Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 170) (1883 02 13)
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heapest and Hes li AA No170, HED Sree ee bi We Blind Barbara's Secret; ? THE HISTORY OF A HEART. BY MARY GRACE HALPINE, AUTHOR OF ‘THE MISSING BRIDEGROOM,” “ THE KUSBAND OF TWO WIVES,” ‘‘ WHO WAS © GUILTY?” ‘‘HLSIH’S PRISONER,” ‘“ WHOSE WIFE. WAS SHE?’ ETC., ETC., ETC CHAPTER I. THE BLIND WOMAN. Inva Svurron made a sweet picture as she stood Peering through the open window, the roses ‘ at clambered over it outvied by the rich bloom Pon cheek and lip. he woman sitting inside, attracted by th WA a4 echt eet Tie. 227. i i Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. SERN RAED. SANTEE FLITE SUES AOE SEE LOT ETE TS BETTE IY VOL. VII, PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 W Oo Pw ddcaagerrhPEN Mtns rustling foliage, turned her sightless eyes up to the casement. Irva stood motionless; her eyes sparkling and her mouth dimpling at the thought of the hap- py surprise she was going to give. Just then the canary in the cage that swung from the rustic porch, suddenly spying her, trilled forth a note of welcome that made the air vocal with melody. Catching the inspiration, Inva threw back her head, sending back a glad refrain that the lit- tle fellow vainly swelled its little throat to ri- val. Uttering an exclamation of joy, the woman within arose and turned toward the door, just | as the young girl entered, who gave her an af- fectionate embrace. : ‘* Dear child! I was not looking to see you to- day.” irva turned a look of surprise upon the speak- er. “Why shouldn’t Icome to-day as well as any other?” it K ela bs ih Copyrighted in 1883 by BEADLE AND ADAMS, ILLIAM ST., N.Y, PRICE, As Se opener po ce eee eveene ee © © &B 4 & ee OCR PG | ~ . hal © Jy February 13, 1883. i 5 CENTS “One of the neighbors was telling me that Mrs. Sutton’s nephew had come, a fine, stylish- looking gentleman.” “ He might be twice as fine and stylish-look- ing, and he would not keep me from coming to see my dear old nurse.” j The woman smiled and then looked thought- ul. ‘* What is this man’s name?” “Sully.” ‘| didn’t know that she bad a nephew by. that name.” ‘Nor I, until the day before he came. ma never tells me ee, af Did she never tell you anything abeut your- se ff?” ‘* About myself? No. -What would she have to tell?” ** How old are you?” “Sixteen, and past,” responded Irva, with a pretty little assumption of yirlish dignity, quite thrown away, bowever. upon the old blind wo- man, who swaying herself baekward and for- Mam- z AU A oe
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Ce BLIND BARBARA’S SECRET. & + Irv looked far from satisfied. a eer 1 | ward seemed to be entirely absorbed in her own {I think it worth all. you ask for it,” was the thoughts and feelings, which were evidently not _ of a very pleasant nature. ‘‘ She has broken her promise!” she muttered; ‘‘ why should I keep mine?” Irva surveyed her with a look of surprise. Taking a low seat at her feet, she slipped her ‘hand into the wrinkled fingers that were clasp- “ed over the knee. ‘““What is the matter, Barby? You look and | “talk so strangely!” > Barby laid her hand upon the head of the “speaker, smoothing softly the rippling hair from _ the forehead. ““My pretty nursling! I never thought you “were so old. Itseems such a little time since I “held you in my arms! It isfourteen years since A looked upon your’face. I wonder if it is as “fair and sweet and winsome as it was then!” Irva pressed her lips to the hand that Barby passed slowly over her features, as if to gain some palpable answer to her questions. § Dear nurse! you: were always so good to me! ‘‘] meant to be; but I was deceived. I have been deceived twice. She said she would tell ou. z Irva began to think that the old woman’s wits were wandering. “Tell me what, Barby?” ‘*3t is a secret; but it shall be one no longer, if she refuses to keep her promise. Take this key, and go to the under drawer of my bureau. In the right hand corner you will find a small ebony box. Bring it to me.” Wondering not a little at. Barby’s strange words and manner Irva obeyed. Taking a smaller key from her bosom, Barb ‘ unlocked it, using her hands as swiftly and def ly as though in full possession of all her senses. At the bottom of the box wasa small gold locket. Taking it up, Barby handed it to Irva. **Open it.” S : Irva touched the spring, uttering a cry of ad- miration as she saw the lovely face that looked out upon her; in whose smiling eyes and lips there was something stignsely familiar. ‘‘Did you ever see th™ face before?” “No. And yet—’ : Irva paused, unable to put into words the feelings which filled her heart as she looked at it. “You see something like it when you look Poe) 6h Sutton is not ooked alm at thespeaker; but 1s nothing in that pale, composed face ‘m the sudden suspicions that crossed : ny things flashed upon her recollection— she had never been able to account for. the looked again upon that sweet face. The eyes seemed to wear another and a ten- derer expression, and she felt her own moisten “Wi ere is she?” “In heaven, I hope.” | Irva’s eyes filled with tears. . = Dead!—my beautiful mother! Who was e? ‘That I.cannot tell you—just now.” The earl eee baatiad an impatient flash, which gave them quite another expressioa. “‘ Why cannot you tell me? You must !” Then, as she looked upon the pale face, whose sightless eyes were lifted ger if implor- ing help from some invisible source, the eyes softened. With a sudden movement she laid her smooth cheek softly the wrinkled one of her companion. en ‘Dear nurse! you surely have not told me this, to leave me in the dark now?” Barby stretched out her arm with an energy and detercainatien. courte at variance with her usually quiet an cid manner. “NG, aol you shall be kept in the dark no longer! I have said it; and I will keep m word. But it will be better that she tell you, she will—better for us both. If she - not, then I must. Perhaps she has forgotten; I will ive her time to remember. Be patient, my | ness. You have been over the place; what do | ehild: it will be only afew days, at the jonigest | you think of my ‘pifer®” ; is ee nD Ee Pie TR ee Lae AL CRETE TSE LT Cer en ns ee mere ire | my arms! you now are; but she died broken-hearted—glad she is strongly attac “Did you know my mother?” “Did I know her?—my sweet little Alice! She lay, an infant, upon my bosom; she died in She was only two years older than to hide her sorrows in the grave!” The tonesin which these words were spoken were broken, almost inarticulate. ‘* My father—who was he?’ The bowed head was suddenly raised, while a hard, almost bitter look came into the face. ‘* You must ask Mrs, Sutton that. Say that I bid you ask it. Say to her, also, that I, Bar- bara Worth, charge her toredeem the promise she made me the day you were born. That though I am blind and helpless, God lives !” Awed by the solemnity of these words, Irva was silent, and in a few moments Barby resum- ed, in quite another tone: ‘Now bring hither the Good Book, darling, and read to me.” Irva obeyed, drawing a small round table to the window on which lay the sacred volume which was such an inexhaustible source of strength and comfort to Barby. And. in listening to the beautiful words of “the sweet singer of Israel,” the look of pain and sorrow vanished from the pale face, giving lace to-an expression of pane and. serenity that sunk deep into Irva’s heart as she closed the volume, Raising her sightless eyes upward, Barby Ba ey dly shall fall into th that they : ungodly all in e pt t dig for the innocent.” “ —_— CHAPTER II A STARTLING QUESTION. In an upper room of a house, about twenty miles from New York, a woman sat. How old, how fair to look upon, her face had once been, were not an easy thing to say now, But she was younger than she looked, and had once been noted for a wild, weird beauty, no trace of which could be seen now save in the eyes, which gleamed with a strange, unnatural ne y. Pride, envy, hate, all the fierce passions that make the human heart a hell, had scarred and lined the face, scattering untimely frost amon - disordered locks thaf fell around the shoul- ers. . She was not alone. Her companion was a man some years youn- r, whose face would have been handsome but or the impress of dissipation and excess stamp- ed so legibly upon every feature, The man was the first to speak, ‘‘T have seen a great many beautiful women, cousin; but never did I see one so fair and sweet as ie daughter of yours—if she is your daugh- ter The woman met unflinchingly the sharp eyes turned so suddenly upon her. ‘What makes you think Irya is not my child?” “‘T have various reasons. One of these is that a husband died all of twenty years AZO, and girl does not look more than sixteen.” _A faint smile touched the thin, compressed A Looks are very deceptive; people often seem to be pines and older than they are. But you said you had more reasons than one; pray go on.” ‘When I visited you, some eight or ten bree ago, I neither saw nor heard anything of this daughter.” : “That is easily accounted for. Irva was brought upout of my house, by anurse to whom ed, and who is a good deal fonder of her than I am.” “That might be,” said the other, significant- ly, “‘and the woman not over fond of her, either.” ‘Which is another argument for the estab- lishment of your theory, [ suppose. I am nota woman given to sentiment, and so make no pre- tense of being fond of the girl. In my opinion irls are expensive and troublesome things, and a is no exception to the generalrule. To tell the truth, I shall be glad when she is off my hands. It strikes me that you take a great deal of interest in her?” ; ‘Here the speaker looked keenly into the eyes of her companion. “T do; I think I never looked upon a face more rarely beautiful.” “Her beauty, or whether she is my child or no, is nothing to you, t+ us proceed to - wk, s worth nearly double, Steph well know.” é rs ee “Why do you sell it at such a sacrifice?” ** For two reasons. t, because I want to raise some money: second, because I have de- cided to leave this part of the country—though this is something that I don’t want mentioned to any one, just now. You can have the place, just as it stands, for what I told you, or else a liberal commission for selling it forme. For reasons of my. own, there must be no advertise- — ment of it in my name.” pie wat looked curiously at the speaker, | 4 “That is my business.” | Stephen was silent for some moments. When — he did speak, his low, soft voice contrasted — strongly with the curt, sharp tones of his com- panion. “Of course. Still, onecannot help wondering a little at your making so sudden and complete a change.” ‘*People can wonder as much as they like; my reasons are perfectly satisfactory to me, and mips on gue —. Now what do you say, will you take the place at the price, and on the conditions named? eis “Yes. Idon’t want it myself, but I think I can find a purchaser. Will pay you half down, and the remainder on its di . Will that be rg erro op ‘Entirely so.” ‘‘T presume Miss Irva, your daughter "—there was a slight a age on the word italicised, — — perceptible to Mrs. Sutton—“ goes with © ou “That is as it may be. My means are too straitened for me to be able to support her in idleness a greatwhilelonger. Ihave given hera good education, and intend that she shall earn her own hae But here sheis. Nota word of this before her, mind!” The opening door revealed the form of a young girl, not more than seventeen, whose — bloom and beauty fully justified Stephen’s en- thusiastic description. - As her eyes fell upon the man, who had risen from his seat at her appearance, Irva paused hesitatingly upon the threshold. i ane in, child. at are you waiting or As Irva obeyed these sharpl ken word Sully tooka = forward, with the evident im tention of greeting her, but, without seeming to notice this, she hurri _ him. But it did not escape . Sutton’s notice, “Don’t you see your cousin, Irva?” Irva laid her hand with evident reluctance in the one extended toward her. The man gazed ap ah | into the averted face, whose color deepened as rather than saw that earnest 4 ‘* Sweet cousin, you are looking so lovely this artly- e felt morning that I would very gladly take a cou sin’s privilege. “No?” he added, as, drawing back, Irva made a quick, dissenting motion. ‘‘ Then this.” he door cl after Sully,’ and Irva stood one aoe thoughtfully upon the hand on which his lips had rested, a disturbed look upow the sweet, ingenuous face. Mrs. Sutton yom her curiously, ““- You don’t like your cousin?” tc No.” 4 “ 9” r be Bis what puzzles me. I don’t know why Of course you don’t. How should you, — when there is no reason at all? I am glad to see that Stephen is taking a deep interest in you. The time is coming when you will need just such a friend as he is disposed to be to you; and © I want to see no more such silly, capricious con- — duct on your part. ‘Where have you been all the morning?” ** At nurse Barb ’s, reading to her.” * Out of the Bible, I suppose?” | Irva turned her eyes upon the face, to whose © ne ae sneering expression no words can do jus- — ce. Ht “Yes, There is no other book that nurse likes to hear so well. She says when I read to her out of that Book that she forgets that she is old and blind and helpless.” “Old Barby must getting in her dotage, — and you more of a simpleton than I thought you | were to spend your time thus,” 22 Irva was silent. . A sudden suspicion darted into Mrs, . Sutton’s mind. 4 “Tt strikes me that you and Barby are to- P hws: ey gether a good deal lately?”
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I like to hear her falk. She talks beauti- _ fully, And then—I think she loves me.” “Don’t I love you?” __ | Irva fixed her eyes, with a soft, penetrating ~~ look, upon the speaker’s face. : Oo ae | a a h _ Mean? Answer me,” she added, pushing rva _ 8gainst the wall, and holding her there. ; As the frightened girl looked into those glar- | ing eves, she uttered a shriek of terror. ’ ully was going past the open window. Leap- _ ing through into the room, he took the excited _ Woman by the arm. “Good heavens! Lucia, what does this mean? ave you gone mad?” Apparently overcome by the violence of her feelings, Mrs, Sutton sunk into the nearest seat, “Tt means that I have been betrayed,” was r sullen response, ‘Leave me, bot of you, I want to be alone.” os No. “A mother ought, surely, to love her child.” “ Are you my mother ?” If this was a strange question, its effect: was still more startling. Springing to her feet Mrs. Sutton seized the terrified girl by both shoulders, “Girl,” she cried, hoarsely, “what do you CHAPTER YL BLIND BARBARA’S VISITOR. b , __. During the remainder of the day, Mrs. Sut- _ ton remained in her own room, alternately _ Walking restlessly up and down it, or sitting _ ™Motionless in the wide easy-chair beside the ___ bed, her face buried in her hands. ; ws question had evidently roused a tem- ~ Pest in her soul that was not easily subdued. About dusk she rung for a strong cup of cof- _ fee; a favorite beverage with her, especially in _ Smergencies like this, . “Send Miss Irva here,” she said to the ser- vant who removed the tray. lingered by the door, glancing furtively at Mrs, Sutton, as if in doubt as to whether it Would be prudent to approach very near; but the ‘calm, almost gentle expression upon her countenance reassured her. “Come hither, Irva. Nay, you have no rea- Son to fear me, child.” _ _ Irva took the seat to which she was pointed, Which was where the light from the silver lamp, _ Which swung from the ceiling, fell full upon the _ Sweet, ingenuous face. irs. Sutton a ores it keenly for some sonmenté, as though she would read her inmost _ “ Barby has told you—what?” ; on early and fearlessly the young voice rung “She told me that you were not my mother.” : ati pean proke puto she eyes that were : so intently upon the speaker. Eu What eset . “She bid me ask you who my father was?” _. There was a pause, during which Mrs. Sut- ton struggled visibly with all the memories that question evoked. But there was no trace of it in the smooth, even voice. * What else?” “She charged you to remember your promise ‘0 her the day I was born.” ___ Did she tell you what this was?” _, “No; she said that it would be better for you to tell me, if you would. That if you did not } keep your promise, she would not keep hers.” _ Leaning back in her chair, Mrs. Sutton drew ®long breath, Matters were not as bad as she event. Nothing of importance had been revealed as et. she acted promptly and decisively, ae > Spaepeae danger to her plans might be r _, “Poor Barby is right; I should bave told you ; before,” she said, with a half-sigh. “But it _ Was not a pleasant thing to talk about, so Ihave Rept deferring it. Tell her thatI shall keep my Promise. You shall know the secret of your _ Sirth; whether it will make you any happier is _ Shother thing. Gonow. I am uhable to bear the further excitement; but in a day or two, at © longest, you shall know all.” _, Here was a disappointed look in Irva’s eyes _ &S'she moved towed: the door; but it changed to pity as they rested upon the face of the L r, which was looking more worn and haggard than she had ever seen it before. he ddenly a thought struckher. Pausing, with “hand on the door, she turned round, . z\ hs i “One thi ; a Wane Thad forgotten.” Pe ver re “fF aye BLIND BARBARA'S SECRE ae en Shs a ee a ee + a hee Balt : stad Seep, though she was blind and helpless, that God was just! i Mrs. Sutton raised her hand with an impatient gesture. “That will do. Go!” “‘God!” she repeated in a scoffing tone, as she was left alone. ‘If I believed that there was any such being I should not dare to take the course that I must take if— “But I will not act hastily. I will see the old ci and if she will listen toreason—if she won’t, why— Uttering these disjointed sentences Mrs. Sut- ton moved restlessly up and down the room, oc- casionaily pausing by the window and looking out into the night, whose shades were deepening fast, After waiting until it was quite dark she put on a large mantle and close bonnet and stole out of the house by the back way. a ‘You talk wildly, Barby. What ill could I mean her?” ** How can I tell? Who can follow the wind- ings of the scheming brain that was never yet idle? But this I know, in one thing, at least, you have deceived me.” ‘*‘Deceived you, Barby?” “Lied to me, then!—if the terms suit you bet- ter. Irva’s father is not dead !” Those cs ae eyes could not see the blanched face, to which the moonbeams that fell over it gave an additional pallor; but the quick ear— quickened by her infirmity—caught the tremu- lous breath which came through the parted lips, whose convulsive workings she could not seé,. and well knew the fierce tempest of dismay and guilty fears that her words had called forth. *“Who—how do you know this?” _* “No matter how; I do know it. And how do | I know but what you have deceived me in other Going down to the road she crossed it, strik- ing into a narrow path which ran across an open | field, and from thence into some woods, on the f tage. s she approached it the moon emerged from | behind the clouds, not only bringing it distinct- | ly into view, but revealing clearly the leaves and tendrils that clambered over it, glistening | with dew and quivering in the breeze. There was no light within—night and day were alike to poor Barby—but by the open win- dow Mrs. Sutton could see the outlines of a figure swaying slowly backward and forward. As cautious as was her approach the blind wo- man, whose hearing was rendered acute by her misfortune, detected it. urther edge of which stood Barby’s cot- | Rising from her seat, she stood in an attituds | of listening by the door, “Barby, it is I, Lucia Sutton. door.” There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the bolt was slipped back. ttle ceremony in the chair that Barby had just vacated. = you quite alone, Barby?” **T am never alone.” , Mrs. Sutton cast a startled glance around. ‘Who is with teil The words of the Holy Book, which was Bar- by’s study by night and day, were ever upon ner ae ‘*He who has promised to be with me ever. even to the end, the Defender of the widow and the fatherless.” Mrs. Sutton had a P se to gain, so she checked the scoffing reply that arose to her lips. Barby was the first to break the silence. “Tt is a long time since I have had the honor of Saag SR under my r roof.” Mrs. Sutton’s voice was so soft and gentle that it hardly seemed like hers. “T have not meant to neglect you, Barby. I have been very busy, and then— “You knew me to be blind and helpless—and therefore safe. But I have not lost my memory as you will find. Irva gave you my message, suppose. Itis this that has brought you hither in the night—which is no night to me. Nor ye to Him, whose eye is on you, and from whom, strive as you may, you cannot escape!” ‘There is no need for you to assume this tone to me, Barby; as though I had ever wronged you, or was intending to do so. Yes, I got your message; and was very glad that you the prudence and good sense to leave the matter to 8 _ “Thave left the matter to you, only in this way, that if you will not tell Irva, what she should have known long ere this, I must! I will keep the promise I made you when I committed Irva to your guardianship, but you must keep ours. “And soI will. That is, if you insist upon But—I pg ta that you loved Irva?”’ “Love her? Strange as it may seem, her mother was not so near to my heart as she!” “If you love her, as you say, how -is it that you wish her to know what will only bring her shame and sorrow—a shame and sorrow which, as my child, she would never know.” ‘Your child? Lucia Sutton! ae have never given her a child’s ran in your heart or home, nor have I been able to discover any indications that you had the slightest affection for her! You have secluded her from all society, keeping her in this out-of-the-way place, with no companion- ship but yourself and the creatures that sur- ae you, Itis my belief that you mean her Mrs. Sutton was evidently not f words like these. v ae or * | ai} it. | child—neglected and forgotten, thinki Open the | é sa +e et 7 SH a tg ee Pee ae Saye matters? How do I know that anything you — told me was true? Alice, poor baby !—for'she ~ was little else—was like wax in your hands, and 1 did not know you as I do now. I sometimes think that the whole thing was planned, a false- hood, from beginnin « to end!” No words can do justice to the expression in - the eyes that were turned upon the face of the oa speaker. “Are you mad, Barby, to bring against me — such a charge as this?” ‘“‘No; but I think I have been, to take so” much upon trust, asI did. To believe so much, * with no evidence but your word, and the testi- | mony of a woman who might be‘anything but | what she professed to be. Outward blindness | has brought me internal light; and as I have sat’ here alone—with the exception of this dear — of the » past, many things seem clear to me. ere is a great wrong and mystery somewhere. Some ~ evil is threatening my pretty nursling; though © | what it is, or from what quarter, I cannot saly.” ° ri BA ae the door, Mrs. Sutton seated her- | self with Mrs. Sutton had now recovered her usual coolness and self-possession, which were not | easily disturbed. dah There was no trace of the anger that still | brooded in the eyes, in the smooth, even tones, as she said: ‘*You are letting Pn imagination run away ~ with you, Barby. If it were not for your mis- fortunes, which naturally make you morbid and — mistrustful, I should be seriously angry. Irva’s — father ts dead to her; and if I allowed you to — him to be so, in reality, it was because 1 believed it better for you and all concerned. — Why should you seek to cloud her yo heart _ with the knowledge, that she not ly no) right to the name she has, but no right to any?” | ‘Tm not so sure of that. There isa mystery here that only the truth will clear up. Now that she is a woman, Irva must know the secret: of her birth; not only the name of her father, but who her mother was.” c FSCS S © OPE “Do you think it will avail her anything? © Think you that the haughty blood of the Cam- erons will let him stoop to acknowledge her?” — “Tt matters not. He may disown her, if he. will. But he shall know that she, who should have been his wife—if she was not—who believ. | ed herself to be such until within a week of her death, was the mother of his child, and that that ° child is living. It only remains to decide whe- ther you will do this, or I.” “Of course, Barby, if you insist on Irva know ing this, it shall be done. I acknowledge your rights in the case, though you seem to think T have forgotten them. I thought, and still think: it much more kind and wise that she should be | kept in ignorance of the secret of her birth, but — you eal psec hiae and art is enough. All at I ask is that you will keep your promise, © and let me tell Her this.” PJenr? prea. ““As I sai fore I will. keep m ‘omise if | you will keep yours.” a te a “Twill ngs it. Of course you have commu-- see with Irva’s father; have you had any ~ reply? A faint smile came to Mrs. Sutton’s lip as she saw the disconcerted look in the face of her com- panion, who remained silent, ‘Of course, with the feelings you entertain, - I could have no possible objection to your doing 80, Barby.” aah “T did write, or cause to have written, a let- ? ter to him about a month ago. I felt that tha interests of Irva demanded it. I Have had no - ey yet.” : ‘Where did you direct it?” “To his home in Maryland.” It was well for Mrs. Sutton that tt not see the exultant flash that broke from her eyes. ines Rising, she drew her mantle around her. . ek ~s ne ty + y Barby did
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ise eee ees Soe pt aigeh ee ee Pee eet fs? iS =a IP 2 Thoms S % 4 P wom oe geuet ot ry se ie ae ac Ore) IN »t ‘Fx be : ry pA 2k BI bb INGE se tach ete + EASES ; ‘ ; bse AAT pee SS OTT EE ERO SE A oe ee ee ee iE 2c a 2 = CHAPTER IV. MRS. SUTTON’S MIDNIGHT STUDIES. Mrs. Surron was an eager searcher into the mysteries of nature. She had studied the science of medicine in her younger days, thoughsimply from curiosity, with no design of putting it to any practical A small Jaboratory opened out of her room, fitted up with every convenience, where she fe _ often spent hours, experimenting. yn _ On one side were various herbs, drugs and chemicals, the other was lined with medical works, some of a very abstruse nature, and ose which bore the SEpear ants of being the product «+ of another age and country. ; apneng these were some left her by an old De Italian physician, to whom she had done some favor. They were written in his own language, Soe and very ancient. cS She took one of these down, poring over it for _ nearly an hour. is Then lighting a spirit lamp under a retort, she Ash? began to take from the contents of various drawers, jars and vials, scrupulously weighing each ina pair of tiny scales, and every now and But Lo consulting the book which lay open before 3° Tr. _. For some time her efforts were unsuccessful; several times she poured out the contents of the -_ erucible and commenced anew. But her efforts didnot relax, or her patience fail; with gleam- sing eyes and compressed Hebe toiled on, with 5) ih varying success, adding this and abstracting a that, and pausing only to wipe the perspiration from her forehead, ; vo, ee gray dawn was stealing through the shut- ters, when Mrs. Sutton again removed the cru- . -—-_— gible and held it to the light, a gleam of triumph : in her eyes as she looked at its contents. ae --_It contained nothing but a very fine powder sof silvery whiteness, which diffused a faint, sick- ening odor as she bent over it. -—-s« Jé seemed to have some effect upon her, for going to’ the window she opened it, standing by it for some minutes. ; _-—-s- When Mrs, Sutton left the window she satu- _ rated a silk handkerchief in strong alcohol, binding it tightly over her mouth and nostrils. ‘nadnen removed the powder from the cru- -_ ¢ible into a small metallic flask, whose stopple screwed on so as to make it air-tight. ‘This she deposited in a drawer in her desk, whose key she kept constantly about her, sus- ‘pended on‘a small chain around her neck. ~ She then returned to the book she had studied her forefin En 8 So ga i ‘ : tpcaecie, When Mrs. Sutton awoke, the sun was high in ae heavens. om \s she remembered what must be done and _ speedily, or lose what had become the ruling - mainspring of her life, she sprung to her feet, ae unging er head repeatedly into a basin of : wate r. aes The effect of this could be readily seen, es- __- pecially in the heavy, bloodshot eyes, which be- gan to regain their usually keen, alert expres- ae" *y ion — * sl . . ss. She then rung the bell, ordering breakfast— hot rolls and strong coffee—to be served in her wn room, : As she was discussing these, her mind was ts de “busy concocting various plans, which, one after another, were rejected, as being impracticable or too dangerous. ‘ ; _ ‘Turning, in her perplexity, to the window, she saw Irva standing upon the piazza, outside, a broa Poneman neon her head and asmall bas- _ A sudden thought flashed upon ber, ’ ‘ day Se 2 RAS D SEC re | Py Ct Lr ae Seat Ls Sf s BARBA | “Trya!” os roe eo ES Sete Irva turned at. the sound of that -inrperious i Voice. ‘““T want you to go to town, and see if you eannot match this. Stephen will drive you down!” Irva glanced from the bit of shining silk held up to her to the basket on her arm. birthday, and I was going to take tea wit Barby. She always. expects it, you know.” Mrs. Sutton neither knew nor cared, but she had _an object in getting rid of Irva just then. ‘*No; Elsie cannot go on with pid dress with- out it,and I can trust no. one else to get the exact shade, which is not easy to find. You can have you in your basket?” bottle of currant wine.” the bland smile that so seldom visited her face; “T am glad to find you so thoughtful of the comfort of your good, kind nurse. I will take charge of it; sending word to Barby that you will take tea with her to-morrow, which will suit her just as well.” There was nothing more to be said, as Irva very well knew. As gracious as was Mrs. Sut- ton’s manner, her temper was too high and uncertain for her to venture upon any. remon- ‘trance as that lady coolly relieved her of her basket, putting it on her own dressing-table. Stephen was no ways loth to any proposition that gave him the society of the young girl, whose beauty had inflamed his jaded fancy— heart he had none—and who was so shy of him that he found it difficult to approach her. So in a very short space of time, Irva found herself riding along the smooth highway in the low, easy phaeton, sitting beside the man for whom she had conceived aninstinctive repugnance the first time she saw him. She had resented the familiarity of his manner and the privileges he seemed disposed to take on the ground of their assumed cousinship; but Stephen had taken an- other tack now. The quiet deference of his manner put her more at ease; and as she stole a look at him from beneath the long lashes her heart softened, and she be: to study the face which, hates Bek turned from her, she could do without being, as she supposed, observed. Stephen let her watch him in silence for some moments, and then said: “‘T hope Miss Irva’s ride with me this morn- ing is not what makes her look so sober?” ‘T did not want to come.” Stephen bit his lip; he was not accustomed to have those of her sex that he tried to please so indifferent, if not averse to his society. ‘‘ That is not much of a compliment to me.” ‘“‘T did not intend it.gs such.” Then noticing the oyed look on her com- panion's face, she added: “Nor did I mean pay, dlareemeay It is sim- ply—the truth. Poor by will be so disap- inted !” “Who?” “My nurse, Barby. Sheis blind. This is my birthday. LI always take tea with her on this and she will be expecting me.” You are very fond of your nurse?” “ And soI ought to be; she is the very best friend I have.” ‘(With the exception of Mrs. Sutton, of course?” ‘*T except no one.” ‘Ts not ske your friend?” ‘*T have not said she was not.” Stephen was silent. There was a mingling of frankness and reserve, simplicity and good sense, in Irva that puzzled him, deepening the interest that her beauty had awakened in him. But to return to Mrs, Sutton. Standing upon the lawn until she saw the car- riage disappear in the distance, she returned to her own room. Raising the cover of the basket on her dress- | ing-table, she examined its conteuts. __ | Pon a snowy napkin lay the dainty birthday- cake, frosted and ornamented by Irva’s own hands, together with a bottle of wine, some oranges, nuts and confectionery. A gleam of triumph shot from her eyes. “ Could anything happen more fortunately?” ‘she muttered. ‘‘If there’ was a God, would be let the girl play into my hands thus, giving me the very opportunity 1 was seeking? There is no such Being; this life is all, and I will make the most of it!” take tea with Barby some other day. What | ‘* A cake that the cook baked for me and a | “That is well,” responded Mrs. Sutton, with | an ee) eee oe Fo asa ety -¥ SRE. pate, , ws : } 7 - a “Won't to-morrow do as well? This is my j = aan a Sees ——— = * a = ape ee WE will return to Mrs, Sutton’s room an hour later. On a table is the covered basket, and beside it Mrs. Sutton. ; On the other side near the door is a tall, spare woman, with high cheek-bones, thin, compressed lips, and a hard, cold expression in the aaa eyes. : ‘ Mrs. Sutton was engaged in counting sor > bank-bills which she had taken from her pockei - book, apparently paying no heed. to the eager, expectant eyes that were watching her. “As I was saying, Elsie,” pursued Mrs. Sut- ton, carefully smoothing the last bill upon tue pile at her right hand, ‘“‘you have served me ong and faithfully, and it has been on my mind for some time to preciation of it. And there seems to be no more fitting time than the present. ‘** Not just yet,” she added, as the woman took: a step forward; ‘I want you to do a little some- thing for me first, then you shall have it.” The woman’s face changed perceptibly, and she ae 4 sharp, inquiring Took at the er. e “You know Barbara Worth?” “The blind woman at the edge of the forest?” ‘*Yes. I have carried things to her from Miss Irva.” “‘That is well. {want you to carry her some- thing from Miss Irva now. This.” Elsie looked at the uncovered basket. “Ts that all?” ““No. I want you to say to her that Miss Irva sends it, with her love. at she had to go to town to-day, and will take tea with her to- morrow.” “ Well ed _“T want you to say that Miss Irva sent a spe- cial an that she would drink her health out. of this bottle of wine, and not to leave until you have made sure of her doing so.” ‘ For a moment the two eyed each other in si- ence. Then Elsie spoke, glancing at the bottle, whose clear, ruby contents flashed brightly in the sun- ight. ‘* What is it?” ‘‘Don’t you see what it is?—wine.” ‘What will it do?” Mrs. Sutton was silent; evidently debating in her own mind how far she could safely také the questioner into her confidence. The woman’s lips closed grimly. ‘ “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to. But you won’t get me to slip my neck into a noose blind- folded, you may be certain of that /” “ Hush! Elsie; don’t speak so loud!” Opening the door, Mrs. Sutton looked cau- tiously into the entry, and then softly closing it, resumed her seat. “T will be frank with you, Elsie; you have been so fyithful and discreet in other matters that I beliéve I can trust you. Barbara Worth —Barby, as we call her— s something that: I want her to forget. This”—here she touched the bottle with her finger—“ will make her for- et it. Elsie looked darkly at the speaker, ‘‘ The forgetfulness of the grave, I sw 7” Pa pharte Ens the sort. Do you think I would risk so much myself, or let you risk it? It will affect the mind only, and that only in a oertain direction. There is no danger whatever. Do what I have told you, with the skill and adroit- ness that you can exercise, if you will, and you shall have this.” : ; Elsie looked at the pile of bills on which the speaker’s hand rested, “How much?” Mrs. Sutton held up a ten-dollar bill. “Ten of these.” Elsie’s eyes sparkled. Avarice was the ruling — passion of her nature. Tl do it.” Barby sat by the open window, watching for the approach of that welcome and familiar step; occasionally parting the leaves of the vine ae clambered over it, that she might catch the lightest footfall along the narrow woodpath by which she knew that Irva would come. The room, always scrupulously neat and clean, resented quite a gala appearance from the owers that adorned it, mostly roses of various with fragrance. They not only but looped up the muslin curtains, round table covered with snowy linen, on w ‘: were the remains of the old-fashioned give you some token of my ap- — that was Barby’s especial delight and venera- — ‘tion. She bandled each piece as though it were — eS Se hues and shades, and which made the air heavy — filled the vases on the mantle, q ins, adorning the
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gold, rubbing’ it. with a napkin until it shone again. Like most of the blind, her sense of feeling guided her so perfectly that her misfortune would not have been apparent to.a stranger as she moved about, altering this and-adjusting that with a deftness and nicety of touch truly marvelous, “That will do, I think. Won’t it, Tip?’ 4 Tip was a large, sleek-looking cat that was lying on the threshold of the open door basking in the sun, to whom Barby talked a good deal, for the lack of any one else to talk to. : Tip opened his sleepy yellow eyes, waving his tail gently to and fro, from the tip of which he derived, his name, its whiteness being in strong contrast to the rest of his fur, which was of jet- ty blackness. _ “It ought to look well on thisday of all days,” Sighed Barby, as she resumed her seat by the window. ‘I wish I could see how it looks, I wish I could see the face of my pretty nursling. But it is as surely hidden from my eyes as is hers who was placed beneath the turf seventeen years ago to-day. Ah, me!” Just then there came the sound of a step—but not the light, elastic footfall for which she was watching, and the glow of expectancy faded from the face that was turned eagerly in the direction whence the sound proceeded. ‘“ Ah, Tip, old fellow,” said Elsie, as the cat Zly arose at her approach. ““You see I never come empty-handed,” she added, placing her basket in one chair andi seat- ing herself in another. ‘‘ Here’s a beautifully- frosted cake, a bottle of wine, oranges, nut; and I don’t know what all that Miss Irva sent you. Dear knows, it’s heavy enough!” j “Isn't she coming?” said Barby, paying 110 heed to this tempting enumeration. “No, not to-day; she has gone to town for Mrs. Sutton. She will be here to-morrow, if nothing happens. But she hasn’t forgotten yor, you see,” Poor Barby could not see, but her hands lir- ered jovisaly. among the evidences of her da) - ng’s thoughtfulness for her comfort. I will me them until she does come,” she Sate Lead ame the contents of the basket into th» is she took out the bottle of wine Elsie ey- claimed: ‘‘Dear me! I had almost forgot what Miss trva charged me so many times to remember. She wants you to be sure and drink her health, with many happy returns of the day.” The sightless eyes moistened. - *‘ Dear child! so I will, with all my heart.” “She.told me not to go until I had seen you drink it; so, if you take it now, I'll be jogging, for I have a deal to do before sunset.” Barby took two glasses from a corner of the cupboard, ’ “You must take some, too; it will do you good after your long walk.” : Elsie made no objections; baking the bottle from Barby’s hand she poured a little into her ‘own glass, but filling her companion’s to the rim, Barby raised it to her lips. _ ; “God bless my pretty nursling!” she said; *‘and grant, a year from to-day, that. Blind arbara’s Secret may be one no longer!” : Elsie raised her glass, also, but not to her lips, keeping her eyes fixed upon her companion’s face as she drained the last drop out of hers. A. slight shiver passed through Barbara’s veins as she replaced the zlass on-the table. Then the eheeks flushed to crimson, and raising ee hand to her forehead she sunk back in ber chair, '“fow—how strong that wine must be. It makes me feel so—so very strangely !” A moment later she uttered a faint cry, and would have rushed from the house but for El- Sie’s detaining arm, who replacing her in her chair held her there. : She struggled for a few minutes, and then the paroxysm seemed to pass, and she lay quict, muttering incoherently, her eyes half-closed, and apparently taking no cognizance of any- thivg around her. ‘ For nearly half an hour Elsie stood by Barb Ae Watching her, in whom there was no percepfi- ble change, then she went to the door. , As she s there, inwardly debating as to whether it would be safe to leave her alone, she Saw a girl about ten, with bare, brown legs ard feet, a gingham sunbonnet on ker head, and a *in pail in her hand, on the other side of the Way, af Cinthy, Cinthy Belden!” over to where Elsie stood. : “Cynthia _,_ “ Where are you going?” BLIND BARBARA \ * To Mrs. Sutton’s, to see if she don’t want to buy my berries. See how nice they be. Do you think she’ll want ’em?” “Yes; Pil take them to her, myself. TI want ou to stay with Barby, who is very sick. Mrs. utton will either come herself or send some one, and then you'll get. pay for the berries, and something besides.” The girl was nothing loth. And, emptying i berries into her basket, Elsie took her way ack, CHAPTER VL ASTONISHMENT AND SORROW. InvA had a world of trouble in matching the sample of silk given her by Mrs. Sutton, and it was nearly sundown when she returned. Knowing her impatient temper, she immedi- ately sought her room. She found Elsie there, sewing in one of the deep bay-windows. ‘* Where is your mistress, Elsie?” “She’s down to blind Barby’s, who is very sick, She has been there all the afternoon.” The weary, dispirited look vanished from Irva’s face. se eae pare sick? What isthe matter with er “I don’t know, miss. You see, soon after you was gone, Mrs. Sutton sent me with the basket of things, and to tell her that you’d be there to- morrow; so the poor thing wouldn’t be worry- in’.. I knew somethin’ was the matter with her the. moment I looked at her: She sat in her | chair, muttering and talkin’ to herself, and the strangest that ever was; an’ nota word could I get out of her that had the least bit of sense or reason in’t.” ‘*How strange! I saw her yesterday, and never saw her looking: better.” ca dropped her eyes demurely upon her wor ‘‘ That’s often the way, miss, with them that’s sick, just before they’re took down; they’re more bright an’ chipper than ever they were in their lives.”, Without heeding, if she heard this, Irva retied the hat that she had not removed, and turned to the door. ; ‘“‘T must go and see her. I wish I had gone this morning, as I promised.” “There is Mrs, Sutton, now.” Following the direction of Eisie’s eyes, Irva saw Mrs. Sutton coming up the steps. Stepping through the low, open window, she met her as she reached the porch, ‘* How is Barby?” * Better, I left her eee ‘“T think you had better stay with her to- night,” continued Mrs. Sutton, turning to Elsie. “Cynthia Belden is with her now, a very well- gia girl, but too youns and inexperienced to safe should Barby have another attack similar to those she has already had.” “T will go, tov.” _ Mrs. Sutton turned toward Irva with an air of surprise. ** You! What good can you do her?” Trva’s cheeks flushed and her eyes kindled. “I can do her more good than either of ‘you. Tcan watch, nurse, tend her, She would rather | have me with her than any one else,” Mrs. Sutton regarded the speaker with an air of cold surprise. “No donbt you would do very wonderful things! But I-happen to have some responsi- bility in the matter, and cannot allow you to take it entirely cut of my hands. You cannot say that I have ever interfered with your ex- cessive fondness for your nurse, or hers for you, but now the case is different. 6 woman is in a very critical state of mind, and everything depends on her being kept perfectly quiet. Your resence would only serve to excite her, even if she recognized you, which is doubtful,” It was in vain that Irva pleaded; allshe could obtain was the privilege of accompanying Hlsie and just looking at ler as she lay in what looked more like a stupor than sleep. irva could not keep the tears from her eyes as she saw the change that a few short hours had wrought; the eyes were sunken, with dark lines around them, while around the mouth andupon | the forehead was a troubled look, such as she | had never seen there before. Elsie had strict injunctions. not to let Irva | stay more than five minutes, and she did not forget them. Pressing her lips softly to the limp, uncon- | scious hand that lay on the counterpane, Irva | followed her beckoning finger to the door, What do you think is the matter with r Barby. Elsie? he ‘S SECRET. : Irva stood, for a moment, transfixed with hor- ror, and there was an appealing look in her eyes that would have touched with pity a heart less cold and hard. ** But of course she will get better? it is not anything that will last?” “She might, an’ then again she mightn’t,” was the not very consoling reply but with which Irva was obliged to content herself. She sadly retraced her way back, her hears filled with as much compunction as sorrow, and which was not lessened at the sight of Mrs. Sut- ton, who was sitting out on the porch in the | moonlight, enjoying the cool evening breeze. Stephen was leaning against one of the pillars, smoking, removing his cigar at her approach. Mrs. Sutton glanced keenly at the face, on which traces of tears were plainly visible. ** You found poor Barby looking very ill?” “I never supposed any one could change so in such a short time. Why has she no doctor?” ‘Simply because there isnonein this vicinity that can understand the peculiarities of her case. Her disease is mental, not physical. If she gets no better, [ shall send sician, or else take her there.” “IT shall never forgive faba that I did not see her, as I promised. If I had, this might never have happened.” “You talk very foolishly, Irva, and display more vanity than I thought you ¢apable of. What difference do. you suppose your being with*her would have made? is is not some- thing of new origin; it has been coming on for some time. I have seen for some months that Barby’s mind was failing, and of late it has been painfully apparent. I was fearful of this, though I hoped to stave it off by avoiding ev- erything calculated to irritate and disturb. She has had very strange ideas of late, but I have made it a point not to contradict her, no matter how absurd or preposterous her statements.” There was more in these words than appeared upon the surface, as lrva well knew, and she turned a startled, inquiring look upon the speak- er’s face. But suddenly bethinking herself of Stephen’s presence, whose keen eyes ‘were attentively watching her, she merely said: ‘*T have failed to discover anything absurd or prams Bee in her statements, though I have n with her more than any one.” Wearied both in body and mind, Irva sought her own room, but not to sleep; anxious and troubled thoughts for some‘hours drove sleep . from her pillow. Barby was not only the tender nurse of her infancy, but the only true friend she had ever had, and with the Srief she felt at the terrible misfortune that had overtaken her was mingled an inexpressible feeling of desolation. Even when she believed that there was the near tie between them of mother and daughter, she was conscious that Mrs. Sutton not ohly had no affection for her, but that there was at times a feeling of repressed, but positive aversion. The rest of the household were mere depend- ents, selected by Mrs. Sutton with a sole view to their usefulness to her. For reasons of her own, she was desirous that Irva should not exercise | over these any influence or authority, which they were not slow to perceive. So, though they treated her with outward respect, they were careful not to evince any particular interést in one in whom their mistress evidently took. so little. haves (ets 4 CHAPTER VII. } THE FRUITI@SS APPRAL, Irnva had made up ‘er mind to go down to Barby’s cottage immediately after breakfast, without saying a ~vord to any one, but she was forestalled by Mrs. Sutton, who, as she arose from the table, said: ‘Lam going to see Barby, Irva. Youean g with me, if you like,” Irva would have much preferred 'to go alone, but there was no help for it. So getting her hat, she joined Mrs. Sutton on the lawn, and | the two set out, followed by Cynthia with a bas- | ket, who. bein, willing and good-natured, Mis. Sutton had taken temporarily into her service. ‘‘If Barby don’t get better I shall have her taken to the house,” said Mrs. Sutton, as the cottage came into view; “‘it is too much work to take proper eare of her here.” ‘‘ She is, she must be better!” said Irva, as she hurried in through the gate past Mrs, Sutton, who said: ; , trey . 5 Stop out here, Irva, until I see how Barby ia. 8s Irva’s heart swelled with a sense of wrong to New York for a phy- ©
