Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 31) (1884 12 23)
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Tyee: La POOR VEL MSCES OE PIS | pyrichted, PSS4, by Breanne ann Apa b) VoL. III. £352 PUBLISHED VW EKIZLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, ta as Malt Matter. Dee a Year. No. 3 William Strvet, New York. Five Cents, ““WOTHER!’’ ELLA WAS AT HER SIDE. GRASPING THE CLENCHED HANDS, HER OWN SWEET FACE DISTORTED WITH FEAR. THE LITTLE HEIRESS . | me for stories all the time? Sure, isn’t me head ; intirely dry wid the dumb-ager?. Do be quiet an’ goo Miss Arty, while I mend this net. If it isn’t done by sundown, it’s the most illigant Or, UNDER A CLOUD. | gociding Misther Richard ll give me, like a true RY MRS. MARY A. DENISON. gintleman as he is, Now, what dye t’ase for?” i | “Ob! Bumbledyhum, you do tell such nice CHAPTER I. stories!” cried the child, scraping handfuls of TIM BUMBLE AND THE NEW-COMERS. fine, white sand, and throwing it upward, from **Onl Miss Arty, why do ye be afther t’asing | whence it came down again in cloud showers.
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2 THE LITTLE “Sure, yer hair Tl be that consistency paste 1 be nowhere beside it,” said the man, looking up for a moment, and wincing as the wind- swept particles whirled toward his eyes. ‘It’s too nice, intirely, to be makin’ a sieve of, that way, an’ if it works through into the brains, it 5A gize you, may-be, what little Patsy died w th. “That was the dropsy—oh! now you're going to tell me a story, I know; but, Bumbledybum, it’s water makes dropsy, not sand.” “And isn’t sand water’s first cousin, sure? Ain’t we right on the water’s edge, and don’t the sand run with it? Stands to reason, Arty, that—that—” “ Well, say—what is it?” “That they’re relashuns, honey; the dropsy | and the wather, and the sand,—and so—howly Saints! I’ve run the net-hook into my j’int. Oh! glory, the pain of it, and you a-laughin’, Miss “How can I help it, Bumbledyhum, to hear ou glory, like old Aunty Upham, the Methodist, pont i because you hurt yourself— ob! how funny. bes | how the blood does , run!” and the beauti ul commiserating look. a ‘ “Yis, miss, it’s a clear strame, it is,” said the man, pressing the wounded finger. = th go call Coraline—she knows everything,” —s away the child flew over the shining child-face put on a san It was the bank of a ppeens river, sweeping round in a bright half-circle, the soft, blue water changing and curling as it crept cosily up over the white sand. The banks further on the right were hung with vines, now bright with scarlet berries, and tall pines, whispering to- gether, looked down with a protecting air upon them. bigeye hight stood a grand man- sion, upon which the sun struck dazzlingly,. throwing flakes of gold on the high, wide win- dows, burnishing the roof-tops, and making splendor where otherwise there had been the sor- ry display of brick and mortar. The grounds did not show from the spot where the manstill sat nursing his wounded finger; but the little that could be seen gave evidence of great cultivation | and nocommon taste. At the bottom of the hill, | and from which led a gradually ascending road, stood a very gem of a bath-house, over which bent a solitary weeping willow of great size and beauty. Near this pleasant place, beneath the shades of the pensile branches, a young girl of | fifteen or sixteen sat reading. She was too much absorbed in her story to see aught that was passing around her; even that the waters were lavishing white jewels at her very feet, and sparkling all over with opals and diamonds. Coraline Reynolds was what all who knew her | called a lovely girl,sufficiently pretty to please b her sweet face, affectionate, with dignity enoug: to make her seem a very queen when the occasion required. She was a favorite with every per- son in the village, from the white-robed rector to the blundering net-mender, seated on the sand, and whom Arty had dignified with the name of Bumbledyhum. Coraline was s out of her dreaming at last, by hearing her name often_called, and. be- holding, at no peas child. ‘ Bumbledyhum has cut himself almost | and return / Spparetiiny unobserved, while Any fe) t HEIRESS. eat distance, her little sister | Corry, do stop that reading,” eried the over the to death. I mean he’s cut his eo awfully,” she added, seeing her sister’s chee: “co quite white; ‘‘ no, not cut, but run the net-hook clear through bone and all, and you ought to see how it’s bleeding! Do come k—poor Bumble!” ‘“‘How you frightened me, Arty, with your extravagance! ou know how wrong it is to make things seem worse than they are.” This the sister said, as she hurried along by the side of the child, keeping up with her nimble feet. ‘Well, what could I do? there it was bleed- ing and bleeding, and just as he was going to tell me a story, too—one of his splendid stories, all about ghosts, you know—and—there, see; it’s bleeding now.” ‘An’ sure, Miss Arty, there’s no need 0’ ‘scaring the young lady; it’s notleing, miss, but a flesh-woun’ through the bony part of the finger, an’ it’ll stop when Providence plazes.” The young Bi went up the shore a little way, in a moment with thick rolls of cobwebs, which she had found in the bushes and which soon stanched the blood that had been flowing so eotage 5 ‘An’ it’s many thanks I owe ye,” said the man, ‘‘ By me faith, there’s goings on at the | Grove, sure.” Coraline turned in the direction he pointed. She could see two persons on horseback, riding from the house. A gay plume streamed from the hat of the lady, and the gentleman beside her bestrode a magnificent black horse, whose sides shone glossily as he came leisurely on. “T heard that the Lattisons were ger said Coraline. ‘They must be a part-of the wit e come over to look at the pre: A” “They are riding this way,” said Arty. Coraline walked slowly toward the water, who thought nothing long, began tossing up the sand again, and teasing Bumbledyhum for a story. ‘Well, [ don’t know any story, then, except about the Lattisons,” said the man, who was at work upon the net again, holding the finger, upon which an immense black bunch was now visible, very carefully. ‘‘Oh! what is it about them?’ queried Arty, watching the coming figures very curiously. “ Whist! take your eyes over this way, it’s nothing I have to tell, savin’ an’ except it’s a quare amily, wid a craziness running around in it. ‘*A craziness! bledyhum?” _ “What I say, tu be sure. The boys in that family ’ave al he be kicked up a boderation with themselves, makin’ folks mighty oneasy, such as drownin’, an’ bein’ fished out o’ lakes an’ rivers in this an’ furren countries. It’s very quare, to be sure, for if a body ’ave riches all the fruits of the airth an’ the fishes of the sea, an’ the fowls of the air, to keep bim in spirits, and make him a gintleman, there’s sure to be a black skelington in the bottom of his trunk. But, whist! I tell ye, now—they’re What do you mean, Bum-
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THE LITTLE HEIRESS. 3s clos’t upon us, and they'll hear. Sure, it’s no urtier faces I’ve seen, savin’ that of Miss Cora- fin and Mr. Francis, an’ your own.” The horses’ hoofs now sounded near, and et voices spoke of the beauty of the scene. raline still advanced very slowly toward the water’s edge, never turning her head; she was too well-bred for that. e young couple, very young,and handsome, looked that way, especially the youth, attracted, no doubt, by the golden beauty of the curls, blown from under the hat, and the graceful contour of the figure. Bumble, as he called himself, (and his name was Tim Bumble) respectfully raised his apology for a ‘‘straw b’aver,” while the young lady bowed and smiled toward little Arty, who was really a beautiful child. ‘*Now do you know any story about them?’ queried Arty, turning again toward the I[rish- man. “Oh, whist! there was a man once got mar- ried there!” “Well, go on—do go on,” cried the child, mage seny- ? What’ll I go on for? Sure, isn’t that the end of all stories?” ‘But not of this one, ’m sure. Come, now, Bumbledyhum.” “ Plaze, Miss Arty, I wouldn’t tell you that story for a hundred dollars,” said Bumble, solemnly. “Yes you would—yes you will—come, go on, now. I'll give you—oh! Bymbledyhum, I'll give you a hundred dollars some time, if you “‘ Ah! miss, it’ll be a pod many years before you do that, an’ when I git it, Pll be, mabbe, in my grave, for you’ll not have the money to ive as you plaze till you’re a grown woman. ut Tl jest say somethin’ of it, though I'll be givin’ no names. The young goeea was the han’somest man ‘ye iver laid eyes on, and as good as he was han’some. The young lady was like one of the argels, an’ I’ve seen a pic- ture of the howly Virgin looked jist like her, almost. Well, they had a n’ weddin’—for I was there an’seen it. They had tables set out vy & down here. I mane’way down on the place, that was as like this as two peas, for a river run jist as this does, an’ all the poor peo- ple feasted. Saying down there was a hollow, which there is a hollow, us yer young eyes can see—an’ saying there was a fire there, which even now the dead ashes is seen some time, or leastwise use to, and saying ye saw one of the biggest oxes, and lots of pigs all roasting away for the poe pocee. h! but it ware a n’ time, to follered by tribela- tion, surely, for the next mornin’ the poor brid m an’ his bride were all dead intirely sdlend ant murthered!” ? ** Oh, who could do it?’ cried the child, cree ing close up to the Irishman, with eyes d tended; ‘‘ who could do such an awful thing?” “Well, it's thought, of coorse, as the young man he it himself, being crazy-like, and so all the happiness at the house where it all tuk ae was gone forever. Oh! it was a terrible ng, to be sure!” — who was he, Bumbledyhum?” aes Se h ~*SAh! that, I said, I shouldn’t tell at all; and ye mustn’t ask me, for the thing is hushed and uried long ago, for the prisent young man of the family was a babby then in ’is cradle, and is likely niver heard of it at all.” “I wouldn’t care any thing about the story if I couldn’t know,” said Arty, with a child’s pertinacity. “I'll ask mother when I go home, if she can tell me.” ** And if ye do, Miss Arty, it’s the last story Pll ever tell ye, as I’ve said many’s the time afore, and repented my promise; but [ll stick to it this time, ye may well believe.” “But you said a craziness run through the Lattison pong 5 Ah, Mr. Bumble, I’ve got you; I know who it was!” “Ye’re wrong intirely,” (the howly Virgin forgive the lie, he muttered to himself;) ‘‘ it’s another family of the same name as were traveling in Italy at the time. Now where aye ye Miss Arty? where are ye now, lady-bird?” e cried, triumphantly, as the child stared with a puzzled face. ‘*Pooh! I don’t care, anyway. I guess it’s only one of your make-up stories. But, Bum- bledyhuin, are the Lattisons really coming to the Grove?” “Really and for certain,” responded the Irishman; “ and a great family it is, anda great house is the Grove. But they’ll give no more parties, for the place is sadly run down—I mane the family is badly give out. There, my mindin’ is done, an’ the net is as good as new. Wait till the first moonlight, Miss Arty. Tl give you a rockin’ in the boat to go out an’ see us ketch shad, Sure an’ it’s Mr. Richard shall have the first, providin’ it’s the fattest.” So saying, the man arose, shook himself like a great dog, and cogent up the net. thered him a little, running under the meshes, and getting her hair tangled in them, but Bumble was a good-natured fellow, and bore it all with patience, for the child’s interesting face and gleeful laugh showed that she did it more for fun than to tease him. By this time Coraline was ready to go home. The house of Mr. Richard Reynolds was situ- ated a quarter of a mile from the river, in front of a beautiful grove. It was of a con- venient size, and looked like a gentleman’s residence, From its door-steps could be seen the place called the Grove, and which, for nearly ten years, had been vacant, the famil sojourning in Europe. For some months it had been rumored that the Lattisons were about returning, and the premises through which the three children of Mr. Reynolds had been accustomed to ramble at will—for they gained the good wishes of the housekeeper— were now subjected to the hand of improve- ment. They were not over-pleased with the expectation of strange faces until they found that some of the occupants were of their own age. These were Harrison Lattison, a boy of seventeen, and Anne, his sister, a sweet little blonde, with melancholy blue eyes, but a laugh that was worth hearing. The Grove-house was surrounded by chest- nut-trees, and its situation was commandingly beautiful. It had been built by a French pele gee seventy aoe before, and formed a striking contrast to the light, elegant, cheerful cottage
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4 THE LiT?LE HEIRESS. of the Reynolds’. The principal apartments, parlors, drawing-rooms and guest chambers were very large and handsome, needing only new painting and papering. The rest of the house was cut up into oddly-shaped places, like closets, leadin which much of the broken furniture remained. The Lattisons, when they came from the hotel in the city, brought a great deal of splendid household plenishing, and servants in abund- ance, all of whom were old and well trained. It seemed, after a while, as if everything about the place went by clock-work, The gardeners soon reduced the weedy lawn to order and beau- ty, and planted new ground with choice fruits and flowers. Anne and her brother were often seen walking over the place, or riding through the avenues, or on the shore. Though the sister was the youngest, and looked even more childish than she was, by reason of her extreme delicacy, she seemed ever to have a watchful care over her tall, handsome brotber. Wherever he was, she was sure to follow, and whatever he did, to applaud. t was some time—to the Reynoldses an ege— before the two families became acquainted. On no aceount could they have made the first ad- from one to another, and in | go. 1 see by Miss Cora’s face that she doesn’t care, and I know Anne don’t.” “FT am subject to dizziness when sailing,” said Coraline; and Anne and her friend moved toward the house. They had been some time en- gaged in a discussion concerning some feminine employment, when a servant entered, and with Mrs. Lattison’s compliments, desired Cora to ex- cuse Anne for a few minutes. The young girl changed color, but instantly left the chamber, while Coraline sat wondering,and very strangely ee: she knew not vig be t length, moved more by restlessness than curiosity, she left her seat and walked from place to place, finding something new to admire at every point, until at last she came to a door, one-half of which was glass, through which shone a curtain of crimson stuff. Without re- flection, and supposing that she was still movin; in her friend’s domains, she incautiously opene the door, and found herself standing on the ' threshold of a small chamber, similar to the one in which she had been sitting. ‘ ud | It was, however, very different in its surroundin in fact one of | the most unusual places she had ever seen in her | life, and astonishment kept her rooted to the vances; but morning and night they thought | and talked about them, wondering what their pursuits were, how they were educated and what their future plans would be. At last their dear- est wish was gratified. Mrs. Lattison and her neighbors met by chance, were each pleased with the other, and, waving all formality, the mis- | tress of the Grove called upon Mrs, Reynolds, who was an invalid. The young man, with his sister, accompanied her; and of course Coraline and Francis were soon on the best of terms with them. Mrs. Lattison wasa small, quiet woman, with a sorrowful face. She looked care-worn, and though, gage Beer her children, she must once have been beautiful, was not so now. The soft hair that waved gracefully on each side of the fair forehead was tinged with gray. The eyes wore that heavy fatigued look thet suggests the possibility of frequent weeping, and her voice was a plaintive monotone, yet music- al, and of rare qualities. Aninvitation for the young people to the Grove succeeded, and with great delight Coraline and Frank looked for- ward to the visit. An opportunity came soonafter. They found the family charming, the house charming— | everything charming, in fact. Within doors) the brother and sister had rooms allotted to them, | filled with everything that could afford relaxa- tion and amusement to the wearied mind. With- out were swings, a bowling-alley, and on the beautiful pond, now cleared from its weeds and | slime, and kept in perfect order, a dainty boat | sat gracefully. “Anne,” said Harrison, pausing on the edge of the pond, ‘‘let us take a sail. You needn’t be afraid of your complexion, for we can row in the erase Wig see.’ “Father likes to be with us on the water,” | said Anne, reluctantly. 3 ‘TJ don’t think he would object, as our friends are here,” said Harrison, with one foot on the edge of the boat,.. ‘‘ Come, Frank, you and I will | | The thought flashed through spot. ‘Whe floor was covered with carpeting so thick and soft that it fell like yielding feathers. er miiad, as she laced her foot forward, that there must be eathers beneath, There was one large window heavily arched, and through which the soft breeze blew—for, of glass there was not a par- ticle, but instead, narrow bars of iron, crossed closely and riveted in the casement. apt where within reach, the walls appeared to be stuffed, and so yielding to the touch, A lounge that was immovable stood under the great win- dow, and from it depended the material with which it had been covered in ragged strips. A feeling of horror came over the young girl, as she slowly took in all the surroundings. Her blood chilled to her heart, and she could scarce- ly summon strength enough to leave the room and close the door. serif had she gained a seat, when Anne came im, flushed, yet smiling. ** Dear mamma is so very anxious when Har- rison and I are not together,” she said, ve gently. ‘‘ We two are all that are left of nine,” she added, ‘and she somehow fancies that one of us will come to harm, if we are apart for ever so short a time.” The words fell strangely on the ears of Cora- line, The mystery of that chamber was heavy on her heart. She seemed to feel a foreboding | that it was in some way connected with her fate. And yet she could not speak of it. She had taken an unwarrantable Itherty in playing the spy, and she trembled guiltily when, some moments after, she saw Anna start as she passed the door, looked closely at the lock, then, taking a key from her pocket, fasten- ed the doorsecurely. Her face crimsoned, but she pretended to look across the river, and Anne did not appear to suspect. Presently the boys came out on the lawn. Frank and Harrison stood together. Coraline had been accustomed to consider her brother an unusually handsome lad, but, in the presence of Ha Lattison, he looked almost ordinary. The face of Har-
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} rison lighted up in a manner that no pen could | describe. There was a glow—a succession of | flashes of beauty—that made him seem superior {>earth. His hair was long,of a rich purple-black, flowing in curls; his eyes were brown, tender as those of a true woman, enhanced in brightness by the softest tinting and deereninz beneath the lid, that gave them a dreamy and sometimes a passionate character. Coraline turned to Anna; she knew the fond sister was thinking how beautiful he was, by the dimpling smile and eager gaze. ‘““Your brother 1s very handsome,” Coraline said. “TI think so,” she replied, still gazing. “ But if you call him so beautiful, and he is—what would you have thought of Eric?” ‘* Eric was another brother, of course,” Cora- line responded, ‘“Yes, he was nineteen—only nineteen when | he died,” she replied, and Coraline saw that she | shuddered from head to foot. ‘‘My brothers all met with a violent death,” she added. ‘Eric | was found in the river—a beautiful river in| Germany. Oh! if you could have seen him—he | was glorious!” There were tears in her eyes— her tones affected her young frieud strangely. ‘‘ Met with violent death,” repeated Coraline, | shuddering; “‘I should think you would feel | afraid for Harrison.” | ‘““We do,” she replied; “ but we have taken | the greatest precautions—” suddenly she paused | —her cheeks crimsoned—she stammered—” and at length said: ‘‘ you see how fearful mamma is to have him go out alone. It is perhaps foolish, but we all feel so. When papa isat home, he devotes his time to him, superintends bis studies and ali that, you know, as mamma does with me—then we do not feel the least fear. But, when he is away, we are almost foolish in our anxiety.” 'lockjaw in the eyes wid the pain o | I’ve got news for ye—sure, an’ hasn’t the gintle- | man from the Grove been here?” CHAPTER IL. & QUEER COUPLE, ‘*On, be aisy, now, be aisy, Bumble; sure, an’ you’ve done no harm to tell a bit of a story as e did to the child. Didn’t I kape the names an an’ the place to mesilf intirely, so’t no bad can’t come of it at all? Bad luck to mesilf, —_ if the Lattisons should hear of it, though, for the matter of that, the whole counthry round knew, an’ if that excellent gintleman, | Mr. Reynolds, had been here at the time, wouldn’t he ’ave heard of it, sure? Bother! jist | mind yer own business, Bumble, and bhowld yer tongue; ye’re always gitting into mischief, ye are. By this time, the Irishman came in sight of his rude home, a hovel built by the edge of the wood. It was a pioturesque location. The river could be seen far off to the right. Behind the little tenement, made of rough-hewn logs, filled in-with clay, a hill gradually ascended, filled | with trees and vines, with massive | rocks cropping out here and there, and little black noo mengg Sr of mossy resting-places, A stout woman, twice the hight of her Seeger stood vigorously applying an ax to a good-si . log, and ever and anon addressing the stubborn <2 victim in no measured terms of disapprobation. THE LITTLE HETRESS, 5 ‘““ Bh! ye lazy raskill, ye won’t split, will ye. ugh! there was a blow now, might a crackea yer hide. Ye think a woman’s got hold of ye, do ye? Ugh! there ye go; ye’ve got a skull like my Tim; it’s my belafe that [ might crack him as many times over the head and he’d no feel it. Talk of a woman, ugh! when it’s me as has to ’arn the bread to put into his mouth, and he dawdlin’ on the bache, mindin’ nets to ketch gudgeons. Whop! ye’re beginnin’ to listen to r’ason, are ye; it’s not very sharp r’asonin’, aither, the edge of this ould, ax, but I’ve asked Tim to grind it till me very breath in me body is gone, and like a spent fire, an’ I’ve had to kin- dle it with a scoldin’. Sure, that’s Tim, bad luck to him. An’ this is the way ye ave me to split wood and do the drudgery; oh! boy, little did I think I’d be used this hard, when I mar- ried ye.” ** Ah! an’ if ye knew how near I’d come to bringing mesilf home widout the breath ov life in me, you wouldn’t be after scoldin’. As it is, I shouldn’t wonder if I’d the lockjaw in me fin- ger this very night. I’ve run the boat-hook clear through it.’ ““Run the boat-book through yer finger, ye blunderer? Don’t ye suppose I know better nor that? “Well, then, couldn't ye tell that I meant the net-hook? Am I to find ye ideas as well as words? If I made a mistake it’s because I’m half crazy wid the pain. At! Bridget, darlin’, if ye’d seen me bleeding to death on the sand, ye’d had some pity in yer stony heart.” Bridget replied by a succession of unbelieving nods, and as she had managed the refractory log, by dividing and subdividing it, she took up an armful and walked into the bale Tim fol- lowed with a dogged air, and nursing his finger tenderly, though by the pucker in his lips, they had a decided inclination to whistle. ‘‘Now mind the fire, will ye, unless 7 have looking. “Yedon't say!” cried Tim, nearly upsetting the tea-kettle, which stood near, ready tilled, as he sprung from his seat. “Rhere ye go!” shouted Bridget, saving it by a masterly bound. “Tim Bumble, ye’re the most ongracious, onruly boy I ever did see. = can’t move yer foot widout doing some mis- chief.” ‘Nor me finger either,” spoke Tim, dolefully ; “but come, aisy, Bridget, jist tell me what did the gintleman say to ye?” ‘The first thing he did was to be plazed be- cause ye’d a wife that knew something. ‘Ah,’ says he, ‘so Tim is got a nice tidy wife of his own.’ Says I, ‘ Yis, yer honor; and it’s mighty little he does toward gitting her a livin’, any- way. It’s I that have to kape the pot b’ilin’, and put what’s in it—an’ split what’s under it, too,’ says I.” * Ah, now, Bridget, ye’re too bard upon me intirely, an’ I wid me finger kilt.” ** Didn’t I jist till the truth? An’ thin hesays, says he, ‘ Well, now, perhaps I'll give him some- thin’ to do—’t’ll be aisy—so I'll jist call ag’in.’” ‘An’ sure, that’s himself, though it’s bowed down that he is, poor gintleman, an’ no won-
