Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 73) (1881 04 05)
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SoS Boia ae lf ass PPS ORS BD POURS $2.50 a year. No.73. VoL. III. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST,, N.Y. CHAPTER I. ROSE MICHEL. The hundred spindles and wheels stood still, In the giant factory under the hill; No longer the smoke from the chimneys tall Rolled heavy and black, over roof and wall; The work was over, the day was done, And the workers away to their homes were gone. —NATHAN D. Urner, Our story opens in Lowell, one of the leading manufacturing towns of Massachusetts. "Tis a bitter winter night, and the wind drives the snow in blinding clouds into the faces of the weary operators flocking in crowdsfrom the eater doors of a large factory in the very heart of the town. There are hundreds of girls of every age and nationality, some laugh- ing and merry, despite their weariness, being used all their lives to the work by which they earned their bread, and others, wan and weary- dies’ Library of First-Class Copyri Seed COUN TA Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mall Rates. Price, but 5 cents each. ght Novels A? me ° Taal Published! © ~ 24): a: eee i April 5, 1881. PRICE, \ Le Se “Copyrighted in 1881 by BEADLE | AND ADAMS. WPA 4 Db it looking, with the blue, pinched expression of countenance that betokens long fasting and over-fatigue. There was one who lingered behind the others, and retraced her steps back into the factory from which she had just issued, She could not have been over seventeen years of age, but the dead!y pallor of ber face, and the lines of suffering round the tender mouth, gave her a much more mature appearance. She was very poorly and thinly clad; her dress of rusty black was patched and darned in several places, and the shawl that she wore gath- ered tight around her shoulders, was old and threadbare, yet despite the poverty of her attire, despite her position. in life, there was an unstudied grace in every movement, an innate refinement betrayed in every word and act that was strangely at variance with her position and sur- roundings. She was beautiful, too, with golden hair and deep blue eyes, so rarely met with in one of French nationality. Her beauty and grace, together with the inborn pride that made her seem with but not of. them, had awakened the envy and hatred of her companions in toil, and many @ curious glance followed her movements, as she turned back into the factory on the night of which we write. “Hem! I bet you anything our lady’s gone back to complain to Mr.
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Greyson of Barton’s treatment of her, poor little fool! ivll be a sorry night’s work for her if she does. Mr. Greyson gives Barton full sway and never interferes with his management of our floor. If it wasn’t so deuced cold I'd wait and see her comin’ out, she wouldn’t carry that yellow head of hers so high, you may bet.” The words were accompanied by a loud laugh, as the girl who had uttered them—a tall swarthy- faced individual of doubtful years—toiled along through the snow elinging to the arm of a com- panion, who seemed to be as much amused as her- self in anticipating the probable failure of the poor girl's iiission. Inthe meantime the proprietor of the immense cotton factory of whiclr we write, sat busily engaged in overlooking the books—in vesti- gating into the cause of some inaccuracy in the accounts—in-one of the lower offices, devoted to his use. lis lips were)tightly compressed, and his brow contracted in a frown, that boded ill for the suc- cess of the pale young creature who stood trem- bling outside his door, afraid to state the errand upon which she came. Her low tap upon the door startled him, and a large drop of ink fell from his pen, blotting out the figures he was tracing so carefully. The frown grew darker on his face, and his irritated “come in,” made the girl outside feel. like flying from his presence. ine “Hello! ’tis the little French girl,” he cried, involuntarily speaking aloud, in his extreme sur- prise af g one of his operatives bold enough to seek his august presence. . Well,” he demanded, after waiting impatient- ly for Her to state her errand, “well! what would you say, Miss Michel, do you not know that you have broken.one of my rules by seeking me here, you know how strictly these rules are enforced; speak quickly, if you would have me hear you, and remember to report yourself to Mr. Barton, to-morrow, for the usual fine.” At the word “fine” the girl started forward, her hands clasped beseechingly, and her great blue eves swimming in tears. “Ol! no, no; Mr. Greyson, I come to crave your pity, to beg your jutercession for me. Mr. Burton has fined me day after day, until to-night when my account was made up there was only this left.” Her voice failed her here, and sobs shook her slender form as she held out one little gloveless hand, in the palm of which a few paltry coins lay, the proceeds of a week’s hard labor, Mr. Greyson’s stern face did not soften; he beat his foot impatiently upon the carpet as he anawered ; “Well, girl, what is that to me. Had you obeved the rules he would not have dared to im- pose the fines upon you; have you nothing fur- ther tocomplain of. If, not, good-night.’’ He waved his-hand toward the door as he spoke, as if to signify thatthe interview was ended; but Rose Michel—for such was her name —moved a step nearer to him, by a mighty effort controlling her emotion, and once again her low broken voice sounded in his ear. “Oh, sir, it ia not of this I would complain, but he has threatened to discharge me if I do not get to the factory earlier in the morning. If you will listen to my story you will see how impossible that will be. I live nedrly three miles away, in the ruined cottage on the hillside. I am up every morning befure the dawn of day, for my father is old and blind, and needs some little care, and there is no one ty attend him but me. He is ill, Very ill, Mr. Greyson, and I had’ hoped to have gome jnoney to buy for him a few of the com- forts for which he craves this week, and the dis- appointment was very hard to bear; but it does not matter now; only say that he shall not dis- charge me, promise me this, and I will try, oh, so hard, to deserve your kindness, Mr. Greyson.” The girl had spoken ‘in’ quick impassioned tones, the French accent betraying her foreign birth, no Jess than the quaint gestures by which her words were accompanied, gestures so natural ‘to her countrypeople.’ She was standing so close to the man whom she addressed that ler poor garments touched his arm as he toved idly with the inkstand on the desk before him. If her MICHEL, ROSE words had made any impression on him he did not betray the fact by word or sign. When she had done he turned to her a face cold and impas- sive as marble, and his voice had no softness in it as he answered : “T am truly sorry for you, girl, but I do not knowhow to aid you—I never interfere with Mr. Barton’s management. Five minutes can make no difference in your domestic affairs, then why not try to bé in your place at the right time in the morning! If you cannot manage this you will be obliged to seek work nearer your home. Here is some money to relieve your immediate wants. I any never Wanting in charity.” : He held-a biil toward her as he spoke, careless- ly as one holds out a coin to a beggar. The girl sprang back like one who had been struck a sudden blow, a flush of indignant shame lighting up her pale young face, and her blue eyes flashing like twin stars. Mr. Greyson, Iam no beggar; I-carie to ask for justice, not for charity. 1 am poor indeed, miserably poor; but my blind father has never eaten a crust these hands have not honestly earn- ed. He is ill, dying, perhaps, but not even for his sake will I accept your alms, You tell me to seek work nearer my home when you know that it is impossible to obtain it, and if Iam discharged now eyery door will be closed against me. But I will not break your rules again, Mr. Greyson, 1 will try hard to please.” She turned away wearily, the hot flush indigna- tion had called into her face fading away, leaving it paler than. before, and the sweet lips trembling piteansly Sere | net gees He did: not recall her, but saw'the door close npon her retreating figure with a look on his face it would have been difficult to describe. “ By Jove! Mademoiselle has a fine spirit—she looks like a young empress in rags; with what an air she refused my charity. Bah! how I hate pride and poverty. I do not think there is anoth- er girl in the factory who would have refused. the money as she las done, and then she tells me she is miserably poor; well, there is no accotuting for some people’s whims. With that face of hers Rose Michel might make a fortune, and yet she is con. tent to toil her young life away for a paltry sum that will barely keep body and soul together.” Thus Mr. Greyson mused, as he again turned to his desk to resume the task Rose Michel’s entrance had interrupted. But the face of the working-yirl kept constantly coming before him and the page upon which he looked, until at last he pushed it from him impatiently, and rang a silver bel! at his elbow, The summons was answered by a footman in livery, who waited. his master’s orders in an ad- joining office. “Ts the sleigh at the door, Paul?” he asked, in the imperious tone of one used to command. “ Yes, sir, it is ready,” said the man, leading the way to the luxurious little vehicle, with its fleecy robes and span of high-spirited horses, while his master buttoned his handsome fur-trimmed over- coat close up to his chin. In the meantime the girl who had left his pres- ence with such a heavy heart. toiled along on foot, folding her thin old shawl close around her slen- der form, and shivering as each fresh blast of wind blew the snow into her downeast face. “Oh, my father, my poor old helpless father, itis so bitter cold, and { am afraid the fire will be out. What will he do to-night?” the poor child murmured, while her employer nestled close- ly in his costly furs, scolding his footman, and grumbling because the hor-e, would not fly faster over the road, that he might sooner reach» his home, with its glowing coal fires and couches soft as eider down, —_—_—— CHAPTER II: THE TEMPTATION. Tur way was long and: toilxome that led to the ruined cot that Roxe Michel called home! “ The ruined cottage on the hillside,” she had said when a yt of it to her emplover, and if crambling, walls, shatterless windows, and roof that admitted both rains and stows of winter and broiling heat of summer sun deserved the name, she had not called it wrong: It was little better than a barn, and had been uninhabited for years before old Julian Michel had-taken possession of it ten years previous’ to the opening of our story, and with his pale, invalid wife and one child, then seven years of age, settled downto a life of pov- erty and toil. They were a strange family the nearest neigh- bors affirmed, the father silent and reserved, the mother stately and ladylike, and the child with the manners of one born to the purple. For three years they lived in extreme poverty, yet uncomplainingly, the father working like a common laborer, the mother bending from early morn till far into the night over fine needle-work and little Rose poring over books that would have puzzled older heads to study. i At the end. of this time the patient face of the mother was missed from its place at the window, and a few days Jater the neighbors were, ottracted to’ the spot by the loud cries'of the child, and one, more bold than the rest, entered to find Julian Michel kneeling by the cot bed, on which Jay all that was mortal of her who had been his wife, one cold hand pressed in hiv own, and his tears falling fast and thick upon the marble face, while-his orphan ‘child sobbed out yher an- guish, with her little face hidden on the icy breast that never more would be her 1esting-place. “Why, Michel, this is dreadful! What ailed her 2?” questioned the neighbor, with homely sym- pathy. : t “What ailed her?” repeated the widower, fiercely, looking up quickly, with the light of des- peration in his weary, pain-dimmed eyes. *Star- vation ailed her! ‘Aye, you start, and turn pale ; is it an uncommon thing in this glorious land of freedom, that you doubt my word? For the last two months my eyesight has been failing me; I tried to hide it from my loved ones, but oftimes in the hot glare of the noonday sun it failed me nl- together, and I-could not see,my work before me. My employers soon noticed this, and last weel they dixebarged me. TI thongs, of lier, my dar ling, and my. little one at home here, and almost went upon my knees to them, J, who once—— Bah! enongh that they discharged me. My wife bore it bravely, she never told me when the bread was gone, but smiled while she was starving her- self to keep it forme and her child. Oh, God! that this should be the end, my Laure, my love |” - And Julian Michel hind dropped his head down again bexide that of his wife, and refused to speak another word. ciate Only a few weeks later and then the terrible thing he had so much dreaded came upon him, he became totally blind. The neighbors were very kind to them, and knowing the father’s independent spirit, offered to obtain work for little Rose in the factory where @ number of children were employed sorting cotton. Rose, happy in the thought of assisting. her blind father, had accepted the offer gladly, and soon became a favorite with the entire factory. - But the place had changed owners since then, _ Rese, as we have seen, was a favorite no onger. lienry Burton, the nephew, of Mr. Greyson, held full sway oyer the floor upon whieh she worked, and for some unaccountable aeasonjbe hed taken a violent dislike to her. He Jost no opportunity of venting his petty spite on her, and bad on the day previous to her visit to his uncle used very in- sulting language to her in presence of all the working-gitls, who were not jll-pleased to see “the lady’s” pride taken down. _ : Rose dared not. openly complain of this, for fear of instant dismissal ; and as work was at that time very hard to obtain, she was obliged to bear indignities that almost. broke her proud young heart, for her beloved father’s sake. ec As she toiled wearily through the blinding snow on the night of which we write,'the tears frozen on her cheeks, and her: face white as ‘the cnow-drifts uround her, the sound of quick, heavy footsteps on the frozen crust of the snow caught lier ear. She quickened her pace, for it was lonely country road upon which she traveled, her honsé being on the outskirts of the city. R Oni “@he kad gone but a few steps further wheat » voice arrested her ;
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“Rose! Rose Michel! top for a moment. I have a word for your ear alone;” and with a thrill of unutterable terror in her hear t, Rose re- cognized the voice of Henry Barton. She stood still until he came up to her, she could not have moved x limb to save her life. “So! so! my dainty miss, vot have turned informer, have you ? Little fool, did you think your tears and your pretty Iaby. -face would move Walter Grevson one whit? Iwas in the adjoining office and over!yeard the whole conversation. “Poor satisfaction he gave you, was it not?” The sneering, cowardly words were accompanied by a rude laugh, as the speaker raised the lantern he carried, and turned its rays on the face of the girl at his side. She shrank away from him with a gesture of utter abhorrence, and her blue: eves flashedon him a look ‘of withering scorn. “Mr. Barton, is it manly to taunt me thus? you who hold my father’s life, as it were, in your hands. uncle you must know how utterly dependent he is upon the pitiful earnings of these weak hands. If you do not believe that story, come with me now te the poor place T call my home. You will ‘surely pity me then, if you have one spark of hum feeling in your heart. Listen, Menry Bar- ton. You hate a fair young child growing up at your fireside. She, too, is iotherless. What if, in after years, Vour gold took wings, and left you pentiiless? ‘What if your cherished one was placed in my position, and found a master such as you have been tome? Ha! you shudder. And think’ you the heirs to your thottsands are dearer to your heart than I am to the blind and helpless invilid who listens for my coming and the sound of my Voice through all the longs and dreary hours that he passes alone in darkness?” here was something in the dauntless face up- raised to his in the faint flicker of light, that only dimly revealed it through the drifting snow, that cowed him, and made him for one brief moment ashamed of his baseness, even more than did the words she had spoken. But, as if angry at the momentary wexkness into which she had betrayed him, he laughed sneeringly as he answered ; “Upon my honor, Roxe Michel, you have mis- taken your vocation. You should have been an actress. With that tragic face and voice of yours you would have made a “fortune on the stage.” Rose did not answer, but she quickened her pace, and he could see the flashing of her great blue eyes in the gloom as he hurried along beside her, seemingly intent on following her to her jour- nhey’s end. ‘Suddenly he caught her arm in a grasp that made her ery out with pain, and bending over her till the wind blew her loosened golden hair into his face, spoke in a voice trembling with passion: “Listen, Rose Michel, I know you are miserably poor; you are too proud to complain, if the fuct was not plainly apparent. You are toiling your young life away for a paltry pittance that scurcely keeps body and soul together. You love your helpless father, do you not? t? You would do much for his sake; you would be happy could vou com- fort his last hours, and stand by his bedside when the Jast dread summons comes; you cannot do this if you continue to drudge and toil in a fae- tory. He may die unattended and alone, calling vainly upon your name——” Rose threw up her hands before her face with an anguished ery. “My God! my God! why do you torture me #0? ‘Why do you paint the picture of his suffer- ings when I am powerless to alleviate them %” _ “You need lec powerless no longer, girl, if you will let. me help vou. Listen, Rose. Once before T told you how I loved vou, despite your poverty, despite the utter indifference with which you have ever treated me. You refused my love then, you Have seen since how unwise. you were to do, go. Once again, I tell you I Jove you, Rose Michel! J have given poor proof of my love, you will say, but every fresh. trial I put upon you was but to. show you ‘the difference betiveen the life vou lead at Eta and the one you would have led as ” eek He’ did not finish the sentence, for Rose inter- pted him, pausing a little in her rapid walk, Je ees Barton, why do you persist in tormenting yi ‘If you overheard the story I told your! ROSE MICHEL me thus? Does a man ever insuit and abuse a woman whom he loves and would make his wife, as you have insulted and abused me? You must surely be jesting with me; even when I believed in your sincerity, I refused you, three months ago, because I could not retarn the love you professed for me. not be your wife if a, thousand lives depended | upon it.” Never since tlie first day of his meeting with her had Henry Barton so longed to possess the little factory girl as in this hour, when she stood before him in the snow-storm, so beautiful, so brave, so superb in suffering, and so innately pure that she was incapable of understanding the true meaning of his words. But the feeling of pity that for one brief mo- ment found place in his heart, vanished as quickly, leaving one of baser passion that urged him to the utterance of words that disgraced his manhood. “You shall give me a different answer, girl. Think of all you are refusing; a comfortable home for yourself and your inv alid father, a life of ease and luxury, and a love that will never fail you. You ‘ate beautiful as an ‘angel, Rose, my darling, come to me, and yott need not leave your poor old father to enter the walls of a factory again.” Ife attempted to take her in his arms as he spoke, and his hot breath lifted the soft hair from her forehead as he bent closer to her, and pressed his lips to her cold face ere she ‘could realize his intention, Then, with a ery of terror, she sprang away from him like ‘a frightened hare, fleeing like a spirit through the storm and the darkness of the night, while the baffled villain stood Tike one trans- fixed to the spot, his lantern fallem from his hand, and extinguished in the snow. “Confound the girl, she shall suffer for this; she would refuse to be my wife, indeed—ha! ha! a mighty good joke that. By the Heaven above me, | will possess her! ‘I will break her hanghty spirit, and she shall be on bended knees for the shelter of my name to save her from disgrace. Poor little pauper, sie shall see what it is to arouse my anger, I will discharge her from the factory to-morrow, and when she sees the old man dying from linger I will go to her again and ask her the question I asked to-night, She will bea little less independent then, Ti imagine. We shall see. ” Muttering this, Henry Barton retraced his steps back into the road that led to the town. He was a tall, dark-complexioned man, about thirty-five years of age, and had been a widower for eight years. His was a cruel, heartless, sinister nature, and when once his mind was set upon the attain- ment of any object, he did not seruple to ways or means for its accomplishment. From the first hour he had set eyes orm Rose Michel’s lovely face, he had singled her out..as his victim; but the gentle dignity, the child-like innocence, and the wondering, reproachful looks that would steal into her great. blue eyes when any. too familiar word fell from his lips, constantly baffled him, and he learned to hate even while be fancied her. He lost no chance of wounding her in the presence of others, for the more she disliked him the greater would be his triuraph when he succeeded in his hellish designs. CHAPTER ITf. ““WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS.” On, on, through the shuddering gusts of the night sped the frightened girl, her loose, golden curls flving behind her, and the old shawl falling neglected from her shoulders, never -patising, neyer turning to glance behind, but fleeing swiftly as thongh a legion of demons pursued her, Panting and breathless, she burst’ into the single room that was inhabitable of the cottage she called home, and sank down into a chair weak and exhausted. “Rose, Rose, my child, I thonght you would uever come, What has kept you so late? The fire is out, and it is bitter cold,” cried a querulous voice froin the low cot bed, and, br a mighty ef- fort controlling her emotion, Rose hastened to light a small piece of tallow. candle, and replied, with assumed cheerfulness; But now! now, Henry Barton, I would | t | “Yes, father, Iam rather late,I know; but never mind, I will havea good fire here soon, and some supper for you. You are cold and hun-. gry, too, are you not?” She bent to kiss his lips as she spoke, but could not repress the cry of alarm that. the con- tact wrung from her. Her father’s lips were cold, indeed very cold, as they would ever. be’ in | de: ith, and there was a look in his sightless eyes | such as she had seen creep into those of her mother before death called her from her mis- ery. The old man heard Rose’s ery, and guessed aright its meaning. ““My poor child, my darling Rose! You are weeping, I ean’ feel your tears upon my face; 1 can heat the wild throbbing of your heart. Ob, my loved one, donot grieve for your poor, old, helpless father. He has waited anxiously the last summons; life has long been a burden to me. You. have been a blessing to’ me, my Rose, but you could not have stood the strain much longer ; your tender back would have bent beneath the load you have borne so long and so: patiently. God will reward my faithful little girl for her goodness, and teach her to bless the hour He called her suffering father home.” The old man’s feeble .urms were folded around his child, but she drew herself, sobbing passion- ately, from his embrace, and there.was a word of reproach in her, gentle voice, when she spoke | again. “ Father, how can you speak so hopefully of death, when you know that you will leave-me alone, alone, all alone in the wide, wide world? Oh, God, it is too hard, too -hard! I cannot say, : ‘Thy will be done.’” She had thrown herself prostrate on the bare floor by the bedside, working like one in conyvul- sions, in her awful anguish, and for a Jong, time even the feeble voice of her father, calling her name in piteous tones of entreaty, failed to arouse her from the stupor of grief into which she had fullen. At last she grew calmer, and dropped her golden head on the pillow beside him, while she kissed away the tears that were streaming down his aged cheeks. “There! My father, it is over now; I was wrong to rebel against the will of God, but it was hard, oh, so hard, to realize the blow in store for me. Perhaps we are frightened unnecessarily. Kiss me once, dearest father, and try to sleep, while I run to the grocery for some fuel.” Once again he drew her to his breast, holding her long, while his pale lips moved in silent prayer; then he released her and turned his head weatily to the wall, closing ns sightless eyes to sleep. Rose took the coins from her pocket which she had shown to Mr. Grevson as the proceeds of her Week’s labor, and looked at them long and earn- estly, as if caleulating what she could purchase with "them ; then drew from her finger a slender gold ring, her mother’s wedding ring, and pressed it over and over again to her lips, while tears blinded her so that she could hardly see the little shining circlet, “My mother! my mother! ’tis the Jast of all? but when all else fails, this, too, must go—when, all else fails.” And, slipping the ring again upon her finger, the caught up a worn basket from the table and hurried out again into the storm with the coins clasped tightly in her hand. She had not a great distance to go for the groceries she required, and vet she glanced around her nervously every minute as if fearful of being followed by the man whose touch had filled her with such unutterable horror. Reaching the store in safety, she entered with a wildly throbbing heart, knowing the greeting that awaited her, The proprietor, a penurious and harsh spoken German, came smilingly toward, her, but his face changed quickly as she held out her hand 7 yl the paltry sum it contained, and she said 4 trembling voice: “Mr. Shultz, I want some wood and coal, ca few articles of groceries. I cannot pay you what, I owe you though, for'l have only this; vouwill trust me still another week, will you not Mh ans An angry flush rose to the cheek of the Ger- man, and Rose dropped her eyes to avoid his: -. &