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Saf Oe nfl and impatience as Mrs. Sutton went into the oe through the ircn rule to which she had been _ subjected all her life. ; Looking through the window she saw the dim outline of a form reclining in an easy-chair, and - which sie knew to be Barby’s, and a great load it seemed lifted from her heart. “She must be better, or she wouldn’t be sit- ting up!” was her glad reflection as Elsie came to the door, and silently mot:oned her to come ve * 1a in. ie For a moment Irva stood silently by the chair, seo then she said: ee ‘“‘ Barby.” _ “She was evidently awake, but not a quiver of the eyelid, not a muscle of the face showed that SAT she heard this. , a A. cold hand seemed laid upon the warm heart that beat so hopefully a few moments before. Touching her lips to one of the cold, listless hands, Irva said: - Dear nurse, itis IyIrva. Don’t you know me, Barby?” by _ Something in these words, the tender, plead- thet ing tone, awoke a faint echo in the dim chambers of the memory; the dull, apathetic expression chan to one of anxiety and pain. ’ Raising slowly both hands to her forehead she stretched them out, clutching the empty air like one trying to get hold of something that eluded m. ‘I—I used to know; but it has gone. Every- thing has gone! God help me!” The last sentence ended in a cry, 80 witd and sharp that it struck terror to Irva’s soul. Mrs. Sutton came quickly forward. ° Take her out “You must not excite her so! of the room, Elsie.” eared todo so, the strong arm that pushed her : from the room. Sinking down upon the grass, ed with incoherent words, which came to her ’ and fainter, and finally ceased altogether. When Mrs, Sutton came out, in her shaw] and hat, she found Irva lying on the ground, with her face pressed close to the turf. _ * Come, get up, Irva; this is no place for you, on the damp ground.” Irva arose to her feet, looking into the com- osed face of the speaker, in which there was # not the slightest trace of color or excitement. “This is dreadful!” # ages Whether from motives of policy, or because ss she was really touched by the sight of the pale face, from which all light and gladness had van- _ished, Mrs, Sutton’s voice was unusually gentle, as she said: . _ “tis, indeed, asad spectacle, child; and from - which I would gladly have spared you. I ought not to have let youcome; but I knew you would never be satisfied until you had.” _ _. **T would not mind it,” sobbed Irva, “if I gould only do her any good.” “But you cannot; your presence only makes _ her worse, as you must see. It was your pre- ‘gence and what you said to her that threw her into such a state of excitement.” “tis very strange When she was well she _ Joved me so dearly, and never seemed so happy as when I was with her.” _ “Tt is generally so, I believe, with those whose _ minds are affected; they dislike those they for- _ merly loved best. __ “YVieft Barby asleep. You can look in on her ___— if you like; then we must be going. Be careful ; and not awake her.” _Irva stood, with hushed breath, by the couch where Barby lay in a repose so heavy and un- natural that but forthe breath that came faint- _ hy through the parted lips, it would have seemed like death. But it was so much bett: r than the agony of the paroxysms that had just passed that she went away almost comforted. As mistrustful as Irva was of Mrs. Sutton, and as little faith as she had in the sincerity of . the sudden interest she took in Barby, she could - not but acknowledge that she had the best of care and attention, and that nothing was left undone that could in any way contribute to her comfort. Indeed, the personal trouble and in- convenience to which Mrs. Sutton subjected herself was something incomprehensible and al- + unlooked for. " in was something mysterious in the tie be- ss tween those two, with whom there was neither ___ kindred or the bond of sympathy or feeling. _ Barby had nothing in the world but her cot- ‘tage and be i Spee ra bebe ” be few and simple, but they were all supplied from Mrs. Sutton’s bounty, a bounty bestowed with iene? ‘ ery £: \ : rea: be Irva had no strength to resist, even if she had | she tried to shut out the cries and moans, min- | ‘rom within, but which gradually grew fainter | we eS 4 o-% we ADS | no manifestation of affection, and received with | no expression of gratitude. |_ There was no apparent restriction placed upon | Irva seeing Barby, and she looked in upon her _ every day; always with the hope of finding some | change inher. But there was none, except that | She seemed to sink deeper and deeper in the tor- | por that benumbed her intellect. | She paid no more heed to her coming and go- | ing than if she had been a statue. Mrs. Sutton or Elsie was always present at | these times, so she had no opportunity to speak | to Barby, even if she had dared to do so after | her experience of the distressing effect of her former effort, and which, however strange it seemed to her, she could not gainsay. There was another thing that troubled Irva not a little; the time had passed in which Mrs. Sutton had promised to reveal to her the secret of her parentage, which she had not only failed to do, but ignored the subject altogether. At first she ascribed this to the preoccupation of mind oecasioned by Barby’s condition, but as days passed and no allusion was made to it, her opinion chan Added to this were vari- | ous remarks by Mrs. Sutton, giving color to the | idea that Barby’s mind was beginning to be af- | fected prior to the revelation made known to the reader in the opening chapter of ovr story. Irva did not believe this; so it had no other ef- fect than to convince her that she did not intend to redeem her promise. It was often on her mind to speak to her on the subject, but no opportunity presented itself; either Stepben, Elsie or some one of the servants | were within hearing, and she did not care to | discuss the matter before them. One morning Mrs. Sutton startled Irva by the | announcement that she intended to take Barby to New York. ‘The change will do her good,” she said; ‘‘ and then she will have the benefit of the advice of a celebrated physician there, who makes a spe- cialty of such cases.” : Many conflicting thoughts were aroused by these words, as the changing color in Irva’s face testified. “I hope you will not go without telling me what you promised?” ‘Concerning what?’ Irva could not entirely conceal her irritation at Mrs. Sutton’s assumption of unconsciousness. ‘“You surely cannot have forgotten? I refer | to the eg that Barby sent you, before she was taken ill, and what you then promi to tell me.” Mrs. Sutton regarded the young girl with a smile of wondering pity, and then signed Elsie to leave the room, ‘Is it possible, Irva; that you pendence on the hallucinations o | the condition of poor Barby?” |. “Tt is quite ble, madam,” said Irva, with | a dignity that . Sutton had not looked for, “for me to place the strongest reliance upon what Rarby told me when she was as sane as you or I.” ‘Then it becomes my duty to inform you that what she told you is without the slightest found- ation, with the exception that you are not my child. Since Barby’s mind began to fail her, she has been impressed with the preposterous idea that you are the daughter of a man of wealth and position, from whom I am wrongfully de- taining you. You ought to be able to see. vonr self, the foolishness of this. What possible ob- ject could I have in so doing?” It was painful to see the doubts and fears in the ingenuous face of the listener to this appeal; | which was unanswerable, though it so utterly failed to convince. Mrs. Sutton continued: “JT am sorry to destroy such a pretty ro- mance, but the fact is, no mystery hangs over your birth, except what unfortunately, too common, that you are the child of one who was a mother but not a wife.” As Irva recalled the pure, sweet face of which she had obtained a passing glimpse, her heart rebelled fiercely against this, ‘“ Who was my father?” ‘Properly speaking, you have none. The man to whom you owe your-being had a fam- ily at the time of bis acquaintance with your “mother. It would do you no good to know his name, or whereabouts, and it might do much | harm to innocent parties.. He isin no condition 3 d to do so, era? any de- a person in | to help you, even if he felt disposed These were hard and cruel w to hear, possibility that, they ht be which is not likely, as you have no legal claim upon him.” d. the bare y and. the true made th t a bee , weight upon ‘the young ap ve heart of Weir: } | with the exception of a man and his wife who »* a ¢ 28 a> Ce Se . -* fe and for some minutes after Mrs. Sutton had ' left the room Irva sat like ene stunned and be- | wildered. “Ohl if Barby were only well that I might question her!” she moaned. But, in her present state, she might as well — question the blank wall before her. os Having decided to take Barby to New York, Mrs. Sutton made immediate preparations to that end. It was arranged that she should take Elsie with her; dismissing the rest of the servants, were to take charge of the house. Nothing was said to Irva as to whether she was to go or be left behind, and she asked no questions, The idea of being separated from Barby was very distasteful to her, eapecialy in the painful anif pe lexing situation in which she found her- self. ie she never saw her again, how was this mystery to be cleared up? Tewas clear to Irva that the passive and un- questioning obedience that Barby rendered to whatever Mrs. Sutton said, or suggested, was the effect of the influence of a strong will over a mind dulled and weakened by disease, The feeling was strong in her that if she could have an interview with her nurse, free from Mrs. Sutton’s presence, or Elsie’s, she might be able to get hold of some clew that would lead to the — of the riddle that so pained and puzzled er. And though she well knew the risk she raw in being detected, and how angry Mrs. Sutton would at its knowledge, she determined to make the attempt. She chose the time when she knew Mrs. Sut- ton and Elsie were at the house, and very busy ; being careful to take a different direction, when she started, from what she usually took in going to the cottage. This way was considerably longer, but Irva walked very swiftly, and was not long in tra- versing it. Looking through the window, she saw Barby sitting in the same place, and almost in the sani position, in which she saw her last, her head resting upon a pillow at the back of her chair, and her hands folded listlessly in her lap. She saw Cynthia in the next room, through the open door, who was evidently ‘ on guard.” As soon as the girl saw Irva, she seized her sun- bonnet, and went out by the back way. Irva knew where and for what purpose she had gone, and it served to quicken her move— { ments. 4 “Dear Barby!” Irva’s heart beat fast; there certainly was a change in the face to which her eyes were lifted so earnestly, though it hardly amounted to re~ cognition. ‘You know Irva, Barby, don’t you?—your baby, your nursling?” “She is gone—everybody is gone.” “Oh! no, Barby, you are wrong} she is here; right beside you. Oh! Barby, there is some- thing that I want so very, very much to know; the secret of my birth, who m nts weref You said you would tell me, if Mrs, Sutton re- fused to do so, and she does refuse. Who were ef Barby It was pitiful to see the effort made by Barby to throw off the torpor that benumbed her facul- ties. But it was all in vain. ‘‘T_J don’t know.” ‘Oh! Barby, you do, you must know! Don’t you remember what you told me? Try to re- ek eais Mint! Yoeke oF 1 fol gain that look o and exity, fol- lowed by one of utter lopaaaae 7 z ‘¢ T—I can’t remember.” “Who was my mother?” Just then there came the sound of a quici:. hurried step, and a sudden tremor shook ti: hand that Irva held closely in hers. “She, she is coming!” Irva heard that step, and knew well w! .t 1 portended, but she went on: . ‘“Who was my father?” , The change that came over that impas:ive face was almost startling. ‘ She raised her clenched, trembling hand. “ He was a—a murderer!” Irva was too much horrified to heed the form that was now standing back of her, too well sat- isfied with the scene before her to care to inter- t it. Ris aghast, to her feet, she faltered: — “A murderer?” — — ts “Yes. He murdered your poor mother— broke her heart!” w only too well what this im- Poor Irva kne TT ene know the but she was determine - to plied,
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to fen et f “He wronged—betrayed her, then?” ‘He wronged, betrayed, murdered ker!” Mrs. Sutton now inter are f ‘Rash, perverse, headstrong girl! what do u mean by such conduct? Do you want to ill Barby? I forbid you saying another word to her!” Irva had no disposition to do this; disappoint- ed and heartsick, she turned away, glad to es- _ eape the cruel eyes that had in them far less an- ger than triumph. ‘ Mrs. Sutton now turned her attention to Bar- by, whose flushed face and dilated eyes indicat- a the strong excitement under which she was kaboring. ; Giving her a swallow of something froma lass that she held to her lips, she stood hy her i some minutes, holding one hand firmly in hers, and smoothing with soft, caressing touch the hair from her temples. ; It was not long before Barby lay as quietly, and as seemingly void of all thought and feeling, as when Irva entered. i On perceiving this, Mrs. Sutton moved toward the window where Irva sat; a feeling of desola- ‘tion in her yas heart, such as she had never rienced before. , ‘I should be seriously offended with you, Irva, did I not know that your foolish and’ idle curiosity had wrought its own punishment. So all that I will say to you is that J positively for- { } bid your having anything further tosay to Bar- by Souk the pba of her stay here, which for her—is very short. It is im- —fortunatel il er ever to recover while she is so ossible for ; continually excited and disturbed. If ha had the affection that you pretend _to have for her, ou wouldn’t do so. Come, I’m going to the aN and I want you to go with me. I can’t trust you here.” = Without replying to this, even by a look, Irva went into the next room. Mrs. Sutton followed. “What are you after?’ she inquired, as she saw Irva open one of the drawers of the bu- reau. “T want my mother’s picture. It is in this box. Where is the key?” Mrs. Sutton looked into that pale, resolate face and then taking the key from the chain aroun her neck, handed it to ber. ; Irva unlocked the box, taking the object of her search from among. the trinkets and keep- sakes; then turning the key returned it to Mrs. Sutton, saying: ; . “T have a better right to it than any one.” ‘ “*T have no wish to Ly a you of what must be so very precious to a daughter’s heart!” Stung by the covert sneer in these words, Irva turned upon her tormentor. “It is precious to mel—my poor, wronged, unaery mother!” 59 en your father comes to claim you you can showit to him. He will need no other proof that you are his child.” “ Whoever this man may be he is less than no- thing tome! He gave to her death, and to me shame and sorrow, and, though he may call me child, I will never call him father!” Mrs. Sutton laughed. _ “No matter; some day I will send him to you.” ee Pro”. _ c CHAPTER VIII. ‘ NEW SCENES AND HOME, Artrr Mrs. Sutton had gone, as she did the following day, a great silence fell upon the big, roomy house, whose inmates were narrowed down to very few. i Stephen went with her, but returned the next day, with a message to Irva from. Mrs, Sutton that assoon as she got well settled, she would ; send for her. ? F m The only satisfaction that this promise afford- ed Irva sprung from the thought thatshe would not be entirely se from Barby, so but - what she would be able to know something as to how it was with her. At Mrs. Sutton’s request, as he was careful to inform her, Stephen remained; making himself __-very much at home, and treated with great de- ference by the man and his wife who had charge of the house. a Irva on ee reaigy as me as" Dowible for though Stephen had drop e air of easy _ familiarity so offensive to her at their first ac- --- quaintance, he invariably sought her society whenever it was > for sm to do so, And, in spite of all his deference, there was an weep esomething in his Te re spenmd at he considered it his right thus to seek her, _ and which fretted her all the more that he gave her no tangible cause for complaint. Mie) 2s ed bs Ny 4 ear Late by otk es ahd i ee) a oe é te) goaiee . oe = ‘eae Pa tT a Fe 7_¥ a = . ¥ One morning, about a week after Mrs. Sut- ton’s departure, dg cares handed her a letter. It was from Mrs. Sutton, saying that she was Brae located in a house in the suburbs of rooklyn, and directing him to bring Irva on to her immediately on its reception. ; Irva was not ill-pleased at this news; for she was not only in a state of mind to welcome most any change, but anxious as to how it was with Barby, of whom the letter made no mention. Irva’s simple preparations were soon made. So secluded had been her life that, though liv- ing within sound of the cars, she had never been inside of them; so it was a pleasant novelty to her to find herself borne swiftly along past farm-houses and through villages toward the great metropolis, of whose sights and wonders she had read, but never thought to see. Stephen watched with amused interest the hightened color and the innocent joy and won- der that looked out of the big brown eyes of the young girl beside him, and which were so ab- sorbing as to make her quite oblivious of his presence, as it wounded his vanity nota little to perceive. “‘How lovely she is!” he werent ‘and how very unsophisticated! She migh fail into worse hands than mine.” With this thought, by which he sought to loss over the evil designs of his bad Seri, tephen addressed himself to his paper. It was dusk when the cars rolled into the Grand Central Depot. As Stephen assisted her out, Irva was so con- fused by the noise, bustle, and burrying to and fro, that she was glad to accept the arm he of- fered her. “T thought that perhaps Mrs. Sutton would be here to meet us,” he said, looking around. ‘*But it is some distance from Brooklyn, and she knows that I am perfectly familiar with the way.” Nodding to one of the many hands stretched out to him, Stephen placed his charge in one of the long array of carriages that lined the street. For some time Irva amused herself by watch- ing the crowds of people revealed by the glanc- ing lights as she whirled along, but when she reached the ferry she grew ee The house mentioned in Mrs: Sutton’s letter was situated on one of the interminable avenues that lead out of Brooklyn, the remote part of which was thinly settled. “Ts it much further?” said Irva, rousing her- self and peering out into the darkness. “No; we are very near it now,” was the re- assuring reply. ‘‘ Mrs. Sutton selected a house in this vicinity in order that she might have a quiet place for your poor old nurse.” This was very satisfactory to Irva, who began to muse on this new phase in Mrs. Sutton’s char- acter. When hadshe before manifested so much regard for the comfort of her humble and help- less dependent?—or, in fact, for any one? She began to think that she must have more affection for Barby than she had given her credit for. At last the carriage stopped, though it was pra bag Stephen open a gate, through which it passed. e house was situated in the midst of ample apn dotted with trees and shrubbery, the im outlines of whose foliage could be seen as Irva stepped from the carria ge. It was a square, substantial-looking building, with broad stone steps, on the top of whic were huge pillars that supported the porch that jutted over the door. The front part of it was in darkness, but from a bay-window at the side a bright light was gleaming. _A servant obeyed the summons of the bell, to which Stephen gave an energetic pull, ushering them into a cheerful and pleasant room in the rear, where they were almost immediately joined by a stout, buxom-looking woman, in a widow’s cap and with a very subdued and pen- sive expression. She seemed well known to Stephen, who shook hands with her, introducing her to Irva as Mrs. Haverstraw. “This is the young lady you were expecting, Mrs. Haverstraw; my cousin’s adopted daugh- ter, Miss Irva Sutton.” _ Mrs. Haverstraw smiled very sweetly upon a. ‘ PSE gm be sure. Very happy to see Miss Sut- Be ; ee suppose Mrs. Sutton has not retired, as yet ¢? ‘I really couldn’t take upon — to say, sir,” responded Mrs. Haverstaw, ping her es discreetly to the floor. Mis. Sutton eyes took 3 the boat this morning for some place on the an early breakfast, as be had to go over to the / ’ Sey _ : BLIND BARBARA’S SECRET. Py wey + 4 — ro ie Hudson—I forget its name—to consult some riend.” Stephen glanced at Irva, whose countenance showed disappointment and surprise. “Yes, I remember her speaking of some doc- tor up there that she wanted to see, She will — be back in a day or two.” ‘“‘Oh, I make no doubt of that, sir. She charged me to make you and Miss Sutton as comfortable as possible during her absence, which I shall take great pleasure in doing. “* Miss Sutton is looking very tired; her room ~ is in readiness if she would like to go to it.” Miss Sutton would like nothing better; and following Mrs. Haverstraw, found herself in a large and pleasant room, whose rosewood fur- niture, snowy curtains and daintily-draped bed gave it a very bright and cheerful aspect. After looking around to see if everything was as it should be, her conductress said: “Now, if there is anything that you would like in particular for your =e i just mention it and it shall be got. We have our regular dinner at six, but [ delayed it bath a know- ing that you would not be here until late.” rva was not accustomed to having her wishes so carefully consulted, and felt some compunc- tion at the involuntary coolness of her manner toward one evidently so desirous of contribut- ing to her comfort. ‘Many thanks. Pray do not put yourself out in the least; anything that you have will be ac- ceptable, to y beg that it may be served in my room, as I am ver of—went_with Mrs. Sutton?” Mrs. Haverstraw paused, with her hand on the half-open door. te “Oh, dear, yes! She wouldn’t go without her, whatever she did. I never saw such devo- tion in all my life, never! Your good mamma would never let any one else give her a bit of medicine, or take food herself, until she knew the poor woman was served. Tt used to almost bring tears to my be There was something’ overstrained.in this; and wearied and depressed in spirits, Irva felt relieved when she was left to herself. : The tempting repast brought by the neatly- dressed servant was a very substantial one, con- sisting of half a broiled chicken, a hot baked ha toast and tea, together with a dainty essert of berries and cream. And despite the depression upor: her spirits, and the rps Ha it was a little strange that Mrs. Sutton should have left, almost immediately after summoning her to the city, Irva did not feel at all disin- clined to break thus pleasantly her long fast. Then, seating herself by the open window, she drew the curtains aside and looked out, trying to get some definite idea of her surround- But she could see nothing but masses of trees and bushes. If any other dwelling-was near, the heavy foliage of these hid it from view. She could not help musing on her strange paren alone, in a great city, far from every- and everything she had known, Then she bethought herself of Him “who eareth for the stranger,” who ‘defends the widow and the fatherless,” and a feeling of eer and security took onely thoughts that oppressed her. Taking a little worn volume from Irva read the beautiful psalm: ‘“‘ The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want |” / en + memagi p herself to the loving care and guidance of the only Father she had ever known, she laid her h upon her pillow and fell asleep, guarded securely from all the evil that surrounded her by Him whose eye never slumbers, and who is the ‘‘sure defense of all who put their trust in Him.” (\OHAPTER IX, WHAT DID IT MEAN? WHEN Irva awoke the next morning, she saw by the sun thatistreamed hala bila: through the oe shutters that it was late, ‘ e when Mrs. Haverstraw tapped at the door, ¢ -morning, Miss Irva. 1 thought I heard you stirring about, and came to say that Ellen, is making fresh « ffee, and that your breakfast will be ready as scon as you are. Ss “Tam really ashamed to put you to. so much extra trouble, Mrs. Haverstraw; but I ept.” ee whatever. Mr. Sully took much. ister last right than I am’accustomed to i being, and so ove “it is no trouble y tired. 4 I suppose Barby—the sick woman you spoke fi ig of. the place of the sad and her sachel, ‘ had scarcely completed her simple toilet — hoes there in regard to her poor sick ‘ as ‘ ee \ 1%> par aaa a: 4 a 6 ii f C7 Ey 7 é a vs H ‘ % fo; ie r ‘ 4 - \ ‘ ; a
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breakfast room, whose pleasant aspect was en- hanced by the eggs, coffee and hot muffins that awaited her. Mrs. Haverstraw re-entered the room just as Irva was rising from the table. ‘*Your mamma left mea very pleasant com- mission,” she said, with a smile; “the replen- ishing of your wardrobe which I perceive is sadly needed. **Of course your dress is very nice for the country, my dear,” added Mrs. Haverstraw, as | Irva glanced down with hightened color upon the plain, neatly fitting skirt of gray, which was her “ best;” “but in the city people dress «o differently, you know, very naturally your friends are anxious to have you attired in ac- cordance with your new prospects, and the very different soeiety they will i ae to you.” » “Tf you knew me qs well as you think you do,” smiled Iyva, ‘you would know that Iam but a simple country girl, with no prospects “whatever.” *T know more than you think!” was the sig- nificant response. Then, without seeming to notice the startled look in Irva’s eyes, Mrs. Haverstraw added: ‘*Mr. Sully said he would send a carriage to take us to the city, and hereitis, So run and get your hat.”’ ‘Irva had no time to make any objections, if she had had any to make. Her heart beat fast at the thought of riding in that beautiful car- riage, drawn bya pair of splendid bays, who stood pawing the ground and arching their necks at the door. Mrs. Haverstraw drove directly to ‘t Stew- arts,” not only astonishing but alarming poor Irva by the extent and variety of her purchases, especially as she was led toinfer that they were all for her benefit. When she began to select the second silk Irva telt that she could no longer keep silent. ‘*My dear Mrs. Haverstraw, I cannot permit ou to he il anything further for me; you ave a ready bought more than I can ever think of wearing.” ‘*What nonsense, child,” said Mrs. Haver- straw, who was in the best possible humor; ‘‘I have bought nothing that you don’t absolutely need, even the expense don’t come out of my et.” é “T know,” persisted Irva; * but there really is no one from whom I have any right to expect such costly presents.” . ¥ou are wrong,” said her companion, in the. significant tone she had used once before; ‘‘ there is one from whom you have the best possible right to expect them.” A sudden tremor shook Irva’s frame. Did she, could she refer to the father, whom she regard- ed with such strange feelings of mingled ten- derness and indignation—tenderness for all that the name implied, and indignation at his cruel | desertion? _. Had he repented of his treatment of her and her helpless mother, and taken this way to ‘atone? Her brain grew busy at the very thought. In the meantime, Mrs. Haverstraw was bus at the silk counter. Having ordered the cler to cut off the requisite number of yards she ‘turned to Irva. ‘Goodness me! how pale you are looking! Are you so easily used up as this? Come w stairs, and look at the hats; and then we will ‘ have a rest.” Almost feeling as if she was the heroine of some fairy story, Irva seated herself in the ‘ele- vator; with difficulty suppressing a shriek as she found herself suddenly lifted from the floor, Mrs. Haverstraw smiled as she saw Irva’s per- turbation. ‘You must learn not to be surprised at any- ‘thing, my dear,” she said, wit): the patronizin air of one who had seen too much of the worl to show any such weakness. Sailing up to one of the saleswomen, Mrs. Haverstraw demanded to see ‘‘ sore of her new- est and prettiest hats.” f After trying various of the bewildering col- lection onto Irva, and: findin'y some fault with each, she selected one, a perfect marvel of artis- tic skill, in the shape of flowers, lace and rib- bon, and paying for it gave ‘lirectio!-s to have it sent with the rest of the nah “ That is all, I believe,” sail Mrs, Haverstraw, consulting her watch. ‘‘ It is most luncb-time. Mr. Sully said he would join ‘1s; and we will go down- and wait for him!” For some minutes Irva sat watching the mov- ing panorama of beautifully-dressed ladies that swept past her in one ste: siream. f ‘ N Ps Fee ew 4! Sultly’s approach until she heard an.ejaculation | from Mrs. Haverstraw. Following the direc- | | tion of her eyes,she saw him coming toward | them, with an eager smile upon his lips. Just then a tall, elegantly-dressed lady, with a plain, but very expressive countenance, came along from the opposite direction. ; - soon as she saw Sully she smiled and nod- ed. Without giving Irva the slightest sign of re- | cognition, Sully sprung past them, greeting the new-comer with an appearance of great joy. After talking with her a few minutes he moved along with her in the direction in which she was going, without givin though they passed so near robe brushed her own, ‘“* Tt is because I am not fashionably dressed,” | thought poor Irva, as she looked down upon her | | modest garb; feeling the slight, though she cared | so little for the source from whence it came. Upon looking to see how Mrs. Haverstraw | took this, she saw that she was over at the op- | posite counter, quite absorbed in the contempla- | tion of the goods displayed there. On Irva’s joini ‘g her she took her arm, going in an opposite direction to that which Sully ook. ‘Myr. Sully won’t be able to find us when he | comes back,” said Irva, innocently. ‘* He won’t come back.” Mrs. Haverstraw surveyed Irva, evidently misinterpreting the disturbed look upon her face. ‘¢ There is nothing that he would like better; so you mustn’t be angry with him.” rva smiled. ‘“That would be very silly in me. I don’t mind his going in the least. Only it looked a little odd.’ “It might seem so to those unacquainted with the circumstances. The lady you saw with him is his sister; very notional, and a great invalid. She is exceedingly fond of him. In fact, almost as jealous: of his attentions to any younger lad as if she was his wife. He is under considerable obligations to her, and so humors her as much as possible.” **Oh! I thought—” Here Irva stopped, almost ashamed to say what she had thought. ‘*You thought,” laughed Mrs. Haverstraw. ** Now be frank, and own that you thought her more to him than this.” “Oh! no. I didn’t notice much about the lady, except that she had a very nice face. I thought that Mr. Sully did not care to notice me because of my unfashionable dress.” | lessly about, and whose snowy aprons were in | could not but feel that this change to her hith- “sé ; apple-pie. ‘““You dear, silly child!” exclaimed Mrs. Haverstraw, in a tone of great relief, ‘it was nothing of the sort. You look better in that lain dress than his sister does in all her finery. ot but what dress will make a great difference in you, as you will see. But come, we will have a nice, quiet lunch all by ourselves, and then go home.” Irva enjoyed her junch very much in the quiet and cosey nook selected by Mrs. verstraw from among the long row of tables. She was just tired enough to make rest plea- | sant, just hungry enough to give zest to the cream and cakes before her. At w short distance was an “aquarium” lined with shells and mosses, where gold and silver fish sported as freely and joyously as in their native element. Above this was a tiny fountain, whose soft spray fell in fine drops around, cooling the air. And as Irva watched the merry groups that came and went, the waiters, moving so noise- such strong contrast to their sable faces, she erto quiet. and secluded life was a very pleasant one. Mrs. Haverstraw added a plate of sandwiches to Irva’s order, to which she did ample justice ping off,” as she called it, with cheese anc “*T can’t live on such flummery as that,” she laughed, glancing at Irva’s dainty fare; “ Iwant something substantial.” =» The waiter now brought.on two tumblers con- taining a colored mixture, in which were straws, and to which Mrs. Haverstraw applied herself with great gusto. “Don’t be afraid of it, child; it won’t hurt ou,” she’said, as Irva pushed hers back, regard- ing it with a look of disfavor. ‘There is spirit in it?” ‘‘Only a drop of wine, the merest dash in the | world. Not enough tohurtafly. Try it, it will do you <i tad ae shook her head. | + advice, for she did not rise from the table while” Irva even a look | er that the lady’s | many kindnesses, and never any harm.” though a little doubtful as to the ground on CN EE —E——E——E—EEE ————E—E———————————————————————————E don’t like it and don’t need it.” ‘1 don’t like it, either,” said Mrs. Haverstraw, — who, having disposed of every drop in her own glass, now took Irva’s; ‘but my doctor says I- rust, that my constitution requires it, and I — find that it supports me wonderfully.” i Mrs. Haverstraw certainly manifested very. commendable zeal in following her physician’s © a drop remained in the glass. ’ She was in high spirits and very talkative; entertaining Irva, on their ride home, with a glowing description of the sights and gayeties of the great city, and which, one by one, were to be unfolded to her wondering eyes, “You are very fortunate, nry dear. Stephen is acquainted with everything worth seeing and will be such a delighttul escort. Poor fellow! I’m so sorry for is disappointment; he was counting so much on lunching with us!” This was the first time that Irva’ had heard Mrs. Haverstraw call Mr, Sully by his Christian name, ‘You have known Mr. Sully some time?” ‘Ever since he was a boy; in fact, we were ~ children together; and always the same honor- — able, kind-hearted, generous creature that you see him now. She’ll be a happy woman that gets him !” Trva neither assented or dissented from this. Mrs. Haverstraw studied for some moments — the partly-averted face. “Now, be frank with me, and say if you have: not thought him—well, just a little fast?” Irva colored. She had felt a sort of repug- nance to Stephen at their first acquaintance— though it had sensibly lessened of late—but had never thought of putting it in that form. “IT don’t flatter myself that my opinion of | Mr. Sully is of much consequence.” “You are wrong. I, for one, would feel very sorry to have you think ill of him.” . ‘But I don’t! It would be very ungrateful of me to think ill of one who has done me so Mrs. Haverstraw studied Irva’s face again, as which she stood. . “Mr. Sully belongs to a very wealthy family, and has always been in receipt of a large in- come. As a matter of course, his life has been a very gay one; but he is one of the most moral young men I ever knew!” Mrs. Haverstraw made this assertion with an nrg, of look and tone that defied contradic- on, ‘““T am glad to hear it.” Irva said this with an air of weariness, as though she did not care to pursue the subject further. She was not particularly interested in Stephen’s merits or demerits, and just now her mind was full of other and more pleasant thoughts. F They were now nearly home, which was in the outskirts of the city, and leaning back in the carriage, Irva looked out upon the beautiful grounds and residences by which they were passing, ‘‘Perhaps my father is living near me,” she mused, ‘tin one of these houses.” Various were the lights and shadows that flit- ted across Irva’s face as she pursued this train of thought. Mrs. Haverstraw watched them with wonder- ing interest. “A penny for your thoughts, my dear!” Irva looked at the questioner fora moment. She felt, instinctively, that hers was not a na- ture tosympathize with all that her ardent ima- rae had pictured. But there wasa question hat had often been upon the tip of her tongue during the day, and now she uttered it. “Twas thinking of what you said this morn- ing, that you knew more of me than I thought. What did you mean by it?” Mrs. Haverstraw looked led. She did not consider it prudent, at this stage of affairs, te tell Irva exactly what she did mean, nor did she want to relinquish the hold that she perceived her supposed knowledge—of whatever nature it might be—had on her mind. : So she shook her head, mysteriously. “T am not at liberty to tell you, just now; when the proper time comes, you shall know. — You would not want me to betray auy confi- dence placed in me?” ‘‘Not for worlds!” was the earnest response. *¢T will not ask another question.” “fF can tell you this much,” ed Mrs. Haverstraw, speaking with emphasis; “it 15 something that will make you consider yourself _ a very fortunate girl,” : a Irva’s eyes grew very bright. . , “I said 1 would ask no more questions, and L :
