhelmed by his dark
eyes and passionate words, and as if the mask
wore torn from his face and be was rendered
desperate, Seymour Melford, uttering a low cry
like that of a tiger, sprang upon him with
clenched fist.
But Guy had been watching him closely, and,
stepping back, seized the threatening arm
With the shriek and fury of a wild animal, Sey
mour wrenched it free, and the next instant the
two men were locked in the close embrace of a
deadly hate.
For once, Diana lost her presence of mind,
and ran toward tbs door with an awful scream.
Footsteps were heard in the hall, and before
she could reach the door it was thrown open,
and a crowd, as it seemod, rushed in !
(To bo Continued.)
tubnwihFtables.
A Tale of the Late Unpleasantness, by
Corp. Jackson.
(From the Detroit Dree PresS>)
In the month of October, 1862, Brownsville,
Mo.,was hold by a detachment of the Thirteenth
Illinois Cavalry, numbering 180 men, under
command of Lieut. Col. Hartman. I was at that
time A corporal,serving in this detachment, and
one day received orders from the captain of my
company to take a man and make a long ride to
a neighborhood where the captain had pur
chased a horse two weeks previously. The ani
mal left us one night, and the presumption was
that he had returned to hie old home. I took
with me Private Walker, aresidentof Marshall,
Mich. While we knew the country to be infest
ed with guerilla bands and bushwhackers, we
were well mounted and intended to keep our
eyes open.
No incident worthy of note happened during
our ride of some miles to the farm house where
we expected to find the horse. Greatly to our
chagrin he had not returned, and after a rest
we headed back for Brownsville. It was late in
the aiternoon when we reached a piece of pjne
woods about four miles from the town. Feeling
perfectly site now, we were keeping no watch
at all, and I was sitting my saddle woman fash
ion, when a man rose up on either aide of a big
pine tree just off the narrow highway and com
manded a halt. They had shotguns, and the
guns were leveled full at us. We had a picket
of loyal Missourians out on this road, and sup
posing we had run up against them I replied to
their commands with:
“Oh ! I guess this is all right. I guess we
don’t halt.”
“ I rayther guess yon do 1” came a voice from
the opposite side, and I looked around to find
that we were covered by a dozen shotguns from
the brush. The order came to throw up our
hands and dismount, and we stepped down end
out with the knowledge that we had fallen into
a trap. We were at once conducted from tho
road through the woods to a field three-quarters
of a mile away. Here we found enough other
rebels to make the total number of the party
about ninety. They were a rough-looking sot,
all armed with shotguns and revolvers, end all,
or nearly all, dressed as citizens. We were at
once told to “peel off” whatever our captors
fancied. They took our caps, coats, vests,
boots, and a little later on, our pantaloons. In
place of the pair taken from me, I was given a
pair of “nigger” overalls large enough tor a
man weighing 250 pounds. I was a boy of
eighteen, weighing abovt 130 pounds, and the
way those overalls “overcame ” me, made doz
ens of the rebels hold their sides with laughter.
My companion was no more fortunate, and I
think the only reason they did not take our
army shirts was because they feared that no
one could get into them. The leader ordered
me into his presence after a bit and said :
“Now, young man, don’t you dare to tell me
anything but the truth. How large is the force
in Brownsville ?”
“ Nirfe hundred mon,” was the prompt reply.
“ Any artillery ?”
“Four pieces.”
As a matter of fact, we had only the number
of men I have given, and no artillery at all, but
I felt like getting even with the band for rob
bing us. I believed, also, that they designed
dashing into the town, and was morally certain
that they would catch our men napping and
gobble the whole command. I spoke up so
readily that my statements carried conviction.
Orders were issued to saddle up and move,
and we went into camp at a spot two miles dis
tant and half a mile off the road.