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less gaze. It was very galling to her pride to plead with one so ignorant and low-bred, but she was suffering for her father’s sake, and choking back the hot, rebellious tears that rose to her eyes, she laid one little blue-veined hand upon his arm, and in a low, quivering voice that would have melted any heart hadit been made of human mould, looked up into his angry face and spoke again. “Mr, Schultz, you will not refuse us to-night ; my father is dying; he may not live till morning. Our hearth is fireless, our cupboard is empty, and _we have no means toreplenish either until I re- ceive another week’s earnings. Surely you, who are a father, will have some little pity for me.” The sweet broken voice failed here, the golden head dropped forward on her breast, and for one brief moment she seemed like one unconscious of her surroundings. But Schultz prided himself on his wonderful business abilities, and shook his head decidedly while he paced the floor, his hands in his ample pockets, as he repliedto her appeal: “No, no, miss. I not do piziness in dot vay. You say I be a fader, und if I drust_everypody like dot, I hafe no money vhen I be olt like your fader. No, no, I not dopisiness dot vay. I dakes de money vhat you owes me, butI gife you no more drust.”’ Rose, almost stung to madness by his cruelty, threw down the money she held in her hand. “Take it then!” she cried, “ and examine this ; it is solid gold; is it worth’ the few paltry articles Bowe?» © She drew her mother’s wedding ring from her finger as she spoke. All else had indeed failed. he German examined it with glistening eyes. “Yes, dot vill do for dis time. I gife you vhat you vants,” be replied, putting the ring carefully away in his vest pocket and taking her basket from the floor. A few moments later she wended her way homeward with the articles she needed in the basket on her arm, and the German’s boy fol- lowing with a small quantity of coal and wood. ~ Her father was sleeping when she. reached her bome, and in a few moments she had a bright fire and a few slices of toast and a cup of hot tea prepared for him. For her own supper she ate but a small piece of the stale loaf left in the cupboard, knowing that another week must elapse ere she would have the means of purchasing more, The old man slept long, but she did not disturb him. Sitting by his bedside until the night was far advanced, with her sweet pale face hidden in her clasped hands, weeping softly and thinking of the days to come, when the ruined cottage would be empty, and no living voice to welcome her coming or bless her when she left in the morning to begin the labors of the day. At last he awakened and called her name. She was bending over him in an instant, and raising his white head higher on the pillow, while she -held the warm tea to his. parched lips. He drank it gratefully, and, with a whispered blessing on ‘his lips, sank into a heavy sleep again, leaving her to keep her ceaseless vigil as before, The first faint streak of dawn reddened the eastern sky as the golden head of the weary watcher fell forward on the rude pillow, and Rose, utterly overcome, slept heavily. Cold, hun- ger and exhaustion had done their work, and for a time she slept on dreamlessly, painlessly, with- out a thought of the morrow. The broad daylight awakened her, and she sprang to her feet in ter- ror, glancing hastily at the clock on the mantel shelf. “My God! , 1 haye-overslept myself, I am late ; what shall I do?” she whispered breathlessly, glancing around her in utter bewilderment. - Bending over her father, for a moment she found that he was sleeping still, and after tuckin the scanty. bed-clothing closely avound him, an putting # little more coal on the fire, she placed some toast and tea on a chair within reach of his hand, and pressing a hasty kiss on his lips, wrap- her thin shawl around her, and without tast- ing as much as a drink of water, turned away from him to leave him for the noise of the factory and ROSE MICHEL. the presence of the man whom she hated and feared. At the door she paused, as if some ynseen hand forced her back, returned to his bedside, and flung her arms around him with a passionate cry of pain, “Oh, father! father! why must I leave you thus? Speak to me once, my heart is breaking.” Her piteous voice awakened him, although he did not catch the tenor of her words, and opening his brown, sightless eyes he smiled upon her, and opened his feeble arms to clasp her to his breast. “What is it, my darling child? I have had such pleasant dreams, and we wereso happy ; why did you awaken me—why do you not try to sleep ?” “It is nothing, my father, and I must leave you. I could not go without your blessing. Oh, father, your eyes are brighter, your lips are warm against mine; you are much better than you were last night, much better. Fold your arms close around me and kiss me again. I am happy, indeed, so happy, my father, my dearest; God has heard my prayer, He will spare you to me.” The little head, with its wealth of golden curls, was on his breast. The sweet, quivering lips were pressed tightly against his own, and he could not find words to destroy the fond hopes she cherished, but folding her close to the heart that would so soon cease to beat, he murmured in a voice grown fainter since he last had spoken: “My precious child, my darling Rose, may the God of the orphan bless and guard you ever, and guide your faltering steps in the rightpath. You have been a comfort and joy to me all your life, sweet one; you have never caused me a moment’s pain. Go now, my beloved child, and may all the blessings of Heaven follow and be with you always.” With one lingering, clinging kiss upon his lips she left him then, keeping her tearful eyes fixed upon him until the door closed between them, “He looks better, so much better, and still J feel as if I were leaving his grave,” she whisper- ed, with a shudder, and a strange, awed look on her pale, young face. With fleet steps, despite her weariness, she hur- ried along in the direction of the factory, praying ‘as she went, that she might not be discharged, even while the face of the man who held her fate in his hand rose like a nightmare before her. The factory bells rang while she was yet half a mile from her destination, and her heart sank within her. She was weak from long fasting, yet she quick- ened her rapid pace, and she ran with the speed of an antelope along the street, until she arrived at the factory, faint with exhaustion and fatigue, just five minutes behind time. CHAPTER IV. THE WARNING. Wirn a heart full of bitterness toward the poor girl who had had the courage to resist his plead- ings and repel his temptations, Henry Barton en- tered his luxurious home, where his only child, a pretty blue-eyed girl of nine years, flew into his arms and welcomed him with her innocent kisses. While he held her close to him, looking down into the fair, chubby face upon his breast, Rose Michel’s words recurred to him. Would his gold ever “take wings and fly?” and would the day ever come when this cherished lit- tle one would be tempted even as she had been? He drove the thought from him with a smile of derision, but he could not entirely forget the tone in which the words had been uttered. He put the child gently from him, with a kiss upon the laughing lips. “There, go, Clarice, papa is tired, darling.” When the little one had left him, he paced the floor of his study liked a caged lion, with an an- gry, baffled look on his darkly handsome face, and his hands locked tightly behind him. “Curse the girl,” he muttered, between his clenched teeth, “ she makes me feel like a coward ; I hate her even while I would give ten years of my life to possess her—pooh! what fools woman makes of us all! We would shrink from, the thought of cheating a man a dollar while we sink our souls in guilt fora woman’s sake. By fair means or foul, Rose Michel shall be mine. Her beauty maddens me, although her scornful indiffer- ence makes me hate her. Whileshe is out of my sight I could curse myself for my folly, but when under the witchery of her presence I envy the lit- tle cotton-pickers the smiles she gives them. Id- iot that I am to be snared by the golden locks and azure eyes of a poor factory girl, when I might tuke my choice from the proudest ladies of the land.” Unconsciously speaking his thoughts aloud, Henry Barton walked backward and forward for nearly an hour, with his brow closely knit and an angry scowl on his dark face. At last he paused in his walk to pull a crim- son bell cord, and then drawing back the heavy velvet curtains that shaded the window, look- ed out into the darkness of the night and the whirl- ing snow flakes with eyes that saw not that on which they gazed. Scarcely a moment had passed before a servant answered his summons. A crafty, prema, soft-spoken fellow, entirely in his confidence, He had often been employed by Barton on errands similiar to the one he was about to send him on now ; and with a face like a mask of marble he slipped the bolt and even tried the door to make sure that it was fastened, then proached the chair inte which Barton had flung himself, and spoke in a slow, oily voice that ac- corded well with the cat-like tread and gliding motion habitual to him. “ Well, sir, I am at your service, have you any more work for me to do?” There was adecided emphasis on the word and Barton looked up quickly, a flash of anger in his black eyes. “Take care how you speak to me, fellow! [I have paid you for the work you allude to; beware how you remind me of it. Obey my instructions without comment, or I will give you your walking papers without an hour’s notice.” The servant bowed humbly, without speaking, but he dropped the lids over his glittering eyes, to hide the dangerous light in their gray depths, while his master continued: “Your mother is still living and well, is she not? She still occupies the cot in the woods on my property up the Boston Road ?” “Yes, sir,” the man replied humbly, “thanks to your kindness she is fixed quite comfortably there.” } “Waiving the question of my kindness, I will tell you what I wish you to do. Take off that livery you wear, put on plain clothes and go quickly as possible to Boston ; purchase neat, sub- stantial furniture enough to fit up a couple of rooms in the cottage alluded to; have the rooms cleaned, and everything arranged ; and above all see that the windows and doors are well secured.” The last words ewere spoken in a significant tone, and the dark glowing eyes of Harry Barton were fastened vpon the servant's face, with an eager, questioning look, as if he were anxious to know whether or not his instructions were under- stood. The man bowed, and smiled knowingly, while he replied : “‘T understand you, sir, you may trust me; I will have everything prepared to your satisfaction, I assure you; have you any further instruction for me to-night ?” Barton paused before replying, and in the act of speaking was interrupted by a Joud peal at the door bell. He started to his feet angrily, with a downward glance at his business suit, which he had not changed since his return from the fruit- less journey he had taken in following Rose Michel. “Leave me, Harper! open the door, and be careful whom you admit to-night,” he exclaim and with another low bow the servant left the apartment, returning in @ moment to usher in Mr, Walter Greyson, bis master’s uncle, | “Why, uncle! this is an unexpected pleasure— I have been busily engaged in writing all evenin and have not even taken time to dress. You will excuse my ap ce, I am eure,” he exclaimed, going forward to meet his uncle, with an appar- ently cordial welcome. ; “No apologies necessity, Harry, I was feeling | | 4
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| 80 confoundedly lonesome in my bachelor’s hall to-night, that I thought I would call on you to pass an hour away,” Greyson replied, sinking with a sigh of satisfaction into a crimson couch drawn up before the fire. For an hour or more they conversed on business matters, and the night was pretty well advanced when the visitor arose to take his departure. Suddenly, as he was drawing on his gloves and fastening his great coat close around him, he ex- claimed : “ By the way, Harry, I meant to speak to. you about the little French girl who works upon your floor. She was telling me to-night you had threatened to discharge her. How is it you cannot get along with her? She is beautiful as Venus de Milo, and proud as a young empress ; she is above the position she occupies, and every word she speaks stamps her a lady, despite her poverty. She told me her pitiful story to-night of a blind father, ill and suffering, and with no one to depend on but herself, no hand to provide for him but hers. She is the first woman who has aroused. my sympathy in years, the first whose voice has ever stirred my heart since she—you know to whem I allude—proved falsetto me. Rose Michel is innocent and pure as an angel, I would not be afraid to stake my fortune on the assertion. She certainly deserves a better fate than that to which she seems doomed. The girl is nothing to me, and as you know, Harry, I never interfere with your manage- ment; but I would grieve to think you had sent one so young and helpless adrift on the cold, pitiless world. I offered her money to relieve her immediate wants, but she refused it with the air of one who had never accepted charity. I am opposed to the foolish pride that leads one to scorn to accept a gift; but there is something in Rose Michel's face that recalls tc me the memory of my sister, your mother’s sister, Harry, the blue- eyed girl who played by my side in childhood ; she, like Rose Michel, was proud and independ- ent. She married a French nobleman who was traveling through this country for the benefit of his health, and my father, who had long desired her for another, never forgave her for disobeying his wishes. She went with her husband to France, and for a long time we heard nothing of her. At last news came to us that she had given birth to a daughter, and that her husband was obliged to fly from the country for some political reason. Her letter did not state, but we after- wards Jearned, that his property had been confis- eated, and that they had left the country almost destitute, Wehave never since learned whether she is living or dead, and I had almost succeeded in banishing the memory of her sweet, pale face from my heart, when Rose Michel came like a spirit before me. She bears a marvelous resem- biance to my lost sister, Harry, and for that sis-! ter’s sake I would ask you to deal gently with her. You will think I have grown sentimental, will you not? Well, you may be right, Harry, I cannot account for the feeling that is over me to-night. I fell asleep in my arm-chair by the fire, after returning from the factory to-night, and while I slept I dreamt a strange dream. In the vision my faney conjured up, Rose Michel rose before me, plainly as I saw her in the office of the factory a few hours before. Her face was deadly pale, and her golden hair hung in dishev- eled masses round her shoulders. She was wretchedly clad, and from her great blue eves the tears were streaming, as she sped like a spirit along a lonely country road, closely pursued by a man who every now and then stretched out his hand to grasp her slender form. He had almost reached her, his outstretched hands had just touched her garments, when a spirit, with robes white as the snow on the ground without, descended from the clouds. About this strange yisitant there was a light that was fairly dazzling like the sun, and from within the shining circle that surrounded it, a face looked out, the face of my lost sister. At sight of this’ strange intruder, the man, who until now, had followed Rose Michel, turned on his heel, and with a cry of rage and despair, fled away through the darkness of the might. As he did so, his face was revealed to ROSE MICHZL. me. Your face, Harry Barton, plain as I see it this moment before me.” Walter Greyson paused, and for a moment there was a dead silence. He was himself the first to speak. “The dream has made a strange impression on me, Harry. When the little factory girl came to me to-night, I sent herfrom me without one kind word. I ridiculed her false pride, and doubted her story. face of the lost companion of my boyhood rises before me, and I feel—unaccountable as the feel- ing may be—that there is some affinity between the spirit of that sister and the little factory girl who so much resembles her. You may smile at my folly, Harry, but I cannot banish the thought, and for the sake of her to whom she bears so re- markable a resemblance, I would ask you to deal gently with her.” The man toyed idly with one of his gloves as he spoke, keeping his eyes averted, as if ashamed of his own words, and never glanced . into his nephew’s face. Henry Barton had grown as pale as death while his uncle related his dream, and the beat- ing of his heart was plainly audible iu the hushed silence that followed. By an_ effort controlling his emotions he said, laughingly: “ Why, my dear uncle, you have almost succeeded in making me as superstitious asmy coachman, who believes that when he shud- ders that someone is walking over his grave. Your dream was a strange one, to be sure, but a very ridiculous one, I should say, for surely neither the sister nor the nephew of Walter Greyson have anything in common with a poor factory girl.” He laughed again when he had concluded, puffing the smoke from a cigar he had just lighted, but despite his pretended indifference there was a trembling in his voice that betrayed him, and caused his uncle to glance sharply in his face. When the latter bade him good-night at the door he hesitated after the words were spoken, and meeting the glance of his nephew, said in a tone half entreaty and half command: “Remember, Harry, you are not to discharge Rose Michel. There may be nothing in common between us; but should ill betide her I would never forgive myself; think what you will of my folly but remember my warning, and take care” that you do not disobey me.” He glanced meaningly into his nephew’s face as he spoke, and nodding a careless farewell, sprang into his sleigh anddroveaway. Barton re- entered the room they had just left, his face drawn and haggard, and his black eves flashing fire. When he had closed the door behind him he flung himself into the chair his uncle had just va- cated, and laughed aloud. “Tia! ha! my bright-eyed Rose, you have an- other wealthy suitor; my worthy uncle is in love with your white baby face—bah! if he knew the effect his warning has taken on me he would have cut his tongue out rather than have uttered it. It only makes me the more anxious to possess you; it would take more than the spirit of my unknewn aunt to drive me from my purpose. You shall leave the factory to-morrow for the shelter of my arms; I will break your proud epirit, by the God above me, orl will break your heart.” He rang the bell at his elbow as he spoke, and Harper again answered the summons. For half an hour they were closeted together, and when the servant left his master’s presence, Rose Michel’s fate was sealed. CHAPTER V, CAUGHT IN THE WHEEL. Tur girls were all in their places when Rose entered the work-room, and she closed her eyes with an involuntary shudder as she caught Henry Rarton’s glance fixed upon her with an expression of devilish malignancy. “ He will surely discharge me to-day. He will seize this opportunity of punishing me for my conduct towards him last night. Oh, my father, ; = 1 my father! what will become of us if he does ?* she murmured, removing her hat and shaw], and hanging them in the usual place, hoping ? 4.1nsé hope that her fears might be groundless. Some of the girls looked up as she passed them on her way to her place, with more of pity t. their glances than they had ever bestowed on ner. Forcing back the tears that rose tu her eyes, she took her seat as usual, with a pleasant word of But now, when I think of her, the | greeting to the girl who sat nearesé her, the only one of the hundred by whom she was surrounded that ever gave her a kindly word. This girl, Minnie Deane by name, was an orphan, and utterly friendless. She had seen better days, and the memory of what “might have been” had Heaven spared her dear ones, was ever with her, and made her too gloomy a companion to suit the tastes of the careless factory girls, who, after their day’s toil was over, forgot the hardships of their lot, and enjoyed the simple pleasures afford- ed them with moreof real pleasure than many a wealthy lady would enjoy the flattering homage of a courtly train. Minnie Deane and Rose Michel had long been counted fast friends, although they had never spoken half a dozen words outside the factory walls; but by treating Rose with common respect she had won the enmity of her companions. She watched Rose’s fair face to-day with more than ustal interest, noting its deadly pallor and the swollen eye-lids that betrayed her. When the noon-day bell rang as a signal for the girls to partake of the luncheon with which they all came provided, Rose, who had forgotten, in the agitation and excitement under which she labored when leaving home, to provide herself with the usual scanty meal, dropped her head wearily on her loom, glad to rest her tired eyes. Her head was throbbing and aching so that. it seemed as if her temples would burst, and this brief rest was very welcome to her. She was weak with long fasting, but scarcely was conscious of the feeling of hunger. Her whole heart seemed to strain out to her beloved father, lying sick and alone in the desolate home she had left so short time ago. Minnie Deane, with the napkin in which her lunch was wrapped still unopened in her hand, came softly to her side, and passing her arm around her waist, whispered in her ear: “Dear Rose, you have forgotten your lunch; will you not have a part of mine? Do not. shake your head; you know I have often partaken of yours when I had none of my own, when I came without it, not because I forgot it, but because I had none to bring. Do not refuse me, please, you will make me very unhappy.” Minnie had divided the bread and butter her napkin contained in equal shares, and held one of them toward Rose with such a pleading, wist- ful look in her soft, gray eyes that the poor girl had not the heart to refuse her. Rose took the bread and tried to eat it, but a lump seemed to rise in her throat, and a passionate sob broke from her overburdened heart.as she dropped her head on Minnie’s shoulder, weeping bitterly. “Oh, Minnie, I cannot eat it!, forgive me, das ling : it chokes me, the bread of charity.” When the words were spoken she would have given worlds to recall them, but it was too late. Minnie’s breast heaved convulsively, and the large, gray eyes filled with tears, but she | pressed her companion’s hand and put her lune away untasted. Her heart was too full for speech. Tbe luncheon was not half over when a message was sent to Rose summoning her to Mr. Barton’s office. She sprang to her feet in terror when the mes- sage was delivered, every atom of color fading from her face, leaving her white to the very lips. “No, no, I cannot go, I will not go!” she oa excitedly; then recollecting the power he hel over her, and that he might send her adrift if she disobeyed him, she caught the arm of the messen: ger, as he was turning away, and in a voice that shook with emotion she could not control: = “T will go with you, I had forgotten.” ut The man looked at her as if he thought she had taken leave of her senses, but silently led the
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6 - ———— way to Henry Barton’s office, which was situated on thesame floor. Her heart throbbed wildly, and when she found herself alone with the man whom she both hated and feared, she was obliged to lean against.the back of a chair for support. He came toward her smilingly, and bent down that he might Jook into her face while he said: “Well, Miss Rose, have you thought better of the offer I made you last ‘night, or do you still prefer toil’ and starvation to the life of ease and luxury I offer you? Think well before you an- swer me, for this is the last chance I will give you to. decide for yourself.” The question she was called upon to answer seemed to give her sudden strength. She raised her drooping head and her eyes met his unquail- ingly, with a look of doubtless defiance in their azure depths'as she replied : “Mr, Barton, you have my answer. I would _not be your wife if I were compelledto beg my bread fnom door to door. You can but rob me of ROSK~ MICHEL. his lips when Minnie Deane’s ery rang out loud and long above the din of the whirling wheels: ‘Back! back, Rose! The wheel! My Godi* He understood in a moment from the wildly ut- tered words that something dreadful had happen- ed, and with one bound he sprang out into the work-room, His dark face grew fairly livid, and his feet searcely touched the ground as he darted to the scene of the accident; but another was before him in the attempt to save her. The engineer, Archie Wallace, had been adjust- ing a belt attached to the wheel when the girl’s dress caught, and in less time than it takes to write the words he liad sprang into the engine house and stopped the rapid revolution of the giant wheel. Scarcely a second had elapsed, but in the brief space of time the unfortunate girl was frightfully crushed and mangled, and when her form again descended towards. the floor, and Henry Barton my employment, and the shelter of the almshouse | caught her in his arms and drew her from the is preferable to the honor you would confer upon | wheel, she was senseless and bleeding. me.” The rash words aroused all the evil inthe man’s nature. He laughed long and loudly, and catching the girl’s arm, in a grasp that made her cry out in pain, hissed into her ear; “My wife, indeed! Fool! think you I would stoop to weda pauper like you? Poor little simpleton! I have never entertained such a thought. I would have been a true friend to you had you accepted my offer, but you bid me do my worst. I will make you rue the day you were mad enough todefy me. Now go! but remember, as sure as there is a God above us, you shall yet beg on bended knees for the place you this day refused so haughtily.” When the poor girl realized the villain’s true meaning a cry of unutterable horror broke from her lips ; she,sprang towards the’door with a look in her blue eves like that seeri in the pitiful orbs! | of an animal hunted down. He put out no detaining hand, and she passed out into the work-room, where the wheels were again whirling round at full speed, the dinner hour being over. { ~ There; was.a mist.that almost blinded her, and — she could scarcely see where she walked. Sie tut- | tered like a drunken person, her brain reeled, and _ there was a sotind in her ears like the rushing of Many waters. | ‘She was near to one of the great wheels, when ) with ashriek that rang loud and shrill through the large room, Minnie Deane sprang to her feet, . crying wildly: “Back! back, Rose! the wheel!’ My God!’ ‘A thrill of horror rang thfough the hearts of the'assembled crowd ; for every eye followed the direction of Minnie’s pointing finger. The sight that met their gaze froze the blood in their veins. Minnie’s warning had come too late ; Rose’s dress had caught on one of the bolts of the great fly wheel _ and she was’ being lifted up and whirled around ' with fearful rapidity. CHAPTER VI. THE LISTENER AT THE DOOR, You thought in your scorn of pity and laws t Want and Hunger would plead your cause, Where lying lip and crafty, smile BY wealth supported would fail to beguile; t know, oh, monster of meanness! who The lone'and the orphaned would still pursue, That some souls are proof against silver and-gold— Ay! proof against poverty, hunger and cold. —N. D. URNER. _Henry Barton stood for a. moment and gazed after Rose with a look on his dark face it would haye been difficult to interpret aright. In.a couple of days the cot in the woods on the Boston road would be fitted up according’ to his directions. . .’Twould be a safe cage in which to imprison his bird, he told himself, anda smile of satisfaction parted. his proudly curved lips, as he thought what an eagy job it would be to get her in his power, as she traveled homeward along the lonely ad that,led to hen wretched habitation. e smile of anticipated triumph was ‘still on “She is dead! she is dead!” was the cry that arose from a dozen of the by-standers, as her small, regal head, with its wealth of golden hair, fell heavily on his shoulders, and her blue eyes, dull and sightless, and still wearing the look of awful horror that had crept into them when first she realized her danger, stared fixedly before her. Barton’s face was ghastly as her own; he trembled so that he could scarce support her, and in a voice that sounded husky and strange com- manded the workman who stood nearest him : “Go at once for Dr. Dawson; he lives but a square from here; bring him back at once, and five dollars will be added to your wages next week.” The man. needed no second bidding, five dollars was not so easily earned that he could afford to throw the chance away. While he was absent on his errand, Barton had Rose Michel placed on a sofa in his private office, and Minnie Deane, who had insisted on following her injured friend, not- withstanding the assistant manager’s imperative command that the girls should resume their places and go on with their work. The machinery was again in motion, and every- thing was going on as before, and were it not for the awed and frightened look on the faces of the operatives, no one to have entered the work-room would have suspected that a frightful accident had so recently happened in their midst. The workman flying down the stairs two steps at a time on his way to the doctor’s, ran against a gentleman emerging from one of the lower floors, “You stupid loon, why do you not keep your eyes open? Where are you going at such a mad speed ?” the gentleman exclaimed angrily, knocked almost breathless by the force with which Barton’s messenger ran into him, ‘Oh ! Mr. Greyson, the little French girl above stairs has been caught in the big wheel, and it’s kilt entirely I think she is, sur; and it’s fur the docther they’ve sint me, sure,’’ called back the Irishman, as he hurried along without pausing or stopping to take breath. “The little French girl—Rose Michel—caught in the wheel and killed!’ repeated Walter Grey- son, breathlessly, with a sudden. pallor over-shad- owing his haughty face. ‘ Ah! that accounts for the sudden stoppage of the machinery a few min- utes ago; poor girl! poor girl! I hope this is not so bad as that blundering Irishman would have one to suppose.” Thus muttering to himself, with the» strange pallor that had settled over his face: increasing as he neared the place of the accident, the proprie- and in a gentler tone than he had spoken to one of his employes, said: “Go back to your work, child, you can be of no use here—we will do all in our power for her.’ Minnie started at the sound of his voice, and with one last lingering look into the blue eyes that gave back no answering glance, passed silently out of the room—as we turn from the coffin of a loved one, with heavy, aching hearts and tearful eyes. “She was so kind and gentle to me [had learned to love her; and now she, too, like all my dear ones, must be taken from me.” This was the cry that arose from the desolate heart of the lonely little factory girl, as with a look of infinite pain in her soft, gray eyes, she glanced toward the vacant chair so lately oceupied by poor Rose, while she resumed her own place with a feeling of unutterable loneliness and deso- lation, Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed when Barton’s messenger returned with the physician, who, after a careful examination of the nature of the poor girl’s injuries, pronounced it a dangerous case, and advised her immediate removal to a hospital where she might be well cared for, “Let no expense be spared,” began Mr. Grey- son, stepping forward; but his nephew’s hand upon his shoulder caused him to stop abruptly. “ Allow me one moment, if you please, uncle.” Drawing Greyson to one side, he spoke in a tone too low to reach the doctor’s ear: “Pardon my interference, Uncle Walter, but the girl has been injured on my floor, and I claim the right to defray all expenses, and afford her as much help as possible under the circumstances. I may have been harsh with her in the past, eon- sidering her youth and the difficulties under which she has labored, and it will ease n.y cofiscience in & measure to make what reparation is in my power.” The words were spoken in a tone of well simu- Inted sincerity and affected remorse, and Mr. Grey- son neyer for one moment suspected’ his nephew’s real object in making this very reasonable request. So after 2 moment’s deliberation he replied : “Well, Harry, since you wish it so, I have no objection to your taking charge of her. I cannot account for the interest I feelin the poor ehild; but perhaps tlie resemblance T spoke of has some- thing to do with it. See that good care is taken of her, and if she recovers I will look to it that she is provided for; in the meantime I intend to eall into her home and make some provision for the poor old father she spcke of so pitifully.” Henry Burton turned his face away to hide the covert sneer that curled his lips, thinking that he read in the passionate admiration his uncle cast upon the ghastly face of the senseless girl the solution to the mystery of his new-found interest in her. " When Rose had been carried down to the coach that was to convey. her to the hospital, Barton paced the narrow limits of his room witha smile of malignant triumph on his dark face, mutter. ing aloud, as was his custom when alone: “Ged! how the little jade frightened me. I thought she would have been ground to’ atoma. It was well Wallace happened to be on hand and managed to stop the machinery 60 quick. He was as white asa corpse when it was all over, and almost fainted like a woman—bah! how i hate such chicken hearts. My worthy uncle, too, grew almost sick at the sight of her death-like face. He has no suspicion of my designs to- ward the girl, or he would not 80 readily consign her to my care. He thinks she will die, but I do not. She has youth on her side, and with careful nursing will battle through. I will win her gratitude if possible. She shall know when tor of the factory slowly ascended the stairs and | she recovers whose money has: paid for the coms was soon inside his nephew’s office, bending over the senseless form of the beautiful girl whose face had haunted him since he had seen her in his dream, fleeing through the darkness of the night, pursued by Henry Barton, whose eyes never left her face as she Jay before him now, dying, to all appearances. Minnie Deane knelt beside her, bathing her face and chafing her hafids, and weeping softly in her inability to be of any service to her young friend. forts and luxuries that shall be provided forher. I will win her by fair means if possible; but if she still continues obstinate the cot in the woods is ready for its oceupant. In it once ‘she will soon forget her seruples.. But I must keep the mat. ter dark from her gray-haired. champion, my re- spected uucle, who has taken it into his crazy old head to play protector toward her.” The shadows of evening were darkening; the working day was over, and the noise of the whirl. Mr. Greyson touched her lightly on the shoulder, | ing wheels and shuttles had ceased, yet, ale .