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sy ete will keep my word; but I can have my own oughts.” The impulse was strong upon Mrs, Haver- straw to ask what these thoughts were, but she _ feared, if she did, that she would have to be More communicative than she cared to be. Irva was glad to find herself alone in her own room, in order that she might give herself up to the happy thoughts that filled her heart. he imagination is so vivid at that age thatit takes very little to kindle it; and out of the meager material furnished her, poor Irva began to build very beautiful castles. Not only Mrs. Haverstraw’s hints, but her sudden summons to the city . Sutton’s mys- terious departure, the costly presents lavished Upon her, so different from anything she had ever known, all combined to arouse and con- fem the new hopes that had sprung up in her art. From her earliest childhood, Irva had been Prone to strange and tender imaginings con- cerning the father she had never seen, and of Whose name she was now in ignorance, and this interest had been strengthened by words drop- ped, from time to time, by Barby, whose very refusal to satisfy her curiosity served only to enhaxce it. She often spoke of Mr. Sutton, but never as though he wasanything to her. Irva had someway conceived the idea that her father was a former husband of her mother say. ‘And high as he holds his head, he shall not be ashamed of my pretty nurslin \? Irva had never doubted but what she should Some day find him, and that he wouldbe worthy a3 alike love she was hoarding up in her heart True, Barby’s words at their last interview as cruelly ‘dispelled this illusion; but the onger she reflected upon her condition of mind, at the time, the less credence did she give to them. , Her “time to love” had not come. No real- ms of anything more tender than a father’s Ove had flushed her cheek, or stirred her maid- BP eg nd as she bowed her young head in prayer, she besought that He, ihe brings mighty things to pass,” would cause the realization of this, the first and dearest wish of her heart. CHAPTER X. THE HIDDEN SNARE. WueEn Irva came down stairs the next morn- ing, she found the various purchases of the day ‘efore strewed over the sofa and table, and ‘ rs. Haverstraw in a perfect ecstasy of admira- ion, Irva had manifested so much indifference, and even reluctance at this outlay, that Mrs. averstraw was most agreeably surprised at the almost childish interest and delight with which she surveyed the beautiful and costly fabrics, To that lady’s assertion that “they must be made by a fashionable modiste, and in the most ashionable-inanner,” Irva assented; and the greater part of the remainder of the week was Spent in the selection of trimmings and designs, fitting ” and “‘ trying on” that is entailed, The love of the beautiful is inherent in wo- Man’s nature, and Irva took a genuine delight ™ seeing the beautiful silks, laces and muslins fashioned into still more beautiful garments. That these were a father’s gifts, to which. she had the most sacred right, she never permitted erself to doubt. ‘He wants to make sure that I shall not Shame his name and station,” she thought. nd she felt that she could not show her love te gratitude more than by making the most of bing Opportunities and adornments lavished so reely upon her. ts. Haverstraw watched with interest this hase to her character. a he don’t care two straws for Stephen,” h as her inward reflection; “ but, in spite of all rad tan ways and notions, she is fond of °ss and admiration, end that is almost as Strong a passion,” wou the following Sunday, Stephen made his ; lady yer fe aa Ha yetstra W's; finding that m the sofa, rea ve 1 Where is Miss ee i her way to church, I saw her going out the front way about ten minutes sen with a new ac > Prayer-book in ner hand.” soon onfound it! I wish I had got along a little ~~ i ing ® psy: ee Re el oy) as ‘ BLIND BARBARA’S SECRET. ‘*Tt wouldn’t have made the slightest differ- ence if you had; she would have gone to church, in spite of you, or any other man, She’s a per- fect little itan! I don’t believe she’d omit her ree py and evening devotions for the wealth of a kingdom,” Stephen shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘T don’t see where she got such notions; not from Lucia Sutton, that’s certain.” “From what I know of that person, I should say not, most doctiedly But then, you must remember that she has been left almost exclu- sively to the care and society of her nurse; Lucia said as much herself. Do you know, Stephen, I think there is something tit mys- terious in the care and attention she bestows on thatold woman? She can’t make me believe that she hasn’t some object in it; I know her too well. During all the time she was here, she never allowed me to s to Barby unless she was present. It’s m lief that the old woman mont something that Lucia is afraid she'll tell. ‘* To tell the truth, Nellie, I don’t care what her object is, solong asI get mine. It strikes me that Iam making very slow progress.” “Take my advice and go to church this morn- ing, and make her think it to be your invamable practice. It will make a more favorable im- pression on her than anything you could do,” ‘De you thinkso? It would be a pretty hard role for me to play, I fancy. The fact is, it’s so long since I’ve seen the inside of a church that I shouldn’t know how to behave. I have a mind to try it, though. Tl have a walk home with i, at all events.” What church did she go “The one on the corner, four blocks below.” Stephen seized his hat, and was off. Services had commenced when he reached the church; and for the first time in years he lis- tened to the voice of prayer as it proceeded from the lips of a venerable, white-haired man. rome tremulous tones were full of feeling and ervor. Had it been a theater, gambling-saloon, or, in fact, anything else, Stephen would have been perfectly at home, but as it was, no fish out of water was more completely out of his element than he, as he tiptoed himself into one of the pews uear the door. “* At Rome do as the Romans do,” he sneered, as he bent his unaccustomed knee upon the cushion. He contrived to take asly look around the church through his fingers, as he knelt, for which he was duly rewarded. - There, a few pews in front of him, was his di- vinity, entirely unconscious that she was in the presence of any one but Him, to whom her heart was ascending in such fervent prayer. There was a rapt look upon the young face that reminded him of some heads of Raphael that he had seen in an old church in Romie, But all that freshness and innocence aroused no feeling of reverence in the heart of the man who sat drinking in its beauty of outline and coloring as he would a draught of wine. He admired them, indeed, but it is only as some admire flowers; inhaling their fragrance for a moment, and then trampling them be- neath their feet. Stephen thought, or affected to think, the majority of those who professed rejigion to be hypocrites, who wore it as a mask, and the rest fools. Anidea by no means uncommon with those of his ilk. ““She’s sincere, whatever else she is,” he thought, as he watched the devout manner with which she went through tie service. ‘ But saint or sinner, it is all the same to me. I’m not sure but her saintship gives hera new charm; it certainly adds the zest of novelty.” Just across the aisle from Irva were two youn men, the elder and taller of whom often found. his eyes wandering over to where she sat. **How strangely familiar that face looks to me!” he thought. ‘I have, surely, seen it be- fore, though I can’t remember where.” When the service was ended Stephen lingered by the door, joining Irva as she came out. The two men, before alluded to, were some distance back. “Look!” said the elder one, “‘ isn’t that cousin | Steve?” ‘* Where?” _“ He’s gone, now,” said the first disappointed tone. “But I could almost swear that it was Steve, or his apparition.” “You may rest confident that it was his a parition, then,” laughed his companion, ‘That exemplary cousin of yours is more noted for his attendance upon races, and other kindred follies bring him off out here?’ than any such place as this. Besides, what woul dy De fs ae tine aker,ina dependent. Yet she was so resigne 9 * By the way, Dick, did you see that sweet piece of dimity on the other side of us? You needn’t say you didn’t, for I saw you looking over there. By Jove, but I would have given something to have seen those long lashes lifted long enough for me to see what color the eyes were. She ern ty them so provokingly bent upon her prayer-book.” “Very possibly she saw something there that interented her,” said Dick, a little dryly, the words and tones of his companion jarring upoi his feelings, he could not have told why, if lx had tried. But to return to Stephen and Irva. The color deepened in the cheeks of Irva as Stephen joined her; whether from surprise or pleasure he could not tell, though his vanity whispered the latter. Desirous that she should think their meeting by accident, he said: “How fortunate! Thismust be given me asa reward ‘for being good,’ asthe children say, and going to church. ‘“‘T would rather hope that Mr. Sully found his reward in the feelings that drew him thith- er,” was the softly-spoken reply. “ I have,” was Stephen’s sneering reflec- tion. Then aloud: “Very true. But it seems Iam to have two rewards; one entirely unexpected.” He then began to praise the sermon, the text of which he had contrived to remember, skill- fully turning the conversation on the religious topics of the day, of which he had gained a cur- sory knowledge through the papers. He spoke of various Betevonrn schemes, of the efforts being put forth to disseminate religious instruction among the masses; appealing to, and deferring to her opinion with a delicate flattery far more dangerous to a nature like Irva’s than the most glowing praise of her personal charnis. The surprise that she first felt deepened into genuine interest as he proceeded; an interest that was plainly visible in the large brown eyes that so often sought his, and which evin a simple faith in all that he told her that amused as well as interested him. “T am glad that you feel so,” she said, as they ascended the steps. ‘I didn’t know that you cared about such things.” He was rewarded for his “ good, goody talk” as he privately termed it to Mrs. Haverstraw, by Irva’s consenting to take a quiet drive with him out to the park, a little covtrary to her © principles, which were rather strict in such mat- te rs. Mrs. Haverstraw went with them, but she took her novel with her, and ensconcing herself in the further corner of the roomy carriage, seemed to have neither eyes nor thoughts for anything else. his arrangement suited Stephen very well; but he was careful ’o take no apparent advan- tage of it. Though quick to render her every attention she required, had she been a princess of the blood royal, and he one of her train, he could not have treated her with more deference and respect. Satisfied w‘th the progress he was making, he was content with a so close beside her; watching the lights and shadows that flit across her face as she talked, which she did with more freedom and confidence than she had ever evinced before. Mindful of the impression he had made, and anxious to deepen it, Stephen let the conversa- tion insensibly drift intc a channel suitable to the sacredness of the day and the estimation in which he knew his fair companion regarded it. He led Irva to talk of her childhood, and her old nurse, with whom it was principally spent, and whose teachings and example had done so much to mold her character; partly because he knew it was a pleasant topic to her, and partly because there were some things he was anxious to ascertain. “This old nurse of yours must riot only be a very excellent person, but greatly superior in education and refinement to those in her walk of life?” “She is, indeed,” responded Irva. ™ I’ve of- ten thought she must have once occupied a very different station. When I remember some things she said I am quite sure of it. Poor nurse! hers was a sad fate; blind, a! 3p and and pa- tient; I don’t think Iever heard a murmuring word from her lips.” ; “‘ Did she never tell you anything about her- self or family?” ‘No; she always seemed averse to talkin about her past life. AlFher allusions to it were incidental—when she was not thinking, as it seemed.” exe. a MAS zs a {See 3: mm
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ee his own early life, méntioning incidents in his boyhood—many of them the product of his own invention, and the whole sealers to give the impression that all the sins and follies of which he had been guilty were mainly the result of thad been subjected. _,, Encouraged by the interest with which Irva “tistened, he bewailed the lost time and opportu- anities of his youth. ** Not that I’ve done anything bad,” he hasten- ed to explain, as Irva opened her eyes a little at “the depth of his contrition, ‘‘ but sp little good, you know. “Tn fact,” he added, with a deep sigh, ‘‘I “find myself so different, every way, from what -I ought to be, at my age, that I am almost in “ieee 3 'Sbere was something in all this that appealed “strongly to Irva’s warm, sympathetic heart, too simple and inexperienced to detect the hollow- ness and insincerity of these professions, and she felt called upon to respond with words of hope and encouragement; words received by Stephen with outward humility and thankfulness, but with an inward amusement that would have as- -tonished and provoked Irva not a little had she | known it. There was something delightful to this man of the world, so versed in all its follies and sinful leasures that they palled upon his senses, to look into those eyes, that mirrored forth so clearly the innocence, whose Eden he so burn- yy ed to destroy. ; The sympathies he had enlisted had clouded her perceptions, and he saw, with fiendish joy, the influence he was gaining over that Sending and credulous heart. ‘ He had no thought of the invisible barriers between her soul and his, nor yet of the an- gelic influences at work to defeat his hellish plot. He scouted at the very idea of an over- ruling Power, the sure defense of all who:com- mit their ways to Him. . Yet well did this man know if the girl who \sat so smilingly beside him caught but the \ faintest glimpse of all that he was, she would ; shrink from him with horror and loathing. So he. covered it carefully from her view; deadening by the incense of flattery and ad- ulation the pure instincts that are. woman’s surest safeguard and guide, “T have to thank you for a very pleasant day,” whispered Stephen, as he assisted her from the carriage; ‘‘one which will not soon be forgotten. My mother was a fashionable woman, who cared for nothing but dress and display, and her daughter followed in her foot- steps. ‘Had I been so fortunate as to havea - sister like you I should be a different man from what Iam.” Poor Irva! the tempter bad found the vulner- able part of her armor. : - She regarded the compliments that Stephen had lavished upon her personal beauty as some- thing he-would have paid to any pretty wo- man for whom he had a passing fancy: ‘He might haverhapsodized by the hour on the beauty of her eyes or, complexion without roducing any other effect save annoyance. Bho did not value herself cn these things; and nothing vexed her more than to discover that she was valued chiefly for the external beauty that she could not but know she poate _ Thoroughly imbued with the delight of being of use, the thought that she had been rc... 2 ee ee ee : > ae =a a" « able to influence to good a man of Stephen’s years and experience, contained a subtile and delicious flattery that she.was unable to resist, With this was mingled some compunction, “Poor fellow!” she thought. ‘‘I fear I have judged him too hardly. _ There really is a great ea of good in him. I declare! it was really itiful to hear him talk about his neglected boy- han iecnaalaatedt in spite of all his wealth. I - poust try to help him.’ Experience had not fought Irva that no help could come through her, That by that strange and unnatural a igs by which good is turned into evil and a blessing to a curse, all that was pure, sweet and womanly in her only served to arouse to a still greater intensity the evil of that dark and evil nature, whose depths , she could not fathom. ree Poor foolish child! she needed help herself. Trouble was thickening about her; snares were weaving around her a be A feet, all the more enlahon because of the flowers that covered them, — F Stephen now began to tell Irva something of | the wrong influences and training to which he | ?. CHAPTER XI. IN WHICH STEPHEN SHOWS HIS HAND. THE days that followed were very busy and | happy ones to Irva, almost too busy for her to , have time to think. Stephen took her to all the sights of the city; , to the Park, to Greenwood, to art galleries and various places of amusement. _ There was never a day that they did not go somewhere, and sel- dom an evening. : rs. Haverstraw generally accompanied them; Irva took care to have it understood that she expected this, and Rtaphpn did not feel so sure of his ground as to think it prudent to run counter to her wishes in°a point like this, But that lady was very discreet, and contrived to make, her presence as little apparent as she being conveniently blind and deaf that was ing around her. * The distrust that Irva had felt and evinced for Stephen had melted away beneath the gentle de- ference of his manner and the fair outside view he presented. She no longer avoided him, or treated him with reserve when they met. She laughed and chatted with him, expressing her opinions with girlish frankness on all that she saw and heard. But there was something in this very frank- ness that annoyed Stephen; the unreservedness with which she showed him her whole heart let him see that he held no special place there. In ee of the innocent freedom of her man- ner, thére was a point beyond which he dared not He was shrewd enough to see that the privileges accorded him were based upon her unconsciousness of evil, not her toleration of it; that if her suspicions were once aroused, he could deceive her no more. He knew that Irva had a character and méntal caliber beyond her years, and that he had a resolute, clear-sighted woman to deal with, if she were once aroused to the danger of her position and knowledge of his true character. Itis safe to say that Stephen did not find the restraints he was forced to put upon himself ver. easy or palatable. What he called love, and which was, Lethe as near an approach to it as he was capable of, had grown stronger da by aay It partook of the selfishness and self- will that were inherent in the man, but it was genuine in its quality, and stronger in its de- gree than pnyeins he had ever before experi- enced in his life. In the meantime, Mrs. Haverstraw had had a letter from Mrs, Sutton, stating that Barby was so much improved by the treatment she was having that she should remain where she was for the present. ; She made no allusion to Irya, ke to hope that she was well and enjoying herself, Irva had by no means forgotten the romance woven by her busy brain; she had added man a ier to it from time to time, though it must be owned it was from material that a less active imagination could have made littlé use of, One thing she specially noted, that she rarel expressed ss wish or admiration for any article of personal adornment in the presence of Mrs. Haverstraw, but she found it on her bed or table soon after. That that lady was in com- munication with some friend of hers, whose ability was equal to his love, was clear to her. And who should this be but the father she so yearned to see—and that Barby had often said would one day claim her? , How long was she to be banished from his resence? when would she be able to tell him hat all the costly gifts he lavished upon her were nothing compared to his love? One day. hires on her dressing-table—the very one she fad admired so much at Tiffany’s onli the day before. She recognized it as soon as she opened the velvet-lined case where it lay. : As she stood looking at it, lost in surprise and admiration, Mrs. Haverstraw entered. : She smiled as she saw what Irva was holding in her hand, “He who gave you that and all your other beautiful presents, is bélow, waiting to see ou.” Pale, almost breathless with suspense, Irva turned toward the speaker. ‘Oh! tell me! is it he, my—” “TI didn’t come to answer any questions, child,” interrupted Mrs. Haverstraw with an impatient gesture, ‘‘ but to help you dress, I want you to look as charming as possible. Where is that new silk?” ; Bewildered by the thoughts and conjectures that filled her mind, Irva submitted - passively to the hands that arraved her in one of the agente | much found a beautiful set of sap-. BLIND, BARBARA'S: SECRET. A —_- handsomest of her dressés. It was one of those rich brown silks, with a glint of gold in it, very si and lustrous, with the corsage sufficiently low to reveal the symmetry and exceeding fair- | ness of the neck and shoulders. 'ereamy lace, fastenin Around these she drew a bertha of soft, it at the throat with the pin belonging to the sapphire set on the _ table, whose azure light trembled as the bosom rose and fell with | | a oughts too big for utter- ance, Clasping the bracelets-around the arms, Mrs. Haverstraw led Irva in triumph to the mirror. There was a wistful, beseeching expression in the eyes that looked out upon her. No feeling of vanity stirred her heart, as she saw how fair and sweet that vision was* only this thought was there: “Will miy father love me?” There came a tap at the door. “There isa gentleman in the parlor waiting to see Miss Sutton.” Mrs. Haverstraw smiled. ¥ He is getting impatient, and no wonder. e Like one in a dream, from which she feared to waken, Irva descended the stuirs. Mrs. Haverstraw followed close behind. “Remember!” she whispered, ‘‘ that he who is waiting to see you, is the and truest friend you have, and receive him as he de- serves. Irva stood for a moment with her hand on the knob of the door, trying to still the throbbing _ heart which beat almost to suffocation, and then wentin. — It was growing dusk. At the further end of the long drawing-room, she saw the dim outline of a man whose face was turned from her. Attracted by the soft rustle of her trailing robes, he advanced eagerly toward her; paus- ing when within a few feet of her, as if check- ed by something he saw in the eyes, and which were fixed upon him with such a tock of surprise and disappointment, : “Fairest of women! how can I sufficiently thank you for this frank and prowrs acceptance of my gift, and all the delightful hopes to which it gives rise?” 6 blood suddenly receded from Irva’s face; glancing around the room, she looked into Ste- phen’s face, as if but dimly comprehending his Meaning. “ Vour—gift?” “Yes, mine, May I not ho of it to be’a favorable wapty i regard to the irs more precious gift that [have come to ask a your wearing our hands?” he tone in which this was spoken was very tender and seductive, but it was quite thrown away upon Irva, Indeed, it is doubtful as to whether her mind took in any but one point, the one that alone interested her. ** Am I to understand, Mr. Sully, that not only this, but all the gifts I have had, and which I su were from—” ere Irva’s feelings overpowered her, and her voice choked, C o Be mean to tell me, sir,” she resumed, **that all I have received during the six weeks I have been here, to be from you ?” “They certainly were,” returned. Stephen, not a little piqued at Irva’s tone and manner. ‘Who did you suppose they were from?” “From him, who alone has any right to give me such—my father.” “ Your father !” As Stephen looked at Irva, from whose eyes the tears of pearpowitrnens and mortification were falling fast, he , as he never had before, not only how far she was from him, but from all that he would gladly make her. Not all his arts and blandishments could call forth the slightest ad ohie pi to bef sympathy with the passion that had taken such strong and complete possession of him, She had been dreaming, not of a lover, but a father’s love! To do Stephen justice, the surprise he mani- fested at this discovery was genuine; he had no idea of the suppositions and ilusions with which — r Irva had been deluding herself. The freedom and matter-of-fact way with whichshe received his presents, had led him to infer, of late, that she supposed they were from Mrs. Sutton; and he fancied that the time had come when he could safely disabuse her of the idea. ' He Nehon ond ene and startled at the result — as to hardly know what to do or say,athing — very unusual with bim. ; ‘This is a very unfortunate mistake, but you — must not blame me for it, I supposed there was, at least, a tacit understan on your part as to how it was,” The color came back to Irva’s cheeks. Moan
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v7Jeus ~~ * > ll AM Bal Gl ‘., oft 4. » rN “‘T don’t know why you should suppose any=-' thing of the sort, Mr. Sully. What right have you to give, or I to accept them?” ; _. The best of all rights—that which m love Sives—a love that I never before felt for wo- man!” ~ Irva looked at the speaker. ¥Yor the first time Stephen let his long sup- pressed feelings find expression in the oe that met her own, and the revelation it gave her was as unexpected as unwelcome. _ She knew that Stephen liked and admired her, ‘out he,had been so guarded that any such feel- ing as this she had never dreamed of, From words dropped by him, as well as Mrs. Haver- straw, she judged his family to be too high to admit of his marrying a. portionless, nameless girl, and that he would offer anything less it never entered her innocent heart to conceive. ‘You don’t know what you are saying.” “T know that I love you, Irva; so madly, so entirely, that there is room for ne other thought in my heart!” : “T am sorry.” ‘“Why are you sorry?” “T think any true woman must feel sorry to have a love proffered her that she:cannot re- turn.” ‘But you don’t know that—how can you? ‘You are so innocent and inexperienced that you don’t know the capabilities of your own nature, . You will love me, in time; I will: be so true, so devoted, that you cannot help it!” “Tf loye were a mere effort of the will, it might beso. No, Mr. Sully, you are too good, you have been too kind to me, in many ways, for me to deceive you in so essential a point as this. Ican never love you as I ought to love my husband.” tt was well for Stephen that the obscure light partially hid his face from view. There was an indescribable change in his voice as he said: “T am not good. I donot claim to be worthy of you—there are few men that are. But Ido claim to love you. Only trust yourself to me, Irva, and I will make you happy, if it is in the power of mortal man to do it! Just think, my dear girl, what you are rejecting, not only a heart devoted to you, but all the ease and lux- ury that wealth can give. And then, what will le think?’ ‘* What will people think?” r “Yes, what will they think? You came to the city with me; you nished house, of which Lam known to hold the lease—for, at Mrs. Sutton’s request, 1 took it off her hands. You have been seen daily in my company. You are too unsophisticated to _ know, Irva, how very censorious the world-is.” Irva turned her flashing eyes upon thespeaker. ‘* You knew!” ** Of course, I knew. But, good heavens!-do you think I would have let you compromise ‘yourself thus, had I supposed, for one moment, that you did not understand my intentions, and approve them?’ r ‘‘T will leave the house to-morrow morning!” cried Irva, ee ee her seat. ‘I ‘would never have come I known things to be as you have stated!” an L “Where will you go? Don’t act hastily in the matter, You have no idea what a hard world this is to a girl brought up as you have been, and with neither friends, influence nor money. I forgot to tell you that I wrote to Mrs. Sutton in\regard to my love for yous I received a reply this morning, incl:sing a letter to you. I beg that-you will read it before de- sg Pr on me.” P Lighting the gas, Stephen placed a chair for Irva near it, and then withdrew to’ a window, where he stood arranging the folds of the cur- tain, but stealthily watching her face as she broke the seal of her letter and made herself mistress of its contents. It looked so pale and troubled before—it was pitiful. to see the change half an hour had wrought—that there was no perceptible altera- tion in it. ' ; meat Letting it fall into her lap, she sat for some moments with her hand over her eyes. Then rising, she turned toward him, ‘*T must have time to think this over, much can I have?” ‘“ As much as you like. Only don’t keep me long in suspense,” ‘*T will let you know to-morrow evening, at this hour.” oe Irva.” Irva turned her head, as she stood upon the threshold. ‘* Don’t forget the good you _ma How do me, by consenting to share my lot. No other woman ve been living in a fur-: . er wee, « ail —— =v | ever had, or could. have, so much influence over me as you.” ,CHAPTER XII... A STARTLING DISCOVERY. Inva maze of doubts; fears. and conjectures, now thinking she would do, this, and now that, the long day wore to a close. It wanted only half an hour of the time of Stephen’s coming. rs, Haverstraw, who had.been with her | nearly an hour, warning, coaxing, and expostu- lating, was gone, and she was alone. Taking up Mrs. Sutton’s letter, she re-read it, and looking over her shoulder, let us see what it contains. It was as follows: , “Dear Iryva:—Stephen’s letter, confessing the nature of his feelings for you, was a great relief to me. Ihave worried about you a great deal, lately. As Iam unable to ar oua home, or do anything more for you, I really didn’t know what was going to become of Me : : ““T did not think if best ‘to tell you your father’s name, as itmight make trouble, and could do you no possible good, but under the circumstances I felt lass ig in making a direct appeal to him in your ehalf, to which he has not deigned even to reply. So. you see there is no hope on that score. “But you need not care for that, now; Stephen will provide for you better than he, who probably’ thinks that he has enough to provide for already. “You ought to consider yourself a very fortunate gin to have such an offer as this. I hope you won't e so foolish as to reject it. If you. do, you will have your own way to make in the world, and a hard way you will find it. ““T leave here on the next train. Do not know where I shall be for several months, at least, as I in- tend to travel. “You need have no anxiety concerning Barby, who remains much the same, as I shall make her my special care. Yours truly, 7 “Sucrs Surron.’’ Irva had wept many tears over the destruc- tion. of -her beautiful dreams, and which had | seemed so real to her, but there were no tearsin her eyes now, but a hard, bitter look, that had } never been there before, Her heart rebelled fiercely at the fate assigned her, the hard.and stern realities, of a life so. dif- ferent from the one she had pictured. . That. life of ease and luxury, its giddy round of pleasures, had had an enervating effect upon her, making more gloomy: and repelling what she |knew must be hersif she rejected the hand held out to. her. As she sat thus, making fainter and fainter resistance against the temptation that assailed her,come one rapped at the door, with a mes- sage qe purport she knew before the words ed her. ‘ a Irva paused a moment in front of the micror; wondering if it could be the same face, that looked out upon her the evening before, it wore such a different aspect. As if fearing. thay her resolution might falter, she went quickly down the stairs, almost start- ling Stephen by her sudden appearance, es- pecially when he looked into her face. She went up directly to him, and holding out her hand, said: ’ © Mr, Sully, I don’t love you. I don’t think I ever shall—not in the way you love me. But I don’t love any one else, and if, knowing this, you care to take me—you can,” Stephen started to his feet. ‘Do I care to take you?—oh! darling—” ‘ or he g a step backward, Irva raised her and, ; Bie I have not finished yet.. You say I have already compromised myself; I will not continue todoso. This sort of life must cease, If you want me, you must take me now.” his was, evidently, something that Stephen did not expect. ‘* My dearest Lrva, it. could not be too soon for me; but I have told you how it is with certain members of my family. My sister is so averse to my marrying—” “Then you must choose between us!” inter- rupted Irva. ‘‘ You have. called me unsophisti- cated, and Banners I am, but I am quick to learn; and I say, and mean it, that our mar- “lage must be now, or never!” ‘Then it must be now; for I will not give you up if it separates me from all my kindred! But J am under special obligations to this sister, and | would like to give her time to get reconciled to it. I have thought of a plan. Supposing we are married very quietly, taking immediate pas- sage for Europe, to be gone six months, or more? By the time we. get back everything will have blown over. {can then introduce you to my relatives 'and friends, You will do the rest; for they have only to know you to fullv > ; | BLIND BARBARA'S SECRET. yo, ea ae ee) ee no \ ~s . : 7 eppegye of my choice, How does this strike ou?’ Standing in the shadow of the bay-window, Stephen watched anxiously the partly-averted face, , “Very favorably. I think I should like to go | abroad. And I don’t care how quiet the wea- ding is.” “Thank you a. thousand times, my darling!” was the rapturous response. .‘‘ Then it is all settled. A stedmer leaves in three days, whose captain is a personal friend of mine. If will en- gage a passage for us in it to-morrow. You Sait teed only a ray anything else you require can be got much more to your liking on the other side. * And now!” Irva submitted passively to the embrace that followed these words, shivering a little as his lips touched hers. Then she disengaged herself, moving a. little way, from him. ; “You must excuse me now. I did not sleep much, last night, and am very tired.” With fhe exultation that filled Stepben’s ; heart at the success that seemed likely to crown his efforts, was mingled a dissatisfaction that amounted to anger when he remembered the Jan- guage used by Irva in giving her consent. . The indifference she manifested was a sore wound to his vanity; and there were times when he hard- | ly knew whether he loved or hated her most, here was a curious mixture of both in his feel if she fell into the trap laid for her. ' “When I get matters into my own hands,” he ; uttered, as he passed down the steps, ‘‘my | lady will. alter a little., Unless I am slightly | eC ici she won’t hold her head quite so igh.’ s, Haverstraw received the intelligénce caf Irva’s decision—to which she had contributed by every argument in her power—with a profusion | of congratulations. that wearied. far more ‘than they pleased the recipient. _ “One would almost think it was you that was | going to be married,” she said, in an irritated | tone that. Mrs. Haverstraw had never heard froni her before. ‘I almost wish it was. It seems else left for me to do; and, that is all Ihave tu say ahens it.” =a ‘ ere were few points of sympathy between Irva and Mrs. Haverstraw, she feel her complete isolation from all compan - ionship with her own sex, that it was with feeling of disappointment that she received he’ . refusal to be the companion of her voyage. - “You will have to have a maid, of course,” said that lady; ‘‘and I know of one that wit just suit. you.” : : : Irva had her own thoughts. as to this; more—- she had a perfect. horror of going where she would not see a single face of her own sex thal she had ever seen before. ! There was something in the kind, honest face of Ellen, the girl that attended to, her room, that had always interested Irva. She knew: that she did not.intend to-remain with Haverstraw, for she told her so. ek mers taslsche ‘‘T would much rather have her than a stran- ger,” she thought. ‘I mean to sound her; and see if she wouldn’t like to go with me.” Preferring to do this when they were by them- selves, Irva waited until the girl was tidying her room the following morning, : ‘‘illen, I believe you to be an honest, trust- worthy girl, and Iam Ears, to tell you some- thing—something that 1 don’t want you to speak of to any one.” Df shea I won’t, ma’am, that you may be sure “Well, I’m going to be married,” : The, girl looked startled at this abrupt an- nouncement, rather more so than the occasion “ Yes; that is, I think so, As soon.as We are, married, we are going a voyage to Europe; and I don’t know of any one that I would like so well to have go withme, as my maid, as ou, ye we These words seemed to have a strange effect upon Ellen. ; ‘‘ Beggin’ your pardon for bein’ so free, ma’am, but it can’t. be him you’re goin’.to marry, the man that comes here to see you so. often?” . keep it quiet for the present.” meer ‘But he can’t marry ye—the black-hearte® vill’in! to be decavin’ a young; innocent crey~ ture like ye! Oh! Miss Irva, darlin’, Gon’t trust Pee a we Eee = s ee ow) “<<a 2 s 55 PPR See te | ings, that. augured ill for the unsuspecting gir, to. bé the general opinion that there is nothiajs — but so sensibly gic. required, ‘ i *‘ It’s toa good man, I hope, miss?” ‘“‘ But it is, . Only you mustbecarefuland not |_ speak of it outside. Someof Mr, Sully’s friends — | are opposed to it; so he is anxious