When evening came the air grew chilly, and
as the two of us lay down near one of the camp
fires, a ragged old bed-quilt was thrown us to
help keep the cold off. At about nine o’clock
two guards were set, and all the others turned
in. The guards took seats near us, each with a
revolver in hand, and by-and-by the camp grew
quiet. It was perhaps one o’clock in the morn
ing. when I began to shake and shiver with the
cold. I had dozed some, but not slept. This
was also the case with Walker. The fire had
gon® down, and as I roused up I found him
awake. We asked the guards, who seemed to
have been asleep, to put some wood on the
coals, and one of them replied:
“ There is no more wood. If you want a fire,
go and pick up some.”
There were plenty of pine knots lying around
us, and we soon gathered two armfuls. It
struck me all ot a sudden that this was a good
time to bolt. Only the two men were awake,
and they did not seem to be watching closely.
As the knots blazed up and we stood warming
ourselves, I winked at Walker and said aloud,
tor the benefit ot the guards:
“Let’s got another load, and then we’ll have
enough to last until morning.”
Wo started out, and picking up a knot here
and there we worked as far awny as we thought
the guards would permit and then mado a
dash. We were several yards apart when we
started. I jumped behind a large pine and had
the advantage ot its shadow. The rebels took
the alarm as soon as we sprang away, and the
two mon at once opened fire in our direction.
As I had to hold to the waist ot the big overalls
with one hand, mv progress was not satisfac
tory, and alter a snort run I jumped out of the
whole business. I hoard men pursuing us, and
I bent to the lett and circled back until almost
in rear ot camp. There I passed between two
rebels who were out hunting for me, reached
the highway, and an hour later reached the
Union picket. Inside of two hours I had a new
suit of clothes, had told the colonel all about it,
and the entire command was under arms. A
portion ot the mon were sent off to take pos
session oi a fort which the rebels would have to
use in getting out ot the neighborhood, and at
daylight the fest ol us moved onthecajnp. It had
been abandoned. And there lay the dead body
of my poor comrade. He had been shot through
the body as we started to dash away. It was
easy to trace the departed enemy, and we at
once took up the trail and rushed it. They
made for the ferry, were driven back by our
men, and then we had them between two fires
and gave ’em fits. We killed and wounded
some eighteen or twenty, and captured seventy
si < who were unhurt. INot more than three or
four got away.
IT THE WEST WIHDOW.
BY NELLIS F. O'NEILL.
On * bleak, dreary day in the Fall ot the year,
an old man walked leeble up the path leading
to the county almshouse. He was met at the door
by the matron, who smiled kindly a. she said:
“So, grandfather, you hare decided to oome
and stop with us."
“ Yes, Mrs. Blake, it was so lonesome down
there at the hones sines Mary died, lor I had no
ons to talk to, but soms ot the neighbors, when
they were kind enough to drop in. I didn’t
miud it through the Summer, for the days were
so pleasant and the nights so calm I could sit at
the west window and watoh lor Tom. Mary al
ways sat there, tor she said: ‘Heel nearer to
Tom when I look toward the west.’ You know
our boy Tom went West nine years ago.”
“ Yes, I know it,’’ said the woman; “yon
haven’t heard from him lately, have you ?”
“Not since quite a while betore Mary died.
We got a letter then, and he said he would bo
homo soon, but he hasn’t come yet, and they do
say he has grown kind of wild. Yon don’t think
so, do yon, Mrs. Blake ?” and he looked in her
face pleadingly.
“ No, no 1 grandfather, Tom isn’t wild, I’m
sure. You musii’t mind what people say, you
know some folks must have something to talk
about.”
“ That’s true, very true. I gave the house
and land to the town in trust till the Spring, for
I thought perhaps, Tom might come ,by that
time and we would live there again, but if he
don’t come, then it will pay for my keep the
little while I stay.”
“ Don’t iret, grandfather, I feel positive Tom
will come soon. Now, I’ll show you to your
room.”
The old man hesitated. “ Has it a west win
dow ?”
“ Yes, grandfather, and it looks out on a
road.”