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6 dher. ov yell go out when he comes in. i'm sure hedl want no women In the way.” ll not,” “Tl not do that same, thin. No, I cried the woman, as a gentleman outside reined up his horse and dismounted. “Oh, well, now, honey, p’raps ye will,” said Tim, good-naturedly, pleased at the prospect of having his own way for once, “‘ if the gintleman says so.” And the gentleman did say so; almost his first request was that Mrs. Bridget might leave the room, and she, though rather sulkily, obeyed. ‘“And now, Tim, I suppose you are not over- burdened with work,” said Mr. Lattison. He was a pale man, very thin, very quiet, and with a look of habitual suffering stamped upon his features. “Not so much ovefburthened but what I could bear more,” was Tim’s cautious reply. ‘“- You remember—you—remeniber ”—the man paused for a moment, struggling with some powerful emotion. “Sure, an’ you needn’t say it, Mr. Lattison for, indade, I remember it all, an’ how I lov him to that extint I'd a lay down my life for him. Sure, an’ I remember too much, Mr. Lattison. It’s a dale the boy looked like him as came ridin’ along the sands to-day with Miss Anne,” ‘“* Ah, that was Harrison,” said the gentleman, with a sad smile. ‘““Of coorse he didn’t -recollect me, bein’ a mere b’y when he left the Grove. But ef I may be so bold, Mr. Lattison—if ye’ll pl’ase ex- cuse me—how is the—the sickness now, in the family?” ‘Oh, Tim, you know how it used to be,” half groaned the man. ‘ Well, it’s no better now, only there is some hope—some, I say. There’s decided hope that if he lives till he is twenty- one, the disease may be eradicated. Oh, to keep him till then, Tim—only to keep him till then! Besides, you never could count upon the —the sickness, you know, at any set time; it would come when nobody expected—now it oc- curs periodically.” ** An’ may Lask, yer honor, when that manes?” queried Tim. “Oh, at a certain time of the year. We all know what to expect now, and use every pre- caution, And, Tim, that’s what I want to seo ou about. Times have been going hard, have ¢ Oh, indade, sir, ’m not a-goin’ to throuble ou with the story of me trials, but if it wasn’t for me wife, who knows how to turn an honest mny ina woman’s way, faith it’s not at all ’d matter, saying. as I’d be takin’ me two steps back to me one forward,” and he shook his head with a melancholy survey of the fire, now caus- ing the kettle to sing. - . Lattison sat listening to this tirade with an abstracted air. At last he said, with a | : | spirit of her friend. At one o start: “Well, well, never mind that now, Tim. The fact is, I’m not satisfied with the man I have to attend Beda my poor boy at times. He makes himself too forward, too officious, ~ Now with youl could always get along, and I gittin’ along, but the revarse of the | THE LITTLE HEIRESS. believe my poor boys loved you. What do you say to taking charge of him in the same way R y you did the other? “Sure, an’ it’s too happy I'd be, intirely. But there’s me wife, Mr. Lattison, what ’d I do wid her? She’s altogedther too capable for a woman.” Mr. Lattison could not forbear a smile at this evident depreciation of the notable Mrs. Bumble by her quiet husband. ‘“Couldn’t she get along here—or, by the way, we shall be wanting an assistant in the dairy. I wonder what she could do in that line.” “Tvery thing, Mr. Lattison. Shure, it’s out of a dairy I took her, as I’ve good occasion to know, for there’s no day ses Over me head that she don’t twit me of the same.” “Tf I thought she could be trusted,” mused Mr. Lattison. “That she can be, sir. The woman would scorn to do a mane thing, indade she would,” ‘** And for a handsome sum—” ‘*« Ah, she be very foud o’ money, sir,” replied Tim, with a sigh. ‘* Well, Tim, I think you'll have to come up to the Grove. By the way, what obligations nee yon under to Mr. Reynolds, my good neigh- or? ‘Nothin’, nothin’, sir. Sure, he only toler- ates me,” said Tim, with a whimsical look; “that is, I do odd jobs for him, and little ar- rands for the young ladies; he keeps a man, a or he might want me more.” ‘““Then I shall not be disecommoding him.” “Not at all, at all, sir,” was the reply. “Come up on Monday,” said Mr, Lattison, “and we'll settle matters.” Mrs. Tim was summoned after his departure, and her wrath smothered in the beginning by the jubilant expression of her husband’s counte- | nance, his repeated hops, and the rapping of his knuckles. ‘*What are ye goin’ out of yer senses for, ye 4 iy Or ?” she queried. ‘‘Tt’s in me senses I’m going for I’m going into good luck. Arrah, it’s no more ye’ll be throwing it at me that I'm no man at all, and not able to support ye. I’ve a place at the Grove for life, and alk my atcetterys ” (he meant perquisites) ‘for nothin’, An’ ye’re to go into the dairy, an’I’m to go into the—och, it’s no matter what, to be sure. I’ve me secrets, and of course ye wouldn’t be afther perpetrating into them. Och, good luck to the Bumbles— good luck to the Bum’ ledyhums, as the little one says. I knew I’d come out straight at the end. CHAPTER II. THE GREAT PARTY. True passed, and the Lattisons and Reynolds- es were on the most familiar terms. As the month of August approached, Coraline noticed that an unusual depression — - the her ts the latter said, with a strange pospeere ‘Will you excuse us from meeting with you at all during August? We keep ourselves quite secluded at that period, as we have peculiar duties, and mamma has some unusual notions
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ee mm concerning our health. After that, perbaps by the middle of September, we are to give a grand party, and invite all the best families, but re- member, we are going to be intimate only with ours.” : The uest seemed reasonable ona, and was Br 3 to; but Cora noticed that the sad- ness of her — had deepened, and that in her last visit to the Grove an inexpressible dejection seemed to pervade the whole household, down to the humblest of the domestics. Still, as this feeling seemed to in the family, Harrison w more spiri and, it seemed to her, more beautiful. Slow gleeful, almost fearfully so, became his laugh! His movements were more capricious, his wit keener. He flew rather than ran; there seemed no bounds to his happy, frol- icsome mood. To Cora he was always gentle, and she felt conscious of a blind impulse to obey him in every thing. She did not seem to belong to herself when he was near, but was ever on the watch to see if he intended to make any de- mands of her, and felt a singular happiness im complying with his lightest wish. $s manlor who those Lattisons are?” queried Mr. Reynolds one morning, when the family sat a breakfast. It was rather an unusual thing for him to wonder at any thing. “Do you hear any reports about them?’ asked his wife, who had been the confidante of her youngest daughter, and to whom the strange story of the murder had been told with childish variations. “Only that they must be enormously rich, for they have been constantly traveling for ears—and they certainly keep servants enough ‘or the household of a petty soverei bave no less than three gardeners, and each one of them affords to keep menin his employ. Be- sides that, they have hired Tim Bumble and his wife, that untamable shrew, and Tim goes about dressed like a gentleman with his hands in his pockets, It’s very singular, but wherever tho oung folks are seen, there is Tim—at some dis- nce off, to be sure. I expect he’s a sort of body-servant. Why in the world has such a stylish family come to live in such an out of the world place as this is? I can’t understand it.” Reynolds told him of Anne Lattison’s singular request. : “Well, that is strange enough,” was his reply —‘tan odd affair, on the whole. However, it’s no business of ours, as I know of; they can af- ford to be singular, at any rate.” ** Oh, Cora,” cried Frank, (this was a week ss ‘I’ve been hearing the queerest sounds, 1 was down at the hedge fence at the boundary of father’s land, and I saw the most beautiful bird Iever met with in my life. It was of the rarest colors, and seemed to be wounded, and it flew so low I thought perhaps I might catch it. It was over the fence—so 1 ‘aecee, it and ran on, for it appeared every mo- ment as if I could just pup my hand on it. Well, before I knew it I was plump on the back gar- den of the Lattisons, and on the point of turn- pg away whenI heard the most awful cries. ell, I y 8 low and listened, and the sounds went on, shriek after shriek, till it seemed as if a couldn't stand it. And there, a little way off, “~y They | THE LITTLE HEIRESS. 7 on the other side of the house from where I was, who do you think I saw but Mrs. Lattison, ery- ing asif her heart would break,and wringing her hands, I never felt so badly in all my life, and the way I turned and ran from there wasn’t | slow—but Iseem to hear those fearful sounds | now; who do you ye it was?” ‘*Perhaps,” said Coraline, ““Mr. Lattison— | you know we have scarcely seen him—is one of those cruel, tyrannical men we read of some- times—and he might have been punishing one of his work-boys. Every thing seems strange over there.” “Nonsense,” retorted Frank; ‘it isn’t possi- ble for Mr. Lattison to be a cruel, tyrannical man. Father and I met him, yesterday, and had quite a long conversation. He is slender and gentlemanly, and father declares has the most refined and poetical face he ever saw. But Pll tell you what,” he added, in an aside to his eldest sister, ‘‘he’s got the—there—I’d like to have called it ‘hang-dog’ look of the whole fami- ly. You know what I mean—as if they’d lost all their friends. How singular!” For a long while, Coraline, whose heart was beginning to be strangely interested, pondered over the news Frank had brought—but the month and several weeks passed away, and then came the great party. The Reynoldses, especial- ly Frank and Coraline, had longed for the time. It was Coraline’s first participation in a festival of the kind, but neither the grand dresses prepared, the news of the great goings on, or the joy of the party weighed as much with Coraline as the delightful thought that she | should meet with Harrison again. The night came and they were driven to the Grove. Cora was ushered at once into Anne | Lattison’s own room. Anne was dressed in | white satin, and looked as pure as an angel— | Coraline, being dark, wore pink with white lace that became her wonderfully. The band ar- rived—the company gathered steadily, and a the hour of nine, the great parlors were filled. Up to this time, young Harrison had not made his appearance—Cora’s quickly throbbing heart would not let her ask for him—but as the clock struck, he entered with his father. ““My poor brother has been quite ill,” said | Anne, who stood by Cora, and watched him | ) nervously. Coraline, lookin 33 at that mo- ment, her eyes fell upon Mrs. Lattison. The pale mother stood almost motionless. Her lips were partedJ—her fingers moving, her eyes fas- tened upon Harrison, who had never appeared so pale, so spiritless, so entirely lifeless, but at the same time so supernaturally beautiful. His glance wandered indifferently. ““T say, Cora,” said Francis, who was also waiting to be recognized, ‘‘it’s all mighty queer, and seems to me more like a funeral than a arty.” At that moment the boy’s glance settled upon Coraline, There was a wavering, uncertain light in his face, then a faint flush, then a joy- ous look of recognition, and he sprung toward her almost childishly, welcoming her so noisily. so cheerily, that all eyes were turned toward her. From that moment he was no longer pale and tame, but the handsome, laughing boy, the witty, spirited companion. Heartily and with
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8 a kindling of his olden self he entered into the sports of the evening, but toward Cora his man- ner was different from that with which he treated all the rest. Now, Anne and Mrs, Lat- tison’s manner changed—they, too, threw off all appearance of care, and exerted themselves to make the time pass agreeably. As for Arty, she had made interest with some of the family, and fone off to see Mrs. Tim Bumble. She found the latter in the act of setting down a huge hamper. “Oh! Miss Arty,” cried the tall woman, shak- ing her cap-border, out of which the starch had vanished, ‘‘it’s glad I am to see you. And what for did you l’ave the dancin’ an’ come here?” _ “Why, I wanted to see you and Tim,” said | the child. ‘* As for Tim, he’ll be hanging roun’ the young | masther till they’re sure of him, I suppose—thin he'll off, like the lazy boy he is, for a smoke, | and his feet on the mantle.” ‘* But, Bridget, what has Tim come here for —and why does he have to go with the young | master, as you call him? I suppose you mean | Harrison?” ‘It’s Harrison I mane, and it’s him is been sick,” said the woman, with a great air of mys- tery. ‘* But what’s been the matter with him?” per-— THE LITTLE HEIRESS. | came a heavy ra sisted the child. ‘Why, you see, Arty,” said Bridget, glanc- | ing slyly round, “it’s his brain is the worst of him, and a great pity it is that he thinks so | much of Miss Cora—that I say.” ‘* Why—will he kill her?” queried Arty, with | a frightened look, the sad fate of Tim’s person- | ages in the story floating through her brain. “The saints forbid!” cried Bridget, crossing herself hastily; ‘‘ but it’s mesilf,” she added, hurriedly, ‘‘ that wouldn’t want a child of me own to marry into this family.” There appeared to be little danger of such a | consummation—the thought occurred even to Arty, and she laughed to herself. Th tell Cora not to marry him if he asks | her to,” said Arty, precociously. ‘*La! Miss, pray don’t say that I said a word,” | cried the cautious Mrs, Tim, and Arty promis- | ing so much, hurried back into the parlor. The first thing she saw was, seated in a recess and | busily talkin , Coraline and Harrison... Cora’s face sparkled as if the interview were unwont- edly agreeable, while Harrison’s smile fascinated ‘even the childish perception of Arty. But there was a dim foreboding of evil in her mind, and she lingered about her sister for the rest of the evening as if she feared harm were coming to her. But Cora was almost wildly happy. To be near him, to listen to bis beautiful words, to gaze in that face so perfect with its star-like | eyes, was life’s completeness. It was the clear | dawning of her first love. FRAGMENTS FROM CORA’S JOURNAL, _ *TIrwas the tenth of August, and nearing twilight. My father and mother, my little sis- | ter and myself, sat in the cool west parlor. The day had been unusually sultry, and as my father went to the window he said; CHAPTER IV. | | all died by drowning or by ‘<< There's a terrible storm coming up, if 1 can read the signs aright. Such a silence through the woods is portentous,’ ‘‘Gradually the air darkened: a dense cloud came from the horizon, spreading and n- ing, while gusts of hot, damp wind, whirled dead leaves and crackling a into the entry, till we could no longer sit with the doors open. It was not many minutes before the blinds were closed, the curtains thrown down and the lamps —— The storm burst now in all its fury. We could hear the heavy throbs with which the heart of the forest. responded—the wind howled, and the thunder. oe from point to point, seemed to fall at jast with a succession of eavy crashes, as if the very earth were split asunder. ‘‘In the midst of the worst of the tempest at the door. It was opened, and there stood Mr. Lattison’s coachman, cover- ed with mud, hatless and coatless, and holding the heavy whip with which he had knocked. ‘**QOh! sir,’ he cried, as my father confronted him, ‘has my young master Harrison wandered this way? Have you seen him anywhere about! He went out—and—and his ets eee may- be if he wasn’t lost—if he hadn’t lost his way, that is—he’d be here.’ ‘“‘ Tsprung from my seat in the utmost affright. Arty sat near me—she moved, came to me, and whispered in my ear: ‘I guess he has killed himself.’ It went to my heart like a stroke of fierce lightning, and I cried out: ‘Oh! John, what makes you think harm has come to him?’ “The man looked confused, stammered, but answered: ‘** Oh, because—because, miss, we always looks after him, at this time.’ “*This time! What did he mean? The hour, the twilight—or the month? Jt was Au- gust! My father assured him he had not met with Harrison, and questioned every member of the family. No one had seen him. “The coachman bad been gone twenty min- utes, perhaps, when there came another rap. It was the head gardener, this time—he held a lan- tern in which was a powerful light. ‘**Tf you please,’ he said, appealing anxiously to my father, ‘ Mr. Lattison would like you to give me the privilege of searching your grounds. We miss young Master Harrison—he has n gone two hours—we—they are. all very anxious at the Grove, sir.’ “He paused here—and my father replied: ‘Go, go immediately—search every where—and take any of the servants to aid you; but it seems to me,’ he added, turning to my mother, ‘the boy is old enough to take care of himself. Searching in this way for a fellow of nineteen with lanterns—why, it’s ridiculous,” **T was crying to myself, for there was a heavy weight at my heart; but I swallowed my tears as I said, ‘Oh! father, they have lost six sons—six beautiful sons, Anne says, and they her violent deaths.’ “*T never heard of this,’ he said; ‘is there et en ta +m in the family? ‘He would have said insanity, I knew by his hesitation and his glance at me. ‘That is dreadful—I don’t wonder at their fright then. Tl go over there
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and see if 1 can hear Tim in the ‘* Arty was on her feet in a moment. ‘Oh! Bumbledyhum,’ she cried, flying out, I follow- ing her, ‘ have you found him? niver a bit except the trace of bim. could it be my fault? Wasn’t he as like a man in his sinses as could be, this wake past?’ ‘‘T shuddered from head to foot. ‘** Sure he was r’ading as quiet as a jamb,’ he | continued, turning to my father, ‘and he’d been | day, having nary one of his t’aring | takes the breath from me body to | git him a | or he al- quiet all turns. that howld him. And he asks me to go book from the libery as purty, now, ways was the gintleman, even when he wasn’t himself—an’ he looked so innicent, thinks 1 to mesilf it’s no harm, which as ye may say was disobeyin’ orders intirely; but how’d | kuow, so desaved as I was—well oe he paused to take breath, to strike an attitude, and to run his fin- gers through his hair), as I live, I weren’t gore | y the watch, Shrewsbury time, an’ | a minnit no mistake, when I goes back with the book that it took me a long time to hunt up beca’se of its | name, which I ain’t used to like a scholar might be—and by me sow] the bit of a body was in the place at all, at all, He couldn’t git out o’ the windy in his room, ’cause that were barred wid | iron—and he didn’t git out by me, ‘cause I'd felt the rush as he wint past. ut he jist cl’ar- ed the hall, and let himsilf down by the grape- | full vine under his sister’s windy—that must ’ave bin the way of it. Whin I found him missin’ I | stood and tore me hair out by the handfuls, or how’d I meet his father or bis mother, an’ | An’ whin I | they to put such confidence in me! told ’em—an’ whin Bridget came to hear of it— och! the way me ears was battered to be sure, and now they’re all going crazy, ivery mother’s son of ’em, and—’ *‘ Another rap and another visitor—this time Mr. Lattison himself, his hair drenched and. the rain streaming down his haggard cheeks, his beautiful dark eyes strained and shot with red, his thin lips quivering. ‘“*Have they found him? he cried. Heaven!—my poor wife is almost beside herself —Anne is prostrated. I cannot lose him—the last of seven. Oh! sir, you behold an unhappy father—oh! wretched man that I am!’ ‘‘¢ Where can he be—which way could he have taken?—let us begin the search anew,’ | cried. my father, taking his hat and hurriedly leaving the room witb Mr. Lattison. ‘* As for me, I was in agony almost too cruel tobe borne. The thunder still rolled harshly along the far-off heaven, the lightning still pene- | trated, in vivid flashes, the cracks in the window- blinds, and a rain poured apernueedy I gave loose to m ination. ictured m r fiend dan, faint 2 ston I saw_all the distress of the wretched mo- ther—I went down in fancy to the deso- late shore, now an with the wildly-tossing elements, and tr the footsteps of the fugitive. I saw him running wildly in the face of the tempest, courting danger, and knowing no fear, I saw him rush into the whirl- ing waters; and then his cold, beautiful form THE LITTLE HEIRESS, be of any service. Hark! 1| hail.’ ‘ Found him is it, Miss Arty?’ said the pee ow | ‘Oh! | with terror and apprehension; | oF : TAs fay on the stony bottom of the river, and the waves, lashed by the furious wind threw his long hair from side to side or swayed his lifeless arms, These pictures grew too horrible. The | storm was somewhat lessened in violence, and I gained a reluctant assent from my mother to go to Anna and comfort her. Under the guidance of Tim I gained the Grove, and a scene of deso- lation it was. Servants were hurrying to and fro with bright lanterns, under whose light the wet ground shone as if it were perner thickly —servants stood in groups on the porches, and the house alone looked dark. LIfound Mrs, Lat- tison walking the floor in disordered attire, her | hair thrown down, her eyes cold, hard, unnat- | ural. She turned to me as she cried, hoarsely, | ‘Once more I am childless,’ and pointed to | where Anne indeed lay like one bereft of life, I hurried to the poor girl’s side, spoke her name | and kissed her, She roused herself instantly and throwing her arms about my neck, kissed me and sobbed her brother’s name, ** «He will come back,’ I said, soothingly. **€Oh! if God will but grant it,’ she cried, , ‘and we were so hopeful, for he is almost twenty, and if he lives until he is twenty-one— but oh! some terrible destiny remains for each of us.’ | *He may live,’ I suggested. | ‘He may—but the rest did not,’ was her re- ply. ‘So little as he has suffered this month— | from his—malady,’ she looked at me half fear- y. | “*Y think I understand you,’ I said, with an- other pang at my heart. | *** Well, all the physicians have given us hope. Tt is not bereditary—as far back as can be trac- ed, no insanity’—oh! how I shudder at that word—‘ can be discovered in any of our ances- tors; itis some trouble with the brain—tuber- cles, I think, that will gradually leave him from the age of nineteen to twenty-one. Then if his general health remains good, he is sure to have recovered. Oh! we have had such beautiful hopes of late—only to be dashed to the ground. If Be has come to harm it will kill my mother— he was her idol.’ “* * My father and Mr. Lattison have gone in search of him,’ I said, still striving to calm her. ***Oh! how kind!” she cried, clasping her hands, ‘and several of the servants are out, too. If they are only in time—if—only—he may— not—have destroyed himself.” “Again that chill of horror in my veins—I could not bring myself to think of that beauti- ful temple dispossessed of reason—for oh! was he not growing very dear to my heart? How dear I gared not whisper to myself. Meantime Mrs. Lattison walked hurriedly back and forth ya ing occasionally at the window to listen, trem a with newly-awakened hopes or fears as her imagination tortured the sounds of the subsiding pee gg into wild cries, or framed them to gentler sounds, I shall never forget the dramatic intensity of her look, and above all, her gesture. The dim light; ave to her face a supernatural pallor and ber eyes gleamed in two hollow rings of fire. Her lips were | together, a strange, wild anguish, that was suf- ficient in its concentrated torture to one b | years in as many moments, possessed her whole