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> all SS ee ere a \ _ the laste 42 not till I git out of the house. If it wasn’t fur me month’s wages, I wouldn’t be here now. Bad luck to the day I come into it!” “What do you mean, Ellen? Can’t marry me!—why can’t he?’ “ Because he’s got a wife already, an’ ’twould be rank’ biggermy! He ought to be beaten within an inch of his life fur thinkin’ of it!” The astonishment in Irva’s face gave place to a look of incredulity. ; “You must be mistaken, Ellen!—it can’t be possible! No man could beso cruel as to wrong and deceive me thus.” ‘* Ah! Miss Irva, dear, it’s little ye know of the world, an’ the bad men that’s in it. Plinty of ’em would think no more of doin’ that same than of aitin’ their supper; the famishin’ tiger would show ye more mercy than thim! It’s not men, but bastes they are!’ - But, Ellen, Mr. Sully is the cousin of Mrs. Sutton, the lady that brought meup, She never said anything about his being married.” ‘‘T know who ye mane, she who come with the poor ould blind leddy. I overheard *’em talkin’ together, an’ it’s my belafe he’s not her cousin at all, at all! It’s not I that thinks an too well of her, nor of the misthree aither, wit all her smooth ways. Mighty thick, thim two wur, as I minded at the time; an’ if they didn’t Lae, up the plot atween ’em, they had a hand in i “You might be mistaken. Perhaps it’s some other man of the same name that is married, and not he?” “T couldn’t be mistaken! His wife lives in a fine, illegant house in New York. Me own cou. sin worked fur her, an’ that’s how I pe to know. I knew his two wicked eyes the first time I opened the door fur him; though he ne- ver mistrusted it, ‘fur fine, gr d gintlemen like him don’t-notice the likes of us. I seen him go- in’ up the steps many’s the time, when I was chattin’ in the aray with Katy.” ‘¢ Ellen, this is dreadful!—it is more dreadful than I canexpress! I must go; I must not stay here another hour!” Ellen looked Be ta at the pale, scared face that was turned toward her. _ “Don’t be frightened, Miss Irva, dear; the Lord sinds His angels to purtect thim that’s in- nocent an’ helpless as ier He don’t forgit us, even whin we forgit Him, blissid be His holy name!” This simple faith, so simply expressed, gave another and calmer current to Irva’s thoughts; slipping her fingers into that hard, rough hand she bowed her head upon it, while her hear ascended in voiceless prayer. “ But He expicts us to do the best we can for ourseives, all the same,” continued Ellen; ‘an’ use the sinses He’s given us. ‘Ye’ll need to have all yer wits about ye in’ d’alin’ with the likes of “Do you really believe Mrs. Haverstraw to bea woman, Ellen?” “She ain’t a good woman, by no manner of manes, miss. If she was, she wouldn’t be afther decavin’ a young, innocent girl, that hain’t no father or brother to befri’nd or purtecther. It’s ‘well paovee she knows that the vill’in ain’t what he te s to be!” a. shuddered, “T never liked her—I tried to, but somehow I couldn’t—but I never dreamed of this!” ‘Take my advice, Miss Irva, dear, an’ don’t say nothin’ to aither of ’em. Don’t let’em have suspicion that you’ve found ’em out, You watch yer chance when they ain’t noticin’, an’ jist walk out, an’ don’t come back ag’in. There ain’t any house very nigh this. It sets back a good ways from the road, and has got 4 high fence all around it. I can see, by the look in your eye, that you’d like to till the vill’in what ye think of where he has everythin’ ‘him look at was mindin’ him, an’ he won’t give ye up ’asy. So mind what I till ye, Miss Irva, an’ jist give thim the slip. isown way. I’ve seen ‘“‘There’s the ould harridan’s fut on the stairs; | if she finds me here, she’ll suspect somethin’ !” And away darted Ellen; leaving Irva in a state of mind not easily imagined. She did not have to feign a headache, to ex- cuse her appearance at lunch; when noon came, ‘ner temples throbbed almost to bursting. . As she expected, Mrs. Haverstraw came to the door to see how she was; but on Irva’s saying that she was trying to sleep, she went away. In the course of the afternoon, Ellen managed -to smuggle herself in. bl ‘*Don’t be downhearted, Miss Irva, darlin’,” im; but don’t do it here, | e, whin he didn’t think nobody | + a 7 x she whispered: * I hain’t iy HA ay a ‘waterproof,’ with a big hood it, that'll cover ye complately from head to fut, an’ I'll 1 A to smuggle it in to ye as soon as it is ark, As Irva did not come down to dinner, Mrs. | Haverstraw insisted on coming in. She brought a dish of tea, “It’s a good strong cup, my dear,” she said, as she set it down; ‘‘and I don’t know of any- thing that’s better for the headache, especially for those not used to dr ng it. ‘How are you feeling? Better, I hope? Ste- hen will be here this evening, and will be so isappointed in not seeing you. In spite of all her efforts, Irva shrunk away from the fingers that touched her temples. ‘He'll have to be disappointed, then; for I shall not see him to-night. Mrs. Haverstraw looked at the flushed cheeks and heavy eyes. ‘You are looking feverish. I ho ou are not going to be sick, at this time of all times. I wouldn’t have it happen on any account.” There was a genuine expression of alarm in the speaker’s face, as she put her finger on the fluttering pine Irva withdrew her hand; throwing it up cver the pillow on which her head lay. **'You seem to take a great deal of interest in me, Mrs. Haverstraw?” ‘IT do, indeed; almost as much as if you were my own daughter.” ‘Did you ever have a daughter?” Mrs. Haverstraw was evidently unprepared for this; there was a sudden change in the voice and face. ‘Yes, one; but she died when a baby.” “Tt would be well for some other daughters if they had died, too!” A look of sullen gloom settled upon the coarse, heavy features. *“*T don’t doubt but what it was well for mine, Bs often wished I had died when I was a by! ere she forced a laugh. “But this has nothing to do with you, who have such a happy future before you.’ As Irva looked into the face of the ker been appeal that was quivering upon her lips died ere, “Can I do ss for you?” ** Nothing. 1 I need is sleep; and I wish you would see that I am not disturbed by any e. “T will, Lie in the morning as long as you like. You can have breakfast at any hour you want it.” Irva drew a long sigh of relief as the door closed after her; she knew that she would not be intruded upon again. “You will not find me here in the morning,” she thought, As she lay there, watching the shades of twi- light deepen around her, she heard Stephen’s ring at the door, ‘*T wonder if he is going to stay?” was her in- ward query. : Then, mindful of Ellen’s promise, she softly unbolted the door, and waited. CHAPTER XIII. A SUDDEN FLIGHT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. As Irva waited thns, Ellen opened the door cautiously, bearing a server in her hands. ; ‘“ Here’s yer supper,” she whispered. “Mind ye don’t l’ave a bit of it; fur ye’ll nade all the , Strength ye can muster. ‘“Thim two”—here she pointed below—‘‘ is going out fur a walk, Thin’s yer time. Til be ack as scon as koe | are gone.” Ellen was as good as her word; returning in a few minutes, with a big bundle under her arm. ‘“*They’re gone!” she cried, gleefully. ‘By good luck, it’s cook’s afternoon out; so we’ve | got the house to oursilves,” ‘‘Here we are!” she added, unrolling the bun- dle, which resolved itself into a long, shapeless garment, as she held it up. ‘Sure, and it’s a mile too big fur ye, but it’s all the bether fur that. I defy ould Nick, him- self, to till who you be whin ye git into it.” Little as Irva felt like mirth, she could not | help smiling as she surveyed herself in the mir- ror after Ellen had buttoned it around her. | “T don’t think I could tell, myself,” she said, ,as the girl B emty the hood over her face, in | whose dark depths no part of it could be seen. ‘*Tt’s as complete a disguise as I could ask.” “That itis. If they should chance to spy ye, they'll think it’s me. Draw yer hands up into the sleeves; they’re so white an’ purty they’ll I’ve got BLIND BARBARA'S SECRET. RR FS CTS SE SSS TSS TS | SALAS RTT SOCRATES SS > AD aah De eR a BTR LINES RES. TPR RO PE - him! An’ don’t let on that T told ye—leastways, betray ye. Mind an’ go down through the gar- den, out the back gate. Whin ye git over the ferry—ye know where that is—go to me sister’s,, at twinty-four First strate, up-stairs, an’ en- uire for Margery Malone. ell give ye a shelter till ye can dobether. I’m goin’ mesilf, | as soon as I see you off. I got all me wages this afternoon but two dollars; an’ the ould harpy is wilcome to that; she’ll need it before she dies if she don’t mind her ways. I’d go with ye, but fur fear, if they see us together, they might: suspect somethin’. Ye can’t miss the way. If ye git puzzled, ask one of the polees—ye’ll know em by the star on the brist—an’ he’ll tell ye. ““Now good-by, Miss Irva, darlin’. The Lord bless an’ purtect ye!” Irva threw her arms around the neck of the faithful, warm-hearted girl. “God bless you! Iam sure He will—if it is: oF for your kindness to one, but for Him, ut~ terly alone and desolate!” Taking Ellen’s advice, Irva passed out the back way into the garden, that covered quite an. extent of ground. She had got near the gate, which opened om another street, laid out, but little built up as yet, when she was startled by the sound of voices, advancing toward her, and which she recognizedi as Stephen’s and Mrs. Haverstraw’s. There was an arbor on one:side of the narrow poms, and with a feeling of terror, that can be ut feebly put into words, she darted into it,, and crouched down into the corner. To her dismay they came in, sitting down upon the rustic seat near the entrance; but their backs were toward her, and the shadows so dee where Irva lay, that she was completely hidden from view. They were conversing about her, in losy and earnest tones, every word of which was daguer- reotyped upon the brain of the frightened girl, who dared scarcély breathe lest she should be discovered. Stephen was the first to speak. “Do you think she was, really, too ill to come down to-night?” : ‘Yes, I do. You would have said so, your- self, if you had seen her. The truth of the mat- ter - she has fairly fretted herself sick.” “Not very complimentary to me,” said Ste~ phen, with a forced laugh. ** What could you expect? Youare more than twice her age, and in no way the kind of man such a girl would fancy. You ought to be sat- isfied to gain your object any way.” — “Now you are not over complimentary!” “I can’t help that!” was the sharp response, “You know, as well I do, that you are no more fit to touch the hand of such a woman—” Here the — aused. “Do you know, Stephen,” she resumed, in a very different tone, “‘it may seem an odd thi for me to say, after all I have done and am, bu I couldn’t help pitying the fie Rew as she lay —s looking as if she had erying half the a a at cursed nonsense is this, Nellie? One would think I -was going to murder the girl, in- stead of giving her a splendid home and every luxury. You are not going back on me, after all I have done for you?’ “It has been pretty Tr demonstrated that a woman cannot go back, whatever else she may do. No, I’m in for it, and will go through with it now. ButI wish, on my soul, I never had had anything to do with jit! Isn’t there plenty of women ye can have—God hel them!—that you should take so much trouble to insnare this poor girl, a mere child, and as innocent of all such deviltry as a baby?” *‘ There is no lack of women,” laughed Ste- apr such as they are, but not many like her. ith all my experience of the sex, I never eves one of them with so absorbing a pas- sion, ‘‘Faugh! it makes me sick to hear men of your a 9 talk of love! You don’t know the emma the word. You love yourselves. You prize her because she is hard to get. I at You; you'll tire of your pretty toy in six eeks, ‘Upon my word, Nellie, you are in a precious queer way to-night,” sneered Stephen. ‘ You'll be getting converted next, and leave all us poor sinners in the lurch!” “ , “You need have no fears of that,” was the sullen response; “if a woman gets on the wrong track there is no other way but for her to go straight on, if it takes her to perdition!” ‘*T love the girl so well, at all events,” said Stephen, after a moment’s pause, “that I would marry her in bona fide earnest to-night, if I were free todoso. As itis, I shall have to go through the farce of it, just to satisfy her, » ‘
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a BLIND BARBARA’S SECRET. Marriage {s very much of a farce, anyway, ac- cording to my way of thinking.” ‘* And who do you count,on being so much of ‘a fool as to perform the ceremony # ‘* A man by the name of Harvey, at least that is the name he goes by now. He is a renegade clergyman of the Church of England, who com- mitted forgery, or something of that sort, and fled over here. He can be bought for five dol- lars to do ’most anything.. The only trouble is to catch him sober. I’m going to lock him in his room to-morrow afternoon, bringing him round in the evening. So don’t fail to let the girl know, so as to be ready.” ‘You had better caution your man. not to make a mess of it. Irva is simple about some things, but she’s no fool, and if she has the Jeast suspicion, she’ll unravel the whole thing.” Mrs. Haverstraw arose as she said this, and ‘took the path that led to the house. ‘“Never you fear,” said Stephen, as he follow- ed her; “ the fellow is well , and will do ‘the thing up ship-shape.” Irva waited until their voices died in the dis- ‘tance, before she dared emerge from her place «of concealment. She hurried down to the gate, only to find it flocked, it being now past the hour for it to be kept open. o scale thefence there would be impossible, as it was not only high but of wood, whose smooth surface afforded no foothold; but Irva remembered that the wall on the front side was of rough stone, and which would present no ‘such difficulty. True, it would be more hazardous as to being seen, but then it would be equally so to linger until her escape was discovered. Taking a circuitous route, as far from the thouse as possible, Irva went around to the front e, Though there was no moon, it was starlight, and finding herself near the main gateway, which was always locked, at this hour, Irva looked cautiously around before attemptin ‘what, under ordi circumstances, she would have consi red it utterly impossible to do. The houst could be seen from that point, being ‘on rising ground. Not a movement could be seen around it, and no light within, except in Haverstraw’s room. It ib hbesieg bes gins wh corabe, hag not been ‘ven » an i courage, she ‘commenced the difficult task before her. per After repented failures, she found herself on ‘the ground on the other side of the wall; though it was only through a strength born of despera- tion, as her torn and bleeding hands testified. Perfectly exhausted, she sat down by the woadside. As she sat there, | up and down the road, to see which direction she had best take, she saw a man on the other side of the way ccoming toward her. With a sudden movement she drew back into _ ‘the shadow of the wall, but not quickly enough to avoid the man’s notice. ** Hallo!” who is that?” The sound of that voice struck so much terror to Irva’s soul that for a brief space she ‘was deprived of all pores of motion. Then eiving that he was crossing over to ‘where she was, she fled dowu the hill, in an op- Wosite direction. ‘trived to elude her pursuer, haditnot been for her long ouvar, serene, heck weppis ia ‘ € was go! a speed, br. t eavily to the rd, ai - . re ee CHAPTER XIV. OUT IN THE WIDE WORLD, WHEN Irva awoke to consciousness, she found ‘herself lying upon a bed, in the same room she had quitited, as she had hoped forever, scarcel two hours before. As slowly it all came bac to her; her attempt, its failure, and all it por- tended, a feeling amounting to despair came ‘Over her, She had supposed herself quite alone, but at the sound of the moan wrung from her lips, a form arose from an obscure corner of the room, and advanced toward her. Sg ee parte ure; In ion sen C) whee Angers ends, nt here, into ephen what ou my chamber?” or neens 4 ; deh] “ee 2 ny dear Irva, you are not so fool- as to refuso to let your promised tusband see yen wren in?” ac va was silent. Should she, dared she tell faim all she knew, and defy him to 30 his worst? ¢ firmed invalid; I should not Mistaking this silence, Stephen continued: ‘* What madness possessed you to go out mas- gaerarine this time of night, in such attire as that? Following the motion of Stephen’s hand, Irva’s eyes rested upon Ellen’s torn and drabbled wa- terproof, that was lying upon a chair. ““T went because I did not wish to make this place my home any longer. All that I askis my liberty. I am not willing to remain here another night!” ; “Why, what has come over my darling? Want to leave me, and on the very eve of our marriage?” These words, the tone in which they were oken, were more than Irva could endure. he flung off the hand he laid upon hers, “ Wretch! how dare you pat of marriage to me?—you, who are already married!” Stephen mistrusted that Irva had heard, or suspected something, but he was unprepared for thi: S. ‘““Who has been telling you such ridiculous nonsense as this?” ‘*] heard it from yor own lips!” The astonishment in the eyes that surveyed the speaker, oortatnly: was not feigned. “] would not be likely to tell you, even if it were so. It’s a lie, whoever told you! I call God to witness that I have no wife, nor will I have any but you!” “ Stephen Sully, God is your witness—and so am I! Tt is useless for you to attempt to deceive me longer; I was secreted in the arbor, this eve- ing, when you and Mrs. Haverstraw came in, and heard every word that was uttered!” There was a silence of some moments; during which the consternation that overspread Ste- hen’s face dually changed to a look of de- seme With his dismay and chagrin at being detected, was mingled a feeling of relief at be- ing able to throw off, in some degree, the mask he had worn. ‘Then you know something of what a man will risk to gain possession of the woman he loves, I am not going to take back a word I have spoken: True, there isa woman that the law says is my wife, but itis a title that my heart disowns, and will never give her. To me marriage is something more than the mutterings of priest or magistrate; itis a consecration of the heart. It is you, only you that will ever reign there! I own thatl have deceived you; but [ plead my Seas love for you. Can you par- don nothing to lovelike mine? Listen to me, Irva. She, whois pagunelly eae wife, is a con- surprised to hear of her death at any time. .The moment I am free I will make you my wife before all the world. What else can I do—what more can I promise than this?” “JT would not you if you were free to- day, much less be Giivs you’d make me! Leave me. You haveno right to come into this room. Your very presence is an insult, and your words more insulting still!” There was a very perceptible change in Ste- phen’s tone and manner, ‘‘Thave a right to be here, which even you, haughty as Pied are, will be forced to respect— the right of the strongest! What can you, a weak, puny girl, with neither friends nor influ- ence, do against me?” ‘“T am not so friendless or powerless as you think. I havea Friend, far stronger than any ort king, who will not suffer you to harm me “‘T think I have heard you speak of Him be- fore,” said Stephen, with a mocking smile. “ If He cares for youso much, and is as strong as you say, why did He frustrate you in your ef- ort to escape, and let you fall again into my hands?” “T cannot tell you that. But this I know, ifI had left the house as soon as I knew it was in your hands, if I had not wickedly promised to marry a man I could not love, I should now be beyond your power,” ‘It is too late to think of that now. You are in my power. And itis a power from which he cannot escape; I have taken every precau- ion as to that, as you willfind. Now my pretty birdling, I advise you to be reconciled to your cage, and not beat your wings against the wires any more. I wish to be kind; don’t force me to be cruel. A love like mine turned to hate, you will not find a very pleasant thing to encounter. I now leave you, in order that you may have time for on. When I see you next 1 t to see you in a different moed.” Irva med to the click of the turning lock, the sound of the retreating steps, joy at her un- expected re) consciousness that she was a prisoner. eve overpowering, for a time, the | taunted me with 138 But it soon returned with redoubled force, bringing with it the thought of the-cruel, the shameful fate that was hanging over her. But what could she do? Ellen was gone; supposing, doubtless, that she had made good her escape; and there was no one else in the house with the least disposition to befriend her, : There was no possible way of escape but by the windows, and these were so far from the gone as to make it extremely hazardous for er to make the attempt. . Softly raising one of them, she looked out. As she did so, her eye caught the gleam of the tin- ned roof of a small wing that jutted out frvm the main building, directly beneath her. If she could get down Ys that she might | manage to reach the ae : Full of the energy. orn of this hope, she went to work. Taking the sheets, blankets and coun- terpane of her bed, she cut them into strips, twisting them into a strong rope of sufficient length, as she hoped, to reach the roof. astening one end of this to the of her bed, she tied a spool to the other, and wrapping several thicknesses of cloth around it, in order to deaden the sound, threw it out the window, having the satisfaction of seéing it land upon the roof below. As soon as Irva made sure of this, she put on | her mantle and hat, placing in her pocket what money she had, which was only some small change, Then kneeling down by the open window, she raised her hands to the stan} hoarena: whose tranquil beauty fell like a benison upon her troubled spirit. “Father?” she cried, ‘‘ thou knowest all that awaits me here. By the purity thou hast en. joined upon all thy children, I h Thee to ama if I go not to liberty, let it be to ea “* Well, do you think the Lord is going to help you?” asked a harsh voice back of her. Turning, Irva saw Mrs, Haverstraw standi in the middle of the floor, with a derisive loo! upon her face. For a moment Irya’s heart failed her, then a sudden light broke from her eyes, ‘* Yes; I think He has sent me help now.” ‘ What help, pray?” “Vout? ‘* What can move me to help you?” ; “The memory of the babe that slumbered on your bosom, and died in your arms!” It was evident that Irva had found the one vulnerable spot in that hard heart; half ed, half-an, at her weakness, she stood, bat- tling silently with the tender and sacred memo- ries evoked by these words. : “Had she lived, she would have been just about my age; would you be willing to have her given over to the tender mercies of a man like en Sully?” *l "cas strangle her first,” was the fierce retor ‘But that proves nothing,” she added, in a different tone. ‘If you were out of here what would you do? You have.no friends, no home nomoney. You can’t work; you are not used to it. And if you could, and could find it to do, he would pursue you—blacken your name— turn you from one place and another, until he had hunted you down! I know him—I know them all!” “| will risk it. Ail I askis my liberty. You will help me to it, I know?” “Tdarenot. It matters not how, but Iam in this man’s power. If he finds it out, it will be my ruin.” “ But he need never know that you have any knowledge of it. He will see this rope and never think of blaming you.” Advancing to the window, the woman took hold of it. : ‘Girl, do you hold your life so cheap, your purity so dear, that you dare trust yourself to a thing like this? There is not one chance ip. a hundred of your reaching the ground ve, “Tf there is only one in a thousand, I will take it sooner than remain. All that I ask of you is not to hinder me.” “But I will hinder you! Listen tome. Years ago, when I was as young and innocent as you, a& man sought me with fine promises and flatter- ing words. My home was wretched and love- less, and he did not find it hard to lure me from it. Well, it is the old story, old as the hills; in a few months he turned me out to starve, I and my baby—my baby and his! I think my brain went wild, when, denying its pateens » he he bad made me! was flattered and courted; mothers invited him to their homes; vying with each other in trying te
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* w% - “eomne over Irva “took’a seat in the corner of it. ~ ag. ; ee oe a ae, ~ APS just # win him for their pure young daughters—while I was kicked down, down! I loved my baby; when it died, all human sympathy for my kind | died with it. Atleast, I thought so. To-night I dreamed of her. I dreamed that she lay in my arms, more fair and sweet than she even was in life; the pressure’ of her head upon my bo- som arousing feelings that I never thought would be mine again!” Sinking down upon a seat, the speaker bowed her head upon her hands, rocking herself back- ward and forward some moments without speaking. Then rising, she dashed the tears, half-angrily, | from her eyes. ““Come!” she said, turning to the door; “ come quickly, lest I change my resolution. o-mor- row I shall scorn myself for this.” ” With .a beating heart, scarcely daring to trust herself ‘to speak, Irva followed Mrs. Haverstraw down-stairs, out into the open air, and along the graveled path that led to the main entrance. ‘ Unlocking the gate, she threw it open. “Now you are free. I do this for the sake of my baby—the’baby I shall never see again, never!” 7 Irva’s eyes were full of tears. Matt 2 ig ee al don’t say ae If you will only try: to live a pure, good life, you will surely fod kérs-tonia day! “ th Mrs. Haverstraw’s only response to this was to push her through the gate, quickly closing and. . locking ‘it. A’ feeling of joy and thankfulness swelled Irva’s heart, as she once more found herself out- side those high walls. Whatever élse was in store for her, she was free from the deadly peril that had menaced her. pet a world was all before her; she never realized how great until she looked around and thought how smalland insignificant a portion of itshe was. = . The moon had now risen, making everything almost-as clear as day. Pf | A turnin the road brought the house she had quitted into full view. , ’s As [va looked back shé could seé not only the open windows of hér room but-the cord suspend- ed from it, and which showed very plainly . against the dark wood-work: She could not but shudder, as she saw*how far from the ground it was; and ‘how small the chance was of ‘her reaching it without loss of life or limb. an os ae pa it must be after midnight, she quickened her steps, directing them to the near- est Pr a where she could take a car for the ferry. ‘hére were few rae, rscen Car or boat, and it bightened the lonely feeling that began to as entering the ladies’ cabin she Allof her comipanions were men, which in- yt et her uncomfortable feeling. She'took a furtive look around. - . In the opposite corner was a man, whose gen- $ nial “bearing ‘and frank, honest_ face, in- ‘spired’an involuntary feeling of confidence in the beholder. - ' He looked at Irva, as she entered, with even more than the ery, interest one might take in seeing’ a young girl out alone at so late an hour. | Something almost like recognition came into his eyes; then, as if convinced of his mis- take, he settled himself back in his seat again. » Almost immediately, two. men came in and took seats near Irva; very flashily dressed, and who looked as if they had been drinking. ' Onseeing Irva they winked at each other, and then began to take every possible way to at- ‘tract her attention. ~ Not succeeding in their endeavors, one of them said: ‘* Ahem !are you quite alone, miss?” ’ Irva’s only notice of this was to take a seat on the other side. ; : Upon which’ the man nudged his companion, both bursting into a laugh. ) This was not unobserved by the man in one corner, who was watching them; into whose ‘eyes * there came’ an cminous flash, but who ‘made no other demonstration. Poor Irva had now a new trouble and per- plexity. ‘The address given her by Ellen, and which was her only refuge, had entirely escaped her memory. was in vain that she strove to recall a she could rememiber neither street nor number. The boat mee yee) and Irva hurried out, arx- ous to avoid the men, who she saw were bent ‘on annoying her, though shé had not the faint- est idea where to direct her steps. Determined not to losé sight’ of her, the two men pressed on behind; catching up with her dust as she crossed, over into Fulton s ‘ + ie Se ee 2. rs . BLIND! BARBERA! SECRET.” ‘world!? ‘We are going the same way, pretty one, and | will take Cano Or youn” nanan sue Irva uttered a scream as the fellow tried to | draw her arm within his. A moment later, a well-directed blow sent | him sprawling into the gutter, while his com- | panion took to his heels. Leaving him to the mercies of the officer, who | now came hurrying to the scene, his assailant turned to Irva, who had sunk down upon the curbstone. “T trust you are not hurt, madame?” he said, | sith a courteous lifting of the hat. Irva arose, with some difficulty, to her feet. | he stranger looked into the pale face, turned . s) appealingly toward him. | “ Don’tbe frightened. The cowardly ruffians | have met with their just deserts, and you are | quite safe. As it is late fora lady to be out, unattended, allow me to be your escort. What car or stage do you take?” This was not only a puzzling, but embarrass- ing question to Irva. ; ““T don’t know. I have forgotten—” The stranger wdited for her to finish her sen- tence; and then said: re What part of the city do you wish to go to?” “ God help:me!—I don’t know that, either!” The man cast a sharp, inquiring look upon the ‘speaker’s face, whose’ simplicity and innocence rebuked his momentary suspicion. “‘Tf- you will tell me where your friends are, I will take you to them.” a-“I have no friénds!|—not one in all the Physical ‘sufferitig had been added to Irya’s ‘mental distress; and now became unendurable. ‘“T have’ hurt my foot—and can go no fur- ther.” wee The stranger glanced at the face, that was wing momentarily paler. “Good Heaven! what a brute-Iam!’ Sit down upon this step, and I will get a carriage.” Parting away to the next corner, he returned, sa : MT have sent for'one; it will be here shortly.” Irva’s nerves now began to feel the effects of the strain to which they had been subjected during the last twenty-four hours; added to-this was the pain of her sprained : kle, and which | nearly drove her wil ade , ; | He found her sobbing with an abandonment | of grief that went straight to his generous heart, It was a peculiarity of Richard Harrington’s | that he could never endure to seé a woman cry, He could bear any amount of hard words and hard knocks, but tears especially from such'a soures, to use his own words, floored’ him.” . ‘ He had the'tenderest, as well as bravest heart 'in the world. | Don't! don’t! T bég of you,” he cried. “You really distress me! ‘You say you hayeno friends; | let me be your friend. My name is Harrington, | Richard’ Harrington; very much at your’ ser- vice. You can trust me; I am man. Only tell me what TE can do for you.” With a strong effort, Irva subdued her sobs, ‘Thank you,” she said); with a faint smile; “youlare very good. All Task is to be con: veyed to some hotel. Tt must be to a low-priced one, because I have—very little money.” . pa voice faltered, as she remembered how ttle. : ; Harrington went to the corner of the street to seo if he could discover anything of the pombe | “] think I have a better plan than. that,” he | said, on return. “‘T en rooms and | board for a lady, who is not likely to want them, I went to'the depot for her this evening, | but only to find that she was one of the victims ‘of a‘terrible railroad accident. The house is | very quiet, and kept by a nice old body, one of my mother’s family servants. It will much pleasanter for you there than at a hotel.” ‘¢ Tt will, indeed,” was’the grateful response. The carriage had now arrived. Irva made an unsuccessful effort to risé to her | feet, the very attempt to put her injured foot | tothe pavement extracting a moan. “Don’t try to walk; let me carry you!” And before Irva could remonstrate, if she had | felt inclined to do so, those strong arms had borne her to the carriage, almost, it seemed, without an effort. Fg Richard had the instincts of a true gentleman; he felt the fluttering of her heart, and saw how. | quickly she disengaged herself from his arms, | and as soon as he made sure that she’ was com- _fortably placed, he took a seat in an’ opposite corner, * ; | “Well, this ¢s an adventure!” was his inward’ reflection, asthe carriage droveaway. “Ifany one else had been guilty of sucha quixotic act, ; should have set him down fora donkey! But . “completely - am an honorable ' 2 t+ i ee ae eae ee — (it’s all right. What a sweet face she Has! I'll stake my life on her purity and goodness.” | Then his thoughts reverted to another, and : not quite so pleasant. channel. Hannah had one of the kindest of hearts, if it: was aeptoeched from the right, direction; but she had some old-fashioned notions. And the longer he reflected on it, the more dubious he became of her willingness to take into her house a strange lady, of whose very name he was ig- norant! He must ascertain that at all events. ““T have told you my name,” he said aloud; ‘and now you ought tolet me know yours?” Tt was some moments before Irva replied. “My Christian name is Irva,; there is no other to which I have any right. The one I have al- ways borne, [ do not dare to bear any longer.” ichard was more perplexed, as well as mys- fitied than ever. Then a sudden thought struck im, “Suppose we allow the woman to think you are the lady she was expecting, just for to-night? | Her name was Lane. Mine is Harrington, Do you think you can remember?” a Yes,” The voice was so faint that Richard looked anxiously at the speaker. The light from a street lamp streamed in upon her, revealing closed eyes and a face deadly white. ins to the man to driye faster, he lifted the head until it rested against his shoulder, ‘chafing the little cold hands. In spite of his alarm, a thrill of pleasure stir- red Richard’s heart as he felt the pressure of the unconscious form, whose very helplessness ap- ealed to all that was manly in his nature. Far rom wronging her, even in thought, he felt that. he could-die in her defense. As soon as the carriage Peer he jumped out, and-running up the steps of the houseit was. in front of, rung the bell furiously. A night-capped head made its appearance from one of the upper windows. — “Ts that you, Mr. Richard?” Yes, ‘Come down, quick!” As soon as the woman could slip on a dress,. she was at the door, ‘*It was so late, I’d given up expectin’ you.” “There has been a terrible accident on the road, Hannah; a great many killed and wound- ed. I hope the qpung lady’s room is ready, as: she is in a condition to need every care and at- tention.” Without waiting to hear Hannah’s exclama -tions of astonishment and horror, Richard re- turned to the carriage, and taking out the limp, unconscious form, carried it up the steps. “ Merciful goodness! is she dead?” exclaimed. Hannah, as she caught a glimpse of LIrva’s face. “No; she’s hurt her foot badly, and fainted from the pain.” Laying’ his unconscious burden on the bed, Richard rushed for a doctor; Hannah calling after him that there was one next door. Luckily the doctor was at home, and after see- ing him go up-stairs to‘his patient, Richard wait~ | ed in the hall, rather impatiently it must be cot — fessed, for it was nearly half an hour before he came down, He smiled, as he saw Richard’s.anxious-face. “The young lady has a bruise on her head and her ankle is badly swollen. T have reduced. the latter, and fen her a. sedative. She will be all right in the morning.” Hannah now made her ap ce. “You had better stop here to-night, Mr. Richard. Now, put down that hat; you're not in’ out at this late hour, while Hannah Prouty as a room an’ bed to offer ye!” The tone in which this-‘was spoken reminded Richard so much of his boyhood, that he-could not help smiling as he followed the good wo- man up-stairs into a room, in whose neat and pleasant aspect evidently she took no littie pe very thinly vailed by an air of depreca- on. “Taint what you're accustomed to, I know; but I hope you’ll manage to make yourself com- fortable.” “T know it isn’t,” said Richard, with a roguish twinkle of the eye. ‘I’ve slept most of the time, during the past six months,in the rita’ oron the d ground; but I’ll try to get ong. “ Beg used to tuck me in and kiss me good- night,” he added, with a laugh. “I suppose I'll have to dispense with those luxuries now? How did you leave the young art, . “Asleep, Doii’t you think she looks young for a.governess?” _— ~ “T haven't thought ech about it,” said Rich- ard, rather curtly, who felt that he was getting upon dangerous ground. Then, not caring to pursue the conversation, i ] a Wo
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. - BLIN 5 ‘he-laid aside his coat, and began to draw otf his boots. Upon which Hannah vanished with a celerity that provoked a smile from Richard, who was - well acquainted with her peculiarities. ad As tired as he was, his mind was too excited for sleep. 4 Ne think Jl try a sedative,” he said to him- se And lighting a cigar, he sat for half an hour or more, watching the blue smoke curl over his ead, and thinking of his strange, and by no eans unpleasant adventure. How re et it was that one so formed to at- tract and please should be, apparently, so alone and friendless! _ “T have it!” he suddenly exclaimed, bring- ing his hand down suddenly upon his knee. “TI know, now, where I saw her; in that church in Brooklyn, the Sunday I visited George!” How vividly that scene rose up before him! That dim old church, the crowd of worshipers; and among them the fair, sweet face, that had haunted him ever since—haunted him like some- thing seen in his dreams, he could not remember how, nor where. And now she was here, under the same roof, thrown so strangely upon his care and protec- tion! “And T will pro her!” he cried, flinging away the stump of his cigar. ‘‘She is a good, geri girl, whoever she is; and I will be er friend until she gets a better.” CHAPTER XV. A NEW NAME AND PATH. Wuen Irva awoke the next morning, it was nearly noon. ] As she looked about on her new surroundings, it was some time before she could think where she.was, or what had happened. She stared.so wildly into the face of. Hannah as she addressed her by her new name, that had it not been for the smile that followed, the good Woman would have feared that her brain was ected, Irva’s ne felt _prnens es mnehes bead } © was 0 ad to drink the nice basin oe roth eink, was wealet tocher cit , and laying her head back upon the pillow, close her ©yes again. Hannah’s kind, motherly heart had been won by the first glimpse she had obtained of the girlish face, lying there so white that it almost Seemed like death. P She was,that real blessing to infirm humanity & natural-born nurse. Smoothing the rumpled counterpane, she moved softly about. the room, reducing to order every disorderly element in it; her very presence atitasing a soothing influ- ence around, And before Irva knew it, oe in the land of dreams. ne time she did not awake until it. was grow- e was ing d x fhe thought uppermost in her mind was: that she was very hungry. This was almost, imme- diately followed -by.the appearance of Hannah bearing a tray, whose covered dishes gave forth a very grateful odor, - ungry; are ye?” she said, with a beaming smile, m always glad to hear that of them Thave the care of; for it shows they’re gettin’ better, ; I've brung ye a bit of broiled chicken, a roast potato an’ some. toast, an’ I don’t want eating tae tat Snahak econ tho tos ating the gas, Hannah plac e tray on the small Sanh tania by the bed: and then seat- ing herself at a short distance viewed Irva’s evi- dent appreciation of her culinary skill with a smile of self-complacency and approval. ‘ You’ve done very well,” she said, asshbe sur- veyed the nearly-empty plates, and speaking . down ho very much in the tone one would use to a child. ‘Now what shall I tell Mr. Richard? He's an’ asked me to tell you that. he you was gittin’ better.” ‘Say that I am quite comfortable, and very, grateful to him!” annah was a, little puzzled at the warmth of _ the concluding sentence. “He hain’t done nothin’ more’n what owas his duty to do,” she said, as she turned to the door; “but I'l tell him, all the same.” ‘Hannah gave Richard a minute and Yer characteristic account of her patient, to whic he listened very attentively. Pm glad you feel so kindly toward her; she is an orphan, with no home or friends.” There couldn’t nobody help bein’ kind to her, J should say !” was the almost-indignant re- Laing! “Why, she’s the gratefulest little body ever did see, an’ so afraid of makin’ the least- est bit of trouble. To think of her sendin’ any ‘such word to ve. «As if you’d have left her to Perish by the roadside!” Te ee ea When Hannah knocked at Irva’s docr, the next morning, she found her up and dressed, to her manifest satisfaction. “Pm right glad to see you lookin’ so much better, though you don’t look any too well now. Ihad my breakfast more’n an hour ago, an’ you can have yours here, or down-stairs.” Irva preferred the latter; following her host- ess down’ into a cheerful little room, half din- ing-room and half sitting-room. A canary was singing in a cage in the win- dow, and a sleek black cat purring on the sill beneath. “Here you see my whole family,” said Han- nah; “‘ Master Dick and Master Jack.” As Irva_ stood ig ie RY Jacky’s song, and | stroking the velvety back of his four-footed friend, her thoughts reverted to Barby, and her constant companions, Tip and J toa What would she not give to know how it was with that old and faithful friend! As Hannah began to'lay the cloth for ber breakfast, Irva noticed the small size of the ta- ble and its appointments, which could not have seated comfortably more than four. “T thought you kept boarders?” “No, only lodgers. I like them a deal better. They all have business outside; going away in the mornin’ at’ not comin’ back till night. “No, I told Mr. Richard I'd take you, the short time you was goin’ to stay in the city, but I would- nt make a practice on’t for no money. Not that IP’d_ mind it so much if they was all as nice an’ quiet as you be. But the majority on ’em ain't, not by no manner of means. I had enough of that sort of nag when my poor dead-and- one husband was ‘live. Whena Lan has got my age, and worked hard all ther life, they want a little rest an’ quiet.” Hannah paused a moment, but only to take breath. ; ** Your breakfast’ will be ready in five minutes. I didn’t make the coffee, because I wanted it to be fresh. Here’s the morning’s paper, with all about that dreadful accident in it. “Curious en- euch, they’ve got your name in the list of the killed, I told:Mr. Richard that he orter have it sorrected, but he said as how *twas no manner of use; them pesky newspaper men was so pig- headed an’ contra’y that they never would own they was mistaken "bout aay ee Very un- at see ee of ’em, to say the least.” Trva shivered as her eye fell upon the name of the ill-fated lady, into whose place she had so mysteriously erp, What a terrible fate for o1ne'so young! Yet it was a question if she were not the most fortunate of the two. Her graye look was not unnoticed by Han- “ih. ‘You've had a very fortunate escape, Miss Tane.” ““T have, indeed!” echoed Irva, who had more cause for titude than Hannah supposed. ‘While she was breakfasting, Hannah was sum- moned up-stairs by the ringing of the door-bell, Yeturning in a few minutes. ' As soon as Irva rose from the table, she said: “Mr, Richard is up-stairs, in the parlor, wait- ing to see you.” . : annah noticed the agitation that Irva vain- ly strove to subdue, with some surprise, though ascribing it to the shock her nervous system had received, ‘* He ain’t in noburry. I told him that you was at breakfast; an’ he insisted that I should- n’t tell you till you had finished.” Had Irva beena royal princess, Richard could not have bowed over the hand she extended to him with an air of more . Ho saw the doubts and misgivings so plainly visible in her constrained manner and varying color, and hastened to reassure her. Leading her to the sofa, he wheeled an easy- chair in front of her, and sat down; a proceed- ing that served to still her fluttering nerves and uf her more at ease than anything he could ve said. Irva remembered what he said to her on the night of their first meeting: “You can trustme Lam an honorable man;” and as she looked. ae those honest blue eyes, she felt that he spoke wy. . tn order to invite her confidence, Richard told her all about himself. How he was an orphan, whose nearest relatives were two sisters, one a half-sister, several years older than himself. He told her about Hannah, who had lived with his mother until her marriage; relating Various anecdotes illustrative of her kindness of heart and commonsense; displaying such a fund of kindly and honorable feeling himself, that before she was aware of it, Irva was talking to cg as freely as if she had known him all her D BARBARA’S SECRET. ee ee ee Richard eaddenlp Checked the ‘tide’ of ‘his re- miniscences. ‘* Now, let me hear a little about you. To commence at the beginning, how are you feel- Pal, rva’s cheeks flushed. e ‘* Very much as if I were a ship, sailing under false colors.” “ Ah! well: we'll fix that all right.” Then catching the questioning look in the shy eyes at were lifted to his, he added, with a lawgh: F : Miss Irva—you told me that was your name, : I think—you look at me as if I was an ogre. Now, in spite of my six feet of stature, and fero- cious appearance, generally, I do assure you that I am a most harmless fellow.” “*T don’t think you the least bit of an ogre,” umiled Irva. ‘‘On the.contrary, I find it impos- sible to express my appreciation of your gener- us and noble conduct.” Richard’s face lighted upat this sounded hp sweet to him. “Show it by trusting me a little.” Richard looked at the face, whose varying color showed the cor. flict that was going on. “Don’t think that I want to pry into anything that you wish to conceal. Only if there is any- thing that you would liké to tell me, I pledge myself to regard it as a most sacred confidence ; giving you all the counsel and assistance in my power. It was some moments ‘before Irva spoke, and when she did, it was slowly and with hesitation. “T have little to tell, and that little is not pleasant to speak of, or remember. I am a worse than orphan; my mothet died when I was a baby—my father I never saw. I was called ty the name of the woman who brought me up, » but to which I have no just claim: i dare not bear that name any longer, because I have an enemy, a bad and cruel man, from whom I wish to escape. Pray do not think me ungrateful, but I cannot, dare not tell you more!” “You need not;'I will not ask you another question. I said what I did, hoping that I might ‘be able to serve’ you.” ‘* The only way by which you can do that is to obtain me some kind of employment.” Richard glanced from the small hands to the tace, which, with all its delicacy of-outline, had a certain air of steadiness and resolution. ‘*Have you ever taught any?”. ‘‘No; but I think I could, if ‘the pupils were not too far advanced.” Richard was silent, and Irva continued: “ff you knew of any place, I should beso glad. I would be content with very small salary. ° ; ‘A stranger would find it next to an impossi- bility, without credentials.” e Irva’s countenance fell. “The place with my sister, that Miss Lane, » r thing, was to fill, is now vacant, and woul just suit you.” " ‘““Would she taks me without references?” Richard knew what a careful mother his sister was, ; “Could she have an rabbi oa of knowing | you, she would trust you I am sure. Supposing you go and make a trial of it. ce get has on seen Miss Lane, and knows nothing of her eath. “ Without letting her know who Iam!—would that be right?” “T don’t think it would be wrong—under the circumstances. I don’t mean, of course, to con- tinue the supposition, but only for a few weeks, until you have had time to win her confidence, as you will be sure to do, You can then tell her how itis. Or, if you would rather not do so, I will look around, in the meantime, and find you some other opening. There is no possible chance for detection, as the lady whose name and place you take had no relatives except a younger brother, who was adopted by a man out West. “As for wronging my sister in any way, I secure for her children a good govern and that is all she requires. You will not fin ng duties hard or irksome. My sister is praise, which horough lady, in every sense of the word, and , will do everything to make her home pleasant. to you. ere are only three children, the oldest not ten yet, very quiet and well: be- haved.” ; ‘““T have no doubt of its being a desirable nati ey no féars that my duties will be too ard. : : “Then leave the rest tome,” interrupted Richard, gayly. enoug: to take all the responsibility. If any- le eaaln I will take especial to see thaé it falls on the right party.” : “Now, my dear Miss Lane—thatis your name | now: you know—I want you to consider me tne ‘My shoulders are broad. .