“ Thank you, Mrs. Blake. You see I seem
nearer to Mary and the boy when I sit at the
west window.”
Every morning the old man took his place at
the window, with oyes fastened longingly on the
west, and there he would remain, with the ex
ception of meal hours, rain or shine, until night
tell. The other inmates of the house, knowing
his story, nodded pleasantly at the old face, and
dropping his eyes tor an instant, he would smile
kindly, then turn them again wistfully toward
the west.
The Winter passed drearily away and Spring
came, but Tom did not appear. The old mau
still watched at the window, but his lace had an
uncertain, wavering expression.
“ I’m afraid Tom isn’t coming,” he said to
Mrs. Blake.
“0, yes, grandfather, he is; I feel sure he
must come soon.”
“ 1 hope so, lor I wouldn’t like to meet Mary
without seeing him.”
# * s # * *
One fine Summer morning, in the yard of a
farm house near the edge of a wood, a little
child was playing. A woman came to the door
ot the house and saw a man’s face peering
through the bushes. Knowing he was perceived
the man straightened himself up and began to
walk rapidly toward the house, and the woman
saw he was dressed in the garb ot a convict.
She called quickly to the child, but the little
one had also observed the man and ran toward
him with outstretched arms. When the child
came up to him the man hesitated an instant,
then stooped, lifted the little one up, and cross
ed the yard holding her in his arms. Within a
few yards of the woman he put the child down,
folded his arms, and said:
“ Excuse me, ma’am; 1 know I shouldn’t have
dons it, but she looked so friendly I couldn’t
help it.”
By this time the woman had recovered her
self, and said, very quietly:
“Come in, sir.”
The man looked astonished.
“But, ma’am, you don’t know who I am and
where I’ve been.”
“ I think you have been in the woods most of
the time,” she replied, kindly.
“ Yes, I have been in the woods, but I’ve been
in a worse place than that. Do you know what
kind of men wear this ?” and he touched the
striped suit.
“Yes, I have known some very good men to
wear it,” she answered calmly.
“But I’m not a good man,” and his eyes
sought the ground.
“ You are not a bad man, or my child would
not have trusted you so readily. Now, will you
come in
" Yes, ma’am, and I thank you,” he said, in a
broken voice ; and be entered the house.
She quickly placed something tor him to eat
on the table and left tlto roGZ’- returning with
some clothes in her arms, which She on
a chair, saying :
“ Here are some things belonging to my hus
band; they may be somewhat too large, but they
will do bester than those you wear, and you can
hide those you have on in the woods.”
“ Thank you, ma’am, but I will put them on
over these that I wear, for I mean to go back to
prison.”
“ Go back 1” she exclaimed, in astonishment.
“Yes, ma’am; and if you don’t mind, I would
like you to hear my story, you have been so
kind to me.”
“ Very well, don’t hurry, but when you have
done eating you can tell me, if you wish.”
When he had finished, he began :
“ I was born and brought up in a little town
a few miles from here. My father owned a small
farm, and I, being an only child, used to help
him work it, until I became impressed with the
idea that I could do better out West, Nine
years ago I left home with the fixed resolution
of making a fortune. I went as far as Chicago,
and there for seven years I worked at whatever
I could get to do, without any prospects of get
ting more than a bare living. At the end of the
seventh year I decided to come home, and
wrote the old folks to that effect. J started, but
on the train became acquainted with a man,
who seemed to take such a kindly interest in
me that in a short while he knew my whole
history. • You want a fortune,’ he said. 1 I’m
the very man to give it you.’
“Enough to say, he was a notorious forger.
1 was arrested twenty miles from my own home
for trying to pass spurious notes, and sentenced
to three years in the penitentiary. I don’t think
the old folks ever heard about it, tor it was in
another State. I would not write while I was
there, so I tried te behave as well as I could,
for I thought perhaps they might lessen mv
term for good conduct. While there I had
plenty of time to think of the crime I had com
mitted, and how lonesome the old folks must
have been without me. I firmly resolved, when
released, to hurry to the old home and never
leave it. One day, while iu the warden’s room,
I read in a paper the death notice of my mother.