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~ sorbed in his own meditations, Barton did not think of this, nor did he see standing in the partly open doorway the figure of a man, who shrank back into the shadow each time he pass- ed to and fro in his rapid pacing, and strained his ears to catch each muttered word. Archie Wallace, the engineer, seeking Mr. Barton on some errand relating to business mat- ters, had chanced to hear his own name men- tioned as he approached the office, and he paus- ed involuntarily on the threshold. He had long suspected Barton of evil intent toward Rose Michel, and the next word he heard spoken con- vinced him that his instinct had not deceived him. He scaicely breathed, lest he should miss one word of the villain’s soliloquy. When at last he turned away, his errand forgotten, there was a look of resolute determination on his face and in the brown deptlis of his honest eyes. “Surely Heaven sent me to Barton’s office to- night, May the same Heaven help me to save that poor girl from a fate that would be ten-fold worse than the death from which I this day sav- ed. her.” The words were spoken softly, with a reverent glance toward the wintry sky, from which the light of day had faded as Archie Wallace tread- en his way homeward. - Rose Michel had at least one true friend, CHAPTER VII. ONLY A PICTURED FACK. Mr. Greyson, true to his promise of paying a visit to Rose Michel’s father, started from the factory on foot in the direction of the ruined eottage on the hillside, The journey was a Jong one to him who so seldom traveled a mile without his comfortable carriage or dainty little sleigh. It was the close of a day that had been bitterly cold. The first faint rays of the wintry moon lit up the snow-clad earth, and the wind moaned like acreature in distress, through the leafless branches of the trees, Greyson shuddered, as he hurried along, for his mind was full of the girl who had laid before him an hour or two ago with such white, ghastly face and staring eyes. She was so fair, so delicately formed and so fragile, and yet, day after day, night after night she had traveled this lonely road alone, with scarcely enough clethes upon her to keep the wind from piercing her heart, and often, very often, he feared, with but a scanty breakfast to sustain her. He thought of the injured girl now with a feeling of tenderness for which he was unable to account. His lost sister, with the sweet, spiritual look on her face that he had noticed in his dream, seemed ever before him. That face was like, oh, so like, to the pale countenance of Rose Michel. He quickened his paee as he neared her humble home, with a thou- sand contending emotions in his heart. ~ He was astern, cold man, yet he shrank, with an unaccountable feeling of reluctance, from the task before him. How should he face the old man whom Rose had told him was helpless and blind, and tell the story of the dreadful accident that had befallen his darling ? When at last he reached the cot on the bare hillside, and paused for a moment before the low doorway, he could hear the beating of bis own heart. He tried to shake off the feeling that op- pressed him, but in vain, ‘Bah! I am turning coward, I believe; I, who have looked on scenes of bloodshed ona field of battle, shrink from the sight of an old man’s agony, aman, too, whom I have never seen, and who may never cross my path again; this tumble- down shanty is as gloomy as a tomb, perhaps that has something todo with the feeling that oppresses me,” “Muttering thus, with his hand upon the door- knob, he lingered a moment before entering the home of the girl who only twenty-four hours ago had appealed to him for pity in vain. His low knock brought no answer, and turning the knob softly he stepped inte the room into which the door opened, and called softly the name ROSE MICHEL. of Rose’s father; but still there was no re- sponse. “He sleeps well. Ah! me, he will awaken soon enough to the sorrow that awaits him.” The room was in total darkness, and he was obliged to strike a match he chanced to have in his vest pocket,in order to see where he stood. By its feeble rays he discovered a piece of candle on the low mantel shelf, and lighting this he looked wonderingly around the miserable apart- ment. One glance toward the low cot bed in the cor- ner revealed the old man, lying with face turned to the wall, sleeping quietly; very quietly, he thought, for he could not hear the sound of his breathing. The whitened ashes of the dead fire were strewn over the hearth, and the cup of cold tea and piece of untouched toast on the chair showed the piti- ful attempts of poor Rose to render him comfort- able, The bare boards of the floor were scrubbed white as snow, and the scanty clothing upon the bed, though old and much worn, was scrupulous. ly clean. Walter Greyson sank down upon one of the wooden chairs with a feeling in his heart that had long been a stranger there. “Poor girl! poor little one! how hard has been her lot. My God, how heartless and cruel I have been; she appealed to me with truth in her innocent face, and in tne very accent of her gentle voice, but having been imposed upon so often, I disbelieved her. Curses on my stupidity, why could [ not distinguish the ring of true gold from the jingle of false metal ; it is ever thus ; the few who are innocent must suffer for the many who are guilty.” Musing thus, the rich man sat until the death- like silence reigning around him became intoler- able. The little clock on the mantel had long ago run down, the old man still slept 80 quietly and breathlessly, and only the sighing of the wintry wind down the great. yawning chimney disturbed the vault-like silence. “This will not’ do; Imust awaken him. May God give him strength to bear the blow that awaits him,” Walter Greyson started at the sound of his own voice—for he had involuntarily spoken aloud—for years no prayer had passed his lips, and he could scarcely credit the evidence of his own senses when he realized that he had now ut- tered one. His hand fell softly on the shoulder of the white-haired man, who lay so’ motionless and silent before him, and his voice was gentle asa woman’s when he bent over him, calling softly : “ Michel! Michel! awake. A friend would speak with you.” He shook the old man’s shoulder as he spoke, but still there came no answer to his call. He drew the white head round upon the piflow, and bending closer, looked down into the sight- less depths of the wide open brown eyes. An expression of horror settled slowly over his dark face, and he flung his hands before his face with a cry that. awoke the echoes of the silent place, though it could not awaken the unconscious sleeper lying so white and cold before him, “My God! Iam too late. He has died un- cared for and alone.” Julian Michel was indeed beyond the reach of earthly care. He had been dead nearly ten hours when Walter Greyson discovered the fact. Never more would the poor heart be wrung with fears for his darling’s future. Never again would the sound of her voice, husky with the tears she strove so well to hide, wring that poor breast and call the bitter drops of anguished woe from those wistful, sightless eyes. When the first shock was over and he could bring himseif to face the truth, Walter Greyson looked long and earnestly into the marble face. There was a strange attraction in that face for him. The features were massive, and upon them was stamped a certain grandeur that it puzzled him to givea name to, Julian Michel must have been an uncommonly handsome man in his youth, for every lineament was strangely perfect, and even the ravages of age, poverty and woe had failed to rob him of that singular beauty of face and form. While Greyson gazed lingeringly upon him the glitter of something bright in the hand pressed closely against the pulseless heart caught his eye. He held the candle nearer to the stiffened hand, and saw within the shine of gold. With a feeling of | curiosity for which he could not account he de- termined to discover what the object was that the dead man guarded so jealously. , He laid the candle out of his hand, and drew from between the clenched fingers ofthe dead man a tiny golden locket attached to a black rib- bon. It was a dainty little affair, and turning it over in his hand Walter Greyson saw with a feel- ing of inexpressible wonder that it was studded with diamonds, and on turning it to the light found that the jewels formed the letter L. “Good God! I have seen this before,” he cried, in a hoarse yoice, trembling so violently that the locket fell from his hand upon the boarded floor. It flew open with the force of the fall, and picking it hastily up, he gave it one long, intense glance. It was only a pictured face upon which he gazed, a pair of great, blue, wistful eyes that met his own; but Walter Greyson’s face grew ghastly pale, and throwing himself down upon the bare floor, he sobbed aloud in the anguish of some terrible grief, CHAPTER VIII. A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE, For half an hour Mr, Greyson walked up and down the narrow limits of the death-chamber, with the little jewel-studded locket clinched in his hand. : What memories had the face it held to move him thus? He held it before the light and looked closely at it from time to time as if striving to find something that puzzled him. “ Why should I think it is the same? and yet, and yet, oh, God! I cannot be mistaken! It is her face, I would know it among. thousands, these tender, panting lips, the slender, swan-like throat, the arching brow and saucy, witching eve. Yet how came it bere? If it is the one | gave her, there is a hidden spring somewhere, anda little aperture where she used to keep'a lock of my hair in the old happy days, ere another love grew into her heart.” Murmuring thus, he turned the locket over and over in his hand, searching diligently for the spring he alluded to, But for a long time it baffled all his efforts, and at last he was about to give up the attempt in despair, when something snapped, the hidden aperture was revealed to his aze. . With a hushed, breathless look on his face, he drew from it a little scrap of paper,as fine as a cobweb, written on both sides, in characters so minute that the naked eye could with difficulty decipher them. He could hear the muffled throbbing of his own heart, as, mindless of the silent dead, whose sightless eyes seemed to be fixed upon him, he sat down upon one of the wooden chairs, and spread- ing out under the tallow candle the scrap of pa- per he had obtained so strangely, began to read it carefully, spelling out each finely written word with unwearying patience, It was written in French, and read as follows; “To my dearly beloved husband, Julian Michel, Count De Lorme :-—Julian, on this, the eve of our departure from your native land and the home where our little one was born, and. where we had lived so happy, my mind is filled with strange forbodings. I know we are going out into poverty and exile, but this alone would not daunt me while your love was left me and our child was by our side. “'The terror of separation grows on me hour by hour. My failing health may have something to, do with this unaccountable feeling, but whatever its cause I cannot banish it; and must tell you the thoughts it has awakened, My beloved Julian, you have been a loving and devoted husband, ‘and whatever the future holds in store I will never
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3 MICHEL: ROSE regret my union with you. We are going out.to face | Jay all that was mortal of him whom the sister } home, and nearer still to the residence of his the bitter world almost penniless—we who have | he had loved so dearly cherished above all earthly been reared in luxury—and poverty will be galling | beings. I will not be long with you, | my darling, to share your burden or lighten your ; unawares, and the feeble light entering through We must face the truth boldly or the | the unshuttered windows, aroused him to a full to your proud heart. sorrow. coming parting will be harder to bear. When God calls me from you, my child, ow child, dear Julian, will need all your loving care. [ need not implore you to guard her well and guide her tender feet in the true path, for I know your | heart, my darling; I know that while you live your child will never be neglected, but oh! my love! my love! forgive me for making you face the terrible possibility ; but if you too should sink beneath your load of sorrow, if you should ‘die while she is still unable to provide for herself, what would become of her, my little Rose! my precious child! Julian, the words I am about to write will be as the dying request of her who has loved you long and faithfully. 1 know how proud you are, I know that you would die a hundred ‘deaths rather than apply for help. to any human being; but, for your lit- tle one’s sake, should your summons come ere she has reached the age of womanhood, you must sac- rifice your pride for the happiness of that child. When you fell from yourhigh estate, and lost the immense fortune that had made you careless of my people’s anger, you made me swear, by my love for you, never to réveal my whereabouts to any of them, never to give them an opportunity of exulting in our downfall. I will keep my vow faithfully, totheend. There is but one on earth now, related to me by the tie of blood, my brother, my darling brother, whose dear face lives in my heart. Should my child go to him, orphan- ed and poor, he would love her dearly, for my sake he would rear Ler tenderly as I was reared. And now, my dearest, my proud, noble husband, I would spéak to you, as’ I would on my death- “Send Rose to Walter Greyson, should death call you from ber ere she has reached her twenty- first year. Keep the locket, in which I enclose this, whatever need you may have for the money its sale might bring, give it to Rose when you are dying, let ber present it to Walter, he will re. cognize it, it was his gift, it will be her passport to his heart. “He knows the secret of the hidden spring, he will find therein his sister’s dying words. My darling Julian, God may spare me to you longer than I have dared to hope, it may be years ere these words will meet your eye; but I will never alter them till on my bed of death I place them in your hand. My husband! My love!, the memory of what that hour may bring you has called the hot tears to my eyes, I can scarcely see to sign myself your loving wife, Lavra.” The last words were scarcely legible, being all blotted and tear-stained, but Walter Greyson read them over and over, till every letter seemed graven on his heart. It had been written in Paris, France, and bore the date of ten years previous to the opening of our story. Over and over again, the pale, -haughty-faced man pressed the little missive that had come to him so strangely, to his lips, as if it were the little hand’ that had written it, the little hand now crumbling to dust in the grave; while tears, the first he had shed since his boyhood, rained down his white cheeks. “My beautiful sister, my little sunny-haired Laura, your words have come to me like a voice from the grave, my blue-eyed darling! Heaven must have directed my steps to-night: had I obeyed the first impulse of my heart, 1 would have sent a servant in my place, to relieve the wants of the old man who was only the father of one of my working-girls. My dream is realized; you, my Laura, from your home on high eame.to me in my dreams; the guardian angel who protected the little factory girl was indeed thy sweet spirit, my lost sister. Oh, God! that thy child should have appealed to me in vain; that I should offer charity to one in whose veins thy heart’s blood ran.” ’ He paced the floor again and again, suffering all the agonies of remorse, never once casting his eyes in the direction of the humble cot on which stamped nephew, Henry Barton, when his two feet slipped from under him, and he fell heavily backward on the icy walk, striking his head with terrible force on the granite carriage block before the door of one of the aristocratic dwellings he was passing. sense of his surroundings. For the first time | Early as was the hour, a crowd gathered round him since he had read the contents of the hidden letter, | in a few moments, and one of the by-standers, he glanced toward the death-bed. In an instant | pushing his way through their midst, bent over he was bending over its silent occupant, with one | the fallen man for a moment, then raising a pale, icy hand clasped in his own. | horrified face to theirs, cried out: “So this is all that remains of Julian, Count| “I recognize this gentleman, I am an engineer De Lorme. Would that I had known him sooner. | in his factory, his name is Waltér Greyson; lend I cannot curse the pride that tempered him to! me a hand, kind friends, we will carry him home ; starve rather than ask for charity, for the same | it is not far distant; I fear he is very seriously feeling would have gone to the grave with me, | injured.” had 1 been in his place. Poor heart! poor proud} A dozen hands were ready to give Archie Wal- heart! it must have been bitter indeed, the strug- | lace the assistance he required, and in Jess than gle you have endured, ere you snapped beneath | five minutes Walter Greyson lay bleeding and the eruel strain; it is over now, poor heart, it is | senseless on the bed from which it was doubtful all forgotten.” whether he would ever rise, while Wallace, after For a moment Walter Greyson’s tears feil like | sending a physician to him hurried to the home of rain upon the had that had never met his own in | Henry Barton, to acquaint him with the accident life, the laying it gently back upon the pulseless | that had befallen ‘his uncle. breast, moved slowly from the bedside. As he| Barton lost no time in reaching the home of his did so his eyes fell upon the wooden chair, with | injured relative, where he found everything in its poor, untasted méal—cold tea and dried toast— | confusion ; servants running to and fro, tripping and remembering whose loving hands had placed | each other in their haste to do something for their it there, he turned again toward the silent sleeper. | master, and—as is generally the case’ in & “For her saké, Julian Michel, you shall be | batchelor’s household where there is no mistress buried as becomes the last member of the ancient / to superintend the domestic arrangements—ac- name you bear.” complishing nothing, but making confusion in the Then, with one last look into the dead face, | end. noble despite the poverty of its surroundings,| Barton gave lis orders with an air of one ac- fearless and proud despite its sufferings, he hur-| customed to command, and the house was soon ried from the humble cottage, careless of the} quiet as a tomb. biting cold and piercing winds, unconseious of his| The doctor was with his uncle when he entered own fatigue, and forgetting that the night had| his room, and shook his wise head doubtfully been passed in wakefulness. when asked his opinion, The memories of years that were dead filled| ‘His skull is badly fractured, my dear sir, I heart and brain, he had no thought for the pres-| dare not bid you hope,” he whispered, pressing ent, he was walking in enchanted ground, ptes- | Henry’s hand im silent sympathy. ent and futufe alike forgotten; the past only,| He turned very impatiently, angered by the with its joys and trials, real, terribly real. questioning look in the doctor’s eyes, and drummed The gray dawn of another day stole on him Walter Greyson’s personal attendant, removed his master’s clothing. When the doctor had left the room for a mo- ment, he turned his eyes toward the bed again, just. in time to see something fall from the pocket of the vest thrown across Paul’s arm. Unnoticed by the servant he stooped, and picked it up; it was the tiny locket, with the initial L, in glittering diamonds, set in so skilfully. In an instant he had thrust it out of sight, and was bending over his relative, with many ex- Gaara En Dabereaeee” pressions of anxiety and sorrow. : wane 5 ie The physician entering, found him thus, and “This is the house I seek,” he exclaimed, pull-| thought: “Ihave been mistaken. He is truly ing the bell cord in a hasty, imperious manner. | sorry; and I imagined I saw a look of triumph on His summons was answered quickly by a frowsy- | his face when I told him my opinion of his uncle’s headed servant maid, who manajed with great} case. Well, we are all liable to mistakes some- difficulty to keep her eyes open While she listened | times.” to his message. Henry Barton soon found an excuse for with- “Tell Mr. Black I wish to see him immediately, | drawing from the scene. hand him this card,’ he commanded, and the girl| The factory bell rang, and he was obliged to be shuffled away through the hall, to reappear in a/| at his post. He ordered one of the servants to pre- moment and usher the stranger into the little | pare the carriage, and was soon rolling rapidly parlor, where her master soon joined him. over the road, on his way to the factory. Arrivin For nearly an hour the undertaker was. closeted | there he attended to the business that demand with him, and the eastern sky was crimsoned with | his immediate attention, answered the numerous the light of the rising sun when at last he started | questions relative to his uncle’s state, for the news on his way homeward. of the accident had spread rapidly—calmly as pos- The snow was frozen hard under his feet, and | sible, and a look of hypocritical sorrow on his face; a heavy rain having fallen just before daybreak, | when, as if to be alone with his grief, locked him- had rendered the road extremely difficult for | self in his private office, and threw himself into travel. an easy chair with a sigh of relief. é Unmindful of this he hurried along, with the} ‘‘Now I can examine this pretty trinket at my face of his dead sister's child, as he had seen it| leisure,” he muttered, and taking the lite jeweled last, ever before him. toy from his pocket he examined it closely. At He had thrust the little golden locket, with its | first he was about to throw the scrap of paper sweet pictured face, carelessly in his vest pocket, | that was wrapped around it away as something of with the little missive that had told the story of | no value, but as he was in the act of doing 80 one its original wrapped around it. word caught his eye, the name “ Rose.” Several times, in the dim light of the young| He began to sean the paper eagerly, a look of day, he took it out, looked at it, long and earnest- | rapt attention gathered upon his face as he took ly; studying the words as if they were not in the full meaning of the words written thereon. on his brain, never to be forgotten, till] He was an apt French scholar, and the task was death should blot out the memory of every earthly | no difficult one, although the paper was soiled and joy and sorrow. torn, and age-worn. He was onlya few squares distant from his! When he had mastered its contents he began CHAPTER. IX. MORE TREACHERY. Water Greyson, after leaving the scene of poverty and death, that had_ filled his heart with such a host of contending emotions, walked brisk- ly for over half an hour, until at last he paused before a tall brick house, over the door of which hung a gilded sign, bearing the following : “George H. Brack, idly on the window pane, while the servant, Paul,’ _——_
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ee pacing the floor in his old restless manner, his face working with a thousand contending emo- tions, Overt and over again he read the paper he held 80 tightly in his hand, as his uncle had done a few hours before. _ Now and then a low laugh would issue from his parted lips, a laugh of mingled seorn and triumph, “ Fate seems to favor me,” he muttered at last, “this girl was doomed to cross my path. Walton Greyson would make her his heiress should he recover, and I would be left almost penniless ; Clarice’s fortune has dwindled away, and every cent of my fortune has followed it, both lost at the accursed gambling table ; I have depended on the money that would be mine as my uncle's heir, but now that this new found niece claims his care, I and my child will come to the wall. God above, { would cut her white throat from ear to ear rather than see her in my daughter's place. She shall be removed at once to the cot in the woods; I will make her my wife by fair means or foul, and then he can make her his heiress if he will, The doctor thinks he will die. Bah! I have seen him low enough before to-day, ke will recover, though if my prayers would hasten his end be'would not pass the night that is coming. This, then, is the secret of Rose Michel’s wonder- ful resemblance to the sister of whom he prates continually. I willhave te play my cards well should he:indeed recover, for he would move heav- en and earth to find her, since he knows what claim she-has:upor him.” A knock upon the door of his office interrupted him:and he opened it, after hastily concealing the locket, and the paper that belonged with it. Minnie Deane was the intruder. The. poor gir! had been unable to obtain any information of er injured friend from any other source, and ventured into the presence of the haughty, im- perious man before her, with fear and trembling. “Mr. Barton! please pardon me, but I have slept none during the night, I was se anxious to know ther fate! issbe likely to live? Will I see her again ?” she faltered, dropping her eyes be- fore his: steady gaze. He was about to give her an impatient answer, but something in her face deterred him, and with a sigh that. seemed to come from his. heart, he answered : ‘‘My-girl! I can give you no. hope as yet, your little friend is very low, and only God can. raise her. Go. to your work now, I will let you know when there is any change, I. can.do no more.” Minnie bowed, and left him, just as Harper, his servant and tool, entered the room. “Ah! Harper! I have work for you at once; lock the door, and listen wellto my instruetions,”’ Barton exclaimed, glancing around shim, as if the very walls had ears. ee CHAPTER X. ‘THE DOCTOR'S VISITOR. Harper smiled eipicny, and shot the bolt as he entered the office door, knowing well by the pression of Barton’s face, and the tone of his voice, that the business on which he desired to speak was strictly private. For nearly an hour they conversed in whispers, and when at last they emerged from the factory, Barton turned his face towards his uncle’s residence, while Harper start- ed off at a brisk pace in an entirely different di- rection. In the meanwhile Rose Michel, still utterly un- conscions, lay on the little white bed provided for her in the private hospital to which she had been taken after the accident. Henry Barton had given orders that no expense should be spared, and everything that could be done for her comfort was done in accordance. At first the doctors agreed in the belief that she could never recover, but as the hours wore on, and » despite the lethargy in which her senses were steeped, she breathed more regularly, and a tinge of faintest red crept into the death-like face, they _ changed their verdict, and whispered among them- 4 es ‘The girl will surely live.” The sun was scarce an hour high, when, on the second morning after the accident, a nurse an- ROSE MICHEL, nounced a gentleman in the parlor to see Dr. Walworth, the head physician. He was standing by Rose’s bedside when the message came to him, but le dropped his patient’s hand at once, and descended to the room where the visitor awaited him. “You desired to:speak with Dr. Walworth, I understand, Well, sir, I am at your service, what can I do for you?” the doctor asked in an easy, professional tone, glancing inquiringly in to the visitor’s face, The visitor came forward at sound of hisvoiee, a tall, thin, sallow-faced individual, with bushy red lair and beard, and small ferret eyes, that never left the doctor’s face while he addressed him. He was attired in the finest of black broadcloth, and diamond studs glittered and flashed forth every hue of the rainbow, from his immaculate shirt front. He came toward Doctor Walworth with an ex- pression of sadness‘on his bearded face, and his words were spoken almost in a whisper as he ad- dressed him. “Doctor Walworth, I understand that you are the manager of this hospital, and [ have tlierefore come to you to speak of a patient whom you are attending, a young girl who was caught in the machinery of Greyson’s factory, where she was employed two days ago, She is my brother’s child, and although T have been separated from my family nearly ten years I cannot see one who bears my name lying in an hospital while I have untold wealth and none to share it. I have brought a comfortable traveling carriage to the door, fur- nished with every comfort for a person in her condition, and if you will have her conveyed to it, [ will defray all the expenses she has incurred since placed under your care.”’ Doctor Walworth shook his head while the gen- tleman was talking, and at the conclusion of his speech said decidedly : “My dear sir, I am sorry to refuse your request, but what you ask is simply impossible. The girl you allude to was placed in my care by Mr, Henry Barton, a,member of the firm of Greyson & Co., where she was employed at the time of the acci- dent. He pays all her expenses and I am answer- able to him for her treatment. I am sorry I cannot oblige you, but to accede to your request igsimply out of the question.” The doctor’s visitor turned away his face for a moment to hide the ‘covert sneer that curled his lips, and the doctor continued : ‘Ts there ‘nothing else I can do for you, sir? Do you wish to see your niece ?” “J wish to take her with me from this place, Dr. Walworth; read this, and perhaps you will offer no‘ more objections.” The stranger drew from his pocketia sealed ‘envelope as he spoke and the doetor drew — it a note which read as follows: “Dr. Watwortn; The bearer of this, Pierre Michel, has my permission to remove the girl, Rose Michel, from your protection, whenever it pleases him to do'so, I will not hold myself responsible for any debts contracted by her after the present date. Signed, Henry Bartow.” After reading the above, Dr, Walworth hesi- tated no longer. The stranger placed a coupleof crisp green- backs in his hand, and without further words he gave orders for Rose Michel to be carried down to the traveling coach that stood before the back entrance, The poor girl was weak as an. infant, her great blue wistful eyes wandered over the faces of her attendants with no light of, reason in their pain- dimmed depths, and once or twice a groan of an- guish burst from her pallid lips, as her bandaged limbs were shaken and jarred in carrying her down the winding stairs. When at last they placed her comfortably as possible in the traveling carriage, on the pillows that had been provided for her, she sank into a deep and deathlike swoon, and Dr. Walworth shook his head, as he met her new found rela- it % eyes fixed upon him with an eager inquiring ook, “ A bad sign, a very bad sign, my friend. I fear you have signed her death warrant by removing her in her present- weak state. It would have been wiser to have left her withus’ yet a little longer.” But the stranger did not express much anxiety on the subject; he entered the coach with a careless gesture of farewell, and seated himself in a corner, where he could watch the pallid face opposite him, without moving out of the com- fortable position he occupied. He broke out into a low laugh of triumph when at last the coach rolled away from the hospital gates, and gazing fixedly into the countenance of his silent com- panion murmured : ‘* Dead or alive, it is all the same to me, I have accomplished my mission, | You, ‘at least will ‘tell no tales, and as for him, I have him now in my power, I know the secret he would guard so care- fully, my little lady, | know why he would risk so much for your sake. He must learn ‘to break himself of the habit of speaking aloud,if he would conceal his intentions from so sharp a foe as he has made for himself, by his overbearing demeanor towards me. Pshaw!:how I hate;such transparent villainy. He has not «smartness enough to cover his tracks when he desires to. commit what the world calls crime. I hate him more and more every hour, and when the, time eomes for me to denounce him, and speak the words that will hurl him from the proud position he now occupies, I will be happy, happy'in his downfall, The death of Walter Greyson would destroy all my hopes, but he is improving,'they say, and there is as yet no cause for-fear.” With these words, uttered in. atone of satisfac- tion the soi-distant uncle of Rose Michel. settled himself comfortably in his corner, and) was soon sleeping soundly, while the coach bowled slowly over the lonely country-road, and no word orsign came from the parted lips’ of the poor factory girl, lying so white and still upon thejpillow before him. ee CHAPTER XI. THE ENGINEER. Lost to earth’s pains and its sorrow Lost but to know in that holier sphere The balm that prevails in that pearl-border'’d city The blessings that soothe not waiting ones here; Oh! blessed is the slumber whose silence is dreamless And sweet the awaking that cometh ‘at Jast, Far ‘yond th ' aad te x onl chee cnn : , Early on the evening of the day on which their master was brought home. senseless: and almost dying, Walter Greyson’s servants: sere started from their occupations by the loud: ringing of the door bell. Paul, Mr. Greyson’s personal attendant, was, as it happened, passing through the hall.on his way to his master’s chamber, and paused to open the door. A covered wagon was drawn up before the entrance, from)» which a tallpgrave- faced man sprang lightly, and aceosted:the servant in easy nonchalant tones.: ©: dy “My man! inform your masterithat the:remains have arrived, hand him this card;”» )' » “The remains ! the remains! Reulvepeated in bewilderment, gazing blanklyaapon: the piece of paste-board in his: hand and ing over. and over again, as though he» failed: to: understand them; the words, ‘‘ George H, BlackySextom and Undertaker.” | cl Caen “But! but—Mr. Black, surely. there ,is some mistake here ; my master, Mr. Walter Greyson, is dying we fear, he cannot answer for himself, but I know he expects no such thing as -that/’ Paul exclaimed, with a slight, shudder, and a wave of his hand toward the wagon withits mysterious contents. The undertaker’s reply was interrupted by the appearance of a third party on the seene in, the person of Henry Barton, who had » hastened hither after his protracted interview with. his servant, Harper, in the office of the factory. A sudden pallor overswept his’ dark, impassive face, as he recognized the man who stood upon his uncle’s steps and he staggered like one who had been strock bya sudden blow. Only fora moment did he betray these signs of emotion. Paul watching him with eyes full of distrust and sus- ee saw an unmistakable smile of triumph over for a moment round the full, senstal lips, and under his breath muttered the word “ Hypo-
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e 10 ROSH MICHEL. crite’ when Henry Barton with an air of pretend- ed horror, caught the undertaker’s arm and cried ina husky voice: “My God !| why are you here? he is not dead! My poor uncle !.so soon!” Paul’s muttered, ejaculation reached his. sharp ears, and his pale face flushed hotly. “You are right, Mr. Barton, your. respected relative is not dead, to my knowledge; I am here by his own orders, and |have in my charge the re- mains of an old gentleman who was his friend, I believe. He died in reduced circumstances, and your uncle intended,to have his remains interred with every honor. * I had heard nothing of his own illness, until his servant here informed me of the sad fact. I suppose you. will attend to. the intermentin your uncle’s place, will you not, Mr. 3 Barton?” Quick.as a flash the truth entered Barton’s brain. It was Rose Michel's father, , the new- : found brother-in-law whom his uncle intended to : bury with so much honor. Mentally grinding ‘his teeth with rage, Barton answeted in a tone of affected sincerity : | “Gértainly, certainly, Mrv Black, I will see. that : my uncle's instructions are carried out to the very » letter. Have you full directions for the carrying ooutof!the funeral ?” | \Mr. Black bowed’ in »the affirmative, and the | doors were thrown 6pen to admit the silent guest -o-who never in life had entered, them. | While» poor ‘Rose Michel lay senseless and ut- »terly unconscious of her bereavement, a costly rosewood Casket rested on velvet-covered trestles, dn the darkened parlor of Walter Greyson’s elegant ‘mansion. ” om). ‘@rowds of people attracted by the crape on the +. bell: handle; visited the house, thinking that it was “Walter Greyson himself who had. been called away. Many of them passed. with awe and wonder round the mysterious casket, and glanced curi- ously at the ‘heavy silver plate, upon it simply the words: “ Joutran Miche D’ Orme.” “This was all; no date of birth, or death, but _ simply the name by which he had been known. Henry Barton was in attendance, constantly ho- vering between the parlor and the chamber above, where his uncie lay, still utterly unconscious, but improving slowly, the doctors affirmed. +» Po all,who made inquiries concerning the dead |) man, he gave'the invariable answer: » | “ Monsieur D'Orme was a most intimate friend of my'unele’s. . Hé died ‘suddenly, and in exile, _ aiid my generous and noble-hearted relative wish- o/dd-every respect paid to his’ remains.” .) “Phe answer was vague, and left room for much _»eonjecture, ahd many a curious eye looked long ‘and earnestly into the grand, massive features, 80 strangely handsome in their peaceful repose, de- eo gpite:the! world-weary look that even death could not wholly efface., = 0) vin «| )-But- up to) the hour set! apart forthe funeral mone had’ ized: in| the dead man lying in | state,in Walter Greyson’s! parlor; the late occu- \ pant of the ruinéd cottage om the hillside. » 1° Phe coffin-lid was “about to be scréwed down, when a man, poorer clad than any who had yet ’ Siéwed ‘the corpse, stooped down and gave one “Jong Took into the marble face, and then’ started “back with a suppressed cty of astonishment. ‘une My Godt "tis ther father? What can this mean?” he was heard to utter, ‘turning away © from thé coffin with a look of perfect bewilder- ment on his fair, frank face. “He wis'a than Of “about thirty or thereabouts, ° tall atid broad-shotldeted, with the beauty and : prego ain Apollé-Belvidere, and also the strength m f's Herdutes.’ ) * a ‘ A Henry Baton, glanced at him with asupercilious ily ‘smile, inwat xclaiming : : se Curse this. Archie Wallace ! he is always turn- ng up, when Jeast wanted and least. expected. There is a dangerous look in his eyes, and some- imes T think they threaten me.,, He suspects me, must be on my gua x 6, # ” he. light touch of a hand upon his shoulder apt ula aay {4 as aif Iu a start he recognized the man of whom he had been thinking, Archie Wallace. There was a strange, intense light in the young engineer’s large hazel eyes, and Barton grew uneasy beneath their steady gaze. “Pardon me, Mr. Barton, if I ask an imperti- nent question, but will you tell me how Rose Mi- chel’s father chanced to die here?” There was a tone of command in the deep, rich voice that grated on Barton’s ear, and taking a step backward, he answered haughtily: “Arehie Wallace, what authority have you to employ this tone tome? You are indeed imper- tinent, and I do not recognize your right to ques- tion me.” He turned on his heel as he spoke, and would have walked away, but Wallace’s hand again de- tained him, and the engineer spoke : “Henry Barton, I demand an answer to another question. Here, in the presence of her dead fa- ther, I ask you where have you hidden Rose Mi- chel? I claim aright to the answer—the right of a true man to protect the helpless and inno- cent.” Taken entirely by surprise, the villain’s face grew fairly livid, and he dropped his eyes again beneath Wallace’s intense gaze. In a moment he recovered himself, and at- tempted to hide his discomfiture under a mask of scornful bravado: “Upon my word your assurance surpasses any- thing I have ever met. You come to me to find out where; your sweetheart was, did you? Well, in pity for the weakness which has rendered you unaccountable for your actions, I will inform you that. to the best of my knowledge she is in the Lowell Hospital, where you may visit her in proper hours. At.some other time and place I will hold a conversation with you.” He tried to look easy and unconcerned, but his restless, shifting eyes, and pallid face, gave the lie to his manner. Wallace was not in the least deceived. He had visited the hospital, and knew that Rose was no longer within its walls; he remembered Barton’s ‘words, “the cot in the woods will be ready for its occupant,” and knew that they boded ill to sweet Rose Michel. His first impulse was to let Barton know how much he suspected, but on second thought he knew that this would not be the wisest course—it must be diamond cut diamond between them; he must use strategy for strategy. He raised his head quickly, and looking straight into Barton’s face, said in a low, significant. tone: “Perhaps I haye been mistaken, Mr. Barton, but the poor girl has been removed from the insti- tution, and I thought you would be the one most likely to know of her whereabouts, I am_ sorry if I have offended you; good-day.” He bowed with the grace of a courtier rather than the rude action of a workingman, and pass- ed down the stoop of the mansion just as the casket was borne down tothe black-plumed hearse in waiting. _ . Archie Wallace strode away in an opposite direc- tion with a strangely perplexed look on his face, and his heart in a whirl of conflicting emotions. “JT will lose my place by it, but thanks to my tigid rules of economy, I have a few dollars Jaid aside for a rainy day, and will not let the fear of los- ing employtient deter me from the mission upon which I have set my heart. I must rescue Rose Michel from that villain’s® power. She is 80 ut- terly destitute and friendless, T must find her hiding place—and then—and then—oh, my darl- ing, my sweet white rose! my little innocent Rose! I may dare to offer you the shelter of my poor home, and the love of'a heart that has known no other image, that has known no other love, She was so beautiful, so far above her sta- tion, T dared not offer her my home’s poor shelter, but now, when ill, dying perhaps, in the power of a libertine, friendless, homeless, penniless, I find her, I will hesitate no longer. My darling, my little broken-winged birdie.” —_———_—_— CHAPTER XIL THE COT IN THE WOODS. and looking up with}. Sirvaren in the heart of a dense woodland, al- most hidden by the giant trees that overshadowed it and swept its roof with its leafless branches, stood the little cottage of which Henry Barton was'the owner. There was not another habita- ‘| tion within a mile’s distance, and a more solitary, dreary-looking spot could not have been found in the state. The cottage had originally been erected by 4 gentleman whose wife was insane, and within its gloomy walls the unfortunate lady had spent the last days of her wretched life What had possessed Henry Barton to purchase it, he could not himself have explained, for he had not visited the place in years. Obedient to his orders, his servant Harper had fitted up two upper rooms in an incredibly short space of time. The floors were neatly carpeted, the furniture plain, but of rich material, and a couple of canary birds hung in gilded cages in the windows. . A tall, slender-built woman, whose ruddy cheeks and sprightly-air belied her ripe old age, was flit- ting restiessly from room to room, on the day. of which we write. Every few moments she would stand outside the low hall door, shading her eyes with her hand, as if to protect them from the/sunlight that never penetrated the dense foliage that shadowed her home. All at once the sound of carriage wheels was heard winding a tortuous way through the dried leaves, and the woman’s face lit up with a look of eager expectancy, while she smoothed her calico apron, and arranged ber snowy kerchief. The carriage drew nearer and nearer, and at last stopped before her door. She ran down the nar- row clearing, and welcomed with open arms the individual who alighted from it, the very same person who had introduced himself at the Lowell hospital as Rose Michel’s uncle. 1 He kissed the woman tenderly, and drew off his false red wig and beard, as with herelinging arms clasped close about him she whispered : “Take off that nasty disguise, my boy; you have no need to fear discovery here.” Harper—for it was he—threw the false articles mentioned into his mother’s lap, and lifting from the lumbering traveling carriage the inanimate form of Rose Michel, bore it into the room so lately prepared for her reception. His mother followed, and with her he left the suffering girl while he sauntered back into the littlé kitchen on the ground floor through which they were obliged to pass in order to reach ‘the bedrooms. Rose had not as ‘yet recovered consciousness ; gke Had received such a sudden shock that her whole system suffered from its effects, and when the woman left her she lay back upon the little snow- White bed, white as thé clothing that sur- rounded her sweet-pale face. The woman joined her son on the lower floor, and left Rose to sleep off her fatigue. The carriage ‘was immediately dismissed, and Harper and. his mother found themselves, alone. They conversed together for hours, in whispers, as if fearful that ‘the very trees, moaning and shrieking in the windy blast outside the narrow windows would harken to their words. ? A At last. the,son arose to go, and not all the woman’s persuasions could induce him to remain a moment longer. Donning his heavy great. coat and his red wig and whiskers he bade. her a hasty farewell, pausing at the door to whisper in her ear: “Remember, mother, you are to guard her well. Were she to escape she would, surely betray us, Think of the wealth that may be ours in the fu- ture, and keep up a brave heart.” , Then, with a hasty kiss upon her lips, he hur- ried away, and she was alone in the cottage- alone, save for the girl who lay so still and white in the pretty white-draped chamber above. When her son’s tall form had disappeared frons view she ascended the narrow staircase once more, and in a few moments stood by Rose’s bedside. In the short time that had elapsed since she saw her, a visible change had taken place. The breath. ing now was plainly audible, and the faintess tinge of pink had crept into the pallid cheeks, x3
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- “This girl will live—poor little wretch! she had better die a thousand deaths than live for the fate that will be hers,”’ she muttered, and as if in answer to her words, Rose opened her great blue eyes slowly and looked into her face. Something in the expression of the azure orbs seemed to touch the woman’s heart; for one brief second she held the girl’s wasted hand tightly in her own, and bending over her, whispered : “ Poor child, poor little one, what can I do for you 2”? f “Water,” the pale lips faltered, and hastily fill- ing a.glass from the water pitcher Mrs. Harper held it to her lips. She drank thirstily, and the draught seemed to revive her, for the deep blue eyes sought the woman’s face imploringly, as if she would fain look the question she was too weak to utter. Mrs. Harper shunned, the piteous gaze and busied herself about the room, more moved than she would have confessed to herself by the inno- cent. beauty of the little faetory girl. She left the apartments presently, to return with some nourishing beef tea in about half an hour’s time... . . Rose was still awake, and although she was weak as an infant, Mrs. Harper fed her with the tea, and laid her back upon her pillow, much re- freshed. She fell into a deep sleep after this scanty meal, and awakened fully conscious. ,, The. woman who was her servant and_ jailer sat _ beside her dozing, and Rose’s feeble voice startled her so that.she sprang from, her, chair in, alarm, forgetting for the moment that she was not alone. “Where am I? My father! Oh, where is he?” the poor child faltered, trying to raise her- self on her pillow, but falling back with a cry of pain, as the action disturbed her bruised and swollen feet. “ Hush, child! You must not attempt to speak or move. You are safe, no harm shall befall you; you have’been injured and the least exertion may prove fatal.” Rose seemed scarcely to understand the wo- than’s words. She looked around her vaguely, taking in every object. by which she was surrounded, and trying “to collect her scattered thoughts. At last a full realization of the truth seemed to dawn upon her. She remembered her interview with Henry Barton. Her sudden weakness, and “Minnie Deane’s warning cry; after that all was a blank, until she awakened in the’ room around which she gazed so wonderingly. “To whom does this house belong? Oh, mad- am, dear madam, do not keep me in suspense. My poor blind father, my dying father is all alone “at home, and I have been injured, caught in the wheel. Who has attended him? how long have T been ill?” The woman seemed at a loss for words to * answer her eager questions. The girl was fearfully excited. She had sprang _ up in the bed, never heeding the fierce throbbing _ pain that shot.through every fiber of her being. ‘She was white as the snow-drifts on the bare hillside near her far away home, and her great blue eyes sought the woman’s face with such a ' piteous, appealing gaze that a heart of stone might have pitied her, ‘Mrs. Harper paced the floer two or three times, debating the answer it was best to. ive her. At last she formed a resolution. .. “Poor. child,” she, murmured. “Tis best she know the worst at once, if it kill her, I will not be _ blamed, and it will be better so. Burton knows I have been a sick nurse all my life, it is to my in- _ terest to serve him well. . He will not doubt that I have done so, and I will not lose my reward; poor little one! poor, innocent! I would rather see you dead than resign you to him.” With these thoughts in her heart, Mrs. Harper approached Rose, and taking the girl’s fragile form . whey breast, turned away her eyes while she re- plied: "... “Little girl, your poor father is dead; your em- loyer, Mr. Greyson, attends to his burial, and Mr, arton, in whose house you are at present, will provide for your. wants in the future.” ; 4): For a moment the girl did not seem to realize the. full meaning of the words, then a cry broke ROSE MICHEL. Bt ck from her and she sank back, like one dead, upon the feather pillow, and Mrs. Harper, placing her hand upon the tortured heart, felt no motion there. CHAPTER XIII SHADOWED, Tux funeral of Julian Michel was largely attend- ed, notwithstanding the fact that he was unknown to any of the fashionable circle who had followed him to the grave. He was the wealthy Walter Greyson’s friend, and that was passport enough to general favor. Henry Barton attended as chief-mourner, and al- though he had never met the deceased in, life, carried a grave face and _a silent, subdued. man- ner. His uncle was improving, the doctors had affirm- ed, when he left his bedside that afternoon, and in his heart he cursed them for the unwelcome tid- ings. AE: his absence the two head physicians held a consultation in the library, and on his return from | & the cemetery they met him, with grave faces and ominous looks, and taking him aside informed him, with many attempts at consolation, that his re- spected and highly honored uncle could not possi- bly recover his reason: Health and strength might be restored to. him, he would. never be violently insane, but his brain was crushed in, and they could not fully restore his mind. A gleam of exultation lit up thé: dark face of Barton, and his heart beat high with hope. Walter Greyson had made a will six months be- fore, in his favor, and even should he recover sufficiently to dictate another in favor of Rose Michel, it would not. be legal since -he had been pronounced unsound of mind. He listened to the doctors’ verdict with many expressions of regret and sorrow, for he had no idea of throwing off his mask before them. He left them, with grave paie face, and stole quietly to his uncle’s bedside. The old man lay back upon his pillow, white as the snowy linen about him. His eyes were open, and when Henry bent over him he looked up into his face and smiled. Such a sad smile, and there was no gleam of recognition in the great mournful eyes. He had loved and cared for this nephew all his life, he had given him a college education when his parents died and left him almost penniless. Hehad taken him inte the firm of Greyson & Co., and taught him to be- lieve himself his heir. He had been more than a father to him, for over twenty years, and yet—so ungrateful is the human heart—there was not one feeling of pity in Henry Barton’s heart, as he bent over his suffering uncle and gazed fixedly into the pain-dimmed eyes. “ He does not even know me, and yet heis fully conscious. I need not now fear his recovery. Ah! Uncle Greyson, you will not now have power to rob me and my child of the fortune to which you have taught me to look forward on your death; that. was a lucky, fall for me; you would have changed your will, and made Rose Michel your, heiress, and left my pretty Claire almost.a beggar. Providence seems to favor me, Rose is in my power. She shall be. mine, for marriage with her will make me doubly safe, even should you recover then, your new found heiress would be my wife, her fortune mine. Ha! I hold the winning card, in either case I am safe, safe, safe.” “Oh, yes, sir, quite safe,” repeated. a quiet voice at his elbow, and looking up with a startled cry, he caught the eyes of the servant Paul fixed upon him intently, Springing to his feet, he caught the fellow by the throat, and demanded in a hoarse voice : “Tool! what have I said? what have you heard? when did you enter the room? and how dare you creep up behind me like a snake, you black rascal?” Paul shook himself free from Barton's grasp, and standing atthe foot of the bed laughed softly as he answered : . “ Hard names! Mr. Barton, rough treatment for a small offense; I came softly into the room to give my master his medicine at the usual hour, You were, standing over him rejoicing that his life is safe, I presumed, and because I made a re- mark to that effect you almost strangled me.” He spoke calmly, tappiig with a spoon on the tiny vial he held inhis hand, and smiling good humoredly. Barton was white with passion. He had al- ways hated Paul, knowing instinetively that be suspected him, and this was the time to finish him. He laughed, as he pointed to the silent oc- cupant of the bed near which both were standing, and exclaimed triumphantly: ““He is now, and always will be hereafter, in- capable of managing his own affairs. As _ his heir, and next of kin, Iam master here. And my first act of authority will be to give you your dismissal.. I will order the housekeeper to pay you your wages and you will oblige me by going at once.” ' Again. Paul laughed softly, and answered with the same provoking calmness: “Tam sorry that your first act of authority should be disobeyed, Mr. Barton, but I will not ad Had a bombshell exploded at Henry Barton’s feet he could not have been more startled. This open act of rebellion fairly amazed him. He looked into Paul’s face, his lips opened to speak again, and for- a moment their eyes met. The words he would have uttered died on his lips, his face paled, and turning on his heel he strode out of the room, leaving Paul alone with his master. The wintry moon shone full upon his face as he descended the. broad stone steps of his uncle’s mansion, revealing his features to the man who for the last hour had lingered near the house, with his coat buttoned close up to his chin, and his hat drawn dewn over his eyes. He was on the opposite side of the street when Barton emerged from the house, and he uttered a sigh of relief. “ At Jast, at last, I begun to fear my watching had been. in vain, now for a chase, my boy!” he muttered, with a smile on his lips, and the light of excitement in his hazel eyes. Unconscious that he was being followed, Bar- ton walked along briskly, his face White as death, and his dark eyes flashing fire. He was meditat- ing on the recent scene with Paul in his uncle’s chamber. The look in the servant’s eyes told him plainly as words could have done, that his muttered so- liloguy had been overheard by him, “Curses on.my infernal habit of speaking my thoughts aloud, it is constantly getting me into trouble. That fellow heard me speaking of Rose Michel, lucky for me that I did not mention her hiding place. He hates me bitterly, I know, he would scruple at nothing that might injure me, and yet—and yet, I do not see why I need fear him, My uncle’s insanity removes every cause of alarm! Paul may do his worst, he cannot harm me, ence Rose Michel is my wife.” With these thoughts running through his brain he continued his rapid walk, pausing once, and looking around him as if in search of something, then starting ahead again, exclaimed again aloud : “The distance is great, but the walk will do me good, it might not be safe to take a carriage there.” The man who had been following him was only a few feet distant from him now, keeping well in the shadow of the house, and as yet) unnoticed by Barton. He heard the last words and smiled gleefully. He was on the right track at last. On, on; through the moonlit. streets they hur- ried, the pursuer and the pursued, turning at last de into a lonely country road—“ The Boston Road.” Here the pursuer was obliged to walk far behind, for his footsteps made a sound on the frozen crust of the snow, and he had no desire ‘to be perceived by the man he was following so persistently. At last their steps led them into the midst of a dense wood, where no ray of moonlight could dis- sipate the heavy darkness. Icicles hung from the bare boughs of the trees, and in some places the snow had drifted in piles higher than their heads. “This is a cursed hole, and I have almost for- | gotten in which direction the cottage lies. Fool
