Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 165) (1883 01 09)
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xs \ ‘The Cheapest and Best Library! ‘The Cream of American and Foreign Novels tor Five Cents! Be ne all Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Ys at Second Class Mail Rates. No 105, VoL. Vil. » PUBLISHED WEEKLY 1 BY BEADLE A AND ADAMS, 2 98 8 WILLIAM 1 ST N. y. PRICE, 5 CENTS = STRANGE = R 2 2s BY ALBHRT W. ALKEN. i FRAMED IN THE SNOW WAS A HUMAN FACE—THE FACE OF A YOUNG GIRL.
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eae ye A Strange Girl; ANEW ENGLAND LOVE STORY. BY ALBERT W W, AIKEN. ; it ; ; Slee sv tase CHAPTER 1. . a. “LET ME. DIE!” a ah December, the year 1870. east gale had setin early in the morning, and at the time of which we ven in the even- ing—full eight inches of snow covered in the ’ streets and house-tops of the city of Boston. The night was dark as pitch; the lighted gas Bak “make the darkness visible.” shen Few pedestrians were in the streets. Already | the shops had begun to put up their shutters, and ag good folks, snugly housed, and circling round their fires, began te) speculate about the prospects for a hard winter. Through the drifted \snow, piled here and _ there in great heaps, in(Causeway street, came a short, stoutly-built man, muftied up, A BirTeRLy cold evening in the month of | A driving snow-storm accompanied by anorth- | ) fiaring from the street lamps, seemed only to | aH and carrying a latge’*basket on her arm. A Jit- | 6 yellow dog, with sharp ears and a stum “Hall carried straight up over his back, followed ae the woman. | i Stumbling through the snow-drifts, and re- solutely facing the biting blast, that jhowled and raged around her asif to pluck the cloak from her sepuldert the woman. came slowly | ae along. ‘ her hand and Ghahed the girl’s face with it. As : The lights ‘streaming from the Eastern depot | the sufferer inhaled the powerful odor of the “4 met eyes. SP spirits, again she shuddered. The limbs stiff- mcg! ‘« Bress’ a Lor” !” she agembte'ys in accentsthat | ened for a moment, became rigid, then relaxed, A lainly be’ trayed her to be of the dusky race of and with a low mournful sigh, more like the 474 am; hart dat A fo’ “soos By golly! | echo of’a sigh than a sigh itself the great eyes | Fr, dis yere ole wauiac's Canktal ned—the great staring b lack eyes, almost ay! ‘“Bow-wow!” said the hea ~aieg os suddenly | Sipeptaian in their wondrous . beauty—so | erate \ from the track in the snow left by the old wo- | large, so bright, arid within them shone a lus- | ay nia footsteps, and_ approaching a snow-drift | trous light, like unto the shimmer of the sun- eae -in.a corner against the side of a house. shining» ap the rolling Waves of the great | "ay it’s de Peeccare 2 bier Yes HAD ba the old | green ocean. a! V0 , angrily, paus: fter the dog. | For a moment the girl stared blankly into aay ’ pyomyou!” cried the dog, sharply, and | the, black ae was peering down so JF a eat. particular hair on | his y seemed to | ry into her own, then, amazement appeared et ; stand ce A33 within the great dark eyes. / ah gen Xe od+fc nuffin’ Pete, watts do mation |" “Ye ain’t og p, 1ey, bress de good Lord es wid : peck’s you want fur to make me | f dat!” e: he old woman, piously, gt Ca of cold in dis — wind.” | Lier ic a of anf bearing inevéry ait ed 4 ed and longer than before; ees SESE, as ae gi sihor Road d slightly as if to gaze ig. ad 1 pod. his pa ist ee the dog mano the motion. In- | bi scratch and dig "| Stantly be ‘stood up on his hind logs and in- iy for ' 5 ae Pig oy of. aR lively barks. He. af Ay i her eabartory with pose and claws he had not — te dy ‘the yw-bank in vain Vy ae “Don’t be afeard, h ey; dat’s only Pete; é ; § Pages -; he sme 6 you out inde snow, NC est li e aller angel,” said his owner, ae NORE moana ‘ip. 1, feeb her head | . in affr eebly ae b ane ee aes ef th negress, _ ~ s istres joes ye foul Weak, hime asked the >, tenevalenee beamin in eve Fea on “Jes? take *nuth peak at e . ie wes are ve yout” muttered the girl, faintly. ei. * Why, bress Re galy’A Lunty bi. “4 nah,” mitered Wee job “Tle Cre doesn't live yere. I oe deford ~ m | whar de big mills are, heap 0” mae Bildotord oo) be I was Jes’ 8 gwine to oa when ae ~ face’ of a t*yaller dog 0” min e—dat Pete, b you out Sigh night, he ny _ in de snow-bank. - pad face from w fktibo t hy Ae i pe eR mle me aloy ” the girl es ~ That face was so ho ra slowly, and wit! ma ee parent skin, ra eaail in its | OW at's dat, honey?’ origi the old “Aunty re “ae regular outlines and fect pro portions: thats “ee Hieia subduction. “By golly! dis yere ole ni kee old woman, in her Simple way, 1 phonies nebber sleep a wink dis night if she’d bai a gi ee, she looked upon an angel who had strayed ae | 4 heaven to earth, riding upon the bosom of the si pe ais rather than on a mortal like her- The negress stood like one transfixed: but the dog, being an animal, and therefore not given ate _STRANGE GIRL. | the rlin her arms, but when she pressed her Boe a black cheek against the alabaster one of l,..she Zan the warmth of the blood still , g feebly in the veins. mae I’speck’s a little Whisky Would fotch her, kase dat’s wat it’s good fur.” -Then she looked. | around her carefully. The inspectionywas hard- | ly needed, for the baw & snow and the howl- ir blast alone surrounded them. ‘I reckon dere ain’t any State comfort’bles und,” she muttered, “kase I don’t want fur to Same de whisky took away from me,” Tt was evideuu that the old lady referred to the State constables and the license law. She drew a good-sized flask from her pocket, and removing the cork, forced some of the liquor down the throatof the sensless girl. e yellow dog sat on his haunches, and with an air of intelligence, which plain! signified his appr obation, surveyed the proceedin £5. ‘Dere, honey, dat will fotch you!” the ne- | | gress said, caressingly smoothing back the coal- | ank as. wet sea-weeds, fring- | black hair which, | ed the lovely face. The liquor was of the worst kind, almost powerful enough in its strength and badness to | raise the dead. Like a stream of liquid fire it coursedidown the young girl’sthroat;,a conyul- 9 sive shudder shook her slender form, and a deep sigh came ffom her parted Jips. "The show still poured down pitilessly,.and the cruel north-easter still roared and stormed, yet | | the old woman heeded not the driving snow nor | the piercing wind; a human life tr ‘embled in the | balance w ithin her arms, of the elements to the human straggle for exist- | What was the strife ence? The negress like you in dis *eording to de re | ail na? Saye Tbttered the Gadiniably wi feebly to release her- e old woman. wat’s dis ole nigger beige apd strivin, nite W’at, a ae ured some of the whisky into | ain’t ——— varkx, a Ve fo) al aie which plaint told ae ithe very. pvt be had dane x eeehertul thin in reecuine? ee ae ok he snow-drift. ere, does -y aT sole pt nag tell- | in’ yervhow a he - ) | hi ‘don’t w ye & er bi ? ene theetAPE oke into a rr ‘tears—bitier, eee stn ‘aie like h ; m 4 Lwicll dant dat, honey; dat’s ss am not t fit to live,” was gasped through sé j Londyt you ain’t done stole anything?” Ye any killed anybody” a Tho, thc 1d. en the old negress, perple at the hand of thoeani: ain iged’oo White raid fair, it shamed the driven snow fresh from an uners. = ‘“‘She ain’t married, kase dere ain’t an on her finger,” the old negress muttered dl a3 self. ‘‘Maybe, honey, dat de young man dat | you loved has fooled yer?” “No, no, I have never loved any one,” she murmur ed, the tears still streaming down her cheeks. ‘Fore de Lor’! Vd like fur to know w’at dis yere poor chile has-done?” ‘“Won’t you go away and leave me alone?” the sufferer asked, plaintively. “Leave you yere in dis snow-bank, honey?’ | exclaimed Dinah, in astonishment. ‘ Why, dis old nig nebber hold her head up arter dat. By golly! I ain’t gwine fur to let yer die dis bressed night.” ““T must die!” “Tf yer don’t hush up now, bress de Lor’, | I net Pete on yer!”.said the negress, threaten’ ingly I don’t care, ” muttered the girl, closing her eyes again. “Dat dog, Pete, jes’ eat yer right up now, 0 sure. et mey, ” git up and come wid yer ; [laid down here in this corner, so that I could die in peace x the’snow. away, and let the snow cover me up and hide me from all the world. . A sudden Tice, gousiibo iy silly wie. re fs k you ain’t got any money.” ‘*Not a cent in the world. | “Aint done got any friends, ee ‘No, ho frien | «Dat’s de reason yo a eC are sid te old ye ain’ tina puffin’, you ‘isn't ne ie die. If you hain’t got an money, jes’ you come right et wid yer o lives 32 tat tal eford, Maine to te i grine A ean " | ora aati h - over: “th of de om bee Ew eS ‘““No one will: pe seaman “Biddeford,” the girl. murmured, ans communing with wore: and unconscious t she was speaking at "Bat so, honey; sn Hien a good chile and come wid Bigs e aunty?” ae negress asked, r charge to rise to her feet. ~ “*Standine the girl was of the medium hight, and even the loose wa roof cloak which she wore could not disguise the matchless beauty of r BS ey wher de make e cloth.” ) you 2 Beiaps I ‘uid got work T knov kin? cried ho old . her perfect form &-.. was very weak and could not stand with- to human weakness, gave another howl, and | done dat ge her away?” cried the negress, ce. : ch then commenced to fol the face of the buauti- | in men . | at so “ey no mapeney ” she exclaimed a ful girl who lay in-her bridal dress of snow, “T want to die !” the girl murm ed. ie I soul Boney dat’s only lendin mt _. waiting for the coming Death. chile, I done guess you neb de to de Lone eyed ber pays me; but, bress fie Tenderly the rough oc mm pigue of the the dog lapped a i!" said Dinah, solr “Dar parabat you, honey, you mak ke more money at at o3% away the + ve bape from > the - face - |anyuse fur to talk like dat Lord isn’ mill in a week dan yer ole aunty in a month. fs, wee Coming to her senses at last, bent | going fur to let you die, kase he sent Pete and | i. I will go with you; what is your name? aM Ws om the Piieheiees’ girl, and seizing ier in her | me fur to ou out o’ de snow.” Dinah Salisbury; Aunty Dinah de folks | TN SON dead toe: pare oth ee typeta t- os hed, aad ase ix ha ait set the | » | face fy nainei is Lydia Lyon Grame,” woman m roac nose ao or the light, sas = forth of | | Sheek of "the girl; then he gave a atftek. short: | | “Dats a putty name.” iS haved. as she held the light, motionless form of
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_ that’s _The old woman , V’s head and smoothed back the dark locks. .Then she supported her to the depot. The 8 Pp. M. Tess the three—the dog Pete being the third one of the party—eastward to the State of Maine, CHAPTER IL , THE MINSTREL BAND. Tue towu.of Biddeford, Maine, in the pleas- ant month of A) ti. In a large front room, in the Biddeford House. which fronted on the little square in the center of the village, were four men. _ One sat by the window—a little fellow, with short.cut hair and a huge mustache of almost t was just in the dusk / ing or peo and which announced the coming | ri of the Alligator Minstrels.” The little fellow was the “ celebrated Johnny Snodgers, the Silver Cloggist;” vide the poster aforesaid, . Two more of the “ Alligators” sat by a table in the center of the room—one, a short thick-set fellow, with a round German face; the other, a tall, , Wankee-looking personage, with s lantern-jawed countenance. The of the two was known, essionally, as ‘Fatty’ Kiine; the other fessor Handel Hill, the ‘world renowned violinist; wide “poster,” as Ore, The fourth one stood leaning carelessly against the mantlepiece—a young, dashy, handsome fellow of twenty-five, with the face and form of an Apollo. Golden hair curled in little silken clusters all over his shapely head ; his features were and clearly cut; his eyes were - large and acter a bright, deep blue. A golden mustache overhung his ‘tull, xed lips, ied a little ee the same hue graced his chin. He was l elegantly, quite a contrast to ene cae oeirg ot hia companions. He was Ae ; ay ; eal Brick, and was the Manager of It was evident from the looks of the occu- pests % te room that a stormy discussion was “6 _, Well, this is the worst old party that I did get into,” Mr. Snodgers said, with an air of disgust. “T never see'd anothing like it,” the ‘‘ cham- » remarked. Pe wih Thad | wis ” Fi i aos staid at home,” Hill said, , “Well tlemen, the ‘Alligators’ have | “Dig just as good as the fellers wot gits the with an air rick repli “ That's "cos I ain’t a ., And you never will : Why don’t you go on, Mr. Brick? Perhaps we may do better somewhere else?” Hill asked, in bis sober, innocent way. The manner of the _'m afraid,” Violinist was. in strong contrast with the low, vul; ar tone of the other two. r Aree” thank you,” said Brick, quickly and “ryly. ‘Pye had about all I want already. +, not a brag; I know when I’ve got enoug two hundred dollars out of pocket, and at's quite sufficient.” " Where’s the rest of the boys?” asked Snodg-. Im _ __ ©s} suddenly, By this time I rather think that they are : j ; k . ‘ \ ) usted the hood upon the | oie all down at the depot, waiting for the next train to Boston. Each one came and told me confidentially that he was going, and that he wasn’t going to say anything about it to the rest,” Brick said. ““T guess we had better go, too!” Snodgers cried, suddenly, rising. The others followed his example. : Snodgers and Kline seized their hats and in- struments and rushed out of the room without taking any notice of Brick, But Hill approached and offered his hand. ‘‘ Good-by, Mr. Brick,” he said; “I’m really sorry that you didn’t have better luck; it’s too “Oh, it’s all right, old fellow,” Brick replied; ‘‘we would have run if the rest hadn’t been such a set of infernal scalawags that there was no getting along with them. Take my advice and don’t have on hing to do with them; ow're the only gentleman in the party. Good- Hill departed and Brick was left alone. He took the chair that Snodgers had vacated, and sat down-by the window; then he drew a cigar from his. pocket, lit it, and gazed idly out into the street. ‘“When one door shuts another opens, they say,” he mused, between the fragrant pulls of smoke. ‘‘ Where is_the door for me? hat a deuced strange world this is, anyway! Here, from the age of twelve up to the present time, I have lived in the world gulling my fellow- man—swindling, the world terms it. Now when I got into this infernal speculation I had |a@ little over two hundred dollars. My ‘con- science reproached me; the aforesaid conscience | said, ‘ Brick, you have been an infernal swind- | ler all your life; now, here’s a chance to be an | honest man; become the manager of a minstrel band, and make a fortune by swindling the ublic collectively instead of individually.’ I istened to that ‘small, still voice,’ and what is the result? For six days I have been compelled to associate with the biggest lot of blackguards that I think exist in the world; not a gentleman in the crowd but one. I discover—too late— that my are all humbugs—hangers on to the sable ranks, scalawags of the worst who disgrace themselves as they have di me. Thank Heaven I’m, clear of them, and now once more to use my wits to fool the world out of their loose change. . It’s a pleasant even- ing. I'll take a stroll up the street.” rick descended the stairs. As he emerged from the doorway, a young fellow who was standing near by came forward and accosted m. ‘*Good-eve’g, Mu. Brick,” he said. The speaker was a talk, rather ungainly-built | % ‘f truth in it, but after the war, he came back specimen Fes Sy, 2 me a Mees) Lec relly an , bu up by a shrew pase i tape oe Bed and keen gray eyes, ; ‘Good-evening, sir,” Brick prtict, a loss as to who the er was. 3 “Don’t remember me, du you? Show!” ex- claimed the stranger, ‘‘ guess I’ve got a leetle the advantage of you. when you gi’n a show up to Dover.” remember now,” Brick said, ex- ““Do you reside here?” come up and sample it; make your hair curl.” Brick sdid, and the two up. tu edest ‘Tt was pretty bad, that’s a fact; you see, Iwas deceived about the performers I had,’ Brick said. : “Yes; guess you don’t know my name, du you?” said the Yankee, suddenly. se No, I do not remember it.” ‘Jeremiah Gardner; folks all call me Jerry sie 8 short, though,” Just then a couple . the two; a young girl and a tall, fine-looking young fellow. Brick caught a of the girl’s face and elope stopped suddenly. companion looked at him in astonishment. , ‘*Hello! What’s the matter?’ he exclaimed. ~ ee ——=s—=—EeE—eEe—S SSS SSS ).}))/.,00€0_0_ 0 eee rather at met you t’other night | > o) “That lady that passed,” Brick said, a strange expression upon his face. ' What of he ro? : ¢ ’ “T think I know her—no! I didn’t exactly mean that,” he said, just a little confused, but what I mean is that she looks like a girl that I used to know down South.” | ‘*T guess she never was down South,” Gard- ner said; ‘‘ leastways, I never heard her speak of being down there.” i “You know her, then?” ; ‘Well, I should say I did,” Gardner replied. “She lives in the same house I do—boards with my mother.” ‘She does?” “Yes; her name is Lydia Grame. She works in the big mill across the river.” : ‘* A mill-hand, eh?” , “Jest so; but don’t hit go to turning up your nose at ber because she is a mill-hand. JT tell you, our Yankee mill-girls ain’t to be sneezed at, and as for Lydia, she’s jest as nice a lady as ever walked on shve-leather.” “*She looks like a nice girl,” Brick remarked, carelessly. ‘“‘ Well, she is now!” Gardner exclaimed, ear- nestly. ‘*‘She’s the gal in this town. Why, she’s got more beaux than you could shake a stick at in a week; that is, I] mean, thas she could have ’em if she wanted ’em,” “Who is the young fellow. that she is walking with?” Brick askedvearelessly. 2 “That's Sinclair on; he’s treasurer of the mill she works in. His father’s about the richest man round these parts; owns more of the mill stock than any other man, ’cept Daddy Embden, Lah ag kt ) s ‘“¢ And who’s Daddy Embden?” ‘Jest the queerest old codger you ever did see. He lives in the big hotise up on the hill, back of the hotel; got.a darter, putty as all pos- sessed. Ain't she got a temper, though? [I tell you! She «makes ’em stand ’round when she gets a-goin’, they say. Old Daddy Embden used to be as poor as Job’s turkey “fore the war. “ How did he make his money?” : “That’s more than anybody knows. He used to own a little coasting schooner that doa market truck all alon Portland to in, but when the war broke out, he an’ his schooner i 8 Sarg ds Then Gardner lowered his voice, thay iin. say thet, be Haile Mia hioliby tials y du sa © made money run the bl e down South.” etn GAETS EN eCIGAE ad itl: iu es, ing medicines an der a arms to the Rebs.” “Oh, I understand.” “No tellin’, you know, whether there’s any | with plenty of money—sed he made it epee tagin’” —an’ built a big house up on the hill, an’ he cuts an awful swath—that is, his darter, Delia, | does, “As for the old man, he goes ’round, look- in’ more like some old pauper than the boss of eR Bae Ekas rouine eatlow eee pe” 29 edhe Hi oung fellow— Don dk einai | “Paxton rg r Paxton,” neg Ag -P clair ; ous wer “Yes: is he tatecaret suitor af SriksTydia ad | Brick asked, with apparent carelesstiessy be _. “Show! T Vas e ain’t!” Gardner cried. uickly.. ‘‘Sid is a putty poet feller, but she don't care for anybody. b’lieve though, he jest.loves the very ground she walks on; so _ does Jed Hollis.” Teer ; | “Jed Hollis, who’s he?” Brick began to he interested. _ , “Jest the smartest young mechanic that there is in the State of Maine. Got two or three patents .a’ready—smart as a steel-trap. Only got one fault, en he comes skimmin’ | "round Lydia, an’ she tells him out an’ out that she don’t care for him, he goes straight off an’ | Wrists more New England rum than would run. a small-sized grist-mill, an’ swears he'll lay out Sid Paxton some time. ‘You see he fancies that pe gal cares more for Sid than she does for 1im, “Then there will probably be trouble between them?” _ ,“Iguessso. If Jed—Jediel’s his name—ain’t plaguey careful he’)l get the worst on it, for be id’s a hefty feller an’ spry as a cat. Used to a sailor; run away to sea when he was a boy. His father, Deacon Edmund Paxton, ‘s one of the old stock, nice a man as ever lived, _ only a leetle crusty; his folks came over in the Mayflower, but they do say that one of the Paxtons, ’way back, married an Injin queen, an’ that’s where 8'd gots his dark hair an from, He’sa good fe _ ieeberg. I guess the old man would cut up like | all possessed if | ‘round Lydia.” a aa : 7 a . " * m4 4 * ... eyes | ler, but jest as cold as an | he knew-that Sid was hangin’ - ~ y ~f
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; way thin rescued her from the cold embraces of the snow- .said, with a grin. would think more of that; he’s good old New England stock, you know, Now, Daddy Emb- den thinks more of money than any thing else. T guess he’d let Delia marry the biggest: rascal in the world if he had only money enough. But, *tween me an’ you an’ the bed-post, I guess that Detia would marry Sid Paxton if he hadn’t two cents to rub together.” ‘“ You are pretty well acquainted with the are going on in the village,” Brick said, laughing. “Oh, yes; don’t have much to do here, you know, but to watch our neighbors,” Gardner ‘“‘But, there’s:one thing I would like to know, an’ that is, how Daday Embden made his money. He never come by it honestly, (ll swear.” Then the two, having turned the corner, a preaches the store. A huge elm shadowed the | ouse, ‘* We use the fluid for med’cine, you know,” Gardner said, with a wink. ‘‘’Cos we don’t drink any thing stronger than water, down here in the State of Maine.” CHAPTER III. LOVE, Twenty or thirty yards below the grocery store to which the talkative Yankee had con- ducted Brick, was a small, two-story cottage. Woodbine and honeysuckle clustered around | tie door, and a great rose-bush covered fully cone side of the house. ‘Within, the house was neat and prim. The little parlor, with its angular black chairs of state, its round center-table, innocent of dust, end stufled rocking-chair, was very cosey in-— indeed. In the parlor, siting b haling the rich odor of the bs Ft vines with- out. was the girl, know as Lydia Grame, the mill-hand, and Sinclair Paxton, the treasurer of the largest mill in Biddeford, in Saco, rather, for the mill was on the Saco side of the river. She has not ed a great deal since the night when the the open window, in- pureia Grame we know already. e ‘‘¥aller ”” dog Pete and the old black woman drift. Her cheeks have ‘grown a little fuller and the blush of health has succeeded the pallor | of cold and exhaustion. She was dressed very neatly—a light, fleecy own, white, with dainty scarlet strips running through it; a knot of ribbon of the same hue gathered at the throat, holding the little white collar together, and a flame-colored ribbon _ twined around the head, binding in the glori- owe . thing.” ous black hair. ‘ There was a great resemblance between Ly- dia and her lover, Sinclair Paxton. j 8 was tall and of s velvet, and orbs of a panther. and rather lo ay and piercing as the is hair was ‘brown-black, , curling around his ears. was a peculiar one—-a rather sad face; a face that betrayed that its owner’s pathway p life had not been always in the sunshine, and hat a full measure of cares and sorrows had traced the tell-tale lines beneath the eyes. A face though, despite its sad look, which could | light up with a smile, so pleasant, so beaming, that it made the-person look five years younger. _ Paxton was a man of thirty. If report spoke truth, one who had seen a greet deal of the world, had traveled to far-off foreign climes, as a. common sailor before the mosi; yet in his veins ran the best blood of New Kingland—the . Mayflower blood, that may, in the olden time, have expressed itself in harshness, when impel- _led by the fanatic religious spirit, but never yet had lent itself to low trickery or deceit, Sinclair was an only child, the sole heir to one of the richest men in the State of Maine, and yet he loved the simple mill-hand, Lydia Grame, the poor girl who gained her bread with her own hands by daily toil The two had just returned from their walk. Lydia was looking more thoughtful than usual, table, and sitting down, was gazing absently out of the window. “ What are you thinking of, Lydia?” Paxton asked, in his rich, melodious tones, ‘*T do not know,” she replied, slowly. “That is strange,” he said, with a quiet smile upon his dark face. ‘You are thinking deep- ly about nothing.” “T own f can not ver thoughts, and yet I am thinking about some- » : rs ’ bs . - - i — mee —o straight, with a stately, noble | head well pomed, broad shoulders, and muscu-— lar in build. His eyes were black as the sheen | She had cast her hat upon the center- | well explain my [Pr A STRANGE GIRL. | “Yydia, will there ever come a time when you will think of me?” Paxton asked, earnestly. “Oh, why do you ask such a question?” she said, mournfully, “Because I must ask it,” he replied, quickly. ‘* It is impossible for me to sit here, look in your face, and not put such a question to you. Lydia, I love you.” ‘‘So you have said before,” the girl answered, bending her full dark eyes upon the earnest, noble face of Paxton. ‘Lydia, T have asked you to be my wife, and you never yet have a) swered me.” * Answer sd you?’ she st id, slowly, crushing a leat between her white fingers. ‘Why not say yes or no and end my sus- pense? he questioned, eagerly. ‘““Why should I say yes or no?” she said, slowly. ‘‘ Why can not we always keep as we are?” ** As we are!’ he exclaimed, in astonishment. ‘““ Yes; you tell me that you love me—” | “ And do you 1ot believe me?” he said, ear- nestly, interrupting her. ‘* Believe you?—yes!” she exclaimed, looking np Le eR a ' him full in the face with her brilliant dark eyes, ' and ray oped extending her hand to him. The little white hand once a prisoner in his _ broad palms, he did not suffer it to escape | ain, “‘T know that you love me,” she continued; | “you have proved it ina hundred ways. Iam _ far below you in station, only a poor girl—” __ “Oh, what nonsense you talk!” he exclaimed, lightly, again interrupting her. “‘There is no | disgrace in honest labor.” ‘True, yet rich men’s sons de not usually seek poor girls for wives.”' A shade came over his face. ! _ nection with me,” he said, gravely. ‘‘ Think of 'me as I am—simply Sinclair Paxton, working | for my bread exactly as you work for yours. “But you get a great deal more money for it than I do,” she oie laughing. “That is true,” he said. ony . ‘* You love meand I like you. I am ppy in your society. You talk about the same things that I like to talk about; you like the same books, the same poets, Why not then continue as we are? Why speak of love—and marriage?” “Because that is the natural sequence to love. Iwant you for my own, for all time to come,” he replied. ‘“But-I do not think that I love you well enough to marry ‘you,” she said, slowly. ‘““Think how dreadful it would be if I should marry you and then afterward discover that I loved some one else better.” ““T have little fear of that,” he said, confi- dently. “I am certain that you will never marry me until you are sure that you do love me; and, Lydia, f think that I know vou well enough to feel assured that yours will be no ' fickle love.” ma sink Ee you pai me?” an girl sa owly, and a strange smile appeared upon her beautiful face. “Are you sure that tou really know anything about me at all? Re. | member, I am almost a stranger to you; a short eight months ago you and I were strangers to each other. You do not know anythin about my past life: you do not know what | may have done, what I may have been. Are you not venturing your love upon an uncertain sea? Many a ra reef may rear its head beneath the surface of the shining wave.” ‘* With love for my pilot, I do not fear,” he replied. ‘I feel sure that your past life has been as blameless as is your present one.” A shudder passed over the slight form of the girl. Paxton felt the little hand grow suddenly cold and tremble within his own. ‘“What’s the matter, Lydia!” he asked; sé your hand is as cold as ice. ; | % Oh, nothing,” she said, with a sad smile. “J am nervous sometimes, and— But there, don’t ask me to give you reasons for any thing Ido. A woman, you know, never reasons.” “What a strange girl you are, Lydia!” he ' exclaimed. ‘ “Do you know, I think so sometimes,” she said, quite earnestly and thoughtfully. “Ido ot seem to have any thing in common with the rest of the world.” _ “We would make an excellent couple, then, Lydia, for they say that I am strange, too,’ Paxton said. © «Well, you are.” \ “Tell me in what way.” ‘ ‘Why, you sometimes have such odd, silent: fits; you look so grave, Then, too, you love _ me, only apoor girl; one, too, who has frankly , Do not speak of my father’s wealth in con- | ; | “But to return to what I was saying,” she _ to her feet, and, through the dusk of the coming © ' void Ps that she did not think she would ever care for you in the aan ‘you wanted her to.” ‘* Possibly because the actions of the girl belie her words,” he said, quietly. For the first time, a slight blush came into her pale cheeks and forehead. “I do not understand how that can be,” she said, puzzled. “You wish me to explain?” ‘“Yes; I confess I do not understand. I have/ always tried to act toward you as I should act: to a very dear friend, a brother, one for whom I could feel a sister’s love.” ~ ' “ Ah!—and a quiet smile crept over his face— ‘“‘you have always tried; you have been regu- lating your conduct toward me by rules, then? You feared to follow the impulses of your heart.” J “T did not say that!” she cried quickly. ‘No, but: the application follows. Win you answer ine one question?” y “That depends altogether upon. what the question is.” ‘‘Do you have to regulate rules in regard to any one else?’ The girl was silent for a few moments. She looked down at the floor, them suddenly she raised her eyes to the young man’s face. “T do not wish to answer that,” she said, shyly, a half-smile creeping over her face. ‘You blame me for loving you when you give me such encouragement as that?” and a smile Lia on his dark face also. ‘“ You do not make such rules in regard to any one else. If report speaks true, I have a dozen rivals for your love, and yet I do not fear any one of them. Do you know why?’ The girl shook her head. “ Because you do not fear them.” “J do not understand.” ““You do fear me; that is, you have deter-- mined not to love me and you fear that you will do so, despite yourself.” ‘‘T am no match for you in reasoning,” she said, slowly. ‘You do not deny the truth of my words?’ “ Of what avail would that be? If I did, in your logical way you would clearly prove that I did not; therefore I sball not attempt it,” she said, smiling. ‘*Therefore, it clearly follows that, if { prove in ‘my logical way’ that you ought to marry me, you will do so without further ar, ent.” ‘‘No, no!” she exclaimed. ‘I shall not be quite so Positive as that. But Phi: said just now that by my acts I encouraged you to hope. “Now I confess I earmnot remember doing any- thing at all to encourage’ you, except showing, ibly, that your society is pleasant to me: ut that is only friendship, not love.” ‘*Unconsciously you betray to me that you do care something for me,” he said, gravely. ‘Please explain.” ‘* A moment since, impulsively, you extended your hand to me. I took it; it has remained in my p ever since, and you have manifested no desire to withdraw it,” She looked him in the face for a moment; the blush upon her cheeks deepened, and then she quietly withdrew her hand from his, and turn- ing her face away, looked out of the window. the twilight was pap fast into the som- ber gloom of the night. The crickets were sing- ing merrily, and the perfume of the flowers, borne on the gentle breeze of the evening, ee the little parlor with a sweet, intoxicating lor. your conduct by It was.a time for love—that dreamy, quiet twilight. “By my own words I rob myself of the pleas- ure of holding that little white hand within my own. I speak—for you bid me speak-— even though I feared that my words would dis- please you.” “You attach too much pase pai to trifles,” she said, coldly. ‘‘I am foolish sometimes, and ield to impulses, then blame myself afterward. was unconscious that my hand had remained. — in yours.” ‘ “ And nm that unconsciousness I build ny hopes. If within your heart you did not care something for me, you would have been con- scious that my hand held yours a prisoner. But I fear that I have offended you, so I will say good-night, and trust that before we meet again you will have pardoned me for speaking so plainly.” axton rose, took his hat, and opened the door, Lydia did not move until the door creaked on its hinges. Then, suddenly, she rose night, with outstretched hands advanced to- ward her lover. ‘You are offended now,” she said, plaintively. — ‘Offended, Lydia!” he exclaimed, in decp Peg rt a? 4
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Ane ny a ip ss Tae eae seer, “You must not love me; I am unworthy of - you,” she murmured, “You are a foolish child to say so,” he re- eae and then with a tender, caressing touch @ endeavored to raise her head and bent over to kiss her; their eyes met—they could just dis- tinguish each other in the dusky twilight; she shook her head. ‘ “No,” she murmured, softly, “not my lips. You may kiss my forehead—my cheek, if you like; when I yield my lips to you, then you may know that I love you, although I may never speak the words that say so.” : “Good-by,” he said, bathing her forebead with little soft kisses. ‘‘I must notstay longer; -you have made me so happy!” A moment, and he was gone. Lydia leaned against the door-casing; the ‘very air seemed less sweet, wanting his pre- sence, She felt like one in a dream. “Do I love him?’ she murmured, slowly. “Ts there such happiness in this cold, cruel ‘world forme? His love would make this earth ‘@ very heaven!” _ Then she went slowly to the mantlepiece and lit the lamp which was placed there. As she _ turned, she saw a figure standing in the door- way. <A look of horror came over her face. With outstretched hands she gazed with dazed eyes upon the stranger. She recognized the man; it was Daisy Brick! CHAPTER IV. HUSH MONEY. wus aad oF hike as ee mantlepiece to the, doorwa 8, luydia gazed. upon “sie man in ere was a quiet, pleasant smile upon the features of Daisy Brick, as he doitenred the i whe smile that betrayed a great deal of satis- But the look upon her face was one of horror; had he been a specter, newly risen from the grave, her eyes could not have stared more intently—her lips have been more white. Good-evening, Miss Grame,” Brick said, re- moving his hat and bowing in his easy, graceful way. “No doubt you are Silcatiaher a seeing me here in this quiet country town. I can as- sure you { was very much surprised when you _ passed me a short time ago on the street. I recognized you at once. I have such an excel- nt memory. I inquired who you was, and they told re Miss Grame.” a 4y have you come here?” the girl said pres and the hard-drawn breath that came bats pate Sry teeth lainly told how nat aker. ‘ ng that filled the heart of ** Accident alone, my de. a.” Dai replied, with another eharminy vane spi 4 oO away at once!” the cir gasped than spoke. ‘ vs “% woes “Go away!” Daisy exclaimed, in a tone of amazement. | br oahe , rye ‘fa resence is seal to me.” “Death! aisy’s wonder was unfei . <c) by, how can that be?” Alena “Why have you hunted me down?” the girl demanded, witli white lips and staring eyes, “My dear Miss Lydia, let me assure you that my visit to Biddeford has nothing whatever to _ do with you. How could I aure that you were here? t object have I to hunt you down? I am not a detective officer, nor have I any malice whatever toward you. You passed me _ on the street—leaning on the arm of a very fine- looking young man, by the way—I recognized you; and what more natural than the desire to call ao an old friend?” “I do not believe you!” the girl cried, blunt: se “ Your coming here means no good’ to. me. ou are my evil genius. From the moment et Saw your face dates all the misery of my __ “You have learned to hate me then, Lydia” ‘be a aa an ae oa _A STRANGE GIRL. ¥or the first time the smile upon. Brick’s face faded, and a cold, cruel look came into his blue eyes. ‘Hate? No, no; that is not the word!” ex- claimed the girl, quickly. ‘‘ Iloathe—fear you; you inspire me with horror, I know that you mean me some dreadful wrong. Iam helpless, powerless against you. Your presence makes me mad—wild with fear.” ? The look of pain upon the white, distorted face of the young girl would: have moved a heart of stone, but it had but little effect upon wine Brick. “* As I have something particular to say to you, and as the saying of that something will ke up some little time, I trust you will excuse me if 1 take a chair.” | The young man pulled the rocking-chair from the corner into Fro center of the room and sat down in it. The girl never stirred from her position by the mantlepiece, but with the wild look of the wolf entrapped in the pitfall, | glared upon her visitor. ; *“You seem very comfortably fixed here, Lydia,” Daisy said, after a glance around the cosey little parlor. ‘‘ When we parted, you said you were tired of life and wished to die. I see, though, that you still live.” “Because I am a coward,” the girl said, bit- terly. ‘‘I have not the courage to kill myself. I was near death once, but a fellow-creature stepped from her path into mine, and rescued me, ‘ ‘Why should you want to die?” Daisy ques- tioned. ‘‘ A young, beautiful girl, the blood in your veins full of life, full of passion,” and aisy laid a strong emphasis upon the word. “Life should have many charms for you. If | report speaks true, all Biddeford is at your feet _| and prettier feet Biddeford could not kneel | before. They say that you are the belle of the town; a dozen suitors follow your steps, eager for your smile; yet you are only a poor mill-girl, ‘My face is my fortune, sir, she said—’ And your faceis your fortune, my dainty Lydia; a fortune which [ think that [ ought to have a share in, Lydia, my charmer. 1 am in that state which expressive men term ‘ broke,’ and vulgar ones, ‘bu’sted.’ I want money. I sup- ose it is hardly necessary to mention that thet isa very common want, You must help me.” “‘T help you!” cried the girl, and a hot, angry’ flush came over the marble-like face. “ Exactly—don’t trouble yourself to speak: I know what you are going to say. You’d see me further first, and then you wouldn’t.. But you mustn’t say anything of the sort, because ou are going tod» exactly as I want you to in is affair. This i. just like a romance, you know. I possess a certain secret concerning you; yield to my demands, or I speak! Isn’t that thrilling? I tell you!” “T do not care whether you speak or not,” cried the girl, hurriedly. ‘‘I will not be the slave that-you would make me.” “You don’t care for the opinion of the world?” ** No, I do not!” Lydia said, desperately. You do not care for the opinion of Sinelair - Paxton, either, eh?’ and there was a cruel smile on Daisy’s face as he put the question. — The girl started; her bosom heaved and the deadly whiteness again came over her face, * Brick laughed—a low, exulting laugh. **Oh, what a dear, sweet, innocent child you are!” he said, in mockery. ‘‘ You love this fel- low, eh? He has triumphed where I failed, This cold-blooded, icy New Englander has taken you for all yow’re worth. You don’t care for the opinion of the world, but you do care for him. ow I'll speak plainly. Yield tomy demand, or else [ll interview Mr. Sinclair Paxton, and tell him some few particulars of the life of the girl who now calls herself Lydia Grame.” The tone of banter was all gone now, and brute’ assurance had taken its place. “‘ How much money do you want?” Lydia said, slowly and with downcast head. “All that you can give me,” Daisy replied, bluntly. ; **T haven’t much.” - \ “J won't take any more than you possess,” | rick said, with an ugly sneer, ‘‘and you needn’t look as if you were go to killed right off without judge or jury. There isn’t any need of being heroicin this matter. Make it my interest keep my mouth shut, and you are perfectly cafe as far as I am concerned.” “Thave ay thirty dollarsin the world,” the girl said, slowly. ‘ “ Thirty, eh? Well, give me twenty-five.” " roe ha will go away?” she asked, eagerly, x * And never trouble me a slight laugh. ‘The secret that I possess is worth more than twenty-five dollars. Suppose I should go to Sinclair Paxton and say to aap ‘I know all the particulars of the early life o: Lydia Grame; you love her; give me fifty or a hundred dollars and I will put you in possession of a secret which makes her a slave to the man who knows it.’ Don’t you suppose that he would RS the offer?” No,” the girl said, quickly; ‘(he would not use such a power, even if he possessed it; he is too noble.” : “ He’s a man, and in love with you; few men in this world who are not idiots once in_their lives when a pretty woman isin the case,” Daisy said, sarcastically. ; ‘Then when this money is gone, you will come back for more?” the girl asked, slowly. ‘No, not that exactly.. My my wits good. I would rather trick my living out of the great world of gulls, than force you to support me with your hard earnings. But at present I am hard pushed, and must. have money. I will be honest with you, I will not call upon you for aid if I can possibly do without oe ae Se ae “ Wait a few minutes and I will bring you the money.” Lydia left the room, Daisy looked after her thoughtfully. ‘What course of action shall J take in this matter?” he asked, communing with himself. ‘* Shall T let this love affair go on—let her mary this Sinclair Paxton? By Jove! the thought is wormwood, for I love her myself; that is, as much as I can love any one. ut if her marry this fellow, through her I can get at his money. Aha! that’s a magnificent idea,” and Daisy rubbed his bands together softly. The adventurer judged others by himself; ho did not for a moment doubt that the young girl would really marry her wealthy suitor. Lydia’s return put an end to his meditation. In her hand she held a little roll of bills. “There,” sho said, and she gave the money into his hand. : Just twenty-five,” he said, glancing at tho bills. “Yes, and now go!” she exclaimed, impa- tiently. : ' . He rose to his fect, a grimace on his face. ‘“You turn me out without ceremony,” he _ 7 said, moving toward the door. ‘* Because are here!” she exclaimed. “ And yet there was a time—” ‘Do not speak of the past!” she cried, hur- riedly, interrupting him. ‘I have striven to forget—praye that the past might be a blank to me. or mercy’s ful thoughts.” ‘ : he I will bid you good-by,” he said, eare- lessly. so you need not he astonished if you see me, I ' will be as well that we should appear asstrangers to each other, for it might lead to troublesome pia on 9 if it was known that we were old triends. and her lip curled. - ‘“ You dispute that, eh?” he cried, His step sounded in the entry, and then the garden gate creaked behind him. . Lydia sunk down in the rocking-chair; her strength was all gone now, and a flood of scald- _ ing tears poured from her eyes, CHAPTER V. ) THE YANKEE SKIPPER, : Up on the hill, overlooking the village, stood. the mansion of Peleg Embden, better known to the citizens of Biddeford as ‘‘ Daddy” Embden. Net The mansion was a great, overgrown struc- ture with huge Grecian columns in front, which | gave the building more the appearance of a meeting-house than a private dwelling. The grounds surrounding the house were ela- borately laid out. A tremendous effort hadbeen made for style. Money, rather than taste, was plainly evident both in the mansion and its sur- roundings. It was as if the owner of tle estate had tried to build a house which shonid impreys one with the idea of great weaith at the first | glance. | "In the sittin | magnificently furnished, sat Peleg Delia, his daughter, his only child, The gas was burning in a drop-light on the | center-table, near whic! the young girl sat sew- | ing. Bs ROSES -room of the house, Which! was / ) again?” : “Oh, Ican’t promise that!” he exclaimed, with head is clear and _ I Jet . cannot breathe freely while you — sake do not recall the dread- — “T will remain in town for a few days, - “Priends!” said the girl, witha bitter accent, laughing. ook we won’t quarrel about a word; goo: mbden and | ™~ i Ake be ~ SRST yO bo eh ee ~ ~ Y ice Te. = , 2 7. ~