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face and frame, made more apparent by frantic gestures, and that low, smothered cry which, more than any outbursts, tells of wretchedness full and complete. The poor mother, yearning over her lost child. “We sat, very quiet, Anne and I, save that her suppressed sobbings sometimes shook me. I alone was tearless and calm. ed into the room which I then thought so strangely contrived. Little did I imagine by whom it was occupied. In the midst of our trouble there was a humble knock, and in came Bridget as we started to our feet, bearing a tray on which smoked tea and coffee, ‘« ¢¥e'll pardon me I know—if ye can bear the sight of me for the sake of that careless Tim Bumble who niglicted his duty as I never done | such a thing in all me born days. Now won’t the miss jist taste o’ the tay? It'll stringthen ye | to watch for the blissid young gentleman the like 0’ which ’arth hasn’t got, an’ heaven would be findin’ it hard to bate. Sure ye’ll take a trifle of the toast jist to keep swate life from lavin’—come now. Ye’'ll not feel better, while | it’s ’ating, but after it’s down ye will. ‘* Mrs. Lattison shook her head. *** Come, now—it’s good news ye’ll be afther hearin’ any way, and ye’ll need as much stringth for that asfor the bad. “Tis Mr. Har- rison is not goin’ for to ave us now, and such | Now ye'll jist ood say. They reland because swate young ladies in trouble. try alittle, and I’ll give yea use to call me a witch in ould me good says come so thrue. Maggie MacAllister half dead over the coffin of her baby —I might say it were the coffin, though, to be sure, the childer lay in its cradle with the life in it jest as if it were flickin’ on the edge of its lips and goin’ out. She, the mother, were takin’ on that wild that her screams might be heard by iverybody round her, and more too, for that matter. So says I, *Whist, Maggie—I’ll tell ye the boy’ll live to look down on ye yit,’ and £0 he did, glory to the saints in more ways than one; but we won't rake up any cast-bys. Come, drink the good tay, and I’fl tell ye that the blessed Mr. Harrison ‘Il live to be married—ye hear that?’ “T felt that Bridget’s eyes were upon me, and along with my unspoken thanks for her kindly- | meant encouragement came a blush of scarlet to face and neck. Mrs. Lattison seemed for a moment inclined to believe her, paused and sipped a little of the tea. Suddenly there came a lull in the tempest, and, as we listened for another outburst, we heard a different but more welcome sound, the hoarse cheer of men’s voices. A wild cry broke from Anne and her mother. They hurried down-stairs half crazed with excitement, while I remained at the win- dow above. Although the thunder had ceased, and the rain fell no longer, still there were oc- casional lightings up of the pecs caused by the reflection of some far-off flash. In one ob these I saw several persons leading some one in their midst, who leaned exhausted on the arms of two men, my father and Mr. Lattison. I sunk back, terrified and grateful. Another moment and Frank was at my side, for I sum- « moned strength enough to descend the stairs, 19 THE LITTLE HEIRESS. 1 was thinking | of the mg f more than a year ago, when I look- | Why- there was | | «« cWhere did they find him? I asked. | “*Oh! sucha chase,’ said Frank, still ting; ‘he has been doing nothing but rena and doubling for the last two hours. Why, he seem- ed sometimes to have as man lanathe as @ ser- pent. Isn’t it odd, Cora? They captured him at last, when he had fallen from exhaustion. Here he comes, poor fellow!’ ‘*Mrs. Lattison would have rushed forward, but Mr. Lattison made a sign that she should not move. They came quietly in; Harrison artly leaned, like one almost inanimate, upon is father’s shoulder. How beautiful he was in that moment, the wet curls laying loosely on the pallid temples and the wide, white collar— only peace shinin — his face, and still m heart bled to see i bey would have oanteek: ed him - the stairs, but, suddenly seeming conscious that he had been brought without re- sistance to his home, he sprung from his captors and stood alone, while the 1 beter the door. Never shall I forget the look that flashed over his face. Then he broke into a wild, long peal of laughter, and springing up, cried, hoarsely, ‘Lam king David! king David; where is Bath- sheba? Isunk in terror before bis wavering look. His father began to expostulate, gently, but he would hear to nothing. ““* Oh, Cora!’ cried Anne, ‘this is terrible, that you should see him thus. What will he say when the ype pe ge is over? ‘**Coral where, where is Cora? he cried. ‘I will give Bathsheba for her—yea, all that a man hath will he give for—’ ‘* At that moment he = sight of me, and with a wild co Whey delight sprung forward, crouching like a boy at my feet, catching at and | fondling my hand—looking up in my face with such innocence of trust an ildlikeness that I could not keep back my tears. It was very af- fecting. That night he followed me to his room-cell; at my wish lay down, and I sat there till he slept. My spirit grew very heavy as I | reviewed the scenes of the past few hours.” CHAPTER V. HOME AGAIN. ** DARLING, we are back again at the Grove. I hasten to tell you that one fearful time of ex- pected trial has been oe us. We passed last August in Paris, and there was no symptom of disease in Harrison. Do you not/congratulate us ?—for there is hope. y tell us so, all the old i ge: and that we need no longer dread for him. There is no danger now, except from some sudden and serious trouble, and even then, they say, that will not shock his brain, but may affect. his spirits, causing a wild melancholy. You do not know how happy this makes us all— no more dread, no more trial. My mother is so changed in a year that you would hardly know her. She seems regaining her youth, so heavy a burden has been rolled from her life. Come and see us. I am at present ill, with a sprained ankle, and confined to my sofa, so that your presence will be doubly welcome.” Coraline received this welcome letter with rapture. It came when she was en in cooking, for she did not disdain, as the majority of delicately bred women of the present day do, to make herself mistress of all household duties,
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Vi retty she looked, too, in her neat chintz fa ay hides er hair securely hidden under a tasteful little covering, and her sleeves tucked around her elbow. The sunshone in with a broad smile, lighting up\all the corners, giving grand illumi- nations by dancing over burnished tins, and en- folding Cora in its luster as in a mantle. She went with the glad news to her mother, with whom Arty was sitting, smiling over her stent. “We didn’t expect them for two months, you know,” said Cora, blushing and smiling. “Oh, I’m so gl quicker motion of the needle; ‘‘ the Grove has looked so awful dull since they’ve been gone. If it hadn’t been for Bridget Bumbledyhum, it would have seemed just like atomb. Now, when shall we go Y “We!” said Mrs, Reynolds, with a quiet smile. ‘Why not ?”’ son ap Arty; ‘‘I’m as tall as Cora, and mean to be taller. Besides, I don’t go there because I think I’ve got a beau,” she add- no ea a correspondingly saucy toss of the Cora turned crimson, but Arty broke into | ad,” Arty responded, with a | | such a joyous, hearty laugh, that even her moth- | er could not reprove her with becoming serious- ness. ‘“* That is Mrs. Reynolds, after a aline was rearranging her dress, “Isn’t it though ? Now, I suppose, he can get ki but I hope he won’t do as one of them id. ‘What was that ? queried Mrs. Reynolds, indifferently. ‘‘They were both found dead in bed the next morning,” said y. heavens, child! where did you hear that ? cried Mrs. Reynolds. “Why, I told you the story Bumbledyhum told me,” said Arty. “‘But, child, you never said that it had refer- ence to the Lattisons.” ‘Nor did Bumbledyhum. But I’m very sure from the way he told it that it was one of the Lattisons. But, bless us, Mr. Harrison may have brought home a wife, a French woman. If so, sha’n’t I get the fashions ?” Coraline laughed, ee there came a sudden heaviness to her heart. hat if he had brought home a wife, or what if he had become engaged since he had been away? She did not wish to believe it, but still it was not improbable, and her heart beat so very fast that its motion be- came almost painful. ' **Now what shall I do with regard to this in- vitation, mother ?” asked Cora. “Wait till Frank comes and he'll go with you,” said Arty. That would not be till evening, but still there was no better way. Coraline hurried about, all excitement, and use, during which Cor- had just shaken her curling hair intoits place | whenArty gavea half-smothered cry anda laugh. She looked up in rise. Arty was clapping her hands quietly, pretending to be nodding to some one, _ “Cora, true as you live, it’s poune Lattison in a stylish carriage. There, 1 knew he would; he’s stopping here, Run right down, Cora.” news about Mr. Harrison,” said | THE LITTLE HEIRESS. 11 she But Cora was petrified with sudden su After absence of a year, how shoul meet him? **Ohb, Cora, he’s so handsome!” cried the im- — — “T declare I never saw any hing of flesh and blood look so splendid.” “Arty, Arty, don’t talk so foolishly,” said Mr. Lattison’s exquisitely engraved card. somer than you did when he went away.” “Hush, Arty,” exclaimed the young girl, ina vexed voice. ‘‘I am not fit to be seen.’ “Yes, you are; you're one that looks better wr blushing,” continued the girl, merrily; and Cora heard the pleasant laugh and the words, ‘*Give him my compliments,” ringing after her as she went down stairs. To pause upon the threshold—to draw one long breath—to feel with a tantalizing inquiet- | ude that she was far from looking her best—all ) | this, of course, Cora was privileged to do. Nor was the sad remembrance of what she had seen and suffered within the precincts of the young man’s home wanting to aggravate her uneasi- | ness, All was forgotten, however, when, opening the door, a step was heard—a face came for- ward. How he was improved; oh, so beautiful, so noble he was! His rj was inimitable; he had gained the repose of manner before want- ing. He had gained a hight and a certain re- ality that never sat more gracefully upon any Foxes being. His face had taken on the deeper tints and stronger outlines of manhood. In other things he was not changed. There was the olden deference—the worshipful look that in him meant so much, or, if not meant, was in- terpreted by one gentle heart. “My dear Miss Cora,” he said, a warm en- thusiasm in his voice, ‘‘ how much I rejoice to see you again!” ‘“Tam very happy that you have returned,” said Cora, modestly. ‘Yes; after all, home is the sweetest spot on earth. Iwas born at the Grove, and it is the place of my heart. I felt this even in that gay- | est of cities, and was not sorry to leave all its associations for the quiet and beauty of this lit- tle nook.” “How is Anne? I received a note from her; she has met with a misfortune.” “Yes; sprained her poor little ankle in very “foolishly running after me for a farewell kiss esterday, as I left her to reach the Grove rst. In fact, I have come delegated with a most important mission—to capture your quiet self, and take you over to the Grove; Anne and mother are so anxious to see you. Can ou go? Say yes.” : ieee Bn § she say otherwise, looking in his elt
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std beaming face that always took heart and judg- ment captive? In a few moments she was ready, and seated by his side. It was a most delightful drive. o vary the route, Harrison went over the shore; the white sand glistened, and the thud of the horse’s hoofs on the yielding surface was a pleasant sound. ‘‘IT remember you standing there as you did the first time you were visible to my sight,” he said, pointing to the place in which she had stood on the occasion of Tim’s wounded finger, three years ago. ‘“ How I wished you would look round, as I saw the ribbons fiutter, and the folds of your dress tremble in the sea breeze. But you would not, and I liked you all the bet- ter for it. Little I thought you would ever be sitting by my side.” Then turning the horse’s head he drove to aneminence a mile beyond his father’s house, The view was lovely in the extreme. Silvery rivulets wound among the valley lands—streams ran down the sloping hillsides—herds and flocks fed on the grassy slopes, while many a cosey little cottage nestled upon the broad intervals, shut from the bleaker winds by the hills, cover- ed from base to summit with living verdure. “What will Anne think has become of us?” at last he ejaculated, with an admiring glance on his fair young friend. ‘‘I believe we must hurry a little. Now, Mr. Victor,” he cried, ad- dressing the horse, ‘‘ we must scamper home.” | Mrs. Lattison met them at the door, having seen thein from the window of her room. The greeting between her and Coraline was like that between a mother and daughter. Anne was so overjoyed to see her that she laughed and cried together. “To think I shall bave to lie here a week | longer, perhaps two!” exclaimed Anne, vexed- ly. ‘‘I shall lose so many splendid rides and p= a Iam so glad we are at home, though, for Harrison will not be lonesome now. And do you know he was, everywhere we went, in Paris, if I could not follow him, the baby? Not one of the beautiful women he met seemed | to make the slightest impression on his mind. | I think he left his heart behind him at the | Grove, for he could talk of nothing else. But imagine if you can what our happiness is | —the year of danger is past. We are np longer troubled with any fear for his reason. He has so improved in health, and I think in ap- pearance.” “T think him very greatly improved,” said Coraline, who had drawn a red velvet hassock by the side of herfriend. ‘‘ Come, tell me some- thing of your travels.” “Oh, P’'ve so mach to tell, that I don’t know where to begin. We visited all the famous laces in London, to be sure, and some time 1] show you the drawings I made. We went | through Germany, gave Holland a little call, | stopped in Ireland two months, and in France six. It is a delightful country, that France, only one gets so bir and then I learned that | I knew nothirg of French, and had to begin | again with a magmficent whiskerando, who | was almost captivating, and who had an ad- | mirable method; so you don’t know how differ- / ently I pronounce. Why, even Tim acquired | 12 THE LITTLE HEIRESS. — some of the language, and it would amuse you to hear him talk with Bridget, who despises all such accomplishments.” At this moment Harrison came into the room, the flush-of health mantling his cheeks, his eyes sparkling with pleasure as they rested on the group. He did not interrupt them how- ever, but moving toward the piano, sent over the stillness of the atmosphere waves of melo- dious sound that made the hush more intense than before. He arcse, and, standing, touch- ed the keys here and there, while a smile that had been lighting his features changed suddenly to a laugh. “It’s — the finest fun in the world to hear that fellow Tim talk French,” he exclaim- ed, laughing again. ‘“Why, where is he now?” asked Anne. “In the keeping-room. The lazy rascal is lolling on the bench smoking a villainous pipe, and astonishing jhis wife. It is almost enough to make one die with laughter. Just come for a moment, Miss Cora—it won’t trouble your conscience much, for they’re neither of them over sensitive.” Urged by Anne, Coraline fol- | lowed and stood with Harrison in a small recess near the open door, where they could hear | every word. Bridget was ironing away at a long table, and her short dress, red cheeks and vigorous movements proclaimed her as capable as Tim was lazy. **Oh! be done wid the ridic’lous nonsinse,” she cried, slamming the iron down with a vehe- mence almost marvelous. ‘‘I won’t belave a word of it.” ‘“* Polly vow mouchong Frauchong,” said Tim, composedly putting away as he lifted the black- ene pipe from his mouth. ** An’ I should like to know what sich nonsinse as that manes, now?’ cried Bridget, pulling savagely at a ruffle. “It manes that when we’re in France we do as the people of Rome do, to be sure,” re- | plied Tim. “Dye spake of Rome where his holiness lives?—oh! Tim, that ye’d be takin’ sich liberties wid yer tongue,” said bis wife, gravely. . “ Well, now—ye wouldn’t think whit pota- toes meant would ye?” ‘*No, what do they? queried Bridget, ex- cited y. ‘““Ah! but I mustn’t be takin’ liberties wid me tongue,” Tim responded, highly sarcastic. ‘Ye spalpeen! but potatoes and Rome isa different thing,” said Bridget. ‘Ye might tell me the French for potatoes—yet I’ve me doubts if ye don’t make ba French as ye go.” im gave a shrewd chuckle. ‘‘ A purty thing to tell a man what’s been re- siding in, the country six months an’ over. Didn’t I have to ax after things ivery day of me life, and didn’t I ery out, ‘ Here waitor, po- terong taterong oue Fronckee?’ I reckon;” and Tim smoked on, coolly, while Harrison and Cora laughed outside. ““ Why, mesilf could understand that much,” said Bridget, complacently. ‘““Yis, afther you’ve been tould,” responded Tim; “‘ but now what'd you say if I called ye a mare—eh?” “Td say ye’d been drinkin’ not to know a wo
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a man from a baste,” said Bridget, with a good deal of vim. “Sure ye would, an’ I’d not blame ye; but | the French ple call all the women-folks | mares—and the men, monsers.” ‘* Tl not believe ye!” cried Bridget, derisively. “But it’s for a fact,and ye may ask Miss Anne. Then they call books ivers, and bread, pain—oh! it’s a very quare language, intirely— jist the opposite to ours, ye may believe.” ‘*T should think the people’d be quare,” re- sponded his wife. ““Ye may well say,” replied Tim, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. ‘‘ Why some of them, specially if they was purty girls, would go out walking wid a little white cap on the head, and nothin’ on at all, at all, savin’ jist—* “Tim, ye may go back to France ag’in before | Y I'll b’lave ye—it’s tarrible wicked ye are at tell- in’ stories like that.” “It’s the raal truth I’m sp’akin’, ye may be sure of that—I tell you they’re grissels, and I never saw a shawl on one of ’em—they’d walk in the strates jist as you would, if ye‘d go out now, savin’ the flat.” “Well, I'd say they was that onproper I'd niver have tospake wid them,” replied Bridget. | ** But it’s the custom there, honey, and if the | grissels wore bonnets, there’d be a revolution— | cause they’re on the p’int of a revolution every | day, and the men all go to sleep wid their arms in their hands—oh! ye may belave that.” Harrison beckoned Cora away. Instead of going upto Anne’s room, he led her into the conservatory. The sweet sights and scents made the place replete with a luxury all its own. Scarlet roses, snowy lilies and vari-col- ored petunias hung from their delicate stems, while the fragrance of all Arabia’s spices seem- ed hered there. They walked along the briliant length. *Here is a plant we brought from Paris,” said Harrison, moving some huge leaves to show a cluster of p e red berries, shining as if sprinkled with fine dew. * And what do you call it?” she asked. “The French name is insignificant,” was his reply. “T have given it another—I call it Coral- The look that accompanied this little speech, more than the matter itself, brought a deep flush to the cheek of the young girl. “You thought of your friends then, when you were away.” : “T thought of you, Miss Cora,” he answered, in a low voice, and her heart beat heavily as she listened. “I thought if ever,”—his veice trembled—“ if ever I might call you mine, there would be no happier man on earth than 1.” This was abrupt, and found Cora speechless. A thousand emotions rushed over her mind— the predominant one love, pure and holy almost as an — might be—and yet all were shad- | owed by the darkest forebodings, notwithstand- ing the security his family seemed to feel. That beautiful eye! she had once seen it light- ed with the fires of madness; that cheek had | been white with the pallor of insanity—those | hands had clutched wildly at the air, and more | than once thinned the locks on his own head. There was but one gleam of hope—it was not. THE LITTLE HEIRESS, 1% believed to be hereditary. But might it not be, and the family unaware of the fact? Supposing it had not appeared for three, four or five gen- erations a the records had been blotted out. One look at him, and all dread, all foreboding vanished; but as soon as she turned away, there came a dark cloud and settled on her soul. Meantime his glance was resting upon her—so full of the tenderest love. ** You will excuse me,” she said, confusedly, “if I do not answer you now. i must have time—to—consult my—” ‘* As long as you please,” he said, softly, yet passionately, ‘‘ only tell me I am not indifferent to you. For years I have loved you.” She looked up—her gaze was half mournful as she said, in whispering tones, ‘‘ And so I have you.” Thus love was plighted while the air palpita- ted with the breath of the rose-leaf and the odor of the mignonette—under the sweep of the raceful vine, heavy with purple sweets—within nearing of the southern birds, who, perched in ag <e sunbeams, trilled their little songs of ove. ** Where is Cora, dear?” asked Mrs. Lattison, entering theroom where Anne was alone. “Harrison carried her away, to hear Tim Bumble talk French-Lrish,” replied Anne, laugh- ing. ‘‘I suppose she has no idea how time is | flitting. They have been gone nearly an hour.” “‘ Corais a very sweet girl,” said Mrs Lattison, musing. ** And did you know, mother, that Harrison loves her? Iam sure of it,” she said in reply to her mother’s glance. ms But what of her?” queried the mother, has- tily. “IT believe the love is returned,” rejoined Anne, * Thank God!” and the mother bowed her forehead upon her hands—‘tmy only dread is removed. But, Anne, suppose her parents have scruples? They are not very rich, J don’t care for that—they are not very famous—their name is not an old one; so far we have all the adyan- tage on our side; but they may make objections on account of—of Harrison’s malady.” “But that, mother, we have no longer any fear of; think what competent judges have pro- nouuced upon his state. I believe we need have no scruples—I am sureI have none, If they marry, they will be very happy together, and neither of them regret it. But what letter is that, mother?” Mrs, Lattison was drawing a letter from her pocket. ‘* You remember the lady at whose house we visited in London who had so much trouble about the disposal.of property left her by her husband?” “Oh! that pale, pretty lady, Catharine, as many called her,” replied Anne; ‘ yes, indeed— remember her very well. Her relations, or rather her husband’s relations, were trying to contest the will. Oh, yes, her face would be one of the last to forget, so small, so perfectly beau- tiful. Well, what does she say, mother?” “That she has married again,” was the reply, “a strong, noble man, a barrister, who will he p her keep her rights. I hope so, for she has suf-