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Is ROSE MICHEL, oT sss that I was not to bring Harper with me!” ex- claimed Barton, in a tone too low to reach the ears of the man who was now obliged to keep far in the rear, For half an hour he continued his toilsome way through the woods, a cry of exultation breaking from his lips at last as a gleam of light shining from a cottage-window straight ahead of him gladdened his sight. “At last! ha! ha! my dainty miss, you will give me a different answer to-night; if I mistake not, your pride has fallen considerably since last we met.” . He was knocking at. the cottage door while he meditited thus, and his face was bland and smiling when Mrs, Harper opened it to him, A cheery fire burned in the little kitchen into which the door opened, and standing before this, warming his numb hands he inquired anxiously : “How is our patient, Mrs, Harper, I have sent -no_ physician, trusting her entirely to your care, confident that your skill would be sufficient, Give an acceunt of yourself why are you silent ?” There was. a ring of fear in his voice, as he caught the woman’s arm, and looked for his an- ewer in her face. CHAPTER XIV. AT THE WINDOW. THe woman hesitated long before answering. She pitied the girl lying so ill and helpless under her roof, and could not bear to think of consign- ing her to the arms of a villain whose object was her rain, she ‘thought, and yet—he was her mas- ter, and shé liad no help for it. She shook off his hand from her arm with a visible shudder, and standing a few paces away from him an- swered : “Mr. Barton, [ have done everything in my power to relieve the poor child, and she is im- proving rapidly. Her first words when she came to herself was an inquiry for her father. My son had told me that he was dead, and I thought it best to let her know the truth at once. I told her all, even that she was under your roof. She sank into'a death-like swoon, so protracted that I feared she Would never again awaken. But I was mis- taken, she came to herself like one awakening from a long sleep, looked around her vaguely for a mément, then, with a moan and a shudder, turned her face to the wall like a tired child, and has Jain so éver since without uttering a word, She does riot sleep, for I see her Hands twining themselves round each other constantly, never Still, never at rest. Oh, Mr. Barton! she is so young, so child-like, so helpless, I connot help but pity er,” arton frowned darkly. “Have a care, my good woman, that your pity does not interfere with your duty to me; you have long had a comfortable home here, rent free; you might not like to find yourself deprived of it. The girl above is scarcely in a position to recompense you fur the sacrifice you would be obliged to niake to setve her.” The woman's eyes flashed, but she answered in a conciliating tone: “My.’Barton, I have no intention of disobey- ing your orders; I am very grateful to you for what you have done for my son and myself, and nothing I can do to serve you will be too much to pay the debt I owe you, Do you wish to see the ge 2’ She curtsied low, with her hand upon the oor-knob as she spoke, and Barton forgot his fears. “You may go up stairs and prepare her for my visit: 1 will follow you shortly.” He replied, and Mrs. Harper hurried away on her errand, while he paced the narrow limits of the little kitchen impatiently. Villain as he was, he dreaded the meeting with the innocent girl whom lie had wronged. He remembered the look that had been in her pure blue eyes when she raised them unquailingly to his own, and again he heard the sweet, clear young voice Tinging in his ears as it had rang when she stood like a young empress before him, and told him unflatteringly that, ‘Snot to save a ‘hundred lives would she be his wife.” Then he had had no intention of wedding her, now it was to his interest to do so, but he would torture her first, as he had sworn to do, until she would sue for the place she had scorned, "Twould be a sweet revenge, the coward thought, it would humble her haughty spirit, it would break her proud heart, and he would have satisfaction for all the slights she had put upon him, when she crept to the shelter of his arms, begging him to shelter her from the world’s bitter scorn. With such dastard thoughts as these in his heart he started to ascend the narrow stairs that led to the door of the room in which Rose was confined. Mrs. Harper had found her sitting up in the bed, and looking much better than when she had left her. Her sweet young face was wofully changed; pale always, it was death-like now. The vivid blue eyes were dry and tearless, feverishly, ach- ingly dry, and the sweet, tender mouth dropped piteously. She looked up as Mrs. Harper opened the door, but did not speak. “My dear you are much better, I see; let me bathe your face and put this warm wrapper on you, and help you over to the window; you will feel much better then, and besides, you are going to have a visitor.” “A visitor!’ Rose exclaimed, speaking for the first time and looking up with an expression of absolute horror on her pale face. ‘A visitor for me? Oh, madam, do not leave me. You have told me I aminhis house, in his power; for the love of Heaven do not bring liim in my presence —olhi, dear madam ! dear madam ! I shall surely die if you leave me with him—weak, lame, ill, and in his power, obliged to listen to him, unable to fly from him—God above! what shall I do, madam ? Are you a woman? Have you a woman’s heart ii your breast? Can you stand calmly by and look unpityingly on the agony of a helpless orphan girl who has never injured you ?” Rose had flung herself out of the bed, upon her knees at the woman’s feet, her sweet young face upturned, white with a nameless hortor, the wav- ing golden hair falling back from it and sweeping the ground, and the small, white, wasted hands clinging to her garments. She pitied the young creature as she never pit- ied living mortal, yet gold had been her idol all her life, and knowing that both her son and her- self owed everything to Henry Barton she dared not risk his anger; this she explained in a voice she in vain tried to control. She threw the heavy merino drawing-robe she had taken from a ward- robe over the girl’s head, and raising her from the ground fastened it on her as one would dress a child, while she said: “Nonsense, girl! Mr. Barton will not harm you; he is your friend, he will not take advantage of your helplessness, you must try to control your- self, and meet him calmly. Why should you fear him ?”’ Rose listened to her poor attempts at consola- tion in silenee. She had grown strangely calm; fallen into the} apathy of utter despair, and made no effort to de- ter Mrs. Harper when she began to brush and ar- range her bedutiful bright hair, but sat like a statue, 86 white and cold, and motionless. Only the eyes moved, the blue, vividy restless eyes, roamed round the room, like a bird in a cage seek- ing for some means of escape. Sometimes tliey were raised heavenward, but there was tio look of devotion in their shadowy depths, for wild, rebellious thoughts were in her heart. All her life she had been tanght to look up to God in the hour of trial, she lad prayed to this always, she had never Jost faith, and what was her reward? All her dear ones were taken from her, she was left alone, helpless and penniless, in the power of ler enemy—how had her prayer been answered ? This was the question she asked herself over and over again to-night, in very bitterness of soul, but thoughts so wicked and unjust could not long find a home in a heart so gentle as hers, and ere long a cry broke from her quivering lips : “Father, forgive me, I have been so sorely tried, so sorely tempted.” A great sob broke from her anguished heart, and dropping her golden head upon her breast, she rae ree “ —_ burst into a passion of sobs and tears, the first she had shed since she received the intelligence of her father’s death. “Poor child! poor child! Weep on; these tears may relieve your poor heart, and save your brain from madness. Do not check them,” whis- pered Mrs. Harper, a suspicious moisture in her own eyes, asshe held the girl’s slender form in her arms, inwardly praying that Barton might stay below yet a little longer. Rose was very weak, and she was obliged to bathe her forehead with cold water to keep her from swooning. Thesound of heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs aroused her from her semi-stu- por; Mrs. Harper put her gently from her arms and arose from her bedside, saying: ‘My child, I must leave you for a few moments, Mr. Barton is coming, have no fear; he will not harm you; I will be within call should you need me. Be brave; again I tell you there is no cause for alarm.” “Heiscoming? Henry Barton is coming!” In a voice hoarse with terror Rose repeated the words, then with a cry that rang out loud and clear and thrilling, awakening the echoes in the si- lent woods, she sprang to her feet, regardless of their swollen condition, and ere Mrs. Harper could realize her intention, darted to the window and oe Yh open. , “ Better death than the fate to which he dooms me! Thus will I end it!” she cried, flinging her- self forward—but just too late. Harper’s two hands had clutched her garments as her body was already half out, and in a second Barton had burst into the room and drew her back. CHAPTER XV. “ wing,” Of all the words where thrilling sound Strike through the spirit’s depth profound With echoes far and fine, What carries more of heavenly bliss What more of deadly sin than this, This one word—mine? P Roser’s cry, loud, thrilling and replete with ex- quisite pain penetrated to other ears than those of him who caused her woe. The man who had shadowed Henry Barton’s footsteps all the way from his uncle’s residence to this obscure spot, had with difficulty made his way to the lonely cot in the woods, stumbling often, and falling over the ice-clad broken tree boughs that obstructed his path. He had just reached the door of the strange domicile when the girl’s scream awoke the echoes of the silent place, Guided by the sound he dashed open the door, and sprang up the narrow flight of stairs and into the room from where it proceeded, Barton had caught Rose back from her perilous position and was straining her to his breast despite her strug- gles, while Mrs. Harper, trembling with nervous terror and excitement, had adjourned to the inner apartment. “Ah, my pretty bird! what folly to beat your wings against your prison bars. Struggle as you will, there is none near to help you. Cry until your voice fails you, there is none near to hear; you cannot fight with fate, you are helpless, powerless to avert your destiny. Hate, scorn, de- spise me if you will, you are none the less mine! mine—do you hear, girl? Mine to do with as I will—— “Liar! coward! dastard! She is not yours! release her this instant from your arms, or by the God above I will send a bullet through your cra- ven heart!” Barton started, and his face turned white and rigid as if the leaden messenger had indeed speed- ed its way into his breast, as the words of the stranger who had tracked him here, rung loud and clear through the apartment. “Wallace!” he ejaculated faintly, and ere he had time to drop his arms from about the girl he was flung to the other end of the apartment, and Rose Michel lay panting like a wounded hare on the breast of Archie Wallace. { The violence with which he had dashed Barton — against the opposite wall almost’ deprived him of breath, and, his head having come’ in contact with | the wall, he lay stunned and almost senseless, :
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ROSE MICHEL. 18 .. “Take me away while there is time,” gasped Rose, clinging in terror to the arm of her pre- server, oe looking up into his face with a glance of wild appealing pain. Mrs. Harper had not made her appearance, al- though through the half-opened door she had seen ang heard all. She was afraid of being implicated in Barton’s crime, and thought it best to keep out of sight, and bpsides she was secretly glad that Rose had found a friend. In answer to Rose’s appeal Wallace replied, looking down in infinite pity at the little bandaged feet, stained now with the blood that had oozed through the white linen wrappings : _ “My poor girl! You are in the heart of a lonely wood, there is a mile or two between us and the nearest habitation, do you think you will be equal to the journey ?” She followed the direction of his glance, and the look of pain deepened in her limpid, violet eyes, but she strove hard to repress the moan that fose to her lips as she took a few steps toward the door, saying, in a voice she in vain endeavored to control: ‘““Yes, yes! the pain; indeed [ can. éee, lie is stirring.” The words ended in a stifled sob, and Wallace, eatching up a heavy shawl, wrapped it closely about her fragile, tottering figure, and raised her in his arms easily, a3 he would have lifted an in- fant, and bore her down stairs, The night was bitterly cold, the wind whistled through the leafless trees like mortals in direst agony ; but the moon shone brightly in the heav- ens, and helped to guide Archie Wallace with his burden through the darkness of the woods. His feet were nomb and aching with the cold, he was weary with his long walk, and having eat- en nothing for twelve hours, was beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, and yet—and yet he was happy; the girl in his arms was dear as his own life to him. © He couldlook down into her sweet blue eyes, beautifulas the wintry stars throbbing im the durk skies. He could feel the soft touch of her silken gold-bright hair, wind-tossed against his cheek, and the rapid throbbing of her heart against his own. She had appealed to him to take her from the power of her enemy, she made no attempt to withdraw herself from his arms, but lay weak as an infant on his breast. “My poor little darling, perhaps, perhaps—but no, I must not cherish the mad thought, it would be too great a happiness.” And Archie Wallace, who would have given his life to win this girl’s love, would not allow even his thoughts to dwell on the dim unuttered hope that had crept into his heart. Two or three times Rose begged him to let her walk; but he only an- swered softly: ‘No, Miss Michel, you are far too weak and ill; we are getting along quite nicely now, the wood is far less dense, and we can see our way better. At last the glimmer of a light straight ahead of them called an exclamation of delight from his lips. me Thank God, there is a house at last. I will appeal to the occupant for a night’s lodging for you, to-morrow I can obtain some conveyance to remove you te your own home.” “My own home!’’ the girl repeated dreamily. ‘My God! where is my home? The cottage on the bare hillside is empty; I can no longer call it by that name. Oh, father! darling father! they have hidden you from my sight forever. How you must have eried for your little girl, when you were going out of the world, alone in the night, and leaving her behind, called upon her vainly, when her ears were deaf to your piteous cries. Oh, my father! my only one! now indeed is your Rose alone in the wide, wide world.” The ery seemed wrung from the poor girl’s bleeding heart by a power she could not control, She shivered like a leaf in the strong arms that éncircled her, and passionate sobs racked her slender frame. Involuntarily Wallace pressed her closer to his heart and bent his face until his lips touched the olden vings of hair upon her. forehead, while in a voice that trembled with emotion, he replied: See how strong I am, I can endure Oh, please, come quickly ! “ Not alone, dear child, while..Archie Wallace has life in his body and strength in his arm; if you trust me, little one, no cherished sister could be more dear than you will be to me. Your pres- ence will brighten my humble home, and bring a ray of sunshine into my poor old mother’s lonely life. She lost a daughter, young and fair like you, only two years ago, and for her blue-eyed Jessie’s sake, she will love you, little Rose.” He lingered long over the utterance of the sweet name, and his deep, sweet voice trembled with the passionate love he was too loyal to whis- per in such an hour as this. They had reached the house from which the light proceeded by this time, and Rose insisted on being placed upon her feet, declaring she was much stronger and better. It was a poor-looking hovel before which they stood, but it would afford a shelter until he could provide a better one for the sufferer, and with a wildly beating heart he knocked upon the paint- less door. A night-capped head was quickly thrust from one of the shutterless windows, and a cracked voice called out: “Who's there ? the night ?” “A night’s shelter. We—my sister and I— have been lost in the woods. TI will pay you well if you will give her a bed, however humble; I will sleep in the barn until morning,” The night-cap had disappeared, and in a mo- ment a tall, sallow-faced old woman, white haired and feeble, opened the door, carrying a lighted candle in her hand. She peered curiously and half suspiciously out into the faces of the midnight visitors; then, as her eyes fell upon the white, sweet face of Rose, she opened the door wider, and motioned them to enter, saying in the cracked, feeble voice of age: **Madge Wild’s ear was never yet deaf to the call of charity and distress. You are welcome to the poor shelter her roof affords, My old man has been bed-ridden for nearly three years, and it must be a heart lost to all human feeling that would willingly harm or injure us in return for our hospitality, I will trust you both. This poor child is weak and ill, I fear; let her come to the fire. I will make her a shake-down before it. You say you are her brother, sir; I will not doubt your words; her face is innocent and pure. God grant you be not deceiving me.” With these words the old woman motioned the wanderers toward a cheery fire and placed a chair for Rose, not noticing her bleeding, bandaged feet. Archie Wallace’s fine face flushed hotly ; he had spoken of Rose as his sister on the impulse of the moment, and the old woman’s unconscious rebuke wrung his heart to such an extent that he was on the point of revealing to her the whole pitiful story of Rose’s wrongs, but on second thought he reflected that the romantic story would scarcely find credence with the practical old lady, and held his peace. What's wanted at this hour o’ CHAPTER XVI, BARTON MAKES ANOTHER ENEMY. Wuewn Henry Barton came to himself, after the shock Wallace’s strong right arm had given him, Mrs, Harper was bending over him, bathing his brow with cold water and chaffing his limp hands. As a realization of his position dawned upon him, after the first moment of bewildered uncertainty, he sprang to his feet with a strength born of rage, and grasping the woman’s arm, cried in a hoarse whisper : “Fool! why are you wasting your time with me? Where is the girl I entrusted to your care? Woe betide you if you have let her make good her escape !” Something like a smile curved the woman’s thin, compresseil lips, and her eyes wore a look of utter contempt and scorn as she replied: “Mr. Barton, what would my woman’s strength have availed against that of the man who flung you from his path as easily as you would have crushed a worm beneath your heel.” The words stung him, no less than the tone in which they were uttered, and mad with baffled aon rage, he forgot his manhood, and with one sweep of his strong arm stretched her prostrate at his feet, hissing between his clenched teeth: “Woman! you have betrayed me! take that as your reward !” The air of the house seemed to stifle him, and despite the lateness of the hour and the bitter cold, he hurried away from it, muttering aloud, as was his invariable custom when excited or angry. “ Curses on that infernal engineer—he is gifted with the strength of a Samson. Heavens! how my poor head reels, my brain seems to be on fire. Am I to brook so mean a rival as this pauper Wallace? By the God above! never! I will yet have that girl in my power, if to do it I am compelled to sacrifice the lives of those who stand between us. Let Archie Wallace do his worst, I do not fear him; my uncle is incapable of judging me now, and I have no cause for apprehension. Every obstacle placed in my path makes me onl the more determined to possess that for which i would give ten years of my life—the hand of Rose Michel, the little factory girl. When I have ac- complished my end—then, my haughty beauty, you shall shed tears of blood for every moment's trouble you have given me; you will carry your head a trifle less high, I imagine, and your blue eyes will scarcely look into my own with such dauntless defiance.” Barton was hurrying along with all the speed of which he was capable, considering the slippery roads, in the direction of Lowell, His head ached and throbbed with a fieree pain, and a blinding mist was before his eyes, but he was scarcely conscious of his own suffering, so intent was his heart on the ruin of the poor orphan girl. Reaching his home at last he let himself in with a latch-key, and crept noiselessly up the stairs to his own chamber, but although he retired to bed he could not sleep, weary and exhausted as he was; toward morning he fell into a doze, only to start up with drops of cold perspiration lying like beads on his forehead, and his limbs shaking as with a palsy. “God, what horrible dreams! and a demon hold- ing me back from saving her. My darling, my precious, what harm can come to you while your father lives ?” He spoke in a voice of passionate eagerness, as if trying to assure himself that his child was in no danger, but there was a strange white shadow over his dark face, and a look of terror in the restless, brilliant eyes. He filled a glass with brandy from the decanter on his dressing-table and drank it eagerly, then rang for his servant. Harper made his appearance in a moment, eye- ing his master furtively from under his drooped lids, as he inquired, in a low, guarded voice: “Well, sir, did you find everything arranged ac- cording to your directions? Is the lady getting along nicely under my mother’s care?” “ Curses on your mother and the lady, as you are pleased to call her. She has escaped me again, the jade. Your mother pitied her, and I am half-inclined to believe aided in her eseape. You need not glare at me so wildly—I doubt even your fidelity. Archie Wallace, the man who is employed as engineer in our factory, dogged my footsteps to-night and snatched my prize from out my very arms; who set him on my track? Vil- lain, traitor, I have long suspected you of playing a double game. Fool, you may do your worst, [ openly defy you to injure me. I would have given you my last dollar rather than have had you betray me to my uncle three days ago; but now, now, Jasper Harper, go to him with your trumped-up tales if you will. Ha, ha, ha, he will give you lit- tle heed, I warrant.” The fumes of the liquor he had drank fired his brain, and he seemed half beside himself with rage. ‘Harper gazed into his face in utter «m~72ment, He had often seen his master in a passion before to-day, but this open defiance literally petrified him. He had heard of Walter Greyson’s .infortu- nate accident, but never for a moment relized that this would interfere with the treacherous plans he had formed for Henry Barton’s ruin; in his heart he knew that Greyson was the only living i ED
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4 ROSE MICHEL. ee aE eS being Barton feared or dreaded, and could well understand the cause of his triumphant laughter. The man’s face grew fairly livid with baffled rage and despair, and his small, cunning eyes emitted a greenish light, and shaking his fist under Barton’s very nose, he hissed out between his clenched teeth the words : “You defy me, do you, Henry Barton? Wait, wait, and we will see who wins in the battle that from this hour will wage between us. I leave your employ to-night—I do not care to give you a chance to discharge me, but remember the hour is not far distant when I shall have my triumph. It is your turn to-day, mine will be to-morrow. I have served you well, and you chose to throw down the-challenge. Abide by the consequence, for so surely as there is a blue sky above us you shall reap bitter fruit from the seed you have sown to-day. Ay, coward that you are, you shrink from me, you are afraid of me. You would strike me dead at your feet if you had one spark of cour- age, you miserable persecutor of helpless women.” A coward at heart, Barton was indeed in mor- tal fear of the man whose dangerous temper he had aroused, and walking over to one of the low French windows he stood drumming on the panes, without a word of reply. When the door closed on Harper, and he found himself alone, he partook freely of the liquor, more alarmed than he would have confessed . to himself by the servant’s threats of vengeance ; he had made a bitter enemy of the man, and knew there was no chance, of his relenting. Yet how could he injure him; rich, powerful, and with no one to control his actions, why should he fear a menial’s vengeance ? Over and over again he asked himself this question, yet the answer his conscience whispered did not satisfy him. All through the long day that followed he was restless and uneasy. Wallace did not make his appearance. When the great bell rang out the noonday hour and the workers ceased from their toil to partake of their scanty dinner, Barton threw him- self down upon one of the leather couches in his ‘office and settled himself down for an hour’s sleep. A low tap.upon the dour disturbed him, and-with a muttered curse at the intrusion, he called out “ Come in.” The door was pushed slowly open, and little Minnie Deane entered, pale and timid, and stood hefore him. The poor child could not have chosen a worse time for her visit. He knew she had come to him for information concerning Rose Michel, and the wery name of the girl he hated so bitterly to-day roused all the demon in his nature. Minnie Deane’s soft, innocent eyes, fastened upon him with such a reproachful gaze, seemed to accuse him of foul play, and his face darkened, while his voice quivered with passion as he sprang to.his feet and grasped her arm fiereely, crying: ejay jade ; how dare you look at me like that? What do I know about your pauper friend ? What is she or any like her tome? Go and search for her; if you cannot find her in the hos- pital, to which I once before directed you, go in search of her if you will; but go whither you may, never darken the doors of this factory again. I do not require your services longer—go !” He pointed toward the door as he spoke, and Minnie, white to the very lips, obeyed him in silence, knowing how little mercy she might ex; le from one so utterly base and heartless as eury Barton. ———— ey CHAPTER XVII. ROSE'S LOVER. Tne days and weeks glided on, until a month had passed since. the accident which had so nearly ended the life of Rose Michel. The winter was now far advanced, yet the snow lay a couple of feet. deep on the country roads, and the frost king with deft fingers still drew delicate traceries over the window panes. _ In a neat but humble room on the top floor of .a tenement house, only a few squares distant from “Greyson’s factory, an old, white-haired woman and a pale, golden-haired girl are bending over some sewing. The former seems to be weak and feeble, and several times her hand is pressed over her weary eyes, asif to ease the throbbing pam that almost blinds them, but no word of com- plaint comes from her lips, and the feeble hands go back to their task as before. The young girl for a time regards her furtively from under the drooped golden lashes of her downcast eyes, and then, with heaving breast, and lips from which the stifled sobs break uncon- trolled, lets her sewing drop unheeded to the floor and flings herself on her knees before the old woman, clasping her slender hands around the bent shoulders, and drawing her white head down upon her breast, while in a voice low and sweet as the distant tinkle of silvery bells, she mur- murs ; “Mrs. Wallace! my dear old friend, my second mother! You are ill and suffering, yet you will not complain. You are working too hard, your eyes pain and burn, and ache, and you can scarce see the work before you for the blinding tears that rise tothem; you are grieving for your boy, your noble son, out from the dawn of day till the set- ting of the sun, searching, searching everywhere for employment, for the work so hard to obtain; I have been nearly a month under your roof, and you tell me continually that the poor help I am able to afford you, repays you amply for what you have done for me. But I know better, it is your generous. heart that speaks, not your common sense; I have been happy here, as happy as one so utterly friendless and desolate could ever hope to be; it was so quiet, so peaceful, and I have learned tolove youso, you, and—and my brother —your noble son, who saved me from a fate worse, ten thousand times, than death. But I must leave you now, I know how hard you strive to keep the wolf from the door ; the little hoard your son had laid away for a rainy day is almost spent, there is no prospect of work for him, and you are almost in despair; 1, thanks to your kind and tender care, am able to seek employment for myself, and I will hesitate no longer to do so. You have urged me to remain with you, your son has been all that a brother could have been to me, but I can be a burden no longer, you will not surely biame me, you would not wish to acd to the load )vur hoy already has to bear.” The girl spoke euyerly, a crimson