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16 BLIND BARBARA’S SECRET. big brother you had forgotton you had, and who would only be too happy to be of service to you. The tears sprung to Irva’s eyes. ‘**T wish you were!” The honest fellow’s face flushed at the strong protest his heart uttered against this wish. ‘* As children say, ‘let us make believe,’ that it isso. And in that relation, pore me to re- mark, as it was the intention of Miss Lane, that was, to do some shopping in the city, perhaps Miss Lane, that is, would like to do some, also. In that case, I hope she will allow me to be her banker; with the proviso, however, that she repay me when her quarter is due,” Irva felt the thoughfulness and delicacy of these words, “I think I have a way of obtaining all I shall need. To show my appreciation of your_kind- ness, I promise, in case I am mis let you know.” , ‘“Now remember. In the meantime, I will write to my sister; mentioning the accident, and the delay it has occasioned, and making everything clear and straight for you.” The resource to which Irva alluded was the chaia, from which was suspended the locket con- taining her mother’s picture. On returning to her room she examined it. It _ was heavy and of solid gold, and must have cost considerable.in the day of it. he jeweler to whom she ae offered her twenty-five dollars, less than half its worth; but it was more than Irva expected, and it was very gladly accepted. On her return she found a trunk in her room, on which were the initials of her new name. In the bonnet-box was a brown straw hat, trimmed with velvet of the same color, and a long, drooping feather; much handsomer than she would have Ebcaghe of buying. In another part of it were gloves, handker- ‘ey and various other articles of feminine ap- pare Irva knew, in a moment, who they were from, but when Richard came in the evening, and she taxed him with it, half-reproachfully, he made strange of the whole affair, declaring it to be a mystery too deep for him to fathom. CHAPTER XVI. WHAT HANNAH THOUGHT ABOUT IT, Ir was finally settled that Irva should wait a week longer than the time at first decided upon, so that Richard could accompany her. _“*T want to see sister Kate and the babies,” he said. ‘‘And then it will be better, taking everything into consideration, that I should go wiki mat ften took tea at Hannah’s during thi shard often a 8 is interval, and was invariably there every eve- ning. is always had some ostensible errand. “T only ran in for a minute,” he would say, laughingly. But. Hannah noticed that his minutes were re- markably long ones, stretching themselves into an hour, at the shortest. She was very shrewd and sharp-sighted, and began to feel a little un at two young peo- ple, each so formed as to please and attract the other, yet so different in position, being thrown so much together. She always used a great deal of freedom in speaking to Richard, treating him very much as she did when he was boy, and which, as it amused him, he had encouraged. One night she followed out onto the steps, oy on were always fond of me, Mr. Richard,” she said, dryly: ‘‘but there never was a time « before that you couldn’t exist without seeing me twice in twenty-four hours!” ‘Richard colo ‘“‘ What foolish notion have you got into your head, now?” he nangneds ‘Mind that you don’t get foolish notions into somebody else’s head.” “ What do you mean?” Hannah looked up into the big blue eyes ‘which had the same honest look that they ad when he was a boy. __ “T know that you wouldn’t do nothin’ wrong, Mr. Richard, not if you knowed it; but young men is so thoughtless., Miss Lane is a nice little body; I never took so to any one before on such short uaintance. An’ she’s ain’t no denyin’ that. An’ I’m glad to see you Richard listened to this with a visible impa- tience, that almost amounted to anger. “What nonsense! Hannah. To hear you and my sisters talk, one would suppose I belonged to the blood-royal, instead of being an American- born citizen, penniless, but for the bounty of my uncle, who may leave his property to some one else, as he has a perfect right to do. Miss | Lane is my equal, in every respect, and the man will be fortunate that wins her. Not that I su pore that she has for me any other than the indly feeling she would naturally entertain en, I will, for one who has honestly tried to serve her. ‘‘You mustn’t think that every one sees me through your partial eyes,” he added, his man- ner regaining its u air of careless good-na- ture. ‘‘I really am not so dangerous a fellow as youimagine. Good-night.” Irva, who was standing near the open window of the room above, could not help hearing much of this. ‘She smiled, as she thought of the little likeli- hood there was of her forgetting their relative positions. “‘T shall not forget, either,” she thought “how much I owe to him. ow kindly an generonyy, he spoke of me, my brave defender! PPY the woman that wins such a true and loyal heart. It certainly will not be a friend- less, nameless girl like me.” There was a certain something in Irva’s man- ner, gentle as it was, that deterred Hannah from giving her any intimation of her fears. But in their iy Se talks, in the long after- noons when Irva brought her sewing down into the sitting-room, she contrived to drop various hints which she thought would serve to put her on her guard. She was very fond of the Harrington femelle, with whom she had spent her younger days. It was easy to perceive that Richard had always been her favorite, and many were the anecdotes and incidents that she had related to Irva con- cerning him, allof them of a nature to increase her admiration of his character. Hannah was not slow to notice. the uncon- scious interest Irva took in all that related to and she now changed her tactics. “Mr, Richard was educated by a rich and childless uncle, who sets all the world by him,” she said, the next afternoon, as og sat sewing together. ‘‘So do his sisters—I think I never see sisters more attached to a brother than they be. They all count on his making a high mar- “fo annah glanced over to where Irva was sit- | ting, as she said this, but whose deepening color alone showed that she heard it. ‘‘ Miss Ida Weston is goin’ to be the fortunate lady, by all that.I can hear,” pursued Hannah, tearing off another breadth of the dress she was making, ‘She isn’t rich, but she’s of a high family. Mr. Richard’s uncle and Judge Weston graduated at the same college, and were always great friends. Miss Weston is very han’some an’ stylish-lookin’, as well as highly connected. She was on here, last winter, a-visitin’ his: sis- ter,.an’ I mind that Mr. Richard was mighty attentive.” : ; Irva made no reply, and Hannah did not pur- sue the subject further. The good woman’s conscience pricked her a little; for she knew that Richard d Miss Weston no more attention than one of his kind- ly nature would naturally pay to his sister’s est. en I mean it for her good,” she said to herself, | Forest “Tf she has got any sech notion into her head, an’ they should find it out where she’s ve *twould be jest the wust thing that could hap- pen to her; an’ it’s pay a kindness to give her a eetle warnin’, I don’t exactly like the way he looks at her, or the way she colors up when he aks. But I don’t believe there’s any danger. oe watched ’em when they didn’t think I was notcin’, an’ I couldn’t see nothin’ more’n com- mon. He treats her asif she was a queen, a ghe ain't the least mite forrerd, I'll say that er! Irva’s simple preparations were soon made, She got herself a brown traveling-suit, just the shade of her hat, with gloves to match, in which she looked very nicely. Richard glanced approvingly at her costume, as he entered the room where she sat waiting for him. - There was not a bit of color about her except in her cheeks, and these were as bright as the kind to her, “ You orter be kind to allsech; help- bunch of roses he handed her. in’ them all you can, in their own life an’ way. But you an’ she can’t never be more to each other than you be now. An’ ’tain’tno real kind- ness for a man in your persition to pay a girl in hers too much attention.” All ready, I see, Then we'll be off directly, as we have only just time to catch the boat.” There were actually tears in Hannahb’s eyes as she followed them to the door. **T declare, I shall,be lonesome enough now!” she said, as Irva bid her good-by. “T am really potting. jealous of Miss Lane,” laughed Richard; ‘‘ you never put such a long face as that on whenever J went away!” ‘‘ Be sure you come an’ see me whenever you come to the city!” called out Hannah, as they went down the steps. “Of course she’ll come,” said Richard, look- ing back; ‘I shall bring her myself,” What a nice-looking couple they be!” thought Hannah, as she looked afterthem. ‘It almost seems as if they was made for each other. But, lawful sakes, uncle would never consent in the world, an’ as fur Miss Janey an’ Miss Kate, they’d go distracted at the ig thoughts on’t.” In less than half an_hour Richard and Irva were steaming up the Hudson. It was a beautiful day, and they remained most of the time on deck, It was the first trip Irva had had up the river, and everything was new and delightful. With Richard, it had lost the charm of nov- elty, but he took great pleasure in pointing out to Irva the beautiful residences and places of note by. which they passed. Indeed, he felt that it was, by far, the pleasantest tripshe had ever taken, ending all too soon. ‘“We are nearly home now,” he said, with a half-sigh; “it seems as if we had come in half the usual time. “Yonder is Forest Hill,” he added, pointing to a house perched upon a rocky eminence far above their heads. ‘We have to pass it to get to the landing.” It was likely to be her home for some months, - east, and Irva surveyed it with no little in- rest. It looked Ly. solitary, with no habitation anywhere near it. erhaps this thought was visible in Irva’s countenance, for Richard said: _‘“You_ cannot tell much about it from the river. On the other side the ascent is so grad- ual as hardly to be noticed, and the country roundabout very beautiful. My sister spends most of her time there, on account of the chil- dren. But coming from the city, I fear, at first, it will seem rather lonely to you.” — “Tdo not like the city, and am very, very glad to leave it.” : As Richard looked at the speaker he remem- bered what she had told him. Ai could be an enemy of one so gentle and go They had now touched the dock. Beside a low, open carriage stood a colored boy, his gliste teeth very apparent in the smile that broadened his face. “There is Jack waiting for us,” said Richard. “This way, Miss Lane.” ““How do you do, Jack? All well at the house?” “ All-very well, I thanks you Mr. Richard,” responded Jack, with a low bow. ichard assisted Irva in, taking the reins into his own hands. é “Tl drive, Jack; you can ride back on the express. -“All right. I’ve got to stop for the mail, anyhow. They told me to come for the young y, but they didn’t nobody say as how you was comin’, Mr, Richard.” . ‘“‘There didn’t any one know it. I thought I'd take them by surprise. Richard had spoken truly; the scenery which lay on each side of the winding road that led to Hill was very beautiful, and a rie picrig! feeling came over Irva as she loo around. ann like it?” said Richard, who had been ae, watching her, “Yes, Ihave spent most of my time in the waive g” HI and it seems like getting home.” _“T knew it,” thought Ric , his mind be- nning to be lost in a sea of conjectures as to ow one, manifestly so unused to the world, should be thrust so entirely upon it. A sudden turn of the road brought the house into view, on the broad piazza of which a lady sat pene Two children were chasing each other over the lawn. ; As soon as they saw Richard the u loud shout. “ Gane Ses ‘* There’s uncle Dick, mamma!” The lady threw down her book and was down to the carriage almost as soon as they. . i pins really you, panes 1 ‘This is r me,” responded Richard, re- turning the kiss that was given him. ‘“ jain come alone, you see, Miss th i ter, Mrs. Vater” as at There was an expression of surprise in the 4
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BLIND BARBARA’S SECRET. 47 lady’s eyes as she turned them upon Irva, who evidently did not look at all as she expected. _ Mrs, Vernon was asmall, fair, pleasant-look- ing lady, who looked young to be the mother i the children who were clinging to Richard’s ands. She received Irva very kindly. . “T hope you have fully recovered from your injuries, Miss Lane. We were greatly shocked ‘>see your name among the killed, and very ‘uch relieved when we got Richard’s letter.” Irva was too truthful and conscientious not to scl keenly her false position. The color came and went, and there wassuch a confused feeling in her head that she dared not trust herself to reply, except by the simple expression of her thanks. _ Perceiving her embarrassment, Richard now interposed. “Miss Lane is not very strong as yet, and I take the liberty of suggesting that she be shown directly to her room.’ They had now reached the house, and touch- ing the bell, Mrs. Vernon consigned Irva to the care of the colored girl that answered it. “How different she looks from what I thought she would from Rev. Dr. Quinlan’s letter,” said Miss Vernon, as she looked after her. Richard, who had the youngest of the little Vernons clingin to his neck, suddenly put her down, and ined up. “ What kind of a description did he giveof her, pra. “*) don’t know that he oe any icular de- scription, only I gathered from it that she was older, and not so—so pe iS Richard’s spirits suddenly rose. ars and pretty, what a terrible misfor- e! “You may laugh, Dick,” said his sister, a lit- tle gravely, ‘‘ bat it 7s a misfortune for a girl in Miss Lane’s position to be so pretty.” “Position! I wonder if there is a word in the English lan, e that you and Janey have so often on your lips?” ; “‘T wish you thought of it a little more,” was the reproachful response. 1 wish I did,” said Richard, dryly; ‘‘ espe- cially when I have so much to boast of. I think our maternal grandfather was a shoemaker!” was asore subject with Mrs, Vernon, as her brother well knew. You will be always bringing that up, Dick; When you know as well as1 do that grandpa fk worked at his trade since we can remem- “I beg your pardon, sis, but grandpa Baker made me my first pair of boots; and Rive ones they were!‘ I am really proud ef the old man. And I know ‘another thing; that father was never sorry he married the shoemaker’s daugh- ter, Now tell me honestly, Kate, would you exchange her for Janey’s?” Kate thought of what she had heard about her father’s first wife. xo «“ Well, no. Still it would be very nice if our mamma had been as rich as Janey’s.” “So she could have made her daughter as rich, But she wasn’t. So while Kate Harring- ton was married fcr love, Jane Harrington was married for her money. Poor Kate! fortunate Janey |” Ka laughed. ; You know I don’t think any such thing, ou provoking fellow! I wouldn’t take Janey’s hus- and for all her money. But for all that, money and position are good things to have, and ou can’t “arto s me to the contrary.” don’t wish to. I only-want you to realize that there are some things worth more than si ha ” ichard now commenced a series of gymnas- gs one cord “i hea hidend ullin, iatieett- at his hand, and which ended in his perechin the delighted child on his shoulder. . x4 I saw Dr. Quinlan’s name among the passen- 8ers on that fatal train. I sup that there was no mistake about his death?” 1 think not. By the way, Kate, Miss Lane’s ioe system has received quite a shock, and wa were you I wouldn’t ask her anything about et accident. I don’t suppose she knows any 8 Soy about it than you have seen in the papers. ane is an orphan; ponte here among entire all ngers, and I feel sure that my sister will do she can to make her comfortable.” fea’ had no small share of the fund of good on — made her brother so believed by all pe pee new him; though it was considerably re nee by her different training. roo ote? I will. Uhave given her the east ‘-pleake opening out of the school-room, one of the I ap in the house. You haven't seen the en ah since it was altered. I’ve had the Ows cut down to the floor that look out Bs a eS. ey & © “tue upon the garden, and you don’t know what 4 difference it makes.” With one child on his shoulder, and the othr two clinging to his coat, Richard followed his sister into the school-room, whose pleasant a ponmens and deep, low windows, fronting { he east, gave it a very cheerful and sunny as ect. e He listened absently to Kate’s talk of all the trouble she had to get things to her liking. As his eyes, rested age the chair in front of the baize-covered desk, his thoughts reverted to its probable occupant. Then aloud: ‘Tt, really, is a great improvement, Kate. I don’t see how it could be altered for the better.” CHAPTER XVII. SUDDEN SUMMONS AND A HASTY FAREWELL. “OnE letter for you, my dear, and two for Richard,” said Mr. Vernon the next day, as he looked over the evening mail. Mr. Vernon was a nice, fresh pepeiocking man, in spite of the incipient baldness that was such a source of anxiety to his wife, who was devotedly attached to him. Indeed the love that these two had for each other was some- thing very pleasant to contemplate. Kate read her letters with a pleased smile upon her face. Then she came over to where her brother was ans. “T have good news for you, Richard, Whodo you think is coming to visit us?’ “Janey?” “No; , ere is coming, but not now. It is the young lady you took so much interest in last winter. How stupid! Can’t you guess?” “My dear Kate, you will have to tellme, I always was stupid in guessing riddles, I reall can’t seem to recall any young lady in whom took any particular interest.” Kate looked almost provoked. , Miss Weston, to be sure.” “Yes, And I’m so glad on your account, Dick. I was telling John, last night, that I was afraid it would be dull for you.” “Thank you. What with your society and the children’s, riding, rowing and fishing, I think I should find life endurable, even without the charming addition you mention.” “Then you don’t really care for her coming?” said Kate, in a Nien rm tone. “T can’t say that I do, Partilaiy, ‘Don’t look so sober, Kate,” he added, smil- ing back sa her from the open doorway. ‘*You ought to consider it a compliment that I prefer your society to that of this brilliant belle and gee ni : Kate looked after him, with a half-sigh. “‘T wonder if he néver means to marry,” she thought, ‘‘He’s twenty-four and past. I would- n’t mind it so much, if it wasn’t for the fear of his making a mesalliance, which I dread above all things, and which he is just the man todo. I wish be would take a fancy toIda. They would make such a splendid couple. And then I should know he was safe. I know she likes him.” **Miss Weston will be here on the evening boat,” said Kate, the next morning at the break- fast table, speaking to her husband, but looking over at Richard. “Well, who is going after her? that is the next thing to be considered,” said Mr. Vernon, “Tam,” said Richard, Kate’s face brightened. _ ‘“T wish you would, Richard. I know Ida would rather have you than any one.” “Tam not so sure of that; but I’m going, all the same.” When Irva entered the school-room that morn- ing. she found a lovely bouquet on her desk. here had been one there the preceding morn- ing. Supposing it to be an offering from one of her pupils, she made no comments on it except to praise its beauty. Now she said: “Which of flowers? Was it you, Harry?” “No, ma’am.” “T know!” cried Ada. ‘T'was uncle Dick; I see him.” * Little tell-tale,” said a voice at the door. Turning, Irva saw Ric ‘. “*Good-morning, Miss Lane. Am I intrud- ing?” B Not in the least! You have been here be- fore, I perceive,” added Irva, pointing to the owers. ‘“‘Ineed not ask how you are in health,” said Richard, his eyes resting admiringly i the radiant face, whose color glowed more brightly as he ‘* But as I was the means of your coming, I feel anxious to know if you find your ad : Seas a. ou brought me those beautiful | home pleasant here, and if every one is as kind to you as L could wish?” “Tt could hardly bemore pleasant. And every one is as kind to me aseven you could wish, who have keen the kindest of all.” ¥ rr And you do not find your pupils troublesome, ope? ‘Not at all. They are very good children, and I am beginning to love them dearly.” “‘T am glad to hear that, very glad, on your account, children. Because if you are not stu- dious and careful not to make your teacher trouble, I shall take her back to New York. I brought her here, and I shall claim the privilege of taking her away.” ; Richard did not look at Irva as he said this. In the silence that followed he moved toward the door, ‘“‘ How long do your duties confine you here?” ‘*From nine until three.” ‘ ‘Then, with your permission, I will come again about four, to have a frolic with the chil- dren, and bring you a new book I have been reading, and which I think will interest you.” Richard was as good as his word; his appear- ance being hailed by the children with a shout of oy. ‘ : Piacin a chair for Irva on the grassy terrace that ran beneath the low windows, he gave her the book, pointing out some passages in it that pleased her. He paused a moment, to look into the eyes Ud so serenely to his, Then he turned .to the children that were impatiently waiting for him. ‘i ‘*Now I will relieve you, for a time, f:om these torments.” The shouts and laughter of the children brought Kate out on the lawn. Perceiving Irva, she came up the steps of the terrace, and seating herself on {the top one, be- gan to inquire about the children; a fruitful theme with her, for she was a thorough mother, As they sat chatting, Richard came up. __ “Don’t forget about going to the boat, Dick. I told J pty to have tea until after it was in.” We a ie ti lady friend to e are expecting a young lady frien spend a few en Soli us; Judge Weston’s ughter, of New York.” Irva made no reply, but she remembered what Hannah had told her. It was true, then. : Irva had hitherto dined with the family, tak- ing the rest of her meals with the children, The day after Miss Weston’s arrival Richard missed her from the-table. | hott He said nothing; but about sunset, seeing Irva in the garden, he went down to her. * Not seeing you at the dining-table, I feared you were ill? “Oh! no. I told. Mrs. Vernon, whenever there were strangers at. the house, that I pre- ferred to dine alone.” ‘“‘T missed you. But if itisreally pleasanter for you to stay away, I am content that it should be so.” Irva looked at the speaker. tris Did he, really, miss her, or say this as a sim- ple matter of courtesy and good feeling? Miss Weston saw them from her window. She regarded Richard as her exclusive proper- ty, and as she marked his attentive air, and saw how pretty his companion was, she experienced a feeling of jealousy. i “Who is the young lady I saw in the garden with Mr. Harrington?” Kate glanced up from the worsteds she was sorting. ; ‘ “Young lady in the garden? Oh, it must be Miss Lane, the governess.” ‘“‘T thought her face a rather pretty one, from the view [had of it.” “J think it might be called very pretty. What do you call this, blue or green?” Miss Weston would certai y have called it green, had it been any transcript of her mind. She made no further inquiries, butshe decided to.watch the pretty governess. Irva took no inconsiderable interest in her, though it had a very different source. ‘‘T hope she is worthy of him,” she thought, The nearest view she had, thus far, obtained of the new-comer, was when she rode the window one morning with Richard. But she saw enough to convince her that Hannah was right in calling ber ‘‘ very handsome and stylish- looking.” One ney the twa were brought quite unex- pectedly together. Irva was out walking when she saw Richard and Miss Weston approaching in an opposite di- rection. She would have retreated could she have done so with any dignity; but, as it was, she had no 3 - nis : ; 1 | Si” Ser me
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— ee a Pe 418 alternative but to walk straight on in the nar- row woodpath that was before her. Richard came to a full stop; lifting his hat with the courtesy that was habitual to him. ‘‘Good-atternoon, Miss Lane. Miss Weston gave who shrunk abashed at the cold, curious stare o the bold black eyes that were fixed upon her. Pausing no longer than was absolutely neces- | sary, Irva pa ssed on. Anxious to atone for the rudeness of his com- anion, Richard hastened after her, and opening Tne little gate just beyond, stood with his head uncovered until she had passed through. Provoked at being left for one that she con- sidered so much beneath her, Miss Weston stood biting her lips with ill-concealed rage. ' Richard did not takethearm he had dropped, but walked beside her in grave silence. “Upon my word, Mr. Harrington,” she said, with a forced laugh, ‘‘ you show a great deal of gallantry to a nursery-governess!” “T beg your pardon, Miss Weston; it is my aim to treat every lady with courtesy,.and Miss Lane is such, in every sense of the word.” ‘As Miss Weston glanced up at the speaker she saw that she had made a great mistake. Angry at herself, she was still more angry with the in- nocent cause. . ‘The low, presuming nobody!” she exclaim- ed, as soon as she had regained her own room. **To think of her daring to stand between me and the manTIlove. The sly, artful baggage! she just throws herself in his way. It wasa preconcerted plan her meeting us as she did, and yet how surprised and confused she pre- tended to be, just to enlist his sympathies. He’s interested in her, that’s easy to be seen, if no more. But I will spoil the game she is playing. Tl open Mrs. Vernon’s eyes to what it going on, W it:” Miss Westcn’s chamber was a corner room, o don’t seem to have the faintest idea of on the second floor; having'a full view of the school-room and the grounds around it. The next day, just as the sun was setting, she came down from’ her chamber, and out upon | the piazza where Kate was sitting.” “The school-room and the grounds around it | seem to be a favorite resort to Mr. Harrington. | I notice that he is there every afternoon.” There was something in the tone in which this “was 1 eg that made | oti raise her eyes in- quiringly to the speaker’s face. “ie Yo Richard is quité fond of the children. And they are quite as fond of him.” 4 “Judging from appearances, I should say he was more fond of their*pretty governess,” ' This was a new and most unwelcome idea to Kate, as her changing color testified. Miss Weston continued: “T have been watching them for the last half- hour from my window. He reading to her out ‘of a blue-and-gold book—Byron,I suppose. It is, really, amusing!” ‘ The laugh that followed these words was a very discordant one, and as Kate raised her eyes to that dark, lowering face the thought crossed her mind that she might not be so desirable a wife for her brother as she had sup- The tone was.a little cool in which she said: _ “Richard isnot a great lover of Byron. I think you do him injustice. He is too henorable ‘to trifle with any woman; serious intentions he could not have. Any notice he: takes of ‘Miss Lane sriage from his sympathy with her lone- ly condition. He has one of the kindest hearts in the world.” “Yes; and that makes it all the more danger- _ous for him to be subjected to the arts of a bold, | designing woman,” “* have always thought Miss Lane to be very modest and pfs “ There is just where she hoodwinks you so nicely. I’ve had my eye on her for some time and you'll rue the day she ever came into the house, now you mark my words!” Here they were interrupted. Kate was much more disturbed by what Miss Weston told her than her words indicated. She had the strongest confidence ini as well as love for her brother, and her heart revolted at the idea of the necessity of any surveillance; still she determined to keep her eyes open, and to have a confidential talk ‘with Richard at the earliest possible moment. The next morning Richard entered the break- fast-room with an open letter in his hand, — “T have a letter from uncle Charles, Kate, asking meto meet him in London on the twenty- third. Heis going to make a tour of Germany, and wants me to go with him. What do you think of it?” ‘ Miss Weston, | let me make you acquainted with Miss Lane.” | aa short, haughty aap ; ee? ETRE FSG | | Kate was silent for some moments, her faco | | very graye. pomuce's think if he wants you to go, you ought to “T think so, too. » There was another silence; this intelligence casting a damper on all present. id | morrow morning,” said Mr. Vernon, looking up from his pa. Richard. | hurried through his breakfast, leaving the room immediately after. a looked back upon his sister from the thresh- ; Old. ‘In order to catch the express, Kate, I must leave in half an hour.” Miss Weston went directly to her room. ‘“‘T knew it, she said, as she saw Richard crossing over to where Irva stood by the window, looking out upon the garden, has no thought for me; it is all for her—her!” Almost wild with rage, jealousy, and despair, the speaker stamped her foot upon the floor, the black, straight brows nearly meeting over the es ‘* He shall not find her here when he returns —not if I can prevent it!” In ‘the meantime, Richard had taken both Irva’s hands in his. ““My dear Irva,I have just received news that compels me to start for Europe, to be gone several months. It comforts me to think that | leave you so pleasantly situated, I have some- thing to tell you—something which I feel ought not to. be so long delayed, but I must write it. Now I have only time to say good-by, and God bless you!” A warm, lingering pressure of the hand, a look that haunted her long after, and he wes one. sat like one stunned. Now tears came to her relief; tears that had in them something of sweetness as she recalled the tenderness of those few parting words. CHAPTER XVIII. BAD NEWS. As strongly attached as Kate was to het | brother, she was not sorry to have him go. | She could not but own that Irva was very at+ | tractive, and that Richard was fond of ing with her. “Tt is only a fancy,” she said to herself, “ but serious things grow out of such, sometimes. Fig will forget all about it before he comes back: and then travel will be beneficial to him in ' other weve. Miss Lane suits me; she is so dey | voted to her duties and the children so fond of her, that I should feel sorry to have to send hea | away.” os “My sister, Mrs, Sully, will be here to-mor- | Tow. é : That name sent a sudden shiver through Irva’s veins. j said: “Tt is late for city people to come to the country.” “Yes: but Janey’s doctor ordered her to the sea-shore during the hot weather. I hope we shall have pleasant days yet.” “Ts her husband coming with her?” “T think so, Jobn, is Stephei coming?’ be honest, I had just as soon he woul “Oh! John, you must try and make it plea- sant to him, for Janey’s sake,” ‘““Tf Janey had the sense she was born with, she’d have left him long ago!” growled Mr. Ver- before. But she scarcely heeded it. It was well that the gathering twilight hid the pallor of her face, as leaning her head upon the pillar of the porch she struggled against the sickening feelings tha came over her. It was him! She had hoped that it was some one else of the same name, What was she todo now? Oh! if Richard were only here! But she was all alone; there was no one to aid or counsel her. One by one the stars came out, looking down upon her from their azure thrones, The moon arose from hehind the distant hills, flinging a silvery halo uver the peaceful scene that had been such an Eden of rest to her. Must she leave it, going out into the wide world again, with which she was so unfitted to Picer should she aed and fight it out?— | fighting this bad man wit! je : ae ie: rs (tigtes: ieee 5 vy “ That is the one that I want to take,” said | ide Nee There was no more said; both brother and sis- | ter seemed very much preoccupied. Richard | open | He | ° It had come upon her so suddenly that she had, am soon as she could command her voice, she ‘He said he was coming for a few days, To non in a tone Irva had never heard him use- BLIND BARBARA’S SECRET. _ even if conquered, suffering no ignoble défeat? She did not close her eyes in sleep that night until she had decided which of these two things she would do. Irva did not have to feign a headache the next morning, to account for her pale cheeks , and heavy eyes. | “The steamer City of New York, leaves to- | | his own weapons— | She attempted to dress, but her head was so giddy that she was obliged to lay it’back again upon the pillow. As soon as Kate heard of it, she came in to Irva Bd ag that she needed nothing but rest and quiet; so Kate darkened the room, anc’ went out again, taking the children to the other part of the house. She did not try to rise again until evening, and then she did not leave her room. She heard the merry voices of the children, as they got into the carriage that was going to | meet the boat. Almost immediately after it had gone, Judy came to the door with her supper, saying: “You hain’t eat nothin’ to speak of all day, honey, an’ I’s afeard you'd faint away if yon waited till the rest on “em had theirn.” Irva sat with the untasted a Ng? before hev until she heard the returning wheels of the car - riage. cing to the open window, she listened. Amid all that medley of voices, very distinctly came to her strained ear the smooth, bland voice that she so well remembered. He had come, the man she so dreaded—cruel and pitiless in his love as in his hate, The battle of life had commenced again; and she must have strength to fight it. turning to the table, she broke her Jon Then disrobing, she laid her weary Hen pillow, falling into a deep, unbroken fast. upon. the umber. Near the middle of the forenoon, Irva heard steps along the corridor which led to the school- room door. Then Kate’s voice, saying: , “Miss Lane,’my sister, Mrs. Sully. Don’t let ws interrupt you. I only wanted to show her the school-room.” . Irva glanced up at the face*she so well re- membered, simply bowing in reply to that plea- sant salutation. She was sitting with her back to the door, but . she knew that Stephen was standing on the threshold—knew it by the opprsnalys atmos- here he always brought with him, even if she ad not heard his voice. ' He was gayly talking with Miss Weston, who was in better spirits than she had been since Richard left. " The two moved slowly past her, down through the room, Irva felt the eyes that were fixed upon her, but she did not turn her head, or lift. her eyes from the book that was lying open on the desk. She heard, as in.a dream, Mrs. ; laining the improvements to her sister, . acted by the voice, Irva glanced up at the face of the latter, long enough to see that the eye and mouth had a resolute though pleasant ex- pression. " The two sisters moved back to the door; Stephen and Miss Weston remaining by the window, their gay words and laughter filling the room. Mrs. Sully turned round as she reached the threshold. “Come, Stephen; you are disturbing Miss Lane.” “I beg Miss Lane’s pardon!” There was an almost imperceptible i id on the words italicised; clearly parceny le. to Irva, however, and just as clearly understood. She heard the closing door with a feeling of relief that was indescribable. It seemed as if she could not have borne the tension upon her nerves one minute longer. , Would he betray her? Knowing all she could tell concerning him, would he dare to do so? She had gathered from words dropped by Mrs. Vernon that her sister’s property was settled on herself, and that her husband was, ina measure, dependent upon her, “Did you say this young lady’s name was Lane?” inquired Stephen of his sister-in-law, as wee beyond hearing. S. ‘It strikes me that I have seen her before. Where is she from?” “Massachusetts, Lane of Scarborough. He left two children; one, a boy, two or three years younger, cousin any, Burt took with him out to* cy, D- Dae “ And this is the daughter?’ “ This is the daughter.” Her father was old Deacon
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This was not unnoted by Miss Weston. “Where did you see this girl?” _ Stephen looked a little startled at this abrupt Inquiry, especially as he saw the look of intense interest and parsonity a the eyes of the speaker, _ “I thought I saw her in New York; but as it 4 another name, I conclude I must be mista- en. Miss Weston was far from satisfied. ‘“*T believe they have met before,” she said to herself; ‘‘ there was such an astonished expres- Sion in his.eyes when he looked at her, and she behaved so oddly! There is a mystery about that girl; and I’ll find it out before Iam many weeks older.” CHAPTER XIX. ' STEPHEN HAS HELP FROM AN UNEXPECTED QUARTER. THE next day was Sunday. Mr. and Mrs. Vernon were very regular in their attendance at church; and the day being fine, the large carriage was got out to accom- modate all desirous of going. ‘ Irva had never missed one Sabbath; gene- rally preferring to walk in pleasant weather, it not being much over a mile to town, but to-day she decided to remain at home. Soon after the carriage had gone, she saw Stephen come out Boa the lawn. As he walked up and down, smoking, she observed that he cast many a curious glance at the window, by the closed blind of which she stood. _ As unpleasant as an interview would be, Irva felt that it would be better that they should have an understanding, in order that she might know what to expect. She would not seek him, but she resolved to Sive him an opportunity to speak to her, if he cuore to do $f. % ‘ | Opening the window, she stepped out, walkin, slowly down the path until she came to a tree . the lower part of the garden. , _Assoon as Stephen saw her, he threw down his Cigar, and first: making sure ‘that there was no One around, walked toward her. ‘Irva stood with one hand resting on the tree. She heard his step, but did not. move until he Was within a few feet; then she turned her head and.looked at him, am raised his hat with an air of. mock h ““Good-morning,. Miss Sutton, To find you ere, in this beautiful retreat, is a pleasure that L little e ted.” “The pleasure is entirely on your side.” ‘How cruel! or the wrong you meditated.’ “She won urage, : Tam not sure but what I ought to tell her, anyway; still it is uniess you render it necessary. But I shall de- fend -myself, you may be sure. Let me hear small matter. If rs prefer the name of Lane to Sutton, or wish to ignore our former ac- quaintance, I don’t know why I should inter- fere, and I have no intention of doing so.” , “You will do as you like, of course. All I h- ve to say is that I will keep silent if you do, but not one moment longer.” Stephen returned to the house in quite an- other mood from which he left it. He could not but own that he was quite as much at Irva’s mercy as she at his; that he had given his wife strong reasons for believing the story she could tell. Having dissipated his own property, he was entirely dependent upon her liberality; and the thought that shemight follow the advice of cer- tain of her relations, and leave him, was not very pleasant to contemplate. ; He met Miss Weston at the door, who had been watching them from her window. | “So you are bewitched with the pretty gov- erness also. Your cousin and brother-in-law seemed to have no thought for any one else | when he was here,” Stephen glanced keenly at the speaker. The BLIND BAR tho feeling that Miss Weston had evinced toward Irva had puzzled him, now it was clear. ‘So Richard was in love with this girl?” | Miss Weston’s long-repressed feelings found vent in words. | “Tf there is any meaning in looks, he loved | her! I was nothing more than a stock or stone | in his sight, if she was by! It is useless for you to try to deceive me; Isaw you when you first | met, I watched you talking together in the gar- | den. You have met before; you know some- thing of her that none of us know here.” “Tt is not always safe to tell what we know.” | “Ttis safe with me. I will not mention your | name, or let any one know where I got it.” Stephen was silent for some minutes; his eyes fixed upon that eager, passionate face, as if trying to see how far he could safely trust her. ““T will be frank with you; we have met be- fore; I do know more of her than any one knows hete. But you know how jealous Janey is of me, as it is, and I dare not speak of it.” **T_ understand you; but you need not fear that I will get you into any trouble. Tell me gomething pire me the merest clew, and I will work it out for myself, and nobody will be any the wiser.” Again Stephen studied the face of his com- anion; many conflicting thoughts passing rough his mind. To his dislike of his brother-in-law was added the fiercer feeling of jealousy. He burned to punish and humiliate the woman that had re- pulsed and defeated him, and, if possible, get her in into his power. 0 this was added the cowardly fear, if Irva was allowed to remain in her present position, she would say seer that his wife would hear, If he could lower her inthe estimation of the family, so that her word would be discredit- | ed, he would be safe. These thoughts passed with lightning rapidity | through the mind of the man, who never had an unselfish one in his life. id x op would like to send this girlaway in dis- | ace ; “T would give half my life to do it!” | Stephen looked at the speaker, smiling, as he | t how adapted to his purpose was the | tool that was put into his hand. ‘This is one of the tae that pious peo- ple talk about!” was his inward jeer. . Miss. Weston continued: “T hate her! She has wiled away from me_ the only heari I cared to possess; and if it is in the power of mortal woman to” drive her away in disgrace, I'll do it.” ; | ‘*T will place in your hands the means to ef- fect this, if you wil] pledge yourself not to let t be known that I anything to do with it?” ‘T promise.” ‘* Come into the library.” The two were closeted in the library nearly an hour. ‘* He will not dare to say anything,” thought Irva, as she returned to the house. But this elation was followed by a sense of depression; a feeling she had often had of late. Never did she feel. so painfully the false posi- tion in which she had placed herself—its wrong as,well as itsdanger. She had never intend to remain in it so long; but the more she saw of Mrs. Vernon the more she was convinced that nothing could induce her to place her children under the care of any one that could not fur- nish the strongest testimonials; that all her hab- its and modes of. thought. would make it very difficult forher to perceive any excuse for the deception she had practiced. _ With all these new complications, tomakeany confidante of her now was out of the question, but she resolved to leave at the expiration of the quarter, and seek some other situation, however hard and unpleasant it might be. CHAPTER XX. MISS WESTON’S TRIUMPH. On .the following Wednesday Stephen return- ed to New York, leaving his wife with her sister. Two weeks later, as Mr. Vernon, Mrs, pully, Miss Weston and. Kate were together in the common sitting-room, a card was handed to the | latter. “‘ Lane—George Lane,” she said, looking at it with a puzzled air; ‘I don’t know any one with | that name. Doyou, John?’ “No; my dear,” said Mr. Vernon, return- ing the card to his wife. Perhaps it is some re- lative of our pretty governess?” _ ‘‘Did he inquire for me, Maggie?” ‘Yes, ma’am, ver pertic’ler.” “how himin heres War, is . The young .man t en was not over. dwwehntge tivo. ut the cool, calculating look in his — o ae te BARA’S SECRET. | terest to all his informant!” face made him seem much older, while his man- ner, though quiet, showed that there was. little danger of any under self-estimation. Kate arose on his entrance. “Tam Vernon.” The stranger bowed; not the faintest ap. isnt toa smile disturbing the gravity of his ace. “‘Tam George Lane. I have been given ta understand that my sister, who I supposed was killed on a railroad collision, is living in your house in the capacity of governess?” Kate smiled; her kind heart warming at the eet of the pleasure in store for the lonely 1ri— “You are right; she is here. It is not strange. that you supposed her killed, for it was sostated, in the paper.” : “You will pardon me, madame, but I must. consider it not a little strange that she should have left me so long in ignorance of this error; leaving me, in fact, to find it out by the merest. accident.” Jt did strike Kate as very odd, but ever dis- posed to look atthe sunny side of things, she said = “ Very. ee her letters miscarried. At alk events, she will be delighted “to see you. Will ou go to the school-room, or shall I send for er?’ : “With your permission I will see her here. Be good enough to simply send for her, and no more.” Inwardly wondering, Kate gave the message toa servant, couched’ in the terms requested, and returned to her seat. n There was something so odd about the stran- ger, his manner, his sudden appearance, and all, hat he became an object of curiosity and in- resent. the most unconcerned one of the group. On looking around his eye fell upon Miss Weston, who was sitting in the recess of the bay window, bowing in response to her. gracious smile of recognition. zs This completed the general wonderment, Kate broke the awkward silence, by saying: ““T judge it to be some years since you have seen ree sister, Mr. Lane?” “Tt is six years since I was East, madame. I should have come on when I heard of the acci- dent, but I was very ill at the time.” At this moment Irva entered. — The stranger looked steadily and curiously at: her, but gave her no sign of recognition, glanced quietly around, and thep turned her eyes expectantly upon Kate, who smiled as. she met that questioning look. ‘“‘Has your brother altered so much that you don’t know him, Miss Lane?” ae The stranger now spoke: m That woman is an impostor, madame; she is not my sister !” , . He seeme The mine had exploded so suddenly hencath | her feet, that for some minutes Irva steod mo- tionless, staring blankly into the stern face of her accuser, who now arose to his feet. Then she said, addressing her words to Kate: “The ear speaks truly; I am not his sister. er since my stay here i have borne a name to which T am not entitled, and + you to suppose that which is not true.” ——™ In spite of those crimsoned cheeks and falter- ing voice, there was a certain dignity in this frank avowal that was not without its’ effect: upon those who heard it, though it varied each one ot them. Kate was a devoted mother: and the thought that she had intrusted her dear babes to the care of one of whose antecedents ‘she knew nothin. threw her into astate of alarm and indignation that quite transformed her. ee ‘*Dpon my word! this is a very cool confes- sion, Miss—whatever your name may be! I should, really, like to know your motives for practicing such a deception as this? = As Irya lifted her eyes she met those of Miss Weston fixed full upon her, gleaming with scorm and triumph. . “If you wish to know my motives I will give | 'them—but not here,” She then turned toward the stranger. ‘“‘ Aside from disclaiming any thought or in- — tention of giving you pain or trouble, I have only one thing to say. I know not only th name of your informant, but his motives, and wish you to tell him that as he has not kept his promise, neither shall I keep mine,” Miss Weston now stepped forward. ‘* He?’ ‘him?”” she sneered, ‘You are_al- together too hasty in your conclusions, I was ’ “Yes, I. Tsuspected you to be an adventu- allowed — vith — mit