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re fered much, an7Tif those Cruel people can con- trive to keep her from the property, they will. But here comes Harrison and Cora; find out if Cora truly loves him.” What would not that mother have sacrificed for the sake of her idol? CHAPTER VI. BRIDGET’S MISGIVINGS. “Tr’s attached to me he is—very much attach- ed to me is Misther Harrison, an’ therefore, Brid- get, you an’ Lis to go wid the new family and be in first rate positions. got now by marrying me, Tim Bumble.” ** Ye'd better be done throw ing that same up in my face, ivery time you spake ot things. Mightn’t I a had old Croole the widdyer wid a fortune of twinty poun’ to begin wid—and mightn’t I ’ave bettered mesilf wid young O’Shane who tinded to the illigant brass works 0’ the factory—an’ wasn’t me faether Colonel of milishy, and ain’t I Bridget Rourke, that was the capablest woman for making butter an’ cheese in the country where I come from? See what I got, indade—but for the blissings of Providence, I’d been splitting me own wood and putting me own ’arnings into the pot—that would I.” “Ah! but ould Croole war a miser,” cried Tim, with’ an exultant laugh. ‘ Besides that, hadn’t he an illigant expression on the side of | his face where there wasn’t no eye at all—and a | correspondin’ one whin he opened his mouth, where there wasn’t no teeth at all! To be sure he wasn’t but seventy, and so bulged out wid the rheumatiz that bis knees was behind him, Then there’s O’Shane, och! but ye’re mighty funny now—isn’t it all for drink he spinds his | money? Doesn’t he come home and abuse the woman that would be his wife, if he had any, ivery night of his life? O’Shane to be sure! But come, Bridget, darlin’, we won’t be after quarreling because neither of us wouldn’t give i the ship nohow, But what are ye making there so tasty I’d like to know?” “It’s a dress for the weddin’, to be sure, that Miss Anne give me wid all the trimmin’s, side out—for it’s a boding of ill-luck, so ’m afeard, There’s Tip Connell’s weddin’ that I tinded, ye know, in the capacity of bridesmaid, and while | was making the skirt of me dress, sure I had to rip it up four times intirely, an’ sure enough, she’s lost four childers this very year. ‘*And what is’t ye mane by calling Ti shef” asked Tim. *> : is “Because she is a Tip. Her father was a drunken fellow and he called her Tiperary—so it was Tip she goed by, poor thing. Id give me dog a beater name. But do you know jist whin this weddin’ comes off?” ‘ ‘“By the twentieth of the month,” replied Tim, preparing his pipe for a smoke. “Oh, ear, and it’s the sixteenth to-day. Well, it’s mighty sorry I'd be to marry my daughter—” ** Whist!” exclaimed Tim, suddenly; ‘‘don’t ye know that walls have ears and Misther Har- rison is all over the house?” As if to verify his words, in came Harrison at that moment, holding up an article of apparel. THE LITTLE Arrah! see what ye | And | it’s vexed I am that I kape gittin’ things wrong | HETRESS. **My darling woman! he erted, his fine eves beaming with joyous light, ‘‘do help me out of my difficulty. Here’s my favorite collar, but- tonless—and mother and Annie are so busy that absolutely there’s no getting near them for a social word. Cotme—will you help me, and now?” “Sure will I,” said Bridget with alacrity, while Tim held his ipe out the window, “and it’s much joy I’d wish ye for the prospect of so good and gis ¢ a wife, Mr. The sight of her is a blessing,” she added. ‘* Aye—aqual to father Hennessy’s, any day,” rejoined Tim. “*T wasn’t comparing with the praist,” said Bridget, in a cold tone; “the blessing of the eyes is one thing—the blessing of the howly fa- ther another.” ‘‘ They’re both different,” mumbled Tim. “You may well give me joy,” said Harrison, lifting his head proudly. ‘A fairer or a sweet: er bride never came to any man’s home than she will be.” : ‘*So say you true,” spoke Bridget, handing him the mended article. ** How handy you are with your needle! In fact, with everything,” said Harrison, Leryn, into her fingers a silver coin. ‘‘ There, tha | will buy you a ribbon if nothing more.” ‘‘Isn’t he handsome, though?’ ejaculated Bridget, looking after him—* but as I was say- ing,” she added, with a glance of oracular wis- dom, ‘‘ shouldn’t you be afraid?’ “ Afraid of what?” ‘*Of them turns,” she whispered. **They’re all gone,” was the reply. “ But it’s in my head and on me heart the story ye told me about the odther ne boy. | The rage came on him suddenly, and he—” ‘“Whist! I tell ye,” cried Tim, really fearful; “that’s a thing that if mentioned and got to the ears of Mr. Lattison would ruin me intire- ly. Besides, it wasn’t wid him as wid Mr. Har- rison, for he weren’t of age, which Mr, Harri- son is, and the danger gone, accordin’ to th medical men in Paris, Vou nchee.” ‘‘Sure, an’ 1 hope so,” said Bridget, turning to her work. ‘‘ There! d’ye iver see the like? if I haven’t sewed this whole seam wrong side out! Tim, ye may depind upon it, there’s a trouble brewin’ somewhere.” ‘* Tt’s all your nonsense, Bridget.” ‘‘Didn’t I note it at the time Tooney Mike’s daughter died, jist on to tin wid the mazles? I was the one to sew on her dress, and I kept makin’ wrong stitches and gittin’ corners turn- ed end for end, and true as ye live, Tim Bum- ble, -there was an accident bappened-at the grave.” ‘An’ what was that?” queried Tim, with wide-open eyes. ‘‘Sure, what could happen to the dead?” ‘Well, it war the strangest sight these eyes iver saw—an’ if ye’d been to Ireland then, ye’d heard the story from town to town, for the tid- ings flew like the fire ina high wind. Why— now be aisy, Tim—look alive, man, ye’re - ing all the ashes out of your pipe on the floor. Well, they’d jist come to the grave af- ther they’d had their on gud wake, and the mo- ther was crying fit to kill herself, and the coffin .
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was sot down—-an’ the praist, he—well if iver, Tim Bumble ye’re trimbling like a lafe.” “Now, Bridget, be aisy and go on, woman— be and go on.” ca i ‘Well, we stood there thinking of the cowld an’ the poor mother’s sorrow, when some- body kneeled down to take a look—an’ he sprung up to his feet with a loud schriek, an’ says he, ‘ By the howl Virgin, she’s a-livin’!’” “ Now Bridget, gasped Tim, whose eyes stood out like two small ee “now, Bridget, it’s a sin and a shame to be tellin’ sich unprob- ble . “But didn’t I see wid me own eyes, and isn’t seein’ bel’avin’?’ queried Bridget, indignantly. “Very well—then I’ll howld me tongue; it’s no use for me to be talkin’.” “TI ax your pardon,” said Tim, humbly, “Tl not interrupt rs agen.” : “ But it makes me shiver in me bones to think of it,” continued Bridget, ‘how, as I stood there, there come a whisper, sort 0’ hollow-like, ‘she’s alive,’ and the people, ‘specially the ee ones, begin to scamper from the place. t were a time of confusion, intirely, an’ a thing I couldn’t see throvgh, for I’d sot up wid her, an’ saw the child treathe her last—an’ made her shrowd and seen the breath kindly out, and had the mates an’ sperrits at the wake, an’ I couldn’t bel’ave anythin’ about it. But as thrue as ye live, Tim—” ‘*Howly saints, what?” cried Tim, with star- ing eyeballs. ‘The girl was alive, an’ she’s alive this day,” said Bridget, with emphasis. “And d’ye call that an accident?’ queried Tim, shaking as he spoke, and laughing a little; ‘if it were, it were a mighty fine one, and it'd not trouble me if it happened the same to me- silf, when I l’ave ye a widder, Bridget.” ‘Sure, it’s a burial I like to see whin I ge to a ee said Bridget, coolly,‘‘ and a weddin’, whin I go to a weddin’; aitber one is proper in its Sey Well, well; by the way, me cotton kinks; there’s oin’ to be hard words somewhere. But what is Mr. Harrison going off for?” ‘‘ Why, afther he’s made his tower, I hear,” said Tim, quietly, for the storv his wite had been telling had subdued him, ‘his father’s in’ to make him into a merchant. It’s the ife of variety they say he wants, and that'll ve it. Then, sure, won’t we go to the city wid em, an’ won’t you an’ me shine, Bridget— och!” $ CHAPTER VII. THE GRANDFATHER’S STORY. Cora and her sister sat together in one of the cosiest little boudoirs that was ever seen. The dses, if not wealthy, still had enough to live in ease and refinement, and elegancies of the rich man were, many of them, scattered about their dwelling. The room in which his daughters were ensconced, like pretty pictures in a costly frame, was lined with tasteful hang- ing of blue silk and lace. It had been a dream of Cora’s, when she was a little child, that she had such an apartment, and her father, to grat- ify her wish, caused it to be arranged so as to surprise her on her return froma visit. Hence- THE LITTLE HEIRESS, 15 forth, the sisters occupied it together, and many happy hours had they passed there. Now, up- on the soft, white counterpane of the bed, a costly dress of rich lace lay gleaming in white light and gray shadow. ow beautiful it was! Arty never ceased to admire it, Neither child nor woman, her manner and her conversation presented the peculiarities of both. “The most splendid thing!” she exclaimed, looking up from her work every other moment; “how ould like to see myself in it over pink brocade—low neck and short sleeves. Shouldn’t I look pretty, say, Cora? But you will wear it over dead white--apell the effect. Ob, Cora, how shall you feel when you come to stand up? That must be the most eh lop Fight por all the people—I never could in this world.” ‘*You’ll not be very likely to in the next,” said somebody, entering at that moment. It was Frank. ‘* You needn’t scold, now, because I came in without knocking; I never thought. Flushed, am I? I’ve been running a race with Harrison —he’s the greatest fellow on horseback! Why, he goes like the wind: he seems fairly wild, and the faster he flies the wilder is he. I wonder we didn’t both break our necks or our horses’; but I was determined not to be beat. I put my determination into practice, and, consequently, wasn’t beat. But, oh! that’s the wedding fix- ing, is it? I forgot; 1 must buy some white gloves to say good-by in.” He stooped and kissed Cora on the cheek. Only a year older than his favorite sister, he felt keenly the pang of parting, and, though no one suspected it, there were tears in his eyes when he lifted bimself up. ‘*T wish I were going off with you,” he said, carelessly ; ‘‘ but, as arrangements are made for my future interests with a certain merchant in B——, why, I suppose I must stay at home. One comfort is that you will be in the city, and I can come and see you as often as I like. That will seem quite like home.” ** ‘You shall come and stay with us altogether,” said Coraline, Westen her cheek taking on a deeper hue as she used that conjunctive syllable, ‘No, no, if you please, little woman. A home of my own or the home of a stranger. How do you suppose I should feel if I overheard Harrison and you quarreling? To be sure, I should take your part, and get myself into trouble.” ‘“*Oh! but we sha’n’t quarrel,” said Coraline, so earnestly, that her brother laughed outright. ‘Td like to know who could quarrel with Coraline,” said Arty, quietly. ‘‘Ob, Cora! we're to have lots of those superb roses from the Grove; Harrison has ordered the gardener to cut them all down for bouquets. Won’t they be goer Pm going to have japonicas in my air. ‘‘T dare say you'll be trimmed up in great style, both of you,” responded Frank; and he began humming the ‘“‘ Wedding March.” Meantime, . and Mrs. ynolds sat to- gether, holding a conference. “Mr. Lattison insists upon presenting the house to Coraline,” he said, coming out of a brown study. “He is very generous and very kind, I sup.
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pose he thinks—” she hesitated; their eyes met? “Thinks what?’ queried Mr. Reynolds, ner- von yi anything should happen,” she —— | girdl er- timidly, ‘ self.” “Tf anything should happen,” murmured Mr. Reynolds, in an undertone. ‘‘Sometimes, wife, I feel miserably abput this match. We are not sure of his eniiré recovery; and what were all she would have something for 16 ff! LITTLE HEIRESS. | forehead,. see the marks of their scalpifig- the wealth and position compared to a fate like that?” ** She seemed to feel so for some time,” said his wife, thoughtfully ; ‘‘ but the poor child has loved him for years, and the pleadings of Anne and Mr. Lattison effected the matter at last. I think we have been wise in saying as little as possible, and, after laying the possible con- sequences before her, leaving her to her own judgment, It is strange that Harrison prefers, | with his want of experience, to go into active | business,” ‘*His partner understands enough for both. He is a fine, capable fellow, so my brother says, who is much interested in him, and thinks there never was another like him. I quite agree with you about business affairs, I think it will give Harrison constant and active employment, which he needs. Let us hope for the best, wife. Itis very certain that there is no hereditary taint in hi beautiful, bright, determined creature I never saw. I love him already like a son.” At that moment a carriage drove up to the house, Two venerable faces looked forth on the little throng that was instantly gathered in the veranda to greet them, Still hale, hearty and handsome, grandfather Reynolds needed no assistance from the vehicle. ‘* Well, children,” he said, as they gave hima loving welcome, ‘‘ I have come to the wedding.” “ And I, too,” eried grandmother Reynolds, who was leaning on the arm of herson, “Tm so young and smart,” she continued, smiling ‘‘T don’t know but you will want me for one of the bridesmaids.” By evening a pleasant company sat in the cheerful parlor. Anne Lattison and her brother were there; the old people, refreshed and I don’t know that | s blood, and a more | smiling, sat in arm-chairs, looking around them | with thankful hearts. Arty, and a young lady acquaintance of her own age, were seated at a table, and from the chandelier above fell a flood of mellow light on the beautifully colored plates of a book full of Indian faces, groups and costumes, ‘“*Oh! I do so dote on Indians,” exclaimed Arty, after exhausting her enthusiasm on a pe- culiarly handsome and richly-dressed chief. ‘*So what?’ exclaimed her grandfather, shak- ing back his silvery locks as he lifted his head, and his piercing glance went over to her. ** Why, dote on Indians, dear ndpa; they do look so noble here in their splendid furs, their richly-colored robes and their feathers.” ‘‘Noble! the bloodthirsty wretches!’ said the old man, holding forth one hand as he spoke, and smiting it with the other; ‘that, and this and every part of my body, in fact, is sca by those infernal d y, look here, child,” and he drew the white locks from his ample ' could just find our way back to the | knife, They left me for dead, once, and came near having theselocks hanging at their accursed rdles. ‘* Your grandfather always speaks plainly on that theme,” said Mrs. Reyeame “Why, dfather!” exclaimed Arty, draw- ing toward the old gentleman, ‘is it possible that you_ever had any trouble with real In- dians’ Was that white mark made by the sav- ages? “Yes. Talk about their bravery—the stub- born, inborn fiends, they don’t know what true bravery means. The courage of a beast is all they have. If you seen as much of the In- dians as I have, you’d never take those creatures of the painter’s imagination to be the Simon Pure _ savage. No, no; there’s a difference. Come, children, draw near, and I'll tell you a story that will cure you of doting upon Indians. ‘When I was a young man, I went West, -_ had many a bout wit & atone eie; ere was never an try in your old grand- father, Arty. I pay AL tet see anything beau- tiful in their hideously-painted faces, and, to tell the truth, they killed my only brother, and I hated the whole race. ‘“ Well, we had a long spell of peace, and had become tired of our "sc life in our cabins up- on mene station. It was too easy a life for young fellows—simpl ning, fishing, sleep- ng and eating. Weve like the mustached gentry of the present day—begging your par- don, young men. We couldn’t dress upin t times, and take little bits of paper in our hands, and go call upon the pretty ladies, to show off our teeth and broadcloth best part of the day. We were rough men in our h - frocks, who thought a good-sized deer none too heavy to throw over our shoulders after we had run him down, and to whom other dears were as fabulous as myths. ‘But, as L tell you, we—there were four of us—had become tired of idleness, and wanted another bout with the Indians. So knowing that a party had stolen some horses, and that they had taken their way to Chillicothe, we set out after them to regain the booty they. had taken, We reached Chillicothe a few days af- terward, and fell in with a drove of horses feed- ing in the rich prairie-grass. Of these we se- eured six, and started on our return. Before we reached the river a storm came up. The heavens grew black with clouds, and the wind blew like a hurricane. What) to do with the horses we could hardly decide, for they had be- come unmanageable. The river was so swol- len—its waves lashed with fury—that we dared not venture.to cross, and we were fearful of be- ing pursued. It was nearly evening, and we where, after hobbling our animals, we remained during the night. It was an awful scene. The rain pow in torrents; the lightning blazed from point to point; and the thunder seemed to crash and break against the hills. We were all ex: — to the fury of the tempest. In the morn- g L- clothes —< Gtonciends pete rented saved our powder ry tion. The wind, however, beak subsiiiod, and we tried again to get our horses over to the
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THE LITTLE HEIRESS, i? other side. It was in vain; the creatures re- sisted every attempt, and we were driven to tho alternative cf losing our lives or losing ou’ horses. Of course we chose the latter, and se-| a “say of us cne of the best, we made for | the “There was a handsome young fellow with us, a Kentuckian by birth, who thought we had scarcely had adventure enough yet, so he roposed to me to let the rest go on while e and I captured two splendid bays. We turned back, accordingly, and came the first thing on a trail of smoking savages, who gi had been undoubtedl ae us from the first. dear child, if you had seen them as | they really were, their faces streaked black and | yellow, their untanned blankets, rough leggins | and demoniac faces, you never would have doted on them, Willis, the Kentuckian, was some ways | ahead of me, and, by unsuccessful maneuvering, | fell immediately into their hands, It was a) direful sight to see them each drive with bis heavy club at the head of the poor fellow. He was down in less than a minute, and they scalp- ed him, throwing the fresh, bleeding skin over their weapons, and waving it in my sight, ‘*T was mounted on a splendid horse. They, too, were mounted and had ficet animals, so they pursued me at the top of their speed. For a time I escaped—only to fall into their bar- barous hands, however. Deceived by a voice I thought familiar, and the pronunciation of a word in English, I followed a trail, and still lured on by the supposition that I was on the track of the friends from whom I had separated, and who might have come back to the rescue. I went cautiously forward, but suddenly foun myself among a party of Indians who were so engaged, that, I suppose, if I had possessed presence of mind, I might have escaped, for I think they did not see me. However, deemin the boldest course would be the best, if plunge away into the forest, but they were uick for me, and were after me like ck of hounds. ing from my horse, I took ad- vantage some fallen timber, and tried to dodge them—to hide among the underbrush, but their cunning defeated my purposes. They divided into two parties and rode along on either side of the timber, beating it with their horrible weapons and driving me out at the op- posite end, where stood an enormous savage | with a lifted tomahawk. As he was about strike me to the earth, however, another Indian, equally powerful, lifted me as if I had been a fea- ther out of the way of the descending instrument of death. I was a prisoner, and ob] to make the best of it.” “Oh, grandfather!” cried Arty, “how did you feel “How did I feel? How would you feel with ten jabbering savages about you, each one look- ah if he could eat you without pepper or “Oh! dear,” cried Arty, shuddering, ‘I don’t know what f should have done. It must have been a trying moment,” “Not as trying as what followed,” re- plied the old man, shaking his white locks. ‘They muttered their outlandish gibberish in my face, making up hideous mouths, expressive of their intense disgust of me and of my race. They shook the scalp of r Willis against my very eyes, and I don’t doubt wan to serve mine the same way. Then leaving me helpiess- ly tied, they went out to catch the horses. The difficulty with which this feat was accomplished made them wilder than ever in their rage against me. I saw them deliberate, and knew by their gestures they were reserving me for some fearful doom. At last a tall Indias went without the circle and succeeded in leading one of the horses, a fiery, vicious animal who had ven me great trouble, and who, in his looks and movements seemed almost demoniac. Close to me they led him. I felt his hot breath against my face, and more than once his hoof threatened to crush my foot to atoms. I thought that in some way they intended my death by that monstrous gray horse, and so they did, but I had not calculated for the extreme cruelty of which they are capable. What was my horror when I found they were going to bind me on the animal, torture him, and set him free. Oh! ce are a second Maze pa!” cried Arty, listening meanwhile with wash ed, intense interest. ‘A distinction for which I paid cruelly,” said the old man, folding his arms and gazing into the fire. ‘‘They then lifted-me upon the horse, he all the while rearing, backing, snorting, and seating me with my back toward his head, they tied my feet under him. This made them great trouble, for the horse was nearly un- manageable, what with terror and viciousness, but for every annoyance he gave them they id me in blows or wounds with their knives. hey then threw a rope about my arms, draw- ing and lashing my back on the animal, another around my neck, tying that to the neck of p—~ horse, from three it was — to his tail, making it serve the purpose of a crupper. In ‘this way they secured me to the frantic beast, and all the while the demons incarnate danced, yelping and screaming about me, tes- tifying their infernal delight in the anticipated suffering that was to overtake me. They lashed the horse, not sparing. me, shouted in his ears, thrust their ves into him, and with shouts that sounded like thunder, turned him loose. The poor animal with the poor wretch upon him, dashed into the thickest of the woods. The horse, feeling his unusual burden and frantic to rid himself, took his way among the tangled undergrowth, brui me at every step, throwing me t projecting branches rearing, plunging, uttering the wildest cries ot terror. I longed and prayed for death. raved and sent up my cries of an with his. Sometimes I laid insensible, and then a dread- ful blow would bring me to agonizing conscious- ness, I knew death would come at last, but oh! the awful uncertainty! the sufferings that per- meated every bone, nerve, sinew. I can de- scribe pe like it. It is too dreadful to re- call, too frightful to portray.” The old man shuddered as he held his hand before his eyes asif to shut out a fearful eee ele, The young creature before him shuddered too, and tenderly took his hand in her own. Coraline was occupied in watching Harrison who sat nearer the light than she did. ‘If he
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18 betrays any unusual excitement,” she thought, as the story progressed, ‘‘1 tremble for my future. If not—then, heaven be thanked, I do not fear.” MHarrison’s eye had indeed lighted more than once, but his whole exterior was even calmer than that of Frank Reynolds, It wasa splendid test. ‘* Well,” continued grandfather Reynolds, | the horse at last became exhausted. What pre- vented him from rolling over and crushing me, heaven only knows. I was dying with hunger, sore in every inch of my body, longing only that death might put an end to my sufferings partly conscious—just alive, that was all—I seemed to know that my breath was near] — and wished to make no effort to retain it. | hen there came a 6 great blank —and how long after I know not, I found my- self lying on a bed in a log-hut, and an angel- faced gt bending over me, ‘** He has opened his eyes, mother,’ were the first words I heard, and then all was a blank again. It seems the sagacity of the horse had led him to the first habitation after he was thoroughly subdued. It proved to belong to an eastern family. They treated me with the greatest care, the tenderest consideration, It was months before I was well, and completel cured of a longing to encounter the Indians. referred after that a home of my own and the ooming girl in the log-house for a wife, ‘And aunt Margaret was your nurse?” said Art THE LITTLE HEIRESS. ‘that stud of his would break any man but a | mona yee ‘ sé ear it, sorry ear it,” respond- ed the off man, with a malevolent shake of the head, ‘‘ Well, if he gets into trouble he needn’t come on his wife’s old uncle—can’t do a cent’s worth for him—not a cent’s worth.” The object of their discussion was Harrison 'Lattison. Old Mr. Lattison was dead. He had left less of a fortune than his family had reason | toexpect. Mrs. Lattison had gone with Anne, | who_ was married to a western lawyer. Mr, and Mrs, Reynolds had also passed away, Arty | had been a wife some time, and Frank was a ' merchant in the city. Coraline had been married sixteen years. Du- ring that time she had known no wish un i- ‘fied.. Three children blessed their fireside—Flla, a girl of thirteen, Harrison, in his sixteenth year, and a little pet called Charley, of some six or seven summers. It was true that Mr. Lattison had been living agreeably fast. His house was a wonder of beauty and convenience —his conservatory a miracle of sweets and color, while his splendid barouche, and elegant coachman in livery were the envy of the city. Harrison had shown a great dislike of his part- ner, Mr. Sylvester, who really took great pains to be attentive to the ladies of his acquaintance, and who So grape: Lattison’s much more than was agreeable to either the husband or the wife. This had resulted in the | Se ee ievance Mr. Sylvester “Not this one, my dear; that Margaret sleeps | in a grave in the prairie-land.” Somebody proroms music. Frank whirled | himself round toward the piano and dissipated the sadness that had settled upon the little com- y by a vigorous sweep up and down the aa breaking into a lively barcarole, until singing and mirth became the order of the evening. In one week from that time there | was a wedding in the mansion—and Coraline became the wife of the only hope and heir of 4 ; the Lattisons. CHAPTER VIII. A TERRIBLE SHOCK. ** WELL, Sylvester, how is business?” The question was addressed by a portly old | gentleman to his would-be young friend—an exquisitely made-up man. “Business, sir—a—I—really can not tell, sir. I’ve left your nephew, sir, I really couldn't What? Youd s t ou don’t mean that you’ve broken the ership?” é **To be sure I do, sir, and I will go to to the dogs—to the ‘“ Why what do you mean, sir?” “Just what I say, Mr. Reynolds. Lattison is | a queer fish—a little unsettled I should think. Zounds, sir, because I was somewhat attentive to his handsome wife, he picked up a quarrel with me; in fact, once or twice as good as told me to leave the house, I won’t put up with an insult, sir, from any man, and s0 we are no longer friends. Besides, he’s living ruinously. Why. his father’s fortune is all run through— Seopheay. Lattison ogs, sir.” tions—he would begin life anew in some strange capacity and leave her to think him dead—and then he should see what he should see. It was a sudden resolution, born of a temporarily dis- ordered brain. He sat down to his table, and © | wrote with a desperate hand, the following note: “Dear Wrre:—When you read this, forget me. I am going to throw myséif into the river where the current runs strongest and deepest, and cu he who vege ty to find my body. I know you love me dearly, and I would say here, it is) my wish that you do not marry again. I have tailed, but the house and furniture are yours to do as you please with, Adieu, and God bless you. “Byer yours, even in death, “Harrison La 1 ( never m fore an exqu