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> wl » 4 oY 2 i. eee. . > r . 4 ’ cal ression; asmall, delicate face, not handsome d yet not plain, for there was a bright, win- ‘ning look inthe small gray eyes and a rare charm about the dainty, thin-lipped mouth. The whitish vellow hair, too, which was so neatly and deftly braided and coiled around the shape- ly little head, was engely pretty ; it matched ‘so well with the white skin, so wondrous in its pearly purity. The girl would have been lovely but that her face was too thin, her eyes too small, and her nose too large. But she was pretty A nimble-fingered, New England girl. She took the whole charge of her father’s household, and many a wise old village gossip : predicted that Delia Embden would make a real smart wife for somebody. A sot Peleg Embden sat by the window, gazing va- Sas ces Soy tly out into the darkness of the night. He was a little, withered, dried-up old man, with a smal poster ny sharp, rat-like eyes, and a meral expression of shrewd cunning upon his . features. 6 was very poorly dressed. Bidde- e ford folks said that ‘‘Daddy ” Embden was lost _ ina decent suit of clothes. Embden’s rise to wealth had been a sudden one; and how or where he made his money was _- @ mystery to all. He had been the captain of a _ little coasting schooner which traded in ‘‘truck” Se: and “‘garden-sass,” all along the coast from dto Boston, His home was in Bidde- ford, and there his wife and daughter lived in spite of these defects, active, “smart,” bright . 2 mf working woman, took in sewing, and thus aided in keeping the home comfortable. For years ‘‘ Skipper ” Embden had sailed the Nancy Jane—so the schooner was named, after his wife—up and down the coast, but in the year 1864 his wife died, and after her funeral Embden and his schooner sailed out of Saco Pool, and the places that once knew them knew them no more. A year passed away, and during all that time _. the white sails of the mya ane, and the withered form of Skipper Embden standing b the tiller, gladdened not the eyes of the dwell- ers along the rocky New England coast. . Men predicted that the coasting ‘‘smack)” and her owner had found a grave beneath the billows of the Atlantic. But one bright morning in the month of June, PF 1865, just at the close of the war, Peleg Embden cae made his appearance in the streets of Bidde- io) To the many anxious inquiries as to where he had been for the ast year, he simply replied, Behn A ot . . eh money.” ttle satisfaction he gave to : the questioners. pa! A few days after Embden’s return the good | es: people of so escne ade a discovery which | ey ca em to open their eyes in wonder. | eis Peleg Embden owned abouk fifty thousand dollars’ worth of stock in the Biddeford mills; and as the ee ‘of the teogee Jane, a year before, hadn’t been worth fifty thousand cents, _ the natural question was asked: ‘‘How did Pe- leg Embden make his money?” Rs t soon became evident that Embden was. =i quite a wealthy man. He bought a site on the mes mace and erected a splendid house thereon, spaying cash for everything. x '.. Some of the village gossips who had been inti- * mate with Embden ventured to ask him how he had made his money. “Tle” he replied, with a knowing wink, but the details of to himself, This reservation did not become a man who hs had made his money by honest speculation—at -_ Jeast, so thought the greater part of the Bidde- ford folks, and there were not wanting tongues to affirm that Peleg Embden never made his a ox | honestly. Dark w cas ding between the Virginia ca f the Nancy d _ Jane corxying medicines, percussion-caps, and other light articles--contraband cf war—to the ae Southern forces. And whispers again told of murder on the high seas, and pictured the Nan- a nt y Jane flying the black fiag from her peak, and ree te cleg Embden as the desperate and bloody- minded commander of a gang of pirates, for- getting that the aforesaid smack wes only some ten tons burden and that a dozen fair-sized men would have found difficulty in procuring decent accommodation aboard of her. But one thing was certain: the Peleg Embden o came back to Biddeford was quite a differ- ent man from the skipper of the Nancy Jane, who had left it but a year ago. y fn ” Delia Embiden was a little, slender girl of two and twenty, with a face rather shrewish in its, while he was away. His wife, a careful, hard- | sudden rise to wealth he kept hispers went round of blockade-run- | > =>. a, Fe ae « aa " ASTRA 7 NGE GIRL. _ Before, he had been a free-spoken man, with a cheerful word for every one; now, he was re- served and moody. ing from justice. An unhappy, desolate, speechless man was the Yankee skipper. . And now as he sat glaring out of the window into the darkness of the night, he seemed strangely agitated. : lia sewing by the center-table heard her father muttering, and rising in alarm, ap- poe him quickly, anxious to discover what had alarmed him. Seated in a low easy-chair, facing toward the window, Embden, with a face distorted with pain, was looking out of the casement. Delia looked in vain for the object which was agitating the old man so strangely, She saw only the great, gloomy wall of darkness—night’s | mantle which covered in the earth—and through the darkness gleamed, like a golden star, a single light, coming evidently from some lamp placed near a window of one of the houses down in the hollow. ; Leaning on the back of her father’s chair, she listened to his murmured words. ‘The tide turns at nine, Jethro; why don’t he come? The light is fixed all right; every- thing is safe and—a false beacon-light which leads the vessel on the rocks!” With a sigh of = Embden threw his head back against the chair. “What’s the matter, father? Are you ill?” the girl asked, kneeling by his side, and looking ‘up into his face. “Ah, Delie,” he mu vacantly, and agai ing his eyes upon the gloom before hi ‘“There’s the sign Fi “The si !” said the 5 on’t you see it 7 “The light there?” and with a shaking finger the old man pointed out into the gloom. ‘Oh, 7% I see that; it’s in some cottage window. “No, no, no!” cried the old man, hastily; ‘‘it’s gil, in wonder. on the point. There goes the signal now—he’s | waving it round his head three times. Don’t you see it move? Now, Jethro, answer it. Vail our light once, then again—that’s twice, and that means, all right.” Delia looked into the darkness; the light moved not; she saw that her father’s mind was wandering. “‘T can not see that the light has moved atall, father,” she said, gently. ; “Your eyes are not as keen as mine; you’ve not an he ig from cau iene at Boge ne porte twenty yearsas I have, There’s the si again Answer it, Jethro?’ he said, sadenerioe & ety, ‘his eyes glaring. The girl had never seen her father pogtnenaely affected before. ‘‘ He’s there, but where are they?’ tioned, his eyes still fixed upon the Vainly he ques- | was convulsed with emotion inevery limb. ‘He _ knows now his danger. Hear that on hii! 7 with the anchor, Jethro! ’Tisn’t | our fault. ion’t h’ist a sail—let her drift down _ the river! Oh! Heaven have mercy on his soul!” Exhausted, the old man sunk back in his chair ‘and closed his eyes wearily. | “ Why, father, how strangely you talk!” the | rlex ed; ‘itis allim tion. You must sick. Hadn’t I better © you a strong cup of tea? come away from the window.” With gentle force she raised the old man from the easy-chair and supported him to her seat by ne Sue. tte tala talkin’ strangely, hain’t I?” ** De (:) 8 Embden said, suddenly. a ‘* Yes; butyou are not well, father,” she said, gently. . a _ “Yes, a leetle sick,” he said, slowly. ‘ Delie, dear, eighty-one thousand dollars is a heap of , money,” he spoke reflectively. b oes Von, it is, father.” “ts | ‘Kin you reckon what the interest on-it is for a year at six per cent?” : ‘Yes, father.” “Cipher it out, Delie; it’s payableon demand; mebbe he’ll come for it, who knows?’ Closing his eyes bg one Peleg Embden dozed off to sleep, while Delia sat and wondered who the _ person could be to whom her father owed eighty- | one thousand do CHAPTER VI. STRAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER. AFTER leaving the cottages Sinclair Paxton walked slowly down the street, he intoxication of ares was still upon ‘him; the soft perfugie that clung like a charm He seemed suspicious of all, | started at the slightest noise like a criminal flee- . limmering | ‘light. ‘* There goesthe rocket!” and the old man | ot! They’re ' | be the person of the young girl, ssemed stil] with im. : Like one in a maze he walked onward. Cool, clear-headed Sinclair was strangely agitated. “Does she love me?” he murm ; sho is such a strange girl that it is difficult to tell. She would not let me go to-night when she thought that I was pained by her coolness. She gave her- self up freely to pag Shee isi although she’ denied me her li e alone must solve the mystery. I wonder what my father, the deacon, would say if he knew how deeply I am interested in this girl, aly a stranger of whom I know nothing? He hear of it some day, and then there will be trouble. It seem# to be my fate to annoy him.” “ Hello, Sin, is that you?’ cried a well-known voice, and Jerry Gardner advanced through the darkness. “Yes; taking a walk, Jerry?” the young man ' answered. ‘‘Wa-al, a leetle of that an’ a leetle of some- thin’ else,” Jerry answered, slowly. ‘Say, ’ Sin, which is your best ‘holt,’ running or fight- | in’?’ Jerry asked, suddenly. | Sinclair was astonished at the question. “*T really don’t know,” he said; ‘‘why do you | ask such a question?” ‘Cos there’s trouble ahead. Do you know Jed Hollis?” “The carpenter? I know him; what of it?” ‘*T s’pose you know he’s kinder sweet arter « peg young lady that works down in your ‘*Yes, Ihave heard a rumor to that effect,” Sinclair said, quietly. ‘“Waz-al, Sin, I hope you won’t think that ’'m pokin’ my nose into business that don’t consarn me, but I have heard that the young lady I ; spoke of jist now, likes somebody else as well as | does Jed Hollis, if not a darned sight better, an’ of course it’s nat’ral that he should go t’arin” ‘round "bout it like a bob-tailed horse in fly- time.” ~ ‘Very natural,” Paxton said, dryly. “ An’ nat’ral, too, that he sad eo vedtan for to do all sorts of things.” ; : “Yes; but if I know anything of Mr. Hollis, he’s likely to say a great deal more than he’li | do.” ‘Right, there, by hokey!” Jerry exclaimed, | duigaetind’t . But, Sin, he’s as ugly as Satan. to-night. He’s been gitting outside of more good. old rum than you could shake a stick at ina week. He heered that the young lady was out walking with a chap about your size to-night, and he’s been swearin’ fit to lift the shingles off a roof ever since. Now he’s jist drunk enough to make a break for you, Sin; in fact, I think | the pesky cuss is layin’ in wait for you some- . where; so jist keep your i fs *round. Jist take a fool’s advice an’ don’t let any one git too close | to you in the dark.” . “Tam much bg Jerry, for your warning, | but I trust that he will have better sense than. | to provoke an encounter with me,” Paxton said,, in his usually qniet way. “ He’s cavortin’ ’round wuss than a yaller dog with a tin tied to his tail,” Jerry said, wit a grin. ‘He kinder thinks that he owns all Biddeford, you know. He’s the bully of these Sin, I'd give a hull quarter of a dollar .for to have you tan him good, once; might. ‘make a pretty decent feller out of him.” ‘“*Tshall try to protect myself,” Paxton replied, not a tinge of boasting in his-tone or manner, but the light that shone in his eyes and a certaim com on of the lips told of phen, “Wa-al, good-night, Sin; don’t let him get _ the furst crack at you, for the cuss can hit like thunder,” and with this parting warning Jerry went on his way. Paxton passed sonay, onan, his mind busy with thoughts of L ; Macs he pondered. on the question, ‘*Was he loved?” - The young man went through the village and. descended to the bridge which led over the river _toSaco. The Paxton residence was on the other side of the river in the old town. . Just as Sinclair came to the middle of the bridge, the moon which had hitherto been con- cealed behind a dark bank of clouds, came forth. and lighted up the night with her silvery rays. Some twenty beyond him, | on thie parapet of the bridge, Paxten beheld the dark figure of a man. He recognized him at once. It was the car- | penter, Jediel Hollis, With a steady step, as if unconscious of dan- r, Paxton wenton. Hollisnever stirred until inclair was within six feet of him, then sud- denly he raised from his lounging position, and lanti 6, himself in the narrow passageway, rred the path. ‘ ea. 2 Soc gelikcas 8 a Pe ‘ai ‘
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Paxton halted; had he proceeded he must have trodden Hollis underfoot. _ The moonlight shining down full upon the face of the young carpenter, plainly revealed that he was under the influence of liquor. There ee ugly look upon his face which boded mis- e ‘“Good-evenin’,” he said, insolently. “Good-evening, sir,” replied Paxton, taking oe ne whatever of the insolent manner of the other. “Fine evenin’, ain’t it?’ Hollis exclaimed. “Yes.” “Nice night to go an’ see a gal, ain’t it, eh?” demanded Hollis, anger sparkling in his eyes. _Paxton’s brows contracted slightly, and with his eyes he measured the drunken carpenter from head to foot, but replied not. “How was she, anyway? Did you kiss her when you left?” ; “‘ Are you drunk or mad?” asked Paxton, in contempt. ‘* Both!” responded Hollis, fiercely. ‘Oh, you can’t put on any airs with me. I know I’monly a carpenter, an’ you're one of the big-bugs, but just now we're both on us only two men, an’ one of us is agoin’ to get thrashed like blazes soon, if not sooner. So just peel off your coat an’ we'll go at it,” and the carpenter commenced to take off his coat. ‘You intend to fasten a quarrel on me, then?” Paxton asked, Soon - Hollis stopped with his coat half off, and glared at. Sinclair for a moment. ‘‘ What else should I wait here for you for?” he cried. ‘‘We, can have a fair shake here. Over this bridge you don’t go until you fight ” me, * ‘Why should I fight you? Because you have drank se much liquor as to upset the few brains that you do possess and must quarrel with some one?’ Paxton asked contemptuously. - Off came Hollis’s coat; the rage of the carpen- ter was so great that it seemed to almost make him sober. ; ‘“‘?ma match for you, drunk or sober!” he cried. “You’ve won my girl away from me, an’ if you ain’t a sneak you'll fight for her.” Did the lady ever tell you that she cared anything for-you?’ Paxton asked. bs What's that to you?” You accuse mé of taking her away from you; now, if you never possessed her love, I couldn't well rob you of it,” Sinclair answered. Oh, curse your arguing!” Hollis cried, ‘I ean fight better!” and springing forward he aimed a desperate blow at Paxton’s ‘face, but Paxton slowly stepped back and with his open palm parried the blow and threw it to one side. _ Two, thrée, four blows the enraged carpenter made, all of them falling on the empty air. Out of breath, Hollis was fain to pause. , You contemptible drunken brute; I’ve half a mind to give you a lesson!” Paxton said, me _ “You give me a lesson!” howled Hollis, fran- tic with . “Just you stand still and let me smash you i The carpenter made another desperate rush at Paxton. Thick and fast fell his blows. Lightly and easily, as though in ‘the sparring school, Paxton turned them aside, until at last losing Patience, he drew back his right arm and The hi Pans with the swiftness of the lightning. aa om tended full on the neck of Hollis, just like right ear, and sent him spinnin a the: top; then dashing in, Paxton ese m by tae collar, swung him over the parapet of the bridge, and held him suspended there. I’ve half a mind to let you drop!” he cried. CHAPTER VH. Wink grip Gt foe BLOOD. ITH a grip Of Iron Faxton held th sobered, carpenter over the dark waters that rolled so unceasingly beneath the bridge. Hollis grasped the parapet of the bridge with his hands and attempted to pull himself up but with a single twist of his muscular wrist, axton swung him off into empty space again, _and held him there as though he were but an in- fant. Hollis for the first time realized how Faas a task he had taken upon himself when he up his mind to thrash Sinclair Pax- ‘“Pve half a mind to let you drop,” Sinclair laden with the ic —~ = a eer A STRANGE GIRL. would have it, and now Id let goand drop you into the stream, but that lam not certain as to what is underneath. If I was sure that it was water and not a ledge of rocks, down you should go, for I think that a cold bath would do you good, and perhaps chill your angry passions a a little.” “T don’t care ert ell Bese drop me or not!” growled the carpenter, sullenly. . ‘*No, I do not seek your life, nor do I care to have you lay a broken limb at my door; so just ive me yo romise that the affair shall end ere, and I will land you on the bridge again,” Paxton said, calmly. ‘Pll see you in biases first!” cried Hollis, in pnget, “Do what you like, but blood can only end this thing between us now!” ‘*'You idiot!” cried Paxton, suddenly, for the first time betraying traces of anger, and with a swing of his powerful arm he landed Hollis on the bridge, then threw him from him, releasing his grip on his collar. The carpenter reeled and fell heavily to the floor of the bridge. Paxton clenched his fists together, and with ewenaty frown upon his face waited for Hollis rise. Slowly, the carpenter rose to his feet, but he | evinced no di tion to advance to the attack. He seemed like one dazed by a sudden shock. With an ed beg Ue of astonishment upon his face, he felt of his neck where a lump had arisen, the mark of Sinclair Paxton’s white knuckles. “Come, I am waiting,” Paxton said, impa- tiently. Hollis did not reply, but we gp and picked up his coat and proceeded to put it on. Paxton’s lip curled inscorn, and a glint of fire came from his eyes. ‘* You are satisfied, then?” he asked. “* For the present, yes,” Hollis replied, sullen | ly, ‘‘ but a time will come when: Pll get even ith you for this night’s work.” And with this . threat, darkly delivered, Hollis strode away. | Paxton watched him-until he disappeared in © the darkness beyond the bridge; a look of utter | contempt was upon the face of the victor. Poa." bully. and as usual, a coward,” he said, uietly. ‘1 must be on my though. He means mischief. apt to measure open strength with me again; now 1 must look out for low cunning.” With a confident smile upon his handsome face he walked slowly. on, As he left the brid rd against him, and came into the gloomy shade of the buildings beyond, he cast a quick and earnest glance around him. He fully expected to see Hollis’s form lurking in some dark corner, but he was disappointed; the car- penter had disappeared. : Paxton proceeded directly up the hill and through the village to his home, which was a stately old-fashioned white house situated on the main street of Saco. For a hundred years or more the Paxtons had lived there; few New —a families could trace further back than ey. In his room, which fronted on the street, Pax- ton removed his coat, lit a cigar, and sat down by the window. As he gazed out upon the moonlit street, the cool night breeze, fresh from old ocean ana balm of the sea-weed and the salt spray, sighed and sung with a low and mournful cadence through the leafy branches of the giant elms which adorned the roadside. ‘One face alone appeared before him; forgotten | now was the assault on the bridge; he thought only of the dainty maiden, the mill-girl, Lydia Grame. ‘ ae was the power which her fascinations exercised over the heart of Sinclair Paxton; yet no boy was he, but a man well tried in life’s ; one who had loved and _ lost. fie 0 Wan it fated now that. he should love and lose | ain? had not noticed Hollis although he had looked for him after leaving the bridge, et the nter was concealed in a dark corner ust beyond the structure. “ Quietly and without moving hand or foot, he watched Paxton until he disappeared in the gloom as he ascended the hill Then, Hollis pea from his hiding-place and stood in the street. He will not be | a 7 been kicked bya horse? He’s more than a ~ match for me, curse him!” and the carpenter. glared sullenly around him. Then he turned and walked rapidly across the bridge. He paused in its center and looked down into the ~ - darkness underneath. The ripple and splash of x the river rolling below, hastening onward to its grave, the sea, came to hisears. { “Pve half a mind to — over!” he cried, savagely. ‘‘'There’s forgetfulness down there. This girl has made'me mad. I can almost curse the hour when I first saw her. This blamed | Paxton, too; if I could only have given him a ‘ welting, I should have felt better.’ He’s got the training of a prize-fighter. What a fool Iam!” he cried, suddenly. ‘‘I forgot that he’s been a | sailor; it’s only natural that he should know how to use his fists,” [ae Hollis proceeded onward again with rapid strides. As he left the bridge and ascended the little hill on the Biddeford side, a thought sud- denly came to him, a em ‘““Tll go and see Lydia at once!” he crie his nervous, impulsive way. ‘‘Tll ask her right | out plain to have me, and if she refuses—” He paused on the word; a flood of thought é | rushed through his mind. : set To be refused by Lydia was the heaviest blow ‘ that could befall him, and yet as he thought the matter over, he could not remember a single action of the girl which should give him hope of a favorable answer to his suit. She had al : _ treated him kindly, yet only as a friend, noth - ; ing more, , ut drowning men will clutch at straws; few men in love who are not blinded by their pas- © sion, | “Pll do it, anyway!” he muttered, ashehas- tened onward. ‘‘She can but say ‘no; and if = | she does, why, that will end the matter, and Pll ne forget her.” ‘ Wise resolution, yet his heart told him that he 3 had uttered a falsehood ere the words had left; “ his Jips. Loe He walked i onward until hereachet = = the street where Lydia’s residence was situated. * As he turned the corner, his pace slackened. He could plainly hear the beating of hisheart | as it thumped against his ribs. With slow and faltering steps, strange con- ve trast to his former reckless rate of Rx he'ap- ‘¥ proached the little cottage which held within ' its humble walls the prettiest girl in all the town. : , A gleam of light came from the parlor win- Ows. j Hollis halted, leaned upon the picket fe tags ol and looked toward the house. He could plainly = distinguish a figure within the parlor, seated jin a the rocking-chair near the window. * -
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Se @ood-evening,” Lydia said, in her quiet, gentleway. . - 3 ‘The thought flashed instantly through Hollis’s Eo, mind that she had not asked him to come into ./. eome, » but still he had worked himself up into such a state of desperation that, even with the feeling that his suit would be rejected, he made bold to press it. f P ' _. “Do you want a visitor this evening?’ he _ * asked, endeavoring to put the question lightly . and trying to force a smile upon his solemn poet BCS, iy ; “T am not in a very entertaining mood to- a4 night, I fear,” Lydia replied, speaking only the . simple truth. 4s rat “Ss cs Thére are none so blind as those who will not “48 see., Again the omens were evil, but reckless, - ./' desperate, the carpenter pushed onward. co! ‘‘Hor Miss Gerame to be unentertaining is,lam ibe sure, an impossibility,” ho said, courageously ; but his daring'was not of the kind that, with a Ey smile, leads the Forlorn Hope into the trench yaked by the musket-balls; it was rather the. courage of the condemned criminal advancing «to the 'gallows. _ His voico trembled and his - . heart beat so loud that he felt sure the sound + Joust reach her'cars. ae _ But Lydia never ncticed his agitation in the - 2!) east The thoughts in her mind had small refer- f ence to Jediol Hollis, the ‘carpenter. . Brick and Sinclair Paxton—strange contrast !— were the two men most in her mind. work of it,” “Has anything | Wollis asked, anxiously. ‘ youst not think that. A woman, you know, is | an unreasoning creature, and is privileged to be | Ws _ dull sometimes without reasons. } “Pll come in and sit down for a few minutes; | perhaps Ican cheer you up,” Hollis said, won- | fi ‘ering, too, at his own boldness as he made the K> speech. But he ‘advanced into the porch, and | through the entry-way into the parlor; his face, | _ though, was white and his heart beat against | his ribs with a sledge-hammer thud. He placed his hat upon the center-table and | sat down in a chair close to the window. Lydia | had resumed her former seat, from whence she | had arisen when her eyes had caught sight of Hollis leaning upcen the fence. ; ‘With an anxious gaze te carpenter looked | _. into the face of the girl, He caw nothing there, | -. te afford him hope. ves, After Hollis had sat down, there was an awk- ward pause. The desperate lover knew what | -, he wanted to say, but knew not how to say it. _. Finally he broke the ice, so to term it. Have you been out this evening?” he asked. i “Yes,” she replied, , Hollis was well aware of the fact when he | asked the question. He had seen her upon the | arm of Paxton; coming from the post-office, and | y : : gH _ it was that circumstance which had heated his | rage and inspired him to lay in wait for his Py, fortunate rival. : “Tt has been very warm to-day,” he observed, still at a Joss for words. “Yes,” she again replied. __ Her answer did not aid him in the least. Again there was a long and awkward silence; ae then, with desperate resolution, Hollis deter- ge” tained to say what he had come expressly to tebe. ra | | * Miss Lydia, you and I have known each _ _~ other some little time now,” he said. __._ ‘The girl opened her eyes in astonishment; she tea} 3 cid star spe tac this strange begetens: ey _ JT have something very particular to say to— - you, Lydia, and I trust that you will not be of- | fended by my words,” he continued, earnestly. | % . The quick ear of the girl noted the change in the tone of the speaker; she saw, too, the crim- gon blood mounting into his cheeks and the fiery | aad lint of passion in his eyes. It was the first ime he had ever addressed her familiarly as | » Lydia, She guessed now what was coming: Tees would she have stopped him in his: speech, but knew not how: she was on her ee 3 , though, and, like a skillful fencer, sought | ee to break the attack and confuse her adversary _. by a brilliant ‘* parade.” ; Qh, T am dhe that so good a friend ”—and _ > ghe laid a very strong emphasis upon the -word—‘‘as you have been to me will never say / anything that can possibly offend. By the way} ‘ My. Hollis, are you going to the picnic nex vi ty . Pe a os Bae ter ihe week? I su it will be a very enjoyable 2 . affair: I hepe to be able to go.” She never » “fe be gs 2 ; 3% * os 7 . ® * oe eee ry ‘ a oe : rg Sage OS Oe > % ihe aw ‘gave him time to reply, | the house, and therefore his visit was unwel- | Tho augury he drew was an evil one, | Daisy | ek Fe ““T ought to thank you for the compliment,” | 4 ghe said, absently, “but?I am so dull to-night | ie _. whatIam sadly afraid I shall make very poor | happened to annoy you?” | Stan “Oh, no!” the girl answered, quickly; “you | ' and it is not my fault if it is | ment; *‘ how could I? How coul gloomily. af ae 42 od “we * “+f iro / f 7.4 i 7 « LA a eenirg ie — strangely unusual way for her. you to tell me the time?” With nervous fingers, Hollis opened watch. ‘* Just ten,” he said. ‘**So late!” she exclaimed, in accents of sur- prise. ‘‘It is time for me to think of retiring— early to bed and early to rise, you know,” and Lydia rose from her seat; there was something feverish, unreal, in her manner. Even Hollis’s passion-blinded eyes noticed it. ‘“‘T must'bid you good-night,”-she continued, going to the door. “Stay, Lydia!” cried Hollis, springing to his his feet, his cheeks red as fire, and the hot blood | surging in his veins. ‘‘I must speak a few words with you before we part to-night.” A long-drawn breath came from between the girl’s red lips, and then she shut them tightly together. ‘ Won’t to-morrow do?” she said, and there was a pleading, pitiful tone to her voice, a look | of anguish in her dark eyes, not unlike that | which shines in the orbs of the wounded deer as | he tumbles to his knees in the forest glade and | hears the knell of doom in the baying of the | dogs and the ringing notes of the hunter’s hory behind him. ‘* No, no, to-night!” he eried, impetuously, ad | vancing toward her. Again the long-drawn breath came from be tween the scarlet lips, and the heart in her bo som gave a great throb of pain. ‘* Lydia, 1 love you!” he cried, ange nica **No, no, do not say that!” she exclaimed, and extended her hands as though she feared | him “ But it is the truth!” he replied, quickly and | with nervous asaya “J feel that I cannot | ee live without you. ping or waking, your face is always before me. I cannot tell whether you care anything for me or not, but I care for you, and I must tell you of it. I cannot: keep the secret any longer. Now you know’ the — and you hold in your hands all my future 2. Earnestly and passionately he pleaded his cause, Love, that before had tied his tongue. and made him dull and stupid, now gave him command of a torrent of words. : “Mr. Hollis, I will not attempt to deceive you, nor do I wish you to misunderstand me,” Lydia said, her face white and strange restraint apparent in her manner. ‘‘I will frankly con- fess that I guessed what you wished to say and tried to keep you from saying it; but, _— ou have spoken, [ must answer you. A yours a woman should not trifle with for a sin- le instant. You have always acted like a riend to me, and I have tried my best to-night | to avoid giving. you pain; but, since you com- pel rks to speak, I cannot say aught but the truth.’ **You..do nct love me!” cried Hollis, desper- onthe ‘“No, I do not,” the girl answered,: firmly. * You cannot guess how much pain it gives me to speak this way, but I cannot say anything else. You have forced me to speak the truth, inful.” “Tt is your fault, though, t ‘* Now, yoware unjust!” the girl said, slowly, “eut to the very quick; ‘“‘ you have no cause to I have never treated you except as | say that. a friend. My lover you never, have been with my knowledge.” ; ‘* You might have spoken before,” Hollis said, sullenly, resting his elbow on the back of a chair, and his head on bis hand. ‘* Spoken before?” exclaimed Lydia, in amaze: re I tell that you cared anything for me?” “Why, I have been paying you attentions ever since :. You have been very kind to me, indeed,” the for it ver ful for all the little favors that me.” “T dont want love!” Hollis exclaimed. “And that I cannot give you,” the girl said, slowly and sadly. ‘* And why not?” he cemanded, angrily. t ttl 4dnoa | “Well, if you could give mea gooa reason ae sre et Laroniile “sa you don’t care for me, I shouldn't feel so { | half-angrily. | and want and suffering are h ice | Sts “wt of you as a girl thinks of a man whom she | wishes tomarry. I like youas a risaaeape am t ab you have made , _me love you!” exclaimed Hollis, reproachfully. you came to Biddeford,” Hollis said, | irl answered, quickly, ‘‘and I thank you | much. I trust that Iam fully grate- | you have done | your gratitude; I want your | . 20% od oo ee ee ~ about it,” he said, using the sulky tone of. /an overgrown school-boy detected in some _ breakage of the master’s rules, ‘Why ask a woman for reasons?” the girl ex- claimed, in bitter contempt. ‘“ What man ever lived who thought that a woman could reason? That is one of the proud prerogatives of your sex, not of mine,” “Have you any particular objection to me?” “* Have I not spoken painful words enough, al- ready?” Lydia asked, impatiently. “ at if | there is something about you that I do not like? _ Is there any need that I should still further af- front you by telling youof it? You have asked*a question and received an answer; why not stop now? ‘* Because I want to be satisfied,” he said, ‘““T know that you’ve got some reason for acting this way, and I want to find out what it is. You have always acted as if you did care something for me.” “So I do, as a friend,” answered the girl, quickly. ‘* Can not you understand that a wo- man can like a man and yet not love him well enough to marry him? A woman has many likings in her life, but she seldom loves but once.” “What a strange girl you.are!” Hollis ex- claimed. in wonder; ‘‘ you talk like a school- master.” “ The great world has been my school-room, masters; the lessons they teach are bitter ones, and are not easily forgotten;” the girl said, slowly. “I think that I know. one reason why you don’t care for me,” Hollis said, doggedly. “é Yes?’ “‘ Because people say that I drink; so I do sometimes, but not enough to hurt me.” “* Jediel Hollis, if Lloved you better than any woman ever loved any man in this world. and . should discover that you drank, I would sooner lie down and die than marry you,” the girl said, with strange emphasis. ‘‘Well, I should are it up altogether if 1 married you,” he said, rather astonished at hey earnestness. ‘“So many a man has said, and many a girl, . trusting to a drunkard’s word, has linked her- self toa degraded brute. Few men in this world love their wives well enough to give up their pleasures for them,” she re fied, scornfully. ‘« And that’s the reason that you don’tcare for me, eh?” , “No, no!” she exclaimed, impatiently. “‘ How — many times must | tell you that I never thought grateful far the many little kind acts t have done, but that is all,” fii, “And you don’t love any one else, eh?” Sharply and abruptly Hollis put the question, The girl did not start at the question, erbe- + tray any sign of emotion, except that hextlips shut together tightly for a moment. Ping “T donot think that I love any one in this world well enough to marry them,” she an- swered, slowly and calmly. “ Not even Sinclair Paxton?” Hollis demand- ed, with bitter accent, all the evil in his nature roused into action at the bare thought of the man, the print of whose knuckles he bore even now beneath bis ear. **T donot understand why you should speak in such a way of Mr. Paxton,” she said, slowly, and a troubled look aap upon her face. . ** You don’t understand, eh?’ he said, deliber- ately, and with a cruel joy, for he was convinced that at last he had hit upon the true reason why she had Ss beekeos his suit. “No, I do not,” and she raised her cold, calm eyes, and looked him full in the face. There was just a little bit of pride be gearutag in_her bearing. ‘‘I cannot understand why Mr. Pax- ton, the rich treasurer of the wre should ever be spoken of in the same breath as the poor mill- . hand, Lydia Grame.” ; . “‘ Because all Biddeford says that he is your lover,” Hollis replied, bluntly. The girl got just a shade whiter, and the fire of her eyes became more intense. “The Biddeford folks must have very little to talk about if they say such a foolish thing as that,” she said, puny. . ‘*Tt’s the truth, and you can’t deny it!” Hollis t you “You have no right to ask me that question,” , Cried, bitterly. she answered, quickly. / CHAPTER IX. : _ A MADMAN, ‘ Howtis reised bis head and looked the girl full in the face. ‘1 t “ sin ay ee ee Str is Wk bo”: ean | FA & a - “T shall not attempt to,” Lydia replied, calm- ly. “‘T knew that it was the truth!” the carpenter exclaimed, ina passion. “I saw the way you bung upon his arm when you was walking with _ him thjs evening. .’'m no fool, even if I am 7, Se «Soe