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~ 20 ’ BLIND BARBARA’S SECRET. ress from the first; and various things that came 4o my knowledge confirmed this suspicion. wrote to Mr. Lane; and this is the result,” The tone, even more than the words, stung Irva from her self-control. “Tam no adventuress! but, with the excep- tion of this error—for error I admit it to be—as true and pure a woman asany here. Someday you may be thrust out into the world as I have en, and know what a hard world it is,” Y Irva went straight to the school-room. As she stood at the desk, taking some papers {from it, Mr. Vernon entered. He was an easy- tempered man, by habit and inclination averse to the task before him, a task that was not made any easier by the face that was turned toward im. ““Miss—ahem!—I suppose, as a matter of course, that you would not care to remain with us any longer.” a or do 1 suppose you would care to have G) ““ Well—ahem!—we won’t discuss that point. | Mrs. Vernon requested me to pay you the quar- fer’s You will find it correct, I think.” Irva handed back a portion of it. “The quarter has not expired yet; I can take only what is due—if anything is!” Vernon had just come from listening to an excited colloquy between his. wife and Miss ‘Weston in regard to the enormity of Irva’s con- duct, and in whose feelings he had shared, to a certain extent, but there was something in this involuntar mission, coupled with the deject- ed look and attitude, that caused a sudden re- vuision to this. ‘‘T think you may count on the whole amount ‘being fairly earned; I have heard Mrs. Vernon speak often of your faithfulness to your duties and kindness to the children.” The quick tears sprung to Irva’s eyes, “Thank you for saying that! Still”—here a shadow fell across the face—“ under the circum- stances, I would not take anything for my ser- vices ‘f I were not compelled to do so.” ‘Tf you wish to return to New York, there is a train that leaves at half-past seven. But if you prefer to wait and take the morning boat— of course you willdoso, The carriage will be at your ig Pome at any time you name.” “T will leave to-night. Please convey m thanks to Mrs. Vernon for the kindness wit. which she has treated me. I might say some- thing in palliation of what she so justly con- demns, were I at liberty todoso. But it would only occasion fresh trouble, So I will only ask you both tothink as kindly of me as you can.” “Mr. Vernon returned to the room where the three ladies were still sitting. “Tve done it, Kate; but I hope you won’t give me any more such commissions. It’s rather rough on a woman to turn her adrift without ors warning, and who has, perhaps, no place to ‘0 to. alk Such as she find plenty to care for them!” gaid Miss Weston, with a toss of the head. . Vernon gave the speaker a look, not over pire eect she have rightly inter- reted it. : a She is not a bad woman, if that is what you mean; I know enough of the world to be able to assure you of that.” : ¥e wat ood she have to say for herself?” in- -quir te. “Not much of anything. She hinted at some > palliation, or object, but did not state what.” OE pled 5 had an object!” said Miss Weston, with a meaning glance at Kate, “T couldn’t unders what she said,” pur- sued Mr. Vernon. “I wish you would have a rae with her, Kate; she leaves on the evening train. ' Kate’s usually clear perveeticns were entirely yclouded by the fears engendered by Miss Wes- ton’s insinuations. ‘*T shall do no such thing, John!” she said, in an excited tone and manner that her husband | You ought | had never heard her use before, to be ashamed to ask such a thing of me! When I think of the danger to which the dear children have been exposed—and when I think of Rich- ard, and all that might have happened, if he hadn’t been called away so suddenly, I don’t | know how to contain myself! But it is always | the way, with you men, you can never see any- thing bad in a pretty woman!” Mr. Vernon wilted at the insinuation convey- ed by these words, which, to do him Justice, no man deserved less than he. ; “ Very well, my dear; you will do as you like, of course, be been Bawey her proof that woman is the hardest of all against her own sex.” Mrs. Sully had kept silent, thus far, though not a g@he spo ‘ 7 ,. bal , a a il “There are some exceptions to that rule— many, I hope; and Jam among them, This girl is no adventuress. She has the beauty that too often arouses the Papel of our sex and the lawless passions of the other, but whatever er- rors she may have committed, no one can look into her face, or watch her, from day to day, as I have done, and not feel that she is innocent at | heart. I mean to have a talk with her.” There was an uneasy expression in Miss Wat- , I | station, go to the hotel—you know where it is, son’s eyes, as she looked atter her. ‘What do you suppose she means to do?” she said, in a low tone, to Kate. “T don’t know,” returned Mrs. Vernon, look- ing a little disturbed at her sister’s sudden exit. “ Janey is so odd, saying and doing what no one else would think of.’ Mrs. Sully was prepared, in a measure, for | this repulse, and the calm friendliness of her look and manner did not alter. ** Are you sure of that?” “Quite sure. I know how kind and good you are, and am sorry that you should have to think 80 ill of me, but it cannot be helped. All I can say in explanationeis, that I was thrust out into the world, with neither friends or anything to help me. It was open to me to come here, in the way that I did come, and I yielded to the i Sap: It was a great mistake,” ‘““We all make mistakes. The whole life of some is one long mistake, Atleast it seems so here; how it may look to us in the Hereafter, we cannot tell. If you have made a mistake all you have to do now is to learn the lesson i teaches. Be careful that you do not make an- other by rejecting the hand extended to ou “tT reject it inno unfriendly spirit. Our ways | lay different. It must be so; it cannot be other- wise.” “Tama wealthy, childless woman; by reason of ill-health, much alone. I need some one to sit with, talk and read to me. From what I have seen of you, I think you would suit me. Will you come?” “Strange, ufgrateful, and even rude as it may sound to you, sooner than come into your household in any capacity I would do the most menial labor that can be imagined.” Contrary to what might expected, Mrs. Sully evinced no displeasure at this. She surveyed Irva with an interest beneath | which lay some strong feeling, though of what nature it was impossible to say. ‘Did you ever meet my husband before you saw him here?” Irva stood motionless, the color coming and going in her cheeks, as though inwardly debat- g, what she ought to say. : ‘Why do you ask that?” “No matter; I do ask it.” ‘‘ Before [ answer, I must ask you a question. Did he, your husband, have any thing 9 do in ats Fe upon me this new misfortune?’ “Tf you refer to Mr, Lane’s discovery of your assumption of his sister’s name, Miss Weston asserts that no one had any hand in it but she, and all I can learn confirms her statement.” “Then I cannot tell you. Believe me, dear lady, it will not make you any happier to know; and I entreat you not to question me further.” ““T will not; there isno need. There is only one Mile 4 by which I can help you. Are you go- ing back to New York?” rva was silent. “My child, what can [ say that will induce you to place some confidence in me? Do you think I would betray you, or do anything to make your hard life harder?” “No, no! I did not, could not think that! But I thought, perhaps, you did not under- stand—” “1 understand more than you think—more than 1 wish I did—God help me!” Irya looked at the pale face, which bore traces of mental, as well as physical suffering. The eyes that met hers were full of “Child! do you envy me? With all the pov- erty and loneliness, that makes your heart so ay etces Pt exchange-your lot for mine!” I forbid!’ 3 ‘*We must each bear our own burdens, mak- ing the most of them that is ible. I would gladly help you, if you would let me. If you gos or look had escaped her notice. Now | — going to New York I might be able to do 4 ; 4 ; | ‘ / a Bia ®. yo ae Des a ae we a 5 ae. 7 =. Ae’ “JT am going there.” “Then, if you are in want of shelter or a friend, go to St. Mark’s Hospital, and inquire *for Sister Millicent! I will give you a line to her. **Now, one, thing more. Have you sufficient confidence in me to follow my advice in one in- stance, and without asking any questions?” “T have.” “Then leave here half an hour earlier than you intended, and instead of going directly to ‘the just opposite the post-office—and, engaging a private room, remain in it until I see you. Will you do this?” “¢T will.” CHAPTER XXI. CHECKMATED. “JT, REALLY, wish I knew what to do,” said Kate, in a tone of perplexity that made her hus- | band glance over at her from the top of his paper. “Do about what?” ,. ‘““Why, with this letter to Miss Lane, as we always called her.” ‘‘T should say that the only proper and hon- orable way was to give it to her.” “But it is from Richard. I know it by the handwriting and postmark.” “T don’t see what that has to do with it.” “Of course you don’t!” returned Kate, with an irritation born of the conflict that was going on in her mind. ‘ You can’t see any harm in Richard’s corresponding with such a woman, but J do! It’s my belief that she came here for the express purpose of WK oe him. And i would have succeeded if he had stayed much onger. ‘Well, my love,” said Mr. Vernon as he look- ed at his wife’s flushed and bed face, ‘if I were in your place I wouldn’t worry about it. You are not individually responsible for Dick. He’s old enough to take care of himself, I should say, if he’s ever going to be.” ‘Some men never are, if they live to be gray- headed!” “Or bald-headed,” said Mr. Vernon, slyly, raising his hand to the-spot about as la as & half-dollar in the midst of his laxtriant locks ; ““¥ou car laugh, John,” replied Kate, smilin herself a little at this suggestive.action, “but do feel ‘worried about it, especially now that Richard is coming home.” “Ts Richard coming back?” said her husband, his thoughts taking an entirely new direction. seg thought he was going to away several months.’ “ That was his intention; but it seems from his letters that uncle Charles has received some news that compels his immediate return. That is what Richard writes; uncle Charles is so ec- centric that it’s just as likely to be a freak of his as anything.” ‘Now I think I will beat a retreat,” laughed Mr. Vernon, moving toward the door; ‘when you ae to abuse uncle Charles, there is no chance for a sinner like me!” Miss Weston was present during this conver- sation. She now tah ie Kate. ; “Do you know what J would do, if T had that letter?” “Keep it, I suppose.” ‘*T would do more than that; I would read it.” Kate’s honorable nature recoiled from this su tion. ‘Nothing could tempt me to do that! The utmost I could think of doing would be to re- tain it; and I don’t know as I ought to do that. Jobn thinks that I should give fer the letter, and I believe I will.” ‘You are too late in your decision,” was the quiet response; “I saw the carriage go down the avenue ten minutes ago.” The feeling of relief in Kate’s heart plainly visible in her face. “If she is really gone, why, of course, there is nothing more to be said or done.” As soon as Mrs. Sully had made sure of Irva’s departure, she ordered an Hp 4 chaise, with which she was accustomed to drive about, and set out to the village. She went directly to the post-office, carefully scrutinizing the faces of the few loungers that stood around the door as she entered, Like the majority of such in small places, it was located in acountry store, a corner of which was boxed off, and dignified by the name of post-office, The proprietor knew Mrs. Sully by sight. He was a man who prided himself on his affability, bre enieee to the fair sex. y -afternoon, Mrs. Sully, Your husband is in town again, I see.” “Is he?” was the unconcerned reply. “Yes; I saw him at the depot not fiftcen minutes since.” was
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j 4 wee , a) % AF BLIND BARBARA'S SECRET. a1 “T think I saw him this morning,” said the s0n of the postmaster, who was sitting at a esk in the inclosure. ithout making any comments, Mrs. Sully took the mail-matter that was handed her, and went out. Leaving her carriage there. she crossed over te the hotel, and was shown to the room where Irva was waiting for her. * pa you willing to trust me still further?” am.” : ‘Then do not go by rail, At the lower land- ingisa small boat called the Firefly. It isa freight boat, but it sometimes takes passengers. You had better go by this boat; it will be best and safest. Do you understand me?’ “T think I do.’ t “That is sufficient. Your baggage has not heen taken from the carriage, I see. t is Well, as you have no time to lose. I am ac- Quainted with the captain of the boat; mention my name to him, and he will fib you every at- mtion. Here is a letter to ‘Sister Millicent,’ of the Sisterhood of St. John, a Protestant order. ou can trust her. Itisher holy mission to be a friend to the friendless, and she will be a true and kind friend to you.” rs. Sully waited until the carriage was out of sight. She then drove to the depot. It was a small, low building, as is generally the case, situated in the least pleasant part of the village. There were a number of people on the broad platform, waiting for the evening express, that Would soon be due. Glancing around, she passed on to the open oorway, just within which stood a man with a Slouched hat drawn down over his face, the col- lar of the closely-buttoned coat being turned up 80 as to nearly meet it. He recognized her, but whether she did him Was a matter of doubt, as could be seen by the involuntary drawing back into the shadow. But it was a doubt that was soon dispelled. “Stephen!” _Not all Stephen’s power of dissimulation could &lve the semblance of any thing like pleasure to & meeting so unexpected and undesired. ; y, Janey! what brought you out such a chilly evening as this? m4 SINT. : se you are just as much surp: te) see me? he aad. in a lighter tone. i nye contrary, Il expected to see you.” ‘For two reasons, The postmaster told me you were here, for one.” And the other?’ said Stephen, with an out- ward smile, and an inward anathema at that in- dividual’s officiousness, Janey looked at her husband, so steadily that th Pe wavered, and then dropped her.own to e floor, * And the other?—we will not talk of that just now have come up to the house, if I had not expected to return on the next train. ‘What business?” *“Oh! well, about a horse that Will Marsden has, and that I wanttoswap for my gray. But couldn't induce him to accept my terms,” “I shouldn’t suppose you could. Will Mars- den must be more than three hundred miles from here by this. He started for Colorado, yesterday morning.” _, How stupid!—I meant his brother George.” brother George went with him.” . ere was not much that could confuse Ste- ghen, but at this his face reddened, and for a me he seemed ata loss what to say. aney’s countenance did not alter. There was no gieam of mirth or triumph in the sad eyes tha: surveyed the sullen face, out of which the flush of shame had not yet faded—a shame that 4 in it no touch of remorse. was the man she had vowed at the al- yar to love and honor! Love him, she did not; nor him, she could not. But who was to blame for that broken vow? How plainly all the evils-of his evil life were Written upon his face, changing its every ex- Pression and outline. , Never did she feel so palpably the gulf that va between her soul and his, and which was ening daily, wt the meantime, Stephen was keeping a kee hough quiet, outlook. Not a person entere © room, or left it, unnoticed by him. He was Manifestly impatient to rid himself of his com- ie _My dear Janey, the air is getting too cool sap ieeh for you. Let me pare you in the car- “Thank you; I’m i ” ;4'm in no hurry. tees’ tben a shrill whistle came from down the ‘ “J just run up on a little business. I should -I heard, before I came up here, of the young if you have given me any reason to r | your word,” a Janey took out her watch. The “Firefly” had left the dock, and was on her way to New York. A minute or two later the express train came in, and the two went out upon the platform. They stood there silently until every passen- ger was aboard, Then Janey said—quietly, as though in re- sponse to something from him: ‘‘She is not here, you see.” Stephen changed color. ““She?—who? What do you mean?” “‘T mean the young girl you were watching for; ny sister’s late governess.” “What new vagary have you gotinto your head now#” : ‘Nothing new, unfortunately. But we will not discuss the subject in so public a place. The train having: gone that you were so anxious to take, and left you behind, perhaps you will ac- cept my sister’s hospitality for the night, and a seat in my carriage?” ‘ Stephen followed his wife to the carriage with- out nip He would have assisted her in, but she fore- stalled him, and, gathering up the reins, waited for him to take a seat by her side, In the meantime fears and conjectures were busy in his heart. 6 stole a furtive glance at his wife; but her face, though a trifle paler, looked much the same. Was this mere suspicion on her part, or had Irva betrayed him? He knew enough to understand that she had circumvented and baffled him, How he hated her! “T could kill her!” he said to himself, in a rage, more fierce and deadly because he dared ive it no outward expression, ‘‘ And I believe shall, some day.” They were approaching a rude bridge across a deep, dark ravine. He could hear the water gurgling over the jagged rocks, a hundred feet ow. The impulse came strong upon him to fling her over t. ; ‘“‘'You can make it appear to be an accident!” suggested the devil, that was busy at his heart. ust before the fore-hoofs of the horse struck upon the bridge, the slender hand tightened upon the reins, and the docile creature stopped, “‘T think I ought to tell you ”»—how calm and clear that voice rose above the tumult that raged within—‘“‘ I think I ought to tell you, Ste- phen, that I have made my will; and that you will not be benefited by my death. On the con- bitin the annual allowance that’you have hith- erto had from my estate will be lessened one-half, Go on, Charlie,’ In obedience to that gentle command, Charlie trotted over the bridge, and down the steep de- clivity that led from it. Stephen’s heart almost stood still. Did she cg his murderous intent, and say Ww this to sho its folly? ” “I believe she’s in league with the devil!” was his inward ejaculation. Then aloud: “You have the right todo what you will with your own property.” 4 a! ry so far as I have the will to do what is a One would suppose, however, that your hus- band had as much claim upon you as any one.” “One would naturally Suppose SO, yes, : Stephen studied his wife’s countenance for a moment, ‘* It is easy to see that you have been listenin to lying stories about me, Janey. Because | haven't always done right, it don’t follow that I’m gag everything that’s laid to m charge. e girl you alluded to is a mere ad- venturess, as can be proved—” “Stop! Stephen; I will not hear you blacken the name of an innocent girl, and simply because she is innocent. She never told me one word; all I know I have obtained from other sources. izl you put under the care of a certain woman in Brooklyn, and the deception you practiced on her. I had no idea of her identity with my sis- ter’s govcrness until the day you met. our words, on manner, aroused my suspicions, which her developments strengthened to ' certainty. More than that, I am convinced that there wassome understanding between you and Miss Weston, else why were you at the depot, on the watch for her?” ‘I was not on the watch for her, Though I don’t pppoe it is any use for me to deny it, or | any of the rest of your eed ae “Look back upon the past, and ask yourselt ely upon ’ Stephen made no reply to this. He was evi- | ¢ dently alarmed at hfs wife’s discovery; this alarm being based on the most selfish and mer- cenary considerations. There was silence between the two, until the carriage turned from the public road into the broad avenue that led to the house. Then Janey spoke. “Stephen, for ten years you have been my husband only in name. When I first discovered our unfaithfulness to me, I virtually separated Ae! you, as you know. Still, I did not de- prive you of that for which you alone sought: my hand; all these years you have enjoyed a” liberal allowance from my estate. Aside from this, I have paid your debts many times; I have overlooked your frequent infidelities, your shameless disregard of all truth and honor. Because I retained any lingering spark of the love I once had for you? I tell you, no! Be- cause I entertained any hope of your eventual reform? Any such hope as that died long ago. It was simply to keep you from rushing from bad to worse, and from worse to utter ruin. When I am convinced that the means afforded tan are only an instrument in your hands for nflicting further wrong upon yourself and oth- ers, that will cease, also, and our separation will be complete.” There was no opportunity for Stephen to re- rly, if he had felt inclined to doso. When his e ceased speaking, oe Seen into full view of the piazza, on which Kate and Miss Weston were standing in the bright moonlight. The former came running down the steps, “Why, Janey! I was jae worried about you. And Stephen—I idn’t know you were expecting him? “T think Janey must be gifted with second- sight,” said Stephen, with a constrained laugh. ‘*T sent her no word, for tbe simple reason that I did not_know it myself, until just before } started. But she was promptly on hand, which I consider very fortunate, as it saved me quite: a@ walk,” It is said that ‘‘ liars should have good memo- ries.” Stephen forgot what he had said about: Setent tase the next train, or rather remem- bered it late. Janey noted it; but she was too much accus- tomed to these prevarications to feel any sur- prise; she certainly manifested none. She simply said: “I consider the strong premonitions I had that I should find you there, as very fortunate— very fortunate indeed.” CHAPTER XXII. ACROSS THE OCEAN AND BACK AGAIN, WE will now transport the reader across the ocean to a London hotel, where, beside a cheer- ful fire, sits a man not more than sixty, though his white hair makes him look some years older. The table, beside which he sits, is strewedi with papers and letters, He has an open letter in his hand, whose worm envelope is covered with postmarks, and in whose contents, and the thoughts to which it Sen rise, he is so much absorbed as not to no- ice the entrance of a younger man, an old ac- quaintance of ours, Richard Harrington. “Well, uncle, everything you mentioned has; been attended to, and we bid fair to start on our trip to Germany to-morrow morning.” “My dear boy, I regret giving you so much unnecessary trouble, but I am going back to the- United States by the next steamer.” Richard hg from the excited face of the: speaker to the letter he still held in his hand: ‘You have no bad news, I hope?” Mr. Cameron handed the letter to his nephew.,. Pa wy know, as yet, whether it be good or Richard read the letter, which consisted of v7 ps few lines, through twice. There was a look of pity in the eyes that he lifted to those fixed so intently u me ay x ““ What do “ha ink of it?” ‘If you hadn’t had so many such letters—” Here Richard paused, unwilling to destroy’ the new-born hopes that ha in thats ph wn pes tha’ d sprung up in that “‘ But this is different from — of the others,. Here a name and positive ad Don’t you see?” ‘Tt will do no harm to go there at all events,. God grant that you may not be disappointed.” — “Tt is very generous in you to say that,. Richard. Sut it will make no difference in my arrangements for you; you will have a son's. portion, at all events.” ‘*My dear uncle, as you have kindly allowed me to call you—I cannot forget that you are: Janey’s uncle—not mine—you ‘have already~ done more for me than I had pect. You have educated me, giving me ever advantage that your own son wonld have had.. ress are given.,. any right to ex--
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\ \ all, at all! n a at be aor girl.” ; “But not one of low family, Dick; I should be very sorry to have you do that. The girl herself, may be all right, but the associations and influences that surround her will be sure to work you evil. To this] owe my desolate life, ‘so of pain and sorrow. I pray that you may never make so great, so sad a mistake, ow, my dear boy, lam sorry to deprive you of the pleasure of your projected tour; but you; shall not lose it altogether; I will take eare of that. While any doubt rests upon my mind in regard to the matter mentioned in this letter I could not rest. It has been along time on the way, as you will see by the date. So we will. take passage by the first steemer.” They a short and pleasant. passage; land- ing in New York nine days later, Mr. Cameron scarcely waited for needful hcg 3 refreshment, but started immediately ‘or mailed, that had affected him so strangely. _ Richard accompanied him. Though his heart impelled him so strongly in another direction, he would not let him go alone, His heart was full o pity, as he saw how rest- Jess and excited his uncle grew as they neared the place of their destination. He had had so many anonymous. letters on the same-subject, that he had no thought that it would settle the doubts that so tortured him, and he dreaded the effects of every fresh disappointment on one whose life had been full. of so many such. On leaving the depot, they struck out across on open field, and following the directions given them there, soon found themselves in front of the sntall, low cottage, to which we introduced the reader at the commencement of our story. It had lost:much of the neat, trim appearance it had then; the gate was broken and the vines dismantled from the rustic porch. ; _ Aman was splitting wood just outside... “Does Barbara Worth live here?’ inquired Mr. Cameron, The man looked puzzled. “Ts it blind Barby, ye mane?” ex! ‘Yes, she was blind, and her name. is Bar- ‘“Sorra a bit does she live here now, at I heard say that she was out of her , like, an’ Miss Sutton tuck her to some doc- tor’s place, or ruther.” “Sutton! Sutton!” repeated. Mr. Cameron, - dn an excited tone and manner, ‘‘ what Sutton? % Was her Christian name Lucia?” _ “Pm thinkin’ that was her name, sur. I only knew her as the leddy that lives in the big white house on the hill—or did live there.” ‘ “ Where is she?” ** That I couldn’t tell you, sur,” said the man, with a solemn shake of the head; ‘*she’s dead.” Richard smiled at this non-committal reply, while Mr. Cameron looked as though he was un- certain what to do next. _ “If this woman. was Lucia Sutton,” he said to his nephew, ‘‘ sheis the person I have been try- ing to find so many years, and who I am now more convinced than ever was at the bottom of all these troubles. But if she is dead, and Bar- | bara Worth cannot be found, there is nothing to | * ‘be-done, as Isee.” A pleasant, intelligent-looking woman, with a baby in her armada come out of the house, and stood listening to his conversation. She now spoke, ‘‘Barney, I don’t believe but what. Elsie Prin- le could tell the gentleman what he wants.to amy You. know she lived with Mrs. Sutton, and went with her when she took blind Barby to New York.” ; ; ‘Where does this person live?” said Mr. Cam- eron, turniag to the young woman. ‘She keeps variety store in the village, sir. It’s on Main street, on the rightas you go down. ‘You can’t miss it.” : ; Mr, Cameron put some silver im the chubby » hands of the baby; then the two retraced their way back to the village. ing down Main street, they soon-came toa little shop, on the door of which was very con- spicuously lettered. 4 Miss Prinein’s Fancy STorsg.” ¢ ‘ \ mbe, from which the lefter was. As they opened the door, the sharp ring of a bell caHed a woman out from aroom in the rear. | It is our old acquaintance Elsie, looking ver ; nouch the same as when We first met her, wit the exception ofa slight limp, She passed round back of the counter, to where her supposed customers stood. ‘*T wish to see Miss Elsie Pringle.” “That is my name.” ‘* You lived with the late Mrs. Sutton?” Elsie looked uneasy, scanning more closely | her visitors, ‘* Well, yes, I lived with her—why?” ‘Do you know what became of Barbara with . Sutton to New York last spring?” The uneasiness so plainly visible in Elsie’s face, now changed to fear and distrust. ‘*‘No, I don’t. Ididn’t have nothin’ to do with | her goin’, She seemed sort 0’ crazy. ' got to New.York, she grew worse, an’ Mrs. Sutton sent her to some doctor, That’s all I know’bout it. Did you want to buy anything?” / Here Richard said something to his uncle in | a low voice, who replied to him in the same tone, Then, the latter turned again to Elsie, ““T have something of importance to say to | you, and must ask a private interview.” Elsie led the way, with visible reluctance, toa little room back of the shop. It was evident to Mr, Cameron that she knew more than she was willing to admit, for fear of compromising herself, though in what way was a puzzle tohim. It almost seemed as if she was alarmed for her personal safety. “Tf there’s anything wrong,” she commenced, in an agitated voice, ‘‘’tain’t my fault. I waited on Barby and did jest as Mrs. Sutton told me, and if any mischief has been done, I ain’t to blame for’t.” Mr. Cameron was convinced by Elsie’s words and manner that some foul play had been at- tempted, if not gr tap ong but the first thing to be done was to allay her apprehensions. “You are not going to be blamed for any- thing. Nor will you be harmed; unless, indeed, you refuse to give me the information I am sure | you possess. On the contrary, if you answer my questions truly and honest} » you shall be liberally rewarded.” Elsie looked wistfully at the bank-note that Mr, Cameron took from his pocket-hook, saying: “*Of course, VU tel] you anythin’ I know, sir.” “Well, then, what was Mrs, Sutton’s object in Ee Barbara Worth away among stran- gers ‘Well, sir, she said she wanted to consult some doctor about her.” ‘“*T didn’t ask you whatshe said ; I asked you what you believed ber object to be? Mrs. Sut- ton is.dead; you surely have no reason to fear her now?” |. “I think ’twas because she was afraid she’d | tell something; in fact, she gold me so.” The uncle and nephew looked at each other. ‘She did? Now you, tell me you waited on Barbara; was her mind really affected, or was | it simply a pretense on Mrs. Sutton’s part? Re- member that your only safety lies in being per- fectly frank.” “Well, sir, there ain’t no denyin’ but what Barby was out_of her head, but I think ’twas somethin’ that Mrs. Sutton give-her that made -herso. I minded that she always had them queer spells after she’d took some of the wine or cordial] that Mrs. Sutton kept by her.” “How did it seem to affect her?” “ At first, it made her giddy an’ crazy-like; then she Brey, stupid, an’ didn’t seem to take no notice of nothin’ nor nobody. A good dealof the tines I dressed an’ undressed her as I would a baby. |. * Before Barbara went to New York, did she live quite alone?” “Yes, sir, She lived in a little cottage out of the village, that belonged to Mrs. Sutton.” ‘Did you ever know of. her having a child with her, a girl?” “ No, sir, only Mrs. Sutton’s daughter. She had the care of her, I think, from a baby.” ** How old is this daughter?” “TY couldn’t tell exactly. I should say she gin be eighteen or nineteen; something along ere, sir. ‘You think this girl is Mrs. Sutton’s child?” ‘‘She was always called so. It ain’t more’n ht years ago since Mrs. Sutton come to gecombe; so her daughter was quite a girl when I first saw her.” | Mr. Cameron looked attentively at the speak- - x, than she had hitherto done the countenances of | | Worth, commonly called Blind Barby, who went | | «WV \ “How, long has Mrs. Sutton been dead?” ““ About six: months.” ““ Where did she die, here?” *“Oh, no; sir, she was killed: on the cars last summer, presume you heard of it; two trains coming together, owin’ to some mistake about the time. There was. a terrible loss of life. It was a great escape for me. I was sit- ting beside Mrs. Sutton only a few minutes be- fore; but there was a lady on board on her way to be governess in a family she was acquainted with—Miss Lane, I think her name was—an’ she told me to give her my place, so I took a seat on the other side. I hadn’t much more’n got comfortably fixed when the trains met. Mrs. Sutton an’ this lady were so crushed that if it hadn’t been for their dress they couldn’t have been told apart, an’ the only hurt I had was en my foot.” . Cameron listened very gravely to this, ‘Tt was a terrible death. I knew Mrs, Sut- ton some years ago, when her fate promised to be very different. Now I want to find this blind woman, Barbara Worth. Where did Mrs, Sutton take her when she left New York?” pd | a with her; I stayed with some re- latives I in the city while.she was gone. She told me, when she got back, that she’d left her with a doctor, in some:-place on the Hudson, *Twa’n’t more’n two'weeks after that she was killed.” ‘‘Did she leave no letters or papers that could give any clew to this doctor’s name and address?” Elsie glanced at the bank-note, and then at the face of the speaker. r. **T don’t know; perhaps I might find some- thin’ of the kind.” , AS So ean, ~ mes ere. a ne I shall not on fo) ut wi ve you this fifty-dollar bil. 2 ; 2 Elsie looked at the note that was held up to her, aaa ners os of the rere then ris- ing wi ri isa da curtain St the faniiieriatd nde roar, She soon reappeared with an empty directed envelope in her hand, which she handed to Mr. Cameron. It bore this inscription: “Dr. John Garvin, Poughkeepsie, N.Y.” ““This'is the doctor’s address with whom Bar- bara Worth was left?” ** Yes, sir.” Rising to his feet, Mr. Cameron put the enve- lope into his breast-pocket, and the bill in the eager hand held out to receive it. We must go directly back to the city, Dick. If we hurry we can catch the train,” CHAPTER XXITIL RICHARD’S VISIT TO FOREST HILL, It was night when Mr. Cameron and _ his nephew got back to the city; and as anxious as the former was to follow up the clew he had re- ceived, he was obliged to defer it until another day. They went to a hotel. : After srpper Mr. Cameron went to his room to obtain the much needed rest, but Richard mi po to a Hannah. e er will remember Hannah Prout in whose lodging-house Irva found refuge on bee escape. The good woman was surprised and: delighted to see him, Among the many questions that poured in a him, she found time to inquire about Irva, o held a warm place in her beart. ‘*Is she still at your sister’s, Mr. Richard? I hav’n’t heard nothin’ from her or seen any of your folks to inquire.” “‘T presume she is; there is where I left ber. I expect to see her to-morrow, Uncle Charles has some business up the Hudson,,and Pm goin as far with him as sister Kate’s. What shall f tell Miss Lane from you?” “Give her my love, for one thing. And tell her that she mustn’t forget her promise to come an’ see me whenever she comes down.” ““T will, and I won’t forget my promise to bring her, either.” “What nonsense, Mr. Richard. But you al- ways will have your joke ‘*It’s no joke at all, Hannah,” laughed Rich- ard, as he ran down the steps; When you see her, you’ll see me,” Richard was as good as his word; reaching Forest Hill about noon, in the midst of the snow-storm of the season. : 4 . ;