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| | \ | Rs Tn THE LITTLE HEIRESS, 19 beautiful wife; “this will put her to the test— and I shall see, now, the depth of her sorrow.” Again and again he read the note, each perusal seeming to plunge him deeper and deeper in thought. As he looked up, his glance fell upon pictures whose prices would have beggared some men, statuary upon which the soft light fell like sifted gold, hangings | whose gleams took the hues of rich metals, and swept the thick ts as the glossy locks of dusky beauties fall on the woven fabrics of their robing. He walked idly to the window, attracted by some commotion in the street. Opposite, at the end ef a small square, dangled ek ane we It was the only blot upon that re- spectable neighborhood, as he himself bad often said--that detestable broker’s shop, He had many times wished that some friendly fire might turn the place into ashes—it seemed so natural that ashes should be the end of things. Now a cart foe ee down and stood oe the door. A few bundles were thrown in, a chair or two, an old di and the window stood blank, deserted. The er had broken. No more to him should come faded old women with faded old shawls bringing their hard-earned treasures on which to raise a few pennies that they might buy bread for hungry mouths. No more would gaunt and haggard men turn the corner—gazing with fierce eyes beyond them to see if they were noticed or ; or little children, their rags and tatters ag bb with bare blue feet to that place of Jewish extortion. The broker as well as the merchant had dead failed. As m stood there vainly dreaming, a strange, wild thought came into bis brain. It was this: he would turn broker, and enjoy the daily pleasure of beholding his wife and Children. For a long time he laughed and chuckled like a child, at the idea; then leaving the note where his wife would be sure to see it when she came home, he hurried from the house, toward the shop of an old Jew by the name of Elam, and found him at home. “Well, what do you want?’ he eried, wrink- ling bis long nose, his eyes like two coals burning in the center, shining straight on bis visitor. “To hire the little hole 2 + ge my house for a poor friend,” was the reply. ‘Vat little hole? Ish it in de pavement?” queried the old man, shrewdly. ** No, no; you know well enough what I mean —the t balls.” “Eh! dat ish it~you turn broker—ha! it would pe goot,” and the eyes twinkled with a tanic merriment. “Nonsense; | came to hire the shop for a friend,” said Harrison, nervously. “‘Ah! but hash bin offered three dollars a week for him,” ,, Loo much; but for the sake of securing it, I'll give you three and a quarter, and pay you down for two months.” yi Done; you is a shentleman.” I wish I could return the compliment,” said The Je e Jew laughed, wrinkling his long .nose, twinkling his bright eyes. fe would have thought, if he had im the secret, that this was very queer work for a man who contem- plated his own funeral. ‘“When will your friend take ze shop?” asked the son of Abraham. ‘*Perheps in two days,” was the reply. *“ And if he not pay me goot when ze two months gone?’ “Then turn him out.” * Ay! I turn him out,” was his quick answer}; “ do it a great many times. I says money or out—and it is shenerally cut—he, he!” Harrison smiled, in fact he chuckled to him: self. In his hallucination it seemed such a fine thing to deceive this old wretch of a Jew—to deceive his wife and everybody. A fine chance it would be to learn how they regarded him— passing judgment on his mre giving false versions of his a love to his widow! oh! it was too good: and he rubbed his palms together as he thought, and screamed internal- ly with laughter. His next movement was toward an old clothes shop. Here he exchanged his garments for a dusky, bottle-green suit, and learned the art understood by Jews, of dyeing bis skin and hair in such a manner that the disguise was most complete, especially when aided by a false beard and mustache. In this make-up he was quite as handsome, perhaps presented a more imposing appearance than in his usual garb. It gave an Israelitish cast to his features and made the representative of a cast-off nation kingly in exterior and splendid in face. Quietly he en- tered the forsaken shop as if he had forgotten his previous existence, and domiciled himself there. The strange malady of mind under which he labored precluded any feeling of re- gret at his change in life, at his separation from a beloved family. He was like a child in an absorbing play—forgetting himself in the fasci- nation of personating somebody else. Before night the few humble household articles which were needed to furnish his narrow quarters ar- rived, and he was established. Coolly and com- posedly on the following morning he read the following paragraph in the morning paper: “Tt is our painful duty to record, ete. . . . left his home under melancholy circumstances, ete. . . . afflicted family, etc. - one of our sterling citizens, previous to - etc., etc.” He had now commenced in good earnest— and, quietly seated opposite his grief-stricken family, amused himself with his disguise CHAPTER IX. A WIDOW, YET A WIFE. CORALINE, unconscious of the strange hallu- cination that had overtaken her husband, or the sudden failure, was = campy a pleasant afternoon with a friend. She was yet a beauti- ful woman, looking scarcely older than when, sixteen years before, she had given her hand so trustingly to Harrison. The remembrance of his ear q malady had become like a dream to her, and though she had met with trouble in the loss of her parents, she had been so shielded and cherished, Phat age sat lightly on her. She was et scarcely thirty-seven, and the little daughter, Lattison, was a miniature edition of her mother. Mrs. Lattison, was a great favortte
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with all who knew her. The life of her own home, she was also the delight of each circle that numbered her among its members. Her husband had lavished every care and attention upon her. She was a finished musician, an ac- complished artist, and adorned her beautiful home with every grace belonging to the feminine character. She stood in the conservatory with her friend and hostess, Twilight was gathering. They were admiring a superb calla lily, through whose creamy, crystal-like veins the rays from the sinking sun sent a crimson so delicate that it seemed the touch of some spirit_ mingling the hues of heaven with the tints of earth. ““ By the way, have you seen that lily Harri- son bought me last week?” asked Cora, of: her | friend. ““No, but I am told it excels nature,” was the reply. Mt is a wonderful work of art,” Cora re- mded. ‘‘ Harrison was tempted to its pur- | chase, because it once belonged to a friend with whom his family became acquainted in England —a lady Catharine Worthington, who had a eo. eal of trouble, poor thing, and whose ittle daughter, I have heard said, is the disputed heiress of fifty thousand pounds which she will probably never recover, You must come and | see it, for 1am sure you will admire it as much as I do. But I must hurry home—Harrison would never eat his supper without me.” The house’ of Mrs. Lattison was but a few blocks from that of her friend. Oh! how little | she knew the seeming trouble—so real to her— that was so soon to fall upon her defenseless head, as she neared that beloved place. 4 Charley, love, stand up straighter,” she said | to her little boy, as they passed gayly on, ‘or | you will never be a gentleman.” ‘**T can’t, mother; I want a cane like Harry’s —a gold-headed cane, his is, but Dll be content with a silver one with two cunning little tassels. 1 know it’s the cane that makes gentlemen stand up so straight.” ‘What an odd child!” said Cora, turning to Ella, whose sweet face, framed in its blue and white, reflected her mother’s smile. “ How very quiet it looks,” said Mrs. Lattison, lancing up at the window-blinds. ‘‘I don’t fink your father has returned yet. Did he speak of an engagement, Ella?” **T think not, mother, but you know he is not at home sometimes till the last moment.” The bell rung. Bridget Bumble, stouter and louder voiced than ever, let them in. ‘Is Mr. Lattison in, Bridget?* ‘* It’s not to me positive knowledge that he is, but he’s been scudderin’ roun’ the house like a cat sence you went out, Missis Cora.” “What! has he been at home all the after- noon?” ‘* That’s true he has, boderin’ me entirely by askin’ when would ye be home. And ag’in it is he’s gone afther ye.” “Gone after me!” exclaimed Cora, in aston- ishment. ‘‘Oh! then he’]l soon be back when he finds we are not there—but it is strange we did not meet him, though I suppose he has gone by another street.” ** Well, what did the misthress say?” queried | | Oh! heaven, be merciful. | dead—drowned!” fHE LITTLE HEIRESS. Tim, who as usuai was lounging and smoking after his customary nap. It is needless to re- cord that Tim’s place was a sinecure, ‘“Not at all surprised,” said Bridget. ‘*In- dade, I don’t belave she iver thinks of the ould times.” ‘*Well, I’ve seen it comin’ on him, and it | wouldn’t surprise me in tho laist if he'd one of his ould turns as bad as iver. There’s the look in his eye I don’t like, and the way he moves about from one thing to the odther isn’t right and reasonable for any sane man. Jist as he used—there he’s a-singing to himself and a- smilin’ and a-mutterin’. The saints protict us | if he’ll have ’em as bad as he iver did. It’s what I’ve bin seein’ wid me eyesshut for months an’ months,” ** Ah | poor lady—it’s her I pity, an’ she so on- conscious of it, An’ it’s afraid I am to go to bed of a night for fear I'll be dragged out of me sleep and murthered before ’'m awake.” Mrs. Lattison followed her daughter into the latter’s dressing-room. ‘“*T believe I'll lay my bonnet on your bed and o down immediately to practice. The clock 1as struck six, and when your father comes, you know, we don’t like to practice. He-is so good There was a musical soiree in pr t in which Mrs, Lattison was to show her fine abil- ity. Seven o’clock came, and she was deep in the intricacies of a difficult waltz, when the door opened and Ella entered. “Has your father come?’ asked her mother, without glancing up. ‘‘No, mother, but what is this ?’ ‘“ What, darling?” and still the bright eyes were bent on all but impossible chords and frantic quavers. ‘* A note, mother—in papa’s writing, I should | a husband, so excellent a father.” | think.” ‘Oh! a note, child, let me see it,” and the hand was stretched forth, now—the face all ex- tation. “T found it on your dressing table, mamma,” | and Ella gave it to her, her bright face yet un- | blanched of its smiles, Tremblingly Cora held the fatal missive. The /moment she felt its touch, a deathly faintness seized her—a presentiment of coming evil gave her a sharp chill. Her face grew white; she looked at it as a thing afar off. Slowly she opened—hurriedly read it—then cameacry such. as you may have heard once, reader—a voiced woe peteccs with anguish, fright and horror. Mother!” Ella was at her side, g ing the clenched hands, her own sweet face distorted with fear. ‘“ Mother, what is it? What has hap pened? gtpene is my father?’ **Dead—dead!” came in piteous gaspings. lla, your father is Shrieks and uproar—faintings—frantic flying | from place to place—was the order of that ter- riblehour. The physician was sent for—Frank was summoned—Arty was ill and could not come, The house was a caravansary until the following day. Tim and Bridget had their hands full, Old Mr. Reynolds, the uncle, stalked from room to room, uttering disagreeable adjec-
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ee ee ee eee de) tives as the cost of this and that legance occur- red to his mind. “Fool and his money soon parted,” he sneer- ed, tapping the beautiful statue of a Hebe con- temptuous it—smart fellow that Sylvester; saved himself remarkably. Ah! there youare!” he muttered, as Tim flourished his immense bandanna over the head of the statue, solicitous to remove the | slightest dust. ‘‘ You’re out of a place.” “‘M’aning me, sir?’ queried Tim, looking up. “Oh! no, sir—it’s in me place I am,” and he wiped away so vigorously that the dust caused the old man to sneeze. “Look out, you rascal!” he cried, ‘‘ you've | got no master to indulge you now, remember.” “* Sure, an’ it’s the same as if I had,” quoth Tim, indignantly. “I'll not be Paving the house, nather me nor Bridget, till the mistress puts me out.” .. “‘Humph—mistress—she’s not worth a farth- Ing now, man; how will vou get your wages?” _* Troth, an’ won’t J work for me board?” que- ried Tim, opening bis eyes. ‘Sure an’ I will if the board be but.a crust an’ that not large enough | for twoivus. It’s not money I cares about— it’s Bridget ‘ll arn the money—for more than me, mark ye—she’d work her hands off for the mist an’ she’ll do it if it’s necessary it is.” “You're a numskull like the man that hired you,” muttered the surly old fellow, angry in his selfish heart at finding so much good in an inferior. ** [t's not you I'll be hearin’ eall Mr. Harrison names, nor any odther man,” he responded. “‘Thare wasn’t many fit to walk in me master’s shoes; an’ if iver he turns up—which mayn’t be likely, as down in the ocean he is—he’ll prove it, ye better belave. Och! the crusty ould bach that he is,” added Tim, as the object of his wrath moved down stairs. ‘‘I’d like to fetch him up wid a kick clare to the bottom of the owe n the hall below, uncle Reynolds, the dis- satisfied, met a magnificent individual. ‘Very unfortunate, very; but it was well he left her something—that is, he didn’t leave it, but the house belonged to her—a gift from his father, I believe,” said Mr. Reynolds, at the same time patting the youngest boy on the head as he met. 3 the child’s great terror. ** Yes, left a handsome widow, though,” said Sylvester, with a significant leer. ‘Still young, | charming—make a very good match yet, should- | n’t wonder.” ‘Hum! shouldn’t wonder,” echoed the elder- ly relative, with an expressive gesture. ‘I always thought there was a wrong streak in that fellow’s brain. He was an enigma to me. How he became a settled man of family, I can’t for the life of me tell. I heard that my brother knew before his marriage with Cora, that there was trouble of that kind. I am astonished that the union was allowed.” * Yes, she’s a charming woman,” said Mr, Syl- vester, still soliloquizing. i a face like those wax heads one sees in barbers’ windows, and, like them, all false. His forehead and nose were as straight as a rule—every other feature was mathematically broportioned; but he was fifty, wore false hair, THE LITTLE HEIRESS, with hiseane. ‘‘ Sylvester foresaw | 21 false teeth, a false complexion and a false. bust, | though a very military one, “Well, well; in time initiate yourself into her good graces—that is all I have to say.” Poor Cora; she was plunged in the deepest affliction. Her husband had been an object, al- ways, of idolatry. She robed herself in deep mourning. Days, weeks, months passed, and still the same rigid propriety. She seldom spoke of her husband save to her children. Her sorrow was her own—too sacred, too great for worldly eyes to look upon. CHAPTER X. THE PAWNBROKER AT HOMF. MEANTIME, the new broker was an object of unlimited curiosity. Who could he be? The last proprietor was a stooping skeleton, with knees and elbows threatening to develop into rags, and an impudent resolution in his thin face as he peered into every window. But this man was a gentleman—so tall, so superb a figure. The young lady who lived next door to the Lattisons declared bim magnificent; and, as she was given to reading old-fashioned novels, she yut him down at once for a nobleman in disguise. | **ff there was only some way of learning | about him,” she said, confidentially, to her lady’s | maid; ‘I should like to find out if he is really a gentleman. By his walk and bearing I am | about certain; but then, bis business!” “Why! I shouldn’t mind going there with something just to please you,” said Jennie, who wanted to see the man just as much as her mis- tress did. “Well, suppose you do, Jennie. Put on an old hood and cloak; and, by the way, I shouldn’t mind having a little extra change—papa is growing so stingy, and I will pay you for your trouble.” **Oh! no occasion, miss, ’'m sure; and, thank | you;” which latter clause was equivalent to say- | ing that of course she expected something. | Jennie made up her bundle—an old satin dress, a shawl, almost as good as new, only out | of fashion, an antique gold pencil-case, and a queer miniature of somebody’s grandmother, set in brilliants, that had been found by one of the family in the streets of Liverpool, and which the young lady had often laughed at for its oddness and age. The gold and the brilliants were dim, and not worth much. At the same time that the girl entered the broker's shop, there went in a tall, lean-lookin woman, of an uncertain age, who held a child of some ten or twelve summers by the hand. The child made a comical picture. Her pretty head with its flaxen curls was hidden in an over-large bonnet of the coarsest straw—evi- dently of home manufacture. Her little hands were incased in loose, large, wrinkled gloves; | her dress was entirely out of fashion, being | long, dowdy and uncouth, while two pretty little feet tried to show themselves under the | creasing of stout, homely morocco shoes, Jen- nie felt like laughing outright at this diminu- | tive, dressed-up specimen of childhood, but | there was something in the lovely blue eyes up- | turned to hers, Meseme in thestern, pale face | of the woman who st guard over her, that
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~~ SS eennaninemeneieneeeeemmeneneen rene ee checked the a to make mirth, and she turned quite soberly toward the broker. He stood there, serene, dark and handsome. His piercing eyes put her quite out of counte- nance. His air—so Jennie told her mistress— would well become a great lord; ‘‘and oh! but he is handsome, miss. He showed such white teeth as he talked. But, dear me, there was the queerest woman there, and the oddest child; and when [I laid that picture on the counter, you should have seen the old creature start, and come forward and look, and look at it, and look at me, till her mouth opened, and her eyes shone, and I really thought she was going toeat me. Ido believe she was a poor thing, and tempted to steal that old miniature if she could.” ‘But, did he reall give you any money, | u “? Jennie, for those old “‘Oh! the money, miss; why, here it is—six dollars, ma’am; and he gave to the utmost he could afford, so he said, and four months to re- deem them.” 22 THE LITTLE HEIRESS. | ! “Why, that shawl cost me twenty-five only | summer before last,” said the young lady; “but never mind; it’s a good way to sell old duds, But come, tell me how he looked, and what he said, and whether he really is as hand- some near, as he seems from my window.” While Jennie is entering into particulars, it will be worth while to return to the three balls, and witness the close of the interview be- tween the pale woman, the little child and the | broker. The latter had noticed something peculiar in the couple who sought his attention. Perhaps | his heart yearned toward the frail, perishing beauty of the sweet-faced child. He gazed at her long and earnestly, then broke the silence by saying: “Well, madam?” She came forward, and seemed grateful for his respectful look and manner. She was a | girl, and has been cruelly wron singular being in sig ae so very tall, so | weird in her face. on the counter, which could bring but a meager poem she waited his inspection. Her cheeks ad not lost the unnatural red that had flushed them as the last comer went out, nor her eyes the singular light. **Oh, sir,” she cried, eagerly, “Tm afraid you will think very strangely of me; but, if you would please let me look at the miniature that you just took of that young woman.” ‘* Certainly,” said the broker, smilingly, pass- ing it into ber hands. “Oh, yes, it is the very one; it must be, Catharine—my lady—oh, sir, I am so much overcome, you must excuse me;” and she leaned her head on ber thin hand. “Have you really found it? Is that the miniature you talked so much about?” lisped positing a small bundle | ——— " — reenact manner, **T am very anxious indeed to find out about it.” ‘Tam sorry I can’t enlighten you,” said the broker, his voice and manner full of irierest; “but I don’t know the young womar, por where she be longs. Most of the respectable peo- ple who come here, when they give names, give assumed ones, and many oO em never call — ~ or a moment the woman held back, as if her _ had been touched by these allusions; but t was only a moment. **Oh! then, sir, den you will sell it,” she cried, eagerly. “If you could only let me have it, sic, for the trifle you gave her, or something over, —— in time, I may be able to offer youa undred dollars for the favor.” She spoke eagerly, clutching at the counter with both hands, and her prospective offer of a hundred dollars seemed so almost ludicrous that the broker smiled. “T assure you, sir,” she continued, excitedly, “it is not worth much to anybody but me, sir— this little child and myself. Those stones are not real, sir—they were, once, or rather the good jewels have been taken out, and paste sub- stituted.” ** You have a keen eye,” said the broker. ‘Ah! sir, I have seen precious stones enough, in my time, to detect the imitation readily. husband was a jeweler,” she added, her voice faltering a little. ‘‘He often said my eye was as good as a glass.” ‘You seem very much interested in this min- iature,” said the broker, taking up the tarnished oval frame and scanning it closely, during which time the woman trembled visibly. “Yes, sir, lam. It—it belo to the mo- ther of this poor little orphan, who is an English ged and ke: t out of her rightful property. For over ten years it has been lost and mourned. She is eleven—you mightn’t think it, sir, being so small of her age and not over strong.” “So it is a family relic, I | mnt “‘A family relic, sir; the likeness of this dear little child’s grandmother, and if you could by any means let me have it, you don’t know what a favor you would be conferring—indeed, sir, | you don’t know. the thin, unchildish voice, ‘‘Oh, Bentley! Lam | 80 glad.” “Yes, child, I have found it, but, alas! it is not mine, Miss Catharine, not mine, you see,” she replied, in a mournful voice; ‘ though, per- haps,” she added, her face yg ae ‘the zentleman knows who brought it in and I can earn where she got it, and may be recover it, You see, sir,” she went on in a lady-like , “T will do this, madam,” said the broker, im- preset by her grief and earnestness. “Come ere in a month; if the woman redeems it, I will ascertain who she is, and what it can be ob- tained for. If she never returns the trifle shall be yours for the same amount I gave her for its keeping—if you are not able to pay me that, why I will make it a present to the little blue- eyed lady here—and she shall only thank me.” ‘*Oh! sir, I will work my fingers to the bone but what I will repay you for your kindness,” replied the tall woman, tears of gratitude which she strove in vain to repress, falling from her eyes. ‘‘ Come, Catharine, my little fad , thank this kind, good gentleman, who does not know what a weight he lifts from two hearts.” “‘Tm sure I thank you, sir:” and the smallest white hand, the most perfect model of a child’s hand he had ever seen, was held toward the