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as the speech, ' Lydia’s blazing eyes told that she felt and re- . . sh 2 Pre". *e STRANGE GIRL. mad atter you. 1’m sorry I ain’t as rich as Sin Paxton!” “Lydia flushed up just a little at the sneer, anda look of reproach came into her eyes; but Hollis, mad with jealousy, heeded it not. ‘But I can tell you one thing, Miss Lydia Grame,; when old Deacon Edmund Paxton con- sents to your marriage with his son, then the devil, who gave old Daddy Embden his ier will come after it, and about that time the world will end.” Reckless and brutal w: and sented the insult. “You have forgotten yourself, sir, and, now, Ee cig dere to speak to me again!” she ex- imed. A moment more and Jediel Hollis was alone. He could hear the rustle of the girl’s dress as she ascended the stair. A vague, wild thought came into his mind torush after her and € her to forgive and forget his frantic words, bu a stubborn sentiment of pride held him bac __ He snatched his hat from the table, jammed it upon his head, and rushed, like a madman, from the house. Lydia proceeded directly to her own room. On the threshold she paused and listened. She heard Hollis’s frantic rush from the house heard his steps ringing on the gravel walk and the gate slam behind him. ; ““He is a coward at heart,” she murmured, ‘else he would never have said what he did.,” Satisfied that he had really gone, she proceed- ed down-stairs again and closed up the house, All the Scmscieokd besides herself had retired. Then she went up-stairs once more to her snug, cosey little chamber. The room was like its mistress, neat as wax. Lydia commenced to disrobe for the night. She removed the little jacket she wore, and around her neck appeared a little blue ribbon. As she stood before the glass her eyes caught sight of the ribbon. With a deep-drawn sigh, she placed her hand upon the tiny band; the ends were concealed in her bosom; slowly she drew them out, and a piece of ivory about the size of a silver dollar came into view. Upon the z suxfase ot the ivory was the picture of a young some man, exquisitely painted. The face was a true southern one, dark eyes and hair, the oval, Italian-like countenance, and the im- press of fire and dash which the warm southern sun gives to its children. A moment the girl looked upon the handsome face, and then she carried it rapidly to her lips, ine kissed it again and again with passionate e. ‘ And when slumber came upon her that night, ae close to her heart was the ivory por- ‘rait. 4 After leaving the house, Hollis had hastened down the street at break-neck speed. The ve air seemed close and heavy around him. He was mad with rage and passion. “ Oh, ‘iat cursed Paxton!” he muttered, fran- tically, as he rushed wildly onward. “Oh, Ta ive ten years of my life to get even with him! could get this girl if it wasn’t for him. Ten years! Ta give all my life! I swear I'll kill im yet!” And with the words a terrible scheme came into the brain of the almost crazy carpenter. . oor Li te suddenly as if to commune with imself. “Tl do it!” he muttered—“ this very night, too, S’pose he’s gone to bed? ’Tain’t likely, for Pve seen him smoking there as late as one o'clock. I'll try it any way. I had jest as lief be hung as not as long as I in him!” Again the carpenter hurried onward. He ab straight, saa g house, ; n his room he & match and lighted the lamp which stood on the little stand. Then he opened the drawer of the stand and took out half a dozen leaden bullets which were in one corner. He was careful to take them all. In one corner of the room was a heavy black walking-stick with a small ivory head’ This Hollis took, and then turning the flame of the lamp down quite low, left the room and house, Straight he went for Saco. The town reached at last, he hastened with noiseless tread through the main street until he arrived opposite to the Paxton homestead. A single light appeared in the house; its flame - showed through an open window, and by the window, in his shirt-sleeves, smoking, sat Sinclair axton, little ing of the assassin who lurked so near. a ee > ~ “How calm and peaceful Ao CHAPTER X. THE ASSASSIN. Deep in thought, Paxton smoked away. The cool sea breeze gently stirred the locks of hair upon his temples. the silence of the night he communed with himself. ‘What a strange spell this girl has thrown around me,” he muttered, removing the cigar from his lips and watching the fragrant smoke as it curled in eddying circles upward. ‘‘She is wonderfully beautiful; there is acharm about her that insnares me despite myself. I wonder what my father would say if he knew of this fancy of mine for one of the mill-girls? He, with all his pride of his old New-England de- scent. He’sa sens’dle man, though, and I feel sure that if he really knew the girl, he would not object. But, does she love me?” And long and deeply he pondered over the poestion, to him of all-absorbing interest. ‘She will not own that she cares anything for me, but if I know anything of women she does. When she thought that I was offended to-night, she would not let me leave the room until she was satisfied that Iwas not angry. A young girlis astrange riddle sometimes to us men, and why should | they not be, when half the time they puzzle themselves?” The cigar, burning down unpleasantly near to his fingers, interrupted his reflections. He | tossed the stump out of the window, and lighted a fresh one. “I do not feel in the least sleepy,” he mur- | mured, as he enjoyed thé fragrance of the to- | bacco. “It is so pleasant that I do not feel like going to bed at all.” Then he looked out into the quiet street, with its old and stately elms sorwy ihe their leafy topsin the ocean breeze. the night is! Who on a night like this, alone with the solitude of nature, could believe there was such a thing in this world as strife and toil? that man’s angr passions could rage on this fair earth which whispers so wooingly of peace and love?” Crack! The sound came from the window-pane above | his head. In utter astonishment, Sinclair looked up dnd beheld a’ bullet-hole drilled through the glass of the window. The truth flashed upon his mind in an instant, “Some one is shooting at me with an air- gun!” he cried, impulsively, and then over his nature came the animal passion of the chase— the hunt for blood. Quick as thought he acted; he pulled open the drawer of the little table which stood by his side close to the window, and snatched a little revolver which lay therein; then, with a pan- ther-like bound, he sprung through the open window. Hanging by his hands from the win- dow-sill, he dro lightly to the ground; it was only some m feet, and the soft turf un- derneath broke the force of the fall. So rapid had been the action of the young man that the assassin, who had fired the air- gun, concealed behind an elm on the opposite | side of the street, had no time after firing the shot to attempt to igi Hid by the shadow thrown by the house, and crouching upon his hands and knees low upon the earth, Paxton took a survey. As the shot had passed squarely th h the glass, boring only a little round hole, Paxton came at once to the conclusion that the person who had fired the shot must be concealed be- hind one of the trees on the other side of the street. But to get at him was the puzzle. The middle of the street was as light as day, expos- | ed as it was to the bright rays of the moon, and | to attempt tocross it would only give chance | for a second shot, which might be fired with — better aim than the first. But if Paxton could not get at the unknown | foe, neither could he leave his ambush without | danger of discovery, except by retrea | through the grounds of the house right behind | the tree-trunk which served him for shelter. pe ea J . Paxton’s keen eyes took in the situation -at once. The breadth of the street alone separated ' which he had passed. “Tf He did, he must be as quick as a cat, who- ever he is.” » f Ten minutes more passed away. Paxton had almost made up his mind that the assassin had indeed escaped, when he heard the slight noise which a man’s feet make moving with caution upon a gravel pathway. A smile of satisfaction came over Sinclair’ face, and he drew back the hammer of the re volver, ready for action. Then he heard a gate creak on its hinges, tl sound denoting that it was being opened slow]} and with caution, The time for action had cdme. Paxton sprung to his feet and dashed across the road, with the speed of a grayhound. The man pursued had ears no less quick than he who followed in the chase. He guessed at once that the man whom he had tried to kill was on his track. He now abandoned all cau- tion and rushed forward at headlong speed. Paxton ran forward at his utmost pace. He reached beneath the tree which had given shel- ter to the assassin, and came to the gate nin It was closed, but the pursuer stayed not to open it; laying his hands he the gate-post, he vaulted over it, light as a bi : The sound of the fugitive’s footsteps, running at his topmost speed, guided Paxton in his - chase. The unknown. ran_ straight through the grounds to the rear stréet. Over the fence he went into the street, across the street and inta the grounds of one of the houses on the opposite side of the way, then suddenly the noise of his footsteps stopped. Paxton had followed him hotly, but as he scaled the fence and came down onto the street, he noticed that the sound of the, footsteps bad ceased, and guessing that the fugitive again lay in ambush on the other side of the moonlit road, he did not care to cross it infull range of his noiseless weapon. ; Quietly he nestled down under the shade of a large elm tree, and waited, ““Tcan play at hide and seek all nighv!” he muttered; ‘‘ but he shall not shake me off, and Mery the morning light comes then I'll trap my irda, The fugitive, who had gained the shelter of | the fence on the further side of the street, had succeeded in tise he Wee important aaceeaie He could steal off, his footsteps deadened the soft garden loam, with much less noise than when forced to tread in thegravel walk. é The breath of the assassincame hard, for the run had been a breather, short as it was. Eagerly and intently he listened. Not a sound could he hear except the breeze playing with the leaves, or the distant howl of some wide-awake dog baying the moon and making night hideous with his discordant yelps. e did not for an instant think, though, that. Paxton had given up the chase; he knew him. too well for that. He guessed instinctively, that his pursuer lay concealed, waiting for some sign of his presence to again follow on his track, - Cautiously, therefore, he moved Brin sae the shelter of the clump of bushcs by t are P den fence, beneath which he had found Aoi and stole noiselessly across the garden. —__ The garden fence was a high one, ln.’ ‘y for him, and thus concealed him from the o-svrva- tion of the watcher on the other side of the street, A dozen steps had the fugitive taken, and not — a sound betrayed that his pursuer was on his — track. A half-smile came over his face, for he saw safety before him. dozen more steps, and he was half-way across the garden—sti!l no sound of pursuit. iv “A narrow shave, but, I shall escape,” the fugitive muttered, h ly. A dozen more steps and he was within ten feet of the. rear house of the grounds: beyond safety. No sound of rapid footsteps in the rear. The fugitive had paused for a moment to him from the ambushed foe. He felt sure that | /isten, when from the porch of the house, with he could detect the slightest movement of the unknown if he should attempt to leave the shelter of the tree and escape through the grounds of the house behind him. So Paxton coolly stretched himself out at full length upon | very turf, and, with his ear to the ground, | aited, Ten—twenty minutes passed away, and no bearsely, ah bole Me sound save the night wind rustlin the leaves of the elms came to Paxton’s ears. 4 His brows contracted, : “Can it be possible that he escaped while I was getting out of the window?’ he muttered. . open mouth and savage growls, a good-sized dog came bounding toward him, and hardl:* had the brute given tongue when the footst ys of the pursuer a The dog’s_ bar: in rose on the air. ; had warned him as. to the whereabouts of the fleeing man. “Get down, you brute!” cricd the fugitive, ing tothe fence. The dog fel- nd, and emboldened by the fli ht of the man, sprung savagely at his leg as he es- | sa at iaribeat ee fence. ss Pst e teeth of the dog almost inet in the flesh of the fngitive’s leg. the fence was the open country and that meant —
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. - phd > A wn Peer ao * oh ike | 3 ; [: J ; chee. tin re ries ee ee! . ae es j | died, stand there? Won’t their blood “Wal, there was Jeff Davis an’ all them Southerners on their side, an’ there was Abo Lincoln an’ Seward an’ a lot more on our side. Now, if it a-hadn’t been for these men, there wouldn’t have bin any war, an’ the question ’m puzzling over is, #in’t these men to blame for the ones who were killed jes’ as much as if they had killed them with their own hands?” Delia had never heard any such reasoning as this before, and she thought the’ matter over carefully, wondering all the time what could have put such an idea into her father’s head. The old man watched her with eager anxiety. * Wal, what do you think, Delie—are they to blame or ain’t they?” “*T don’t think they are, father; it was the antagonism of principles rather than men that brought on the war,” “Then you don’t think that the blood of the men who were killed lies at their doors, eh?” he asked, anxiously. “No, I do not believe that any one would think so,” she said. ‘Tain’t that, Delie!? he cried, earnestly; ‘“tain’t what any one in this world will think, but how will the account balance when it comes before the last Great Court?” There was a feverish anxiety about the old man which was pitiful to behold. | ‘You mean the Day of Judgment, father?” “Yes, Delie, that’s what I mean; how will a man through whose means other men have | ome ag’in’ him? Do you s’pose he’ll stand any ce to be saved?? gr: ' “Father, I wouldn’t think of such things,” the girl said, coaxingly. ‘*‘ What does it mat- ter? You had nothing to do with ke) ed _the war? They cannot lay any man’s death at your door.” ““Mebbe not, mebbe not,” he muttered, ab- 4“ HH ere’s Mr. Paxton coming up the walk,” the girl said, happening to look out of the win , low. “Mr. Paxton!” the old man exclaimed, rous- ing himself out of his stupor. ‘ Yes, young Mr. Paxton—Sinclair,” sheiw4 “Oh, 1 remember; he comes about the mill; a little matter of business.” “Til run away, then, so as not to be in the wa; | sently—‘‘ but I’d like to be sure.” girl,” was busy among the dishes. Mary Ann was a brisk, comely girl of twenty. Show Mr. Paxton in; he’s coming up the walk,” Delia said. : ae “ Sartin,” Mary Ann responded, and she hur- ried away to the front door, which she reached just as the young man rung the bell. Paxton was shown into the sitting-room, and Mary Ann returned to the kitchen. _ “ He's a nice-looking young man,” Mary Ann remarked, with a sly glance at the face of the oung girl. a es,” responded Delia, with an air of in- difference which she was far from feeling, for Sinclair Paxton was a great favorite of hers. “Pears to meif I been you I would have one and let him in myself,” the hired girl con-— ued. ie i Ann?’ asked Delia, quietly. ch te 5 t, F < 5 ar ery pe z oe ; ve * Mass at Sis And she went out through the dining-room | into the kitchen where Mary Ann, the ‘hired so, Mary but there was a little red spot burning in each it he
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asked ' a « For with him “Why, Mary Ann?” and the daughter of the — House bhished to her temples; ‘‘why should I wish to chat with him?” “T thought girls allers liked to see their fel- lers,” Mary Ann replied, slyly, enjoying Delia’s confusion, : “‘ But he isn’t my fellow,” Delia protested. : : Isn't your feller?” ‘Comes here pretty often.” “But he comes to see father on business.” * And not to see you?” ‘*No; of course not.” % Well, folks think that he comes here arter you. Lordy, Delia, I’ve heard a dozen say, what a nice match Delia Embden and Sinclair Paxton will make,’” “T should think that folks might find some- thing better to do than to talk about any such thing, particularly when there isn’t a word of truth in it!” Delia declared with a flushed face. “Oh, folks will , you know, ee when they talk bene must say something. by, do you know [really thought that you and Mr. Paxton were engaged?” é 9 baecil | Ann! 1 Well’ I rea y did; he’s been here so much tely.” ; lately. “ tt is because father has a great deal of busi- ness to transact with him, but he never comes to see me; P’ve walked down the street with him two or three times, but it was all an ac- cident ; we both happened to go out at the same time.” “ Well, now, do tell!” Mary Ann exclaimed. “Well, I’m glad that he aint your beau for one thing.” “Why, what is that?” asked Delia in astonish- ment, “°COos he’s gdt another girl,” whispered Mary Ann, mysteriously. The flush faded from Delia’s cheeks, and a Spiteful look came into her eyes. Although she had denied that Sinclair was her lover, yet it was plain that Mary Ann’s intelligence was not calculated to give her pleasure, | “How do you know he has, Mary Ann?’ she with an effort to appear unconcerned. Oh, folks know all about it now,” Mary Ann said, with an air of satisfaction. “They were out walking together last night. I guess the old deacon would have stared if he could ave seen ’em.” _, What is the girl’s name?” ; One of the mill hands—same mill that Sin axton is treasurer of; her name is Grame— f Lydia Grame.” yes, I know her,” Delia said, quickly; *Oh that is/T don’t mean that I really know her, . a“ Nt ia rye “ ye nga Ow who she is, She hasn’t been here ver, lo O° mg.”? ’ a came last winter; she’s a dreadful proud, stuck-up thing; acts as if she thought that’ she was better than. other people,” Mary Ann sg a toss of the head. he is very pretty,” Delia observed, thoughtfull ell a ite as people think,” the hired a contemptuously, ‘* She isn’t auty. ay Mr. Paxton really in love with her?” 6 chan ought to have jest seen ’em walkin ee er last night!” the girl protested. took one look at them, and that satisfied me. I think that it’s a shame that some one don’t tell his father. He ought to know it,” “Why, she may be a very good girl, Mary Ann,” Delia suggested, but there was a tinge of Se yan ebb way BE abd th ' es, u ’ en again she ma not be, There isn’t anybody in Biddeford that knows any thing about her, who she is, where she comes from, or who she belongs to, Why, she may have a dozen husbands, for all any- body knows here!” “T don’t see how the deacon could stop it, evar if %e knew it,” Delia said, thoughtfully, ‘He'd find a way! Deacon Edmund Paxton knows more than all the rest of Biddeford put together, I only wish he knew all about it.’ elia did not reply, and the conversation turned upon other aohgotia. The seed was plant- ed, though, in fruitful soil. CHAPTER XIII. ‘we om & SHOBDT BTASB. Just four and twenty hours after the conver- ‘Sation detailed in our last chapter between Delia Embden and thé fh a meee Ana, Deacon Edmund Paxton sat his library, ay among his papers. ‘The deacon was a man of fifty—a tall, portly * “4 ' is : A ag st t +,” ~ alot ’ pe, VA. na) “I ~ »¥. = a chance to have had a little quiet chat th ery STRANGE GIRL. gentleman, with silver-gray hair and a round, fat face, fringed by luxuriant silver-gray side- whiskers. large and clear. The deacon’s face was fat and clean, red and white in color—sure proof of good living and of freedom from cares in worldly matters; yet the massive under jaw, the firm and square-set forehead and a certain shrewd look about the eyes, told that the jolly and comfort-loving dea- | con had a strong willof his own, and was fully able to cope with his fellow-men in the great battle of life. Edmund Paxton came of one of the oldest families in all New England, His ancestors had | settled on the banks of the Saco when the pow- erful Tarrentines, the Penobscots and the Saco Indians ranged in their native freedom from the Salmon river to the St. Croix. Old gossips told a legend how one of the Pax- tons had once wedded a daughter of the great chief of the Saco tribe; how, in some mysterious way, the marriage had brought ruin and dis- traction to the red-men, and how the dyin warriors, with their latest breath, had curse the race of Paxton, and how the curse had clung to the family even to the present time. But, old gossips will talk, and simple stories will grow by constant tition into the dignity of legends, which must be received without question. Few, however, could look upon the placid and good-humored face of Deacon Edmund Paxton, and believe that any age-descended curse shad- owed his life. The deacon had inherited quite an estate from his father, and by thrift and care had so in- | creased it that he was accounted one of the rich- | est men in the State, east of Portland. The arrival of the morning mail interrupted the deacon in his labors. Three letters came; two of them in rey en- velopes bore the Boston post-mark. ‘The hand- writing was familiar to him; one was from his Sak hoy Boston. But the third letter the deacon ex- amined with curiosity. The superscription evidently was in a woman’s hand, and disguised at that, too. mar It was addressed simply, ‘‘ Edmund Paxton, Esq., Saco, Maine.” : Humph, it looks like a love-letter,” the dea- con.murmured. ‘‘Ifit had been addressed to Sinclair, now, I should not have wondered, but Lam a little too old for that sort of thing; too much in the ‘sere and yellow leaf.’” Then the deacon opened the letter. It was extremely brief and very much to the oint. It read as follows: * A friend begs to inform Mr. Edmund Paxton, that his son, Sinclair, has honored a young lady named Lydia Granie, a mill-girl, with his attentions | so openly, take place. And that was all; no signature was attached toit. It was written ina hand evidently dis- guised, but plainly written by a woman. : The deacon read the letter over a second time, and pressed his lips together gravely. that folks wonder when the marriage will Then he opened and read the other two lettérs | which were purely on business matters as:he | had expected. These disposed of, he again to the mysterious note. “A mill-girl, eh?’ he muttered. Grame; a rather odd name,” he said, reflective- ly." I don’t remember any family about here of that name; she is evidently a stranger, then. I can understand this letter on that supposition. It is written by some young lady of Biddeford or Saco who vated by a stranger. I wonder if there is any truth in it;and then again, I wonder who the girl is? I am going down to the mill this morn- ing; it may be as well to inquire about this Miss Lydia Grame.” The deacon turned once more to his ey sewed in twenty minutes he had finished, then he left the library and dressed himself for the street. He proceeded at once to the mill. The superintendent, Anson White, Esq., was in his private office when the deacon entered. half an hour was oecupied upon business, matters, when the deacon suddenly remarked:, “By the way, White, I s: ppose you know the Names of all the mill-hands? ie Yes, I qoint to know all about the hands. Got anidea ahs know, that I can run the mill better,” hite replied. He was a shrewd, bustling ‘ mins x is eyes were dark blue in hue, | ie the other from the mill-agent located in | It was a) ond letter, and bore the Biddeford post- | *T wonder | 7 which mill; our mill, Isuppose. Grame—Lydia | oesn’t like to see Sinclair capti- | think Ido. I have always made it q | Ss “ Did his ‘Yankee from ’way-down-Kast, and really & capital manager. 7 ‘Is there a girl in the mill named Grame— Lydia Grame, I believe?” “Yes,” White answered, promptly: ‘been here about six months, if I remember rightly,” ‘“‘ Whatsort of girl is she?” the deacon asked, quietiy, and with apparent unconcern. “Tall, with dark eyes, very ladylike indeed; she’s‘ above the average of mill-girls—very much of a lady.” ‘ ‘*Ts she a good hand?” “Excellent! Hasn’t missed a day I believe since she came tothe mill. She’sa very capable young woman. I took quite an interest in her rag she first came, she was so quiet and lady- ike, “‘T’ve heard her spoken of, and from the de- “ hat’s easy enough if it’s not too much trouble for you to go up-stairs,”» White said, rising, ‘‘Oh, no; although I am getting rather fat and old,” the deacon said, good-humoredly, get-_ ting up from his chair. “Well, deacon, you stand it pretty well,” White replied. “Yes, contrive to worry along. By the way, ee Bi Grame stop in the mill bearding- ouse Gardner’s.” ‘“* Ah, indeed!” Then the two proceeded into the mill. Lydia worked in a room on the third floor. E The superintendent and the deacon sauntered carelessly through the room, Mr, White ex- plained the working of some new machinery | which had just been put in. J The two paused within twenty where Lydia was at work. As they stood there in conversation, White quietly indicated the girl, “That’s Miss Grame'on the right—the girl with dark hair in the striped calico.” “ Pretty, isn’t she?” the deacon said. “Yes, and do you notice how ——— she appears even in her common working: sf?” ‘She looks\very much like a lady; I should think, though, would be more inclined to dress herself up and | play the fine lady than to stick steady to her work,” the deacon said, thoughtfully, “T haven’t a better hand in the mili, deacon,” White replied, decidedly. “I wish all the rest were as oF, mya ** Pretty nice girl, eh?’ : “Yes, as far as my knowledge of her goes.” The two walked on, the deacon taking a care- ful Folge pice at Lydia. ; ey made the circuit of the room, then re turned to the office. Hardly had the two got out of sight when the oe who worked next to Lydia came over to er. “I wonder what he wanted up here,” she said, with a sly glance at Lydia. Eel aii “Who?” - Why the old gentleman with Mr. White.” feet or so of answered, with perfect unconcern, “He's been t rough the mill often enough; he knows all about the machinery,” the girl said, with a, toss of her head. “T never saw him here before,” Lydia re- ed. ? ‘““Why, don’t you know who he is?” “The old asked, wondering at the question, ‘Yes, of course.” Me ‘No, Ido not know him; how should I?” sha said, in some little astonishment. Lydia could’ not understand the drift of the girl’s questions, nor why sheshould take any interest in the visit of the old gentleman, Deacon Paxton, Sinclair “Why, that was Paxton’s father.” Lydia gave just a little bit of a sta . She . had noticed that the old gentleman ‘had looked — at her very intently, but she had thought that he was only watching the process of her worl, _ “That was Sinclair Paxton’s father,” the girl repeated, a little disappointed that tho. news had produced so little impression uyon, Lydia. She had seen Lydia walking with Sin- clair two nights before. t “ Ah, yes,” Lydia said, affecting an air of un- concern which she was far from fecling, ; trouble to come up here; one would think that 'he wanted to see somebody,” and with this - | parting shot the young lady returned to her _ ‘work, cap put the question to herself: ather come to see me?” ‘ scription I fancy that I would like to see her.” ‘“‘No; she boards in Biddeford, at widow © that a girl of her attractions’ .— “To look at the machinery; I suppose,” Lydia - entleman, you mean” Lydia ~ “ It is strange that the deacon should take the — m4 1 4 bs 1 4 Pe ct
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ee ak cl should be paying attentions to one of the mill- OPN hands, a poor girl depending upon her labor for loved to gossip. : Sw arise” able talk. ing. Lydia was listlessly gazing out of tho window into the little — watching a half- | blown rose as it swayed gently to and fro in the z, evening breeze, when she was suddenly startled ‘i voice strange to her ears. She looked up, and by the garden gate stood t1e old gentleman she had seen in the mill that i10rning, Deacon Edmund Paxton. ; ‘Miss Grame, I believe?” the deacon had said, in his bland, smooth hf ; ' “Yes,” the girlreplied, startled at the appari- “a tion. _ . “Excuse my coming in, but I wish to have a few minutes’ scammer with you,” and the deacon opened the gate and advanced up the a eit pathway toward the house. 44 Lydia’s suspicions were now confirmed; the alte old gentleman had come to the mill that morn- ing to see her, ? jj Almost bewildered, and guessing vaguely at 48 tho reason of the unexpected visit, Lydia has- ae tened to open the front door and admit the old ey gentleman. He walked at once into the parlor. “You see, Miss Grame, 1 make myself per- fectly at home,” he said, smilingly, as he seated himself in the rocking- chair. : ‘Tam sure that you are quite welcome, sir,” the girl hastened to say. : ‘Be seated, my dear; [ have come to have quite a long conversation with you,” the deacon said, ina fatherly way. OSS oh ee . -. oa rE a sr Silently the girl complied. rar ““T saw you this morning in the mill,” he be- | niet “T suppose, though, that I ought to be- | wie gin by introducing spe ,»asl am a stranger | z to you. My name is Paxton, Edmund Paxton; Forts 1 the name is probably familiar to you; my son, és ae > treasurer of the mill where you - are emplo : i j nes he «Yen, overs am acquainted with him,” Lydia Rs said, slowly. rt Page Although the manner of the deacon was @X- bs tremely cordial, yet the girl felt a painful ap- Oe _ prehension that the nature of his errand was ‘st unpleasant, rete | 19 “ Ab—yes; by the way, Miss Grame, your | -. * mame is not familiar to me; are you a native of ee the State of Maine?” ai ‘* No, sir; I was born in Virginia.” eee _“ Ah-a Southerner, eh?, ell, how do you a like New England? Does it agree with you?” 5 ‘Oh, yes; 1 am very happy and contented ae here,” she answered. i “Pm glad of that; I always like to have ih cog every one happy. [I presume, then, that you 3 nave no relatives here?” : a oe 0, sit.” | Si: _ “It is our good old New England fashion, meses you know, for the folks to call upon all stran- oes gers who honor their neighborhood with a visit, eet and as I had an idea that you were a stranger | es _ among us I thought that it was my duty to call. rs upon you. I’m aware that the custom is get- | 5 ting out of fashion now. We’re all so taken up eat in our hurry to getrich that we are forgetting jae the simple manners and kindly habits of our Fat forefathers. Are your parents living, Miss ne Grame?” ; oes “No, sir.” + a * . All alone in the world, eh?” “Yes; I haven’teven a living relative that I mov of,” the girl said, sadly. f She | been noticed | ppore was quite sufficient to create consider- | a Tho gloom of the twilight was slowly descend- | Te l-y hearing her name pronounced and by a | _ notice the change. —— a: eae FETE Ss ee A STRANGE GIRL. : ‘Bless me, that’s very bad indeed—a young girl like youand no relatives to guide or coun- ' sel?” : “None!” é “Well, well,” the deacon said, reflectively. | “Tm very glad, my dear, that 1 called upon ‘you. While you remain with us you must look | upon me as a friend. Any time that you need counsel or assistance, come to me, and you shall certainly have it.” Tears sparkled in the dark eyes of the girl at the friendly words of Deacon Paxton. _ He, watching her narrowly, while pretend- | ing not to do so, saw the evidence of emotion, | though she hastily tuted aside her head and brushed the tears away. The deacon was rather pleased with the effect ot his words. “Tam sure Stee are very kind,” the girl said, her voice trembling with emotion, despite her efforts to appear composed. “Well, my child, bow do people treat you up here? Do you get along pretty well, eh? ‘“ Yes, sir; every one is very kind to me.” ss Mr. White speaks of you very highly in- | deed ‘‘T have tried very hard to give satisfaction,” she said, earnestly. “* He tells me that you are a great worker.” “T do the best I can, sir,” was the modest reply. - T suppose you have some bright ‘ chateau en Espagne’ before you—some dream of a cozy home and a husband’s love to cheer you up when your fingers get tired and your back weary?” the deacon said, carelessly, but he kept his eyes intently fixed on the face of the girl. A little bright spot of color came into the white cheeks as the words fell upon her ears, ane. she hesitated a moment before she made reply. ‘No, sir,” she said, slowly. “What! Isit possible that a young lady as pretty and attractive as yourself doesn’t think of marrying and of settling down to cheer some poor fellow’s heart and make him think his home is an earthly paradise?” ““T do not think of rying, sir,” she said, | : Authie timeslot seaoy. den. ‘Lydia had not moved, but stood like a with downcast eyes and the tinge of color glow- ing brightly in her smooth cheeks. ‘““By the way, Miss Grame, have you an poms in Biddeford?’ the deacon asised, sud- enly. Lydia looked astonished at the question. “None that [ am aware of, sir,” she replied. “T asked because I received a note this morn- | ing which evidently didn’t come from any friend of yours. Read it,” and the deacon handed Lydia the brief note written in the dis- guised hand. The face of the girl flushed up red as fire as she read the communication. i ** You see that. doesn’t come from any friend ‘of yours,” the deacon said, méaningly. **T will not deny, sir, that I know your son— that he sometimes visits me, and that we have walked out together; but that there is any en- gagement between us is a falsehood. I hope es believe me, sir?” and Lydia looked earnest- y into the face of the deacon. “My dear, don’t run on so fast,” the old gen-_ -humoredly, h k | y, as he took back | plaintive! tleman said, the note. “‘Ihaven’t come to put you on the rack and cross-question you in regard to your in- timacy with my son. Of course it was only na- tural, when I received this delicate warning, that I should wish to see what sort of a person Miss Lydia Grame was. That is the reason eg I have taken the liberty to call upon you and make your acquaintance this evening. ” “But you do not believe that the warning is true, sir?’ Lydia asked, anxiously. ‘*My dear, it doesn’t make any difference to me whether it is so or not. I don’t ask you to | say either yesorno. If my son has chosen to ‘fall inlove with you, all that J have to say is that he has shown himself ably good taste.” “Then if your son should like me, he would not incur your displeasure by so doing?” Lydia asked, blushing just a little at the complimen- tary speech of the deacon, ‘He is old er i my. dear, to both think and act for himself, and I should be the last person in the world to interfere in the matter, unless he chose to come and ask my advice; then I should give it to him, more as a friend than a father. Of course I should naturally ask some few questions as to who and what his intended bride was, her family, etc.; which could be easily answered.” The color faded from Lydia’s face, and she seemed c . The deacon did not fail to of remark- | * T feel sure that | don’t even say ‘ How Wye do’ toa fellow.” “Pll bid you good evening my dear, now,” he said, rising arid taking his hat from the ta- ble. ‘‘Remember, if you need any advice, come to me and you shall have it freely.” *“ Believe me, sir, there is nothing in this re- port,” she said, anxiously; ‘at least, not on my side.” “Tf my son loves you, and you would make him a good wife—which from what little I know of you, looks probable—I trust that there may be some little love on your side, one of these days. Good-night,” and the deacon departed, ; leaving Tardis a prey to conflicting emotions, “But I do not love him!” she exclaimed, standing by the door, gazing out into the dusk of the twilight, and communing with herself. , 1 do not love him, yet he is so worthy to be loved!” CHAPTER XV. THE ADVENTURER AGAIN. Lyp1a stood by the doorway like one in a trance, her eyes were fixed upon the ground and rapidly ihe busy thoughts flashed across her brain. ‘“‘He is so worthy to be loved,” she repeated, slowly, ‘‘and yet Iam sure I do not love him. Oh, there isn’t any one in this world who could ess how strangely yopcinebinig he is, and yet— feel that I do not love him. But will the time ever come when I shall love him? No, no, no!” she cried, hurriedly ; “‘ I must not think of thats, I must not even dream of such happiness being ‘in store forme. I must be on my posed against him, or some day I may wake to the knowledge that I do love him, and then there will nothing but misery for me hereafter in this | world. It must not—it shall not be!” and the _ girl shut her white teeth firmly together, and over her face came a hard and eruel look, For the moment she looked ten years older. “Ah, Lydia, enjoying the breezes of the night?” said a well-known voice. The speaker had. sppipached so softly that the girl, deep in thought, had not heard his footsteps. Lydia’s face piainly showed the pain she felt, for the speaker was Daisy Brick. Brick opened the gate and came into the gar- statue in the doorway. ““What a deuced strange girl you are!” Daisy exclaimed, as he came up to her. ‘“ You ‘““Why have you come here again?’ demand- ed the girl, suddenly, and her eyes glared, and the big veins in her white temples swelled out like knotted cords. ‘‘ Are you going crazy?” demanded Brick, in astonishment. ‘‘ Why have you come here again?” repeated the zirl, her voice forced and unnatural. ‘To see you, of course, since you insist upon an answer,” he replied. ““'W Il you ever leave me in peace?’ the girl repaint despair plainly written on her white ace, “Who the deuce wants to disturb you?’ Sinculated Brick, disdainfully. ‘It’s a great pity, I think, if I can’t come and have a quiet chat with you once in awhile, without your | kicking up such a row about it.” “What do you want now?” the girl asked, y- “Don’t want anything in particular,” Brick replied, shortly. “T can’t i give you any more money—” fe aye 1I ask you for it,” he interrupted, quickly. “ Oh, go away!” she exclaimed. “Shan’t do any thing of the sort, and don’t you be a fool. don’t intend to do you any - arm. You'll see before long that I’m the best ' friend you ever had.” “You a friend?” Lydia exclaimed, in a tone of withering pees fe Even the redoubtable Daisy winced at it. He was not utterly without feeling. “‘See here, don’t iy u be so confounded sar- castic!” he exclaimed. ‘‘ You cut right through a fellow with that Raa of yours, just like a north-east wind. y, Lydia, you make me feel quite uncomfortable; you don’t say much, but your manner suggests a good deal, and Iam so quick of apprehension, that, really, I would greatly prefer that you would speak in a more pleasant mainer.” ‘*T don’t wish to see you at all,” she exclaimed, quickly.” ‘‘ You know very well that your presence brings nothing but pain to me.” hcg iy dia, my charmer, it’s our’ duty in this life of ours, to bear pain sometimes,” he said, lightly; “but you take a wrong idea of this matter. You are here all alone, a stranger among strangers:soamI. Being old acquaint- i