It was harder then—to think of the old man
alone—but when, from a new comer, whom I
had known in boyhood, I learned that my father
was in the almshouse waiting for me to oome
and take him out, I could not stand it any
longer, and that night I escaped. If I can get
father out and leave him in charge of some one
who will take care of him until 1 return, I will
give myself up and serve out the remainder of
my sentence.’”
The woman was in tears.
“ 1 know you now,” she sobbed. " You're
grandfather’s Tom. Everybody knows grand
father ; he sits all day long at the window of the
poorhouse, looking at the West. Come, hurry
and put on the clothes; I can’t bear to think
grandfather is waiting.”
The man hurriedly dressed, and going out,
said :
“ How can I ever thank you ?”
“ Never mind now, but if you can bringgrand
father here, I’ll try and do the best I can for
him until you come back.”
“ God bless yon 1” he said, fervently, as he
passed rapidly out of the house.
That night the old man watched at the win
dow until dark, when Mrs. Blake came in, lit
the lamp, and drew the curtain just as a man’s
form came up the path. He did not notice that
she had left the room, when he heard the door
open and some one come in. He lifted his head,
rose trembling from the chair, and gasping
“Tom,” fell back again, his wrinkled hands
outstretched, and hie old eyes full of tears.
Tom was quickly at his side.
“ Yes, father, I have come.”
“I knew you’d come, Tom—l knew vou’d
come. You’ll take me out, won’t you, Tom?”
and his voice quivered painfully.
“ Yes, father, I’ll take you out; that’s what I
came tor.”
“ I’ve got my cane; just get my hat, and we'll
go,” the old mau said, eagerly.
“No, father, we won't go to-night, for you
know it's dark. We’ll go to-morrow morning.”
“ Yes, Tom,” he said, with a sigh; “it’s dark;
I forgot: we’ll go early in the morning. Don’t
think, Tom, that they don’t treat me well; they
do; but you know, Tom, it’s the poorhouse,
and none of our folks were ever in the poorhouse
before."
“ Yes, father, I know what you mean. lam
going to stop with you to-night. Mrs. Blake
said I might; so don’t you want to iiodown?
You must be quite tired.”
“I am tired, Tom. I will go to bed and we’ll
go out early in the morning, won’t wo, Tom 1”
“ Yes, father, early in the morning. ”
The old man obediently lay down, and Tom
took bit place by bis side. In a short time, with
hie face toward Tom and the west, and with a
smile upon it that had not been there in many a
year, he calmly slept. During the night Tom
heard him whisper, “Yes, Mary, Tom has
come.”
Tom was up early the next morning, plan
ning and getting ready for their departure as
silently as possible, tor fear of waking his
father. Suddenly he heard the sound of heavy
feet coming up the path, and looking out of the
window, bo recognized one ot the party of four
men as the sheriff of the county, and knew what
he wanted.
“ They must not come in hero,” he said.
“ Oh, if I only had father out I”
He wont softly over to where the old man lay
and touched bis forehead with his lips, then
starting up, cried joyously:
“ Thank God ! Ob, my lather, thank God !”
The old man had been taken out of the alms
house during the night.
Tom crossed the room as the officers opened
the door, and extending his clasped hands, said,
calmly :
“Gentlemen, I am ready.”
The handcuffs snapped on his wrists, and
with the officers ho passed out of the house.
Going down the road, he turned once, looked
tenderly at the west window, and again in heart
felt tones, cried :
“ Thank God I”
TOO MUCH FOB THEM.
AN EPISODE ON A RAILROAD
TRAIN.