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counter. The broker shook it very gently as he | replied, in even softer tones: | Mga very welcome, both of you; it isa | v service on my part. to At entag och ae and the woman and her charge were walking rapidly down the street. | ‘Oh! Catharine, Ca e; God is good!” the woman said, with emphasis, clasping the child’s hand so tightly that she exclaimed: “ Bentley, you are so glad for something, that do you know = hurt my hand?” "Do I, darling? Well, it’s worth it; worth being hurt for; worth laboring all these long, dark, awful years, feeling that others were feeding off your dishes, others were trading with your gold; it’s all worth it, Catharine—I should | say, my lady,” she added, her voice changing. ‘Oh! pray don’t, good Bentley; it hurts me to hear you say that. No matter what comes, you must always call me Catharine, won’t you? But I don’t see, after all, what makes you so | glad. To be sure you have found r dear grandmamma’s likeness, but she has n gone these many, many years, and the frame t worth any thing?’ ‘That frame is worth half a million,” replied the tall woman, solemnly. **Why, Bentley—I hope you are not going to | be crazy,” said the child, with an odd serious- ness. ‘Crazy! ha! hal I’ve heard of such things as people being turned crazy for joy, but I think my old brain is too strong for that. It has | borne the shock of your mamma’s death and | your misfortunes, poor little soul! it can bear more.” | “Well, I only hope you will get the minia- | ture, since it pleases you so, but I’m sureI can’t | see why it should,” said the child, composedly. | “‘Never you mind, Catharine, darling, and | when I you my lady, as is your proper | right and title, don’t you say nothing to me: it does me good, you see. And I think I'm not forward, nor ful, nor presuming either in saying that one of these days, not very far off either, Catharine rides in her own carriage, as — should, and mayhap poor old Bentley beside er.’ “Of course,” said the girl, with her unchild- | ish seriousness, ‘“‘ whatever comes, you shall al- | ways be close to my side, I am very grateful to you for your gree and patience; I only | wish you would let me show you now, more | than you do, how much I love you; but you | won’t.” } By this time the two bad approached a large, 8 tenement, whose hanging shutters, rat- tling windows, uneven doors and unpainted and dilapidated exterior told of a — decrepi- | fj tude. The stains upon its sides, seen in the moonlight, looked like tears wept ages and ages ago, and every broken and hanging clapboard seemed to havea meaning of its own, more of the sad than agreeable t. Very soon the quaint tall woman, and the little, queer, oldish | child passed into the narrow entrance and were | eater thoy bed ter the broker stood some | minutes in deep tBought. “T have certain! seen that woman before,” he mused to himself, “her countenance is as familiar as if we met but | | of Tim Bum | and sidled up to the counter, looking askance at | afraid THE LITTLE HEIRES*, 93 accra = et where?’ Again and again the in, stern , 80 impossible to forget when once seen, came up before his vision. ‘I have seen Sor babies ut not here,” he still solilo- uized; ‘‘it must have been in England. The child is wronged—she is English—her name is | Catharine—can she be in any way connected with the Lady Catharine with whom my mother cotseigemiedy It must be that I saw her in that family—yes, I remember now—” His soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance a e. Tim came in a new character the broker as if caught in the act or with the in- tention of stealing. “ An’ sir, if 1 may be so bowld, do ye take in watches, sir?’ queried Tim, bringing his two hands closed upon the counter. “What do you mean—have you a watch to pawn?” asked the man in disguise. ‘By all the powers if ye haven’ta voice like _ the masther that’s drowned and the same figger, batin the whiskers and baard,” cried the man, taken by surprise. ‘‘ Bridget said the misthress noticed it too—a—ye’ll excuse me, sir—it’s only dr’amin’, I am—Il’m mighty apt to dr’ame whin I'm wide awake. Sure it’s a good watch it is an’ pure gowld—and no harm aither to put it where it’ll kape safe.” The broker took the watch: it was his own. Something seemed to go through his brain like | lightning, when he lifted it in his hand. The two separate beings he sometimes seemed con- flicted; fora moment he was himself, trembling under a sense of possible degradation, anxious to fly to his family and make reparation for bis long absence—then that singular dual who claimed no affinity with any human creature, who existed only to bide all traces of bis for- mer kindred relations to the world—drove the other from his mind, and he was the broker again, chuckling over his success in duping the ms to whom he was nearest and dear- est; and he rejoiced over the cunning that en- abled him to hide his identity while he had mind enough in full force to understand all that was ing around him, and to transact the business © bad undertaken. ““How came you by this watch?” he asked, sternly. “It is not yours.” The Irishman gave one terrified glance at the eyes that sonmed to read him. “It’s very quare, intirely, that you come to know tbat,” he said, in a thick voice, ‘an’ sure though I’m not a man that the looks of me would suppose could own a gowld watch—but if ye’ll be aisy wid me, I’]] tel Phe It’s the son of the poor gintleman as drowned himself, wid your gger an’ form intirely, as put the watch into me hands for a lcan on’t, ye may say, an’ the thought struck me that mebbe the misthress was wanting money. Ye’ll not whisper it, but it’s am the young gintleman ll go to the bow-wows and break the heart of his modther, though I know it’s in poor circumstances they be,” and he shook his head wofully. ‘How came your master to drown simself?”’ asked the trcker, chuckling over his secret. “Sure an’ his biziness wint wrong intirely, an’ whin there was nothin’ to the fore, why he wint an’ put himself out of the way. An’ it
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24 wasn’t the fault of him aither, for he’d a verra bad constichusion.”’ ‘* And his wife?’' queried the broker, “‘ she’s as gay as ever! ri a “Gay, is it? Ye'd better be saying gay, ye had. ¥f iver a woman was sp’iling herself, an’ lettin’ her good looks go hang, it’s the misthress. Och! it’s verra dark she kapes, an’ niver a smile upon her swate countenance. Sure, an’ I think she married him for life and death too—indade I do.”” “She doesn’t have much company, I perceive,” said the broker. **Company—it’s company she won't look to, only barrin’ her own sisther and brodther. Bridget, who’s me wife, an’ as smart a woman as the nixtif not smarter, says there’s a power of gintle- men that come there, jist for to make love to the widdy—but she jist shakes her head, an’ Bridget’s the one to tell them the misthress is ingaged so they | will know what she manes.” “That oldest boy, you say, is rather fast.” * Vis, jist as fast as he can be widout the money. If the father 'd a lived—heaven rest his sowl—it’s afraid lam he'd had big throuble with him; but r boys, sir, even if they makes a show, sir, can’t ave their own ways on’y to a degree—that ye know.” The broker shook his head, but Tim, grown garru- lous, detailed the circumstances of the family from Bridget’s standpoint, and finally ended with the sagacious remark that Bridget thought their best course would be to take boarders. At this the broker started—it seemed to wake up that other self for a moment, and a keen shock of regret pessed through his mind. But he conquered himself in time to hide all signs of feeling; and giv- ing a larger sum onthe time-piece than Tim rad been told to expect, he watched the Irishman’s fur- THE LITTLE HEIRESS. tive attempts to make his route more circuitous as | he left the shop. at CHAPTER Xi. TAKING BOARDERS. Tre broker diminished his light, and standing in the doorway (it was a summer night) looked over the way. Six months had passed, and as yet there had been no sound or sight of merriment. The cur- tains and inner. blinds were closely drawn. times the tones of the piano could be heard—they were no longer full, merry or harmonious. But the pseudo-broker stands by his shop door; let him speak for himself. “Well, the play progresses—and T know pretty well what people hink of me now. My wife's oe age old uncle, it seems, never thought my rain sound. By some I’m looked upon as a swin- Some- I feel that I am wronging them—but no, no! that ean not be—that can not be,”’ and talking stil be himself, he entered his shop and retired to old place. Mrs. Lattison sat smiling and sigh miniature. A letter, broadly lay open before her. jt was from Anne bringing intelligence of her mother’s death, Old Mrs. ttison was gone—hai died breathing blessings on her son, of whose sup- posed fate she had not been allowed to learn. Anne’s letter was like herself, calm, unimpassioned, but filled with expressions of sorrow for her bri - ther’s misfortune and sad suicide, and her mother's less terrible fate. Misfortune had also overtaken her—her husband had failed, and her great regret “ that she was not in a situation to offer her sister a home. ‘“Who would have thought, sixteen happy years ago,” she wrote, “‘ when we all met at the Grove with our loyed ones around us, that in this time we should be separated—some of us dead—and others in affliction?” Again the deserted wife lifted the miniature, “If I could have seen him only once more,” she said, the tears gathering, ‘if I had only stayed at home that day! I see him in dreams how often—and al- ways he has come back to me from some long journey, with the white light of heaven shining in is face.” A light footstep was heard. Mrs. Laitison gathered the letters together and placed them away, Ella came in to her forsome advice. She was startled at her mother’s look. ‘* Mamma, do tell me if you have any new grief,” she asked, as her mother sighed*heavily. ‘“My dear,” was her reply, “I believe we are growing very poor.” * Poor! oh, no, mother—uncle would not surely let us be very POOR * Ah! my child, how little you know of men’s hearts. é is entirely unlike my father, your dear randfather, whom you remember. He has an ob- fect in his kindness, a selfish object.” over a sinall with black, “Oh! now, mamma, that is hardly charitable. Think how beautifully he spoke when he gave me that little present, and some pocket-money. Here —I thought of buying some new dresses, but you shall have it all.” ; “Thank you, darling. This willdo something, but not much. We must begin to cast about us and see what can be done. I might teach music but for my ccs =e You can as yet do nothing.” Nae y mother—must we go out to work?—why need we?” asked Ella, with a mortified air. dler, and but few, very few, in summing up my char- ‘* Because we are in debt, my child. Your brother acter, say, ‘He was an honest man.’ All this time | is not careful with the money he earns—there is they think me dead and food for fishes,”’ he broke | notnin coming in—and we shall lose the little we into a nervous laugh. “No matter, I’m careless | have, if we do not make some extra exertion.” upon that point—let the world wag and spout—am Ella was thoughtful. I not Benjamin the Jew and the broker? ‘** What motive do you think uncle can have?” she “So that contemptible Sylvester, my partner—he | asked, a few moments afterward, whose envious tongue was half my ruin, probably “He wishes me to marry Mr. Sylvester,” replied thinks that my wife looks very charming in black. | her mother, He's a great favorite with my wife’s dear old uncle Ella raised her hands with a cry of horror. ‘‘ Mar- —ah! there he goes deliberately up the steps of my | ry him!—that frightful man—I hate him—it makes wife’s house. Mistaken for once, my dear fellow. | me tremble to go near him. Why, mamma, you Your exquisite portrait will hardly gain admission | wouldn’t dream of such a thing !”’ into that house to-night. He comes down the steps “Of course not, my dear,” said Mrs. Lattison, with a hang-dog loo. I know what the fellow uietly. means. eldest precious is in a bad way. Sent “Oh! uncle Ben really don’t want you to do that my own watch to pawn. Something must be done, or | —only think how much father disliked him; I al- else his mother will die of a broken heart. Charley, ways saw it.” the rogue, is a thorough boy, with a great heart and “Tt is true—for so-uncle Reynolds has told me. nerous impulses. e will become a good man if | Mr. Sylvester he considers a very match, says the example of his brother does not spl) him. My | heis very rich, and—in fact—has long loved me. little Ella is still fresh and beautiful. She will be | told him no earthly power could induce me to marry having lovers soon, but, thank God! in her position, | a , and with that he went away angry Hence- no mercenary ones. I can watch over her better, | forth, Thave no doubt we must depend upon our- nia than if she knew my true relation toward ber, metimes my brain is confused—sometimes | | | | eS. “Marry that Mr. Sylvester! call him father! Why
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THE LITTLE HEIRESS. — — — I'd a great deal rather you'd marry that broker op- posite, He is . | sone 9g - does look like yoor Sai e young girl, with energy. mM Hush, Ella, hush said her mother, her cheek slightly tinged, ‘‘ you must not speak so thoughtless- ly. I shall never marry,’ and a deep sigh ended the sentence. **T hope not,’’ responded Ella, after a pause. ‘It seems to me we can think of some way to get along umong us al. Let me see—what can we do?” “‘I think I shall look with favor upon Bridget’s plan,”’ said her mother. * And what is that?” “Taking boarders. The good soul will not leave me, She says she can do about everything, with my superintendence, anda small girlto help her, It will keep us all very busy, for I shall give your little brother entirely to your care, and in time, I think, it can be made profitable.” “And we shall have all sorts of people here,” said Ella. her face growing longer. ‘No, my dear; we need take no one without suit- able recommendation. I know of several—among them your uncle Frank and bis wife, who would come and pay a fair board in order to help us along. Henry can keep accounts, Charley help with the errands, Tim be porter, while you, with a little chambermaid, can oversee the rooms up-stairs; so, if we all do our duty faithfully, I don’t see but we | can make ey * Oh, mother, [ like it,”’ said Ella, after a moment’s eonsideration, her face brightening. Not long after, gropales ye were made for turn- ing the handsome house of Mrs. Lattison into a gen- teel boarding-house. Bustle and confusion reigned throughout. Rooms were papered and painted, and sundry improvements made. Reynolds, looked on with haughty indifference. “Let her go on,” he said, sneeringly, as he listen- ed to the plan; “‘ she’ll ruin herself in one year—just one year. Ill give her that time.” “Pl engage board there,” said the discomfited Sylvester. “She can’t refuse me, and I'll take care if I don’t get her nobody else shall.” “That's right,” said uncle Reynolds, patting his favorite on the shoulder; ** true blue, Syl. Never give up the ship—you’ll get her yet.” Whether or not because the widow was handsome that the house filled up so rapidly, we can not tell; suffice it to say, there was no lack of boarders. There were old men and young men, and it was noticeable that the former always handed their cups to Mrs. Lattison, while the latter passed theirs, if possible, by the hands of pretty Ella. CHAPTER XII, A LITTLE PLAIN TALK. “Now, Mr. Henry, it’s no place for ye to be smok- ing. Idon’t allow me own husband to take his pipe here; so, off wid ye, or ye'll fill all the victuals full of the nasty smell.” “Don’t be cross, Bridget.’ said the boy, savcily puffing almost in her face. He was a gentlemanly looking li'tle fellow, and very much like his father. “TI say, Bridget, what was that beef a pound?” **More than you'll airn for a week td come, I’m thinkin’,” said Bridget, angrily. “Oh, I'm living on my interest,’ responded the boy. throwing himself on a seat. “ Livin’ on yer mother’s hard work an’ mine, ye’d better say,” she angrily retorted. ‘‘Would ye be kind enough, Mr. Henry Lattison, to till me the time 0 day 2” Bridget’s face, as she said this, was a study fora ainter—so triumphant, so cunning, so searching. he boy started, took his cigar from his mouth, and clenched his fist. :. Well, what of that?” he asked, fiercely. ‘pose your mother knew it, my young sir, Don’t you think jt would take the heart of her out—hber son & pawning of his dead father’s—" The old unele, | | for the sake of him that’s gone. about him; ‘for goodness’ sake, Bridget, hold your tongue.” ‘“*T will, if ye-behave yourself as a boy should, an’ help your poor mother,” returned Bridget, with he “even if I’ve to pay forthe pawning my- self. ‘*Oh, you needn’t do that; I’ve got friends,” re- plied the boy, sulkily. “Yis, an’ one of ’em’s Mr. Sylvester, he ae your mother’s life out of her. Is’pose ye wish she’ marry him for the sake of your idleness.”’ “IT wish she would, for her own,” said the boy: “she wouldn’t have to drudge any more, and you—”’ “1’°d have to march, wouldn’t 1?” laughed Bridget. ** Oh, don’t I wish I'd see him doing it?” “You may talk as you please; I'll bet mother dves marry him, and that before long.” * Perhaps ye’ll git in a scrape, and run in debt for hundreds of dollars, and thin git him to lend you money, and thin, for the sake of that, to kape your good name up, when you ain’t got any, she'd marry him, Ive heard tell of such doin's, indade I hav: ; but the curse o’ that thing’ll follow you to your grave, me lad.” ‘** You've no right to talk to me so,”’ cried the boy, angrily. ‘He shall marry her, if Ican help him,” and flinging down bis cigar, he left the kitchen. “There goes the lump of laziness,’’ soliloquized Bridget, picking up the nuisance, and throwing it into the fire. “ What wid his laying abed till the folks are all gone, and obliging his sister to wait on | him; what wid being imperdent to his mother, por r what wid pawning things to tazing the whole house, an’ horrering money from Mr. Sylvester, he’s like to harry the heart out of us all. Oh,sure, the times is ciffcrent from the good ould times, whin there was jlinty to the fore, an’I got me three dollars a week and board, and the lady lived illegantly. I don’t belave the mistress "ll marry that horrid man wid the marble face; an’ {'m sure his heart is marble too, | can see it in his eyes.” At that moment Mrs. Lattison came in. She never had looked more beautiful, though the border of her morning-cap was pinned back, and her sleeves fastened to her shoulder, exposing a healtbily- rounded and tinted arm. She paused as she en- tered. ‘Why, Bridget, what is the matter?” she asked. noticing her dejeeted air. “*T was only thinking. ’m,” said the woman, “that if you married Mr. Sylvester, what a sorry heart 'd feel. Sure, it wouldn’t be home for me any longer.”’ ‘Marry him! why, what put that thought in your mind, Bridget? My dear woman, he’s the last man in the world I would marry, Indeed, I wish he was out of the house, for [think his influence over Henry is v ry bad.” ‘*“ Well may ye say it, Mrs, Lattison, for I’ve kept a watchful eye over the lad, and sure am I that the man is thrying to gain him to his evil purposes; but since ye’ve spoken, it’s rel’aved my mind, for I'll work for ye, Mrs, Lattison, till me hands drop off, An’ as to the boy —he’s a good boy in the main, an’ if plain talk’) do him any good, why it’s plinty he'll git from Brieget, sure.” lady, and saucy to me; go pleasuring wid, and CHAPTER XIII. BOARDING THE BROKER, Mrs. LATTIsSON was summoned into the parlor, shortly after; a gentleman wished to see her. Un- tying her cap-strings, smoothing her hair and turn- ing down her sleeves, she soon hurried to the par- tially-darkened room. : As she entered, the man stood with his back to- ward her, looking intently at a fine painting of her husband. The tall, manly figure, so like that of one whom for months she had mourned as dead, gave her heart a quicker motion; an indescribable sensa- “Sh!” cried the boy, casting a fearful glance | tion thrilled her veins. He turned, hearing her step
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26 —the widow grew deathly pale, for there stood be- fore her the broker, in whom she had noticed more than once a wonderful likeness to her husband. ‘Pardon me, madam,” he said, in a low tone; ‘I was pleased with this fine painting. I have some- where seen a gentleman resembling him. “In your mirror, likely, thought the woman; but she only bowed. ‘*T came to see if I could obtain board here. My present boarding-place is too far off for conveni- ence,” he said, seeing her sitting, expectant. ‘Tam very sorry,’’ began Mrs, Lattison; then she paused, thoughtfully. way was there such an attraction in this man —such a magnetism in his voice that her pulses leaped at the sound? Why did her heart beat so rapidly? “Twas about to say that my house is full,’’ she added; ‘* but on second thought I believe there is one small room—” “I prefer a small room,” said the broker, hastily. “And that so high up.’ ‘It makes no difference to me how near the sky I am,” replied the other, significantly. “Then I can accommodate you.” In another moment the broker had gone, but Mrs, Lattison stood deep in thought where he had left her. There was surely a new warmth in her heart —oh, no, no; she must not forget—still, still he was so like Harrison—his face, his bearing, his very voice. And he was coming there—the pawnbroker, Why had she not possessed sufficient courage to re- fuse him? But, was he not a gentlemany Yes both in speech and appearance, and she would abide by what she had done. The following day there was food enough for con- jecture singing the respectable circle that sat round the table of the handsome widow. The broker was in their midst, Some were uneasy, some dissatis- fied, others indignant. It was beneath the station of Mrs. Lattison, they said, to take anything less than merchants, or professional men; and a few re- monstrated, ' “It in anything he fails to be a gentleman,”’ was her quiet reply, ‘‘tell me and you shall have no fur- ther cause of complaint.”’ Alas! already in the secrecy of her heart, she mourned over that heart's unfaithfulness to the memory of her former husband. Several times had she ssen this stranger of distinguished mien but questionable occupation. At church he had for some weeks past sat so near, that the dark, hand- some profile of his face—so like dear Harrison's— was always in view. And that profile she carrie home ile her more than once. Do what she might to banish it, it was always there, and she was haunted by his presence. e along of all the high- bred company had power to bring the color to her pale cheek, and more than one suspected the truth, Among these was Mr. Sylves‘er. He came to the old uncle one day in an agony of jealousy. “What's the matter?’ cried Mr. Reynolds, ap- prehending that the widow had accepted him, and that he was crazy for joy. ‘*Oh! that infernal pawnbroker!"’ hissed from be- tween Mr. Syivester’s magnificent false teeth. **Why—why! what of him, man?”’ “Oh! I’m cut out—cut out by an infernal pawn- broker!” groaned the unhappy man, pulling at his perfumed false hair, thereby diminishing the dimen- sions of his shabby forehead by nearly an inch. * What? the ae no, no; it isn’t possible—it can’t be. That fellow—that Jew—that spout full of old coats and beggars’ gowns? No, no: you're jeal- gus, Mr. Sylvester, very jealous. I know my niece too well to believe—” ~ * But I tell you it isso. I see itevery day, the influ- ence he is exerting. Yesterday my lord said he should like a lounge in his attic—so Henry tells me —and what does my lady do but send one up out of herownroom, The bell rings—is it my lord? Hurry, Jennie, Molly, Bridget, every one of you, and see THE LITTLE HEIRESS. ——_ what bis preg! wants. Oh, I assure you, nothisy anticiiating hie slightest wish, Usapa lie Gave, Glin: antic ss sh, heaps ate, turns red if he only glances at her, and he oes his power, depend on that; he is well aware that his slightest wish is law. the insolent interloper!” and the false teeth grated again. ** Are you sure you ain’t jealous?’ queried the in- Gignant uncle, **Sure! Thunder and Mars! Didn't I hear him call Ella ‘my dear ’—in just such a familiar way as he might have said ‘ my slippers and dressing gown’ —in Mrs. Lattison’s boudoir? Sure? Didn’t I see him swagger through her parlors, and make himself at home with a deal more mpertinence egad! than we dare, who could buy him, shop and all, for the loose change in our pockets? Don't we all see that every soul in the family, from the youngest up, is magnetized by the impertinent fellow, and are all his humble servants? I declare, ’tis intolerable. It's enoagh to put pistols into a man’s head, only one wouldn't soil one’s hands and one's reputation by fighting such fellows. Sure! h’m—d'’ye think [ hav’n’t any brains?” “ Mighty few,”’ thought the old uncle; for it was his opinion that Mr. Sylvester might have won the widow. ‘‘ We must see to this,”’ he said aloud, giv- ing his cane an extra blow, as he came down the broad staircase. ‘I'll manage her—let me alone for that. I'll break the broker, or [ll break his head and her folly together. Just you w.it patiently. madre” 5 om more than one impertinent beggar in my day.” ** But—but you won't say anything of this—this little visit?’ said Sylvester, a “No, you coward,” was the quick, but cool reply. CHAPTER XIV. FINDING A WILL. A room ina dreary building. Neatit wasas human hands could make it, but that did not hi le the ghast- ly rents in the walls, nor the great stains formed by the dippings of acentury. It was very meager in its fur myivew and yet the bits of paint and elaborate fresco, nearly all torn off by vandal hands proved that the chamber was once tenanted with costly up- holstery. Now there were only a few pine chairs and a pine table, a bedstead, an old map, and, néxt to the fireplace, leaning against the jambs, two huge tubs that seemed recently scoured. The only occu- pant, at the moment of which we speak, was a chil of almost fairy-like proportions, and of exquisit symmetry in face and form. She s looki dreamily from a window, her beautiful white arms folded, and asmilein her gentle blue eyes. Fair locks hung in circled curls far below her waist. The smile that hightaned the lovely expression of her face meant something, for presently a tall, dignified, br very pale, care-worn looking woman entered, be ing some bundles in her hand. “You might have let me go for them—you we so tired,” said the child, springing toward her, ana trying to take the parcels from her. “Let you go? oh, no; that would never do; it’s not your place, my little lady; and instead of one, I wish you had twenty servants to wait upon you.”’ “Don’t call yourself a servant, Bentley; you are not a servant. You are just like my mother, You have done everything for me. I sha’n’t like it one bit if you call yourself a servant, Bentley,” “Well, well, dear. then I won't; and I don’t know that I mean just that either, thouch I'd willingly serve such a sweet child as you. But, look, my little lady; for once you shall have such a supper as you deserve, and such as you h1in’t seen since you came from dear old England. Sve, I have bought cakes, a little cream and some fruit. To be sure you can't eat it from silver as you oughtto, and asis your rizhbt, but it will taste good even on my homely delf.” “And so there used to be silver on my mother’s table?” said little Catharine. her eyes yt eo “Oh, silver! bless your heart—why the CO Mitten Aine. |