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' é ’ I _ Pauper by bi ae. + Ast . a ton A STRANGE GIRL. eee is) ances, if is only together for mutual advice and counsel, say. And from what | have heard from the village gossips, I rather think that you will need the ad- vice of a cool, clear-headed friend before long.” Daisy’s manner implied a great deal more than his words. “What have you heard?’ Lydia demanded, te nc the vivid scarlet spots burning in her cheeks, : my dear, I’ve come to give you some good ad- the “But you must have it, my dear high-spirit- ed pete fs Brick replied, placidly. ‘“‘ Come!” And he mounted the step and attempted to place his arm around the girl’s waist, but she shrunk from him as though there was death in ‘his touch, ~ “Oh, I ain’t a snake!” Brick exclaimed, rather out of temper. ‘‘I’m not going to bite yeni you needn’t jump as though your precious ife was in. danger.” ‘‘T can not bear to have you touch me,” she said, in a tone of aversion. “Oh, indeed! Well, now, I never shoulé have guessed that, if you hadn't said so!” Brick exclaimed, with profound sarcasm. Then, a little out of humor, he walked into the parlor, and Lydia followed slowly. Brick took possession of the vockitiwetiatr. ‘with an air of intense satisfaction, x ‘emt may say what they like about New England; the people down here know, how to live and enjoy life,” he exclaimed, in a con#- Gent tone. ‘I’ve made up my mind to stop these parts for some little time, and so I hunted up a boarding-house, and what the old woman wh k it, Mrs. Sparks, don’t know about ooking, ain’t worth knowing.” Lydia’s heart sunk within her at his words. She had tried to forget him and his visit, and had fondly imagined that she would not be unted by his presence. By the way, Lydia, my dear, you may as yell light a lamp, if there is one inthe room; I ate to talk in the dark,” he said. Lydia did not reply, but lit the lamp, which stood on the mantilepiece. And, now, sit down, my dear,” Brick con- tinued—the girl was leaning on the mantlepiece it looks so awkward. to She wen i i nearesie t peaicnly, and seated herself in the there,” pam Ty “There, that’s better!” he exclaimed, with an air of satisfaction. ‘Now we can have a cozy chat together. A moment since you punded Ine greatly. You insinuated that I 7.4 come to get some money from you. My 3 % Lydia, how could you wrong me so?” and diet Shook his head, mournfully. ‘True, I & small sum from you on the occa- at the thee Yisit, but, as I explained to you haa aa liftox Was under a cloud; that cloud 1. I now in business on my am a thanks to the Joan received from Lydia looked a little bewildered; during her sion of my acquaintance with Daisy Bri ge a him to exhibit wa a eointtiegs oe whatever. rr ’ ““ By the way, if any one shoul see me in conversation with you = ag ad my name might be asked. Iam known here as Daisy Brick, I.am not sailing under false Colors at present, for, odd as it may appear to a a peculiar appellation is really my *\,hatean it possibly matter to me? Lydi said, with an ate ot weariness. oR “Oh, nothing, of course, for I suppose: that the feelings which once animated your. breast on Lord ‘Alfred Vere de Vere are dead and nes : cae you ask that question?” the girl said, “There was hardly a needof it, but still it is as well that we ahotid unders each other, When first we became acquainted you. were under the impression that I was an English ‘ rd of high descent and unlimited wealth; now _ ®he truth is that I was born in a poor-house—a rth, and a thief by breeding. You irk natural. that we should come ei) once had an idea that I was going to bestow on you an unlimited amount of wealth. That idea proved to be a delusion only, but, now, I doubt not that you will look upon me with amazement, ° when Itell you that f£ have a scheme in my head which will make your fortune. You are poor, and work hard all day cp a din mill for just enough to live on. ou shall rich, ride in your carriage, enjoy all that wealth can purchase.” ‘‘Do you ever read the Bible?” asked the girl, suddenly. Daisy looked thoroughly astonished at the | question. , : ‘““Well, I can’t say that I do read it much, now,” he replied. ‘But what has that to do with us, I should like to know?” ‘“One passage reads, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!” Daisy winced, for the shot struck home, ‘“You are extremely complimentary, my dear,” he said, a little annoyed. “Only the truth.” “The truth should not be spoken at all times.” ‘An evil saying used by evil men for bad purposes!” she exc/aimed. *““You think, thea, that like the Prince of Darkness, I am promising what I cannot per- form, when LI te you that I can give you — wealth? You see, I do remember something of the Book,” “You may be able to do what you say, but T fear that the price will be a terrible one,’ “ Oh, no! it will be extremely cheap; only to marry the man you love.” Lydia looked at him with a piercing glance. CHAPTER XVI. BRIOK. “‘ RISES” TO EXPLAIN. ' * Now don’t look at me in that way with our great eyes almost popping out of your head; I am speaking soberly and in downright arnest. Fortuneis before you, if you will only choose to grasp it,” Brick said, just a little un- ony under the piercing glance of Lydia. The girl made no reply. Daisy looked at her for a moment as if uncer- | tain how to act. ‘* By the way,” he said, abruptly, “I told you that I had gone into business. Are you not curious about the matter?” ‘*T do not believe you,” the girl said, frank- % By Jove! how extremely unpleasant you are in your remarks this evening! You must be out of temper at something.” ‘“*T have seen you,” the girl replied. Daisy winced again and shut his teeth to- gether tightly for a moment. “You are in a icrrible mood to-night,” he said, endeavoring to conceal his annoyance. ‘Well now, for once in your life you wrong me. It is really the truth that I am deeply en- gaged in commercial affairs. I told you at our | st interview that I preferred to receive money from the great world rather than from you; you must own that there is just a touch of onor about me, bad as lam. With the money I received from you I proceeded to lay the snares to catch the human birds known com- monly as gulls. You may remember that I al- ways said that a man of wits could live well by simply trading upon the weaknesses of his fel- low-men. To illustrate: a man of brains dis- covers some important secrets. that the men with- out brains pay him well to disclose to them. This is the idea at the bottom of all patents, you know.” . The girl looked at him with a countenance whereon unbelief was stronely impressed. “‘Tn fact, I suppose I could ‘claim to be an in- ventor,” he said. ‘And what have you invented?’ she asked, incredulously. “Listen,” and Daisy drew a folded paper from his pocket-book, and opening it, read | aloud: ° “* IMPORTANT TO FARMERS AND OTHERS.— How to | keep wells from freezing in the coldest weather. ®nil articulars sent by mail for 50 cents, Address Ben- amin Franklin, Saco, Maine.’ ” Then Daisy looked at Lydia and smiled. “You see what an important discovery I! have made. Where’s the man who wouldn’t | efreely give fifty cents to keep his well from aie to ‘And do you really know a way revent ite” the girl asked, doubtfully. : rtainly, When I receive the fifty cents T send back the directions; they are very shor | ae atite — When ee weather papier | cold, 6 in your well and place it kitchen fire.” tig ‘ " ; fea | ‘‘ But that is impossible!” the girl exclaimed. : 4 rite: Bata ed pe. «) Ce rfet Riay . eee es is | my little game. | face of the girl clearly expresse |, and seen. ee ‘Ah, I don’t agree to keep the wells from freezing; only tell them how,” Brick said, un- blushingly. ~ “A trick, and like you,” the girl said, quiet- ly. “Yes, I flatter myself that it isn’t every one who has the brains to got up. so neat a dodge,” Brick said, complacently. “Now, here’s Num- ber Two.” And he unfolded another paper, “How not to lose at cards, dice, or game of chance; worth a thousand dollars to any man. Send twenty-five cents by mail to James Gray, Biddeford, Maine.’ ” “Now this is really no humbug; this is truth,” | Brick explained. “ And the answer?” *** Never play at any game of chance,’” and Daisy caressed his chin, smilingly. 7 fined face plainly showed the contempt she “I calculate—as a down-easter would say— that these two little advertisements will’ bring / me in about ten dollars a week clear profit. It’s very handy, these two towns being so near to- gether. It gives me two post-oflices, and. it will be some time before the folks wi suspect: Then, when these simple and et ingenious devices are worn threadbare, I'll 1ave a dozen others just as taking, Lydia my dear, until you have gone into this sort of busi- ness ee never will have any idea what a large amount of idiots’ there are walking around in this world, pretending to bé'perfectly sane.” * The tion.” ‘Very little danger of that. The men who get sold on such things generally have sense enough to keep their folly to themselves. They only lose a trifle; besides, I don’t operate any- where near the post-office address. The adver- tisements go to newspapers located in far-off’ States, and the gulls seldom make any fus: about the sell, It’s a light, genteel business, ard one that suits me to a hair,” Brick said, in 1 s police may interfere with your occupa- | easy, airy way. y The look of contempt which appeared on the « her opinion of Daisy Brick’s clever devices. ‘And now, to return to the subject about which I came especially tospeak, Doyou wan’ to be wealthy—to be forever above want and — care?” “Not through any means which you can offer,’ Lydia replied, firmly. , oe **Oh, nonsense!” Brick cried, im tiently ; “what matters the means as long as the eud is attained? But I will rise to explain. i Sinclair Paxton is madly in love with you.” Lydia rose suddenly to her feet and looked down upon Brick with a face as white and as — colorless as a marble statue. ‘* Now don’t be a fool!” he exclaimed—he saw danger written plainly on the girl’s face—“ and. listen to what I have got to say. is rich—or at least his father is, and Sinelair. his heir. He will marry you if you play your pal rietty and I can advise you in regard to at. Why do you wish me to m girl asked, slowly, and with a face like marble. ‘“ Well—I would like to see you settled com- fortably in the world, and—” Brick hesitated. — “ And because Bp would play the leech’s part; by the hold that you have on me would wring money from him. You make me steal my husband’s money to buy your — silence!” the girl cried, indignantly. ‘‘Hush! not so loud!” exclaimed Brick, in — arm. “Oh, do not fear; we are all alone in the house, though I should care very little if all the world heard my words,” Lydia said, bitterly, _ “My dear, don’t run away with these foolish. ideas,” Brick said, soothingly. ‘I'am only acting for your good. rol think that I haven’t got any blood in my veins? Do you suppose that it isn’t any sacrifice form to give you up to this man? Of course [inten to aid for it. Not that I’m going to act like’ aleech, though, as you suggest. I want a cer- tain sum of money, and then I'll go away, and you'll never see me again. T’ll give you any as- . surance.in the world that you can surgest; T_ don’t care what itis. I amreally act*n: Lionest in this matter. fully. It was quite a struggle before I coui bring myself to consent to Teave you forever, Come, I should think that you would jump at the chance to marry the man you love.” “How do you know that I love him?’ Lydia emanded. ‘‘Well, IL judge so from what I have heard saw you when you were walking, Q This Paxton him? the _ you — Confound it, do you — I have thougiit it cver caie- | ‘ . oo cs yi V4 a r. ~ (sabe Sie bay D9 0) } ra a = 8 ee ae Ga
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. — teen t otc oh ce J aie a ee Oe | wan + Pees e ag speed for him. |. river from its course b _ either persuade or force her to do as I want her ¥ i with him the other night. Now don’t be fool ish; such another chance as this may never come to you inall your life. Never mind the t; don’t think of that at all.. You and I are ihe only ones that know it. I shall never speak if you doasIsay. Marry this Paxton, pay me a thousand dollars within a year after your marriage, and Pll engage never to trouble you » a n, f gas oa TAG atone 0, PR ER Ca NE a ee Bars X +f - , 4 ; i f ; ¥ A STRANGE GIRL. ‘Tf you have half an hour to spare, I’d like | Poor a little conversation with you -about er, “‘ Weill, in what particular way?’ Brick, with © all his acuteness, was puzzled. ““T.can’t explain here,” the carpenter said, hurriedly; ‘‘besides we are liable to be over- | _-heard; folks are passing by us constantly.” “You would have me wed this man with a_ lie on my lips?” the girl demanded, bitterly. “You need not speak at all; I'll do all the lying that is uecessary in the affair,” Brick said, coolly. ‘* All you will have to do is to keep quiet and look happy. Of course the Paxton folks will want to past life. I shall only have to tell the truth, ee (apart some few trifling particulars which | reall are neither here nor there.” **Oh, what a base part you would have me play!” the girl exclaimed. ‘Not at all! What is your past life to them, or to Sinclair, for that matter? You'll make him a good wife, I know, and that is all he - wants.” “T would sooner die than become his wife!” Lydia cried, almost fiercely. ‘‘I do not love _ him, but I respect him too much to deceive him, and from this time forth I shall strive to do all in my power to cure him of any affection that | he may have for me. He may think me fickle and weak-minded, but base or false he vever | shall find me. Now, you can do your worst; you can speak out, and tell everybody who and what I am; I care but little, but deceive him I will not. Tam bound fast enough now to you; by marrying him I should make myself, indeed, your slave.” ‘‘ Lydia, I trust that you will change your mind,” Brick said, rising, and in not the best humor in the world. ‘* Never, never!” cried the girl, decidedly. “Pll see you again in three or four days; _ think it over,” and, with this parting injunction, Brick left the house. CHAPTER XVIL THE STONE QUARRY, < walked out of the house into the street. In reality he was inflamed with rage, although he appeared quiet and calm. “* Of all fools in this world there’s no fool like @ woman when she is a fool!” he muttered, sav- agely, as he strode along at quite a high rate of ‘““There’s a clean thousand dol- lars in this business, just as easy as turning my hand over, if she would only do as I want her to; but there’s the rub. In the temper she is in now I might as well attempt to turn the Saco whistling at it as to to. ere never was a woman yet who could comprehend the meaning of the word, reason. Ibis an enigma to them. They are solely and use in trying to reason with one of them. [he more you talk, the less they understand.” _ Brick by this time had come to the corner of Frcs creatures of impulse. There is no earth- - the street; and hesitated for a moment, as if un- certain which way to direct his steps. _ stood under the shadows of a large elm he sud- As he -denly became conscious that aman had followed , him up the street and was rapidly approaching Brick gave no particular heed to this, but the man came directly on and halted opposite to him instead of passing up the street. Brick looked at the strangér, and the stran- ger looked athim; and Brick, at the first glance, ” set the stranger down as being under the in- fluence of liquor, | Brick’s curiosity was excited. | around the bloodshot eyes; and he noticed, as | he offered the lighted match, that Hollis’s hand _ talk without danger of being overheard,” Hollis | said; ‘it’s astone quarry, just outside the town. | ow something about your | family, Ill attend to that, and also to your | ‘Ts it something particular?” “Yes, very particular.” “Very well; ’m at your service, then.” ae i now a nice quiet place, where we can | The moon is coming up, so that we will have | plenty of light.” ‘*Let’s be going, then.” And they proceeded onward. Ten minutes’ walk carried them out of the shaded street into the rays of the rising moon, “Have a cigar?” Hollis said, halting sudden- ly, and taking a couple from his pocket. ‘«Thank you, yes.’ Then for the first time, Brick got a good view of Hollis’s face. He saw that it was as pale as death, and that there were great dark circles trembled like an aspen leaf. ‘* He'll have an attack of the. jim-jams soon,” Brick muttered to himself. Then the two proceeded onward without fur- ther halt until the stone quarry was reached. * Let us go up and sit on the rocks; we'll have the breeze up there,” Hollis suggested. Brick was nothing loth, and the two climbed up the narrow path until they reached the sum- mit of the rocks, and there they sat down. Before them was the circular excavation of the quarry; behind them the open country, rough and sterile, and patched here and there, with stunted trees, while bushes stretched down toward the far-off ocean, the beating of whose surf against the shore could almost be heard from the quarry’s hights. “Now we can talk without danger of being overheard,” Hollis said, and his first act after sitting down was to fling his only half-consumed cigar down into the depths of the quarry. Brick watched the action with astonishment; for the first time the thought came into his mind that possibly he had done a foolish thin in trusting himself in such a desolate place with aman evidently under the influence of liquor, and who seemed to be a little unsettled in the upper story. ; “You know Lydia Grame?” Hollis exclaimed, suddenly. “Yes,” Brick replied. * What do you know of her? Where did you know her?” The questions were roughly and coarsely put, and Brick rather resented the tone, ‘In Virginia,” he said, shortly. ‘You know.all about her?” Oh, no; only a slight acquaintance,” Brick replied, carelessly. : ‘You lie! you do know all about her!” Hollis cried, fiercely. “See here, my friend, I don’t allow that sort of thing,” Brick said, with much dignity, ris- ing, as if to depart. But, before he could move a step, Hollis jumped up, and, without saying a word, grab Brick by the throat, and set him down again upon the stone with such violence that it brought the tears to his eyes. For a moment Brick gazed at Hollis, stupefied. Daisy was wiry and muscular, slight as he ap- peared to be in figure, but he had found that he was no match for the strong-limbed nter. “Sit down!” cried Hollis, fiercely; ‘IT Evougitt hat you know you here to talk to you. I know “You're the man I want to see,” said the | all about this girl. “I was hiding in the garden, ‘stranger, oareel , ““Excyse me; I really believe that you have '. the advantage of me,” Brick said, blandly. ae name is Hollis—Jediel Hollis.” Brick instantly remembered the name. He had not forgotten the conversation he had had the pretty mill-girl, Ly and her suitors. ar — Mr. ‘Hollis, the carpenter, ted with him. ; “You know Miss Grame, don’t you?” Hollis asked. you about her.” ~ Brick looked at Hollis in amazement. Yes, Lhave the pleasure of her acquaint- “*Pve got something very particular to say to | is A, I be-| ized that, to use the popu u lieve?’ Brick said, wondering what on earth he | in @ tight place. He hadn’t the least idea-how He | to the cyes of the cool and calculating Daisy if aid understand what that something could came a look of utter despair. and heard about all of your conversation. The moment darkness comes, I watch that houso now. Don’t you ever adviso ber to m Sin- clair Paxton again; if you do, and I find it out, Yl strangle you with as little remorse as I would: akg, bee | crush the life out of a worm.” with the grocery clerk, Gardner, in regard to | } a, dia, Me | oyes of the half-crazy cai Brick looked for a moment into the glarin mter, and fully real- expression, he was to proceed to soothe the enraged lover, and so wisely concluded to hold hispeace. “You have some power over this woman; ou know some secret concerning her. Now hen, I want you to tell me what that secret iq 2? Brick looked at Hollis for a moment, and in- y ae RR cal Ral ieee? aie Dane i “My dear sir, I really—” he stammered, in utter confusion. ; “Don’t attempt to lie to me!” Hollis cried, in arage. “TI tell you I heard every word that assed between you and Lydia Grame to-night. he doesn’t love Sinclair Paxton, she doesn’t: love you, but she in some way is in your power. She a bein mine. Pll give you a minute to And Hollis approached Brick, grasped him in his strong arms and raised him to his feet. “T can’t tell you!” Brick exclaimed, strug- gling in vain to escape from the iron-like gripe of the carpenter. “You must, or I'll throw you headlong down into the quarry!” Hollis cried, dragging Brick ai 4 af edge. on eel ‘ ercy! mercy!” Bric gaspe in horror. ss Sisal, or down you go!” a Little hope was there of mercy from the mad- dened lover. , Hollis held Brick on the brink. “Tl tell you on one condition,” Brick gasp- ed. “ All right.” Hollis put Brick back on the stone where he had sat, and then resumed his former position. ‘* Now, it is only fair that you should pay me something for this information,” Brick said. He thought of a plan of escape. ~ ‘Yes, that’s fair,” Hollis assented. ‘* And before you can use the information you must have certain papers which I have in my room in Biddeford. Suppose you meet me here. to-morrow night?” ‘ ‘You are deceiving me!” Hollis cried. half a mind to throw he rose in menace, “You'll never gain the secret then!” Brick said, in alarm. ‘That's true,” and Hollis paused, “How much do you want?” i “Well. say a hundred dollars.” ‘ All right; to-morrow night, here ?” “ Yes. ” Then the two descended to the road, the cold perspiration standing on Daisy’s forehead. CHAPTER XVIII. THE SACO’S CURSE, Iv was after supper, and Deacon Paxton sat. in his library, deeply engrossed in the Boston “Tve you over, anyway,” and “newspaper. There was a gentle knock at the door, and Sinclair entered. A ve look was on his face: —a look which had a tinge of anxiety in it. “Are you busy, father?’ he asked, respect— eis : ‘*No, only looking at the Advertiser; any thing to say?” ‘Yes, sir.” “Sit down, then,” and the deacon motioned. to a chair. Sinclair seated himself. “You made a visit down-town this evening, father?” he said, a little constraint plainly evi- dentin hismanner. | ‘‘- Yes,” the deacon looked a little surprised. “YT was told so by a party who saw you com-. ing from the house.” : ‘Sinclair, I think some of these Biddeford folks would make excellent detective officers,” the deacon said, shrewdly. “| hope, father, you do not blame me for not: having spoken of the affair?” : “Qh, no; and on your part, I trust that you will not think that I was trying topry into your private affairs?” ‘ ‘No, I know you too well for that.” “This will explain to pe why I took any action in the matter,” and the deacon took the anonymous letter from a pigeon-hole in his sec- retary, and handed it to his son. Sinclair read the letter over carefully. “Tt is ina woman’s hand, and evidently dis- guised,” he said. is “Yes, I formed the same opinion. Is the hoe all familiar to you?” 0, sir. “ “Have you any idea as to the writer?” ‘None in the least, sir.” i “Is'there any young lady in Biddeford to- whom you have been paying attentions, before C) . you met, this Miss Gram: “No, sir.” ‘I thought if there had been anything of that. kind going on, that it might explain the reason why the letter was sent. Of course it was done to make mischief; that is apparent enough.” . “T hope the design has not succeeded, sir?” Sinclair said, just a shade of anxiety in his _ manner. ; é ‘“* A total failure, as far as T am concerned, Sindlair. I own it rather excited my Yankee |
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, er “4 Pile oon'ie oe ts ry, ~ curiosity, ig bo and IT made up my mind to see what the youns lady was like.” ‘* And may I ask what opinion you formed in d to her, sir?” ‘I was very favorably impressed, Sinclair. She is very much of a lady, and White says . there isn’t a girl in the mill who attends to her work better.’ - “T can fully confirm Mr. White’s assurance in regard to that matter, from what I know of the pay-roll,” Sinclair added. Well, Sinclair, has it really gone as far as this letter implies?’ the father asked. “No, sir,” Sinclair responded, quickly. ‘*I | own I have Sah the lady in question some at- t ; A re __. tentions, and do think a great deal of her; but 3 there is no engagement between us, and I don’t know as I am really justified affair.” ‘‘The young lady told me as much. I had quite a pleasant chat with her.” “Then I suppose if the lady and I make up our minds that we do care for one another, we may hope the union will not be without your sanction?” “From what I know of the lady I can see no reason to.object. Both are old enough to know your own minds and to act for yourselves. I frankly confess, Sinclair, that I would have pre- ferred to have had you marry the daughter of some of the old families about us; but, perhaps, { it is as well, if not better, that a little fresh blood should be infused into the old New Eng- land strain. But do you know any thing about her eae ; “ Very little, sir; I have never questioned her. In fact, father, the affair has not gone far enough yet for me to proceed to that length. I \ know that she is only a poor girl, but that makes very little difference in my estimation.” “ None at all!” the deacon exclaimed, quickly. “ A man marries a woman, not a money-bag. \ The cardinal point is to consider whether she is suited to you or not, and whether she will make you a good wife.” “Marriage is a lottery, you know, father.” “Yes, yes—terrible lot of blanks, my son, and very few prizes, As a general rule our family have not been lucky with their wives.” Hy ‘‘So Ihave heard, father. I remember that , aunt Jane used to hint mysteriously at some _. terrible curse hanging over our family, dating *way back to the old Indian days.” “*Yes, there is quite a legend. I suppose you ought to know it, as a. are thinking about Fee married; my father told it tome just fore my marriage.” ‘* Do you believe in it, father?” Sinclair asked, with a smile. ““My son, never doubt an old family legend, or you'll ruin the reputation of the house for- ever,” the deacon said, laughing. “ Legends are Sacred things, you know, to be handed down from father to son, like old family plate. I am sorry to say, though, that the story doesn’t put one of our ancestors in the best 8 ge la light. But you shall judge for yourself. The legend commences just after the founding of the Saco poy One of the first cabins put up here was uit by our ancestor, Colonel Israel Paxton. Tradition sys that it stood on precisely the settle Spot where this mansion now stands. The th Raed in almost constant warfare with © “nMians of the Facotribe. Finally the great chief of the Wampanoags of Rhode Island, Meta- mora, or King Philip, as the whites termed him formed a great Indian confederacy, intended to drive the whites into the ocean, Built »s defeat and death broke the power of the Indians for- ever. ‘The facos, who’ formed part of the con- federacy, suffered severely; only a small part of the tribe ever came back to the river, and they . pitched their village some fifty miles up the stream, in what is now the town of Hiram. But, weak as the tribe was, it was still a source ' of considerable annoyance to the settlers at the ‘mouth of the river. “Our ancestor, the colonel, was one of the volunteers who had marched to Boston and helped to destroy the power of King Philip, a After he returned to Saco, by some chance he ‘ become acquainted with an Indian girl—eallea after the fanciful fashion of the savages—Little Leaf. She was the daughter of Kennebunk, the great chief of the Saco tribe. The colonel, - much to the astonishment of the colonists—for he was a straight-laced, God-fearing man—mar- ried the Indian girl. This marriage should have cemented a peace between the whites and the Indians, but, so far from doing so, scme six ‘months after the wedding, the Indian wife led - a party of, the colonists, headed by our ances- tor, the colonel, to the retreat of the red-men, in calling it a love ~ i, sty Be 74 ; _ and nearly all of the tribe were butchered in the a : ie: \ 4 2 Aste e ‘ be + ‘ * ‘ 4 i 7 ~, ts xe at a rik re ate serch SS 2s us a “). ae Dah ge ce ‘A STRANGE GIRL. fight. The few who escaped found shelter with the far-off tribes to the north, and néver more with arms in their hands menaced the Saco colony. ‘‘Our ancestor, the colonel, received a large grant of land for his.services; but the deed of treachery, by means of which nearly all of her kindred had fallen, weighed heavy on the soul of the Indian girl, and three months after the date of the slaughter she died in child-birth. in- voking the most horrid curses upon the heat of her husband and predicting that the curse of the wronged red-man wotild cling unto the family of the Paxtons until the blocd of the sc Should again mingle with their life- stream. * But this cure, father, has not been fulfilled; | | pretty busy; and then, father, too, hasn’t beem PR no fatality has ever attended our family.” “Well, yes, there has been a something which seemed like a fulfillment of the ‘Saco’s curse,’ as the family legend calls it,” the deacon said, slowly. “Tn what way?” ‘* The Indian wife died in giving birth toa son, and, from that day to this, with but one | sting ty all the Paxton wives have had but one ¢ Orwell that rtainl father!” Yell, that certainly is very strange, father! Sinclair said, thoughtfull a angie ‘Tt really seems as if in the old legend after all, doesn’t it?” bs Yes; but you said there had been an excep- on. “Yes, my father’s wife, your grandmother, Her first child was a girl—your aunt Jane, but your grandmother died soon after my birth, All these particulars were related to me by m father just before my marriage. Of course did not believe in the legendary story and mar- ried without giving it a thought. But your | birth cost_your mother her life, and, for the first time, I began to believe that possibly there might be some little truth in the assertion that the Saco’s curse was clinging to our family.” one of the Paxtons to marry an Indian girl?’ Sinclair said, thoughtfully. ‘*So runs the legend.” “But, father, did any of our family ever marry a second wife after the first one died?” ‘* No; I believe that has never occurred. That | might break the spell. Ive half a mind to try that myself,” the deacon said, laughing. *T do not think the Saco’s curse will keep me from marrying if I find a girl I like,” Sin- | clair said, ‘Oh, itis probably onl Sinclair departed, ther’s consent, after all.” of his fa- acciden y satisfie CHAPTER XIX, WIDOW GARDNER, » Ir was about five o’clock in the afternoon. Elmira Gardner, more commonly called widow Gardner, the mother-of the grocery clerk, Jerry, and the woman with whom Lydia Grame boarded, had made all needful prepara- tions for supper, and had sat down in the rock- ing-chair to enjoy a few minutes’ rest. The widow was.a brisk, plump little woman, ild, a son, and have died in giving birth | ere was some truth | | ways makes more work.” wearing her age remarkably well; as busy as a | bee and as neat as wax. Biddeford folks said that there wasn’t a better housekeeper in the State of Maine than Elmira Gardner. The widow had opeved the blinds, which had been carefully clo with an expression of placi her face, was enjoying the cool breeze which swept over the town. Suddenly her eyes caught sight of a young lady tripping up the street. f . “My!” she exclaimed, ‘if there ain’t Delia Embden!” ‘ And great was when the girl came directly to the house and Re pi os garden-gate, evidently intending to ea call, : *‘ How do you do, Mrs, Gardner?” Delia said; “T’ve come to make acall.” : “ Come right in, Delia!”*exclaimed the widow, hastening to throw open the front door. _-- _ She escorted the girl into the parlor, and pressed her to lay aside her things, which Delia | preferred not to do, saying that she was only | going to stop a few minutes. “ 8’pose, my old friends?” the girl said. ‘Well, to tell the truth, you hain’t been to see me for a long time, but ern that you were busy. It’s a good deal of work‘to take care of a big house like yours up on the hill, and I don’t s’pose that you have any more time \ _ : | . ae ‘ bs 3 See, rs. Gardner, that you had about | come to the conclusion that I had forgotten all — ‘| meddle with other poone business, do you?” — to keep out the sun, and, | contentment upon | the widow’s astonishment | | while longer,” and the widow looked mysteri- ** And the only way to remove the spellisfor o : vy ee el A eG ey ie 4 ae Po . 4 ( 7 od - does keep me pir well for nearly four months now.” ‘*Sakes alive!” exclaimed the widow, in as- tonishment. ‘Why, I never heard any one _ ; any thing about your father being sick.” | $8 ae t Well, he’s not so sick as to need a doctor, . . but still he needs 'a good deal of looking after,” ; Delia explained, t * You're looking real well, Delia.” Oh, ye I'm always well.” se “Well, now, you’re a good deal like me. IT do declare I hain’t been sick forI don’tknow =. when. And I work pretty smart, too. I s’pc ae you know that I’ve got a der, and ‘that al- aM “Yes, a Miss Grame, I believe; Mary Ann _ was telling me something"‘about her the other day. ” Delia said, with an air of indifference, Renard ‘Well, I want to know if Mary Annis still Ab with ou!” the widow exclaimed. _ es. “ She’s a real smart girl. Her mother and T, and your mother, too, we all went toschool — together. Yes, Miss Grame boards with me; real nice girl; she works in the mill across the river, in Saco. Ikinder have an idea, Delia that mebbe she won’t board with me a great us. ; oi “T spose you mean, Mrs, Gardner, that it’s | likely she’ll go to weit 3-9 house for herself?’ Delia half queried, smi ing. “Well, now, I guess hat you have heard — something about it,” the widow said, shrewdly. — es, Ann told me, but Icould hardly. believe it.” 3 eae ‘*Well, now, I shouldn’t cither,” said’ the — a widow, drawing her chair a little nearer to that: iy of her visitor, and lowering her voice, ‘‘butthatp = | the deacon, his father, called on her ye = AE eae eat The gi looked astonished, and there was ts {pst a little shade of disappointment on her = ace, 7 Bed «2am “Why, that was strange,” she said, slowly, WY 6s, T didn’t know a hingabout it tillafter . the deacon had gone away; then Liddy toldme — orn her name, you know, Lydia 7 es, + : 54 “Well, I vow, I believe you could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard | _ of it, I was so astonished. Just likethedeacon, —_ though; he allers was one of the best-hearted _ men that ever did live.” paps Fa ee “And did he come on, purpose to see Miss Grame?” a f “Yes, ee was sitting at the window, and _ he walked right in and introduced himself. Of course, when I heard that the deacon had been here, I was worried almost. to death because [ as didn’t see him. You see, my dear, thedeacon = and I used to be the best of friends. I’ve ; danced many a time with him in the old town i hall over in Saco. That was years ago, when we were both young folks, Liddy told me all about what the deacon said.” vy. marry oung girl looked — just a little bit anxious as ey naked aa ques- =) tion, Sat tes adently.” \ TOeecnkas ts Uir sey agtgee 3 ently. course he didn’t say right c > ae either one way or the other.” Pe eats a thee ‘* But, what was the Bac that he called upon her? Idon’t understand that.” ©) “Well, now, that’s the strangest part of the ~~ whole affair. You see, the deacon got a letter — without any name signed to it, telling him that Sinclair was going to marry Miss Grame, and | so the deacon he up and come right over to see what the girl was like. It wasreal mean, who- ever did it. I don’t see why folks want to * pT 3 rae ii parr pane Ai t the widow, deeply interes in her story, never — noticed this hesitation, SOME, «Ig. whoever wrote the letter thought that the deacon would get mad and forbid ; a RR ON