spot burning hotly on either fair cheek, and her soft, violet eyes raised appealingly to the elder woman’s face. The latter had drawn herself out of the girl’s em- brace, and was staring at her in amazement. When at Jast the golden-bright head fell forward on. her shoulder, and the soft arms twined them- selves once more round her waist, she dropped her aged face until it was hid in the girl’s cluster- ing curls, and throwing her arms about her, rocked slowly backward and forward, weeping softly, At last she spoke, the quivering, age- weakened voice half-stifled in tears. “Oh! my dearie! my wee bonny lassie! dinna ye gang awa’, dinna ye gang awa’, the lad would nigh brack his big heart. He is main fond o’ ye, lassie; aye, fonder nor ere he was of my wee Jessie, my blue-eyed girlie, sleepin’ m her nar- row grave aneath the snaw. You are braw and comely, my lassie, and he loves you as the man loves the woman he would make his wife; he looks for you when he come in a-weary at nicht, and his eyes shine like suns if they but licht upon your bonny bricht head; ’tis you who would add to his load by leavin’ him to strive on, and work when he got it to do, for the auld mither in the chimney nook, wi’ nae smile but hers to welcome his comin’, nae voice but hers to speed his. going. Oh, my pretty Rose, there would e’en be a void in his heart the puir, auld mither couldna fill.” The girl had crept out of the speaker's arms, and was regarding her with heaving breast and wildly dilated eyes. The last vestige of color had faded from her face and she was white to the very lips. “Mrs, Wallace!” she faltered—*I—I never suspected this, never, never! as Heaven is my Judge. Your son rescued me from a man who sought my ruin. He pitied my loneliness, and treated me as a brother would a loved sister; he brought me to his peaceful home, and you—his mother—loved me for sake of the lost Jessie whom I so much resemble; that he loved me with a love different from this, I never once ime agined ; had I done so——” “Had you done so, how would you have acted, my precious one, my darling Rose? My mother has betrayed my secret, I know by your answer that you never suspected it. Has it angered yeu, do you hate me for daring to cherish the hope of one day making you my wife, answer me, pulse of my heart, light of my eyes, my darling ?” It was Archie Wallace who spoke; Archie Wallace who had crept softly up behind her, and encircled her with his arms, ere she was aware of his presence. She sprang away from him, her blue eyes blaz- ing with an angry light, her pale cheeks crimson- ed with excitement; two or three times she at- tempted to speak, but the surging tears choked her, and her voice died away in low, passionate sobs. Inexpressibly shocked and grieved, Archie Wal- lace stood like one rooted to the spot, gazing into her passion stirred face, unable to speak for the time. When at last he could control, himself, he ad- dressed her, in a voice, that was strangely strain- ed and altered. “ Forgive me, Rose, I was indeed presumptious to expect you to share the wretched home that is all I have to offer you, to tie your bright young life to mine, and settle down in the humdrum life of a mechanic’s wife. Oh, Rose, my little love, twill be very hard to unlearn the lesson I have taught myself.” Archie was standing by the low mantel-shelf, with his face hidden on his folded arms, and his form quivering with suppressed excitement. There was a ring of pain in his low, broken voice, and Rose, who, until now stood weeping softly, approached him and let her hand fall lightly on his arm, He started and shivered under her touch, but did not lift his haggard face to hers. She called his name softly, and like one scarce~ ly conscious of his actions he looked up at her. She was clinging to his arm with a look in her sweet violet eyes that made his heart throb wild- ly. What, il after all, in pity for his sorrow, she would consent to Le his wife. Le banished the wild thought quickly, and taking her hand from. off his arm held it in his own, while she spoke : “ Archie, forgive me, and do not ask for pardon of me who should be proud to have won the love of a true heart. Your declaration surprised me; I was hurt and angry, not that you told your love, but because I thought you offered it ina mistaken feeling of pity for my loneliness and poverty. How. could I think different? You never spoke half a dozen words to me in your life until the night you. rescued me. from Henry Barton’s power. You brought me to your home and have never since ut- tered a word in my presence that would lead me to think you cared for me other than with a broth~ er’s love. To-night, when I saw your mother toil- ing over work she was not able to do, and would. not be obliged to do were it not for the added expense and trouble I have been to her, I told her I could no longer remain here in idleness. You entered unawares and heard me; your generous. heart cried out against the thought of my facing the great cold world alone, and on the impulse of the moment you offered me the shelter of a home, not wretched, as you have termed it, but peaceful and happy despite its poverty. Why should & deem you presumptious, I who, have nothing, whose only prospect for the future is a life of ill paid toil ui! The girl’s low sad voice faltered, her proudly curved lips quivered like a grieved child’s, and the goldén fringed lips drooped heavily over the limpid violet eyes. Mrs. Wallace had been called out by a neigh- bor, to see a sick girl, who was thought to be dy- ingin a little hall bedroom, on the floor below, and Archie and Rose were left alone, For a time there was a silence between them, - which Archie was the first to break. Holding his companion’s hand, in a firm, respect- ful clasp he said, with a gleam of the old eage hope in his dark eyes: ” ‘Rose, you have been mistaken in my motives, : ] " 1 | : f
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tisten while I tell you how long I have loved you,” CHAPTER XVII. A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS. “Listen while I tell you how long I have loved you,’’ Archie had said, and with a strange new feeling in her heart and a crimson flush staining cheeks and brow, she waited for him to speak. ‘Long ago, my little Rose, when I first entered Greyson’s factory, your face attracted my atten- tion. It was so young, and child-like, and you were so frail and delicate-looking that I always associated it with that of my lost Jessie. I Jearn- ed to watch for your coming in the morning, and often when you were a moment late grew uneasy jest you were ill or in trouble. One day, one sultry day in midsummer you were faint and ex- hausted with heat and fatigue. I knew it, and when the working day was over, and you started for your home, I followed at a distance, fearing you would faint by the way, for your face was white as death. You knew nothing of this, and although I longed to offer you the support of my arm, I was obliged to keep at a distance, fearful of offending you. “You walked feebly, like one who is very weary, stopping at times and pressing your hand to your heart as if there was pain there. A little ahead of you on the road an ‘old woman was toil- ing along, carrying a basket that seemed too heavy for her feeble strength. I watched you closely, Rose, and saw you start forward and take it from her arms as soon as you noticed her. “Tt was but a little act of kindness, yet it en- deared you to me a thousand fold—of course, as you may remember, I came up then to you and released you of your burden, crying out in sur- prise when my eyes fell upon the face of its owner, for the womate who you had so generously offered to assist was no other than my own mother—aye! you are astonished: you did not recognize her face, and she too has forgotten the little girl who carried her basket eighteen months ago. “But since that hour I have loved yon, little one, with a devotion that has never wavered, nor known a moment’s change. The eyes of love are quick to note the workings of the human heart and I soon saw that you feared Henry Barton. I watched him closely and found that you had good reason to do so, and had it not been for the suspicion I hadof him I might not have been on hand in the hour of your peril. _ ‘Ah, Rose, it was more than feeling of, pity that has actuated me all this time, it was more than pity that prompted me to speak the mad words I have uttered to-night; forgive me, darling, forget my folly, and be as you have been for the past month, my sister, the light of my home, and the pride and joy of my heart. I have found, em- ployment at last, or at least I am promised a posi- tion in a large factory, on the suburbs of Boston. My dear old mother, and my little sister will not be obliged to work so hard any more—and, and—”’ Archie paused and turned away with a silent pressure of the hand he had held until now. It was so hard to dissipate the bright dreams he had cherished, that he could not add the words he would have spoken : “We will be happy.” Roge Michel’s beautiful face was uplifted now, the light of a new happiness shone in the violet depths of her lustrous eyes, and her cheeks were red as the flower whose name she bore. Her shining eyes followed her lover’s move- ments, and when he threw himself wearily into the old leathern arm-chair his. mother had* lately occupied, she approached him, and once again the light touch of her hand upon his shoulder aroused him from the sad reverie into which he had fallen. One glance into her sweet, blushing face, and with a low ery of rapture he caught her to his heart, showering passionate kisses on lips, and cheeks, and brow. Then holding her from him, looked long into the re blue eyes, raised so shyly to meet his own. “ My darling, my beautiful Rose, can I inter. Se ROSE MICHEL, pret your looks aright, have I indeed won the priceless treasure of your love. My pet, my wee birdie, this is indeed the happiest moment of my life.” Alas! poor fond hearts! in this moment of supreme bliss the past was forgotten, the future unthought of, and an eternity of happiness crowded intoa few brief moments. No foreboding shadow of the woe that was so soon to darken their lives, came to dim the brightness of their sweet love- dream, and Mrs. Wallace, entering the room a few moments later, with the traces of tears on her broad Scotch face, found the lovers seated side by side, with hands close clasped in eloquent silence. “The puir wee lassie below * she began but paused suddenly, with her eyes fastened in- tently on the faces of the happy pair. Archie’s clear, deep voice broke the silence : “ Mother, I have good news for you to-night, our little Rose has promised to be my wife, your daughter, my mother; and you will love her dearly as you would have loved our angel, Jessie, had Heaven spared her to you, will you not ?” The mother dropped her white head upon her son’s shoulder, and wept softly with one of Rose’s hands clasped tightly in her own. She was happy in her boy’s happiness ; beauti- ful golden-haired Rose was very dear to her, and yet—on this night of all others, her old heart strained out to the loved, and lost, the “angel Jessie,’’ her baby, the sunny hearted child of her old age, sleeping the last long, dreamless sleep under the snow, in herearly grave. Archie and Rose knew what direction her thoughts had taken, and the former smoothed the white hair tenderly, while the latter pressed her lips in silent sympathy to the withered, toil-hardened hand she held. At last the mother smiled through her tears, and as if inapology for having cast a damper on their joy, exclaimed: “Dinna be wroth wi’ me, my bairns, I couldna help it, indeed, I couldna help it, tears come wi’ joy sometimes, dinma ye think them ill omens.” Rose shuddered slightly, there was something like awe in the old woman’s voice as she spoke the last words, and the wind whistled loud and shrill outside the house, and rattled and roared through the wide chimneys, like the cries of mor- tals in distress, a strange spell of silence seemed to have fallen on the little group, and when at last Arcliie rose to retire to the little dark bed- room in which he slept, Rose imagined his face had lost something of its radiance. He held her hand for one brief moment to his lips, and with a murmured blessing, and a light kiss on bis mother’s forehead, retired todream of the future that was to be blessed with the love of boautiful Rose Michel, CHAPTER XIX, PARTING. ‘Starved in the busy city Yet mayhap a mother has smiled In the old time days of happiness, In the laughing eyes of her child; These eyes that now glare with a strong stare And gleam with a radiance wild.” Wiru the first dawn of day Archie Wallace was astir, preparing himself for his journey to Boston. The old mother packed a few articles of clothing, made ready his simple morning meal, and assisted him in his preparations, moving around softly that she might not disturb Rose. But the latter was not sleeping, and soon walked out, looking fresh and sweet as a daisy in her dark calico gar- ment, with a band of blue ribbon holding back the clustering golden curls from her brow. Archie’s heart bounded with pride as he drew her to him, and imprinted a kiss upon her blushing cheeks. “My little wife that is to be, the memory of your sweet face will urge me on to greater exer- tions, and before many weeks you shall have a little home nearer to my place of employment, where I need not be parted from my dear old mother and my sweet little wife. And now if I would catch the stage-coach in time I must leave you. Kiss me once, dear love, and wish me luck on my journey.” Rose raised her lips to his, and the shy, blue A Set 16 eyes, bright with the light of love, looked full into his own. “God ever bless you, my Archie, and may we not be long separated.” The sweet lips murmured, and for a moment the tiny hands clung round his neck, and the bright head rested on his breast. ‘Then with a last, lingering kiss, he put her gently from him, and turned to where the mother had been stand- ing to take his farewell of her. She was not there, and for a moment’ he could not think what had become of her; then a thought flashed upon him. She had gone down to the door to speak the parting word to him alone. “Poor mother! poor, dear old mother!” he whispered, hurrying down stairs with a carpet-bag under his arm. He had been right in his conjec- ture. Mrs. Wallace stood in the doorway, her aged face looking strangely worn and haggard, and her eyes misty with the tears she had been trying in vain to banish. ‘He opened his arms and drew her into them, startled by the death-like look of the dear old face. For a moment she sobbed © weakly, clinging to him wildly, and calling him by every endearing name, as though she were part- ing from him forever, or as though the shadow of the future loomed darkly before her. “Why, mother mine! what a time yon make! one would think I was going to the other end of the world, instead of to a neighboring. city, in which you are soon to join me. Come, cheer up, I will write to you and little Rose every day, and you will laugh at your folly when you learn how hopeful and happy I am.” He put. her gently out of his arms as he spoke, and opened the hall door to pass out. Just as he did so a man. on horseback rode past at full speed, a hard-looking, haggard-faced man, with a look of horror frozen in the dark depths of his di- lated eyes. é ; “Henry Barton ! as I live! what in the name of all. that is wonderful can, bring him out at this early hour? His face is, fairly corpse-like, some- thing unusual has happened I feel certain. Mother! look well to my little Rose, for if the wolf knew the watch-dog was off guard he would find his way into the fold and woe to my lamb if he got his clutches on her again,” With these words Archie Wallace turned his back on the humble home within whose walls such happiness had come to him, never again to cross its threshold, never again. The old mother slowly ascended the stairs that led, to her rooms, stopping on the way to look in atthe girl who was slowly breathing her young life away, im the bare hall-bedroom beneath her own, The gray light of morning, shone; into the mis- erable little room, with. its uncarpeted floor and bare wall, entering through the curtainless and shutterless window at the head of the low cot bed, upon which the young sufferer lay. She was very young, scarcely older than Rose Michel, and must have been very fair ere the ray- ages of sickness and hunger. robbed her eye of its luster, and her cheek of its bloom, She was sleeping peacefully, no longer in pain, and on her pale, wasted face was written clearly the impress of the last great. messenger, who would ere many hours open his arms, kindly arms, sometimes, to take her into the dread hereafter, the distant land unknown and unexplored to which our.loved ones are called away but from which they never return. ** An, Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.’ Mrs. Wallace bent over the dying ‘girl, and peer- ed anxiously into the white, wan face, and a tear fell from her eye upon the marble brow, upon which the dews of death were fast gathering. “Puir lassie! puir lotiely lassie!’ murmured the old woman, and as if the pitying words pene- trated the dulled brain, the girl stirted in her sleep, and muttered the name “ Rose, Rose.” ‘Rose ! Rose! always Rose!” repeated Mrs. Wal- lace, with a perplexed look on her good-natured face, “J didna want my pretty Rose to east her bonny een on such a sight as this, but mayhap the puir lass ha’ met my Rose about the factory, an’ Calls for her; it would’na be richt so deny her how.”
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Re y i. 16 —— _ - - - ee o_O ee The thought, no sooner entered ler brain than she hurried up stairs, and told Rose for the first time of the desolate girl dying. alone.in ,the room below, but withheld the fact.that she had called upon the name of Rose. Rose’s sweet flower, face paled, and the tears dimmed her violet eyes. ‘ “Poor givl, poor girl! Oh, Mrs. Wallace, why did you not tell me before?, I might have been able to do something for her,” she cried, hurrying down to the. little chamber indicated. . A-cold chill struck. her as she opened the door and entered, and she shivered as she bent for a moment, over, the form ofthe dying girl, aud peer- ed anxiously, into the white face framed by the loosened masses, of tangled nut-browm hair. _ Only for a: moment did she gaze, aud then, with a low cry of pain, sank down on her knees by .the bedside, burying her face in-the pillow beside that of the young sufferer, and moaning piteously : + ‘Minnie Deane! Minnie Deane? Has it. come to.this? . Is.it thus we meet again? Oh, my God, this is dreadful !”’ CHAPTER XX. AT REST AT LAST. _ Ir was indeed Minnie Deane who lay dying in the wretched room in the crowded tenement, so near to Rose Michel that she had often heard the sound of her footfalls’in the ‘room above, all un- conscious that she was so near. The shock had been almost too mueh for Rose’s feeble strength, and her face was as white as’ that of the poor girl on the pillow beside her own, as she called wildly on Minnie’s name. Her voice so well remembered, so fondly loved, roused the sick irl from her slumber, and she attempted to raise erself on her elbow, but she fell back again, ex- hausted by the effort. “ Rose, are you near me? I thought I heard your voice,” she cried, such intense longing, such yearning tenderness in her voice that Rose could only sob passionately, unable for a moment to speak. “Oh, Minnie, little friend, my heart aches for you; if I had known, if I had only known. Oh, darling! this is very hard, is there nothing I can do foryou? You willnot die, I will do anything in my power to save you, my poor little friend, my dear Minnie.” She had gathered the poor girl in her arms, and was kissing her cold lips and cheeks as if she would fain warm them into life, or call back into them the warm life-biood chilled forever. Minnie ‘smiled mournfully, gently caressing Rose's cheek with her little wasted hand. ““My dear Rose, you have done much for me al- ready; the sight of your sweet face has given me new life—my little friend, I never knew how dear you were to me until you were no longer with me.” Minnie’s low broken voice. died away in ‘a pas: sionate sob, and the feeble arms dropped from about Rose’s waist. “My God! I have killed her,” Rose cried wildly, seeing the white lids drop heavily over Minnie’s eyes. Bué she had not killed her, the ex- citement of the moment had been too much for her, and a momentary weakness was the result. Rose held a glass of cold water to her lips, and she breathed again regularly. There was a look of peace and quiet happiness on her face, and she smiled when her eves again fell upon Rose, by her bedside. “Talk to me dear, tell me all that has happened to your since we parted, you cannot shorten my hours, they are numbered. Nay! do not weep, sweet Rose, it is better so! Iwill welcome death as a friend, I am 60 tired, so tired darling; and I have suffered so. They left me all alone, father, mother, sister, brothers, all were called away, and I, the youngest of them all, was left alone, penniless and friend- Jess in thewide world. Grief can long be borne, yay darling, and I still lived on, working when I could get work to do, and paying my way when I had money to pay it. I was discharged from the Greyson factory shortly after your unfortunate accident. I have searched the city through for employment since, but failed to find it, “T never despaired, until.I fell in the street from exhaustion, having eaten nothing in forty- | ee OO ee a a ee emerge ei titi ge eee tegumental tasters ROSH MICHEL. eight hours; I was carried to a police-station, and |.pale-faced young girl, who had_ hired a room on when I came to myself and was again sent out into the street, I found a ten-dollar bill in my hand, the gift of charity. You must know how low I have fallen when I did not return with the money, but sought a place in which to lay my weary head; I found this room, the people who have hired the apartments to which it belong having no use for it, and in consideration of two dollars a week they gave it to me. , I have been here two weeks, and have never once risen from my bed, nor shall I ever rise, dear Rose, until I am lifted into the coffin provided by charity! Darling! your sobs go to my heart, why should you grieve for. me? I am so happy at the thought of release, so happy, Rose, you would not try to keep me if you only knew how welcome will be the rest of the grave.” Rose could not answer; quick, passionate sobs choked her utterance, and the tears were stream- ing down her pale cheeks. Minnie was growing visibly weaker, and with every fleeting moment her breath came. shorter. Once Mrs. Wallace opened the door, but seeing the sick girl reclining in Rose’s arms, closed it softly and stole up stairs, deeming it best to leave them alone. The exertion of talking told fearfully on the dying _girl. She continued to sink rapidly, until just as the clock struck the hour of twelve, and the noonday sun shone in the heayens, when a blue line showed itself under drooped lids, and around the close drawn lips of the young sufferer, and the awful gray shadow settled over her face, the shadow of the death angel’s wings. In mortal terror poor Rose called for Mrs. Wallace, and the good woman came quickly down the stairs, with a bowl of gruel in her hand, for the invalid. One look into the pale, rigid face among the pillows.and the bowl was pushed hastily away, while the good-hearted old woman raised the dy- ing girl in her arms. “Puir girlie! puir wee. lassie! it is almost over,” she whispered, while Rose, could only sob and moan, utterly unnerved in the presence of the great destroyer. The suffering girl was conscious, painfully con- scious of every moyement round her, and her death-dimmed eyes followed every movement of the girl whom she had loved so dearly, with a glance that appealed to her not to leave her till all was over. For nearly an hour poor Minnie suffered acute- ly, sometimes she sank for one brief moment at a time into a state of insensibility, only to rally again, painfully alive to the sufferings she en- dured, At last all pain left her. She lay back upon her pillows, wan and whife, and exhausted. Rose bent over her, chaffing her cold hands, and bathing her icy brow When Minnie spoke again her voice was only like a whisper, but a smile of infinite peace lin- gered round her pretty mouth. ‘Rose, my darling—kiss me once—’tis almost over; and I. am_ so tired, so very tired, do not weep, little friend, ‘tis better so; hark—that music! ’tis very sweet, do you hear it, Rose—oh, love! Iam sinking down—I am drifting away from you—darling, darling! Minnie is at rest, at rest—at last.” : CHAPTER XXI. CAST ON THE WORLD. MINNIE was indeed at rest; the poor child’s troubles were over at last. She had not seen twenty years of life, yet death was welcome, and she fell asleep like a tired child weary of the ceaseless toil and wearying cares that had beset her path. Pale, sad-faced and altered, Rose left the bed on which lay all that was mortal of sweet Minnie Deane, and throwing herself down in an abandon- ment of grief on the humble couch she called her own in Mrs. Wallace’s room, she sobbed like one who could not be comforted, while the kind- hearted old woman busied herself about the inani- mate form in the room below, smoothing the tangled brown hair and folding the tired hands over the pulseless breast. When it was known through the house that the SSS SSS SSS SSS SSS STE SS? the third floor was dead, a great deal of sympathy was expressed (as is always the case when it is too late), and a collection was raised among the tenants for the purpose of burying her in conse- crated ground. : Two days later and Rose stood beside the plain coffin, taking a last farewell of the Jittle. friend who had never given her a harsh word, who had been, among a hundred companions, her only friend. Very sweet and fair she looked in her snowy shroud, with a single white rose, whieh Rose had placed in her hand, lying so still and pure upon her breast, and a smile upon her parted lips, a emile of infinite peace. Over and over again the weeping Rose kissed the silent lips and the marble brow of her who would never again return her caresses, ere. the coffin lid was screwed down, and the dear, patient face was hidden from her sight forever. Several of the neighbors followed the remains to the little valley churchyard where Minnie Deane was laid away to sleep under the snow, only afew feet distant from the spot where blue-eyed Jessie Wallace slept so peacefully. For several days after the funeral Rose was silent and reserved; and moved about the house so pale and altered, that Mrs. Wallace began to fear that her health was failing her ; letters: came regularly from Archie, but even these failed to arouse Rose to even a semblance of her former self. Two weeks passed, each day bringing a note or letter from the absent one. At the end of. this time the daily missive failed to arrive, and Rose’s sad blue eyes would darken, and dilate, when the post-man gave the same unwelcome answer, “No letter, no letter to-day.” Day after day this was the invariable answer, until the mother's heart grew sick with an awful fear, and Rose’s face was white as the winter’s snow. For nearly a week this suspense continued be- fore either mentioned to the other her fears. At last the mother’s heart could suffer.and endure no longer, and dropping her white head in Rose’s lap she sobbed aloud: “Oh, my boy! my ain dear lad; he would na neglect his puir old mither wilfully, he is ill among strangers, my bonny boy! my Archie.” Rose could not speak, she had no words to comfort such grief as this, and could only stroke the bent head in sympathy. All through the long night that followed the anxious mother paced the floor, pressing her withered hands tightly against her aching heart, and moaning like one in pain. Rose tried in vain to speak some words of hope and cheer, she was lierself sick with a terrible dread of she knew not what, and her words belied the haunting ter- ror in her blue, dilated eyes. Towards morning the old women ceased her rapid restless pacing to and fro, and sank down in the leather chair she always oceupied, with her face turned away from Rose, towards the fire. Rose had thrown herself without undressing on the bed, but nosleep visited her weary eyes. She was haunted by a vague foreboding of approach- ing evil, and as the hours wore on, and the aged woman sitting so motionless and silent in the chimney nook never moved or altered her po- sition, she beeamed alarmed, and springing from the bed to her chair, threw herself on her knees before the woman who was her only friend. “Mrs. Wallace! my mother! speak to me, why are you so silent?” she cried, peering into the bent face in the dim gray light of the morning. That face was ghastly pale, and the brow to which she pressed her sweet young lips was icy cold. “My God what is this! Oh, my more than mother, speak tome, do not look so white and cold, your eyes look.on me with no sight inthem ! Oh, Heaven what shall I do, what shall I do?” Her voice rang through the lonely room, awak- ening a thousand echoes in the hushed silence of the early dawn, that clear young voice thrill- ing with a terrible anguish, wild with an unut- terable despair. As if that pitiful ery had called the departing soul back from the shores of the dark river, a convulsive shudder ran through the worn- out old frame, and the death-dimmed eyes. wan-