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- God helping me. I wou ——— your mother’s family filled great chests, And the foune you were bern in—you don't remember, I sup- se—why, you could put two or three great rooms Into the . Ah! that hall, child—it was filled with pictures, and statues, and stags’ antlers, and in Christmas times whole trees stood in pots, that were banked up together like a garden. Then the rooms were so beautiful, with splendid hangings. In one of them your mother had a window of stained glass ut in: ‘That window, child—I used to think of heated wheu I went in, and the sun was shining. Such colors as fell over the floor and over the bed I never could describe; but you, poor child, never saw them, for your father died in a year after you were born, an your mother couldn’t abide staying in that house at all. So she moved away, and not long after died, leaving a will, in which when the matter of the property was settled, everything should come to you. That will—” “Oh, Bentley! there’s some one knocking,” said the child, excitedly. “ Don't be frightened,”’ replied the nurse, noticing that the child had grown pale. ‘“I’llsee who it is; nobody would come to harm us.” She opened thedoor, A woman stood there, clum- sy in her folded shaw] and large bonnet; but out of the crimped cap-border look-d the flushed and hon- est face of Mistress Bridget. “Sure it’s half dead I am,’’ she said, coming in and seating herself. *‘ It’s a hard race to come up them long stairs, an’ I’ve no breath in me body atall. Oh! bliss me, but that’s a pretty little girl there; indade, she looks as if she ought to be in a better this,” and Bridget glanced around the old room. **So she had, and so I hope she will, soon, please God,” said Bentley, all the time looking with wide- opened eyes at her strange visitor. “Well, the matter I’ve come to see ye on is jist this. There’s a man boards where I live, an’ he’s a broker as kapes a little shop jist opposite. A mighty THE LITTLE HEIRESS. lace than | fine man he is, and as like me poor masther that | died of his own accord as two paes. So to-night he met me, and axes me would I go to the place what he'd writ down on a card for me, an’ give the lady this? So I says, yis; an’ here I be.” Bentley’s heart beat fast, as, undoing the slight wrappings, she recognized the miniature. “And is there nothing to pay?”’ she asked. “Not a stiver; on the conthrary, he paid me for the comin’. An’ now I'm risted, I'll be goin’.” “No, no; take some cakes, and let me jour you acup of hot tea,” said little Catharine. “ Ah! an’ isn't it the leddy she is?’ asked Bridget, an honest admiration lighting up her face, as she helped herself to a cake, still standing to go. **She’s a good child,” Bentley said, admiringly; and clutched the locket nervously, a strange com- mineling of hope and fear thrilling her whole frame. When Bridget had gone, her treath came quick, | and the little girl felt her hand grow alternatey hot | and cold. Some terrible agitation possessed her, “ Now, dear, I'll tell you something,”’ she said, in answer to her mute appealing. ‘‘In that locket—if nobody has found it, and Tthink no one has—is your mother’s will. I can’t explain all to you now. Only I can tell you that I have suffered for years suc’ | agonies, such tortures as none can describe, for J lost this miniature!” “ Yon, Bentley?” exclaimed the child. _ “*1; your dear motherintrusted it to my "care when she died, and from that moment I carried it with me as a mis-r carries his gold. It was always a mys- tery to me how I lost it; but oh! my child, what have I rot suffered! When the matter had got through chancery—because of the great lawyer your mother had appointed, who was your own father’s brother—there were you cut off from everything, be- canse they said no will was made, and i was necessary to establish you in your fortune, tow I agonized and prayed, and made a vow that, d devote my whole life to you! Every day since then, and many hours dur- in your case | 97 ing the day, have I prayed to God that I might have this locket restored to me. Something told me that I must bring you over to America; so I sold every- thing, and taking my little fortune, brought you here. Not a cent of the money that came to me from the sale of my property have I touched from that day to this. It is out at interest, and was to be all yours, to educate you, and help yeu in case I never found the miniature. Oh! truly God is good, and it all seems like a wonderful miracle—a won- derful miracle. Yes, if nobody knows, if ncbody has stolen it, Catharine, you are a lady this min- ute!” “Oh, Bentley, Bentley! can it be?’ cried the lit- tle girl, all amazement, “Yes; and though I don't quite remember the se- cret of the spring, which is a curious one, yet I dare say I shall when I get to work. Have you ever seen |; rice paper, Lady Catharine?” “That the Chinese paint their pictures upon? Oh, yes; so soft, thin and white.” ‘**And durable, dear,” said Bentley, looking at the ease. ‘* Well, your mother had the will written on that kind of paper, before witnesses—that is, me, my husband, who was alive at the time, and your father’s brother, poor man—and placed in the back here, as you will scon see. He is dead, too, for he lived only six months after he gained the case that gave the money to the wrong people on account of the missing will. There, I have loosened it. a little; see—but, oh! I never thought. Suppose some one else has found it? It takes all the strength from me just to think of it,”’ Soon the case was opened, and there, fresh as if just folded, just written upon, was the important piece of delicate paper, upon which the fortune of the child depended. **Now,”’ cried the good woman. lifting her stream- ing eyes heavenward, *‘ now we can take the money I've been saving so miserly, and buy you some beau- tiful dresses, and we'll find a boarding-place and live like people; and perhaps. my lady—for I must call you my lady now—we shall go to England, though I shouldn’t wish it, save to shame the people who have wronged you so.” ‘“*And who wronged poor mamma so terribly. No, Tentley, I never wish to see them, for I should not be happy. Let us stay in this country where they can't uble us. Why, doesn’tit seem like a dream?” cried the child, clasping her hands, CHAPTER XV. AN APPARITION. “Tm?” ois. air.” “T wish you would see that Mrs. Lattison has a carriage by ten.” Se eee “ And, Tim?” ee gS “Did you do as I wished you to, last night?” “Sure I did, sir, and I found me young sir goin into a gambling establishment—and I made so bow] as to tap bim on the shoulder, and tell him he was overlooked sure.”’ **And what did he say?” “Sure an’ it was an illigant rage he got into—and fas at all complimentary to ye wid his tongue was ie.” “That don’t trouble me at all. Don’t forgetabout the earriage.”’ and the broker wes gone. “Oh! murther!”’ cried Tim, turning his eyes to the ceiling. ‘““ What's got over ye now?” exclaimed Rridget. ‘*Sure the man he’s masher an’ misthress both," was the reply. ‘He does nothin’ but order, and to _ the truth, I think Mrs. Lattison is goin’ to marry ™.”’ ‘ “Git out wid ye, man—haven’t ye more Manners than to mate two who ain’t aquals?” ‘ Briaget,” and he crouched as he spoke, sit-
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ting with his elbows on bis knees, and his chin in liis hands, *‘ d’ye bel’ave the dead iver come back?”’ * Whist! what do a be wanting to talk nonsinse for?” ejaculated Bridget, pausing in her a * Because, if ever I saw the eyes cf Misther Harri- son, and heard his voice, it is been this blissed day.” “What do ye mane, Tim?” queried sridget, who was not without superstitious fears “It was this morning as I came down stairs to | cht the fires. Over the glass door, there, as I looked up, [saw his face.” ‘The masther’s? Yemust ‘ave been dr’aming.”’ **No —it wasn’t dr’aming I was, though whin | saw | him, I shut me eyes and looked him fullin the face, for I were that trimblin’I’d no command over me narves,”’ * [e's allnonsinss it is,” said Bridget, giving a hur- ried glance around. ** Thin he called me—an’ I didn’t went for fright— an’ I shook like a lafe a-laying on the ground—an' of a sudden the door bounced open, and thin—" * Did ye see the masther?”’ cried Bridzet, her voic® altered. ‘*No—an' sure it was the broker.” “Tdlike to know what you mane, by frightening #o honest woman like me, then, wid yer make-be- lieve stories,”’ exclaimed Bridget, angrily. “Tt wasn’t no make-believe, I tell ye,” responded Tim. “Outside it was the masther, inside the broker, and I’m afeard the avil one had tod» wid it.” “But ye might ’a’ knowed by his great beard that it wasn’t Mr. Harrison.” “So you may say, but only the top of his dee he I behowld, for ye see the glass is.s-t in high. saints protect us, but here c»mes that boy.” It was Henry Lattison. White as a statue—with lips held open as if by violence—eyes blo -dshot—he strode angrily in. ‘Tim, what is this absurd nonsense?"’’ he asked, | stormily, ‘*Axing your pardon,”’ said Tim, “I don’t sense rea," “Why, they say that my mother has gone to be married to that broker, and that you know all about ic.”’ * Howly saints!’’ ejaculated Tim, * what'd I know? Gone to git married?” “Yes; didn’t you order the carriage, stupid?" An’ was it for that? Oh! the howly saints forbid! Sure a suspicion of it come over me brain, but | niver dr’amed it was true, niver.”’ The boy strode up and down in a white heat, his wrath making furnaces of his eyes. “Tl pay him off!” he ejaculated in angry snatches—‘‘I’ll shoot him as true as there’s a heaven.”’ “He's got the Lattisons’ blood in him,’’ whispered Bridget in terror—‘ there'll be trouble now. “Ye'd best be quiet, till ye git cool,’ she said, as Tim darted out of the door. ‘Quiet! [ll kill him,” cried the boy, in a low, hoarse undertons. “Since that infernal rascal has been hera, there’s no peace in the house, Why must we all bend down and worship him because of my mother’s—” folly, he would have said. but he had never so spoken of bis mother, and he recol- lected that he was in the presence of servants. 1 | 28 “THE LITTLE HEIRESS. | Bridget’s bell rung and sh» hurried up-stairs into | the front eal where sat a timid little woman, who te trembling like a leaf. It was Frank Reynolds's wife. *“ Bridget, do you know anything of this affair?” she asked. “Not a word,’’ she replied, “saving what I heard jist now from Master Henry.” “There will be some desperate trouble, I fear.” faltered Mrs Reyno'ds. ‘Frank went out as white as a sheet, and declared he would horsewhip or shoot that man." ‘*‘Do ye mane the broker?”’ queried Bridget. ** Yes,” and the timid woman shivered. “Are ye certain they have gone to get married?” queried Bridget, “So Henry told me a few moments ago; the boy was half wild.” ** And who told him?” “Mr. Sylvester.” ‘Sure, I thought so,” said Bridget, tossing her head archly. She saw with her cooler judgment that this was doubtless a plan of the rejected suitor to put the life of his Meal in danger or subject him to the humiliation of chastisement. “It’s mesilf is thinkin’ that Mrs. Lattison is too much the leddy to go off like that,’’ said Bridget, slowly. “I’ve known her longer nor you have,” she added, as if in apology for the free expression of her opini»n, ‘“‘an’ altho’ she might be pl’ased wid this man for looking so like Misther Harrison that was her husband, yit she'd niver go no farder, I’m certain —an' as to runnin’ off wid him, that’s a propriety as she’d not be guilty of by any manes. belave it’s Mr. Sylvester’s doin’s, as iverybody knows that Mrs. Lattison wo 1’t have no word to say to him anyhow, and [ think that the mistress is gone on some busi- ness of her own that ain’t anybody else’s, noway. If I may be pardoned for axing, which way dil Mésther Reynolds take?” * He has driven round tothe churches—oh! I hope he won't overtake them if it should beso.” **You are frightened, Mrs, Reynolds—but sure [ think there’s no need. Its not to any church she’s gone, or ye may be certain I'd known somethin’ about it. And there's Miss Ella come home from her visit in the country—soI must go down and kape the child from hearin’ the silly, bad news.” Henry was still walking like a chained tiger to an | fro. Bridget saw Ella safely inside her chamber, and left hor with the words that her mother would soon come homes. Entering the kitchen just as Tim had dashed in again, she read the good news in his face. “The broker is been in ‘is shop all day; hurrah!" he cried, as he entered, * Are you sure of that?’ queried Henry. An’ isn'tit sure I am? It’s mesilf has bin there an’ quistioned him,” “What! you didn't tell him—" began Henry, with knit brows. “Ttelled him nothing that wouldn’t bear the tell- in’—be aisy on that score. But I’m sure of the one thing—he’s not gone off to be married.” ‘* What under heaven did Sylvester mean?” queried Henry, a3 he hurried from the room. ‘He meant to make ye as much trouble as he could,’ muttered Tim, in an undertone. The true reason for Mrs. Lattison’s absence was this: Harvey Ward, a down-town merchant, had for- merly been somewhat connected in business matters with Harrison. He had formed a most exalted opinion of the young man, and the news of his vio- lent death had givenhim a shock from which he did not recover for a longtime, One morning, when al- most ill from over-fatigue, he had gone down to his counting-room, where he found himself quite unable to transact business. His weakness grew upon him so fast, that he had serious thoughts of sending for a carriage and returning home. At that moment one of his clerks announced that a gentleman wish- ed to see him, * What name?” he aske }, The gentleman did not wish to give his name. The merchant considered for a shor* time, and then said he mi¢ht enter. In another moment a tall man stood before him, enveloped in a cloak. “Whom have I the pleasur2 of seeing?” asked the merchant, The hat was lifted, the cloak collar lowered, Good heavens! had the grave given up its dead?—for there surely was the face of the drowned merchant, Latti- son. He still spoke not, but stood composedly, while the old merchant slid back in his chair, his face growing gray, his eyes filming. At length the figure took a letter from some pocket and laid it on the table. following the movement with instant and wordless departure. It was fully five minutes be- fore the old man moved, so struck into sudden ter-
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* ed, — ee ent ror was he by this, as he thought, apparition. Then rushing out into the store, he cried: *‘ Did any of you see that man?” ‘** Yes, I did,” and ‘‘I did,” three or four of the clerks made answer. se ** Who did he look like? Who was he?’’ This time he addressed Johnson, his confidential clerk. “Twas a little taken aback, sir,” was the reply, “for I thought I saw a resemblance to’’—the mer- chant’s eyes nearly started out of his head—‘“‘ to Mr. Lattison, sir.” “So you saw it—by Jove, I don’t know what to think,” said the old man, bewilderedly, looking vaguely out into the street. “1 don’t know what to think. And by the way, I was ill before he came— uite ill, It has all gone now. I’vea great mind to follow him.” ** But did he say nothing?” asked another clerk, his nephew. **Speak—no—he didn’t speak—but—I forgot—he left a letter on the table.” **4 letter on the table?’ three or four spoke at once. “Yes, Johnson, we'll goin and see what it is. I declare my nerves are so shaken that I'm scarcely myself. Johnson, lll deputize you to read the letter,’ he said, as the two left the clerks specu- lating, and entered the little office. The letter still lay on the green baiz: cloth. The merchant seated hims-lf and tapped the sides of his arm-chair while h» waited, all expectation, as the clerk slowly un- folled the missive and, preparatory to reading it, lifted his eye-glass. **Not much here,” he said, smiling a little, ‘ but it is very strange. Shall Ll read it?’ “ By all means,” was the quick reply. “7th Aug , 18—. “Mr, Harvey Warp:—Do not sell your shares in the O. mines—now considered worthless—for any amount. My papers are yet safe. Tell my wife to look at the back of my secretary over the second door for a small brass-headed tack. Jf she presses that, a cavity will be disclosed containing the true papers. I always hai faith in those shares. Arrange with her to make them over to you, and secure in her name my part of that property which will soon be of immense value. Do not speak of this to any one but those in whom you have the strictest con- fidence.” “ Really. really! very strange! very singular!” ex- | claimed the merchant, leaning forward, his face quite pale. “‘ Why! I would have sold that prop- erty for a shilling yesterday. This is something su ee Johnson, It makes my blood run cold. At that moment some one wished to enter the of- fice. It was an old business friend of his. who came | to learn whether he would sell his shares in the O, | mines, The merchant exchanged a significant glance | with his confidential clerk, who left the counting- room. The offers were declined, and so were sever- al. Being hard pressed, the gentleman declared that he had no faith in the property except as farm- | ing land—that he wished to move west and settle, and that was why he made the proposition. The merchant, however, still declined, and hurried home jn a strange mood. That afternoon he wrote a note to Lattison, requesting to see her on business of importance. and arranging that. as the matter was of a private and personal nature. she should come to his residence on the following day at ten in the morning. It was there, accordingly, that the widow went at the appointed time. taking with her, as the merchant had uested, some letters belong- THE LITTLE HEIRESS. 20 “Will you oblige me by chowng me some of his letters, that I may compare them?” Mrs. Lattison complied with readiness. The sig- natures corresponded exactly. Harvey Ward then told the story and gave her the note to read. For a few moments she was strongly agitated. “Did he ever tell you, madam, that he owned shares in this stoe’:?” * He never did.” “T learn to-day that the shares have gone up, un- precedentedly, and were your husband alive, he would be aricher man than before. Yesterday, but for this singular occurrence, I should have sold them for almost nothing. What does it mean?” “Can the dead come back?’ whispered the widow. ‘The very question I asked yesterday. I protest it is the most remarkable thing of the kind I ever heard of,”’ ‘How was he dressed” “Tn a cloak and a cloth cap.” “That was not like him. He never wore a cloak, and a cap only in winter, and that of fur. Was he pale?" ‘* Very pale; in fact, fearfully so. I shudder when I think of it.” Mrs Lattison shuddered too, She had dreamed of ber husband for several nights past—ominous, foreboding dreams. She burried back to the house, to the infinite relief of her son, her sister-in-law and Bridget. Going into her husband's private rocm, she took, not without a strange sensation of fear, the drawers from their places. Yes, there was the head of the brass tack. Pressing it, a door flew open, and in a cavity lay a folded paper. She took it out—it was the identical instrument of which her husband had spoken, Was the whole matter super- natural? Had he, the dead, he who had perished by his own hand, still the power of appearing at will—of watching over her? In vain she plicd her bewildered mind with questions, nor was she aroused from her trance-like reverie till Ella broke into the } room. ‘*Why, mother, I just heard—I was afraid—" ‘What isthe matter, child?’ her mother asked. “Why, Henry and uncle Frank, and uncle Frank's wife all thought you had gone away to get married. How absurd!” exclaimed Kila, “To get married, child!” replied her mother, in tones of the utmost surprise. ‘* Why, what can you man?” ‘It is true, mother; and what is the most laugh- able of all is, they said you were going to marry— the broker.” Mrs. Lattison’s face became crimson. She bit her | lip violently, but made no reply ‘*| knew better, and so did Bridget. You con't know what a laugh we ha ver the whole affair— it was so ridiculous, you see.” Mrs. Lattison did not feel any inclination even to smile. The scenes through which she bad so re- cently passed had brought before ber mental vision with such distinctness the lover of her youth, the father of her children, that her very soul yearned to catch but a glimpse of bis presence. Meanwhile the pawnbroker sat musing in his lit- tle shop. The hallucination was gone from bis brain—he was himself once more, looking over the | map of the months that bad passed. * Strange mental conflicts,’’ he murmured to him- self, ** have I been subjected to for this long, weary time. Now imagining myself one person, now an- other, and all the time conscious, as it were, of a double state of existence, the meaner predomina'- ing. But, thank God! this strange humor is wearing ing to her husband, She was ushered into a large, | off, and since I have heard that good news about the | mines, the mist has cleared from my brain, and I feel myself a man again, able to endure all things | for the sake of those I love. Iwill, however, try my- self yet a little longer; I will be positive that the malady has no more control of ~ will. and then I Never mind thay light room, where sat a nervous-looking, white- haired individual. who saluted her, and almost im- | mediately handed her a paper, saying as he did so, “Terhaps you know tha handwriting,” Comietuty I do: itis Mr, Lattison’s,’’ she respond- a show of grief, R shall-reveal myself, But.how?