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must come right to him. Now, Delia, folks can say what they like, but the deacon has got the real salt of the earth in his nature.” “Then I suppose that Sinclair wil] marr this Miss Grame pretty soon?’ Delia said, : pc iat are dear,” the widow said, with a shake of the head. I tell her, there’s no knowing what will happen. she does of him, though she won’t own it, before long, I guess she’ll find out that she likes him... Yo girlss are very contrary with their lovers sometimes. I remember I used to \ just plague the life out of Gardner afore we were married: I don’t believe that I would have ever consented to marry him, although I iked him better than any of the rest of the _ fellows, but we were on a picnic one day down to the Pool, and he got me to go out sailing, - and when he popped the question for about the four hundredth time, and [commenced to laugh at him as usual, he grabbed me right by the arms, and says miry, I swow I’llsouse you right into the water,’ and { bad on my best silk dress, I kinder sereamed and hollored a bit, and said, ‘Oh, ee aia — ier said ‘ oy "afore L knew bs l i jest one o e men ‘that ever lived.” ad - Delia laughed at the widow’s story. “~ * And you never regretted it?” “ Never,” said the widow, emphatically; “‘ he ‘was a good provider, and when he died, it jest took away half my life. I don’t know what I should have done if it hadn’t been for Jerry. _ He’s jest like his father, jest full of mischief, but ieee ad igpod as they make men nowadays.” “ How is Jerry?” _ Oh, he’s well, thank you. it. Gets forty dollars a month now, and he has full charge of the store. I s’pose he'll be a partner there ’fore long. Jerry’s very saving; Fle got close, on toa thousand dollars in the ' bank.” . t Pe tata 5 now,” Delia said, rising. _ **Won’t you stop to tea?” - . “Oh, I can’t; father will expect me home.” te 3 a The widow accompanied Delia to the front . door, : ; _ . “Looks like a thunder-storm,” she said, glanc- _ ing up at the clouded sky. ; ee 3! prem can get home before it comes,” the : said. gir 2 ATT Bese Delle when are you going to get mar- + ut time for you,” the widow said, sud- ‘ras Ti have to wait till somebody asks me,” the girl said, laughing. “ST: bal Bekes alive! I guess there’s fellows enough that would be glad to do that. I did hope, once , - on a time, that you and erry might make a match,” the widow said, shrewdly. A Tittle tinge of color came into Delia’s pale toe foe areata » how yo _ @laimed. ‘Jerry never cared anything for me, hes — 1™. 1 Ra OW el, if your father hadn’t got so awful ce ie — rather guess Jerry woulda’ said some- GO ng, but the money frightened him away.” _. “I guess it was me more than the money,” Rep said, with hightenedcolor. ‘‘ Well, good- ; y. } ’ ? as = ‘ - CHAPTER XX. / A SOFT CONFESSION. uf girl hurried down the path, and, as she opened the gate, took a good look up at the sky. The clouds were ey lack indeed, and every 4 de now and then the dark cloud-banks opened and the forked lightning came forth, : aes ia hesitated for a moment. _. * You had better wait a little bit,” the widow called out from the door; oy will up from the store soon with anumbrella. I'd offer you one, but there ain't an umbrella in the > onge.” tse guess I can get home before the storm ks, and then Delia hurried off, the dow’s shrill “‘Good-by, come again!” ringing u talk, Mrs. Gardner!” sheex- | 1 ber ears. eae i She walked up the street as fast as she could, ee STRANGE GI ell; L don’t know; there’s no telling, my | ‘Liddy declares that there isn’t any | engagement between her and Sinclair, but, as - The young man thinks a good deal of her, ot | ut, | he, ‘If you don’t say yes, El- | , He’s down to the | grocery store, jest where he used to be, clerking | | -" Sf 2 ie " y 4 "§ = oo ‘ ¢ = —s ‘ hey £ ‘ ut : This will save me from getting wet,” she murmured, as she took refuge under the spread- ing branches. And how it did rain! Down it came in great torrents. _ *Delia had been standing under the tree nearly a quarter of an hour before the storm mani- fested the slightest intention of abating its force in the least, and then, though the drops were not so large as before, still the rain came | down steadil ‘*Oh, dear wonder how long it’s going to rain like this? | Will I ever be able to get home?” Then a, man came up the street, struggling with an umbrella, for the wind was quite hich, and he took refuge under the tree. He shut up the umbrella, and the two recog- nized each other. light at the meeting. “Why, Miss Embden,, how do you do?” ex- claimed Jerry, for the man with the umbrella | was the grocery clerk. “Miss Embden!” and Delia made a wry face | at him; ‘‘you’re getting very polite of a sudden.” ‘““ Yes,” said Jerry, rather confused, ‘*T should think that between such old friends as you and I quite so much ceremony wasn’t lately as we used to be,” he said, honestly. “Whose fault is it? Not mine, I’m sure!” Delia exclaimed, decidedly. . “TI guess that it ain’t mine,” he said. ‘ Fact is, Miss—I mean Delie—there’s quite. a. leetle Snot between you.now and what you used 0 be. “T wasn’t aware that I'd changed a great deal,” “Well, I don’t say that you have changed, but then circumstances have changed,” he ex- | plained. “That is, you mean that you’ve found some other young lady whom you like a great deal better than you do me,” Delia said, just a little snappishly. : i Jerry looked at her for a moment in astonish- ment. “You go to thunder now!” he ete defiantly. ‘I swow, if you say that ag’in, 7 push you right out in the rain.” ‘The girl did not seem to be a great deal alarmed at the threat. “ Ah, that’s the way you always treated me; you never were happy unless you were abusin me,” and Delia’s eyessparkled, and a shy loo came over her face. : “Delie, I never abused you atall, and roa know it,” he said, in defense; ‘‘ you used to treat me like sin, though.” ‘“‘How long is it going to rain?’ she asked, suddenly. ‘*Bout an hour or so I guess.” “How am I going to get home?” “Well, Pll see you home if me,” he said. ‘I enough for two. holds up a little.” “T think that it’s quite fortunate, this storm ) | lived ave ever come to the house. You ve never been tosee me, Jerry, since Pve up on the hill.” “Well, Delie, Vl spitit right out; I didn’t know as 1 would be welcome,” Jerry spoke honestly and bluntly. The girl flushed up at once, “Jeremiah, have I ever treated you in such @ manner that you should haye cause to think in that way?” she said, quite spitefully. ‘* Well, no; I can’t-say as you have,” he re- lied, thoughtfully. ‘‘ But then, you see, as F said afore, circumstances have changed. Your dadd and It was al ain’t any thing but a clerk. Skipper Embden’s daughter, sewing and dressmaking fora living; but now -house on the hill and a pair of long-tailed “hosses, I kinder concluded, you see, that it was *bout time for me to haul im my horns,” | “Well, Inever did own that I cared any thing for yous but I like you jest as well now as | Lever did,” Delia responded, shyly. ' : | “Oh, gi5 out! That won’t do, Delia! What 1 if exclaieiad tie girl in dismay; “TI | needed. ‘Well, we ain’t been quite such good friends. | | I've only just found it out.” owll permit | uess the umbrella is big e can go jest as soon as it | ‘‘T’m sure, ’m very much obliged,” she said; | and meeting you here, for I don’t believe that | you would ot to be one of the richest men in Ov, right when you were only plain Delia Embden, | old - a taking in | | that you’ve got to be Miss Embden, with a big | Lbaeot™ ‘Oh, Jerry!” cried the girl, in evident de- | | | women folks are so seiget onsa ’ . spent the evening ab | Daddy Embden’s, mace | bear!” she said, releasin, | quickly, + $i . A ' would Sinclair Paxton say if he heard that?” Jerry asked, with a grimace upon his face. | The girl colored up red as fire and the sharp blue eyes snapped, | “Sinclair Paxton is nothing to me!” she ex- med, ; “Glad to.hear you say so, ’cos I know that he’s paying attention to another gal. But, Delie, he comes to your house pretty often, and I heard your father say once that he thought ice might find a worse husband than Sinclair axton. I kinder thought he meant that as a hint for me, and Pm like a well-brought-up dog, Delie; I always go down-stairs when I soe ’em getting ready to kick me out.” ‘“When did my father say that? How long ago?” she asked. | “Oh, a long time ago; just after he came back and commenced to build the house up on we Weil, father did want me to marry ell, father want me m Sin- clair,” she said, slowly. “7 spose you was willing?” ‘‘ Well, yes,” and Delia’s face got very red again, “Now, J mee I ain’t going to tel you a bit of a story. { don’t deserve that you should care a mite for me. I’ve been a real: cruel, heartless girl, but ’m sorry for it; but Jerry, my head was turned, and father kept telling me how much it would please him if I would marry Sinclair, and I know I’ve got my faults—” ny ‘Chock full of ’em!” Jerry observed, mis- chievously. “No I ain’t!”’ she cried, quickly; “‘ you know better than that. But I’ve wanted to see you. I’ve been acting real mean lately, Jerry, and “I found it out a Jong time ago,” cruel Jerry continued, and he quietly put bis arm arouad the slender waist of the blushing damsel and drew her close ae to his side. “Oh, don’t, Jerry. If the folks should see you, what would they think?’ she said, in re- monstrance. ‘“‘ Folks be darned!” he exclaimed, defiantly ; “there ain’t anybody round; it’s almost pitch dark, too. But, Delie, you’ve made me feel so good that [ must hug you a little or bu’st!” ‘‘But, Jerry, do you really care for me after all my meanress?” she asked, looking up in his face. “Well, I guess I do. We ain’t an angels Delie,” and he bent down his A her. She understood what he wanted, “Don’t, J erry! yowll crumple my collar all up! Oh, dear!’ she remonstrated. ““T swow I must have a kiss, Delie, jest so as of us ead to | to make me believe that this is all real!” “There,” she said, asshe held up her lips to | him, and put her arms around his neck. A. good, hearty smack Jerry imprinted on the red pi wi she girl, ‘ gee) : “Now ope yowre sati you grea - herself from his em- brace. ‘ You’ve crumpled my collar all up’ pushed my hat half off, and— Oh!” ., - “What's the matter?” he asked, in astonish- ment. ‘‘Some drops of rain have dripped from the tree and run all down my back,” she replied, shivering. } “‘ Never mind; you'll be home soon; the rain is holding up.” ‘et us go, then.” fl So under the shelter of the umbrella they both started. “You can stop to tea with me, Jerry?” she asked, as they walked on through the rain. “Yes, I eyo I could, but what will your father say?” he asked, doubtfullv. ‘Oh, he'll be glad to see you!” she rep. ‘‘FKather has changed a great: deal lately. He hasn’t been well for a long, long time. Do you know, Jerry, I wish sometimes that he hadn’t made so much money; I think that he would have been a great deal happier.” “Mebbe so; riches don’t always bring happi- ness; at the same- time I, jest as lief t somebody would throw a ton or two of green- backs at me. I’d do my best to ‘ wrastle’ with it.” “ Ain’t you satisfied with the fortune that you’ve got already?” she asked. “‘Hain’t got much, Delie—that is, not much when reckoned ag’in’ what your daddy’s got.” ‘‘ Going to have me, ain’t you?” “Well, I don’t know; am I?” he said, dubi- ousl “ if you wasn’ y ‘Well, I s’pose not; but, then, you know, you Jerry s to tea an Do you spose I should have let you kiss me
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. CHAPTER, XXI. SINCLAIR’S QUESTION, THE sun was sinking slowly in the west that warm Sabbath afternoon. It had been intense- ly hot all day and the good people of Biddeford. and Saco had suffered accordingly. : The widow Gardner and Lydia were sitting bs in the parlor, looking out upon the little eajeegon i when Sinclair Paxton came up the street. ““Good-evening, Mrs. Gardner! Good-even- ing, Miss Grame,” he said, as he halted before the house and leaned carelessly on the fence. **Good-evening, Mr. Paxton,” the widow re- Si plied, while Lydia contented herself with sim- " was like sailing on the streamabove therapids; one glides along unconscious of danger until the’ roar of the water dashing upon the breaking rocks rises upon the air, and then, fast-locked in de, escape is impossible, my fault. I saw that you were beginning to - care for me, but—Heaven help me!—I had not the courage to warn you of your danger.” ‘* Lydia, you speak in riddles... Why not tell me if there be any reason which prevents our marriage?” . Saas % there is—there is!” The voice was almost a Be wail, : cae “Yes, but explain.” csr ‘Oh, it is too dreadful.” gees By this time the two had reached the quarry. ~ 4 “A yy horizon line, “Let us climb up to the top of the rocks; we’ve a good hour of daylight yet,” he said. ‘‘We can sit and chat for twenty or thirty minutes, — Slowly they climbed to the top of the hilland — Le : sat down upon some huge rocks which cropped « _ out of the ground. « sNisthic “* Come now, make me your confidant, Lydia,” — , re do he said, coaxingly. ‘“‘Ican not bring myself to = believe that there really exists any bees. tween us.” Pe litts| : o ‘There is one,” she said, sadly. 5 _ ae “Tell me what it is, and _see how quickly [ll ae: find a way to o’erleap it. Iam not poor, Lydia, _ and money removes a great many barriersin the world,” t y 2 “Yes, you are rich and I am poor,” she:a: ry ae swered,plucking the leaves listlessly from alittle shrub which grew by the side of the rock, ? ‘Is that the reason?’ he demanded. “Be- cause if itis, that can beeasily remedied.” ‘No, it isnot that.” i ihe aah hg “ What then?” 'f sos ANE E+ “Suppose that Iam aiready. rating neo eae did not look Sinclair in the face as, she re ara question, but kept ber eyes fixed upon es iy ground. re gree, ary ‘“‘ Let me look in your eyes, Lydia,” he said. oe ae quietly. ‘ pene ok, Slowly she raised her head and looked witha - mournful gaze into his face. KEY oe ‘* That is not the reason, Lydia; you are not married,” he said, confidently, iil te ‘You think so?’ she said, deeply agitated; = and again she looked down upontheground, = rv am sure * it. shorts yourreason.” 9, aon uppose that f committed some great crime?” re Meera te “A great crime!” Be an) Bae “Yes, suppose that I was a murderess, would Ae you love me t en?’ Cold and unnatural was her 7 ea 4 Voice. d Me ‘Oh, nonsense!” he cried, lightly. ““Youara Lydia, but vou shall find fiat + 4 only. trying me, -
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48 _——————— CORN ae ! } Bye haps oP & STRANGE GIRL. my love is so'strong that if you will only give | It was quite dark when they arrived at Lydia’s ee] £ «2 annoyed that the fugitive hould put him to the q -. yourself to me, I will take you almost without | house. Her ankle had got much better during trouble of running after him. question.” j Ob, you do love me!” she exclaimed, and she | _raised her large eyes, now moist with tear-drops, EA to his face. ye “Yes, I do; men say that I am an icicle, | { . rE __ Lydia, but I sometimes fancy that Iam a great ? _ deal more like a slumbering volcano,” he said, _ -. smiling. , 4s Tet us go home now,” and she rose as she | ae nt am ; “9 The red glare of the setting sun came full upon | | the rocky summit and seemed to crown the head i of the girl with a halo of light. As Sinelair gazed upon Pe he had never seen her look so lovely before. aot Paxton sprung lightly down the rock-ledge— a "twas some three feet -descent—and turned to 4 : offer his hand to the girl. es “7 can jump,” she said, and she sprung from tated the rock, but as she came down, her ankle -_.. twisted under her, and with a moan, rung forth H by neste pain, she sunk downin afaint upon the | TOCKS. i i §inclair was at her side in an instant, and kneeling, raised her head from the ground and ' supported it upon his knee. As he did so, an ivory portrait which was —— from her int by a blue ribbon, slipped from its place of | , > apes in her bosom. | oP > Phe piece of ivory lay upon Sinclair's kneo, | ( _ the pie in plain sight. He could not help | "but see it. A jealous pang shot through his | eta heart when he saw that it was the picture of a | __, young and handsome man. hee He little time for reflection, for *twas but | --—s-« & moment before Lydia recovered her senses, Be “Tm afraid that I have sprained my ankle,” | she said, as she raised her head, then her eyes » fell upon the "gate baes dangling from her bosom, | anda quick, hot flush came over her face. “I came from the bosom of your dress when yada be fell,” he said, a little constraint visible in his manner. Me Yes, I could not a doing so, as it lay upon A 3 i Ps EB Bee her, he thought that | | the walk. The two stood together in the porch. ___“Good-night,” he'said, and he bent down as if to kiss her cheek. “Tf I let you do that, you will tell me of it at some future time,” Shespoke half in jest, half- - spok a eas | The carpenter had been a hard drinker for the earnest. | “* You forced me to tell you,” he replied. Slowly the cheek was raised to meet his lips. $s -night,” she said, aid passed into the house, while he departed down the street. | Juydia bound up her sprained ankle and went to bed sana that night. Before she extinguished the light, she drew the ivory miniature from its hiding-place in her bosom and kissed it again and again; and yet, when snug in bed and the light extin- guished: another face floated before her eyes, a ace that bore the impress of the Saco-Indian blood, and as her senses reeled to dreamland, her lips murmured: ‘* Dear, dear Sinclair!” CHAPTER XXIIL DAISY AT BAY. PROMPTLY at the time appointed, Hollis was _ the spot where he had arranged to meet Mr. aisy his a: nee, and after waiting an hour or so for him, the carpenter began to believe that he did not intend to keep the appointment when he had made it. “Curse him!” muttered Hollis, in a rage; “I ought to have strangled him when i had my hands on his throat.” The nter was pretty well under the in- fluence of liquor, and his patience was not re- markable even when sober. His acquaintances in the town had noticed that, for a week or so, Hollis had been drinking to see him sober. ‘verybody said that Jed Hollis was going to elt | the devil as fast as he could, but no one volun- -teered to stretch forth a hand to save-him. Hollis fumed and raved as he strode up and down, waiting for Brick to come. Finally he lost what little patience le had. UF LC ’ ‘ou! ney a3 “Yes,” she answered. _ “Tiyvdia, I confess Iam curious,” he said, slow- “Ts that the portrait of a brother?” Me _ “No; Inever had a brother.” : ee then the portrait of a lover—a hus- "The girl’s face flushed, but she did not reply. 2 ee Eel will not answer?” he persisted. A moment Sinclair gazed into the face of the rl. " . “ Lydia!” he cried, suddenly, ‘‘I will trust even though you do not speak. Let me | you w ’ help yo p. | _ She had sprained her ankle quite badly, and could only walk with difficulty. _ Sinclair half-carried her down the hill, and on reaching the level ground they paused to rest : for a moment. } _ “Sinclair, you do not ask me to tell you - -whose picture this is which I in my bosom?” she said, leaning heavily on his arm, nd looking up full into his face with her dark __ “No, I do not care to know,” he replied; “my gone. In your own g time you hall tell me all.” » : “Tam not worthy of a love like yours,” she _ said, earnestly; ‘is it not better that you should oe ‘ou are not yet 80 deeply involved t gon cannot retreat.’ a: no; I will go onward,” he replied, care- lessly, ‘‘ and if you can be won, I’m the man that will win you.” “Tell me how I can persuade you to stop?” she asked, earnestly. _. There is only one way,” he answered grave- -” “ And that is?” “Convince me that you are really unworthy _ of mo; that may effect a cure.” ~ ae” alld so hard for me to do that!” she re- sponded sadly. “Yes, [do not doubt that,” he said smiling. “No, no, I donot mean that!” she exclaim uickly, perceiving how he had misconstru her words; “‘I mean that it will be so painful for me to speak the words which will surely - convince you that we can nevér be man and wife.” .. I hear you speak, then I shall be- OSITYV - pets st W hen _ lieve,” he replied. Then they walked slowly back to the village. _ 1S LJ s ri y ' whom he t. _ tohimself, as he cooled his rage an sneak! Hollis. He’s And with this threat, he started to find Brick. Up and down the streets of Biddeford, Hollis went, but no trace of Brick could he find. rick, but that gentleman did not make | very hard, In fact, it had become quite a nov- | | “Tl go after him!” he cried, ‘the mean | He'll find he can’t make a fool of Jed | got to tell me what I want to. know, and if he don’t I’ll smash him, that’s all.” | At last the carpenter took up his stand in front , of the post-office. He had worked himself up into a terrible rage. One thing only afforded ' him any consolation, and that was the thought of how he would demolish Brick the moment he could get his hands upon him. Hollis saw that the slippery gentleman had tricked him, but inwardly he vowed that he | would fully square the account at the first meet- ° oe v4 ile. ward to ‘seize Brick; but ing. The ry) ae) had inquired .of two or three ought likely to know something of Brick, as to was fruitless. He could not gain any informa- tion whatever. “Oh, won’t I smash him!” he al de Se) his heels on the post-office corner. . At last Hollis came to the conclusion that he might as well go home. The carpenter boarded with an aunt of his, just on the outskirts of the town, Slowly, and still keeping a good look-out about him, Hollis proceeded homeward. He had an idea now that he had given up his search for the missing Mr. Brick, that by accident he might stumble upon him. ; n accident—the wonderful helper to fortune in this life—did befriend thedesperate man. At the very first corner that he turned he beheld the elegant re of Daisy Brick, Esq., proceeding leisurely down the street. - The ter at once gave chase, Brick’s attention was suddenly attracted the sound of the heavy footsteps behind him. He looked around and saw his enemy. : “Pye got you!” the carpenter cried, in triumph. . But Hollis “‘ gave tongue” too soon. Brick was some twenty paces from him, and the moment he reco; the ter and heard his meaning shout, he took to his heels and ran like a grayhound. hereab faa Y eauld not dake ait Hota dt pocket and leveled thtultat, his chery: | ' with eyes eagerl ‘* Stop, you fool!” cried Hollis, inarage. He felt’ perfectly sure of overtaking Brick, and was ~ 4 y . ‘ ey a ¢ b i i* = ’ oi ‘ties > ‘ => Oe “a eta She lows of the town for his skill in ma: — rather prided himself on his fleetness o 1 Phe te Oe 8h tS Sen ee ae es a ee ‘ * The carpenter was noted among the yous fel- y sports ‘oot. But Jed Hollis of twenty-eight, and Jed Hollis of twenty-one, were two very different persons, past three or four years, and continued struggles with ‘‘ John Barleycorn” don’t improve a man’s wind, and do impair his stamina. _Away went Brick, and away went Hollis after him. The wonderful foot-race through the quiet streets ol Biddeford would have undoubtedly attracted a great deal of attention, but as it was late—past ten—nearly all of the good people had gone to bed. : To his utter astonishment, after chasing Brick for a short time, Hollis discovered that he was losing ground. He groaned in rage, and dashed on at his utmost strength; but there again, Jed Hollis, full of liquor, was not Jed Hollis quite sober; and Brick, whose fear lent wings to: his . heels, and who never once looked behind him, soon left his angry pursuer far behind. Around a corner went Brick, and when Hol- lis reached and turd the corner, he could not even hear the soul of the fugitive’s flying footsteps. Hollis, out of breath, and chock-full of rage, halted on the corner for a few moments, and re- lieved his mind by cursing Brick, up hill and down, as the saying is. Then a bright idea flashed into his muddled brain. Might not Brick be hiding somewhere along the street? If so, that would account for the sound of his footsteps ceasing, for that he had been able to run clear out of hearing, the enraged man could not believe. So he slowly went u the street and down the other. He all the fences and into all the gardens, but he was not destined to be successful at this. e of hide and seek. Trace of Brick he could not find. So he halted again on the corner, and amused himself by swearing at the man who had proved himself to be the better runner, And after this little episode, Hollis again turned his steps homeward, ° He had reluctant- ly come to the conclusion that he was not fated to have an interview with Mr. Daisy Brick that night. But the c1apter of accidents was in the carpenter’s favor. e had turned back—for the chase had led him away a little from his direct road home- ward—and was proceeding by the shortest way to his abode, when, as he turned the corner of a street, he came face to face with Brick. That worthy gentleman had, in reality, com- pletely run away from the carpenter, and after going two or three blocks, had madea detour to get back to the center of the town again, never aming that there was any danger of meoting the man whom he was so desirous of avoiding. “Aha!” cried Hollis, in joy, springing for- aisy was no less quick than the carpenter. He gave a bound out into the middle of the street, and, as ei en came after him, drew a révolver from his The carpenter paused, glancing upon Brick Hof rage, but, angry as Be was, he did not rush upon the little shining barrel lev- eled = his rae Rabo “ Keep 0! e rick, in a tone which showed that he did not consider the affair to be a joking matter; “keep off!” he re SOY vil an a ball cr throug you!” exc : , you will, wi ou?” growled Hollis, al- most beside himself with ragby : ‘Pm in earnest now; just keep your hands off me, or you'll get hurt!” . Why didn’t you keep your appointment?” I never intended to,” Brick replied, defiant- ly. “I don’t relish appointments with mad- men,” “Tm not mad.” ‘Well, you’re drunk; it’s all the same,” “ Ain’t you going to tell me the secret about this girl?’ “Tl see Pn in the bottomless pit first!” Brick replied, without an instant’s hesitation. _ ‘Pye the hundred dollars for you,” Hol- lis said, changing his tone to one of entreaty. ‘* Look here, my friend; you think if you get. this seeret, that, by the use of it, you can com- pel Lydia Grame to marry you?” Brick asked. ‘Yes, that is what I want,” Hollis replied, ell, if you knew it, it wouldn’t help you a bit. You would be just as far away from any chance of marrying her as before.” " 3 D one side of — red over
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_ SN. a “T know you're lying!” Hollis cried, sullenly. “You lie when you say so!” Brick cried. “What?” and the carpenter madé a motion as if to advance upon Brick, but the latter quickly retreated a few steps and the glitter of his eyes told of danger. “You'll get it now, first thing you know!” he cried, Sats “T was a fool that I let you go when T had you down by the quarry!” Hollis said, men- acingly. “You won't catch me a second time that way,” Brick replied. ‘*The moment I got back to town I invested in this revolver, so as to be prepared for you.” “Pll fix you yet!” the carpenter said, and he set his teeth firmly together. ag give you fair warning that, if you attack me, I'll shoot you down just the same as I would a mad dog. Idon’t propose to fool with any such man as you are,” hee: ‘You won’t tell me the secret about this girl, then?” Hollis said, slowly. “No, not much!” Brick replied, defiantly. | “Tl find it out yet, and I'll get even with you, too, see if I don’t!” and with this Daring salutation, Hollis turned his back upon Bric and walked away. ' Daisy watched him for a moment, and then went on his course, keeping a careful look-out behind him, lest the enraged man should take him by surprise. CHAPTER XXIV. DADDY EMBDEN SEEKS COUNSEL, Prine EmMBpEN had been in ill health for fs some little time. He was nervous and fretful, started at shadows, and the mere jarring of a ( door or window was quite sufficient to throw . him into a fever. To Delia’s suggestions of a doctor, the old man would shiver and rather eal crossly intimate that there wasn’t any thirg the - matter with him, ; But the clear-sighted Delia knew better. The ; ; old man was growing thinner and thinner each . day. It was plainly evident that some secret care was weighing upon his mind. Peleg Emb- den, the millionaire, was not the man that Skip- og Embden, of the good schooner Nancy Jane, ad been. The moment that night came on the old man would sit down before the window and gaze out into the darkness, Delia, who watched him closely, could hear him muttering commands as though once, more on the deck of the coasting schooner. Then he would imagine that he saw a light swinging in darkness, a signal, and give instructions to have it answered; speak of the turn of the tide and work himself up into a fever of anxiety. Then @ would cry, “There goes the rocket; Heaven ave mercy on his soul!” and shiver and shake as though stricken with an ague fit. Just at this point the daughter would interfere, get the old man away from the window and set him down by the table, And at the moment the curtain _ Was drawn down and the darkness shut out, he would become himself again. Delia noticed that these strange fancies never attacked her father in the daytime: it was only at night, gazing out into the darkness, that he pois np of the schooner, But, sometimes, ung the day, he would give way to odd fan- en ee put such strange questions that Delia rem gs for her father’s reason. But, as a general thing, he seemed sane enough; so the daughter kept her fears to herself, gentleman: doncenag Tae Attar supper, the old upon eon Parton. : intention of calling But when Dehia saw her father ta i and hat, sho saw that he intended te ae “aed it ean wh y fe ? “You are not going ou w fat ? said, in remonstrance. alk, father?” she “Yes, of course,” he answered ; “ mebbe it will do me good to go over the river,’ ef But ou had better have Mathan and the carriage!” she exclaimed, ‘No, no, Idon’t want him. I allers used to walk—and mebbe I'll have to agin, one of these days,” he added, half to himself. ‘But can’t he drive over and bring you home? It’s a long way, father, and it will be dark.” “‘Dark—yes; he can come after me,” he said, slowly; the word dark seemed to make a great ; impression upon him. ih Se ‘* What time shall he come, father?” : “Bout nine,” he answered. ‘I want toheva good long talk with the deacon. Thedeacon’s a smart man, and I want his advice.” * Then the old sailor set out. He walked slow] - along, apparently absorbed in thought. His pings Na. 2 ee = A STRANGE GIRL. peaked and colorless face was strangelv’ sloomy, and many of bis acquaintances, whom he passed as he went down the main street, noticed his abstraction, and ’cute folks afterward ‘‘guessed” that old Daddy Embden was breaking up. But the old man looked neither to the right nor left, but kept straight on over the bridge and up through Saco, till at last he came to the deacon’s house. Paxton was busy with his newspaper, as was usual with him at that hour of the evening, so the visitor was conducted up into the library. *‘Good-evening, Mr. Embden,” ‘the deacon said, rising to greet the old captain; “take a chair.” Paxton laid aside his newspaper and prepared to hear what Embden had tosay. He guessed at once that his vistor had come on business, for there was very little social intimacy between the genial, broad-minded deacon and the unso- cial, close-fisted Embden, who, since his return to Biddeford, had seemed to have but two ideas: | the first, to make money ; the second, to let people know that he had it. Deacon Paxton had been reared in a different school altogether from that of the coasting skipper. Born to wealth, he regarded it as a servant, not as a master. been dazzled by a sudden rise to fortune. He regarded money in its true light—a most excel- His brain had not | lent slave, but a most terrible tyrant if you give | way to it. “I thought that I would drop over an’ gi’n Ne a neighborly call this evening, deacon,” | imbden said, in his squeaky voice, and restless, nervous manner, ‘Glad to have you call,” the deacon re- | sponded, just a little bit astonished, for it was | the first time that Embden ever had honored | him in that way. Paxton took a good look at his visitor and marveled at the change which | had taken place in him since he last saw him, some two weeks before. Embden—always thin and careworn in the face—looked only like a ghost of himself. “You have been sick?” the deacon asked. ** Wal—no, I can’t call it sick, deacon, but a leetle ailing; kinder out of sorts, you know,” | Embden replied. “To what do you attribute it?” ‘ as dunno,” Embden said, with a shake of the ead. ** Possibly you miss the sea and the active life which you used to lead,” the deacon suggested. “'You’ve made the great mistake which nearly all men make in this life. The boy goes into an active business life at fifteen, say; toils and struggles upward till he becomes a man of forty- five or fifty; accumulates wealth, and for ten years before he retires he says to himself, ‘In about ten years more I shall have all the money I want; then I shall retire and enjoy it.’ The ten years pass away; he gives up his business, retires, probably buys a country place; the man who for thirty years has been battling daily in the strife for wealth, which we call business, suddenly draws out. He wants rest, and in a ear or so he gets so much of it that he dies. n reality, the thirty years of toil has made it necessary to his existence; the moment the weight is removed from his brain, it softens and kills him. Have you never noticed, Mr. Embden, how many of our leading business He 8 die soon after they retire from active e “‘Wal—now you speak of it, pears to me 1 hey.” Embden really had very few ideas in re- ‘| gard to the subject. ‘This is the only thing that can save them,” and the deacon waved his hand around and peo to the well-stocked library. ‘ Let them efore they retire learn to seek companionship in books, in art and science, and in the really lonely retirement of a country home, these will aid to fill the place of the toil and bustle of an active business life.” ‘“ Wal, I never took much to \books,” Emb- den said, slowly. “‘No, your habits tended another way. You have worked hard all your life; had very few | pleasures; probably looking forward to the day when you should be able to leave the sea and settle down with your family on shore.” ““That’s so, deacon,” Embden said, quietly. “From the time I got married to Nancy till T «Tine as gospel, deacon,” Embden responded. “Tt was an awful blow to me when Nancy died. I should hev thought it was a visitation of Pro- vidence, but it came afore.” ‘aly Paxton looked at Embden with an expression of astonishment upon his face. Came before?” he said. § ° “ Afore I got rich, I n.ean,” he explained, but fhere was a peculiar guilty look upon the old man’s face. : “There’s the lesson which I have been preach: ing all my life,” the deacon continued; ‘ Sy sibly you may remember the story of the Vir- inian, Randolph of Roanoke, jumping up in the couse and exclaiming, ‘ Gentlemen, have found the philosopher’s stone: pay as you go!’ So I might claim to have discovered the proper way to live; enjoy all the comforts—not luxu- ries, mind—that you can, as you go.” a , ‘* Mebbe you're right,” Embden said, thought- fully. ‘I’m giad, deacon, that you’ve ta ‘ *bout ‘these things, ’cos I see you’re jest’ the man to give mea leetle advice on a matter that’s - been puzzling me some.” ae ort advise you to the best of my ability,” Paxton affirmed, now beginning to understand _ why he had been honored by a visit from Daddy Embden. : “Wal, deacon, it’s a matter‘right in your line,” Embden said, in explanation. “ You're af in the church, you know, an’ this leetle ma is a sort of a matter of conscience.” ‘Tet me hear what jt is.” “ Wal—now in the late war, who was to blame for the killing?” t 5 Paxton looked at the anxious face of the old man in utter astonishment. 2 “T don’t exactly understand,” he said. = “Don’t you see? Who was to blame for the __ killing? "I'wasn’t the sogers, ’cos of course they were put there to kill each other; but do you” think that the men that put ’em there was jest __ | as much to blame as if they had killed them — | H did settle down, I was allers looking forward to | it, and a more. keerful man, and a more savin one about money matters, deacon, never lived.” “There it is, you see; probably you and your wife deprived yourselves of a good many little comforts looking forward to the time’ when you would be able to afford luxuries, and when ck time did come, only one of you could enjoy it. ; rise . | ' | then oa of the—” that was killed with their own hands, right down in cold biood?’ Per Ns CHAPTER XXV. _ ‘ atte THE FACE IN THE GLOOM. : vi THE deacon looked into the anxious face of _ Embden in considerable astonishment. It was plain that for 2 moment he thought Embden was out of his head, Pas “What do you think?’ asked Embden! anx- .ously, finding that the deacon did not reply. = “Do you think that when the day of Faseaene ae. comes they will hey to answer for the blood~ _ shed? TARTS Sb “ Well, really, your queaiion covers so much ~ By ground that it is hardly possible to form am i ee opinion on the subject,” the deacon answered. Embden looked terribly disappointed. A ainful expression came over his features, and _ bs bent his eyes to the ground. hie ate “Tt’s a great pity,” he half sighed; “if you could hey only give me your opinion, deacon, I think it would hey done me a power of good. ey It’s awful if a man’s got to answerfor blood aon that way, when he didn’t do nothing him~ ae self, cabaret ae The deacon looked at the working of Emb- — iy den’s face for a moment, and then asuddem light seemed to flash upon his brain. | Bir ates “Mr, Embden, excuse me, but I don’t think — you’ve put the case exactly right. civil — war was not brought on by men but bycir- cumstances. It was really fated to be, likea ~~ thunder-storm to clear the deny tert a Les me put a suppositional case, which I thinkIcam do, and the answer may suffice for the question ts es od Cot eum eis niles eat 2 ga 6 you can, deacon,” mrejoined, — raising his head as he spoke and seeing ab : the deacon with an anxious expression upon his ete T. got nly, teins, : get your meaning rightly,isamam guilty of murder who takes no initbim-- self, yet by his action] oractions makes that apes possible which otherwise it would not “i “Yas, that’s it, deacon,” Hmbden said, in deep attention, breathlessly hanging as it were — upon the words of Paxton. os: “Now, we'll sup a case: Two men are _ engaged in a struggle; a third manstandsby _ and looks on; he makes no attempt whatever re ; Rei eo ‘‘Hold “on, deacoh,” interrupted Lape bee vely and evidentl ot excited; “that don’t cover the ground at all!” nee. es ‘No?’ and the deacon looked perplexed. “ Not the case I want; the man brings on the fight; it wouldn’t hey commenced but for him, | = *