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dered slowly around with no sight in their glassy depths... - aintly, like a whisper from the spirit-land came the one word,“ Rose,” and witha cry ex- pressive of infinite relief, Rose flung herself once again onher knees before the huge chair, twin- ing her arms abont its dying occupant, and draw- ing the white head down upon her breast, press- ing innumerable kisses on the cold face and sightless eyes, * Water!” the old woman whispered’ and she held a glass of water to the pallid lips. This seemed to revive her and once again she spoke: “Rose, my puir, wee lassie; my ain darling! dinna weep for me—vwe will meet again—you and Archie, and. J, in lieaven. I must e’en gang first awa’, my wee girlie calls me from the ither shore. —Rose, my Archie will yet conie back to you, something whispers me so in this last hour; tell him I die blessing you both, my ain dear ones. Alv! it has come! Rose, conie closer! Bless you -—bless you, my Archie, my darlin’ !—Wait for me, Jessie lass, tak my hand, the road is sae dark wait, my ain Jessie—the auld mither comes at dast.”” A quick, convulsive shudder distorted the aged face, the white head fell heavily forward on Rose’s shoulder, and she realized with a pang that rent her heart, that never again. would the kind old voice fall upon her ear to soothe her grief or re- joice in her happiness. Archie’s. mother was dead, and she was once more homeless, penniless, alone in the world. She had written time and again to Archie since his letters ceased, but could gain no knowledge of his whereabouts,. What was she to do; where ob- tain money for the interment of her dear old friend’s remains ? CHAPTER XXII. OLD TIME MEMORIES. _ We must now for a time return to Henry Bar. ton, whom we left fretting and fuming over his disappointment, and vowing all manner of ven- geance on Archie Wallace and Rose Michel. He never thought of Minnie Deane after dismissing her from the factory, for his mind was too fully Occupied with other thoughts and schemes to waste ne. moment’s reflection on the poor little girl’s - His uncle’s health improved rapidly, and in less than a month he was able to walk about the house and grounds, hearty and robust as before; but.although he recognized everyone around him, his mind seemed to be a perfect blank. _ He spoke of nothing that would lead anyone to suppose that he lad any memory of thie past, although at times there was a look in the clear depths of his dark eyes that would puzzle the plysicians—who still visited him at intervals—to comprehend, It was so full of intelligence and quiet contempt for their opinion, “That man will yet regain his memory, and it sometimes appears to me as if he already remem- bers more than he cares to confess to,” said one of the doctors, speaking to a medical friend in confidence one day, _ “Yes; I fully agree with you, my friend; I never had a case to puzzle me so. His eyes some- times wear a look that I have never seen in those fanyone who was not fully conscious, When he surprises me looking at him, he drops his eyes in evident confusion; had he any object in de- ceiving us thus, I should say he was shamming,” replied the other, a gruff old gentleman who had attended Walter Greyson for nearly twenty years. This conversation occurred in the reading-room of a fashionable hotel one Sunday afternoon, and anotlier besides the two physicians overheard the whispered comments. Heury Barton had strolled in, and was appar- ently deeply interested in the contents of the newspaper he held before his face. He was seated only a few feet distant from ‘where the doctor sat, and consequently heard ‘all, ‘His dark face paled, and alook of absolute fear erept into his glowing eyes. ‘ ROSE MICHEL. “God! I too have noticed the strangeness of my uncle’s manner; what if he indeed be sham- ming, as they say; what if after all my hopes should be vain. J have been drawing immense sums in his name, and with my usual cursed luck losing them at the gaming table. Should he dis- cover this, and.also my connection with the Rose Michel affair, I would be ruined: irretrievably ; should his pretended imbecility be a scheme to test my worthiness, Heaven help me, I would in- deed be lost, and ruin now means actual beggary, absolute poverty to myself and my darling Clar- ice. “No, no, it must. not be; rather than this I would end his days. Should he indeéd be in pos- session of his reason he would immediately insti- tute a search for Rose Michel, and when found he will make her his heiress. He must not find her. I must watch him closely; I must know the truth at once.” Musing thus, Barton hurried away from the hotel, turning his steps in the direction of his uncle’s residence, We will precede him, and, with the privilege of an author, enter Walter Greyson’s chamber, where we find him in’ company with his servant Paal, with whom he is talking in low, guarded tones. He is changed greatly, thin and pale, and worn- looking, with an abundance of silver-threads among the dark clustering locks around his fore- head and in the heavy mustache shading his proudly curved lips. He is leaning wearily back among the satin cushions in his easy chair, but his eyes are fixed with intense earnestness on the face of Paul, to whom he is speaking. “ Ave you sure, Paul, that your affection for me, and your desire to’serve me has not led you to judge my nephew wrongly? ’Tis true he is base and hollow to the heart’s core, but I can scarcely realize that one in whose veins my blood runs, can be guilty of such a crime as you lay to his door. You heard him—say—exulting over the fact that Rose Michel was in his power, you told me this when I first regained my senses, and warned me, if I would discover his villainy, still to pretend utter unconsciousness. I have done so, but have been able to discover nothing of Rose Michel’s whereabouts. You heard him mention the cot in the woods. You went there, did you not, and found it burned to the ground ; where, then, in heaven’s name is Rose, the girl whom I would give half my fortune to find? When I allow myself to think that there may have been foul play on his part, that he whom you accuse of robbing me of the jeweled locket that contained her history, may have removed her from his path forever, my heart grows sick within me. Oh, God! if it should indeed be so! I can searcely refrain from springing upon him, when he is in my sight, and demanding her at his hands. Oh, Henry, Henry, your mother, my poor Aileen,would rise from her grave to chide you, could sle know the heart pangs you have cost me.”’ The speaker’s head fell forward on his breast and the great tears rolled down his pale cheeks as his memory went back to the dead years of the past when Aileen Greyson, his queenly sister, with her royally beautiful face and jetty lustrous eyes, had made him the slave of her imperious will, sometimes petting and caressing him, at others chilling him with her haughty pride. She had been the elder sister, while little Laura, the blue-eyed, golden-haired pet of them all, was the youngest born. Aileen married one Herbert Barton, who was supposed to be immensely wealthy. He turned out to be a gambler and a rowe, and at the end of the first year after his marriage was shot in a fashionable gambling hell. The disgrace broke his wife’s proud heart, and a few months later she was laid by his side, after consigning, with her latest breath, her orphan baby-boy to her brother’s care. Walter Greyson had been true to his trust. Aileen’s boy was brought up as a son of his own, and nothing that wealth could purchase was ever denied him. What wonder the fond uncle’s heart should al- most break when the knowledge of his nephew’s base ingratitude first dawned upon him. 17 —Y For nearly an hour after the passionate outburst which he had allowed to escape him uncontrolled, Walter Greyson sat silent, allowing his mind. to dwell on old-time memories, that were best. for- gotten, At last he arose, and startled Paul by the sud, den exclamation : “ Paul, help me to dress, I am going to walk out to-day, the fresh air will cool my brain, for it seems a-fire,”’ ‘** Alone, Mr. Greyson?” the man cried in ex- treme surprise. * Yes, alone, I am fully capable of taking care of myself,” he replied, with something of impa- tience in his tone, and, without another word, hur- ried from the house, turning his steps in the di- rection of the hills, under whose gloomy shadow rested the miserable habitation Rose Michel had once called home. CHAPTER XXIII. THE RIVALS. “Oh, Mother Earth! upon thy lap, Thy weary ones receiving, And o’er them, silent as a dream Thy grassy mantle weaving, Fold softly, in thy long embrace, That heart so worn and broken, And cool its pulse of fire beneath Thy shadows oid and oaken.” Some weeks previous tothe day of which I have written—that on which Mr. Greyson held the in- terview with his servant recorded in the last chapter—Henry Barton, while riding out on some important business connected with the firm, met with a startling adventure, It was early morning, and he rode hard, desiring to be back to the fac- tory by opening time, His horse was a very spirited animal, impatient of the curb and often balky. As Barton was notin good humor him- self, the animal’s restive movements angered him and he used his spurs rather too freely. The horse became unmanageable, and bounded over the road with terrific speed. Barton was not a good rider, and his heat grew sick with an awful horror ; how long could he hold on, how long keep his seat on the buck of the flying animal.. He called aloud for help as he dashed past the few persons he met abroad thus early, but everyone valued his life too highly to sacrifice it for anoth- ev’s sake, This was on the morning of Archie Wallace's departure for Boston, and as fate would have it, Archie Wallace was the first to see Barton’s dan- ger. The man’s haggard and ghastly face first at- iracted his attention, and on the moment he at- tributed its pallor to a different cause, but in the next he saw that the horse was beyond his con- trol. ; “My God! the mad animal is making direct for the road that leads to the lime kiln; Barton will be killed,” he whispered, hoarsely, darting across the road with the intention of heading off the horse before it was too late. On, on, he dashed toward the place of peril, throwing his little bundle from him that even its weight might not impede his progress, with the horse almost abreast of him, flying along the read with lightning-like speed, panting and almost breathless, on, on, toward the steaming, seething lime kiln. , At length by aneffort that was almost super- human he distanced the horse a few paces, and turning, flung his coat directly in the face of the enraged animal, who reared and plunged and stag- gered backward; and on the instant Wallace dragged the half senseless rider from the saddle, and gave the infuriated brute rein, He was off like a whirlwind, apd Barton Jay panting and breathless in the arms of his “ pau- per rival,” as he had often termed Archie Wal- lace. He revived after a momentary weakness and sprang to his feet, his face ashen white and his chest heaving convulsively. “Archie Wallace,” he hissed between his clenched teeth, “I would rather have died than that you should have saved me. I owe you a debt of hate that I have sworn to repay. Why did you come between me and the death that would have been sweeter a thousand times than life at your hands. Since you have laid me under such an un-
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18 ROSE MICHEL. a a RT ES SEE SEINE A= SS ET SS eT a EET EI SPT A ES a LS AE TC EE EI ETE ATES SE welcome obligation receive this as your reward, | make her suffer, should fate ever throw her in his for Ihave no doubt your action was prompted by the hope of remuneration.” - As he spoke, Henry Barton threw a purse at the feet of the man who had been his deliverer in the hour of peril. Wallace’s fair, frank face flushed hotly, and an angry light gathered in his clearhazeleyes. He spurned the pocket-book with his foot, and in a voice of supreme contempt, exclaimed : “Keep your money, Henry Barton; the day may come, unlikely as it now appears, when you will need it as much as ever [have done. As for your hatred, I am utterly indifferent to your feel- ings toward me. I saved you, as I would have rescued my bitterest enemy, from a feeling of hu- manity. I never accept pay for doing my simple duty. Poor I may be all my days, but I am scarcely mean enough forthat, You have striven hard to wound me by your insults, but you have scarcely succeeded. I leave your conduct to the feeling of the disappointment which the little affair I interrupted so unexpectedly has caused you.” With these words he turned his back on Barton and walked hastily back toward the spot where he had left his little bundle, while Barton stood still where he had left him, white to the very lips and quivering with passion. The quiet, contemptuous look written so plainly on the face of the engineer had almost maddened him. He longed to spring at the man and fell him to the ground, but the memory of their last meeting restrained him, and true to his cowardly nature he controlled his wrath. His heart knew not one feeling of gratitude to- ward the man who had perhaps saved him from a horrible death, and as he turned his face in the direction Wallace had taken, he shook his fist after the retreating form and muttered: “Wait, wait, my proud pauper, it is your turn now, mine is yet to come.” He hurried along the road with his eyes bent upon the ground, and presently he stooped and picked up a yellow piece of pasteboard. It was Archie’s railroad ticket for Boston, which he had dropped from his pocket as he tlew along the road. “Wa, ha! so that is your destination, my fine fellow, perhaps that is where Rose Michel is hid- den. By Heaven, I too will take a trip to Boston this morning. While you are purchasing another ticket I will telegraph to the foreman of my floor, and if fate favors me, I will accompany you un- seen on your journey, and follow you to your des- tination, Day after day I have searched for the girl whose whereabouts you alone know. Now my search may prove fruitful of good results,” The thoughts and hopes the finding of the rail- way ticket had awakened in his breast seemed to have given him new life. He made his way with incredible speed to the depot, going a different way from that which Wallace had taken, and reaching it first. It. was the work of a second to despatch a tele- gram, and he was already seated in the cars when Archie Wallace, tired and dusty, arrived at the station, and as chance wonld have it entered the same car, and threw himself into a seat with his back to his enemy. The journey to Boston was not a long one, and Wallace’s mind was too busily occupied with hopes and plans for the future, to admit of his taking much notice of his fellow passengers. Rose’s face, as he had seen it last, was con- stantly before his view. That sweet, flower-like face, the blue, lustrous eyes shining up at him through a mist of tears, tlhe tender, tremulous lips upheld to receive his parting kiss, and the gold- bright hair sweeping softly against his cheek. His heart thrilled with a passionate rapture that was new to it, and his dull, toilsome life seemed ‘ suddenly to have become flooded with sunshine. How different to his were the thoughts of the man who sat only a few feet from him, with hat drawn close down over his eyes, and coat buttoned up to his chin; they too were of Rose Michel, but ah, what wicked, vengeful thoughts. The passion he had felt for her had vanished, drowned in the hatred which her scorn of him had awakened, and in his heart of hearts, he vowed to path. “Death itself would be preferable to a life spent with him,” she had said, and he smiled at the recollection. The more she hated him the greater would be his conquest, he reasoned, and at that moment would have given ten year of his life to have her again in his power. CHAPTER XXIV, HOME AGAIN, Wnuen the morning sun shone bright into the narrow windows of the room that had been Archie Wallace’s home Rose Michel still knelt in all the abandonment of grief before the corpse of the aged woman who had been her true friend. She could not collect her scattered thoughts ; she was confused and bewildered, and her aching, tearless eyes searched the poor dead face wildly, as if seeking the comforting, cheery smile that had never been denied her in life. The knock of a neighbor upon the door aroused her from the stupor of despair into which she was fast sinking, and she started to her feet with a low cry. Her sweet young face was rigid as that of the dead, and every nerve was drawn tense as steel when she threw open the door, and pointed to- ward the silent figure in the chair, withont a word. Alarmed by the strangeness of her look, the neighber woman advanced into the room, and bent for an instant over the occupant of the leathern chair. A loud ery of horror broke from her lips as she discovered the truth, and she staggered back to where Rose stood, pale and trembling. ‘My God! when did this happen? Poor child, poor frightened child, what are you going to do?” “What am I goingtodo? Great Heaven, what am I going to do?” Rose wailed, and ere the wo- man had time to catch her, threw up her arms and fell heavily upon the floor. The swoon was long protracted, and when, at Jast the kindly efforts of sympathizing neighbors had the desired effect, and she once more awoke to a sense of her lonely position, a coroner had been summoned to hold an inquest on the body of poor old Mrs. Wallace. The coroner’s jury arrived at the conclusion that death was the result of an affection of the heart, from which the deceased had long suffered —and their duty was done. During the progress of the inquest, a sudden thought had come to Rose. She had never enter- ed the old cottage that had been her home since her father’s death ; indeed she had left the rooms of Mrs. Wallace very seldom, her injured feet be- ing still very painful to walk upon. There was another reason why she kept indoors, and that was an unaccountable terror of Henry Barton. She feared him, and never, unless aceom- panied by Archie, could she be persuaded to risk the chance of meeting him upon the street. But in this hour, when the mother of him she loved with all the fervor of her tender nature, lay uncoffined before her, with no money but that which might be given in charity, with which to bury her, Rose forgot her fears for her own safety, and remembering that her poor father had clung through all his hardships and poverty to the little golden locket containing her mother’s pic- ture, she resolved to search for it in the deserted cottage, and, if possible, sell it to defray the fu- neral expenses of her dear old friend. That it had been found by those who removed his remains, never occurred to her, for she knew he had been in the habit of keeping it in a chink in the wall, near the head of his bed, where he could easily reach it by stretching forth his hand, whenever he desired to gaze on the sweet pictured face of his lost wife. Rose had learned from Archie, how her father had been buried, and also that the name D’Orme bad been added to that of Michel upon the plate of the magnificent coffin. She had at once concluded that the report cir- culated was indeed true—that her poor father had in younger days been a friend to Walter Grey- son—and in the midst of her own suffering and distress, her heart had swelled with pride to think that her beloved father had been buried with the honor due his rank, . Rose had been brought up in ignorance of the name of her mother’s relatives, and consequently had no suspicion of the truth. She was very grateful to Mr. Greyson, despite his harshness to her in the past and his relation- ship to the man whom of all the world she most hated and feared. Leaving the kindly neighbor who had been the first to. discover Mrs. Wallace’s death, alone with the remains, Rose wrapped her shawl about her shoulders, and with eyes almost blinded by tears, covered her bright hair with the little warm hood Mrs. Wallace’s deft fingers had fashioned. “Dear old friend! Heaven grant my mission be not fruitless,” she sobbed, dropping a kiss on the marble brow, as she hurried from the chamber of death. The way to the ruined cot on the hillside was long and the day was bitterly cold, but having no money in her possession Rose had no means of riding. She almost ran through the busy streets, in her breathless haste, casting quick, apprehensive glances behind and around her, now and then, as if fearing pursuit. Many a curious eye followed the little flying figure, with its white sweet face, and blue, dilated eyes. She was near, very near, to the hills under whose shadow lay her old home, ere she slackened her rapid pace. Then the memories of the past came crowding thick and fast upon her, and vividly before her arose the picture of the white- haired old father, lying with his sightless eyes turned to the wall, while his weeping child toiled through the deep snow to plead for the loan of a few articles of groceries, only the few meager articles of provisions necessary to keep body and soul together. She remembered the pangs that had rent her heart when she had been refused this loan, and was obliged to part with her mother’s cherished wedding ring. Again the hot tears rose to her burning, aching eyes, and with her golden head drooped forward on her breast she continued on her way, The lonely cottuge was reached at last, and somewhat to her surprise Rose found the door wide open. She could scarcely see for the tears which blinded her, and in the dead stillness reign- ing about the place she imagined she could hear the wild throbbing of her own heart. The sight of the old familiar place recalled @ thousand buried memories, and she uttered a pas- sionate cry of pain as she entered the humble room in which both her beloved parents had died. “Father! father! oh, my dear father!” she cried aloud, springing to the bedside without cast- ing one glance around her, and throwing herself on her knees before it, weeping hysterically. The bed was just as when he had been taken from it, not a thing in the room had been changed, The wooden chair still stood where she had left it, with a piece of molded toast on a saucer and a bowl of blue-molded tea upon it. For some moments the orphan girl knelt, sob+ bing bitterly, with her face hidden in the bed- clothes, and at times moaning pitifully like one in mortal anguish. “My poor father, why should I grieve for him ? he is happier than I—oh, papa, my darling! m darling papa! you are with mamma in a land all bright and beautiful. Oh, why did you leave me alone? why did you not take me with you? why do you not ask the mighty King, at whose throne you kneel to-day, to call your suffering child to his breast ?” : CHAPTER XXV, THE MEETING, THERE came no answer to the poor child’s pas- sionate cry, and rising slowly to her feet she pushed the cot bed out from the wall, and ran her fingers through a narrow aperture in the wall behind it. her fair young face, and with a low, gasping cry she sank down upon the bedside, crying aloud: “Tt is gone! itis gone! Heaven pity me, my last hope has fled.” A death-like pallor settled slowly over - |
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ROSE MICHEL. 19 “My child! my poor child! what is gone?” asked atrembling voice at ier elbow, and looking up quickly Rose Michel’s eyes fell full upon the face of Walter Greyson. She sprang to her feet out of the reach of his hand, and on the impulse of the moment exclaimed angrily : “Why are you here, Mr. Greyson, do you come to mock my misery? if so, you must surely be satisfied.” A look of infinite pain flitted for a moment over Mr. Greyson’s face, and his eyes dropped be- neath her steady ganze. The memory of his kind- ness and the thought of what he had done for her dear dead father quickly recurred to her, and hid- ing her face in very shame, she whispered : “ Forgive me, Mr. Greyson, I scarcely know what I am saying or doing. I have suffered so, and the sight of the empty bed almost maddened me. I have never entered this room until now since he was carried from it, and by. your kind- ness, buried respectfully. Oh, how shall I thank you, how ever repay the debt of gratitude I owe you. Do not think harshly of my impudent words. I was not myself when I uttered them.” Again the girl was sobbing wildly, with her passionate face buried in the pillow upon which her father’s head had laid. Walter Greyson opened his arms as if to take her to his breast, but quickly restraining the im- pulse, said softly: _ “What ure you looking for, child? what was it that agitated you so ?” Rose looked up quickly, “Twas looking for a small golden locket, the only fortune my father had to leave me; it is not in its accustomed place and the discovery almost killed me, it was such a disappointment, and for a moment I could not control my agitation; my last hope died, my heart seemed breaking.” Her answer was given in that low, calm voice indicative of settled despair. For a moment Walter Greyson did not speak. He was scarcely prepared to acknowledge his re- lationship then and there and consequently must be on his guard. His heart yearned to clasp the lonely orphan girl in his arms, but the time was not yet come when he could do so. She wis so like his sister, lis loved and lost one, his beau- | tiful Laurie, that he wondered he hid not no- ticed it more particularly on the night she had pleaded with him for simple justice, the remarka- ble resemblance between them. As he could not yet. acknowledge his claim he attempted to hide his real feelings beneath a mask of assumed haughtiness, and in a tone but very little different from that in which he had addressed her on the night on which our story opened, he said, quietly : “Rose Michel, could your parents from their home on high lend an ear to our words this day they would confide your future to my keeping without a fear for your welfare. You are young, beautiful and utterly alone in the world, insensi- ble to its wickedness, ignorant of its vices. If you will trust yourself into my kéeping you shall be as my cherished daughter, loved, petted and caressed, your every wish anticipated, your every desire readily granted. Come with me, child, you shall never more know the meaning of the words poverty and woe.” ‘He had advanced nearer to her as he spoke, let- ting his hand fall gently on her bowed, golden head and attempting to raise her from her knees, upon which she had again fallen in the extremity of her grief. The touch of his hands seemed to arouse all the pride of her race, and her blue eyes were bright with an indignant light when, with a start- led cry, she sprang to her feet and confronted him, saying excitedly : “Mr. Greyson, once before I refused your charity when I was in sore need of money to pur- chase the food that was necessary to sustain lifes Then too my father lay dying, pining for the com- forts I was forced to deny him. He is dead now, and I can fight my battle with the world alone, unaided by your charity. If I were fallen so low that I be driven to beg my bread from door to door, you would be the last to whom I would ap- ply; your nephew has wronged me, basely, cruel- ly, and one whose blood flows through his veins I will shun till the end.” “Till the end, girl; do you know what the end would be if you persisted in this empty pride? I will enlighten you. You are young, beautiful, lovable ; in whatever station of life you move, you will have lovers—or they who call themselves lovers —they will flatter and caress you, and you, tired with the unthankful struggle to earn your bread by the toil of your hands will yield at last, won by the promise of a life all brightness and color, you will leave your toilsome druggery and the end will be—what?” The girl had listened to his words like one in a dream ; at its conclusion the drooped head was haughtily upraised ; the blue, pure eyes met his own fearlessly, full of repressed passion and un- spoken scorn. And her voice thrilled with a vague pain, as she replied : “You mean to say that at last I would be what your nephew would have made me, a second Camille, gay, reckless, desperate, the sport of every tongue, a woman of the world, ‘loved by those whose vanity she gratified, despised by those who should have pitied her. Those were Camille’s very words, were they not, Mr. Greyson ? Think you they will ever be mine?” There was a look of conscious innocence and dauntless defiance in her pure young face that thrilled the heart of the man whom she addressed, and with difficulty restraining the desire which prompted him to take her to his heart, he re- plied : “No! Rose Michel, you will never be a Camille, I could stake my hopes of Heaven on that; where are you going ?”