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now: I will first repare the way for come and board with us, for the poor sou dutiful scapegrace son of mine must be taught a Jesson or two, and my wife won again in short meter. Thank God! my intellect is clear—my fortune will be restored; and. leaving the false society of this sickening city, I will go back to the dear old Grove pareaere and fit it up as it once was, and we will ive in peace and quietness.” CHAPTER XVI. THE REVELATION. “T say, who is that Mistress Solemn. who sits next to the madam with the beautiful child?’ asked one of the boarders of the eldest hope of the house. “That,” said Henry, “is some old lady with mag- nificent expectations. I only wish the child in her care had the gloss of six years more on her yellow curls. Isn’t she al ttle angel of a creature?” ‘* Are they Americans?” “No, English; you might know by the way they carry themselves—so prim and straight. The child, they say, is a millionaire, or in a fair way of becom- ingone She’s beenin chancery, I believe, and the old woman bas supported her seven or eight years, by doing all sorts of work. Now there’s something found by which the lawyers think she can get her rights, and give them a pretty plum, besides.” ‘ How old is the child?” “Oh! ten or eleven.” ‘And the old lady must be forty. her nest is prettily feathered.” At that moment there was a singular sound pro- ceeding from the hall. ‘*Hallo! what’s the trouble?” cried the young Well, likely man. It’s the broker’s voice as true as I’m a sinner.” The young men both sprung from the table and down the stairs. There. sur + enough. was the broker, collaring the handsome Sylvester and dragging him along the hall to the steps, where, having adminis- tered a ferocious shaking, he threw him out on the pavement, “What is this, sir?” cried Henry Lattison, aghast. ‘Nothing, only I’ve been punishing a puppy for insulting your mother,” returned the broker. ‘You take a great deal upon yourself, it seems to me, sir. Lam the proper person to attend to such matters.” “You should be,” was the stern reply; ‘‘ but one who is Inder moneyed obligations to another is not sufficiently his own master to take upon himself the right to defend any woman.” ‘Remember, you are in my house!” cried young Lattison, threateningly. “T am in your mother’s house, young man,” was the cool reply. “You have no right here,” said the young man, quite angrily. “T pay my board—and I don’t pawn watches todo | turned the broker, with great composure. so, either,” responded the broker, in a low, deter- mined voice. “It is useless for you to talk; I wish to hear nothing from your lips. Take care that you do net provoke me to expose your conduct to your fa ly, who little think of some things I could tell them.” The young man, though still crimson and shak- ing with anger, slunk away at this. From this time forward it was plainly to be seen that the broker was the head man of that house, Not that he assumed anvthing or put ona bluster- ing air; but, by a quiet, magnetic authority, he ruled not only the hostess, but her boarders. As for Mrs. Lattison, though she dared not eonfess it to herself, she was entirely absorbed in his presence. Since the broker had freed her from the insulting compliments that had become so odious to her, she ntley to eels such unbounded gratitude to me, that she would follow me to the world’s end, I do believe; and the little heiress needs just such a home asthat will be. Mr. Sylvester must take his traps and start; that most THE LITTLE HEIRESS. had felt her heart his captive. And then he looked so like her dear Harrison! The papers were taken upto the merchant, and delivered into his keeping. Mrs, Lattison did not thrive under existing circumstances, Her face grew pale, and her movements listless. She sighed fre- p denny tye sometimes started as she heard the deep tones of her eccentric boarder. One day she sat in her room intent upon a letter which she had been long wishing to find time to write to her sister in-law, when Ella burst into the room, pale, tearless and indignant. Sinking on a lounge, she gave a dry sob and buried her face in her hands. Mrs. Lattison arose, disturbed and frightened. ‘t What does this mean?” she exclaimed, herself as pale as the girl. ‘*Mother,”’ gasped Ella, ‘‘you must—you must turn that impertinevt broker out of the house—in- deed you must, he has insulted me.” Mrs. Lattison’s eyes were ablaze as her daughter spoke thus. Her heart beat as if it would leap from her body. ; What did he say or do?” she asked, in a thick voice. “He caught me as I was passing. caught and kiss- ed me, and called me his little daughter.” ““E'la—did he ever do this before?’’ her mother asked. ‘* Never—never! and I liked him so well, too. I broke away from him, although he cried out for me to stop and he would explain, but I was too angry,” and the poor girl sobbed unrestrainedly. “This is too much!” said Mrs. Lattison, unable to restrain her tears at the fancied insult. ‘*Come and go with me, Ella, and confront this wicked man; he must leave the house immediately.” She raised her eyes; the “‘ wicked man ” stood be- fore her, just inside the door, audaciously smiling. “ What, sir—do you dare to enter my room?” she cried, springing to her feet. confronting him—her eyes flashing like those of a tigress. “Oh! my kus- band—Harrison? why did you leave me? Alas! I know not whom to trust.” “My dear madam—what have I done?” asked the broker, innocently lifting his eyebrows, “Taken advantage of a fatherless and unprotect- ed girl. How dared you speak to my child in the manner you did?” “T protest Ido not see that I have been guilty of the least impropriety. I merely told her I loved her, and sol do. I have a right, 1 think, To you I say the same thing; I love you more than language can express. This young lady I took the liberty to kiss—by your leave, I will take the same sweet liberty with you.” “Sir, man! what do you mean? This lan is audacious! This conduct is unbearable. you do not leave me, sir, I shall call for help.” “But. madam—Mrs. Lattison—dear Coraline—” “Will you leave the room? You exasperate me too much.” ‘*No, madam. I make a solemn declaration that T regard this room and everything in it,even to mo- ther and daughter, as my absolute property,” re- “Mother. what does it mean? What will that horrid creature do next?” “What can I do?’ cried the startled woman, bursting into tears. Frank is not at home, neither is Henry. Hark!” At that instant Henry dashed into the room, his cheeks ablaze. **Am I to be ordered round by this fellow as if I were a dog?” cried Henry, bursting into the room. “What now?’ exclaimed his sister and mother. **T met him on the stairs a moment ago. s he, ‘My boy, I wish you to carry a note for me to the exchange. Iamina particular hurry.’ ‘I don’t go of errands,’ I answered. ‘Never mind, you ) for me,’ he says, with the same authority as if he were my father. Now, mother, I want to w if
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THE LITTLE HEIRESS. ———————— you encourage this fellow, as I have heard hinted jnore than once that you did.” “JI encourage him?” faltered Mrs. Lattison. “Yes, you. Don’t look at him, mother, and I pro- mise you you sball need no protector. I’ve been fast, I know, but I declare to you I'll break off every bad practice, if you will have nothing more to er \to him, And to begin, I’ll make a confession—l'll make a clean breast and Ret out of his clutches at any rate. Briefly then, he has my father’s watch in is pocket. sr heavens!” cried his mother, ‘‘did he steal it?” “* No—I pawned it,” replied the boy, with a gush of honest tears, ‘‘ but I'll redeem it, I promise you I will.” * Let us hope it is his last freak of the kind,” said a voice near them. They looked up. Oh! what shrieks of joy, almost maddening to hear, and that brought the whole household round them—what tears, embraces, wild, uputterable raptures! Had the sea given up its dead? There stood the broker, but divested of false hair, false beard, and whatever else of false coloring he had assumed. * Oh! Harrison, Harrison, my husband! how could you try me so?” sobbed the matron, her arms clinging about bis neck. “Tt is all over, my darling. Come, look up, my love. ard say that you forgive me ”’ ‘Forgive you—I forgive everything; the bliss of beholding you again is too great! And you were the hi = and I—” she hid a blushing face in his som. *“You loved me for his sake,” rejoined the hus- band and father, ‘* Well, my little Ella, do you ac- knowledge now that I had a right to kiss you?" * Yes, indeed, father!’ exclaimed the happy girl, her face radiant with smiles. ‘And to reprove you?" he turned to Henry, who held out his right hand, while the beauty of his new resolve brightened his ey s. There were but few of the household at home. Tim and Bridget in the kitchen knew nothing about the matter. Tim’s principal occupation of late was to smoke, lounge and talk about dreams and ghosts. Bridget had become so timid under this daily stir- ring of her fears. which yet had a strange fascina- tion for her, that on every convenient occasion she turned the lock of the door leading into the street ye and put it into her pee to the great dis- comfort of store-porters, milkmen and others. At this very hour, Tim was relating to Bridget the e ence of an acquaintance who had been known to hold audience with more than one intangible ing. be end Bait how do these—these sperrits look?” queried Bridget. Jist as they do whin they're a-livin’,”” was the ly, the thin is all air.” “ Howly saints!” shrieked Bridget, and crash went of Harrison’s temple as he opened the door, and with the smile of old, stood where Bridget alone could see him. ‘lim sat still, staring at his larger and better half, who, with distend arms stretched forward, her teeth chattering, lay in a lump, crouching and moaning in broken Trish, ia bee oo tnhag of her huge clothes-basket into which she h en. “The ghost! the ghost!” shrieked Bridget, point- ing to the head of the household, who, seeing for what they took him, had great ado to keep froma shout of laughter, and stood undecided whether to THE 6 HW Rt ery eyeballs, her | ‘barring that the clothes is a humbug and | the flat-iron across the room, coming within an inch | Sylvester, he frowns and crosses over. f 31 proclaim himself mortal or let the joke goon, Tim fave one scared glance, and with a cry the counter- part of Bridget’s, or rather with a succession of fang he bounded for the back door, but Bridget bad e key in her pocket. “Oh! howly mother, what’ItIdo wid mesilf?”’ he bowled in agony; ‘sure I'll never git over tbis.”’ His teeth chattered—he held on to the lock of the door as if for dear life. and the perspiration rolled down his face. ‘‘Oh! Mr. Lattison, in the name of the howly Catholic church—the communion of the saints, the forgiveness cf sins—the—the howly Catholic church—the—the howly Catholic church!*’ this time it was a shriek so prolonged and fearful, that Harrison, though convulsed with inward laugh- ter at the ludicrous state of affairs, sprung over to- ward the cringing Irishman, and shook his senses into him. For many minu'es it was impossible to make the terrified couple believe that he was really flesh and blood; but when they did, Bridget picked herse If crt of the clothes-basket, and Tim moved reluctat tlv from the door, casting sheepish glances toward Bridget, who, now that her fright was over, broke into vehement sobs. “Sure, an’ it’s glad I am, though I don’t undher- stand it at all. at all,’’ she cried. ‘Nor me ‘ither,” dolefully responded Tim. Harrison explained to them his hallucination and its consequences. Their joy was unbounded, and their expression of delight original in the extreme. Six years later, ‘the broker ” sat in his easy-chair at the Grove, inditing a letter tu his sister Anne. Two or three of the paragraphs ran as follows: *“You will be pleased to hear that the marriage yay passed off delightfully. Henry and little Lady Catherine, as we all call ber, made a beautiful couple. They will call on you during their bridal tour. Tim, of whom you rpoke, is stillin my service, though he does little but sun himself and smoke his old black pipe. Bridget is as active as ever. My daughter Ella named her pretty child on Sabbat last. So look out to see a little Anne Lattison Gray, when you come on again. We are all at the dear old Grove, save Henry and bis wife. It is more of a Paradise than ever, and after my short drives to the city, lam glad to get here and enjoy the sweets of home. My wife was looking over some old letters yesterGay, and with a smile full of meaning, handed me one. It bore the appearance of having been crushed and then resmoothed, and was, in fact, the identical letter which, in my utter despondency and something like insanity, I wrote so long ago. That was a strange, wild freak of mine. Ioften look back on its consequences with the wonder_how I could ever have accomplished it. Whenever I meet uncle Reynolds. to this day, be shakes his head and pats his brow with an ominous forefinger. When I meet They are both as harmless as Jambs, though I incline to think, | the old uncle has never quite forgiven me for turning | up again, and would not be sorry if I were to give him a chance to attend my funeral, “The thousand and one rumors that followed my ‘coming to life’ have died away. My wife is worthy of my noblest regards, having been only guilty of falling in love with her own hushand the second time; and I do not think I shall ever sigh to siee ‘where the tide runs deepest and strongest.’ So al- low me to subscribe myself, Yours, truly, * HARRISON LATTISON.”” END.
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\ ee ee PLD DLL LLL LLL LLL LLL LO PO POA POCKET EDITION. Waverley Library, — 4 4 THIRTY-TWO OCTAVO PAGES. PUBLISHED EVERY TUESDAY. Ot A Bride of a Day; or, The Mystery of Winifred Leigh. By Mary Reed Crowell The Girl Wife; or, The True and the False. By Bartley » Cam bell. See Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweethearts. By Wm. Mason Siemens M. D Married in Haste; or, A Young Girls Temptation. By Rett Winwood. Will She Marry Him? or, The Masked Bride. By: Mrs, y Reed Crowell. His Lawtut Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adoption. By Mrs. Ann §. Stephens. A Fair Face; or, Out inthe World. By Bartley T. Campbell. A Mad Marriage; or, The Iron Will. By Mary A. Denison. A Daughter ot Eves or, Blinded by Love. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. The Bride of an Actor; or, Driven from Home. By the Author of * Alone in the World,”’ etc., ete. A Pair ot Gray Eyes; or, The Emerald Necklace. By Rose Kennedy. fithout a Heart; or, Walking on the Brink. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. Alone in the Worla; or, The Young Man’s Ward. By the Author of * The Bride of an Actor,” etc., etc. - Motherless; or, The Farmer's Sweetheart. By Col, Prentiss Ingraham. The Secret Marriage; or, A Duchessin Spite of Herself. By Sara Claxton. Sister against Sister; or, The Rivalry of Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. Heart to Heart; or. Fair Phyllis's Love. By Arabella Southworth, Sold for Gold3 or, Almost Lost... By Mrs. M. V. Victor, Entangled} or, A Dangerous Game. By Henrietta Thackeray. Sybil Chase; or, The Gambler's Wife. By Mrs. Ann §. Stephens. Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight. By Margaret Leicester. Sinned Against; or. The Winthrop Pride. By Clara Augusta. A Loyal Lover; or. Th: Last of the Grimspeths. Py Arabella Southworth. The Country Cousin; or, All is not Gold that Glitters. By Rose Kennedy. His Idol; or, The T-Starred Marriage. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. Flirtation: or. A Young Girl’s Good Name. By Jacob Abarbanell (Ralph Royal), Now end Forever; or, Why Did She Marry Him? By Henrietta Thackeray, Orphan Nell, the Orange G'rl; or, The Lost Heir. By Agile Penne. Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. The Little Hetress 3 or, Undéra Cloud, By Mrs. Mary A. Denison, Leap Year}; or, Why She Proposed. By Sara Claxton. In Spite of Herself; or, Jeanette’s Reparation. By S. R. Sherwood, > Her Face Was Her Fortune. By Eleanor Blaine, The Cuban Hetress; or, The Prisoner of La Vintresse. By Mrs. M. A: Denison. Only a Schoolmistress; or, Her Untold Secret... By Arabella Southworth. The Winged Messenger? or. Risking All fora Heart. By Mary Reed Crowell. Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray. One Woman’s Heart; or, Saved from the Street. . By George 8. Kaime. Love-Mad}; or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and— By Wm, Mason Turner, M. D. LL LOL LL LO met mOU Sauk wie ODP PPP PPI OOOO Seer The Waverley Library js for sale by all newsdealers, five cents per copy, or rent by mail on receipt of six cents each, Beadle and Adums, Publishers, . No. 28 William street, New York. PAPA P MAL P PLP PAL AL APP PPP PP eo), Oe, ee | ‘