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Sa toward the school-room windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the form, so often present, in were closed, and there were no signs of life in that part of the building. He found Kate all alone, with the exception of the children. . “Janey went back this morning, and as John had some business in the city, he went with er, You must have passed on the way. You spoke about uncle Charles; why didn’t he stop with you?” “He had some business beyond. I presume he will stop on his way back. You know the Search he has been making so many years; he thinks he has obtained a clew now that will lead to some definite conclusicn,” Kate looked disturbed. She had always enter- tained hopes that Mr. Cameron would make Richard his heir; loving her brother too well not to feel uneasy at a discovery so likely to prove adverse to his interests. “si What has he discovered? Anything of im- portance? ‘*] don’t feel at liberty to state just what it is, even if I understood it fully, in all its bear- ings. But, however it may result, I hope ‘that it will remove the cruel uncertainty that has tortured so longoue of the noblest hearts that ever beat,” : During this conversation, Richard had kept his eyes and ears on the alert; thinking that something would be said or occur that would lead to the subject’ that was uppermost in his thoughts. ' He now said: ‘By the way, Kate, I called on Hannah when I was in the city. I found the good old body full of lodgers, and as busy and happy as a bee. She sent a message to Miss Lane, ti not forget to give her.” Kate’s countenance underwent a ‘noticeable change. ‘Miss Lane, as she called herself, is gone. George Lane came on from the West, and de- clared that she was not his sister, nor any way aad to him!” ; ate was'totally unprepared for the effect of these words on her brother. He started to his feet, confronting her with a look that she never forgot. _And you sent her away?” Of course. You don’t think I would keep her after learning the deceit she had practiced? ut it was a great surprise to us I. was never so deceived in any one in my life!” “In your favorable estimation of her charac- - ter—and I know from your own lips that it ‘ he ep wohepiow son were not deceived in her, Kate’s face flushed hotly. [never thought to hear my brother defend such conduct as this! In my opinion, a young girl that could plan and carry out such a de- iberate and systematic deception must be very depraved!” ‘*‘Tt was not her plan, it was mine,” Yours!” “Yes, mine. It was my suggestion that she enter your family in the way she did enter it. In fact, [had to exercise all my powers of per- Suasion to induce her to consent.’ “Richard Harrington! if any one else had told me that you would do, or countenance such a thing, I wouldn’t have believed it!” It was a peculiarity of Richard’s that he saw a ludicrous side to most everything, and the amazement and horror in his sister’s uplifted eyes and hands brought a roguish smile to his lips. “You see, Kate, you may know a person all } your life, and be deceived in him. _ “Ts may seem very funny to you,” was the E:xdignant rejoinder, ‘‘ but to me it is perfectly dreadful!” “That is very possible; only let your censure fall where it belongs, on me. The sin and ae are mine, and I don’t propose to share them wi anv one.” : _ “Ts all very well for you to say that, but it’s my belief that she came here for the ex- ee purpose of entrapping you into marrying or, p ““You were never more mistaken in your life Kate. If you'll listen to me with any degree of calmness, I will tell you just how the whole thing came about, and all there is to it.” , Here Richard related to his sister what the reader already knows, “Tt was not my intention to leave you in ignorance of these facts,” he said, in conclusion; ‘“as soon as Irva had been with you a few days, and you felt interested in her, as I felt sure you - Would be, I intended to tell you just as it was. Preript ve As he rode up to the door, he looked eagerly his sleeping and.waking dreams. But the blinds. hat J must . BLIND BARBARA'S. SECRET. But,, Miss Weston came—dnd Various other- things, not neces: to mention now, deterred me. As you know, I was called away very un- expectediy. I left with the intention of writing yowabout it, after T had been away a few weeks, or else defer it until my return, which I suppos- ed would bé in three or four months.” ; For the first time in her life, Kate was seri- ously angry with her brother. ‘What you tell me makes it no better for her, and much worse for on ' What right had you | to place in my family a woman, picked up in the street, and of whose character you knew | nothing?” “Kate, answer me this one question: Did you ever see anything amiss in this young lad while she was with you? Was not her conduct, in every respect, gentle, modest, and womanly? You told me, yourself, that the children never behaved so well as they did when under her | eare and influence.” Kate remenrbered what she said, and her brother’s allusion to it only increased her anger. “J don’t care if I did! It was a contrived plan, on her part, to make you think her a piece of perfection; and it seems she succeeded!” Here Kate’s excitement culminated in a burst bf tears. : Richard waited, with all the patience he could iauster, until this had passed. Then he said: ‘“T sent her a letter, directed to this place; fiid she get it?” “Tt came on the day she left. I was just on the point of sending it to her, when I heard she was gone.” This was the truth, though not the whole truth, as Kate well knew. In her brother’s resent mood, she did not dare to let him know ow long the letter was in her hands before Irva’s departure. ~ “One question more: Where did she go?” “T don’t know where she went.” “Do you mean to tell me, Kate, that you don’t know what direction she took when she left here?” John got the impression that she returned to New York: I never inquired where she was going; and I am very glad, now, that I didn’t.” Kate looked at her brother in amazement. In all her life, she had never known him to betray so much feeling and excitement as now. : He walked up and down the room for some moments without speaking. é Then, suddenly turning, he confronted her. ‘Kate! [love that girl with all the strength of my manhood; I never knew how well until now! I will search the wide world over, but I will find her; and I give’ you fair warning, if Lam so fortunate as to win her affections, that T shall make her my wife!” In spite of his sister’s entreaties, Richard re- ‘sarned to New York on the next train. In the next Herald was the following ‘‘ per- sonal;” F IRVA will send her present address to the Herald office, she will greatly relieve the anxiety of her Broruer RIcHARD. ‘ CHAPTER XXTV. CAMERON’S SEARCH—SURPRISE AND MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS, We will now follow Mr. Cameron, in his ef- forts to discover the whereabouts of Barbara Worth. On reaching Pouzhkeepsie, he searched the gitede ty, for the residence of Dr. John Garvin; | and having found it, proceeded to the street and number indicated. ° It was a eres old-fashioned building, in a thinly-settled part of the city, situated some distance from the road. It might have worn a pleasanter look at a pleasanter season of the year, but now the bare branches of the few straggling trees that sur- rounded it, together with the neglected appear ance of the garden and out-houses, gave ita very desolate and dreary air. A red-armed, slatternly-looking servant an- swered the bell, ushering him into a small room , at the rear. “Ts Dr. Garvin at home?” ; “He ain’t fur off,” was the rather ambiguous reply of the girl, who stood staring at bim ‘with | open eyes and mouth. } “Give him this card; and say that I am wait- | ing to see him,” he girl looked curiously at the little piece of | pasteboard in her hand. “ What namé snall I till him, sur?” “The name is on the card. Hand it to him, | one aoe Pag it,” was the response. e gir 1) : Bei, € a ssaiing elapsed. Mr. Cameron walked impatiently up and - down the floor of the little room that Dr.-Gar- vin dignified by the name of his ‘‘ private office.” The dust lay thick upon the shelves that lined one side of it, on which were various bottles and jars, most of them empty. The pen had rusted into the empty inkstand that stood-on the pine desk in one corner of the room, and a pile of old newspapers lay in the old rickety chair opposite. At last the doctor made his appearance. He had, evidently, been called in from some rough, outdoor labor; his hair and face bearing evidence of being ae combed and washed. He wore a loose, flashy dressing-gown, whose bright colors contrasted oddly with his soiled linen and coarse, dirty boots. rg rie a’ professional air, he took his seat at the desk, making an effort to remove the rusty pen from the inkstand. Failing in this, he drew the folds of his dressing-gown as far as possible over the boots, which still insisted on making themselves visible. ‘* What can I do for you, sir?” ‘* About six months ago, more or less, a blind woman was placed under your care, by the name of Barbara Worth?” A change passed over the doctor’s face; its rigid, solemn aspect gave place to a look of cu- riosity and interest. : ‘* A blind woman was placed under my care about that time, sir, but not by that name.” “No matter; that is her true name. Is she with ou still?’ , “She is. Isuppose you are one of the le she got me to write to?” " EE” he wrote me a letter some time ago; but I - was out of the country, and it was several months in reaching me,” i “‘ Well, sir,” said the doctor, crossing his legs, and assuming a confidential tone and manner, “that was the most curious circumstance that ever happened to me in all my born days. ‘You see, last spring I put my usual adver- tisement in the paper, as how patients to board; givin’ ’em every possible care and attention, as I always do, sir. The fore art of last summer, a lady drives up to the oor, as nice and genteel a person as you’d wish see, sir. “About how old?” interrupted Mr. Cameron. ‘*T should say about fifty; though it’s hard telling a woman’s age, sir. She wasn’t any younger, Pil dare swear.. Well, she had a blind woman. with her, partly insane, as she said, and from her appearance at the time I saw no rea- son to doubt her word. She told me that she had some very queer notions about herself and others that made her very troublesome, and wanted me to take charge of her.- As she pro- mised to pay a good price, and. everything seemed fair and square, I consented, » she went away and left her} and if you'll believe me, sir, I haven’t seen or heard a word from her since! She paid three months in advance. *eording to my invariable rule, sir, or I should haye sent her to the almshouse long ago, Iwas tellin’ Mrs, Garvin only this morning that [I couldn’t afford to keep her much longer. ' I’ve got a family of my own, sir, and can’t afford to lodge and feed other people’s for nothin’.” For the last three months poor Barby had made herself very useful by taking care of the doctor’s numerous progeny; but . Cameron was in ignorance of this. 5 ‘* \Fou need have no fears. on that score,” he said. ‘If she is the person I think she is, I will assume all responsibilities, not only in regard to the future, but the past.” This assurance produced a very visible«effect on the doctor’s tone and manner. ] ‘‘ Very liberal of you, indeed, sir,” he said, rubbing his hands softly together. : ‘What was the name of this lady? and what did she call the person she: brought here? You say it was not Worth?” ; “Well, sir, the ] and she gave me to understand that the patient she brought was her sister Mary. ith, that is the name I put upon my books, sir.” Here the doctor reached up, taking down a book from the top of the desk, and opening it. ‘Yes, here itis; date and all, Asyou see, sir.” Mr. Cameron looked over his shoulder and read the following: : ** July 15th, 18—. © “Received this day Mary Smith. Blind and in- sane “Board paid, three months in ener Mrs. com- | Julia Ann Smith, of New York, to whom addressed.” munications are to be “Wrote her more. than a dozen letters, sir,” said theedoctor, sree the book and returning it — place; ‘‘ but fever a word did I get in reply. : d take a few - called herself Smith;
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Ye... _ from my pretty apaasir. 5 I feel as if I had _ with her; speaking of them only so far as it - web of mutual mistakes and misunderstandings. “yous 2A —eS *‘¥ dare say not,” said Mr. Cameron, a little dryty. ‘ The lady wi o gave that name as her address was killed on the cars, two or three weeks after.” ‘“* You don’tsay so! Well, thataccounts for it.” ‘This blind woman’s name is not Smith, but | “Worth,” continued Mr. Cameron. ‘“That’s what she has always insisted on, since she began to get better, sir; but I thought | wronged her, it was in persuadin | secret marriage. But my father, a hard, haugh- it was only one of her crazy notions.” ‘‘What is her condition of mind now?” ‘Well, sir, when she first come, she was sort o’ stupid, and, at times, wanderin’; but she has been improvin’ every week, until now you wouldn’t hardly think there was anythin’ the , matter with her. She tells a queer story about | herself; but mayhap its truer than I thought it | was. It seems that she told the truth about her’ name, anyway. Fora long time she was con- | tinually pestering me and Mrs. Garvin to write | to some place in Connecticut. At last I wrote, just to satisfy her, and thinking, perhaps, there might be something in it. But the letter came back ‘uncalled for.’” ‘What name did she give you?” The doctor again referred to his book, “Here it is, sir. _‘ Miss Irva Sutton, Edge~ combe, Connecticut.” Mr. Cameron looked at it in silence. ‘“Now I want to see this blind woman, Bar- bara Worth. I prefer to do so unannounced, if her mind isstrong enough for it to produce no unfavorable reali, “JT don’t think it will harm her, sir,” said the coctor, rising to his feet. ‘She don’t seem to act quite natural yet; but she is noways excita- ble, only melancholy like. She'll set by the hour and not speak, unless somebody speaks to her. She is in the nursery; it sort o’ amuses her to look after the children a bit. Will you | see her there, or shall I send for her to come out | here?” | ‘‘Take me to wherever she is. I wish to see | her unannounced, and entirely alone.” Dr. Garvin led the way to asparely-furnished, but not uncheerful room. There, seated by one of the windows, was our ‘old friend, Barbara; looking little as she did when we first saw her. . Her cheeks were thin and bloodless, and her hair perfectly white; while her whole counte- nance and attitude indicated a sorrow and de- jection that teuched with pity Mr. Cameron’s heart, as he looked at her. A year-old baby lay sleeping across her knee, and four or five other children were playing about the room, “Simply mention my name to her, and then leave us,” said Mr. Cameron. Low as this was spoken, it reached Barbara, as could be seen by the sudden turning of the head toward the place where the pogo stood, . Dr. Garvin took the baby from her knee, say- ing: ““Tll take Arty tohis mamma. Here’s a gen- tleman to see you; Mr, Charles Cameron.” At the mention of that name, Barbara arose to her feet, sinking back into her chair again, _ trembling in every limb Mr. Cameron signed the doctor to leave the es which he did, taking the children with - m, As socn as they were quite alone, Mr, Cam- eron took a seat in front of her, looking in pity and alarm upon the wreck before him. ‘Pray do not agitate yourself so, Mrs. Worth. Iam your friend, and would ladly think you mine, I got your letter only about three weeks ago. Iwas in London at the time. I sailed in | the next steamer for this country, and have been searching for you ever since. In fact, I have been searching for you many years. You say, in your letter, that I have a daughter: did ak truly?” ‘* When the letter was written you had; but it is a long, long time since I’ve seen or heard ‘been in a long and troubled sleep, a sleep from which I had tried to waken many times. “ That is all past now; do not think of it any more. eg ae days are dawning for you, for us both. e scheming brain, that has caused us both so much trouble, is powerless to work us any further ill; Lucia Sutton is dead!” Barbara bowed her head upon her hands, “Tead? And I have feltso hard, so bitter to- ward her! God be pitiful to her, and to us all!” ‘Now that she has peers beyond all human jurisdiction, we will let her sins and follies rest may be necessary to straighten out this tangled Yous , in your letter, of the disgrace I have brought upon ‘your name. As God lives, your ‘ aoe le i _ * ri y dee / daughter was my beloved and lawful wife! IfI ty man, was stricken down with the illness that ' terminated his life, and I supposed the necessity for concealment would be only for a few months, at the longer ‘‘ And the woman who told Alice that she wag your wife, showin, rs and letters in confir- mation of the truth of her statement?” “‘T will tell you. Years before I saw Alice, when I was a mere boy, I was entrapped into marrying a woman, profligate in character, and several years my senior. I lived with her only afew weeks. Though all the usual forms were gone through with, she was not legally my wife as she had a husband when I married her. 1 should have gone through the formality of a ivorce had I not been desirous of keeping the whole thing from my father, who I knew would never pardon my associating his name with that of such a person, “T first met Alice at Mrs. Sutton’s, with whom she lived as a sort of companion and attendant. You, who knew and loved her, will easily credit the impression she made on me—an impression that deepened with every succeeding interview until I resolved to secure her beyond the possi- bility of loss. Chance favored me. Mrs. Sut- ton was called away, leaving Alice in charge of the house. She remained away two or three weeks; and so successfully did I urge my suit that before her return I had persuaded Alice to consent to a secret marriage. “Mrs. Sutton was the widow of a man I es- teemed very highly. After her return, I con- tinued my visits at her house. At last, fearing from her manner that she was misconstrui them, I told her of my marriage to Alice an my reasons for keeping it private for the pres- ent, very foolishly, as I now see; I also made a confidante of her in regard to my former mar- riage—if marriage it could be Biss eg ‘*From what I have learned since, I know that she considered my marriage to Alice as a great , wrong done to herself. But so well did she suc- ceed in concealing her feelings that I never once suspected it. She professed the utmost affec- tion for Alice and sympathy for me, and will- ingness to aid us to the extent of her power. She gave us every facility for seeing each other, and when, a few months later, I was summon home by my father’s apparent nearness to death, Lleft my — wife under her care and pro- tection as confidently as I would have left her in ours. + ‘‘T found my father very feeble, but much better than when my sister wrote me; his once strong mind so weakened by age and sickness that he could hardly endure to have me out of his sight a moment. “In this way several weeks pases One day, as I was wondering why I didn’t have a reply to my last letter to Alice, I received one from Mrs. Sutton, saying that my wife had died, after giving birth toa still-born babe—that the sudden ap nce of a woman, who claimed to be my wife, had given Alice such a shock that she lived only « few hours after. “What rr My were at this intelligence, I will not attempt to describe. “T started immediately for Lindenville, where ‘ Mrs, Sutton then lived, but only to find that m wife’s mother had made her appearance, an taken it | pay Pkg body of her daughter, away. rs. Sutton solemnly assured me that she not the faintest idea whither you had taken it, or even where you lived; and as I knew of no motive that she could have for de- ‘ ceiving me, I placed the fullest reliance on what she told me.” “*T left a letter with Mrs, Sutton for you. It contained my full address, together with a strong appeal to you for the babe that my straitened circumstances made me ill able to care for,” explained Barbara, ‘‘She never gave it to me.” ‘‘T had what purported to be a reply, stating that you could do nothing for it, and advising me to let Mrs. Sutton adopt it, as she had offer- ed to do.” “T wrote you nothing of the kind. In fact, I didn’t know, at that time, that the child was living. Far from taking the course you sup- wart should have considered it as a most pre- cious gift, which nothing could have induced me to relinquish. The love and com gan of the child of my lost Alice would have comfort- ed me as nothing else could. “As it was, I was nearly heart-broken.~ All the comfort I had was to talk with Mrs. Sutton about my lost darling; she all the time express- ing the greatest sympathy for mein my cruel bereavement, ’ BLIND BARBARA’S SECRET. _i| her into a | ther; and finally she startled me by a she failed to carry out-her threat. \ ‘This, naturally, threw us a great deal toge- assion- ate avowal of her love. I told her that my heart was buried in the grave of Alice, and that I should never marry. ‘Finding me proof against all her persuasions. and blandishments, she threw off, in a measure, the mask she had worn, making use of this re- markable expression, but which is no puzzle to me now: ‘You will have cause to regret, to the | last day of your life, that you have twice scorn- ed my love.’ “But. I ascribed it to the excitement under which she seemed to be laboring, and thought no. more about it. It.was an interruption to our friendship, however; and as I left Lindenville soon after, we never met again. ‘* My father being now dead, and my only sis- ter married to a man in New York, I disposed of my estate in Maryland, and removed thither, ‘¢ About five years later, I was summoned to the death-bed of the abandoned woman with whom my troubles began. “In an agony of fear and remorse, she dis- closed to me the facet that Mrs. Sutton had hired. her to come to my wife with the story of my former marriage to her; bringing forward let- ters and papers to make good herclaim. She said, also, that Alice’s child, a daughter, was born alive, and was still living, the last she heard from it, two years before. That Mrs, Sutton had taken charge of it, sending it away to nurse to some remote and o village, whose name and location she did not know. ‘You will readily surmise that I lost no time in going to Lindenville, but only to find that Mrs. Sutton had removed a year before, leaving no clew to her whereabouts. “TI then advertised; offering a liberal reward to any one who would give me any information that would lead to the discovery of the child, or the woman who had stolen her, “The large amount offered brought me let- ters from various parts of the country; all of them purporting to have seen or heard of some woman with a child, and under circumstances that led them to conclude it was the one I was seeking. But, though I attended personally to everything that held out the faintest hope‘of success, it was only to meet with fresh disap- pointment. ‘*T had one anonymous letter. The hand- writing was evidently disguised, but there were certain peculiarities about it that made me think it was from Mrs. Sutton. It stated that ‘I should never find the child I was seeking until to see her living would be far worse than to mourn her dead.’” “Thanks to my constant and watchful care In spite of her bad teachings and worse example, Irva isa child of which any father might be proud,” put in Barbara. ““Trva? that was the name given me by Dr. Garvin; Irva Sutton. Then she went by Mrs, iar ee yay Ed ibe ed Irv; es; every one in Edgecombe suppos & to be her idee child. Not long after the death of Alice, my sight began to fail me—I think I must have wept it away. This, together with my poverty, left me he ate and entirely at her vat She offered to take care of the child and me, but only on condition that I gave her full control of Irva until she reached the age of womanhood, leaving her to sup , until then, that she was her own child. I consented, on condition that I should have the care of m daughter through her infancy and child- ood, and that when she me a woman she would reveal to her the secret of her birth and the relation I sustained to her. She solemnly a to do this, and I, in turn, promised to eave the revelation to her. ce _‘* When Irva was five years old, I became en- tirely blind. Lovely in form and soul, she was the sole joy and comfort of my lonely heart, and I clung to her with a strength of affection that I had never bestowed upon her mother. And though she never dreamed that 1 was other than her nurse, she returned my tenderness and de- votion with grateful affection. ‘* As years went on, various things occurred to shake my confidence in Mrs. Sutton’s truth; and I began to think that he might not be the hard and evil man she had represented. In an unguarded moment, she had let fall words that made me think she had some feeling of personal ill-will, against you. This, together with Mrs. Sutton’s indifference, and, at times, positive aversion to Irva, made me often very uneasy. But, blind and helpless, I could only wait, bop- ing that she would redeem her Rr When I found that she intended to delay, if not to evade this, I decided to again remind you that re pas
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months. LIND ¥ou had a daughter, and her claim upon you. As soon as Mrs. Sutton knew of this letter, i was seized with the strange mental, affection under which I have labored until the last three I must have been very ill when T left Hdgecombe, as [had not the slightest recollec- tion of it. Indeed, it was 6nly at intervals that -{f had any consciousness of what was_ passing urouhd me. When it fully returned, I found myself here, alone, among strangers.” ‘‘When did you see my daughter last?” **T couldn’t tell you.. I remember trying to speak to her, and how distressed 1 was at not being able to do so, but where, or when, { can- not say.” “She was in Edgecombe when you wrote me?” “Yes; and some weeks after.” “Then she must be there, or in that vicinity. Or if gone away, some one there will know her whereabouts. IJ shallsurely find her. Now the sooner we get away from here the better. This is no place for the mother of Alice. My home, from henceforth, is yours. Iam your son, and you must let me care for you as such.” CHAPTER XXV. RICHARD’S DISCOVERY. We will now return to Irva, who has found a pt and pleasant home with the Sisters of St. ohn. Sister Melicent was an old schoolmate of Mrs. Sully’s, the two having kept up, as far as prac- ticable, the warm and loving intercourse @ their early years. 3 . She received Irva very kindly, installing her, in the course of a week, as assistant teacher it the orphanage connected with the institution. It was considerable of a puzzle to Irva to de cide what name to call herself. She felt ax aversion to that of Sutton; the one she had ar: sumed she felt she had no right to bear, ‘*T must have some name,’ she thought. She finally concluded to take that of Worth ““Poor Barby would be delighted,” she said té herself, with a half-smile that ended in a sigh *‘How I do wish I knew where she was, ani how it is with her.” Her thoughts often reverted to Richard Would he miss her on his return and make any stfort to find her?, Or would absence, new Scenes and countries, make him forget her very ®xistence? However that might be, she shoulé never forget him. Irva always ended by chiding herself fa thinking of him at all. ‘““He was very good to me,” she thought; ‘“but he would be good to any one who need¢ his help or was-in trouble.” — She written to Mrs. Sully in regard t'! her safe arrival and prospects, receiving a ver i kind xp One day she had a line from Janey, notifying her of her return to the city. tog One of the sisters gave it to her, saying that the girl that brought it was waiting outside to see her. It was Ellen, good, faithful. Elien, who had been so kind to her when she was at Mrs. Ha: Verstraw’s. Eilen’s delight was very visible—her smiling face being more eloquent than even her tongu.. ** Sure, an’ it is you, Miss Irva, darlin’. Mrs. Sully—it’s with her I’m livin’—towld me you was here, but it seemed too good to be thrue, sic it did! Och! but twas a long an’ weary wait 1 had at me sister’s! an’ it’s well-nigh distracted ] was whin I found ye didn’t come. In the mor- nin’ I wint oyer to Mrs, Haverstraw’s to.inquire afther ye. Mrs. Haverstraw stuck to it that you was gone, butI didn’t belave her. Ithough?! that there was some deviltry at the bottom al xt. So I wint to Mrs. Sully, an’ towld her thi whole story. I didn’t spare her scamp of a husband, aither. What does she do but go an ave a long talk with Mrs. Haverstraw. Ido’ know what was said on aither side, but Mrs Sully was convinced that you had got away, an that Mrs. Haverstraw did not know where you was. We both concluded that you had some friends you’d gone to. “Tt’s often I’ve thought of ye, but niver ¢ word did I hear, good or bad, till Mrs. Sully come back from visitin’ her sister. Thin she wld me where you was. An’ here ye are, safi *n’ happy, glory be to God!” t _irva’s grateful heart echoed the pious ejacula tion of the fo sated girl. : “Did Mr. Sully return with his wife?” ‘Not he, indeed! I hear she’s washed her. hands of him intirely. An’ it’s meself that hope ’s thrue, the blackhearted vil’in!” ~ _“ He is a very bad man,” responded Irva. ‘‘' 4ever want to see him again.” ; ‘Niver you fear thet, Miss Irva, dear: b1 / _the words had passed his lips, BA won't dare to throuble ye, while Mrs, Sully”! your frind, Pll be bound! If there was iver a) angel out of heaven she’s one! Just see whe | she’s done with Mrs. Haverstraw! If any on: had told me that there could be such a chang} in her I wouldn’t have belaved it possible; ar! it’s her work, ivery bit of it. As fur Mrs. Hav: ARBARA’S SECRET. erstraw, she don’t thir there’s her aquil in thy | whole world, an’ it ain’t no wonder, aither. | was in the room once when she talked to her; s¢ mild, an’ sweet, an’ encouragin’, it would have milted a heart of stone, that it would! An’ nov she’s got her a place as under nurse in the hos | pital, where she gives so much satisfaction that the sisters and doctors think she is wonderful.’ When Richard reached New York hé went di rectly to his sister Janey’s; unfolding to her al his troubles, hopes and fears; to which she lis tened quietly, without making any comments “IT believe Kate knows where she’s,” he said, in conclusion. “From what she told me, I should judge her to have no knowledge whatever in regard to it.' Richard had not the faintest suspicion that his sister knew where Irva was, but there wus somethin that made him turn an inquiring look upon her face, ‘““My dear Janey, have you the faintest idea as to where, or whither this ‘young lady went when she left Forest Hill?” “T am confident that she went to New York.” Here the two were interrupted, very much to Janey’s relief, who was scrupulous about speak- ing the exact truth, but who had not decided that it would be prudent to tell her brother all that she knew. The next day Janey received two letters; one from Mr, Cameron, containing much that the reader already knows, the other from Irva. The latter was as follows: “Dear Mrs. Surzy:—I send you the inclosed ad- vertisement that I cut from yesterday’s Herald, and which I think is from your brother Richard. He was very good to me when I was in great trouble, and though I know that he would have been just as good to any one else, under the same circumstan- ces, Iam just as grateful. “T should like to gemply with his request, but as I wish to act with perfect openness, I write to you, aakine you to let him know where I now am. “T have great confidence in you, believing that you will do bP io ight _ o ne best. ratefully and sincerely yours (Jeva Worms.” The mingled frankness and simplicity of this called a smile to Janey’s lip, while the confi- pate it indicated went straight to the generous eart. After a moment’s thought, she crossed over to where her brother was sitting and gave it to m, Richard turned toward his sister a face abso- lutely radiant with hope and joy. ay bless you, Janey! You don’t know what a weight you have lifted from my heart.” Then pee at the letter again, to make sure of the address, he seized his hat and turned to the door. “ Stay, Richard!” interposed Janey. ‘TI will not ask whither you are going, for there is no need, But, before you go, I have a question to ask you,” : Richard turned back. ‘* What is it, Janey?” ** Do you intend to marry this girl?” ‘If she will marry me, yes.” T have just had a letter from uncle Charles. From what he writes, it seems very probable that he will find his long-lost child, and which will make quite a change in your prospects. hope you will take this into consideration before you decide to marry a nameléss and portionless ‘My dear Janey, you are the last person that IT supposed would counsel me to make marriage a mercenary consideration.” Richard was sorry that he said this as soon as The eyes that Janey turned toward him were full of tears, ; “Tt is enough, Go, my brother. God give you success, and the happiness that bas been denied to me!” CHAPTER XXVI. IN CIRCLING ARMS, “ A GENTLEMAN in the reception-room to see Miss Worth.” : The sister who gave this message to Irva smiled as she noted the sudden color, whose warmth and brightness had such a transforming influence on that pale, quiet face. “Tt is nearly four; you need not return again to-night.” fie \ in the tone in which this was spoken | { Le! her that I was coming here the hevinig heart beat fast as she passed down the irs. “Tt must be Richard. Who else could it be?” Richard was standing in the middle of the room, with his eyes fixed upon the door, as Irva opened it, looking, as she thought, bigger and moe stronger and handsomer than ever, ‘| ** At last!” he cried, his fingers closing strong-' io ly over the-hand she laid in his, and which seem- ’ ed well content to be made prisoner. “*T was almost sure it was you!” ‘said Irva, as the two took a seat on the sofa together, “ And you were glad, very. glad, I hope? You see what a vain fellow f ain, to ask such a ques- tion?” he added, with a laugh, never once re. i moving his eyes from the face, whose varying color revealed more than she would willingly have told him. ‘* How could I help being glad to see one who has been so very kind to me?” faltered Irva, making a faint effort to withdraw her hand, but only succeeding in making it a faster pris- oner than before. “As though that wasany merit !”said Richard, | in a tone tremulous with the feelings that were | fast bearing down every barrier before them. There was a silence, a silence so sweet, so full of warm and tender emotion, that each feared to break the spell that bound them. | | ! | s Then Richard said: “Irva, when I learned you had left Kate’s, I made up my mind, if I ever found you, that f would never, willingly, lose you again. And when Janey gave me your letter 'to her, I told } to ask you to be my wife. Now, what shall I tell her that you said?” The color that rose to the temples suddenly receded, leaving the face paler dant Richard had ever seen it before, Ag vee I love her brother too well to consent marrying a poor, nameless girl, like me,” Richard oiled, ae girl, br “Ah, I forgot to tell you that I am no longer | } bog perky heir of a rich man; my uncle is likely to find a nearer and dearer claimant for his wealth, And though I am not exactly nameless, I have not much to boast of on that score—my maternal grandfather having been a shoemaker, as perha ou have heard me men- tion. I have often occasion to remind sis- ter Kate of that, to her, rather unwelcome fact. But, grandpa Davis, the shoemaker, was a very intelligent and worthy man; so I hope you won’t throw me overboard on thal account.”, Irva could not avoid smiling at this character- istic speech. Richard continued: **So you see I have nothing but these arms ot mine with which to pa my way in the world; but my darling will find them very strong and tender, if she will only trust herself to them.” “What did Janey say, when you told her?” whispered Irva, a few minutes later, from out the circling arms, that were, to her, the dearest: refuge in the world, ‘‘When I told her that T was going to ask you ~ to be my wife? She said: ‘Go, my brother; God give you success and ‘happiness!’ And in giving ba to me He has given both!” _ ‘And Kate?” “Oh! Kate will come out all right. She’s got some pretty high notions, but, aside from this, : she is one of the kindest human beings. She will love you; I defy her to help it! In fact, I am convinced that it was Miss Weston’s influ-' ence over her that made her take the stand that she did.” ‘al A shadow fell across Irva’s face; her gentle heart was not one to bear malice toward any, and in the new happiness that had come to her it had grown very soft and tender, j ‘‘Poor Miss Weston!” she sighed. Do you © know, Richard, I really think she loved you!” “She loved the wealth and position of which she thought me to be the heir, you mean,” laugh- ed Richard. “Don’t fret your tender heart about her ; she won't break hers for me, or any man. She has made up her mind to marry a rich husband ;-and when she learns the change in my a will very easily reconcile her- self to her loss.” ; me p ‘are CHAPTER XXVII. LOVE’S TEST AND TRIUMPH. THE next morning Ellen brought Irva a mes- sage from Mrs. Sully, inviting her to spend the day with her, “Ts your mistress quite alone?” inquired Irva. ‘No, ma’am. Her uncle, Mr. Cameron, come last night, and his mother, a blind lady— Worth, 1 think they call ber.” i . & blind lady? and called Worth?” repeated “Say) Irva. ‘‘Iused to know a blind lady by that ie
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ae -. tame, Did -guch a thing might be?’ you say she was Mr. Cameron’s mother?” “That’s what he calls her. An’ oh! miss, it’s so beautiful to see how kind and attentive he is to her! An’ sech a sweet face as the ould lady has! it does the heart good to look at it!” “It can’t be poor Barby,” thought Irva; ‘for she had no children that I ever heard of.” Then aloud: “Tell Mrs. Sully that I would rather wait | until she has not so many with her.” In the afternoon Janey came in her carriage. She embraced Irva with much affection, call- ing the smiles and blushes to her face by ad- dressing her by the endearing title of sister. ‘““God make you as happy as I could wish, _ sweet sister; happier than that you cannot be!” Then, seating herself on the sofa beside Irva, _ she gazed intently into her face, her manner be- traying a suppressed emotion that the former had. not looked for, much as she knew Janey loved her brother. ._ ‘Now, my dear Irva, I want you to tell me about yourself, about your early life, I mean. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity that makes me ask you this.” There was an earnestness in these words that surprised Irva, especially as Janey had hitherto avoided asking any questions concerning her past life. But she immediately proceeded to give a brief statement of her early life, and the peculiar circumstances that surrounded her. Janey listened very attentively, asking Irva several questions. When Irva had answered them to the best of her ability, she arose to her feet, saying: “T have prance rd glad news for you, dear child: Barbara Worth, whom you have only known as your nurse, but who sustains a far nearer relation to you, is at my house, waiting to see you.” Starting up, Irva uttered a ery of joy. ‘That is glad news, indeed! nurse! I have thought of her so much of late! How is she in health? She was very ill when I saw ler last.” “Better, very much better. But I can an- swer all your questions on the way. She is ver impatient to see you. I could only persuade her to let me conie alone by promising to bring you to her as quickly as possible.” The two were soon seated in the carriage that ' was waiting at the door. A sudden thought struck Irva. “ You said that she sustained a nearer relation to me, What did you mean?’ “That she is your mother’s mother, who died in giving you birth. Did you ever think that “I vever, never dreamed of it! Why has she kept me in ignorance of it all these years?” _ “Because a cloud hung over your birth at tbat time, and she believed it to be for your best good that you should be considered as Mrs, _ Sutton’s child. ‘“‘And this was the secret to which she so often alluded?” ‘*This is BLIND BARBARA’SSECRET. At least eh of it. Irva, I have more to tell you than thi ies g in the world. “TIT know that you have found a dearer, - now,” added Janey, as a swift flush came to Irva’s face. ‘Still; would it not make you very happy to know that you had a father, a noble, trus and honorable man, of whom any daughter nr pt be proud?” rva’s face was pale with emotion, and her oa eyes full of tears. r a _ child,” Irva’s feeling found expression in broken Yo (2a — come to claim me some A few hours later, Mr. Cameron and _ his oh said the former, who looked ten \ “You need tellme no more. It is he, my er, that has come! I knew I should find ; that he would claim me, some day!” When Rarbara put her trembling arms around her, calling ber “her dear daughter’s dear words of joy and thanksgiving, _ But, when she clung, sobbing, to her father’s KS _ breast, and heard his voice blessing her in such tones of solemnity and tenderness, she smiled ‘ightly through her tears up into his face, say- ing: a I knew I should find you; that you would day! daughter were seated together in the library. es Poa 5 Rgene a long and confidential talk. you have promised to marry Richard?” l ears younger than when we saw him first. ‘‘Now, supposing I id act the part of the forbia itt” ? , > LaLa pe art My dear, kind | cruel parent, and | : ia: | 98 William street, New York. DF ae pate Sean NY hoe} x Re eh OMMBREMMMEL Or ps See ps Sb Te a Po trie See Sa PANE ee Neal oe mead hs Sw AMR RS NS Be ar ee ae Oe os } * ~ ‘ ee £7 . “2 "Y ne : ays ce da a ‘ Ve AND fet ; fi ; $5 ia Dee +h : 3 ek a k : ee BLIND BARBARA'S SECRET. | 26 “BLIND BARBARA’S: CRE, 5 aR eee Set SS ee ee ae te : | murely, who, by the way, did not seem to be at all alarmed by this threat, Mr. Cameron’s face suddenly grew grave. “ Do you love him, my child? “TI do. I don’t know when my love com- menced—I think it must have been that terrible night, when he came so nobly to my rescue— | but this I know, that it will end only with me! Mr. Cameron laid his hand softly upon the head that was resting against his shoulder. “Richard has a noble heart; I never knew him to be guilty of a dishonorable action in my life. But he who wins my new-found treasure from me must prove himself worthy of her. If he stands the test_to which I shall subject him, well and good. We shall see.” A few m:nutes later a step was heard in the hall beyond, followed by the sound of Richard’s voice speaking to one of the servants. Mr. Cameron stepped out from the bay-win- dow where he and Irvya were sitting. “Stay here, my daughter,” he said, drawing the curtain so closely that she was hidden from sane. earing Mr. Cameron’s voice, Richard came in, grasping him warmly by the band. ‘“My dear uncle! Janey has been telling me of your good fortune. I congratulate you with my whole heart!” “*Thank you, Dick; I am a happier man than I ever expec ed to be in this life. Thedaughter I have found is all that the fondest father’s heart could wish. But you shall not be any poorer for it, my dear boy ; you can’t be my heir, but you shall marry my heiress. J have it all planned.” ‘“ You are very good, uncle,” laughed Richard; “but there is quite a serious impediment to that arrangement. The fact is, my heart is no longer at my own disposal.” ‘* Nonsense, ick! I’ve heard all about that. But you won’t be so foolish as to prefer a poor nameless girl to my daughter and heiress, and who is, withal, as fair and sweet as mortal wo- man.well can be?” ‘**'You will find me just so foolish, uncle,” was the grave response. ‘‘ I love my betrothed wife; and poor and nameless as she is, I prefer her to a ye upon her throne!” rva could keep quiet no longer. Stealing out from her hiding-place, she laid her hand on her fatber’s arm. “You sha’n’t torment Richard any longer, papa; | won’t have it!” ted Mr. Cameron, ‘* You won’t bave it?’ re with a quizzical smile. ‘‘ Upon my word! that’s a nice way to speak to your father, miss!” Then turning to Richard, who stood looking from one to the other, in speechless amazement, he said in a voice broken and tremulous with emotion: ‘‘'Take ker, my dear boy, the best and dearest gift that I have to bestow. God make you worthy of each other!” There is little more to tell. Stephen Sully’s reckless course was eut short by a violent death, being killed in some drunken quarrel; his death a relief to all connected with him. Janey divides her time between Irva and her sister Kate, and is growing strong and well in tne peas and happiness that are now hers, r., Cameron and Barbara are living with | Richard and Irva in their beautiful and pleas- ant bome. Ellen is there also; having been installed nurse to the baby girl that has lately arrived, and which grandpere Cameron thinks is the most wonderful child that ever existed. And here we leave them. THE END. Sunnyside Library. 1 Lauia Rooxn. By Thomas Moore.... ........ 2 Don Juan By Lord Byron. .-...2)...6.0. 000 20c , 3 Parapise Lost. By John Milton...... ....... 4 Tur Lapy or THE Lake. By Sir Walter Scott.. 10c 5 Lucmz. By’Owen Meredith. .................. 10e 6 Undine; or, THE WaATER-Sprrir. From the German of Friederich De La Motte Fouque.. 10¢ For sale by all newsdealers, or sent, postage paid on receipt of twelve cents for single numbers, double numbers twenty-fourcents, ADAMS, VICTOR & Co., U “~ | “‘T shall obey you,. of course,” said Irva, de- | BEADLE AND ADAMS’ Speakers. Each volume contains 100 large pages, printed from clear, open type, comprising the best collec- tion of Dialogues, Dramas and Recitations. The Dime Speakers for the season of 1863 embrace twenty-four volumes, viz.: 1, American Speaker. 18. 2. National Speaker. 1 14, 3. Patriotic Speaker. | 15. School Speaker. Tudicrous Speaker. 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. 9. Juvenile Speaker. 20. Select Speaker. 10. Spread-Eagle Speaker | 21. Funny Speaker. 11. Dime Debater. 22, pe Speaker 12, Exhibition Speaker. 23. 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errs ARR. ge, Pk IAN , 1 ° > Yt M4 he” Dime Readings and Recitations, No. 24. The TIrishman’s Panora-| When the Cows Come ma, ome, _ The Lightning-rod Agent | The Donation Party, The Tragedy at Four Ace | Tommy Taft, Fla A Michigander in France, Ruth and Naomi, Not One to Spare, _ \arey of Corson, Mrs. Breezy’s Pink Lunch abies, Rock of Ages, John Reed, Cesar Pompey The Brakeman at Church Squash’s Sermon, assun Mooah’s’ Sur-| Annie's Ticket, mount, The Newsboy, Pat’s Correspondence, Arguing the Question, J Death of th’ Owd ’Squire, im Wolfe and the Cats, The Dim Old Forest, Mein Tog Schneid, her at Home, At Elberon, he Sergeant’s Story, The Cry of Womanhood, David and Goliah, The Judgment Day, The Burst Bubble, Yreaming at Fourscore, Curfew Must Not Ring m, Ly Should the Spirit of | To-night, Mortal be Proud? The Swell, The Coming Mustache, | The Water Mill, _ the Engineer's diag Sam’s Letter, A Candidate for Presi- | Footsteps of the Dead, dent, Charity, Roll Call, An Essay on Cheek. 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By Lord Lytton. ae = For sale by all newsdealers, price ten cents, or sent, postage paid, on receipt of twelve cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PusLisHers, 98 William street, N. Y. Half-Dime Singer's Library 1 Wxaoa, Ex! and 59 other Songs. 2 Caprain Curr and 57 other Songs. 8 Tae Garxsporw’ Hat and 62 other Songs. 4 Jonnny Morcan and 60 other Songs. / 5 Tin Strike You Wirx 4 Frarser and 62 others. iS 6 GEORGE THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs. ee: 7 Tue Bette or Rockaway and 52 other Songs. en: 8 Youne Frtian, You're Too FresH and 60 others. rey ts 9 Say Youna Grru and 65 other Songs. i 10 I’m THe GovrRNor’s ONLy Son and 58 other Songs. 2 11 My Fan and 65 other Songs. ' 12 Comin’ Toro’ Tue RyE and 55 other Songs. att 13 Tue RoiucKkine IrisHMan and 59 other Songs. * 14 Oup Doe Tray and 62 other Songs. 15 Wuoa, Cuaruip and 59 other Songs. 16 In THis WuHeat By snp By and 62 other Songs. 17 Nancy Lex and 58 other Songs. . rae” 48 I’m THe Boy Tuat’s Bound To BLazx and 57 others, z) Pao & ors he Fe te anh > 20 WHAT ARE THE WiLD WAVES SAYING, SisTER? and 59 other Songs. 21 InpianantT Potty Woe and 59 other Songs. aS 22 Tue Utp ArM-CHarr and 58 other Songs. ec dtes 23 On Conry IsLanp Bracu and 58 other Songs. pe 24 Op Simon, THE Hot-Corn Man and 60 others, = 25 I’m iv Lover and 56 other Songs. ‘ uy 25 PARADE oF THE Guskbs and 56 other Songs, 2% Yo, Heavy, Ho! and 60 other Songs. | 28 "T'wILL Never vo To Gin ir up So and 60 others, | “gue 29 Biur Bonnets Over THE BorpER and 54 others a 30 Tae Merry LAvGHING Man and 56 other Songs. 81 Sweer Forart-me-Nor and 55 other Songs. 83 Dm BANnso AM DE INSTRUMENT FoR ME and 53 others, 34 Ta¥ry and 50 other Songs. 85 Just ro PLEASE THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 36 SKATING ON ONE IN THE GuTTER and 52others, 87 Kororep Kranks and 59 other Songs. 38 Nix DesprraNnpuM and 53 other Songs. 39 Tux Girt I Lerr Bentnp Mx and 50 other Songs. 40 "Tus pur A Lrrrue Fapep Friower and 50 others 41 Prerry WHitnEeLmrna and 60 other Songs. ptt 42 DANCING IN THE Barn and 63 other Songs. . 4 43 H. M.S. Prnarore, CoMPLETE, and 17 other Songs. Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents per copy, or sent post-pcid, to any address, on re- ceipt 0 Sia: cents per number, ‘ BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pus.uisHers, 7 y 98 WiLit4m STREET, New Yors. ee THE ae oe Sunnyside Library | 1 Lata Rooxs. By Thomas Moore........-.-. 10¢ 2 Don Juan. By Lord Byron... .....---++ 0 ORE Oa 3 Parapise Lost. By John Milton ......... oon OE SO ee 4 Tae Lavy or THE Laxey. Sir Walter Scott.... 10¢ Sa 5 Lucie. By Owen Meredith... .. ..-....... We = 6 Unvine; on, THE WATER-SPIRIT. From th Hane eh of Friederich De La Motte Fouque.... 10¢ For sale by aj] newsdealers, or sent, postage rn a Pas on receipt of twelve cents for single num > nad. double numbers twenty-four cents. Fe \ ADAMS, VICTOR & CO., Publishers, een 98 William street N.Y. yaa ; exrt ie ‘ 4