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a eae ars > ae = mA avid he could hev prevented it if he'd a wanted “But he took no actual part in the affair, himself?” _ ‘No, only he told one man to come to the place and he told the others that he was com- : ing 3 but of course he didn’t know that the first ‘ faller would be killed by the other ones, though a kinder ’spected there’d. be a leetle trouble,” Embden spoke in a hurried, constrained man- "ner; evidently the subject was a very painful © one, / / Paxton looked at the old skipper for a mo- ment in silence. There was a thoughtful ex- pression upon his smooth, benevolent face. “T think I understand it now,” he said; “I will put the case again: There isa man who has enemies. Another man induces him to go toa certain place at a certain time; and beforehand he tells this man’s enemies that the man will - eome to a certain place and at a certain time, and he knows that they will lie in ambush there for him. He is not really certain that they in- tend to kill the man, but he is full apes that , they are enemies, and that they do not lie in _- wait for him’ for any good purpose. The man - comes, decoyed there by the second party; he is'set upon, and in the struggle is killed. The man zie has decoyed him takes no part in the struggle—”’ . A mile off! interrupted Embden, breath- lessly, and hardly able to sit still in his anxiety. **fs3 a mile off, ora rod,or ten miles; the ae AWS ae ete - does not strike the man, does not lift a finger against him—” _. —~*: Andis sorry, too, that he had anything to | _ do with it, when be thought that the man _ would get killed,” Embden added earnestly. _.. “Phat amounts to nothing at all,” the deacon 3 sail, “ but, does the case that I have stated suit? su ‘Yes, to a hair!” was Embden’s solemn re- ae Vana you want niy opinion as to the guilt of _ the man who acted the decoy to the slain man?” S. da "Yas yas,” Be ee Well, sir, in the eyes of Heaven, I think _. that he will be held to be more guilty than the men who really shed the blood, and that, if ea ‘Gn it, beyond a doubt.” ae Ps _ the floor: he had fainted. _ “Hallo! hallo!” cried the deacon, rising, in . alarm. ‘TI made the dose too strong. Poor ee simmer! Of what use is his money with this is ehgernet { : - on Ngee hanging on his soul? a there is hell-fire hereafter, that man will roast 2 ith a hollow groan, Embden sunk back in _. the pitcher of ice-water from the table and _ sprinkled the face of the old man. Then he - raised him gently in his arms and placed him upon the lounge. He sprinkled some more ‘water upon his face and loosened his necktie. “J wouldn’t carry: around the weight this _ distance is nothing,” the deacon continued; ‘‘he | dust before Hmbden his chair: another second and he fell helpless to | } boty) ” ——— _moind are better far than boundless riches and | sleepless be ae . ‘He shall, deacon, he shall!” and the tears | Were streaming in the eyes of the old man, | Then the two.rose to their feet. The gloom _ and dusk of the evening surrounded them. Embden, suddenly, and with a nervous glance | around him. | ‘From the other world? No.” * Well, I didn’t used to, but I’m beginning to | believe that there are such things. I seem to | hear things in the air round me after dark. I | don’t see anything, but I expect to, soon.” “Tt is only your imagination Mr. Embden,” ‘the deacon said, reassuringly, placing his hands on the old man’s shoulder, ‘“Mebbe it is. Wal, Pl bid you good-night; | Nathan was coming with the carriage, but I guess Pll walk and meet him.” Paxton escorted. the old man. to the door, and watched him until he got half-way to the gate; then he closed the door. ‘‘T know now what preys on Embden’s con- science, but it is still a question with me where | he got all that money,” he said, as he ascended the stairs to the library again. Embden was walking slowly to the gate, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, grounds of the mansion from the street. The gloom had thickened quite rapidly, and one could scarcely see twenty feet. in advance. ot to the gate he kap- pened to look.up, and he beheld a. sight which he deacon did not call assistance, but took | ~>- man bears - for all the money in the State of | Maine,” the deacon observed, as he stood by the. 4 Auk ~ in \ rey) -'t saaly. Daddy Embden revived. __ Witia “a helpless, scared look, he into the deacon’s face. : Do. you think that ho r’ally will burn, _ deacon?” he asked, anxiously. “Tf be sineerely repents he may be saved,” - the deacon replied, with real solemnity. glanced up Pt : bh nal ‘fo bien oan if-aloud half to himself, oud. ae _ While the lamp holds out.to burn, the vilest ye! ing?” Wimbden asked. “Let him give it back!” cried the deacon. ty as apt seg a is accursed; it is a weight ich sin. soul down to hell. Brother, lat ‘ye -y us pray! /. | j 7 a Wher the two men knelt down, and a Ne aciend earnest prayer the deacon offered up; _ the mind, of the old skipper went back to t time when he knelt by his mother’s side, by the little 1 bed in the humble widow’s cot- avi eed prayed £ pelos of ig who, on $8. Ge s b taken un bosona 4 Geceteeusiean + >. thes d and father of that home, “And now give me your hand, Peleg,” the _ deacon said, without rising from his knees. _ “Now promise me that this man, morning and might, shall pray for forgiveness; make him give up his if otten gains; such money never i Siar sceoletars. Let him go back to his « former Geqapation, no matter what it was, no _ matter how humble. A crust and a contented 1 ¥ ‘ sure of it,” Embden muttered, | _, sinner may return; though his sins be as red as | Bs) atlas eh His love shail make them white as ; ‘oo. the deacon reminded his patient. . se he got money, too, through this kill- x. froze his blood with herror. gloom. : Embden recognized each feature in an in- stant—although many months had come and gone since he had looked upon the face in the fiesh. But that face, since the dark night when the Nancy Jane floated with the turn of the tide down the Rappahannock, and out into Chesa- peake Bay, had been ever present before Emb- | den’s eyes. The proud, haughty, southern features; the eyes of fire and the white forehead half-covered by the straw hat. And now, framed in the gloom of the night, the face pphesind before him, but, even to the anic-stricken eyes of the feeble old man, it ‘‘Deacon, do you believe in spirits?’ asked: I’m much obleeged, t feel a great deal better. | Just beyond the gate a face appeared in the A STRANGE GIRL. _ . . e- rl . i 7 7 ee ' act which seemed to call the old man back ta A hedge, some four feet high, separated the | ooked much fresher and more youthful than | when he saw itin life. The face had grown young in the other world. A moment only Peleg Embden glared upon the sight, and then, with a low moan he sunk you?” t e old elpless, almost lifeless, to the ground. Thesea_ h had given up its dead! CHAPTER XXVIL THE SPIRIT AGAIN. : N AxovuT. halt-past. eight, Nathan, Daddy Emb- den’s ‘hired man,” hitched up one of the horses | , and started for Deacon Pax- | to a light bu: ton’s house, in , after the old captain. He did not hurry himself, but drove along - leisurely, as Delia had instructed him to get there about nine, 5 As he drove up the crest of the hill, on the Saco side of the river, he consulted the old-fash- ioned, open-face silver watch which he carried. ‘‘Five minutes of nine,” he said; ‘I guess I'll be right on time.” He had driven slowly in front of a dezzzist’s shop which afforded him light, so that he might consult his time-piece. _ “Git up, Jim,” he cried, touching the horse with the whip. Five minutes more and he halted in front of Deacon Paxton’s house. “‘T guess l’d better let the old man know I’m | here,” he said, as he left the buggy. consciousness, A low groan came from his lips; he opened his eyes slowly and stared around him, in a feeble, vacant eng (ee isit?” he muttered, slowly and nery- ously. “J guess the deacon’s in the house, capt’n,” Nathan said, thinking that the old man reterred to Paxton. “No, no, not the deacon, the other?’ and Embden glared around him with dilated eyes. ‘Who in thunder does he mean?’ Nathan queried to himself, in wonder. “ Didn’t you see it?’ the old man asked. “See the deacon?” we ‘‘No, no; the other; that dreadful sight,” the old man moaned, “Y¥ swow! the old feller is awfully slewed,” Nathan muttered, to himself. “Which way did you come?” Embden asked, suddenly. - \ ‘Straight from the house; there ain’t but one road, you know, squire.” “And it was going that way,” the old man persisted; ‘‘ you must have met it.” | - Nathan looked at the speaker in profound as- tonishment. “T guess that he must be as crazy asa bed- bug!” be concluded. ‘‘I wonder who in thun- der he’s talking about?” “Oh, dear!” Embden meaned, helplessly; **T want to go home.” “ Allright, cap’n; got the buggy outside.” ’ “But you are, sure that you didn’t see any thingas you came up the road?’ Embden de- manded, suddenly, and looking Nathan straight in the face. “See what, squire? Darn me if I know what yow're driving at!” “Can I be going crazy?” the old man asked speaking more to himself than to the astonished listener who supported him in his arms. “T guess you are, orawfully slewed,” Nathan muttered, in an undertone, “Oh! the dead can’t come. back, can they, Nathan?” : “‘T guess not; I never heerd of anybody com- ing back arter they once kicked the bucket.” “Yet I am sure I saw him; it was the same face, and the eyes glared at me with a stony, reproachful look. “Show!” Nathan ejaculated, in wonder: ‘IT better get the old feller home, or he’ll be chasin’ snakes all over the deacon’s front yard the first thing I know. “Nathan, you won’t let him touch me, will man asked earnestly. “Guess not! I’d flax the daylight right out’en him!” Nathan replied, gently urging the old man to the carriage. Embden was shaking and shivering as though an icy wind was cutting him to the bone. Aiter considerable trouble Nathan got the old man into the carriage, and, turning the horse around, started homéward for Biddetord —the old skipper muttering in disconnected sen- _ tences as they rode onward. Nathan was bothered. He kept a close wate upon the old man, for he had now made up nu mind that Daddy Embden was going crazy. “The old fisb may take a notion to bite me, first thing I know?” he muttered; ‘‘I never hired out to take care of a mad critter. I'd like to sell out this job, cheap !” , But the old man showed no signs of violence although his mutterings gave strong evidence of an unsound mind. All the while as they rode along he was peer- ing out, watching first one side of the road and then the other; and every now and then hoe would mutter; ‘“T do notsce it! I do not see it!” and Nathan as often would put the question to himself, “‘ ; see?” oer drove through Saco and crossed the e. Nathan opened the gate and advanced up the _ bridg walk toward some five steps when he tumbled over a dark body on the ground and went sprawling at full length upon the walk. . a Fe ; ‘“Darnation!” he cried, picking himself up in disgust. ‘‘I wonder who on earth that is stretched out there? He must be pretty drunk, I swow!” ; Then Nathan bent over the motionless form and rolled the senseless man over on his face, “ By gosh! if it ain’t the old man!” he cried, in profound astonishment; ‘‘ drunk all through too,” he added. ‘ Wal, 1.never knowed t at m got men slewed in his house afore. I s’pose I'd better carry the old rip home and a: my mouth shet "bout it.” en the strong-limbed Yankee lifted the helpless form of Embden from the ground—an e house. He had only taken | Just as they left the bridge and commenced to ascend the little hill on the Biddeford side Embden gave a sudden, hollow groan, and slid | out of his seat’ down into the body of the buggy ina heap. Ho had fainted again. Nathan was terribly alarmed, but drove to the top of the hill before he attempted to render any assistance. Then he let the horse jo along slowly, while he tried to revive tue bid man. It was only a few minutes before Embden re- covered, and then he looked up into Nathan’s face with trembling features. ’ “TL saw it again,” he muttered. **Saw what, squire?” “A spirit from the other world!” Show!” ; “Yas; oh, I know the face: it has allers , mee \ . cae Soy i 4 ’ Am al wi fo at r > . ae ME” OSA Pee eh Who in thunder does he expect to — rey) > sed
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, Roi 2 A a Ee _ EO STRANGESGERE: zi es § been afore me since that night when it floated rahe the Rappahannock, ghastly in the moon- ight.’ med ar L.rdy!” cried Nathan, a cold shiver passing over him: ‘‘ you don’t mean for to say that you saw a real ghost walking in the street?” “Yas, I saw it,” the old man replied, ear- nestly; ‘‘that is what made me faint. He looked just the same, too—a straw hat and a military clork wrapped around him; he was a fo ithern officer.” ‘‘ And you saw him jest now?” Nathan ques- tioned. He was a strong-headed, level-minded, practic. 1 Yankee, and no believer in ghosts. ‘Yas, right down the street there,” and Hmb- den indicated the left-hand side of the road as he spok2, car, squire, if you’ll mind the horse, Dll fin 1 out what it is or bu’st!” cried Nathan, with an air of determination. Ya», do!” the old man cried, eagerly. So Nathan stopped the horse, gave the reins into Embden’s hand, jumped out, and walked quickly down the street. Two dark figures stood on a corner, convers- ing together. As Nathan passed, he saw that they were two of the mill-girls. . Nathan walked on for full five minutes, but with the exception of the two girls standing on the corner, not a single soul did he see, *‘T guess the old buttons ts crazy, anyway,” he said, as he halted and looked around him. “There ain’t a mau with a straw hat on ’bout - these parts. I guess I’d better get him home as _or he’d done bark long ago,” ¥ som as I can.” Fis he And, acting, on this determination, Nathan returned at once and a into the buggy. “Did you see him?” the old man asked earn- estly. ‘There ain’t nobody in the street, cept two girls,” Nathan replied, as he took up the reins~ and started the horse. ‘* His face is fair—he does look like a woman,” the old man muttered. “Does he wear petticoats?” **No, no, of course not!” “Wal, t didn’t see him, and I guess you didn’t nuther. I only saw two girls who work in one of the mills, I know both of ’em by sight well enough.” **T saw him as sure as I set here, Nathan!” Embien vowed, earnestly. Nathan saw that it would be useless to attempt to reason with the old man, so he drove home- ward as quickly as he could. CHAPTER XXVII. LYDIA’S SECRET. In a little, low one-story cottage in the out- skirts of Saco, on the ortland road, dwelt Dinah Salisbury; Aunty Dinah, as she was known far and wide. Our readers will remember her as the colored woman with the ‘‘yaller” dog who rescued Lydia Grame from her snowy shroud in the streets of Boston, as related in our first chapter. Aunty Dinah made a comfortable living as a washerwoman, and the careful housewives of the twin cities praised her skill highly. The old woman, her daily toil done, had just sat down to enjoy a cup of tea, when the dog, who had been quietly reposing on the hearth in front of the stove, raised his head, looked to- ward the door, and by his actions indicated as plainly as by words, that some one was coming. _‘‘ Somebody comin,’ eh?” the old woman ques- tioned, rising from her seat. The dog wagged his tail at the sound of his mistregs’s voice. “It’s somebody that the dog knows for sure, 1 the old woman said, reflectively. ; Then there came a gentle tap at the door. The old aunty opened it and Lydia Grame en- tered. ‘‘ Bress de Lord!” the old woman cried, in de- light; ‘‘ why, chile, is dat you?” And the dog rose from his place by the hearth and came up to Lydia, wagging his tail in to- ken of amity. , The gixt was dressed plainly; a dark water- proof cloak covered her form from head to foot, and she wore a light chip hat, sailor-fashion, “T thought that I would come and see you aunty,” Lydia said, and there was a troubled expression upon her beautiful face as she spoke. Dat’s right, chile; ’se glad dat you hain’t forgotten yer old aunty.” .“T have too few friends to forget any of them,” the girl spoke sadly. “ Lor’, honey, ye mus’n’t speak dat way!” re joined the old woman, caressingly. ‘‘ You’s got more friends dan an mill, Everybody i oder gal dat works in de kes you, chile. But. [” ‘specks you’s in trouble, honey; yer don’t look well. Jis’ sit down an’ take a cup of teaan’ tell yer ole aunty w’at’s de matter wid ye.” And the old woman, bustling about the room, placed a chair for the girl at the table. Lydia sat down, first removing her cloak and hat. It was plain from the expression upon the girl’s features that she was much troubled. ve had supper, aunty,” she said, as the old | woman eg out a cup of tea for her. **Nebber mind dat, chile; jis’ you drink a cup of yer aunty’s tea. Yer don’t git such tea as dat everywhar, an’ jes’ try a bit of dat toast. See how glad dat fool dog is to see you! I neb- ber see’d any t’ing like datafore.” “And the old | woman laughed heartily as she beheld the dog frisking around the visitor, eager to receive a friendly word from her, ** Poor doggie,” Lydia said, patting the dog’s shagey head with her soft, white hand. The dumb brute’s joy at seeing her made the heart of the girl feel less wretched. The cold touch of the animal’s nose rubbing against her hand | seemed full of sympathy. ‘* Now, honey, jes’ you tole me w’at de mat- ter is,” the old negress persisted, sitting down to the table opposite to the girl. “‘T hardly know how to tell you, aunty,” she said, after a few moments of thought. “Don’t be skeered now, chile, for to tell yer old aunty all ’bout it. I’se liveda heap of years longer in dis world dan you have, an’ p’hapsI | kin help yer out.” ‘Aunty, I am very miserable!” Lydia ex- | claimed, impulsively. “What come to yer, chile?” asked the old | woman, in astonishment. ‘* Aunty, I want you to advise me what to do. I can speak freely to you, for dec are the only friend that I have in the world: But for you I should have died in the snow-bank where you found me in Boston. Perhaps it would have | been better for me if you had heeded my wish | and left me to die, instead of bringing mé here,” the girl said, impulsively, tears standing in the large dark eyes, and a look of misery plainly written on her features. ‘Why, chile!” cried the old woman, in hor- ror, ‘ you mus’n’t talk dat way; dat’s wicked, dat is! A young gal like you to want to die! Lordy! dat’s ag’in’ natur’. Now, honey, you | mus’n’t talk like dat ag’in.” } “But, aunty, I am so miserable,” the girl re- joined, wich | ‘* W’at’s de matter, chile? Has yer quarreled wid yer young man?” asked the old woman, shrewdly. A little red spot came into Lydia’s pale cheeks, and she let her gaze rest on the floor for a mo- ment. ‘** Why don’t you say, chile? Youain’tafeard to trust yer old aunty, are you?” “No, no,” Lydia replied, quigey' ‘but how did you know that any gentleman was paying attentions to me?” bis Lordy, chile, the folks round hyer will talk, Pays Anddo they say that any gentleman is pay- ing attentions me?” bs: sia ‘T eae they do; I heerd ’em.” * And who was the gentleman?” “Dat Sinclair Paxton, honey, an’ he ain’t no poor white trash,” the old woman said, em- phatically. For a few moments Lydia was silent; as she had suspected, Sinclair’s attentions to her had been noticed, and already people had begun to couple their names together. ‘** And do they say that a rich man like Mr. Paxton thinks of marrying a poor girl like my- self?” she asked. aneaee honey. Yer ain’t had a quarrel wid m? ‘No, no, but it is to ask your advice in re- | gas © Mr. Paxton that I came to see you to- night. R Dat’s right, honey; I'll do de best I kin for you,” the old woman observed, encouragingly. “Mr. Paxton has been very kind to me ever since I came to the mill; he is the treasurer there, you know?” The old woman nodded. ** And he has told me that he loves me and that he wishes me to become his wife.” ‘*Dat’s w’at I’d like to see, honey!” the old woman exclaimed, exultantly. ‘’Fore de Lord! Td walk a hundred miles fur to see dat!” “But, aunty, suppose I can not be his wife?” | _ Dinah stared at her for a moment ih aston-— ishment, “Why not, chile? dat’s w’at I’d like to know!” “ He isa rich man while I am only a poor “Dat’s nuffin’—dat don’t count, nohow!? | ae | life. | dis yer thing full ‘* But, if there is another reason?’ Lydia add- ed, and then she hesitated as if undecided whether to go on or stop. Then with a sudden movement, she set her lips tight together for a moment and the look of hesitation vanished. “ Aunty, I must speak plainly with you, for you are the only one in this world to whom I can go for counsel. There is a reason why I should not marry Sinclair Paxton. There is a man living, who, if I marry Mr, Paxton, would hold me absolutely in his power. I should be his slave, obliged to do his will, and if my hus- iectepeice 5 TI SS 2 SET WARE Oo SS BTS Vt | band by any chance should happen to discover my unhappy secret, he might drive me from him with curses—with loathing, and I should | deserve to be so treated.” ‘‘Bress de Lord, chile!” exclaimed the old woman, in astonishment, ‘‘I don’t understand dis yer.” : ‘“And I can not fully explain, except that: there is a dark secret connected with my early It was that secret pressing on my brain and driving me almost madness that made me seek death in the snow-bank from which you rescued me. Now, aunty, I'll tell you what I came to ask, This man who possesses such a terrible hold upon me, knows of Mr. Paxton’s love for me. e has offered that if I will give | him a certain sum of money he will oaway, SO that I can marry Mr. Paxton, and promised — that I shall never see him again. Now, aunty, is it right for me to do this—to marry this gen- tleman, knowing as I do, that if this man does not keep his word and should return, I doom both my. husband and myseif to a lifetime of misery?” " “ An’ can’t yur tell Mister Paxton all ’bout ? the old woman asked, thought~ y. ‘* No; I ean not tell him, for if he knew m secret, our marriage would be impossible,” Lydia replied, slowly. “Don’t you have nuffin’ to do wid him, then, nee an ain’t right; dat ain’t ’cordin’ to de ook; don’t you do it, chile!” the negress * said wee B ‘That is what my own heart has told mea hundred times, but I am so weak, so irresolute, and this man loves me so well. When I am with him I think that I could dare every thing —risk all for his sake!” Lydia said, hurriedly and in strange excitement. : ‘** Don’t you do it, honey! squar’; dat’sde oOuly way to git along in dis yere world.” “You are right!. He must forget me and I must forget him, and may Heaven give us both strength to bear our cross, Well, 1 must say ood-by, aunty ;? and Lydia rose and put on er things. “I must go, now. It is getting dark, and it is a long way home,” : ‘t — again nice boa ts i es, yes,” an a hurried away. On her hiner ne Paxton mansion, A single glance she gave at the house, almost hid by the gloom of the even- ing, and then hurried on again, her face as white and stony as the face of a marble statue... i CHAPTER XXVIII. . DADDY EMBDEN’S GHOST, Wuen the buggy driven by Nathan, up in front of the had to take him been a child. Delia had been on the look-out for her fa- ther’s return, and when the buggy halted, she — came out on the steps. ‘‘Oh, father, you are sick!” she said. J “No, I ain’t sick,” he muttered slowly, as — with the aid of her arm, he tottered, wi ] close behind. Delia led the old man, into the si placed him in an arm-chair, then in response _ to Nathan’s beckoning hand, she came to the — door which led into the hall where the hired — man stood. ; “What is the matter with father?’ she asl-— | ed, sorely troubled at the condition of the old x man. i ‘Wal, Delie, it’s hard to say,” Nathan replied slowly. ‘‘I drove up to the deacon’s house,and got there jest about nine, jest as you told me. And arter I got there I thought I had better | f° into the house and let your father know tha was there. So I got out of the wagon, and I walked into the yard. I tumbled over some- thin’ all curled into a heap on the ground. thought furst that it was some feller who hed _ been drinking teo much rum and had straggled into deacon’s yard to sleep it off. But when I come to examine, I found that it was your fa- ee Act far an’? — mb Embden mansion, the old | man was so lees bay unnerved, that Nathan — rom the carriage as ifhe had ¥ pon ’ a ae 4 walk she passed by the “a un- ai 3 | steady steps, into the house. Nathan followed —
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7 ee. Wes A on MN ak. Erni os Ok bd Fe ae Tee eee sh pas n 4 } Ny > ‘ : aves, i. 7 eet SF : if . ee — Se tc 8 rr renee ther. I got him into the buggy and he talked all the time as crazy as a bedbug; 1 couldn’t - make head or tail of it at furst, tut arter we drove on a spell, I found out that he thought that he had seen a ghost.” 4 “A ghost!” cried the girl in wonder. __ ,“Sartin! a ghost wrapped up in a mil’tary _ cloak and wearing a straw hat.’ i, “But did he see any thing?” ~ “Wal, now, furst off, I thought mebbe that The girl was perplexed; ber father’s manner showed no evidence of insanity, yet she could not understand why he should talk so strangely. There was quite a long silence. Embden was’ breathing heavily, but he seemed much more compos AU ot veins ere ‘Now, Delie, jest you listen to me *tentively,” oe “i ea tain Re Be " ely, e girl, her arm resting upon her father’s Eres, Lege up into his face with earnest in- rest, “You remember, Delia, arter “your mother’s death, I kissed you good-by, told you I was going on a long-conlee, and. sailed. the Nancy ane out of the harbor?” in “Yes, I remember, father.” “‘ And you never heered a word of me, or from me, till 1 come back to Biddeford and told you that I was a rich man.” The girl nodded. “You don’t know where I sailed to, nor any- body else; you don’t know where I made my’ money, or anybedy else. When they asked me uestions, I told ’em that I had sold the Nancy ane, and had speculated in ile, » But it wa’n't the truth, Delie. There was something on my hands that stuck to ’em as tight as ile and smelt a good deal worse, When I left Bidde- ford, I sailed right straight for the capes of Virginia. met a man about two months before in Bostin, who was a secret agent for the Southerners, He was buying. medicine, caps. and sich things for the South, and he wanted a little smack like mine to run the blockade with. Sohe and I made a hargain, It warn’t right, Delie, for me, a Northern man, to go ag’in’ my own side and help the other, but I wanted money bad. I had been a-sailing that Nancy Jane up and down the coast for many a long year, and somchow I couldn’t get forehanded with the world. Wal, he offered me a big price ef ’'d do what he wanted, so I asked Jethro—he was my man, you know—and he said he was willing to risk it, and so we went ~ into the speculation. ‘** Arter we gotinto Virginian waters we used to get our cargo somewhere on the eastern shore of Maryland and run over at night in! some of the Virginian creeks and land it. ““T s’pose we run the blockade for nigh a year and never got overhauled by the Federals. Then things commenced to look squally for the South. Grant was hammering away at Lee’s army like all possessed. They couldn’t shake him “4 ie. r
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- ix s Lk iis ¢ -, off; and putty soon I could see with half an eye that the Confeds were beginning to think that the bottom would soon fall out. I had carried sealed packets two or three times from Maryland addressed to a ‘Mr. White.’ These packets had leaden seals attached to each corner, so that, in ease that a gunboat captured me, I could throw them overboard and they wouldsink at once. “This Mr. White, who was a good-looking man, with a smooth, boyish face, : bout thirty-five or forty—I should think, though he didn’t look to be over twenty-five—allers received the packet in person. I had a notion the first time that I saw him that he was some high officer of the Confeds. Wal, it was just arter the battles of the Wilderness that I carried a larger package than usual over to this Mr. White. lis time he opened the package right before me. We were standing at the time under a_clump of trees "bout forty feet from theshore. He didn’t appear at all satisfied with the letters that the sealed packet contained, and I heard him mutter, two or three times, ‘It is ne use; the end must come. It’s on:y a question of time now.’ Wal, I kinder guessed that he meant the Fed’rals was going to get the best of it. ; ‘All o a sudden he turned to me and said, ‘That’s a neat little craft of yours, skipper. ‘Putty fair, Lanswered. Then he looked at the smack and appeared to be thinking "bout some- thing, ‘Will she stand much. sea?—could you sail from here to New York in her? he asked. ‘T guess so,’ I said, ‘seeing as how I sailed her ri it straight from Nantucket to Cape Charles.’ Then he looked at the smack again, and then he looked me allover. ‘Skipper,’ he said, in his quick, short way, ‘are you arich man?’ I told him T hadn’t any more money than I could take care of, “Then ag’in he looked at the smack, and then ag’in he looked at me, ‘Would you like to make a thousand dollars? he asked. ‘“Wal now, Delie, a thousand dollars was a. utty big sum tome; so I jest Bp an told him Fnat ef he wanted to pay any skipper a thou- sand dollars, I was bis man. ‘Then he looked at the smack ag’in an seemed to be measuring her all over with his eyes. Vies Will she carry a weight of six or seven hun- dred? he asked. I told him that she was good for six or seven ton. “That will do then,’ he cried out; ‘Tl give ou a thousand dollars to carry me and my bageage from here to New York.’ I accepted the offer on the jump, and we arranged that the baggage was to arrive the night arter, be put on board, and then we war to lay in the stream and wait for him, as he didn’t expect he could come till near morning,” - CHAPTER XXX, THE BETRAYAL, “Wat, in the afternoon a colored man drovea light wagon down to the beach. In the wagon was the baggage of my passenger. There wasa fight sole-leather trunk and about twenty small xeS, Marked ‘lead.’ Of course I naturally wondered what on earth my passenger wanted of s0mUch lead, I said as much to the colored man, and he replied that it war to make bullets. Now as my Ressonger had contracted to be taken to'New ‘York, I couldn’t see what use the bullets could be to him there. But I didn’t say anything more about it, and got the baggage onboard. Before the wagon came, I had sent Jethro it to watch the road, so that he might give Me. warning if anybody came. There was a Confederate picket about four miles inland, and 1 didn’t know but some of them might take a notion into their heads to straggle down to the beach, You see, Delie, I kinder thought I had diskivered what my passenger war up to. knew that he were some high officer of the Confederacy, an’ I suspicioned that he had come to the conclusion that the war was pretty nigh over, and that he had better get out while he could. ; “ Arter the trunk an’ the boxes were put on board, the colored man drove off. I got into the skiff and pulled off to the smack. I had piled the boxes all up together in the starn an’ -kivered ’em over with a piece of sail. The trunk -was dumped down side of ’em, standing on end. “T climbed on board the smack an’ set down on the edge of the cabin. There sot, an’ there I thought. I looked at the boxes jest as if my eyes had been gimletsto bore right through the Sail, wood an’ all. I knew that it wasn’t lead that war in the boxes, an’I ’spicioned that it war gold. I felt sure of it, There on bdard of my little right afore my eyes, wara Re ee ME fortune. An’ as I sot there an’ thoug t, I see’d asi a «ae -( Ser, el - “Rat eee, 1 = a «4. ™ Ses STRANGE GIRL. somethin’ yaller lying on the deck by the side of the trunk. I took a good look aé it, and dis- kivered that it war an envelope. Then I went an’ picked it up. The hasp of the trunk had snapped, an’ it were only fastened by the straps, so the envelope had slippedout. Inside the en- velope was a letter—the envelope wasn’t sealed. It was directed to Maxwell Dallis, Lynchburg, Virginia. I opened and readit.” Then the old man rose from his seat and went to a little ola- fashioned trunk, covered with cowhide—the hair still on—and studded with brass nails, which stood in one corner of the room. He opened the trunk and took a letter, in a yellow en- velope, from a hiding-place which had been made by tearing the paper lining of the trunk a | litile, thus forming a sort of a pocket. He returned to his seat and gave the envelope | into the hand of the girl. She saw that it was addressed in a bold, firm | hand to ‘“‘ Maxwell Dallis, Esq., Lynchburg, area " ‘““That’s the letter I picked up from the deck of the smack,” hesaid, ‘‘That’s the letter which put it into my head to do what Idid. Read it aloud, Delie.” The girl drew the letter from the envelope, unfolded itand read aloud: “My prEaR MAxwe: : “The end cometh very realy The capture of Richmond is now only a question of time. Grant has got Lee by the throat and is holding on like a bull- og. We.whip the Federals in every fight, but each day finds them ‘still nearer to Richmond. We are bemg crushed by numbers. If we could give Lee fifty thousand fresh troops all would be well, but that is simply impossible. Sherman is following Johnson up so closely along the coast-line that he can not spare a man—Johnson I mean—andis not strong enough to offer battle; he can only retreat and impede the enemy’s advance. In my opinion the fatal mistake was made when we removed John- son to the west and allowed Hood to butt his head against the Nashville fortifications. Every thing has gone wrong since. But this is all history now, and it is useless to discuss it. You already know my opinion of our chief andhis advisers. .I have risked and lost all for my native State, and now that I per- ceive the cry will soon be, © Sauve qui peut’ (save himself who can) I intend to act at once. I have turned all my effects into portable sha arranged with the captain of a little blockade-run- ner to convey me to New York. ThereI shall take steamer at once for Europe. The very boldness of the plan will I think insure its suecess. I have ar- ranged for Pet to join me in New. York. So, my dear Maxwell, when you hear that I have suddenl disappeared, and are compelled to listen to the how which will come from a certain pack of hounds, con- sole yourself with the reflection that, when the day of disaster comes, J shall not have to bow the knee to the men whom I have fought for four y not in the field, true, but in the council-chamber. en our children in after time shail read the history of our glorious struggle, what reproaches will be aeaiins upon the heads of the narrow-minded bigots, who, as Will write you from New York. “Yours t 3 : “ @uyn Danis.” *‘ That’s the letter that told me who my senger was. Ihad often heard of him. upon the edge of my cabin an’ I looked at the sail which covered the boxes, Only three men in the world knew that they were aboard the smack; myself, the owner, an’ the colored man, I sot there, an’ I thought the matter all over, I kin remember jest how I thought an’ what I thought, jest as if it were esterday. There was a lot of money on board my little smack, The owner of the money wasan enemy to my ePagge i his. ate picket an’ jest tell ’em that at twelve o’clock that night he would come down to the beach, I | needn’t say a word about the boxes an’ the trunk on board of the smack. I could b’ist’ sail - an’ go down the river an’ the money was all’ mine.” The girl listened with a beating heart to her father’s words; she fully comprehended how great the temptation had been. ‘“‘And did you go to the soldiers?” the girl asked, at length, in a voice hardly above a whisper. Shy Lrally did,” the old man moaned. “TI was only. a poor weak sinner an’ the money was too much for me. _ { sot there a-looking at the box- es kivered with the sail, an’ the devil kept whispering in my ear that they would all mine if I only went on shore an’ said a dozen words or so to the sodgers, At last I yielded; I pulled my hat down over my eyes, an’I ees to the boat an’ pulled to the shore. I called Jethro an’ told him to stay an’ mind the skiff, that I would be back soon, an’ then I put for the interior. It was a long walk, that four miles to where the picket was posted the edge of aswamp, but it didn’t seem to me Lay) eet and have | raseeooig br gs the cause of the Southland! | J sot | an’ now he was away from | Thad to do rena to aie ties Confeder- ; clos’ to | OT ies ip te Se. tee She ‘ , . as if I was ten min’tes goin’ it. An’ all the way along the devil an’ the good old New England irit were having a reg’lar tussle in my soul. ut the devil was too strong: he had me, poor miserable sinner that I was, tight in his clutch. es. ; “When I reached the picket post, I found a Confederate colonel there that 1 had met two or three times before. He had come down to the beach and superintended unloading when I had had a heavy cargo. Sol took him to one © side an’ told him about the bargain that I had : made, He was a cold, cruel-looking man, this officer, an’ his eyes seemed to fairly be on fire — as he listened to me. ’ “*Glyn Dallis, rat-like, is going to leave the © | sinking’ship, ch? he muttered. Ge es,’ said, p “** My fine fellow, you’ve done quite right in ‘ coming to me with this information,’ and he | Slapped me on the shoulder. ‘If it was any- y else, I don’t think I should trouble my head much about it. But he’s one of these high- toned Virginian gentlemen, gne of the Ran- , dolphs of noke. ITowehim a grudge. He pai 0 I wasn’t good enough for his daughter, and the dainty Miss turned up-her nose at me. Now I'll pay off the debt.’ “Then he told me that I must go ahead, jest the same as if Lhad not saidanythingaboutmy passenger’s coming—that he would arrange . every thing all right. Of course I didn’t say it | anything to the oflicer about the boxes and the _ trunk which I had put on board. : “The road to the picket-post seemed very short, but the way back to the beach seemed. more like ten miles than four. It was quite dark when I got on board the smack. Jetiro | wondered at the boxes, because we never used to carry any cargo back. iar “Oh, Delie, you can’t guess how I felt that night as I sat counting the hours and waiting for midnight to come!’ CHAPTER XXXII. DOWN THE RAPPAHANNOCK, THE old man bowed his head in his hands and groaned aloud; the rembrance of the fatal night when he had yielded to temptation and bartered | bis soul for gold, was as fresh in his memory as | if it- had been but yesterday. . Delia did not speak; she rested her head upon her father’s knee, and the great tears came slowly into the sharp blue eyes. At length the old man went on with his con-. The night dark: th n't “The night was very dark: there wasn’t a star to be seen in the sky and no moon.: Leetle by leetle the shore faded into the gloom, until at last a great black cloud seemed tosettle right down onto us. The smack was a-hea’ na Te d-SaeA B ® = 2, A Lael 4 F S 2, i roy 3. = 8 gn in return, so that he should know that it was all right, an’ that I was e-Sarainig. So, Jethro an’ T sat on the smack an’ waited. Jethro noticed that I seemed out of sorts, an’ asked me if I | wasn’t sick. I never knew how hard it was to lie, till then.. Of course he didn’t know any- thing of what was coming. I told him that I was waiting a message from the shore which expected would come about twelve, an’ then we'd up anchor an’ put. Finally, Jethro said he was sleepy, so he crawled into the cabin an’ laid down, An’ £ sot there all alone; I could . héar Jethro snoring away like a steam-ingine, an’ the swash of the waves as they came ug’in the side of the smack. The wind had freshened up an’ it was blowing pretty stiff: the smack _ Was pitching up an’ down, an’ it looked as if where was @ chance of having a pretty smart . ,. » i Er ow. “At last half-past eleven came. I woke ie | Jethro up an’ got the lantern all ready togive _ the signal. The hours. that J had waited while Jethro was curled up in the cabin asleep had _ seemed pretty long, but that leetle half-hourup | to twelve o’clock seemed ’bout.aslongasalithe | rest put together. Ue . | “The last time I looked at my watch it want- ed jest a minute to twelve, Jethro was at the _ anchor, all ready to haul up at ‘es ot * ut one i ewordyan’[ had the lantern . vered up in a piece of sail,to | give the L ¥O Slisal'a - 5% | “T had hardly got my watch back to wy oF peck when I saw. the light on thep’inta-giving - the I was to show my light twice inan- swer. { 4 " ahs