(From the Arkansaw Traveller,)
Two vulgarly-dressed young men on an Ar
kansaw railroad train became much annoyed at
the vocal energies displayed by a tat boy, evi
dently the son of an odd-looking couple who
sat behind them. The boy’s father was a tall,
gaunt old fallow. Although the day was cold,
he had taken off his coat, and, with his thumbs
hooked under his bedtick suspenders, he lay
back in an illustration ot that contentment
which backwoods philosophers feel when they
Inwardly resolve to “ let her rip.”
The woman looked tired; otherwise, she
would not have seemed to be the wile ot a hill
side farmer. Her face had that faded look
which the old-time negroes termed “po’-folk
sey,” and, as any one might have seen, she had
exhausted about all her strength in attempting
to make the youngster behave himself.
“Bill,” said one ot the young fellows, “ how
would you liks to be married and be the pro
prietor ot a chunk of a boy ?”
“ Don’t know, John; but I’ll tell you what I
do know. 1 know that it I had a boy I would
either make him behave himself or I would
keep off railroad trains.”
“ Think I would, too; but you know a yap
never learns anything.”
“It seems not. Say, old fellow,” turning and
addressing the lather of the annoying boy, “how
far are you going on this train ?”
“ Bight smart piece.”
“ How far have you coma ?”
“Bight smart piece.”
“ Will you please give me your address ?”
“ Would like to, but kain’t spare it. Ain’t got
mo n ernnff lur my own use.”
“ How old is that boy ?”
“ Nearly two-thirds older than he would be ef
he want two-thirds as old as hs is.”
“ Pretty sharp, ain’t you ?”
“Uster be, but I run ergin er bluff an’ knocked
off the wire edge.”
“ Why don’t you make that boy keep quiet ?”
the other young man asked.
“ I do try to,” the woman answered, with a
sigh of weariness.
Never mind answerin’ fool questions, mur,”
said her husband. “1 couldn t make no sort
uv headway agin er’ mur’ Oman in er race uv
who ken pick er chicken fust, but when it comes
ter answerin’ tool questions, I reckon I am er
leetie the handies’ pusson you ever seen.”
“ Before you answer many more questions,
for which you declare yourself so well fitted,’
rejoined the young man, “you should learn
better than to reply to a simple question with
an insulting insinuation.”
“ Yas, that’s whnt they said when Dau was
fotch up befo’ cou’t, but they fined him all the
same.
The two young men" turned away, but the
boy, with a fresh outburst, again attracted their
uuwilling attention.
“See here, old fellow,” said the young man
who had been called Bill, “ we can’t put up with
that tormenting little rascal.”
“Ain’t no harder on you than he is on his
mur,” the old fellow replied.
“it is vour duty, sir, to make him behave
himself.”
“ I Tow to when we get homo.”
“It is your duty to do it now. What do you
think people travel tor, anyway ?”
“To be gwinesomewhar, 1 reckon.”
“If you were not an old man I would be
tempted to box your ears.”
“ Yas, I reckon so. Beckon lam er loetle too
old tor you. ’Bout three years old would suit
you best.”
“ Pap,” said the woman, “ please don’t jower
with the strangers. Ths Lawd knows I’m doin
the best I ken to keep Jim quiet, but kain’t do
it. It’s nachu fur er boy ter yell, an’ it ’pears
ter me that folks oughter un’erstan’ it, but it
looks like they don’t, Gentlemen, please b’ar
with him er leetle while longer. He ain’t well,
nohow, an’ ruther than bother you I would
move somewhar else ef the car want so crowd
ed.”
“ Don’t worry yourse’f, mur,” ths old fellow
rejoined. “ Say,” addressing the young men,
“ how much furder air yer goin’ ?”
“ Not much farther, thank the Lord,” replied
Bill, looking at his watch.
“ Wall, wush you’d let me know when you git
to yore gettin’ off places fur I’ve got somethin’
to tell yer. Funniest thing you ever heard an’
it won’t take me two minutes.”
“ Suppose we tell him in time and hear what
fool remarks he’s got to make,” said Bill, whis
pering to John.
“ All right. He’s quite a character. Pity
bis wife hasn’t sense enough to manage that
boy.”