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RS IBITIONS at <a HOME ENT EL 6’ me FoR scHOoY oa, % to 283 imclusive.. 15 to 25 #opular Dislogaes and Dramas in each book. Each volume 100 12mo0 pages, sent | post-paid, om receipt of price, TEN CENTS. oe BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William St., N. Y. These volumes have been prepared with especial reference to their availability for Mxhibitions, being adapted to schools and parlors with, or without the furniture of a stage, and suited to SCHOLARS AND YOUNG PEOPLE of every age, both male and female. It is fair to assume that no other books in the market, at any price, contain so many useful and available dialogues and dramas of wit, pathos, humor and sentiment. 7 a A (2 so ae = { Dime Dialogues, No. 1. ‘Young America. For three males and two females, | The Golden Rule. For two males and two females, » Josephine’s Destiny. For four females, one male. The Gift of the Fairy Queen. For several females. Meeting of the Muses. For nine young ladies. The Folly of the Duel. For three male speakers, Taken in and Done for. For two characters, " Baiting a Live Englishman, For three boys. Dogmatism. For three male speakers. Country Aunt’s Visit to the City. Several characters, Tasso’s Coronation. For male and female. The Ignorant Confounded. For two boys. The Two Romans. For two males. fashion. For two ladies. The Fast Young Man. For two males. Trying the Characters. For three males, The rehearsal. For six boys. The Year’s Reckoning. Twelve females, one male. | The Happy Family. - For several “animals.” Which will you Choose? For two boys. The Village with One Gentleman. Foreight females | The Rainbow. For several characters. The Mea of May. For two little girls. . and one male, How to write “‘ Popular’ Stories. For two males, Theee Seer ‘in Wedded Lite. ¥ le and femal Dim AS mia ast. + Zon teccnaae nes ife. For male and female. i ; ensation a . For two eg, Mrs. Sniffles’s Confession. For male and female. e Dialogues, No. 2. The Greenhorn. F'or two males. The Mission of the Spirits. For five young ladies, | The Genius of Liberty. Two males and one female, | The Three Men of Science. For four males. Hobnobbing. For five speakers. Cinderella , or, the Little Glass Slipper. The Old Lady’s Will. For four males, Secret of Success. For three speakers. Doing Gocd and Saying Bad. For several characters, { The Little Philosophers. For two little girls, How to dan Heir. For five males. The Virtues. For six young ladies. A Connubial Eclogue. The Public Meeting. For five males and one femal, 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. chee Under Difficulties. Twomales, one female, National Representatives. A Burlesque. Four Esca the Draft. For numereus males. The Genteel Cook. For two males. Masterpiece, For two males and ‘two females. The Two Romans. Fortwo males. The Same. Second Scene. For two males, Showing ths White Feather, Four males, one femaie, The Battle Call, A Recitative.” For one male, The Frost King. . For ten or Mor? versons, ‘ Starting in Life. For three male: und two females, Faith, Hope and-Charity. For three little girls, ap and Joan. For two males and oné¥emale, + The May. A Floral Fauecy. Vor six Aittle girls. The Enchanted Princess. .2 males, several females. Honor to Whom Honor is Due: 7 males and 1 fema’s The Gentle Client. Several males and one female, Phrenology. A Discussion. For twenty males. The Stubbletown Volunteer. 2 males and 1 female. A Scene from ‘ Paul Pry.”’ For four males. The Chafms. For three males and one temale. Bee, Clock and Broom_ For three little girls. The Right way. A gag Se For two boys. What the Ledger Says. For two males. The Crimes of Dress. A agit Se Yor two boys, The Reward of Benevolence. For four males. The Letter, For two males. ‘Dime Dialogues, No. 5. The Three Guesses. For school or parlor, BEADLE ASD ADAM WILLI EE Sentiment. A ‘Three Persons’ "’ Farce. 8, 98 AM STREET, N, ¥. | Behind the Curtain, For males and femars, For five boys and a teacher. me \ . Soci . iz 8 General Dime Book Publishers. eet teation Day, For several female charavters. : Bk in “Traps.” For several males, Poe The Schoolboys’ "Trib For ten boys f
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: ph ? =e e aa, +4 ME DIAL Dime Dialogues, No, 24. The Goddess of Liberty. For nine young ladies The Three Graces. For three little girls, The Music Director, For seven males. A Strange Secret. For three girls, ° An Unjust Man. For four males, The Shop Girl’s Victory. For 1 male and 3 females. The Psycbhometiser. Tor 2 gentlemen and 2 ladies. Mean I; No Word For It. For four ladies. Whimsical. A number of characters of both sexes. Blessed Are the Peace-makers. Seveu young girls, The Six Brave Men. For six boys. Have You Heard the News? A gossip’s catastrophe, . Forthree males. em. For four females: § Before They were Hatched. For A Dime Dialogues, No. 22. _ Whe Dark Cupid. For 8 Gentlemen and 2 ladies. t Ne’er-do-Well. Two males and two females. x High art, For two girls. The True Queen. A colloquy in verse. 2 young girls. range Adventures. For two boys. A Slight Mistake. 4 males, 1 female, and several . he King's Supper. auxiliaries. For four re A Practical Exemplifieation. For two boys. tania’s Banquet. For a number of girls. Onsieur Thiers in America. For four boys. ' Lazy aud Busy. A dialoguein rhyme. 10lit#e fellows. The Old andthe Young. 1 gentleman and 1 little girl. That Postal Card. For 3 ladies and 1 gentleman. hgiat ie GUES. | Discontented Annie, Doxy’s Diplomacy. For three females and a num- | Mother Goose and Her Household. A whole schoot , ber of “ incidentals. * fancy dress dialogue and travestie. Frenchman. For two ladies and one gentleman. Dime Dialogues, No. 25. | The Societies of the Delectables and Les Miserables. For two ladies and two gentlemen. What Each Would Have. For six little boys and | _ teacher, | Sunshine Through the Clouds. For four ladies. | The Friend in Need. For four males. | The Hours. For twelve little girls. In Doors and Out. For five little boys. | Dingbats. For one female and three males, | The Pound of Flesh. For three boys. Beware of the Peddlers. Forseven mixed characters, | Good Words. For a number of boys. A Friend. For a number of little girls. The True Use of Wealth. For a whole school. Gamester. For numerous characters. La be) ig ao Boys. pox two bo Rand one girl. \ al ay. or three yo es. _ 0d Is Lave’ For a.numper Of scholars. ‘he Way He Managed. For two males, two females, | _ €andango. For various characters, white and other- ie Little Doctor. For two tiny girls. A Sweet Revenge. For four boys. _ AMay Day. For three little girls. rom The Sublime to The Ridiculous. For 14 males. * teart Not Face. For five boys. Dime Dialogues, No. 23. Rhoda Hunt's Remedy. For three females, one male. | Hans Schmidt's Recommend. For two males. Ch eat Put Yourself In His Place. For two boys. aes Udita. or ux femmied Little Wise Heads. For four little girls. Does it Pay? For six males. : The Regenerators. For five boys. “mpany Manners and Home Impoliteness. Fortwo | Crabtree’s Wooing. For several characters. Integrity the Basis of All Success. For two males. A Crooked Way Made Straight. Gentleman and lady. How to “Break In” Young Hearts. For two ladies and one gentleman, Dime Dialogues, No. 26. Poor Cousins. For three ladies and two gentlemen, lgperees and Mole-bills. For six ladies and several s ators. A Test That Did Not Fail. For six boys. Two Ways of Seeing T. . For two little girls. Don’t Count Your Chickens Before They Are Hatched. For four ladies and a boy. DIME es, two females and two children. _m™m ane Glad Days. For two little boys. . ? nfortunate Mr. Brown. For one male, six females, ro Real cost. For two girls. ar Garden. For three males and two females, che Busy Bees, For four little girls. Sch ckmate, For numerous characters. Chool-Time, ' gir shi — irls. * ne. Two prince charaeters and adjuncts. Gross and Gold. Several Tinreciens, male and female. t “ped rs For “re pa en two females. Puvrance vs, Justice. For eleven males. edants All. For four males. THE 4 y Murder Will Out, Rhe True Higher Law, Washington, I’m Not a Single Man, How to be a Fireman, Oliver Hazard P Strive for the Best ver erry, ve for the . _ Young America. J. Jeboom’s Oration, Our Domain Sarly Rising, Birthday of Washington, | ‘A Dutch Cuye, tems of Belief, Deeds of Kindness, _ Plea for the Maine Law, | The Weather The Indian Chief, Gates of Sleep, Notvon the Battlefield, | The Heated Term, The Independent Farmer | The Bugle, Eigen [MSRP | How gM dota_| Fe ae ue e ence. n ney Comes, urity of the Struggle, Our Country, ' Penny Wise, Pound Fool- | Future of the Fashions, | Old Age, ie e Equality of Man, True Cleanliness, _[ish, | Loyalty to Liberty, Beautiful and True _ Character of the Revo'n, | Sat’d’y Night's Enjoy’ts, Our Country First, Last, | The Worm of the Still, The Fruits of the War, “In a Just Cause,’ and Always, Man and the Infinite, The Sewing-Machine, No Peace with Oppres- | British Influence, Language of the Eagle, True Manhood, . sion, Defense of Jefferson, Washington, The ¥ of Life, A Tale of a Mouse, ; National Hatreds, The Deluge. The Tealy Grea” | ssenieting Sermon, | yi ne Patriotic Speaker, No. 3 e Truly Grea’ | The Cost of Riches, ime Patriotic Speaker, No ... c Ret ng and Ris’g, | Great Lives Imperishable . id : dp ee: ard’s Oration, The Prophecy forthe Y’r | America to the World, | History of Our Flag. ~~ rue Nationality, Unfinished Problems, Love of Country, T. F. Meagher’s A dress, “4 pe Re Day, ae se the Dead, alg of Se iki We Owe ie the Union, MS mmortaiit; ur Cause, on coln’s x 1 telligence the Basis of | Webster's ont Seay A Kentuckian’s appeal, "| Last Speech 0 Stephen "Charge of Light Brigad: | Tas Pen: ne vera, - | Kentucky Seeatee Great Bel Reland . 0 > e 5 imidity i m ; and - Etter the Baitle, Woman's Rights The sia The New Year and the - ‘Lae Glass Railroad | Right of the Governed, | April 15, 1861, King Cotton, [{Union, _ Case of Mr. Macbeth, My Ladder, The Spirit of "61, Battle Anthem, Prof. on Phrenology, oman, The Precicus Heritag2, | 'The Ends of Peace, _ Annabel Lee, Alone, The Irish Element, Freedom the Watchword 7 iM HANS, | ae Rebellion of 1861, Eh ogres as eet be Be, ny e _ ne or Boy’s Syren, ‘| Disunion. risty’s Speech, uty of. an Pa- ras Let Me Alone, triots, 5 Bri -ier-General Turkey Dan’s Oratio Dime Nationa! Speaker, No. 2. The nt oo i A Weatless Plea, . i 2S, e Union and its Results, Tecumseh’s Speech, Lhe + aga sige A peor baa 2 Tribute, QurCountry’s Future, | Territorial Expansion, Our Country’s Call The Little Zouave, _ Phe Statesman’s Labors, | Martha Hopkins, The Story of an Oak Tree, | Catholic Cathedral, _ True Immortality, The Bashful Man’s Story, | L-e-¢ On My Leg The “ Speculators.” ; Ont the cratered Weep, the Matter-of-Fact,Man, P ountry’s Glory, ich and Poor, . * i f Union a Bousehold. Seeing the Eclipse, Dime Comic Speaker, No 4. eee ee, |BCMUET Gee | Mlcbeybtaoce ou tis War, | Hamsag/ aad Tale the. Jang! F re onsidered, ap is Cycles of Pro, 88, The Rats of Life, Tarts Risin, Dore, : eae. stmas Chant, _ Creowning Glory of U.S., | The Wasp and the Bee Pop, , Sta) lity of Christianity, Three Fools, Comic Grammar, No. if A — Eulogium, €‘One Great Need, Our Great Inheritance. A. Ward’s Advice, The United States, . The Ship and the Bird, 3 ' Bulogy on Henry Clay, Buzfuz on Piekwick, | Puff’s Acc’t of Himself, 4 . : ° . . a Ceres hen: aes igs NS) ie te Ta : —Continued. ee All is Fair in Love and War. 3 ladies « 2 gentlemen. How Uncle Josh Got Rid of the Legacy. For two males, with severaltransformations. The Lesson of Mercy. For two very small girls, Practice What You'Preach. For four ladies. Politician. For numerous characters. The Canvassing Agent. Grub. For two males. A Slight Scare. For 8 females and 1 male. Embodied Sunshine. For three young ladies. How Jim Peters Died. For two males. Dime Dialogues, No. 2%. Patsey O’Dowd’s Campaign. 3 Hasty Inferences Not Always Just. Numerous boys. For several girls. A Double Surprise. For four males and one female. What Was It? For five ladies. What, Will Cure Them. For a lady and two boys. Independent. For numerous characters. Each Season the Best. For four boys. Tried and Found Wanting. For several males, _ The Street Girl's Good Angel. 2 ladies & 2 little girke, A Boy’s Plot, For several characters. “That Ungrateful Little Nigger.” For two males, If I Had the Money. ° For three little girls. Appearances Are Deceitful. Several ladies & 1 gent. Love’s Protest. For two little girls. An Enforced Cure. For several characters, Those Who Preach and those Who Perform. 3 males. A Gentle Conquest. For two young girls, Dime Dialcgues, No. 28. A Test that Told. For six ladies and two gents, Organizing a Debating Society. For four boys. The Awakening, For four little girls. . te: eneae Proper. For three gentlemen and two es. Exorcising an Evil Spirit. For six ladies, Both Sides of the Fence. For four males, etal The Spirits of the Wood. For two troupes of girls. No Room for the Drone. For three little boys, Arm-chair. For numerous characters, Measure for Measure. For four girls. Saved Eis Dream. For two males and two An Infallible Sign. For four boys. A good Use for money. For six little girls. An Agreeable Profession. For several characters. For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent, post- paid, to any address, on receipt of price, ten cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pusuisumrs, females. 98 William Street, New York. . SPEAKERS. | Practical Phrenology, Beautiful, Grock st to OM eek eau ett to Office-seekers Cabbage, Who Is My Opponent? Disagreeable People Political Stump Speec What.is a Bachelor Like? | Comic Gramm r, No.2, © Funny Folks Farewell to the Bottle, . A Song of Woe, The Cor! 5 j Werd’s Trip to Richm’d, | The Smack in Schoo a ae peedy, Slick’s Definition of Wife, = = The Mountebank, Tale of a Hat, ae Compound Interest, The Debating Club, A Sermon on the Feet, A Dutch Sermon, Oid Dog Jock, Lecture on Locomotion, The Fishes’ Toilet, Mrs. Caudle on Umbr'lla. Dime Elocutionist, No. 5. SEC. J. Pruxcreies or True ENuNciation.—Faults in Enuuciation; How to Avoid Them. Special Rules and Observations. : SEC. Il. Tas Arr or Oratory. Sheridan's List of the Passions: Tranquillity, Cheerfulness, Mirth, — Raillery, Buffoonery, Joy, Delight, ‘Gravity, In- quiry, Attention, Modesty, Perplexity, Pity, espair, Fear, Shame, Remorse., sting, Pride, Obstinacy, Authority,. Affirming, Denying, | Agreeing, Exhorting, Judging, ing, A ne Condemning, Teaching, ing, Arguing, Dismissing, Refusing, Granting, De- ehenge f Persuasion, Tempting, Promising, Affecta- tion, Sloth, Intoxication, Anger, ete. SEC. IT. Tae Componenr ELemMents OF AN ORa- TIoN.—Rules of Com or and Phrases, viz.: Purity, Propriety, Precision. Asapplied te Sentences, viz.: Length of Sentence, Clearness, U:uity, Strength. chee of Speech; the Exordium, the Narration, the Proposition, the Confirmation, the Refutatiecu the Peroration, SEC, IV. ReereseNnTATIvVE EXERCISES IN PROSE AND: Versr.—Transition; A Plea foi the Ox; Falstaff’s Soliloquy on Honor; the Buria’ of Lincoln; the Call and Response; the Bayonet Charge; Histo? of aie the Bugle; thé Bells; Byron; Mac and the Look Upward; ¢ William Rufus, the Eye; am Essa Onto M ; Discoveries of Galieo. SEC. V. OxsERVATIONS oF Goon AvTHoRrFrEs, 4s For 2 males and 2 femalea. — 3 males,and 1 female, ; sition as applied to Words - yi ma Hamlet's Soliloguy; Old Things; Grief, ree a rs
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md Dime Humorous Speaker, No. 6. _ A Sad Story, Poetry Run Mad, A String ei pisiones, Right Names, A Tragic Story, Scientific Lectures, Cats, The Ager, Courtship, The Cockney, cot The Codfish, Devi Fate of Sergeant Thin, Dow, Jr.'s Lectures, The Features’ Quarrel, go and to) Hamerican Voodchuck, ‘ashionable Women, The Harp of a Thousand ‘ern Thistles, ; Strings, ‘ood-Nature, The Last of the Sarpints, ‘ottlieb Klebeyergoss The March to Moscow, Schlackenlichter’s snake, The Mysterious Guest, Hosea Biglow’s Opinions, | The parte, How the Money Goes. The Sea-Serpent, Hun-ki-do-ri’s Fourth of | The Secret, July ae The Shoemaker, e ‘ou Mean No, Say No, | The Useful Doctor, o Bows on Lay of the Hen ed, | To the Bachelors’ Union Lo inner’s Elegy, ue, Matrimony, United States Presidents, -Nothing to Do Vagaries of Popping the Old Caudle’s Umbrella, Chieetian, Old Grimes’s Son, What I Wouldn't Be, Paddle Your Own Canoe, | Yankee Doodle Aladcin, on “ Araby’s | Ze Moskeetare, Daughter,” 1933, Dime Standard Speaker, No. 7. The World We Live In, Leap A The Waterfall, E Burns, Gettysburg, Woman’s Claims, No Sect in Heaven, Authors of our Liberty, | Miss Prude’s Tea-Party, CG) Conqueror, The Power of an Idea, 16 Citizen’s Heritage, The Beneficence of the Suffrage, [Sea, The Mechanic, Dream of the Revelers, Nature and Nature’s God | HowCyrus Laid the Cable , Yhe Modern Good, {Sun, | The Prettiest Hand, Ossian’s Ad the | Paradoxical, fndependence Bell—1i777, | Little Jerry, the Miller, “7 ¥ Ao} THE DIME SPEAK 3) The Ladies Life, The Idler, The Unbeliever, The Two Liv Ireland, The eg Always Con- Music of Labor, —_ [quer, Prussia and Austria, Wishing, Hon. J. M. Stubbs’ Views on the Situation, Hans Schwackheimer on Woman's Suffrage, All for a Nomination. Old Ozean, Sea, The Sea,the Sea, the open Star Bangled Spanner, Stay Where You Belong, Life’s What You Make It, Where’s My Money, Speech from Conscience, an’s Relation to Society The Limits to Happiness, Good-nature a Blessing, Sermon from Hard-shell Tail-enders, [Baptist, The Value of Money, Meteoric Disquisition, Be Sure You are Right, Be of Good Cheer Crabbed Folks, _[Shrew, Taming a Masculine Farmers, [Our Country The True Greatness o tee The Blarney Stone, The Student of Bonn. The Broken Household, The Bible, The Purse and the Sword My Country, True Moral Courage, What is War? Butter, My Deborah Lee, Th e Race, *The Pin and Needle, The Modern Puritan Immortality of the Soul, ; Occupation, Heroism and Daring, | A Shot at the Decanter. Dime Stump Speaker, No. 8. New England and Union, The Unseen Battlefield, Plea for the Republic, America, [Fallacy, i Right of Secession” a Life’s Sunset, Human Nature, Lawyers, Wrongs of the Indians, “ppl in behalf of Am. ries of War,[Liberty, A Lay Sermon, A Dream, Astronomical, The Moon, [zens, | Duties of American Citi- The Man, Temptations of Cities, Broken Resolutions, There is no Death, Races, A Fruitful Discourse, A Frenchman’s Dinner, Unjust National Acqui’n, The Amateur Coachman, A MK, 4 ess i! ¥ vans ' SHS Conard: 2 Saath a & « + ‘ rer = | ‘ PE My ‘The Cold-water Man, Jobn Thompson’s Daw'r, Permanency of States, | House Liberty of Speech, It Is Not Your ess. Dime Juvenile Speaker, No. 9. A Boy’s Philosophy, How the Raven Becamé How B Hoe Out Your | Six-Year-Old’s Protest, | A Mother’s Work, The Suicidal Cat, The Same, - he ees ay ye cana opping Corn, eep Story, The Eaitor, A Little Correspondent, The Same, in rhyme, One Good Turn Deserves — The Fairy Shoemaker, My Dream, [Anotter, © What Was Learned, Rain Press On, I'll Never Use Tobacco,. The Horse, AM Bromley’s Speech, ittle Jim, The Same, second extract | Angelina’s Lament, The Fisher’s Child, Johnny Shrimps on Boots Shakspearian Scholar, Mercy, A Maiden’s Psalm of Life, Choice of Hours, A Mixture, Poor Richard’s $a Plea for Skates, Who Killed Tom Raper, Playing Ball, Nothing to Do Ah, Honesty Best Policy, Live for Something Heaven, Lay of the Hen-Pecked, | Ho for the Fields, The Outside Dog, Fashion on the Brain. Wolf and Lamb, On Shanghais, Trogs Asking tor « King, | Caasbia: | Frogs Aski ‘or & 5 ian Sick ime Homeeo athic Soup, Country and Town Mice, | Nose and Eyes, Man and Woman, at. [Come, Home, A undred Years to The Lotus-Planter, The Madman and | Little Things, Little Sermons, [Razor, A Baby’s Soliloquy, Snuffles on Electricity, - Rapenrancs. The Two Cradles, A Plea for The Ocean Storm, : Leia Patriotism, Do Little—Do it Well Night r Christmas, ittle Puss, Short Le [Fever. ticipate, Amusements, Prescription for Spring Dime Spread-Eagle Speaker, No. 10. 11.—How To DepaTE. Why there are few good Debaters, Prerequisites to Oratori- cal Success, The Logic of Debate, The Rhetoric of Debate, Maxims to Observe, The Preliminary Premise, Order of Argument, Summary ene 1.—OnareMan’s Gurpe. Ordinary Meetings and Assemblies, The Organization, Order of Business and Proceedings, E The “ Question.” How it can be Trea The “ Question.’’ How to be Considered, Rights to the Floor, JUST PUBLISHED, CONTAINING 17 NEW DIALOGUES. ‘DIALOGUES No. 29. BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM STREET, N. Y. ; ; Organization of Delibera- General Dime Book Publishers. | __| ve. Bodies, Conyen- tions, Annual or Gen- eral Asserublies. ights of a Speaker as aaa the ir, it Calling Yeas and Nays, Ben Buster's Oration Drum-head Sermons, Hans Von Spiegel’s 4th, | Schnitzerl's Philoso’ 8 Josh Billings’s Advice, ‘“ Woman's Rights,’ A Hard-shell Sermon, Luke Lather, The Boots, e Hog, The Squeezer, ack Spratt, Noah and the Devil, New England Tragedy, A Lover’s Luck. The Ancient Bachelor, - Hifalutin Adolphus, Jacob Whittle’s Speech, Digestion and ise, | Jerks tie oy ee Distinction’s Disadvant- | A Word with Snooks, ith, if Sut Lovengood, Gushalina Bendibus, | A Mvle Ride, A Stock of Notions. .., Josh Billings on Buzzers, Speaking for the Sheriff, | I Trovatore, Daking a Shweat, Kissing. in the Street, Then and Now, Scandalous, Josh Billings's Lecturing, Slightly Mixed, hee 3 De tare Ann’t, ane res cepecnes, may chelo Yi Dan B rant's Bpsevh The Nie ms : an Bryant’s Speech, e Niam “i b> \\ A Colored View, | People Will Talk, } 4 \\ : Original Maud Muller, Swackhamer’s \} Nobody: ‘ | Who Woukin’t be Fire'n, Train of Circumstances, | Don't Depend on Dadda, = Ag _ | Good Advice Music of Labor AS The Itching Palm, The American Debater and Chairman’s Guide No. 11. — 1.—DxBaTIne Socrery. Sia gat Ot nee : | Its Office and Usefulness, | x @?™manen Dy Formation of, 7 pce of ange Constitution of, nsidering Reports, g Rules of @ ean of Subsidiary Motions, Rules ules of Order’ | The Due Order of Com How ton rt, ow epo The Committee of the — Whole, ae. Miscellaneous, Treatment of Petitio: ; The Decorum of Debate, Hints to a Chairman. a Iv.—DEBATES, Debate in full; Which is the Greatest — Benefit to his Country — —the Warrior, States- man, or Poet? Debates in Brief: I. Is the of Works of Fiction.to be Condemned? Are Lawyers a Bené fit or a to So ciety? v.—QUOTATIONS A> Latin,
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rei TR Ce eee 1 Adventures of Buffalo Bill. From Boyhood to Man | hood. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. | The Ocean Hunters; or, The Chase of the Leviatban, Captain Mayne Reid. (G§" An extra large number. 3 Adventures of Wild Bill, the Pistol Prince. Remarkable career of J. B. Hikok. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. | he Prairie Ranch; or, The Young Cattle Herders. By Jos. | . 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. * Roving Joe: The History of a Young “ Border Ruffian.” Brief Scenes from the Life of Joseph E. Badger, Jr. By A. H. Post. The Flyaway Afloat; or, Yankee Boys ‘Round the World. | By ©. Dunning Clark. By By S60 to arb & Bruin Adams, Old Grizzly Adams’ Boy Pard. Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 10 he Snow Trail; or, The Boy Hunters of Fur-Land. A Narra- | 11 Old ¢ Sport and Life around Lake Winnipeg. By T. C. Harbaugh. | ; Grizzly Adams, the Bear Tamer}; or, The Monarch of ihe Mountain, By Dr. Frank Powell. Woods and Waters; or, The Exploits of the Littleton Gun Club, By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. A Rolling Stone: Incidents in the Career on Sea and Land as Boy and Man, of Col, Prentiss Ingraham. By Prof.Wm. R. Eyster. Adrift on the Prairie, and Amateur Huzters on the Buffalo Range. By Oll Coomes. Kit Carson, of Guides; or, Mountain Paths and Prairie Trails. By Albert W. Aiken. Red River Rovers ; or, Life and Adventures in the Northwest. By C. Dunning Clark, 17 Plaza and Plain ; or, Wild Adyentures 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. ae Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. | } 14 15 16 By Ed. Willett. The Dashing Dragoon; or, The Story of General George A. Custer, from West Point to the Big Horn. By Capt. F, Whittaker. 21 Deadwood Dick as a Boy ; or, Why Wild Ned Harris, the New ogland Farm-lad, became the Western Prince of the Road. By Edward L, Wheeler. The Boy Exiles of Siberia. By T. C. Harbaugh. Paul De Lacy, the French Beast Charmer; or, New York Boys in the Jungles. By C. Dunning Clark. ‘The Sword Prince: The Romantic Life of Colonel Monstery, \s ‘American Champion-at-arms.) By Captain Fred. Whittaker. 3S 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. Snow-Shoe Tom; or, New York Boys in the Wilderness. A Narrative of Sport and Peril in Maine, By T. C. Harbaugh... . Yellow Hair, the Boy Chief of the Pawnees. The Ad- venturous Career of Eddie Burgess of Nebraska. By Col. Ingraham. The Chase of the Great White Stag and Camp and Canoe. By ©. Dunning Clark. The Fortune-Hunter; or, Roving Joe as Miner, Cow-Boy, Trapper and Hunter. By A. H. Post. Walt Ferguson’s Cruise. ee ra UTH STRANGER THAN FICTION! _ NOW READY AND IN PRESS. 42 The Young Land-Lubber. By C. Dunning Clark. 43 Bronco Bily, the Saddle Prince. By Col P. Ingrabam. 44 The Snow Hunters; or, Winter in the Woods. By Barry De Forrest. 45 Jack, Harry and Tom, the Three Champion Brothers; or, Adventures of Three Brave Boys with the, Tattooed Pirate. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. eis ; 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. T>. 34 The Young Bear Hunters. A Story of the Haps and Mishape of a Party of Boys in the Wilds of Michigan. By Morris Redwing. 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. By Ed. Willett. 37 Old Tar Knuckle and His Boy Chums; or,'The Monsters of the Esquimaux Border. By Roger Starbuck. ; 38 The Settler’s Son; or, Adventures in Wilderness and Clear- ing. By Edward 8. Ellis. 89 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: By Charles Morris. 49 Tip Tressel], the Floater; or, Fortunes and Misfortuaes ov the Mississippi. By Edward Willett. ys 50 The Adventurous Life of Nebraska Charlie, (Chas. E. Burgess.) By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 51 The Colorado Boys; or, Life on an Indigo Plantation. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. he 52 Honest Harry; or, The Country Boy Adrift in the City. Charles Morris. 53 The Boy Detectives; or, The Young Californians in Shanghai, By T. C. Harbaugh. 54 California Joe, the Mysterious Plainsman. By Col. 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, Fanny Hobart, the Animal Queen. By Major H. Grenville, ‘‘Sea Gull.” 58 Lame Tim, the Mule Boy of the Mines. By Charles Morris. 59 Lud Lionheels, the Young Tiger Fighter. By Roger Starbuck. — 60 The Young Trail Hunters; or, New York Boys in Grigly Land. By T. C. Harbaugh. 61 The Young Mustangers. By C. Dunning Clark. 62 Jungle and: Forest; or, The Colorado Boys in Tiger-Land, By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 63 The Adventurous Life of Captain Jack, the Border Boy. (John W. Crawford, the Poet Scout.) By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 64 The Young Moose-Hunters; or, Trail and Camp-fire in the New Brunswick Woods, By Wm. H. Manning. A New Issne Every Week. By BRADLE’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, PusLisHEns, a4 : #8 William Street, New York,
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« 4 [SS en wey i, a ta a ~ = — = rent 5 —— I ‘Phe Miesked Bide; or, Will She Vacry him? By Mrs. Mary ae Crowell. 2 Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweet- hearts. By.Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 3 The Girl Wife; or, Tue True and the False. 1 . 7. Campie IL, rave Cart; or, Startlinghy Str ._ By Arabella Southworth. ae 5 Bessie Raynor, the Work. Girl led The Quicksands of Life. Ry William Mason 10 A Pair of een Kyes3; or, The Emerald il Neesagiea | yg Game. By 12 Pg ed or, Myra, the Child of L3 Madcap, ths Little ¢ i ak iebesi or, The Naval Cadet’s Wooing. By Corinne Cushman. a4 Why I Married IF im} or, The Woman in ve ee. E, By Sera passe. ‘ r Face = ut in the Wi B Bartley T. Cam Pe ean i6 Trust Her Not}; or, °* True Knight. B Margaret cr Note - J 17 A. pig Lover; or, The Last of the Grims- ais Arabella Southworth. 18 His fao pas Se ioe The rested Marriage. By Crowell 19 rhe Beoken Betrothal ; or, Love versus + Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. 20 Orphan ‘well, the eam Girl; or, The Lost Heir. _By Agile Penne. 24 Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Mar- ty Him? By Henrietta Thack keray. £2 The ee ar: of am Actor 3 or, Driven from Home. a author of “ Alonein the World,” “ Clifton, hd Leap Wears 3 or, Why She Proposed. By Sara £4 Her Face Was Her Fortune. By Elea- She nor Blaine. £5 Only a Schoolmistress; or, Her Untold Seoret. By Arabella Southworth. 26 Without a Heart; or, Walking. on the Brink. By Colonet Prentiss Ingraham. 27 Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange ae Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray. . y 28 8 Pog an ag ht or, The Gambler's ‘Wite. By’ §. Stephens. Her Dear Sak: Somes ; or, Saved From Him- oe quet ‘Girt 3 ‘or, A Million of Money. “31 A Race “Marringes or, The Iron Will. By a Hea arriag By Sara Claxton. a 36 All Agalost ators or, The Winthrop Pride. 36 iY Archers Bi ranlcg ts oo The Queen of His Arabella Southworth, mer yf e Country Souclat or, All is not Gold an eet Savers. B Rose Kennedy, i pag Own Again; or, Trust Her Not. By Arabella Southworth. ation 3 or, A You bh ow age Name. b dbatnacnell (R ed * a nelle ahah or, oh Bo Dass Bonds. reac BAN no f — 42 Beatrice, the Boaut ful; or, His Second 49 Tike Bias eo Southworth, et’s Seerét; or, The Rival Half- Sara,Claxton, a The he On! Daughter 5 or, Brother against ‘Lover. Alice Fleming: 45 Her Hidden Foe; or, Love At,All Odds. By Arabella Southwort th. . 46. The 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, Jeannetie’s Repa- pi ration, By S. R. Sherwood. 49 His rag at Mistress; or, Love at First =: ht, By Arabella Soushwerth, a 5 0 The Cuban Heiress; or, The Prisoner of +t) iar Witceake By Mrs. Mary A. Denison,’ a Oe be" | Young Girls; or, The Bride of an —"-Purner, M. D | 60 Cae Deceit; ir é 4H M.D: — Ved ‘ e Secret. Matriagé; “or, A“Duchess in | ye 7. Herself. a al Sara Claxton. =~ mney iy’ nghter of Eve; or, Blinded by Love. ees» _ _ By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. ae S$ Meart to Heart; or, Fair Phyllis’ Love. are, y Arabella Southworth. ie, 9 Alone in the World; or, The Young Man’s he st : W By the author “of “Clifton,” ‘“‘ Pride | 64 What Jealousy Did; Denison. 32 the Prima Donna 3} or, Roses. she Pria Southw ore: ; 33 ate tri ree Sisters; or, The Mystery of ont. By Alice Fleming. 84 a 6 of Convenience ; or, Was ¢ . 4A ise Devotion so or, Love, Against. the By Alice Fleming. Fg 2 The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All : fora Heart By Mrs. ie Reed Crowell. 63 Agnes Robe: the Actr or, The Ro-' mance of a Ruby Ring. By, William Mason a = 54 One Woman’s Hearts or, Savedfrom the Fig ILO Maud Mohan. | 120 Thaddeus of W arsaw, ee Street. By George S. Kaime. | 55 She Did Not Love Him; or, Stooping to Conquer. By Arabella South wor th. 56 Love-Mad 3 or, Betrothed, Married, ih 1 Turner, MT , and . By Wm. Mason | 57 A Brave Girls or, Sunshine at Last. By { Alive Fleming. or, | 58 The Ebon Mask; or, The Mysterious Guardian. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 59 A Widow?s Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. By Rachel Bernhardt. or, The Diamond Legacy. Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton. | 61 1" icked Hearts or, Thé False and the True, | By Sara Claxton. 62 The Mania¢ Brides or, The Dead Secret of Hollow Ash Hall, By Margaret Blount G63 The Creole Sisters; or, The Mystery or the Perrys. By Mrs. Anna E. Porter. , or, The Worsley Grange. By Alice Fleming. 65 The Wife’s Secret; or, "['wixt Cup and Lip. By Col. Juan Lewis. 66 A Brother’s Sin Rachel Bernhardt. 67 Forbidden ae or, Alma’s Disguised Prinee, By Arabella’ Southworth. 68 Weavers and Weft; or, “Love That Hath Us In His Net.” By Miss M. E. Braddon. 69 Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette. By Alexandre Dumas. 70 The Two Orphans. . By D’Enery. 71 My Re poms ife. By My Young Wife’s 72 The "Two Widows. 73 Rose Michel} or, The Girl. By Maud Hilton. 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s se or, The Story of a Broidered Shield. By Ouida. 75 — Black Lady of Duna. By J.8. Le Fanu. 76 Charlotte Tem a 77 Christian Oakle author of ‘‘ John H. 78 art 9 Young sends or, A Confusion in e Family. By Myself. 79 A ges Amongst Women. By the author of ‘‘ Dora Thorne,” ete., etc. 80 Nereme Lord and Master. By Florence 81 Lucy 7 tel le, Sister of Charlotte. 82 A Long Time Ago. By Meta Orred. 83 Playing for High Stakes. By Annie Thomas. 84 The Laurel Bush. “ John Halifax, Gentleman.’ 85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. 86 Janet’s Repentance. By George Eliot. 87 Khe Romance ofa Poor Young Man, By Octave Feuillet. 88 A Yrerrible Deed}; or, All for-Gold. By Emma Garrison Jones. 89 A Gilded Sin. By the author of ‘ Dora Thorn,” etc. 90 er ‘Authors Daughter. By Mary 91 Whe Jilt. By Charles Reade. 92 eee ben Se aed or, the Dawning of the Day. Dennis O’Sullivan. Heir of or, ‘Flora’s Forgiveness. By Annie Thomas, Tri ials of a Factory By Mrs. Rowson. istake. By the a Gentleman,” etc. By the author of 93 gees Victory. By B. L. Farje 94 The Quiet Heart. By Mrs. 0} iphant. 95 Lettice Arnold. me Oe Marsh. 96 Haunted Hearts. Rachel Bernhardt. 97 Hugh Melton, By Katharine King. 98 Alice Learmont. By Miss Mulock. 99 Marjorie Bruce's Lovers, By Mary h Fire and Water. By Fred- " By Mss Monee atric 100 ‘Throw 10 Wann bh 1 Hannah. 102 Peg Woflington. Charles Reade. 103 A Desperate Deca, y Erskine Bo: 104 Shadows on the Snow. By B. L. 105 The Great Hog arty Diamond, By W. M. Thackeray. . 106 From Dreams to Waking. Lynn Linton. oor Zeph! By F. W. Robinson. 108 The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos By E. 107 ‘ Barton. By George Eliot, 109 Bread-and-Cheose and Kisses. By B, L, Farjeon. 110 Whe andering Heir. By Charles e 111 The Brother’s Bet; or, Within. Six Weeks. By Emilie Flygare Carlen. 112 A Hero. By Miss Mulock. 113 Paul and Virginia. ¥rom the French of . Bernardin De St. Pierre: 124 °K was In Trafalgar’s Bay. By Wal- | ter Besant and James. Rice. 115 The Maid of Killeena. By William lack. 116 tt By Henry Kingsley. nM a f The Wi Vayside Sen or, The Raid of Gomez. By ( A. Milman, 118 The Vicar of petal toy Goldsmith. eae By Oliver | ee: Abnprigdh Copyright Novels and ths Cream of ue Novelists, Unabridged, FOR FIVE CENTS! ‘ The nae cae ema: Ever Publis hed! | By Annie Thomas. By Miss Jane Porter. 121 _ King of No-Land. By B. L. Far- 122 a el, the Widower. By W. M. Thack- eray 123 Am Island eager). By B. L. Farjeon. 124 Cousin Phillis, 2 125 Leila; or, The cee of Grenada. By Ed- ward Bulwer (Lord Lytton). 126 When the Ship Comes Home. By Walter Besant and James Rice. . 127 One of the Family. By James Payn. 128 Whe Birthright. By Mrs. Gore. 129 WMotherless; or, The Farmer's Sweetheart, By Colonel Pr entiss Ingreham. 130 Homeless; or, Two Orphan Girls in New York. By Albert W. Aiken, 131 Sister against Sisters or, The Rivalry c? Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell, 132 Sold for Gold. By Mrs. M. V, Victor. 133 Lord Roth’s Sin. By Georgiana Dickens, . 134 Did Me Lowe Her? By Bartley T. Canip- bel 1. 135 Sinned A By Lillian BOT IE ainst. 136 Was She His Wife? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 137 The Village on the Cliff. By Miss ) Thackeray. 138 Poor Valeria! By Margaret Blount. 139 Margaret Graham. By G. P. R. James. 140 Without Mercy. By Bartley T.Campbell. 141 Honor Bound. By Lillian Lovejoy. 142 ieee from Love. By Mrs. Harriet or, The Broken Troth. 143 pie eS or, A Wicked Woman’s Work. By Rett Winwood. 144 A Strange Marriage; or, Jokn Foster’s Heiress. By Lillian Lovejoy. 145 — — Lives. By Mrs, Mary Reed 146 A Desperate Ventures or, For Love's Own Sale. By Arabella Bowbhiweleh 147 The War of Hearts. By Corinne Cusb- man. 148 Which Was the Woman ? or, Strangely. Misjudged.. By Sara Claxton. 149 ee Ambitious Girl; or, She Would Be © An Actress. By Frances Helen Davenport. 150 Love Lord of aS ge In Her Own. at Last. By Alice May Fleming. 15) A Wild Girl. By Corinne Casha 152 A Mans Sacrifice, By Harriet Irving. ’ 153 Did She Sin. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 154 He Loves Me Not, By Lillian Lovejoy. 155 Winning Ways. By Margaret Blount, 156 What She Cost Himys or, Crooked Paths. By Arabella Southworth. 157 A Girls Heart. By Rett Winwood. 158 A Bitter Mistake yt e ee Girl’s Folly. By Agnes Mary ane AES Lady Helen’s Vow; ‘er, other’s wes: Secret. By the Late Mrs. i. F. , 160 ntrins a Heart. By Lillian Lig Feely 161 Pearl of Pearls. By A. P. Morris, Jr. | 162 * Epotes Games or, Wedded and Parted.. 163 cig S tiksle Wotatnil or, False as Fair. By Philip 8. Warne. a 4 A Seathing Ordeal; or, May Langley’s pe Marriage: By Mrs. eokclats Dickens, . 165 A Strange Girl. By Albert W. Aiken, 166A ‘Man’s Sin. By Rett Winwood. The Hand of Fate; or, The Wreck of ae tera tinae By Arabella Southworth, 168 ‘Two Fair Women. By Wm. MM Turner. 169 Tempted Through Love3 or, One Wome Error. By fiian Lovejoy. , 170 Blind Barbara’s Secret. By Mary Grace Halpine. ‘ c A oman’s Witchery; or, Throug! ne Sich Proulations. By Sara ton. 172 Black Eyes and Blue. By Corinne Cushman. 173 Whe Cost of a Folly. By Georgiana ; Dickens, 174 The Pretty Puritan. By A Parson's % Daughter. A new issue every week. ° Tue WaveRLEY Lrerary is for sale by all News j agalers five cents per copy, or sent by niail on re- ceipt of six cents each. 4 | BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, = = 98 Wiltiam street, New York. Ne