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Sra “a leetle over eighty-one thousand dollars. Isold | her li F ; f . » WE . nat’rally thin _ that night when I saw the rocket go wu _ heerd the report of the muskets, I hain’t had a dices ‘"Wal, I answered the signal, an’ jest as I flashed the light a second time over the water, up went a rocket right back of the pint. You see, Delie, I had arranged with the Confederate colonel that the same signal which told my pas- pe fe all was right, was also a signal for the soldiers to go for him. “The moment I saw the rocket shoot up in the air, I yelled to Jethro that there was some- thing wrong, an’ for to take up anchor aw let her sliver, '“ The ebb-tide had set in strong an’ the stream was a-jest rushing down the bay. had the anchor left the bottom than the smack slid along with the tide. I up with the sail as soon as I could, An’ jest as up, there come two shots from the p’int, an’ than a whole volley of musketry, When I heerd it, it made my blood run cold, an’ I al- most let the sail go right slap back to the deck, but, someway, I managed to hold on, ‘“*T got the sails up an’ headed the smack down the river. There wasn’t a sound from theshore arter ber eed , an’ ¥ BS thing I knew I caught myself praying that my passenger had _ escaped though I was fearful that he hadn't. “T headed the smack straight for the bay. *Twas ’bout four o’clock in the morning, I heck. on, when I got down near the mouth of the river, an’ there, right ahead of me, anchored in the stream, was a Federal gunboat, right off Windmill Pint. - Isaw at once that twas no use trying to steal past, for it was gittin’ lighter an’ lighter every minute; so I jest run in behind a wooded p’int | | about it,” _ ina little cove that there was there, an’ made up my mind to lay hid until the gunboat . got out of the way. Irun the smack in clos’ to shore, an’ then, as [hadn’t had a wink of sleep, Ierawled into the cabin an’ laid down. But Delie, I might jest as well laid awake, for the good that s eep did me. I dreamed every thing all over ag’in, an’ more too, for in my dream I went on shore an’ saw the fight there atween my passenger and the sogers. I saw him rt shot to pieces by the muskets, an’ : < t Fae blood a-streaming all over his pale ace. the airth seemed to give way right under my steps, so that I couldn’t get ahead any. ; “*T s’pose I slept in this horrible way for ’bo four hours, when Jethro put his head into the cabin an’ called me. _ “*Cap’n,’ says he, ‘here’s somethin’ awful - out here!’ ““T got up an’ crawled out, an’ there, floating down on the tide, ina pile of driftwood, was the dead body of my passenger. Oh, Delie! I _ kin see it now jest as plain as I did then. He | _ owas sen on his Mane and his white face, with a leetle red wound in his temple, was turned up to the sky. I jest looked at it a ‘min’te an’ then I went over in a fit. come to myself, Jethro was a-bending over me an’ pouring whisky down my throat. The dreadful thing had gone on with the tide. ' “Jethro said that I had raved like all pos- _. sessed, an’ I saw that he hadn’t any idea that | it was through me that the man had _ “The gunboat went up the stream in the | en killed. afternoon, an’ jest as soon as it commenced to git dark, Lup sail and ran across the bay. There was a leetle village on the western shore of Maryland where I had. been used to make a landing, an’ I ran straight for it jest as if I was a- ee to land my cargo there, You see, Delie, it was necessary to get rid of Jethro, ’cos I sailed straight for New York, as I intendod to do, he would had a suspicion that there was < somethin’ wrong. It was ’bout three in the _ morning when we ran into the Mary] hore. | be Mende Cee te the |The day had been very warm, but the cool | “breeze, fresh from the ocean, came with the | I told Jethro that he had bettter get into the _ skiff an’ pull in to the beach for to see if every- thing was allright. I pretended to be afeard there. He knew exactly where to go, for the _ ' Confederate agent lived clus’ to the beach. “ An’ as soon, Delie, as he was fairly out of sight, hid in the gloom, I up sail and ‘scooted down the bay. _ by some gunboat. “T sailed straight for New York, an’ thereI smuggled the trunk’ an’ boxes on shore without any one having any suspicions of how valuable | -acargo I had on board the Nancy Jane. Jest as I thought, the boxes were full of gold, and the trunk had a large lot of greenbacks and Government bonds in it. Altogether, there was - the gold and the bonds leetle by leetle, an’ I _ came back to Biddeford a rich man. 2 an a When I , I knew that Jethro would. that I had been frightened off | POSE a He TRC MEe oP ee ee eT, Nh eee Uy Lee MG Ni P 2. got her half-way | STRANGE GIRL. min’te’s peace. I dream the whole thing over | an’ over every time I go to sleep, an’ to-night, Delie, as I came out of Deacon Paxton’s house, I saw this dead Mr. Dallis rise up out of the / 'airth, I know whatit means. I ain’t got long | to live. He comes for me clean out of the salt | ocean,” and the old man moaned pitifully. “No, no, father, that is not possible,” the daughter said, gently; “the dead cannot re- turn.” No sooner | *“ Aud the deacon, too, said that I would roast in hell fire for what I’ve done.” * But, you have repented, father, and all the | rest of your life you will pray that you may be | forgiven.” tried to run away, but 1 couldn’t run; | that there might be some of the Federal soldiers | + | | ing that week the good folks of | was Deacon Paxton. ““T know I ain’t got long to live,” the old man muttered; ‘‘ he came to-night to tell me so.” “That is only your fancy, father.” “No, no, it ain’t,” he persisted; ‘‘I tell you, Delie, Tt saw him jest as plain as I see you now. I knew him the min’te I looked at him, al- | though he don’t look as old as he did when he | was alive.” ; “ Father, ha must give up this money,” the | girl said, suddenly. “Yes, I s’ so; but I don’t know who it eamag 8 to. I’ve it on my mind for a long time that I oe to give it up, an’ pay reg’lar or the use on it for the time I’ve he is a relation, “But, Delie, how kin you live without this wicked money?” he asked, SEAL ot “ How did I live before?” she asked, smiling. “Oh, father, I would far rather liye on bread and water, and know that I got it honestly, than live in this splendid house and know that it be- —— by rights to some one else.” mbaen Sooked at the girl in amazement; her strong will was as a staff for his feeble hand. That ae the old man slept. better than he had since the time he floated in the Nancy Jane down the Rappahannock. CHAPTER XXXII, A CHANGE OF FORTUNE. ANOTHER week had come and gone, and dur- iddeford had fresh cause for wonder. Daddy Embden had sold his big house on the hill and had taken the same little cottage where his wife and daughter had formerly lived when he had sailed hie Nandy Jane up and down the coast, laden with market truck. " And Delia Embden had visited all the fami- lies for whom she had formerly sewed, and had said that she would be very glad to receive their work again. A morith before, the question had been, ‘‘ How did Daddy Embden make his money?” Now the query had changed, and ‘‘ What has Daddy | Embden done with his fortune?” became the ery. by many a shrewd and skillfully put question the more curious of the village folks strove to extract the truth from Delia, but the girl, with her Yankee cunning, was fully a match for the questioners, and ‘they gained but little informa- tion from her evasive answers. One man alone of all the good people of Biddeford or Saco suspected the truth, and he kept his knowledge to himself. That man It was the night before the Fourth of July. duskiness of the twilight and had tempered the heated air. , Down one of the little back streets of the town the clerk of the grocery store, Jerry Gard- ner, was proceeding slowly along. He halted in front of a modest two-story cottage, which | sat back from the street, a little garden in front . of it. ““T guess this is the house,” he said, openin the gate which led into the garden. e ha not taken three steps up the walk which led to the house, when the front door of the cottage opened suddenly and Delia Embden came run- ning eut to meet her visitor. hm so glad you’ve come!” she exclaimed, extending both hands to him, and holding up , to be kissed. ‘Wal, I swow!” Jerry cried, in astonishment, But since | but he did not omit to kiss the red lips so tempt- | ingly offered to him; ‘‘looks as if you was glad to see a feller!” ; | me, .| night,” Brick replied, ruefully. _ nious manner in which he had been set. down | upon the jagged stone was yet fresh in his mem- 0 “Well, I am,” replied the girl, promptly; “don’t you like to have me show it?” Bae anne “Sartin: but it seems kinder strange, you know. It’s been a pretty long time since we were on kissing terms, Delie.” “Yes, I know it, but, now, please, don’t say anything to make me feel mean. D’vea eady told you how bad I’ve been, and you yourself shall see how good I mean to be in the future. But, why haven’t you been to see me before?” * Been up to Bostin to buy goods; going to be a partner in the store first of September,” he answered. ‘Oh, won’t that be nice?’ she exclaimed, in glee. ‘‘ You'll be able to keep a wife then, won't you?” “Yas, when I get one,” he said, a little doubt- wen “Why, Jerry! what makes you talk like that?’ she exclaimed, pouting just'a little. ‘fm sure that I intend to keep my promise and be- come your wife whenever you get ready tohave erhaps you never intend to get ready, though?” ‘Tl squeeze you like all possessed if you say that ag’in!” he exclaimed, passing his strong arm around her slender waist. ‘I’m all ready whenever you are. But I ra Delie, what’s the matter with your daddy? olks say that he’s all bu’st up.” ‘* Well, father hasn’t got much money,” she | said, slowly. ‘* What in thunder has he done with it?” ‘““Why, he never had much that really be- longed to him,” she explained. ‘Oh, thunder! yes, I see now!” he said, un- derstanding the facts of the case at once, ‘*He was acting as agent for somebody else.” ‘Yes, that’s something like it,” she said. “Of course father never said anything about: ert He preferred to keep his business to him- self, “Yes, I see; and all the folks here thought that all the money belonged to him. I s’pose the old man’s given up his agency, and that’s hones reason why you're k to the old quarters, e ‘“ Yes. ” “Wal, I pees you won’t stop here very long, or else youll have te make room for me some- how, ’cos I’m ’bout ready to get hitched, if you ‘“*T ain’t a horse!” she exclaimed. ‘Wal, you know what I mean,” he replied. ** Will you go to the picnic to-morrow, down to the Pool?’ ‘Yes; will you take me?” “Sartin! Is the old man in?” “ Yes.” ie aes get him to come, too; it will do him And so, snugly side by side, his arm around her waist, the two proceeded to the house. Hardly had the door closed behind them when two men, passing along the street in opposite directions, encountered each other face to face right in front of the gate. An exclamation o rise came from the lips of one, and an expression of terror from the other. f . The two men were Jed Hollis, the carpenter, and Daisy Brick, the adventurer. ‘*Keep off!” cried Brick, in alarm, his hand in the side-pocket of the loose sack-coat: which he wore. ‘‘I’ve got a revolver here, and if you attempt an attack, I'll drill a hole right through you.” ‘“‘You cowardly hound!” cried Hollis, in dis- . “I ought to choke you a little; you de- serve to be choked.” “You just keep your distance, now, or I'll give you a chance to take a ride without having to pay for it, you big overgrown bully!” “See here; why can’t you be reasonable?” Hollis asked. “Reasonable?” Brick said, doubtfully. “Yes, about that matter that we spoke about: peed i by the quarry; you remember that nicht thrusting “T should rather say that I do remember that he unceremo- ‘Why can’t you make a bargain, then? I heard enough of the conversation between you and this Miss Grame to know that you pos- sess some secret concerning her. In some way she isin your power. Now, I want you to tell me all you know about her. I'll pay you well if you will.” " ‘This is just what you said before. I gave ou an answer then; what a difficult matter it. — | 1s to satisfy you.” i
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.. “epee - Sra tk (ie Sut oe i hi My b: a ° es Sea Se Sa . “‘T shall never be satisfied what I want to know,” Hollis said, sulkily. “You'll never be satisfied, my friend, then, as far as I am concerned,” Brick. said, firmly. ‘* You won’t tell me?” = “No, I won’t.” * Now eet you listen to me then!” Hollis ex- claimed, threateningly. ‘Tll lay for you, and some dark night I'll catch you unawares, when _ you won’t have your revolver handy, and ’ll _ jest squeeze the life out of you.” _ Brick felt a cold shiver come over him at. the > threat. _ “Now see here,” he expostulated, youn get yourself in State Prison the frst ¢ ) » know.” _ “But Tl have satisfaction out of you first,” i Hollis said, grimly. , “And because Il won’t tell you what I know about this woman?” “ce ? f ae x r % ; ; ’ | 4 ‘Yes.’ a “You want to marry her, don’t you?’ Brick a asked, suddenly. i. wes,” “Well, you can’t do it.” 1 ‘What?’ Hollis was astonished. re : es you you can’t do it; she can’t marry 4 any a « oe y not?” the carpenter asked in wonder. “Well, that’s my secret.” Then she can’t marry Sin Paxton?” st No; I tell you that she won’t marry any- “Well, that’s some comfort,” Hollis mut- swetored. /)\"* 3 “And now, the quicker you make up your 4 mind to forget this girl, the better it will be for _ “Oh, it’s easy enough to say that.” 5 6‘*You might as well do it first as last.” “ Ain’t this a trick on your part to fool me?” Hollis asked, suspiciously. ‘‘ What the deuce do I care about the matter?” _ Brick cried, impatiently: “I’m not in love with her. 0&8 not matter tome whom she mar- “rics, but TI tell you, first and last, she won’t marry any 2 . ‘Go on; I won’t trouble you.” Hollis stepped aside, and Brick passed on. The carpenter s.emed like one stunned; slowly he proceeded up the street. he adventurer walked rapidly away, chuck- | ling to himself at his escape. _ “The madman would have strangled me some dark night,” he muttered, as he hastened on- ward. CHAPTER XXXIII. . a EIONIO. TBE morning of July Fourth came bright and beautiful. As it was a holiday, saa She » mills were all closed, a picnic had been gotien up, and about eight o’clock it started for the sea-shore. j , _ Allsorts and kinds of vehicles, from an om- - nibus down to a hay wagon, had been called _ into action, and a motley party, full of life and fun, drove down to the beach. ead-quarters of the picnic had been xed in a small ofrore of shunted. pines, which e shelter from the sun. Dueret the pee eatpled up and down the ° VA dia, who ‘ party ae Mr. t little interest in cine {! d gave herself. up to reflecti. as, a rather sad than joytal Beeaenich were “«¥ull many a gem of purest ray g, , The dark, Gnfathomed caves of. Ocesh bear; Full many a fiower is born to blush nuseen, " _ And waste its sweetness on the desert air,” Lydia recognized the voice at once, yooked up in ‘astonishment and beheld Since _ paxton standing on the rock just above her Gi ead. She had been so occupied in her dreamy me- _ gitation that she had nct heard him approach. “Splendid, isn’t it?” he cried joyously, spring- down toherside, “You seem lost in medita- ij ead party are at luncheon; they missed yous,“ So I volunteered. to go in search of ee YET did not imow ir] aid, a bightened color in her cheeks; but e ke t h ing: Fou | PA oF" ae , a y r ' ’ ‘A STRANGE GIRL. until I find out | letters to write this morning, and that detained me a little, so that I was not able to start with the rest. I drove down to where I keep my boat, and then came down in her. There she is now.” And he pointed seaward. ‘‘See that sail-boat rounding the point of the island and standing in toward shore?” “Yes,” the girl answered, shading her eyes with her hand and gazing out to sea. ‘“ That’s the Pearl—that’s my boat you know.” “You promised me once that you would take a sail with me. I shall callupon you to keep that promise before we go home to-night.” ‘“No, no, I can not!” the girl cried, quickly, ‘““You cannot go?’ he said, slowly; ‘why not?” ‘‘ Because, if I go with you, people will talk about it; even now they couple our names to- ether. It is not right for them to do so. here is nothing in common between you and me, nor can there ever be; let us then goon our separate paths through the world without raped fe ene nyse ee a ; ; “Lydia, why do you speak in this cruel way Have I deserved it?” ‘No, no!” she cried, guickly, and her voice trembled with emotion; ‘‘to me you have ever been kind and good. Do not blame me! It is fate that s we must cannot be friends; that is impossible; it is too | We cannot be friends dangerous for both of us. without being lovers.” “Ts not this a sudden resolution?” he asked in wonder, hardly able as yet to comprehend the full extent of the blow. “Yes, I have struggled against it, but it must be.” “Lydia, you must take a sail with me this afternoon, for I have publicly said that you were going to do so.. One of my friends wished the loan of the boat and I refused him, pleading a prior engagement with you. If you do not go, it will give rise to vastly more gossip than if you do go,” he said, gravely. ‘Well, I will go then. I will enjoy the pleasure of your company one little hour longer, and then we must say good-by.” The eyes of the girl were wet with tears as she uttered | imploringly; “it the words, ‘* T trust that you will reconsider your deter- mination.” She shook her head mournfully. And just at that moment a party of three | shall, Ree came over the rocks, There was Jerry and Delia, hand in kand, and | old Daddy Embden and Mrs, Gardner. bringing | up the rear. ‘Hullo! here they are, arter all!” Jerry ex- claimed, as he beheld the two. thought that you were lost, Sinclair!” “Oh, no,” Paxton answered, pleasantly when I say that in the future | as strangers to each other. We | | now pale face averted | t “The folks | love.” 25 “Did you hurt yourself, father, when you fell?” the daughter asked. ty No—no ” the re man y, ar if he wasn’t exactly sure of the fact, _ The little party took their way back to the grove. Old bden, —_ he had fully re- covered his strength, seemed greatly led at something, and kept muttering slowly to him- self as he walked along. ‘ After the clam-bake had been served up and discussed, the party broke up into some dozen or so little groups, each bent on some particu- lar amusement, while Sinclair and Lydia got into the sail-boat and drifted slowly out to sea. CHAPTER XXXIV. AT LAST, TE breeze was but a gentle zephyr, scarcel stirring the surface of the water, and the little sail-boat which held Paxton and Lydia made but slow progress. The tide, too, being on the flood, was against them, a fact which Sinclair noticed and re- | remarked upon. 3 _‘‘We shall have to beat up against an ebb- tide when we return,” he said. And looking at his watch, be was astonished to discover that it | was after five. ‘‘The afternoon has passed very rapidly,” he | noraened. ¥: aves, ydia answered, vacant] azing . wistfully out upon the broad ocean. pe “Lydia, now I am going to speak very plainly _ to you, and I hope you will be equally frank in return, ” he said, suddenly.’ f ___ “I will try to beso,” she replied, keeping her from him, and dipping her uand carelessly in the water, that was surg- ing pe the side of the boat. |. “Well, tell me why we must be as strangers | to each other?” ‘Have I not already told you?” she respond- ed. bi tremulous ag eit . ‘Tell me over again, then,” he said, quietly. “I wish to be sure that I really know your reasons.” “Can you not sere me mie! Arvin she asked, ) painful. Not more painful for you to than for | me to listen,” he replied, firmly. “You yourself | have said that this is to Be our last meeti Your will is law to me. Whateveryou wish, J have but one request to make to © ‘‘ And what is that?” she demanded, in won- ace for the first time turning her eyes upon im. “T love you; give me a remedy for that Why, how can I?” “Tell me the reasons why you say that we ; 2 " trace of the painful scene through which he had | ™ust be as strangers to each other, and per- just passed upon his face, Lydia rose to her feet, but there was a tinge of color in her cheeks and a trace of moisture about her eyes which did not escape the sharp look of Delia. . ar adjusted the straw hat—which she had | 2. idly in her hand—w nm her head and turn- ed to go, when Daddy hae clambered up the flat rock upon which the party | 2% poor. Should I marry you, I should always » were gathered, ‘uttered a shi pory of feel that I am under an obliga weber upca' . and Mes. down on the rocks all in a heap. 4 ae reason No. 1? e’s 8 got a fit!” Jerry yelled. The little party clustered around the old man in great alarm. A moment’s examination, though, convinced them that there was but lit- , cause for alarm. The old captain had only | fainted. , They loosened his necktie and splashed sea- water in his face, and in a minute or two he be- | gan to revive. ‘Father hasn’t been well lately,” Delia ex- | plained. ' | “The tramp in the hot sun has been too much | for the old man,” Jerry whispered to Sinclair. | ‘‘ He’s gittin’ better,” Mrs, Gardner said. | Slowly the old man opened his eyes and: look- ed into Lydia’s face, bent down over him. “‘ Be you alive?” he asked, faintly and mys- teriously. “He don’t know what he’s sayin’,” Mrs. “ eae J mbden, who had just : mine are widel haps one of them may be the remedy,” he re- — plied, very quietly; but there was a something © in his voice which ted unpleasantly upon her ears; it seemed like an accusation. “Since you force me to — listen, then,” she said, speaking with a coolness which she was far from feeling. ‘‘ Your station in life and art, You are rich, and I “ Now Dll answer it.” He took his pocket- book from his breast-pocket and opened it; from it he took a check. ‘See, Lydia,” he said, ‘‘there is my last month’s salary, with the exception of a dollar or two in my i Ti na) is all the money I have about me. second Iwill be for the moment as pooras you, for thus I tear the check up and throw it the sea, Deliberately he tore the check in half, but Lydia bending forward, caught his arm and looked reproachfully in his face. rf ah. On, inclair, it is wicked to do that!” she cried. ity ; i ap destroy. this money?” : ~ Why? Of what use is money, except to buy things with? To the shipwrecked sailor. cast away on some desert island, in the far-off | | Southern ocean, gold is as worthless as the sand _ beneath his feet. If by destroying my wealth I can purchase you, whom I prized as the wreck- | : seaman would the sight of the little sail — which promises rescue and home, to what bet-! ter use can I put my money?” ‘ ' . “TI can not answer you,” the girl said, and again she laved her hand in the green waters Pree past the boat. ' be » your second reason?” and hecrur‘pled “We lied, dubiously, as, sg be” Bik ae 4 ot ia ae Sas RR a Ae AR tips ee : * ~ ge ae ved = ek aoc Pes ' a ¥ . * 3 ac, b , ye eit e. f a - SST ie ay + ow
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¥ as) E gt soe = ire hee om “ swung round, and t and 68 the torn check up ard thrust it into his-vest | Les ay »-“J do not think that Iam worthy to be your wife!” The words came with effort from her lips, and her bosom heaved with strong emotion. “But why are you not#+—-give me a reason. What have you ever done?” “T can not tell you,” she murmured, lowly, pe hot face was covered by the little “Lydia, if there was a reason, I think you eould tell me,” he said, slowly. There w2¢ a long, painful silence. came nearer and nearer tothe horizon line; the little white cloud afar off in the north-east grew larger and larger, and on the broad ocean, a mile or so beyond the headland of Wood | Island, the white-crested billows began to roll and toss like jolly monsters of the deep. ‘Well, have you finished?” he asked, finding that she did not speak. “No,” she said, and,the usually soft and gen- tle voice was hoarse and strained; ‘there is | another reason.” “Say it.” da ie not love you.” , The two mortals within that little sail-boat, who sat staring at each other with white faces, seemed more like statues carved out of marble, than humans hot with the breath of life, “You—do not—love me?” he said, slowly, and the lips that spoke were colorless, and the eyes that looked the question, fixed and glaring. The girl could not speak. Vainly she at- tempted to reply, but though the lips moved, no sound came from them; a moment or so the breath came in gasps from between the white - lips, and then, with a sigh, she sunk down in the bottom of the boat. She had fainted. Forgotten now were all her cruel words; forgotten now was the white squall coming so rapidly on, the wind lashing the quiet waves in’ Pilite-carmed monsters of destruction. . Paxton thought only of the fair young girl whom ke loved better than he did his own life, and who lay senseless upon the bottom of the Quickly he sprung to her, and lifted the help- less form in his arms. The moment he A ang the tiller, the boat ‘squall struck her. ~ §nap went the mast close to the deck, and Seah and broken wood came down upon the overs. The boat shipped a heavy sea, then righted; *twas but a wreck now, though, drifting away _at the mercy of the wind and wave. “Tho Pearl” was an excellent sea boat, and the sudden breakage of the mast had saved her a capsize. The first fury of the blow had been the worst; and even now the wind seemed shorn of half its strength. _ The heavy sea that had d into the boat ~ almost drenched the lovers from head to One effect it had produced, though, it had revived the girl from her faint. _“ What has happened?” she asked, as she look- ed around and saw the wreck. e was held tightly to Sinclair’s breast, and she made no ‘ort to free herself. “A sudden of wind snapped the mast, we are drifting out to sea,” he answered, _ “ Are we in danger, then?’ “cc Yes,” 3 , _ ‘* And we may both die here on the ocean to- ore she naked : : ST since death is near, I take back the fe that my lips uttered but a moment since, I do love you! love you better than any thing else in all the wide world! You are my king—my life; and I can die here happy on your breast, feeling but your kisses pre upon my lips!” she cried passionately. CHAPTER XXXV. THE STORY OF HER LIFE. _ A Moment Sinclair looked into the face, now flushed with passionate love, saw the humid eyes and the full lips, red as the carnation fiower; then, with a long, lingering kiss, he the loving woman as his own for all time to come. / ‘You love me?” he murmured ‘“Yes—yes—as I have nover — as I shall never love again. I have strug- gled vainly against it, but it is more powerful than I, and I will not resist my fate. In spite of the guilt which will cling to the action, in vite of eve ing in this world, whether we live or die, I am yours until eternity.” Her Joved any one The sun | © >, 5 or. aa Ps Pa al ae er am ; po j : oA ‘ arms were clasped around his neck, and her head resting on his shoulder. * Little recked either that they had been ' drenched by the sea-wave almost to the skin om that the wet clothing was clinging around em, “‘You have something to tell me, have you | | not?” he asked. “Yes; before I have always feared that you would despise and hate me when you knew of | my. past life; but now your kisses have told me that, no matter what I have done, your love will not falter.” ‘*No, believe that!” he cried, fervently. Then for the first time he took his eyes from | the girl he held within his arms and looked around him. The night was coming on rapidly; already the gloom was descending upon the | waters. Wood Island light, shining brightly some two miles to the south-west, showed how far they had drifted with the tide. “IT must see if Ican rig a sail in some way, and then we can beat back to the harbor,” he said. He instructed Lydia how to manage the til- ler, while he proceeded to clear away the wreck. Within half an hour he had, by aid of an oar, rigged a sail, and once more the Pearl was glid- ing over the water, beating up outside of Strat- ten’s Islands. ‘‘ Tt will be dark before we reach the shore at this rate,” he said, resuming his seat at her side. “The good folks of the twin cities would have plenty to talk about, but the Pa announce- ment of our engagement will be quite apt to stop their mouths.’ « ‘ Now, must I tell you all?” she asked, nestling down by his side. “Yes, all.” ‘ “Give me your hand, then; I shall feel more confident feeling the pressure of your touch.” He passed his arm around her waist and drew her up to him. “ on; you are comfortable now? .”” Then she began her story. “Tama Virginian, born in the town of Staunton, up in the mountains. My father was ne wealthy, and I was an only ehild. When the war broke out I was twelve years old. My father was called to Richmond and became one of the chief officers of the Government. When I was about fifteen years old, father introduced me into so- ciety, and I saw a great deal of company; near- | Wy. all were officers of the army stationed in ichmond or with Lee’s army on the Potomac. One officer in 1 pair sigant a colonel of a Georgia regiment, paid me a great deal of attention, but he was an ugly, brutal-looking man, and I real- ly hated him. There was a young Englishman, | too, one of the secretaries of my father’s depart- | ment, who professed a great attachment for me. Isay he was an Englishman, for such he pro- fessed to be, but afterward I discovered that he was a renegade Northener—an adventurer with ort nrinciple orhonor. — “A few days after my sixteonth birthday the colonel made -me a formal offer. I refused him, and when he went to my father, he said that I | was but a child and that five years hence would | be time enough for him to be looking for a son- | in-law. “Then came the dark days of the rebellion; | | troops were hurried forward td the front, an reports came back of bloody conflicts and that ' the Yankee soldiers were coming nearer and ' nearer. My father, too, became involved in a | quarrel with one of the Government officers | higher in rank than himself. He never told me, but I think it was the President himself. Satis- fied that the Southern cause was hopeless, he waade preparations to fi the North, ‘and thento Europe. I wasleft in charge of the se- cretary, and we were to go to New York as soon as we could get through the lines, and there join ssed my father. He kissed me one night, bid me | good-by, and I never saw him again. “The secretary came to see me regularly | every day, but said that he could neither gain | any inte hs ema of my father or arrive at any plan by which we could escape to the North. “ At last, just one week after my father went away, the secretary,came'one hit said that ho had heard from my father, and that we must leave for the North that night. ‘‘ When thenight came, we set out. He took | me to a house in a narrow street, where he said we would get disguises. But when we entered the house, I found that the Georgia colonel was there, I ted on the instant thatI had been deceived, en the young man said that he had received instructions from my father that I was to marry the colonel, as he had been obliged to | fly to Europe, and could no longer protect me. A’ STRANGE GIRL. de? 5 tae i n> ae | ymew that it was all false. The secretary had | | | } i | | | | | been bribed by the soldier to Iure me into his _ power. But I was alone and helpless. A min- ister came into the room, and without paying any attention to my remonstrances, married me to Colonel Melledge. Then they left me to my despair,the colonellocking the door behind him, but saying thathe would soonreturn. I was des- perate. In my bosom I had concealed. a little revolver which my father had ee me, some time before. He had said that in war days even women sometimes needed weapons. He hadalso given me five hundred dollars in gold and green- backs when he left me. “T took the revolver from my bosom, and all the old Indian blood of the Randolphs of Roan- oke—I am of that family—rose in my veins. ‘* When the colonel entered the room and at- tempted to take me in his arms, J shot him, just as if he had been a wild beast. Then I fled into the open air. I turned from the narrow street into ‘a broad one. The bells suddenly com- menced to ring and the people came rushing through the street, exclaiming that the Yankee troops had entered the city. And so they had. Richmond had fallen! I nevershall forget that night; the negroes seemed mad with joy. ‘I made my way as_soon as I could to New York, but I could not discover any traces of my father there. And one day, as I was walking through the streets, I came face to face with the secretary who had sold me to Melledge. He told me that Melledge was in the city and had been in search of me, I implored him not to betray me. , E and that was that I should go with him. I/con- sented, for I knew that the only way to escape from him was to deceive him. I gave hima false address and promised to wait for him at my house. The moment he left me, I walked on I knew not where, until I found myself at a railroad depot. A train was just starting for Boston. I got on board and came to that city. I procured an obscure lodging, and gave a false name, and strove to hide myself from all the world. I got sewing to do, and so I lived a weary, aimless life, until this last winter I fell sick; it was a sort of a slow fever, and one day as I sat in my little room vainly trying te sew, the door opened and the secretary walked into he room. In a cold, cruel voice he told me that how he had found me, [ must choose be- tween him and my husband, who, he said was in the city seareuing forme. Again I deceived him, and ‘he, thinking that I was too sick to at- tempt to escape, left me for the purpose of cail- ing a coach to take me away, But, wi as I was, I staggered into the street. It was just getting dark, and snowing furiously. I did not o far; I had only onewish, to die; and so in a ark corner I lay down in that snow-bank hoping to find the rest that had been denied. me, : * But you were saved?” i “Yes: that ’ Dinah, dragged me from the snow and _ brought me down here, and here, for the first time since my father’s disappearance, I have known what — it is to be happy. ‘colt i oe this secretary has not discOvered you ere “‘Oh, yes, he has; he calls himself Daisy Brick ‘now. But he has not threatened,me as usual. He only demanded money, which I gave him, but he has not said a word about my husband.” “Your husband, you poor girl!” he said, com- arnt 5” “Such a marriage as you have escribed amounts to nothing. cA upon your weakness. The chances are n to one that the soldier is dead.” —__ “And can you love me—a murderess?”’ she asked, fearfully. “No, not that, but the brave girl who dared to protect her honor from a villain, « Don’t fear! Al is bright'in the future. The barriers be- tween us are but the paper forts of the Chinese ; a puff of wind and they are gone. And, as for Daisy Brick, leave him tome. I warrant that i find some way to get the truth outof the fel- ow,” The white squall was over, and peace had come at last. CHAPTER XXXVI. RESTITUTION, OF course the gossips of the twin cities had not let their tongues remain idle when they heard how Sinclair Paxton and Lydia Grame had sailed out into Saco Bay, at five o'clock, and had not returned until near ten, and they ‘turned up their noses when they spoke of the accident which had befallen the boat, “ Oh, no!” they cried, significantly ; *‘ Sin Pax- He consented on one condition, ~ dold colored woman, aunty — fellow has | n J -