A few minutes later Bill said: "Well, old fel
low, we get off at the next station.”
“ Ah. hah. How long does the train stop
there ?”
“ Qnlv a very few minutes.”
"Fii u»vd'tow> I reckon, to tell yon that little
yarn.”
“ Oh, yes, if you are brier. Before we reach
our station, I would like to give you a little
piece of advice.”
“ Blaze a-loose.”
“Be tore you start out on another trip, teach
your wife have more firmness, compel your
boy to lear-T that he must not howl or leave
them both at K'toa. Your boy has made me so
nervous that I’ll iipt get over it for a week.”
“ Sorry,” said thd .old man. “ Hope it won’t
strike in.”
“ Hope what won’t strike 111 >”
“ The nervous.”
" He’s getting worse,” said the otiiS? ycung
man, speaking in an undertone of pretended
disguise, but really intending his words to be
heard. “ I shouldn’t wonder but we’ll have fits
when he tells us his story. Hers's our station,
old man.”
When the train stopped the old fellow fol
lowed the young men, and when they reached
the station platform, overlooking a steep em
bankment of red mud, the old fellow said :
“ Won t keep you long, gentlemen. Step over
here a minit.” They stepped over, and seizing
each of them by the collar, he threw into his
groat, long arms a strength almost superhu
man, held out the young men, and, looking into
the eyes of first one and the other, said:
“ Lemme give you some advice: Next time
you travel on a train whar thar’e er po’ tired
’oman with er sick youngster, try an’ be er lee
tle more ’siderate uv her feelin’s than I am er
bout ter be or yourn,” and jamming their heads
violently together, he squashed the young fel
lows down in front of him as though they had
been toad stools. Then, after rolling them down
the red embankment, he waved his hand at an
amazed crowd of men and jumped on the train.
BY THE SHORE.
BY M. QUAD.
Ono day, when the ocean was at rest, and its
waters sheened and sparkled under the summer
sun, an old man walked upon the sandy shore
and sat down in the shade of a rock, to be alone
by himself. Above him was tbs blue conopv
through which the eyes of living men have never
penetrated—st hie feet the waters which had
rolled across a world to lap at the sandy shores
of a continent.
And there was a lapping, and a lapping, and a
grieving, and a sobbing as the waters laved the
sand and fell back to break into patches of foam
and go swirling along the shore, never to rest.
And the old man fell into a revery, and whisper
ed to himself:
“ It is like the life of a child—sunshine, tears,
griefs, complaints. He, like the ocean, may seam
to sleep, but there is no rest. The pulses never
cease their throbbing—the heart never stops
beating until death comes.”
Then a cloud rose slowly out of the sea and
climbed into the heavens, and the waters fret
ted and foamed and dashed about. Along the
sands the lapping and grieving changed to an
angry rush to reach a higher point, and the
great patches of foam which floated away were
no longer of snowy white. And the old man
whispered:
“It is like the life of a man—toil, trouble,
sorrow, adverse struggles. He is the shore on
which the ever-changing ocean of lie is fling
ing its tide, and he, like the shore, must be
solid and steadfast.”
And again the sky cleared, the vexed waters
were smoothed by the hind ot peace, and the
summer sun tipped each wavelet with an edge
of gold. And along the sand there was a lap
ping and a lapping, and the waters sobbed and
grieved again as they tell back to rest tor a mo
ment. Then the foam driftss were as white and
pure as the mantle of an angel, and the tide
kissed them tenderly as it bore them away. And
the old man whispered:
“Itislfke the last days of an old man—one
who has been ennobled by faith—strengthened
by love-purified by forgiveness. His sun ot
life goes down in a blaze of glory; his pulse sinks
to rest as the vexed waters have grown quiet;
the lapping of the waters are the whispers oi his
dead; the sobbing and the grieving are the tears
of those who will never boo him more on earth.”