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: Pes ee Ee oe ei ey Oe |) ee a eee aa ton’s too good a sailor to be caught napping by a little capful of wind!” And so for two whole days poor Lydia’s character suffered, but on the morning of the third day the scandalous allu- sions ceased, and wondering amazement set in when the newspapers announced that ‘‘ Mr. Sin- clair Paxton, our esteemed fellow-citizen and Treasurer of the Y—— Mills, would shortly be united in marriage with the young and accom- plished Miss Lydia Grame Dallis,’ Daisy Brick read the announcement’ while waiting for his turn in the barber’s shop, and the news interested him so greatly that he at once started out to interview the prospective bridegroom. He found Paxton at his office in the mill. He opened fire at once. Daisy had caleulated that Paxton would come down pretty heavily. In fact, he had made up his mind to “strike” him for a heavy “‘stake.’ Briefly, and with graceful coolness, he ‘‘ went for” his intended victim. ““You are about to marry Miss Grame—or, Miss Dallis, to speak more properly?” he said. “What's that to you, sir?” Paxton said, sharply. Daisy saw that it was necessary to strike a down blow. “T have information, sir, which will probably prevent your mafsriage, if I choose to make it public,” “You are Mr. Brick?’ “Yes, sir.” Daisy was rather astonished at being known. “Formerly secretary to Glyn Dallis of Vir- ginia?” ‘* Yes—yes, sir.” Daisy began to feel a little uncomfortable. _ “* Who assisted Colonel Melledge of Georgia in &@ most scandalous outrage, and by means of which the said colonel met his death?” he ground had been cut from under the feet of the adventurer, and he couldn’t utter a word, Paxton the truth. He was quick to follow up his ad- “Now, sir, take my advice and get out of Biddeford. Confidence rascals of your stamp are not wanted in our community.” Brick looked at Paxton, blankly, for a mo- ment; then turned upon his heel and left the office. The deford. It was on that et same afternoon that Na- than drove old Daddy Embden over to Deacon Paxton’s, ‘“ I want to see you on a leetle matter of busi- ness,” the old man cried, as the deacon appéared at the froat door, and Peleg got out quite saimbly. mel ‘Come right i n+ id. What ine n, Peleg,” the deacon said The two sat down in the parlor. ‘Wal, furst an’ foremost, is it true that your son, Sinclair, is going to marry that gal Liddy, as the paper says?” Yes, I believe that the report is true.” ‘Kinder sudden, ain’t it?” FG “Well, no; there’s been a little love affair going on for some time, I think.” 4 elie Says she’s a putty nice gal,” “Yes; Pve no objections to the match, al though she is a poor girl,” “ Whof” “Why, this Miss Lydia,” said the deacon rather astonished at the question. : : +‘ She ain't poor!” “No?” ; ‘Got eighty-one thousand dollars, an’ proper legal interest on that for seven years,” “The deuce you say!” exclaimed the deacon, betrayed into uttering an exclamation which savored more of the world than of the church. “Fact, ’ve had the keer of her property ever since May, 1865. I’ve brought the documents adventurer was seen no more in Bid- - all over with me, an’ I want you to hold me to a proper account. There was jest eighty-one toraeead dollars, and then the regular legy] in- terest since 1865.” 4 “But how did this money come in your hands?” Paxton asked, in astonishment. “ Wal, it’s a long story, deacon,” the old man replied, in some little confusion. “But the short of it is that her daddy intrusted it to me, an’ then he got killed, an’ I didn’t know where the gal was, an’— Wal, in course, it don’t mat- ter much. I’ve got the money, an’ I want you to hold me right down to a strictly proper ac- count, with legal interest.” Then the old man took a large bundle of papers from his pocket. “ There’s the hull thing fizured out. Delie did “A STRANGE GIRL. it, an’I'g she’s got it straight, but if it ain’t, Pll make it straight! ‘“ Whatever you may have done, Peleg, I - end that you’re all right in the future,” the eacon said, kindly. ‘*That’s gospel truth, deacon!” the old man said, solemnly. ‘‘Pve heered in my time a sight of men who were powerful good in hollering for the gospel, but they ain’t got it in their in- wards like you have. Say, deacon, I’ve got a question to put to you’bout this money. You know Pve had it a putty long time, an’ I’ve rally made more than proper legal interest out of it, say about eight or ten thousand dollars over; who does that belong to? I ain’t very young, now, deacon, an’ I can’t go back an’ be- gi oe ag’in; then, I got my darter, too, elie; she’s got the right religion, too; she *rastled with me when 1 was weak. She ain’t very strong, an’ these pesky sewing-machines pti age to kill a jackass, !et alofie the women olks, “* All over and above the eighty-one thousand dollars, and the legal interest thereof, belongs to you, Peleg; you can keep it with a clear con- science. The steward is worthy of his bire, But, in regard to the papers, come to-night, when Sinclair will be home, and we’ll run over them together.” “Much obliged, deacon,” and the old man rose to depart. ‘““Not at all; you are heartily welcome, Peleg.” ‘“ Say, deacon!” cried the old man, suddenly, pausing in the doorway, “didn’t you tell me once that you didn’t believe in ghosts?” ** Well, 1 don’t remember whether I ever told you so or not, but I certainly do not believe in them,” the deacon answered. “You're right, deacon, by hooky; there ain’t any such things,” Then Embden climbed into the buggy, and Nathan drove off. As the bugsy cended the hill, on the Bidde- | ford side, Embden. ,suddenly addressed the driver. ‘‘Say, Nathan, do you remember the night when you drove me along here an’ I thought I see’d a ghost?” “Wal, I calculate I do,” Nathan replied. ‘I thought you was goin’ clean ravin’ distracted.” “You didn’t see anything, did you?” “No, I guess not; only a couple of the mill girls a-talkin’ down at the corner of the street.” ‘One on ’em had on a straw hat an’ a water- proof cloak?’ — , YeR” ‘* Miss Liddy that’s goin’ to marry Sin Pax- ton?” “Wal, now that you speak of it, I guess it was.” Nathan couldn’t understand what the old man was driving at. ‘ “‘That’s my ghost,” and Embden chuckled in reat glee. ‘‘f used to know her father; he’s ead an’ gone now, an’ I had no idee that either kith nor kin of his was’round these parts. He used to wear a leetle straw hat, jest like the one she wears, an’ in the dark, with that cloak wrapped around her, she looked jest like him. aoe you what, Nathan, I don’t believe in spirits nohow.” Hollis swore outright that he wouldn’t stay in Biddeford to see the woman he loved married to the man he hated; so up to Boston he went, and in adrunken fit shipped for a three years’ voyage in a whaler, bound for the South Pacific. The wedding Sunday came at last, and two, couples went into the church single and came out married. Delia Embden became Mrs. Gardner, and Lydia Dallis, Mrs. Sinclair Paxton. As they came from the church, a sudden thought occurred to Sinclair. “That ivory picture?” he said. “My father’s portrait,” she replied; ‘‘I did all I could to shake your faith, but it was firm as the rock,” ; ‘And the Saco’s curse?’ the deacon asked, as they sat in the parlor after tea. _ “Has passed away,” Sinclair replied; ‘‘ the Indian blood has come again into the family. Lydia is a descendant of Randolph of Roanoke, the blood of Pocahontas is in her veins,” Our story is told, A strange girl is trans- formed - into a happy wife, and so we leave her. . THE END. ’ BEADLE AND ADAMS’ STANDARD DIME PUBL Speakers. 2 BxeADLE AND ADAMS have now on their lists the fol- lowing highly desirable and attractive text-books, prepared expressly for schools, families, ete. Each volume contains 100 large es, printed from clear, open , comprisin est collection of Dia- logues, Dramas and Recitations, Sind comic and otherwise.) The Dime Speakers for the season of 1882—as far as now issued—embrace twenty-four volumes, viz. : 1, American Speaker, 18, School Speaker, ” 2. National Speaker. 14. Tadicrous S i 3. Patriotic Speaker. 15. Komikal Speaker. 4, Comic Speaker, , 16, Youth’s Speaker. 5. Elocutionist. 17, Eloquent Speaker. 6. Humorous Speaker. 18. Hail Columbia Speak-- 7. Standard Speaker. er, 8. Stump Speaker. 19. Serio-Comic Speaker. is Juvenile aay - Me Select 8 - . Spread-Eagle Speaker . Funny Speaker. 11. Dias Debater. + ~ 22 . Joli ow 2 12, Exhibition Speaker. | 23, Dialect peaker, 24, Dime Book of Recitations and Readings. These books are replete with choice pieces for the School-room, the Exh ibition, for Homes, ete, They are drawn from FRESH sources, and contain some of the choicest oratory of the times. 75 to 100 Declama- tions and Recitations in each book. Dialogues. The Dime Dialogues, each volume 100 pages, em- brace twenty-nine books, viz.: Dialogues No. One. Dialogues No. Fifteen. Dialogues No. Two, Dialogues No. Sixteen. Dialogues No, Three Dialogues No. Seventeen. Dialogues No, Four Dialogues No, Kighteen Dialogues No, Five Dialogues No. Nineteen. Dialogues No. Six. Dialogues No, Seven. Dialogues No. Dialogues No. N Dialogues No, Twenty. : Dialogues No, Twenty-one. Dialogues No, Twenty-two. Dialogues No. Twenty-three. Dialogues No. Ten. Dialogues No. Twenty-four. Dialogues No. Eleven. Dialogues No. Twenty-five. Dialogues No. Twelve. Dialogues No, Twenty-six. Dialogues No, Thirteen. DialoguesNo, Twenty-seven. Dialogues No. Fourteen Dialogues No. Twenty-eight. Dialogues No. Twexty-nine> 15 to 25 Dialogues and Dramas in each book. These volumes have been prepared with especial reference to their availadiliiy in all school-reoms, They are adapted to sehools with or without the fur- niture of a stage, and introduce a range of charac- ters suited to scholars of every grade, both male and \ ¢ female. It is fair to assume that no volumes yet ~ offered to schools, at any price, contain so many availabe and useful dialogues and dramas, serious. and comic. : : Dramas and Readin 164 12m. Pages. 20 Cents. ¢ For Schools, Parlors, Entertainments and the Am- ateur Stage, Mpgren 4 Original Minor Dramas, Comedy, Farce, D.ess Pieces, Humorous Dialogue ‘ and Burlesque, by 1 oted writers; and Recitations. and Readings, new :nd standard, of the tt celebrity and interest." Edited by Prof. A. at Russell. DIME HAND-BOOKS. Young People’s Series. Brapix’s Dime cover a wide range of subjects, and are ospecially adapted to their end. They constitute at once the cheapest ang most useful works yet put into the- market for popular circulation. Ladies’ Letter-Writer. Book of Games. Gents’ Letter-Writer. Fortune-Teller, Book of Etiquette. Lovers’ Casket. - Book of Verses. Ball-room Companion, — Book of Dreams. | Book of Beauty. : Hand-Books of Games. Brapir’s Draw Hanv-Booxs or GAMES AND Porulary Hanp-Books cover a variety of subjects, and are es- pecially pny te to their end, ‘ : dbook ef Summer Sports, it Book of Crequet. Yachting and Rowing Chess Instructor. Riding and Driving, Cricket and Football. Book of Pedestrianism. Guide to Swimming. 5 Handbook of Winter § Skating, ete. ee age for Housewives. EADLE’S Dire Famity Serres aims to su &: class of text-books and manuals fitted for ete son’s use—the old and the young, the learned tnd B CoCk BOOK ye a ete a oe A ok, . Fam sic! t 2. Recipe Book. make 8, Housekeeper’s Guide, linery - Wg Lives of Great Americans @ » races: 2 I.—George Washington, .—David Crockett, * T.--John Paul Jones. vn Ji1.—Mad Anthony Wayne IV.—Ethan Allen. V.—Marquis de Lafay- ette. VI.—Danie] Boone. ; The above publications for sale by all newsdealers.” or will be sent, post-paid, on receipt of price, byy BEADLE & ADAMS, 98 Wintiam Sr, a aaa ' 0 7 pe a & a. Oe he 5. Dressmaking and Mil. — - v 2 , er > OOKS For YouNG PROPLY basa eet o e i i rag my Vite Oo a oe tts op
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alee eR GREAT. AMERICAN STORY PAPER! ii 44 —--—— : ivaled Corps of Contributors! es, Its Unrivaled Corps of Contributors! ett a i ie Almost all of whom write exclusively for its publishers—embraces the foflowing authors of world wide repute— _ . olonel Prentiss Ingraham, Charles Morris, Major Dangerfield Burr, ORS : . 9 Albert W, Aiken, Ol] Coomes, T. C. Marbaugh, 4 ’ ’ 10 Capt. Fred. Whittaker, Cc. Dunning Clark, Philip 8. Warne, a Capt. Mayne Reid, Buffalo B11, William R. Eyster, Joseph E. Badger, Jr., White Beaver, Anthony P. Morris, Edward L. Wheeler, Buckskin Sam, Launce Poyn*« Each and All of Whom Give to BEADLE’S WEEKLY ‘heir Very Best Productions IN ALL THE VARIED FIELDS 0% { % “BORDF? AND WILD WEST ROMANCE-— aa ADVENTURE, EXPLORATION AND SPORT— Petes. 7 4 \ : | “4 CITY LIFE, CHARACTER, COURTS AND WAYS— : xe DETECTIVE AND ‘SHADOW’ REVELATIONS— re os, . STORIES OF THE GREAT DEEP, etc., ete. F. . - Bo that each and every number is overflowing with reading of the most interesting and exciting nature; while in its Speeial Departments, ai vw others pee your weekly reading and entertainment, BS is le bali cred: haat 4 * ie | ; | he | Beatle’s Weekly is Published at the Following Rates: es: Bor Four DRORAA ib a2-ddtiba ends sates ek. $1.00 Two Copies fo1 One Year.......... svi nsaaag abies’ $4 $5.00 an Por One Year.........-...-+ seeseegseseseeesssss... 8,00 | Single Copies.............. at eee cecseneseess --..6 cents is Supplied by all Newsdealers. mee) BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, i : | 7 98 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORE. | a The Best Weekly ot Popular, Entertaining and Useful Literature Published in America! Be, covering ah the needs, and adding to the general interest and usefulness of the popular journal, BEADLE’S WEEKLY is the paper of
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NOW READY AND IN PRESS. 1 Adventures of Buffalo Bill. From Boyhood to Man hood. Deeds of Daring, and Romantic Incidents in the early life of William F. Cody. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 2 The Qcean Hunters; or, The Chase of the Leviathan, A Romance of Perilous Adventure. By Captain Mayne Reid. {as An extra large number. 8} 3 Adventures of Wild Bill, the Pistol Prince. Remarkable 34 The Young Bear Hunters. career of J. B. Hikok, (known to the world as ‘‘ Wild Bill”), giving the true story of bis adventures and acts. The Prairie Ranch; or, The Young Cattle Herders, E. Badger, Jr. Texas Jack, the Mustang King. Thrilling Adventures in the Life of J. B. Omohundro, “‘ Texas Jack.” By Col. P. Ingraham. Cruise of the Flyaway; or, Yankee Boys in Ceylon. By C. Dunning Clark Ro Joe: The History of a Young “‘ Rorder Ruffian.” Brief Scenes from the Life of Joseph E. Badger, Jr. By A. H. Post. The Flyaway Afloat; By ©. Dunning Clark. By Jos. ont Oo Hn of Wild Adventure in the Life of the Boy Ranger of the Rocky Mountains. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 10 The Snow Trail; or, The Boy Hunters of Fur-Land. A Narra- tive of Sport and Life around Lake Winnipeg. By T, C. Harbaugh. 11 Old | Adams, the Bear Tamer ; or, The Monarch of the Mountain, By Dr. Frank Powell. or, Yankee Boys ’Round the World. | Bruin Adams, Old Grizzly Adams’ Boy Pard. Scenes | | | | | 12 Woods and Waters; or, The Exploits of the Littleton Gun | Club, » By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 13 A Ro Stone: Boy and Man, of Col. Prentiss Ingraham. .By Prof,Wm. R. Eyster. 14 Adrift on the Prairie, and Amateur Hunters on the By Oll Coomes, 15 Kit Carson, of Guides; or, Mountain Paths and Prairie Trails. By Albert W. Aiken. 16 Red River Rovers; or, Life and Adventures in the Northwest, By C. Dunning Clark. 17 Plaza and Plain ; ; or, Wild Adventures of ‘‘ Buckskin Sam,” (Major Sam S. Hall.) By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 18 Rifle and Revolver; or, The Littleton Gun Club on the Buffalo Range. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 19 Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer; or, Life in a Log Cabin. Incidents and Adventures in the Backwoods. By Ed. Willett. 20 The egg: Dragoon; or, The Story of General George A. Custer, from West Poiut to the Big Horn. By Capt. F. Whittaker. 21 gear Pick asa Boy ; or, Why Wild Ned Harris, the New )-la i ah, ie Wheel came the Western Prince of the Road. By he Boy Exi'e : " 22 = 5 , eres of Siberia; or, The Watch-Dog of Russia. 23 Paul De Lacy, the French Beast Charmer; or, New York Boysin the Jungles, By C, Dunning Clark. 24 The Sword Prince: The Romantie Life of Colonel .Monstery (American Champion-at-arms. ) By Captain Fred. Whittaker. . 25 Round the Camp Fire ; or, Snow-Bound at “Freeze-out Camp.” A Tale of Roving Joe and his Hunter Pards, By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 26 Snow-Shoe Tom; or, New York Boys in the Wilderness, A Narrative of Sport and Peril in Maine, By 'T. C. Harbaugh. 27 Yellow Hair, the Boy Chief of the Pawnees. The Ad- venturous Career of Eddie Burgess of Nebraska. By Col. Ingraham. 28 The Chase of the Great White Stag and Camp and Canoe. By C. Dunning Clark. ; 29 The Fortune-Hunter; or, Roving Joe as Miner, Cow-Boy, Trapper and Hunter. By A. H. Post. 7 30 Walt Ferguson’s Cruise. A Tale of the Antarctic Sea. By ; ©, Dunning Clark. 31 The Boy Crusader; or, How a Page and a Fool Saved a King. By Captain Frederick Whittaker./ Incidents in the Career on Sea and Land as | 82 White Beaver, the Indian Medicine Chief: or, The Ro- mantic and Adventurous Life of Dr. D. Frank Powell, known on the Border as “ Fancy Frank,” “ Iron Face,” ete. By Col. P. Ingraham. 33 Captain Ralph, the Young Explorer; or, The Centipede Among the Floes. By C. Dunning Clark, A Story of the Haps and Mishaps of a Party of Boys in the Wilds of Michigan. By Morris Redwing. By Prentiss Ingraham. | 35 The Lost Boy Whalers; or, In the Shadow of the North Pole. By T. C. Harbaugh. 36 Smart Sim, the Lad with a Level Head; or, Two Boys — who were ‘‘ Bounced.” By Edward Willett. 37 Old Tar Knuckle and His Boy Chums; or, The Monsters: of the Esquimaux Border. By Roger Starbuck, ing. By Edward 8, Ellis. 39 Night-Hawk George, and His Daring Deeds ard Adventures in the Wilds of the South and West. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 40 The Ice Elephant; or, The Castaways of the Lone Coast. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. | 41 The Pampas Hunters; or, New York Boys in Buenos Ayres. By T. C. Harbaugh. 42 The Young Land-Lubber; or, Prince Poiter’s First Cruise. By C. Dunning Clark. 43 Bronco Billy, the Saddle Prince. By Colonel Prentiss Ingrabam, s 44 The Snow Hunters; or, Winter in the Woods. By Barry | De Forrest, 45 Jack, Ha: and Tom, The Three Champion Brothers; or,, rry Adventures of Three Brave Boys with the Tattooed Pirate. By: Captain Frederick Whittaker. 46 The Condor Killers; or, Wild Adventures at the Equator-. By T. C. Harbaugh. ; 47 The Boy Coral Fishers; or, The Sea-Cavern Scourge, By- Roger Starbuck. 48 Dick, the Stowaway; or, A Yankee Boy’s Strange Cruise. By Charles Morris, ' — 88 The Settler’s Son; or, Adventures in Wilderness and Clear- © > 49 Tip Tressel], the Floater; or, Fortunes and Misfortunes op. - the Mississippi. By Edward Willett. 50 The Adventurous Life of Nebraska Charlie, (Chas. E.. Burgess.) By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. ‘ 51 The Colorado Boys; or, Life on an Indigo Plantation, Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 52 Honest Harry; or, The Country Boy Adrift in the City. By Charles Morris. E ' 53 The Boy Detectives; or, The Young Californians in Shanghai. By T. C. Harbaugh. phe 54 California Joe, The Mysterious Plainsman. By "Col. Prentiss: Ingraham. : 55 Harry Somers, The Sailor-Boy Magician. By S. W. Pearce. 56 Nobody’s Boys; or, Life Among the Gipsies By J. M. Hoff- man. 57 Th: Menagerie Hunter; or, Favny Hobart, the Animal Queen. By Major H. Greenville, ‘Sea Gull.” By 58 Lame Tim, The Mule Boy of the Mines; or, Life Among the. Black Diamonds. By Charles Morris. A New Issue Every Week, ; BEADLE’S Boy’s Liprary is for sale by all Newsdealers, five cents - per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each, BEADLE AND ADAMS, PuBLisHERS, 98 William Street, New Yori.
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= HOME EN ie B to 98 imciusive, 15 to 25 Popular Dialogues and Dramas in each book. Each volume 100 12mo pages, sent ; ; 3 post-paid, on receipt of price, TEN CENTS. ~ ental BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William St., N.Y. nese volumes have been prepared with especial reference to their availability for Pxhibitions, being adapted to schools and parlors witr #F without the furniture of a stage, and suited to SCHOLARS AND- YOUNG PEOPLE of every age, both male and female. It is fair to assum« _—_ RE js i; nee rah Dime Dialogues, No. 1. Young America. For three males and two females. a ' 2 Sta Josephine’s Destiny, For four females, one'male, _-——s« ieeting of the Muses. For nine young ladies. The Folly of the Duel. For three male speakers. Baiting a Live ene iehman. For three boys. Dogmatism.. For three male speakers. _ . fasso’s Coronation. “ For male and female. The Ignorant Confounded.. For two boys. . Fashion. For two ladies, The Fast Young Man. For two males, | Teorebeprsel. For six boys. ‘The Year’s Reckoning. Twelve females, one male. ae ch you Choose? F'or two boys. The Village with One Gentleman. For eight females Re oy een of May. « For two little girls. and one male, ‘The Tea-Party. For four ladies. ir. Three Scenes in Wedded Life. For male and female. Dime Dialogues, No. 2. . Sniffles’s\Confession. For male and female. The Mission of the Spirits. For five young ladies, The Genius of Liberty. Two males and one female, F oboebhing. For five pe ats Cinderella’, or, the Little Glass Slipper. ee, Secret of Success. For three speakers. ,_ Doing Good and Saying Bad. For several characters. EE AR a fips: BEADLE ASD ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM STREET, NW. ¥. General Dime Book’ Publishers. a that no other books in the market, at any price, contain'so many useful and ayailable dialogues and dramas of wit, pathos, humor and sentiment. ‘The Frost . For ten or more yarsons. The Golden Rule. For two males and two females, The Gift of the Fairy Queen. For several females. Taken in and Donefor. For two characters. Country Aunt’s Visit to the City. Several characters, The Two Romans... For two males. arying the Characters. For three males, The Happy Family. For several ‘ animals,” The Balitow: For several c. ers. ’ How to write “ Popular’ Stories. For two males, The New and the Old: For two males. A Sensation at Last. For two maleg, The Greenhorn. For two males. The Three Men.of Science, For four males. The Old’ Lady’s Will. For four males. : The Little Philosophers. For two little girls. How to Find an Heir. For five males, The Virtues. For six young ladies. A Connubial Eclogue. ~* The Public Meeting. For five males and ‘one female, The English Traveler. For two males. Dime Dialogues, No. 3, . The May Queen. For an entire school Dress Reform Convention. For ten females, Keeping Bad Company. A Farce. For five males. Courting Under Difficulties. Two males, one female National Representatives. A Burlesque. Four males, pecening the Draft. For numerous males. The Genteel k. For two males. Masterpiece. For two males and two females. ! The Two Romans. For two es. -_ — con pS moe two males. " to) ‘ eather, Four males, one female, The Battlo Call, A Recitative. For one male, Starting in Life’ For-three maley und. two females, Faith, i and Charity. For three little girls. Darby and Joan. For two males and one female. The May. A Floral Fancy. For six dittle girls. The Enchanted Princess. 2 males, several females. Honor to Whom Honor is Due. 7 males and 1 femala The Gentle Client. » Several males and one female. Phrenology. A Discussion. For twenty males. The Stubbletown Volunteer. 2 males and 1 female. The Right way. A Colloquy. For two boys. elLeds voll .. Fer two boys. The Reward of Berievolence. For feur males. The Letter, For two males. Dime Dialogues, No. 5. The Three Guesses. For school or parlor. Sentiment. A “'Fhree Persons’” Farce. . Behind the Curtaf. For malesand femal. The Eta Pi Society. For five boys and.a teac’er. Day. For several female , Examination Beading in “ en For several males. The Schoolboys anal, For ten boys.’ ‘
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JUST PUBLISHED, CONTAINING 17 NEW DIALOGUES. ives Humorous ma AR No. 8. nae f Beet Run Mad, A String of Onions, iz ht Names, A Tragic Story, Scientific Lectures, Cats, The Ager, Courtship, The Cockney, Debt, The Codfish, ate pias: aoe i oe Thin, ' Dow, Jr.’s e Features’ Quarrel, Ego and Echo Hamerican Voodchuck, Fashionable Women, The Harp of a Thousand Fern Thistles, Strings, Good-Nature, The Last of the Sarpints, Gottlieb Klebeyergoss, The March to Moscow, Schlackenlichter ssnake, |} The Mysterious Guest, | Hoses Biglow's O inions, | The Pum How the Money Goes, Hun-ki-do-ri’s Fourth of oy Oration, en Mean No, oy No, Ws On Leap Year, Lay of the Henpecked, Skinner's Elegy, The Secret, The Shoemaker, The Useful Doctor, The Waterfall Ae the Bachelors’ Union United St States Presidents, The Sea- Testpeuit, | othine a pa V f P th ng U, deen na @ opping the Old Caudle’s : Umbrella, Questic ld Grimes’s Son, What I Woulan’ t Be, Your Own Canoe, | Yankee Doodle Aladin, Parody on “Araby’s | Ze Moskeetare, Daughter,” t 1933, % Dime Standard Speaker, No, 7. The World We Live In, | John Burns, Gettysburg, oman’s Claims, No Sect, in Preaven. authors of our Liberty, | Miss Prude’s Tea-Party, 1 Conqueror, The Power of an Idea, The tizen’s Heritage, |The Beneficence of the Italy. Suffrage, [Sea, ihe P iectinntis Dream of the Revelers, Nature and Naturé’s God | HowCyrus Laid the Cable The Modern Good, [Sun, | The Prettiest Hand, ’s Address to the | Paradoxical, Independence Bell—1777, | Little Te erry, the Miller, | The True Sermon from Hard-shell Tail-enders, The Value of Money, Meteoric Disquisition, Be Sure You are Right, Be of Good Cheer. Crabbed Folks, Taming a Farmers, Shrew, Masculine (Our Country Greatness of (Baptist, - DIALOGUES No. 29. } BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 ‘WILLIAM STREET, N. Y. General Dime Book Publishers, ‘Broken Resolutions, “ "StF ips: ee THE DIME SPEAKERS —Continued. [ze Duties of American Citi, The Man. Temptations of Cities, There is no Races, A Fruitful Discourse, | A Frenchman’s Dinner, Unjust National Acqui'n, The Amateur Coachman, lay ee un ‘Thompson's Dau'r, ft ‘ts Not Your Business. Dime Juvenile Speaker, No. 9, | The » Bisel stdee, | | Phe Cold-wate ater Man, Req e Student of Bonn, ” Permanency of States, The The Broken Househ old, | Liberty of Speech, e Bible. The Idler, ot fe Purse and the Sword he Unbeliever, The Two Lives, Teas siiinnad Comseaté, “a ss 8 Nrilosepey ’ The True Scholar, What is War? A be ut Care bea Judges not Infallible, Butter, Rin sneha Cat test, Fanaticism, | My Deborah Lee, Val hers tio Tasteaty of Successful | The Race, 3 pledigtinns Agricul mite, Crime, | The Pin and Needle, The ed ag roy The Modern Puritan The Sa: or, h | The. Pe le Always Con- | Immortality of the Soul, The SS re, se y hes 3 | Musie of Labor, ~ [quer, | Occupation, Win We OMe e ers Prussia and Austria, | Heroism and D: Pr er ni Learned, | Wishing, A Shot at the Decanter. The Hors e. tedster ‘ | The Snake in the Grass, Dime Stump Speaker, No. 8. Tale of the Bropies, Hon. J. M. Stubbs’ Views ped England and Union, | Bromley’s Speech, on the Situation, ne Unseen Battlefield, ' | The Same, second extract — Schwackheimer on Plea for the eels The Fisher's Chi 8 ara tod at oman’s Suffrage, America | ix Miaidou's Psa All fora Nominating “Right of Sedession? oe | A ee ’s foal of rite, | Old Ocean, Sea, | Life’s Sunset, The Sea,the Sea, the open ye n Nature, jen for for Skates, Star Bangled Spanner, cana Pla; se Stay Where You Belong, prig- the Indians, Ah, sm Life’s What You Make peal in behalf of Am, | Live for Something. Where’s My Money, : || Appeat of War,(Liberty, | Lay of the Hen-P a Speech from Conscience, | A Lay Sermon, 4 The Outside Dog, is an y rome pect paces: - Dream, ! 4 * pot eb eon e Limits to Happiness, tronomica. ’ Good-nature a B asic The Moon, Frogs Asking for a King, Sick Lion, Country and Town. Mice, Man and Woman, The atin Plater’ Little Things. ie Baby's Ss Soliloquy, ntani lea for i Humbu atritism, Night Short gi Shrimps on ay Reet How the Raven Became Black, A Mother’s Work, The Same, Rules, A Sheep Story, A Little Correspondent, One Good Turn Deserves [Anotber, 44 | Never Use Tobacco, The Old ‘Bachelor, er to Light, re e Jim, Angelina’s Lament, Johnny Shrimps on Boots Mercy, Choice of Hours ) Poor Richard's ‘Sayings, Who Killed. Tom Reper, Nothing to Do Honesty Best Policy, Heaven, Ho for the Fields, Fashion on ihe Brain, On Shanghais, ag Smile, Casabian Homoeo atc Net Nose ani Mal Little Sermons, Snuffles on Electricity, The Two: Prater The Ocean St Do Little Dit Well Beate uss, We ase ver. Prescri pttbi for Spring Dime Spread-Eagle Speaker, No. 10. Ben Buster’s Oration, Hans Von Spiegel’ 8 4th, Josh Bi s’s Advice, A Hard-sbell Sermon, The Boots, The Squeezer, Noah and the Devil, A Lover’s Lu Hifalutin Adol Digestion.and 0; 88 ib peas ep ages, Gushalina Bendibus, A Stock of Notion Sete for ‘ito eriff,. | ae ode x ow, ’s Lecturing lister’ s yee ive Dan Bryant’s 8 ; Aco Vier | Original Maud Muller, , obod } Train of Oireumstances, | ‘ 1.—Dxpating Socrmry. Tts Office en Usefulness, Formation of, Constitution of, By-Laws Rules of Governaeets Local Rules of Order, Local Rules of Debate, Subjects of Discussion, 11.—How To De TE (0, Why there are few good Debaters, Prerequisites to Oratori- cal Success The Logic of Debate, The Rhetoric of Debite, pion to Obsery: Preliminary Prowse, | Order of Argument, Summary. | It.—Crarrman’s Gurpr. be ee end ies, The Organization, Order al ee and Procee: The “ Guest on.” How it can be Trea’ The “ Question.” How to be Consid Crpeniasion of Delibera- ve Bodies, Conven- tions, Annual or Gen- eral Assemblies Drum-head Sermons, Schnitzerl's ‘ete ““Woman’s Jacob Whittle’s Speech, A "Word with Snook, Sa es Ui Trovatore, | Soandal ts “a Street; . | Slightly Mix eas, Old aah Ors, . ; Wom The } Niam Ni | eens Will Tall, | Swackhbamer’s Who Woukin’t be ny Don’t Depend on erican Dekiaek and Chairman's Guide No. 11. Prelim ization soeagah orig e ero: 2 Consid sy ra a of 8 ree Moti hate ary ons, ‘Order of Con- i aber 1 ry gets Committees, The ear of . the Whole Misc ies Treatment of Petitio The Decorum of Deba Hints to a Chairman. Iv.—DxBaTEs, Debate in full: Which is the Greatest ‘Benefit to his Country —the Warrior, States- man, or Poet? eer Brief: e Reading of _ Works of Fiction to be ciety? V.—QUOTATIONS ana . - PHRASES, Latin. ru
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‘$4 A Marriage of Convenience; or, Was American Copyright Novels and the Cream of Foreign Novelists, Unabridged, FOR FIVE CENTS! The 1 Khe Masked B ide; or, Will She Marry Him? By Mrs, Mary Reed Crowell. 2 Was It Love? or, Collegians = Sweet- | > Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl; or, The Quicksands of Life.. By William Mason S Meart to earts; or, Fair Phyllis’ Love. ' By Arabella Southworth. 9 Alone in the World; or, The Young Man’s | Ward. By the’author of “ Clifton,” “Pride and Passion,’’ etc. 10 A Pair of Gray Eyes}; or, The Emerald 11 Entangled; or, A Dangerous Game. B Moheete ThaGkeray, ay J Necklace. By Rose Kennedy. 12 His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adoption. By Mrs. Ann §. Stephens. 13 Madcap, the Little Quakeress}3 or, The Naval t’s Wooing. By Corinne Cushman. 14 Why I Married Him; or, The Woman in Gray. By Sara Claxton. | 15 A_ Fair Face; or, Out in the World. By | Bartley T. Can wat, 16 Trust Her Not}; or, A True Knight. By Margaret Leicester. i% A Loyal Lover; or, The Last of the Grims- ths. By Arabella Southworth. 18 His Idol; or, The Ill-Starred Marriage. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 19 The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. 20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, The Lost Heir. By Agile Penne. 21 Now and Forever}; or, Why Did She Mar- | ry Him? By Henrietta Thackeray, | 22 Whe Bride of an Actor; or, Driven from | Home. By the author of ‘‘ Alonein the World,”’ | 23 Leap Mears or, Why She Pro | eap Wear; or, Why She posed. By Sara Claxton 4 c 24 Her Face Was Her Fortune. By Elea- nor Blaine. 25 Only a Schoolmistress 3 or, Her Untold Secret. By Arabella Southworth. 26 Without a Heart; or, Walking on the Brink, By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 27 Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange | Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray. 28 Sybil Chase} or, The Gambler's, Wife. By Ann 8. Stephens. 29 For Her Dear Sake; or, Saved From Him- self. By Sara Claxton. 30 The Bougtet Girl; or, A Million of Money. | By Agile Penne. 31. A Mad Marrisge; ory The Iron Will. By , pete A. Denison. y 32 Ma ae, the Prima Donna; or, Roses and Lilies. By Arabella Southworth. 33 won Three Sisters or, The Mystery of rd Chalfont. By Alive Fleming. = Hea Count? By Sara Claxton. 35 AH Against Her; or, The Winthrop Pride. By C Augusta; ~ Ug 36 Sir Archer’s Bride; or, The Queen of His | Heart. By Arabella Southworth, 7 The Country Cousin; or, All is not Gold * that Glitters. By Rose Kennedy. 38 Mis Own Again; or, Trust Her Not. By | ‘Arabella Southworth. . 39 Flirtation ; or, A Young Girl’s Good Name, ' By Jacob Abarbanell, (#alph Roval.) i 40 Pledged Be Marry; or, In Love’s Bonds. | Sara n. | 41 Blind Devotion; or, Love Against the | World. By Alice design 2 42 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Second Love. By Arabella Southworth. | 43 The Baronet’s Secret 3 or, The Rival Half- Sisters. By Sara Claxton. 44 The Only Daughter}; or, Brother against | Lover. By Alice Fleming. 45 Wer Hidden Foe} or, Love At All Odds. By Arabella Southworth, 46 Whe Little Heiress; or, Under a Cloud. | By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 47% Because She Loved Him; or, How Will | It End? By Alice Fleming. 48 In Spite of Herself; or, Jeannette’s Repa- | ration. By 8. R. Sherwood. 49 His Meart’s Mistress; or, Love at First Sight. By Arabella Southworth, 50 The Cuban Heiress; or, The Prisoner of: La Vintresse. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison, 51 Two Young Girls; or, The Bride of an | ‘Karl. By Alice Fleming. j 52 The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All ‘fora Haart By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. | 53 Agnes Hope, the Actress; or, The Ro- | mance of a Ruby Ring. By 7illidm Mason Turner, M. D | | 5% & Brave Girl; or, Sunshine at Last. | 58 The Ebon | 71 My Young Husband ' 75 The Black Lady of | 78 1 | 102 Peg Woffington,. | 108 The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos 114 °Pwas In 'Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal- ter Besant James Rice, 115 Zhe Maid of Killeena. By William | 56 Love-Mad ; or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and, . By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D i y Alice Fleming. Mask; or, The Mysterious Guardian. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 59 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. By Rachel Bernhardt. 60 CecilPs Deceit; or, The Diamond Legacy. | GL A | 62 The Maniac Bride; or, The Dead Secret | By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton. icked Hearty; or, The False and the True. By Sara Claxton, of Hollow Ash Hall. By Margaret Blount: 63 The Creole Sisters; or, The Mystery of the Perrys. By Mrs. Anna E. Porter. 64 What Jealousy Did; or, The Heir of Worsley Grange. By Alice Fleming. 65 The Wife’s Secret; or, ‘Twixt Cup and Lip.. By Col. Juan Lewis. 66 A Brother’s Sin; or, Flora’s Forgiveness. By Rachel Bernhardt. 67 Forbidden Bans; or, Alma’s Disguised Prince, By Arabella Southworth, _. 68 Weavers and Weft; or, ‘‘ Love That Hath Us In His Net.”’ By Miss M. E. Breddon. 69 Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette. By Alexandre Dumas. 70 The Two Orphans, By D’Enery. ife. By My Young Wife's 72 The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas. 73 Rose Michel; or, The Trials of a Factory Girl. By Maud Hilton. 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage} or, The Story of a Broidered Shield. By Ouida. By J. 8. Le una. 76 Charlotte Temple, By Mrs. Rowson. 77 Christian Oakley’s Mistake. By the author of * John Halifax, Gentleman,” etc. Young Musband; or, A Confusion in the Family. By Myself. TOA ueen Amongst Women, By the author of “The Cost of Her Love,” ‘‘ A Gilded Sin,” ‘Dora Thorne,” etc., etc. 80 Her Lord and Master. By Florence Marryat, ; 81 Lucy Temple, Sister of Charlotte. 82 A Long Time Ago. By Meta Orred. . 83 Playing for High Stakes, By Annie Thomas. 84 The Laurel Bush. By the author of “ John. Halifax, Gentleman.” 85 Led Astray. By Octaye Feuillet. ) 86 Janel’s Hepentance. By George Eliot. 87 The Romance ofa Poor Young Man. By Octave Feuillet. 88 A Terrible Deed; or, All for Gold. By Fanu. ‘ ma Garrison. Jones. 89 A Gilded Sin. By the author of ‘Dora Thorn,”’ ete. 90 The Author's Daughter. By Mary Howitt. : 91% The Jilt. By Charles Reade. 92 Kileen Alanna; or, the Dawning of the Day. By Dennis O'Sullivan, 93 Love's Victory. By B. L. Farjeon. 94 The Quiet Heart, By Mrs. Oliphant. 95 Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh. 96 Maunted Hearts; or, The Broken Be- trothal, By Rachel Bernhardt. ‘ 97 Hugh Melton. By Katharine King. 98 Alice Learmont,. By Miss Mulock. 99 oe Bruce’s Lovers. By Mary atric. , 100 Through Fire and Water. By Fred- o1 qrannahy. By Mss Mulloci annah, ss Mullock. I if eh-5 By pha gna 4103 A Desperate Deed. By Erskine ; 104 Shadows on the Snow. By B. iE Far- 105 rine Great Hoggarty Diamond. By W. M, Thackeray. 106 From Dreams to Waking. By E. Lynn Linton, 107 Poor Zeph! By F. W. Robinson. Barton. By George Eliot. 109 Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By B. L, Farjeon. 110 The Wandering Heir. By Charles sade. ’ 111 he: Brother's Bet; or, Within Six Weeks By Emilie Fiygar Carlen. ; 112 A Mero. By Miss Mulock. 113 Paul and Virginia. From the French of > Bernardin Ve St. Pierre. Black. : 116 Metty. By Henry Kingsley. 117 The Wayside Cross; or, The Raid of Gomez. By Captain E. A. Milman, a i ‘168 Two Fair Women, 118 The Vicar of Wakefield. By Oliver - Goldsmith, : 119 “Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas. 120 Me yi i of Warsaw. By Miss Jane orter, 121 The King of No-Land. By B.L. Far- jeon. 122 Lovel, the Widower. ‘By W. M. Thack- eray. | 123 Am Island Pearl. By B. L. Farjeon. | 124 Cousin Phillis, : 125 Leilas or, The Siege of Grenada. By Ed- ward Bulwer (Lord Lytton). 126 When the Ship Comes Home, Walter Besant and James Rice. 127 One of the Family. By James Payn. 128 Whe Birthright. By Mrs. Gore. 129 Mothertless 3 or, The Farmer's Sweetheart. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 130 Homeless; or, Two Orphan Girls in New York. By Albert W. Aiken. 131 Sister against Sister; or, The Rivalry of Hearts. By Mrs, Mary Reed Crowell. 132 Sold for Golds or, Almost Lost. By Mrs. M. V, Victor. 133 Lord Roth’s Sin; or, Betrothed at the Cradle. By Mrs. Georgiana Dickens. By | 134 Did He Love Her? By Bartley T. Camp- bell. 135 Sinned Against; or, Almost in His Power. By Lillian Lovejoy. s 136 Was She His Wife? ‘By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 137 The Village on the Cliff. By Miss Thackeray. 138 Poor Valeria! or, The Broken Troth. By Margaret Blount. 139 Margaret Graham. By G.P. R. James, 140 Without Mercy. By Bartley T.Campbell. 141 Monor Bounds; or, Sealed to Secrecy. By Lillian Lovejoy. 142 Fleeing from Love. Irving. Abducted; or, A Wicked Woman's Work. By Rett Winwood. A Strange Marriage; or, Jokn Foster's Heiress. By Lillian Lovejoy. 145 Two Girls Lives. By Mrs.Mary Reed Crowell. oe 146 A Besperate Venture; or, For Love's: Own Sake. By Arabella Southworth. 147 The War of Hearts. man, 148 Which Was.the Woman ? of, Strangely Misjudged. By Sara Claxton. 149 An Ambitious Girl A or, She Would Be An Actress. By Frances Helen Davenport. 150 Love Lord of All; or, In Her Own at Last. By Alice May Fleming. 151 A Wild Girl; or, Love’s Glamour. By . Corinne Cushman, Fine y 152 A Man’s Sacrifice; Himself. By Harriet Irving. a 153 Did She_ Sin? or, A Man’s Desperate Game. By Mrs, Mary Reed Crowell, 154 omeal ‘Loves Mle Not! or, A Cruel Fale- 10 . By Lillian Lovejoy. , U55 Winn mg Ways; or, Kitty Atherton's Dow ray By Margarst Blount. What She Cost Him; or, (rook ths. ye By Arabella Southworth. ; ¢ : ici ct 157 A Girl’s Heart. By Rett Winwood. 158 A Bitter Mistake i or, A Young Girl's Folly. By Agnes Mary Shelton, 159 Lad Secret. By the Late Mrs. BE. F. Ellet. 160 Buying a Heart; or, A Fair Martyr. By Lillian Lovejoy. By Mrs: Harriet 143 144 By Corinne Cush- or, At. War With 161 Pearl of Pearls} or, Cloudsand Sunbeams. - By A. P. Morris, Jr. 162 A Fateful Game}; or, Wedded and Parted. By Sara Claxton. 163 The Creole Cousins; or, False as Fair. By Philip 8. Warne. 164 A Scathing Ordeal; or, May Langley’s Mad Marriage. By Mrs. Georgiana Dickens. 165 A Strange Girl. A New England Love Story. By Albert W. Aiken. 166 A Man’s Sin. By Rett Winwood. 167 The Hand of Fates or, The Wreck of By Arabella Southworth. By Wm. M. Turner, A new issue every week. Two Lives. Tre WAVERLEY Liprary is for sale by all News- dealers, five cents per copy, or sent) by mail on re- yf eeipt of six cents each, t E BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers. YS William street, New Yor tc. Helen’s Vow FS or, The Mother’s ~