And as he closed his eyes and slept, or seemed
to sleep, a child came down to the shore to look
with wondering eyes upon the calm and glori
ous sea -to place its hand confidingly upon
that of him who felt it not--to whisper in ths
ear of him who heard no sound:
“And tbs foam-dritts—white and pure, and
without taint, are the souls ot those who have
lived in the faith and died pure in heart, driv
ing into the placid ocean of the great and grand
hereafter.”
x\“nur£FlNDEk.
It Comes Upon Him as a Feverish Fit,
Not to be bhaken Off.
All husbands find fault with their meals. I
know this to be true, because Mr. Bowser
says so. I think it nothing strange when Mr.
Bowser sits down to his dinner and begins:
“ Humph I Bame old corued beefl”
“Yes, my dear; it’s the same corued beef you
ordered as you went down this morning.”
“Oh, it is I I didn't know but it was soma
I ordered a year ago I What do you call these
things?”
“ Potatoes, of course."
“Potatoes, eh? I’ll try and remember that
name. And what's tins ?*'
“Cabbage, my love.” /
“ Oh, I didn’t know but it was wood-pulp, mr
love! Was this bread made since the war ?”
“ Certainly. It is only two days old.”
“ Humph I Buying some poor coffee again, I
see 1 Look at that I That stuff looks us if it
was dipped out ot a mud hole 1”
“But yon ordered this very coffee yourself
only night before last.”
He growls and eats, and eats and growls, and
I’ve got used to it. It is only now and then
that he proceeds to violence. The other day
he expressed his fondness tor pumpkin pie, and
I ordered the cook to make two or three. We
had one brought on at supper, and as soon as
Mr. Bowser saw it he sternly inquired:
“ What do you oall that performance there?
When was it born and where is it going to ?’’
“Mr. Bowser, you said you wanted some
pumpkin pie.”
“ Well, here it is, and as good a ons as you
ever ate; 1 made it myself, after mother’s favor
ite recipe.”
“Mrs. Bowser, do you oall that a pumpkin
pie ?”
“ I do, sir.”
“ Thon I want to be branded a fool I What
do you take me for, anyway ? Don’t you sup
pose I was eating pumpkin pie before you wore
born ?’’
“ Why, isn’t it a pumpkin pie ? ’
“ Why, isn’t a boot-leg a boot ? Where is
your other crust?"
“But pumpkin pies never have any upper
crust.”
“ Don’t they ? Mrs. Bowser, you can deceive
the cook, tor she is a confiding foreigner, and
you can stuff most any yarn down our poor lit
tle baby, but don’t try to bamboozle me. It
won’t work. I’m glad, tor your sake, that my
mother isn’t here to laugh at you.”
In two days 1 had a letter from his mothsr,
affirming that there was no upper crust to a
pumpkin pie, and I brought my own mother
over in the flesh as a lurtlier witness, but what
did Mr. Bowser do but loudly exclaim :
“Bosh I You old women have forgotten half
you knew! You are thinking about pudding
and milk, you are. Of course there is no upper
crust to pudding and milk, and I never said
there was.”
He cost me a good girl last week by one of his
whims. I happened to wonder aloud during
the evening if she had put her bread to raise,
when he promptly inquired :
“ Mrs. Bowser, do you know why bread
raises ?”
“ Because o! the yeast.”
“ But why does the yeast expand the dough ?"
“Because it does ”
“ Exactly. You also live because you do, and
that’s all you know about it 1 You ought to be
ashamed of your ignorance of natural philoso
phy. I’ll see if the girl knows anfr better.”
He went out and Inquired :
“Jane, have you put the bread to raise ?"
“Yes, sir.”
“ Do you expect it to raise ?”
“ Of course.”
“ Why don’t you expect it to fall ?”
“ Are you running the kitchen ?” she sharply
demanded.
“ Virtually, yes. My object is to see how well
you are posted on natural philosophy. Why
does the bread raise instead of fall ?”
“ Because it’s a tool, and I’m another for stay
ing in a place whare a man is allowed to hen
huzzy about ths kitchen I I’ll leave in ths
morning I”
And leave she did, and all the consolation I
got from Mr. Bowser as he cams up to dinner,
was :
“It’s a good think she left. She might have
mixed something together which would have
caused our deaths. Come, now, hurry up the
dinner.”
Mr. Bowser has improved soms in ths direc
tion of taking oars ot the baby. I can now leave
them together as long as fifteen minutes without
fear that one will kill the other by trying some
experiment. They had been alone about seven
minutes the other day while I was up stairs,
and when I came down Mr. Bowser seemed
quite agitated and whispered to me:
“ I’ve suspected it all along !”
“What?”
“That our child is somewhat of a monstrosity!
Look at that 1”
And he po'nted to a soit spot on the child’s
head where a throb could be detected.
“ Every child has the same,” I replied in a
reassuring voice.
“Oh! they have, eh I What infant’s asylum
have you been matron of? Perhaps I married
the mother instead oi the daughter 1 I tell you
that’s a freak ot nature, that is, and I shan t be
surprised to come home any day and find »
horn beginning to sprout.”
TUNISIAN JUSTICE.
An Expeditious Method, but a Little
Bit Too Severe on the Hebrews.
A certain Capt. Baculard left Marseilles for
China, but, being buffeted by the winds, he
made tor the harbor of Tunis to await better
weather. The collector of the port came on
board, Capt. Baculard represented that hs
was freighted for Canton, that ho had nothing
to do with Tunis, and that lie bad only put in
from stress ot weather. But the collector suc
ceeded in demonstrating to him that bs must
pay the harbor Mues. Capt. Baculard did so,
but repaired instantly to the palace ef the Bey
a ~” jj* m auded Justice.
“Good Frank,”l” 4 th ® “1 Slil ydiif
friend—God is great. What do you want ?’■'
“ Highness,” answered Capt. Baculard, “your
custom house has robbed me. I have had to
pay unjustly.”
“Excellent individual,” answered ths Bey,
“in this country, when we have the money, we
keep it. The first acquisition is a difficulty.
To give back a thing is unknown iu Africa."
“But shall I not have justice ?”
“ Certainly—every one has justice in Tunis.
Will you have it in French or Tunis fashion ?”
“Highness, I have had a lawsuit or two in
France. Justice in French fashion—Heaven
forbid 1”
“But I don’t press it upon you,” observed the
Bey. “If you choose the French I will speak to
your consul. He loves justice, good man. Three
of my subjects applied to him years ago tor im
munity, and they will get it next year, I think
for he loves justice.”
“French justice ? Never I Give ma the Tunis
ian; I am in a hurry.”
"So bs it then. God is great,” said the Bey.
“ What is your cargo?”
“ Marseilles soap and 20,000 cotton cape.”
“It is well. Go away and bo tranquil.”
The Bey summoned the vizier.
“ Vizier,” said he, “ there is no God but God,
and Mahomet is bis prophet. We love Justice—
we love the Franks. Proclaim that every Jew
who appears to-morrow out of doors without a
cotton cap will have a little transaction to settle
with me.”
There were some thousands o( Jews in Tunis,
and there was not a single cotton cap. They all
made their wills, when they learned through an
officer of customs that Capt. Baculard bad lots
of the desired articles. That was enough —
Capt. Baculard sold the invoice at sight shil
lings a cap. He rushed to the palace and poured
out bis thanks.
“ Not so fast,” said the Bey; “ I am not dons
yet. Call my vizier.”
The vizier appeared.
“Proclaim,” said the Bey, “that every Jew
who keeps a cotton cap another hour will have
a trouble with you. God is great, and I am a
lineal descendant of Mahomet.”
The vizier made a grand salaam and retired.
When Capt. Bucalard returned to his ship, he
found a crowd of Jews already waiting him,
caps in hand. He purchased the articles at a
penny a piece.
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