—for she was moving slowly to- ward the door—“come back my child, here is some money that is rightfully yours. I found the diamond gemmed locket in your dead father’s hand. It was worth, I should imagine, about five hundred dollars, here are bills to the amount, take it and let me keep the locket until such time as you can repurchase it from me. I am giving you nothing but its market valne, do not hesitate to ac- cept ‘its price from my hands. My nephew’s cruelty shall be visited on his own head. I have been deceived in him, oh, Heaven! how cruelly de- ceived! why should vou condemn me for his faults.” The proud head fell forward on his clasped aru, Jeaned upon the low wooden mantel, and Walter Greyson’s chest heaved with eiiotion. Rose’s little hand fell like a white dove on her shoulder, and her sweet blue eyes from which all the angry light had fled, grew moist with the tears that would not be restrained. “Mr. Greyson, pardon me, pride and poverty are but sorry companions. I will sell you mv dead mother’s locket, accepting gladly your price for it. Ido not condemn you for Henry Barton’s faults, but my heart shrank from the thought of receiving a favor from one so nearly related to him. Forgive me if you can, and think gently of her who is your old friend’s child.” Walter Greyson looked down, with his heart in his eyes, on the beautiful young face, so pale and wan, foreing back the words of tenderness that struggled for utterance, the words of love he would have spoken to his dead Laura’s child. He took her hand in his, pressed it to his lips, and leaving a roll of bank-notes in it—left her alone. CHAPTER XXYVI. AMONG T EB GRAVES Rose looked after his retreating form in amaze- ment, puzzled to interpret aright the look in his eyes, and the tenderness of his voice when he had last addressed her. She was alone in the deserted cottage that had been her home, and in her hand held more money than she had ever dreamed, of possessing. Mrs. Wallace, her dear old friend, need not now be laid in pauper ground. This was the thought that filled her heart with joy, and with one last linger- ing glance around the lonely room, she wrapped her shawl close about her shoulders and hurried out again into the frosty air, turning her face in the direction that led to the place where only a dead woman awaited her. Her heart was full of new- born “hopes, and but for the dread uncertainty that hung like a pall over Archie Wallace’s fate, she would have been almost happy. “T could advertise for the position of gover- ness,” she mused; “I am surely capable of teach- ing young children; after all, life may not be all as dark and dreary as I have found it heretofore, there may be brighter days in store. “But oh, Archie! Archie! where in the wide world are you to-day. Not dead! not dead! my | heart would tell me if you were. Something is wrong I know, you would not forget us, your own dear mother and J, if you were able to hold a pen you would write to us. I will go to Boston, I will search for you to.satisfy my heart that all is well, but since you have chosen to keep silent, if I find that you have done so wilfully, I will never see your face again.” Musing thus, with her heart full of conflicting emotions, Rose hurried back to Mrs. Wallace’s residence, first stopping at an undertaker’s, and giving orders for a respectable funeral. The neighbors, who had anxiously awaited her return, met her with looks of surprise not un- mixed with suspicion. How had she obtained the money which she dealt out with a lavish hand? _. Whispers, that would have called the blood to her cheeks could she have heard them, passed from lip to lip, and many a pitying glance followed the fairy-like form of Rose, as she flitted about the remains of her old friend, performing little offices of love, smoothing the snowy hair back from the marble brow, folding the tired hands over the pulseless breast, and filling them with flowers worth almost their weight in gold, bought from a hot-house near. It was a labor she delighted in, a labor of love, and utterly unconscious of the suspicion she had aroused, Rose sat all night beside the coffin, some- times building plans for the future, musing on the strangeness of her meeting Walter Greyson, and again weeping softly to think that the cold form before her must be laid away in the cold grave, ere Archie had bidden a last farewell. On the morrow the body of Marion Wallace was: laid away to rest, and Rose, as chief mourner, followed it to the grave. She lingered long in the lonely spot where they had laid her, between the graves of her lost Jessie and sweet Minnie Deane. There was something in the peaceful spot that hada strange charm for her, It was so quiet, and she was so weary, so tired of the struggle for life that she longed to lay her head down under the pure white mantle of the snow, and sleep peacefully, dreamlesely, with no regrets for the past or fears for the future. Ah, Minnie! little friend, you would not change places with me to-day, would you? You are silent, you cannot answer, darling, Ob, why must the dead be ever mute; why can they not burst the bonds that hold them from the loved ones. who call vainly upon their names? Minnie! Mother! dear ones, how can you sleep so peace- fully, leaving me here all alone to mourn your loss ?” Rose had thrown herself, sobbing hysterically, on Minnie Deane’s grave. The passionate outburst of grief relieved her, and she arose, comforted and refreshed, for the memory of the divine words the minister had read over her old friend’s coffin came to her like an in- spiration, ‘‘Come to me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” A heartfelt prayer arose to her lips, the pure young heart was raised to the throne of grace, she had asked comfort from a source that never yet had failed her. Dashing the tears from her eyes, she turned away from the new-made graves, and was wend- ing her way back tothe lonely room where she intended to remain until she found employment of some kind. She was not yet out of the graveyard, when a small boy came running toward her, with a sealed letter or note in his hand. “Be yer name Miss Rose Mick-shell, lady ?” he panted breathlessiy, holding the note behind his back as if fearing she would take it from him by main force, “My name is Rose Michel, child; what cam you want of me ?” she cried, a grayish pallor over- spreading her face, and her hand going up invol- untarily to her heart, whose throbbing sha could | plainly hear,
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rd She had thrown back the heavy crape veil from her face, and the boy was gazing in open-mouthed admiration upon her, and holding out the note he had drawn from behind him while she spoke. She tore open the envelope with trembling fingers\and hastily perused the few lines it con- tained; “Rose Micue.: If you would see Archibald Wallace alive, follow bearer at once to the place where he lies. He calls constantly upon your name.” Tliis was all, these few brief lines, written in a scrawly, irregular hand, and without signature, yet it was enough to wring a cry of bitter an- guish from the heart of her who read it. “Go; I will follow you,” she said hoarsely, and the boy led the way—to what? CHAPTER XXVII. FOUL PLAY, You speak to me thus while your pulses are leaping . With the maddening warmth of a passion that kills, While conscience is silent and Reason is sleeping And the subtle tongue speaks what smpprit wills. If qo had a rich jewel, af would you impair it, ly purposely soiling its beauty so bright ? -— would it not rather delight you to wéar it ith not a ray from its Gappling. light. —Francis 8. Smrrs. Rose hurried along after her little guide, her sweet violet eyes full of silent agony, and a gray rigid pallor on her face, while from her parted lips came the anguished cry of a woman's love, infinitely tender; exquisitely sad. “Archie! Archie! Oh, God, if I should be too late—hurry, hurry, boy! why do you creep along like a snail, while he is dying ?” She was urging the boy to greater speed, not- withstanding the fact that she was obliged to run to keep pace with him. The little urchin grinned all over his dirty face but made noanswer. On, on, he lead her, along a lonely road that led out of the town, and breath- less and panting with fatigue and exhaustion she followed him, fleeing along like a spirit of the night, in her black robes and flowing crape veil. -“ We'll soon be there, miss,” exclaimed the boy, as they came toa turn in the road, where a close carriage was drawn up by the roadside. Rose glanced around her in sudden horror. ‘There was no house in sight, only the bleak and lonely road, bordered by leafless trees with ice- covered boughs. “Where'are you leading me,” she cried, asud- den suspicion flashing across her brain, The boy had no time to answer, for at this moment aman sprang out of the carriage and approached her, and with a thrill of unutterable horror she recognized her enemy, Henry Barton. Like a hunted deer she turned to fly, but his hand upon her arm detained her; and his low, mocking laugh fell like a knell of death upon her ear. He had tossed a bill to the boy who had guided lier into the snare, and: dismissed him with an imperative wave of the hand. “Now, my beauty, I will attend you to the car. riage, ’tis useloss to struggle, your brawny lover win not this time come to the rescue, I have provided for that emergency. You will, I know, forgive the little stratagem I used to lure you to my side, remembering that all stratagems are fair in love and war.” He was attempting to draw her toward the earringe as he spoke, but with a strength born of despair she wrenched herself free from his hand’s detested touch, and flew away from his side like a bird let loose from a cage. Barton laughed loudly at her futile attempt ‘to escape him, and forced her almost rudely to enter the waiting vehicle. The driver was evidently posted as to his directions, for Barton sprang in- to the carriage after Rose, while the man on the box cracked his whip, and started the horses at a brisk gallop. Rose was almost senseless with extreme terror. Ske was not naturally of a timid disposition, but slie had endured so much lately, that her daunt- Jess spirit seemed crushed and broken. ®e lay back among we cat’ .wge cushions, ——ooooooeeeoeeoeoeoooooooaoooaoooooooomamaoaoaoaooooommmm"|] ROSE MICHEL. ghastly pale, her great blue eyes widely dilated, and her breath coming in panting gasps, She was a always, rarely beautiful, but to-day as Henry” Barton’s eyes roamed over the lily-white face, something of the passion he had thought dead forever stirred in his heart, and his pulses leaped madly with the fire of a lawless love. Never to him had she appeared so exquisitely fair. The soft black, crape-trimmed robes she wore enhanced the wondrous purity of her com- plexion, and were such an improvement on the faded calico gown she had. been wont to wear. He knew from whence the money came with which she had purchased them, for when he visited his uncle’s home, on the day previous to that of which we write, and found that the sup- posed imbecile had gone out for a walk, some impulse, which he could not account for, led him to turn his face in the direction of the cottage that had been the home of Julian Michel D’Orme. He had arrived in time to see Rose enter its lowly door, and crouching below the low window he had heard every word of the conversation re- corded in a previous chapter. His heart had sickened with a horrible fear when he thought Walter Greyson was about to acknowl- edge the gir’ls claims. He had cursed Rose Michel in his heart for ex- posing to his uncle what little she did know of his villainy, and swore to follow her like a shadow until he had her again in his power. He was now fully satisfied that his uncle was indeed playing a part; that he was not, as he had all along pretended, forgetful of the past. Bar- ton congratulated himself on having learned the truth thus early, for he could now change his tac- tics, and by his gentleness and pretended affection for the unsuspecting man, vin back the love which he had once inspired He shadowed the girl’s footsteps to the door of Archie Wallace’s home, chancing to learn from the idle gossip of a group of tenants gathered near that old Mrs, Wallace was dead, and how deepty the w1, Rose, mourned her loss. He knew that at such a time there would be no chance of decoying het away and waited im- patiently for the morrow Leaving his duties in the factory in charge of the assistant floor-manager, he loitered round the house until the funeral left it, and then, hiring from a man who would have given his soul for the gold that was his idol, a close carriage, he drove into the lonely road above referred to, and despatched a messenger—the coach driver’s son— to deliver the false note to Rose Michel in the graveyard, where he knew she would be at the time. His plan had. succeeded well, and his heart thrilled with rapture as he studied the lovely pal- lid face opposite him, and the wide, dilated, fear- haunted eyes. Now, indeed, his time had come. He must bind ber to him by a chain that could not be broken, for he knew all hopes of inherit- ing his uncle’s fortune were dead, and only as the husband of Rose Michel could he ever expect to succeed to it, He would have given much to have won her consent to the union by fair means, but he knew that there was no possibility of her look- ing kindly on him. The thought enraged him beyond endurance, and catching her madly to his heart, he dared to press passionate kisses on her pure lips. She struggled wildly to release herself from his fearful embrace, but what availed her feeble ef- forts against his brute strength. She was entirely in his power, a helpless, inno- cent girl who had never harmed him, and yet there was no feeling of compassion in his evil heart. “Rose, Rose, forgiye me! I have no wish to harm you, but I love you so, pretty one, Will you give up this useless fighting with fate and be my own, my wife, Rose Michel, the honored mistress of my home ?”’ He had released the girl from his arms as_ he spoke, and she sprung to her feet, trying wildly to dash onen the door of the coach; but all in vain, they were too well secured, Finding herself indeed a prisoner, she turned on Barton with a look on her face that daunted —— — him, It was dark with desperation and despair, and the wild blue eyes seemed to emit sparks of fire, while the slender, willowy form, drawn to its fullest height, seemed to tower above him like an avenging angel. “You lie, Henry Barton, when you say you love me. You are my bitterest ememy; you are a coward and a libertine, and helpless as I am, and at your mercy, I have still the courage to defy you, The God of the orphan will not surely allow you to succeed in your hellish designs. No man who really loved a woman would be cruel to her as you have been to me. You say you are will- ing to make me your wife; I would rather die a death of keenest torture than stand with you be- fore the altar, and breathe yows that would be false as God is true. I fear you no longer, there is no room in my heart for anything but im- measurable contempt. Do your worst, you can but kill me, and death were kinder than. life with you; not to save that life, that is but a sorry boon, would I be yours,” The girl’s voice quivered with the passionate scorn that fired her heart, and for a moment they faced each other He, flushed and confused—she, pallid and grave— The master bowed at the glance of the slave. CHAPTER XXVIII. IN PERIL. Rose Micue.’s words had for a moment aroused in Barton’s heart a feeling of shame, and his eyes dropped beneath her unfaltering gaze, but not for long would he let conscience keep the mastery. As if angry at his momentary weakness, he again caught her arm in a rude grasp, and foreing her to a seat beside him hissed into her ear “Girl, you tell_me you would not be mine for your life’s sake; would you consent to save a life ten thousand times dearer to you than your own— the precious life of your gallant Scotch lover? Ay, you start and turn ghastly pale—where now is your defiance ? where your boasted scorn ?” The mention of Archie’s name, with the threat of menaced danger to him which Barton’s tone implied, seemed to chill the very blood in Rose’s veins, A thousand thoughts rushed madly through her tortured brain, What was she to think? Archie had made a deadly enemy of Barton by the blow which he had given him in her defense. Was he not also Barton’s rival ? What meant his long silence? Surely she hac arrived at a solution of the mystery at last—Bar- ton had something to do with his disappearance; what if—she drove back the horrible thought which arose before her like some horrible dream phantasy. With a feeling of unutterable horror she regarded the man who was perhaps her lover’s murderer. ; She tried to speak, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and only a low inarticulate ery came from her parted lips. Barton exulted in the fears he had aroused, and saw through her love for Archie Wallace a way to win her consent to a union with himself. The carriage was still flying over the level country road, the clattering of its glass windows making a rattle that almost drowned his voice when once again he speke, this time in a tone of conscious power, “Ah! my Lady Rose, you who profess to love this Wallace so well, will doubtless do much to save him from disgrace and ruin. You will even sacrifice your happiness, I should imagine, by the loving tone of some of the many letters you de- lighted in penning to him, some of which I carry at this moment in my pocket.” “My letters to Archie Wallace in your pocket 2” The words broke involuntarily from the poor girl’s parched lips, and her anguished face was gaised to his, white with the wild despair of her reart. “Yes! your letters to him in my pocket; and, what is better still, himself in my power—his honor, and his very life, I may say, in my hands to do with them as I will. Ah, Rose Michel, think you I would rest until I paid him the debt I owed him? You alone, of all the world, can save him from disgrace and dishonor, for, on the con. ditions which I will name to you, he shall be ra a
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—~&- eke ty and t leased from the prison cell where for weeks he has been confined, chafing like a caged lion against the fate which doomed him to be shut away from the world and the girl of his love.” Rose’s wild eyes flashed on him a look of im- measurable scorn, and her clear voice never fal- tered, as, dropping her hands from their convul- sive pressure on her heart, she answered him: “ Now you are lying again, Henry Barton ; you told me he was dead, , dead by your own hand, 1 would have believed you, but knowing Archie Wallace’s loyal nature, I would stake my soul’s salvation on his innocence of any crime that would condemn him to the law’s punishment. You have manufactured this story to frighten me into com- pliance with your wishes, but your plans will not succeed. You shall not conquer.’ Barton laughed loudly, and while she spoke drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket-book. When she paused he handed it to her nonchalantly, with the quietly spoken remark : “Since you doubt my word, Queen Rose, please cast your eye over this paragraph, which you could not possibly have missed had you read the Boston papers, reeclany since your lover left you.” snatched the paper from his hand, with the old look of terror deepening in her limpid vio- let eyes, and in a second had mastered its con- tents. It read as follows, and was headed: “DARING SAFE ROBBERY. “Early on Tuesday morning the patent iron safe belonging to the firm of Osgood & Miller was discovered, by one of the above-named gentlemen, open and rifled of its entire contents—gold and notes to the amount of $20,000. Suspicion was attached to an old porter, who was known to be a miser, but, strange to say, he was proved to be in- nocent. By a lucky chance Mr. Henry Barton, a gentleman from Lowell, an intimate friend of the junior partner, happened to be passing the factory late on the previous night and testified to the fact of having seen the engineer employed in the building, Archibald Wallace by name, proceeding from the lower floor of the factory in a very suspi- cious manner. “Wallace was at once searched, and, improb- able as it may appear, he had the assurance to keep a large part of the stolen money upon his person, and sworn to by the owners. Messrs, Osgood & Miller could scarcely believe the evidences of their own senses, for although Wallace had only been a short, time in the employ, tliey trusted him im- plicitly, believing him the soul of honor, “The criminal solemnly protested his i innocence, rs proof is against him, He has no friend in ton, and the woman in whose house he lodged swore that he had come home at the usual hour, but, could not say that he had not gone out again. “ Mr. Barton’s evidence, and that of the old por- first accused, and who swore to hav- allace examining the lock of the safe a A or two before, convicted Wallace immediately, and he none lies in the prison cell awaiting the ver- diet of the law.” read the account through, without a word or sign, and at its conclusion raised her tearless, aching eyes, full of passionate pain, and her quiv- ering lily-pale face, in all the bitterness of hope- less despair, to meet his triumphant glance fixed upon her steadily. “T understand it all,” shemoaned, ‘ You can- not deceive me. I know as well as you know in your guilty heart, that Archie Wallace is innocent of the crime laid to his door. I can understand your ee as well as if I were an actor init. You ¢ porter, whose thirst for gold you gratified, whom you made your accomplice, are implicated in the robbery. It was a plan made by yourself to entrap an innocent man, for Archie Wallace is in- nocent as you are guilty.” Again the villain shrank from the pure, young ereature Who seemed striving to read his inmost thoughts and to penetrote the dark depths of his uilty heart, but he would not let her notice his Hiscomfitare, and in a tone of calm composure re- pli Sa supposing your hastily avtived at conclu. sions to be correct, what are you going to do about it? What would your suspicions do to clear him ? ROSE MICHEL. would your words be taken—even supposing I allowed you out of my sight long enough to give utterance to them—a homeless, penniless girl, who has lived on his charity, under the shelter of his roof, would it not be natural that you should try to save him? Would the oath of one oceupy- ing such doubtful relations to the accused, be | taken before that of a gentleman of my standing had | in society? Ah no, my pretty Rose, you can only hope to save him by submitting yourself to my guidance. When you are my wife his prison door shall be opened, and not before.” CHAPTER XXIX. PLOTTINGS FOR THE DARK. We will now for a time return to our hero, Ar- chie Wallace, whom we left on his journey to Bos- ton, with a heart full of love for his gentle, blue- eyed Rose, and many fond hopes of future success and prosperity. He was loyal and true to the very heart’s core, and such natures as his are always confiding and unsuspicious. Consequently, when among the passengers on their arrival at the Bos- ton depot, he recognized Henry Barton’s face, he was surprised, to be sure, but had no suspicion that the object which had brought him hither was to watch his own movements. He had enough to think of without giving the matter further consid- 21 What if I should breathe into your STE PL ET ET TN ae EN Pa Le ne pI fa ther-in-law’s ear Sadie Ray’s sad story ?”” A groan of mortal terror burst from the ashen lips of Barton's listener, and he sank back into his chair like one suddenly ‘bereft of str ength, “Great God!” he groaned, the cold sweat standing out in beads on his forehead. “ Why do you wish to ruin me, Harry Barton? why have you kept my secret all these years, only to crush me to the earth at last? My God! what have I done to merit such treatment at your hands ?” Barton stood calmly by, contemplating the trembling, white-faced wretch before him, exult- ing in the misery he was causing, for the pure pleasure of seeing a fellow-being in pain, dealt out by his hand. After a few moments of silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of the terror-stricken Miller, Barton spoke: “Theo, you are certainly very courageous, I have not threatened to betray you, I was merely testing your memory. Your secret is safe as far as I am concerned—that is, providing you assist me ina little scheme of mine. Will you be will- ing to lend me your aid ?” Miller's haggard face brightened, and he sprang to his feet as if new life had been instilled into his frame. “Yes, yes, Harry. When did I ever refuse you any help I could afford you? Command my-ser- eration, tind with his little bundle under his arm, | vices now as ever—speak, what would you have he hastened to the factory where he was. to be | employed. As he had once shadowed the foot- steps of Henry Barton, that gentleman now fol- lowed his, never losing sight of him until he dis- appeared inside the walls ef Osgood & Miller’s manufactory. A gleeful chuckle escaped Barton’s lips when he read the name of the proprietors on the gilded sign above the entrance: “Oscoop & MuLver.” “Theodore Miller, my old college friend, I will pay you an unexpected visit to-day, my boy, and aside from the pleasure your company will give me, I will learn from you what I want to know concerning Rose Michel's lover. He is employed here, I have no doubt, and you can probably tell me whether or not he is married to the girl: ; and if she has preceded him hither. Great He aven ! if this should be the case I think I could murder the infernal Scotch hound without a moment’s com- punction. TI would crush the life out of that ath- letic form of his, and laugh at her agony.” With such thoughts as these Barton waited un- til Wallace again emerged from the building, and then sought the presence of Theodore Miller, the junior partner of the wealthy firm. He was a-man of about Barton's age, pale, sick- ly, and’ effeminate-looking, with an abundance of yellowish hair, and large, restless, shifting blue ytent ted Barton with half-reluetitit cordiality, tha td ered him into his private office with the restless look deepening in his watery eyes. “Why, Harry, the sight of*your familiar face is really retest IT assure you; how is your wife on reatigs beg your pardon, your wife is le: ” Pe gichc/ ten years,” interrupted Barton, the sarcastic tone of his voice grating harshly on on itillews ear. ‘What a wonderful retentive memory you have, Theo; I wonder if you have forgotten a certain little affair that occurred in our college days in which a pretty little dark-eved fairy called Sadie Ray figured prominently—has your memory failed in that also ?” Theodore Miller’s face had grown white as the winter's snow, and he was trembling like a leaf in a gale. He sprang from the chair, into which he had fallen, at Barton’s first words, and grasped his arm convulsively, crying out in a low, hoarse voice : “Tn the name of Heaven why do -you remind me of this? What means your menacing looks and tone? You are speaking with a purpose, I know.” “T will'tell you just what it means, Theodore Miller; it means that I know your secret. . The girl Sadie is alive, and yet you have dared to wed the only daughter and heiress of Oscar Osgood, me do?” Barton waved his hand impatiently, exclaim- ing: is This is neither the time. nor the place for such confidence, Meet me ig at eight o'clock at my hotel—Parker’s, you know, and we will there talk the matter over—by the way, Theo, who was that tall, broad-shouldered fellow who left the building jnst as I entered it; the one with the bundle under his arm ?” Miller looked up quickly, and his pale, blue eyes seemed to be searching his questioner’s face as he answered : “Why, that was our new engineer, Archibald Wallack, or Wallace, he called himself, and un- less he deceived us grossly, he occupied ‘the same position in your uncle’s factory in Lowell only a few months ago, Strange that you should not have recognized him,” Barton laughed softly, but made no other. an- swer, and with a few commonplace remarks they parted, Miller promising to be with him at the ap- pointed hour, Barton walked directly to the hotel, where he. ordered a hearty meal, and settled himself in an easy chair before a glowing grate fire, where be- tween smoking, reading and occasional potations from a cut glass decanter at his elbow he passed his time, until, just as the gilded clock on’ the mantel rang our the hour of eight, Theodore Mil- ler was announced. “My dear, Theo! you are punctual IT must say,” he cried, grasping his visitor’s hand with affected cordiality, pushing him down into the seat from which he had just arisen, and Gaving forward anotlier for himself. For nearly three hours they conversed in low, guarded tones, and when at last they parted Miller’s fears for the safety of his secret had van- ished. “Tt is rather a risky undertaking Barton, and yet I think it will succeed. "We can readily trust. the job into old Graball’s hands, for with such rich booty in his possession he will swear a hun- dred false oaths, if necessary, rather than relin- quish it. The rest can be easily I will bring you every letter that comes for him in our care, and carry out your orders to the letter.” These were Miller’s parting words, spoken in a whisper as Barton was bidding him good-night. CHAPTER XXX. THE PRISONER. Tae plot which Barton and Miller had been concocting was one penis | to destroy the hap- piness of Archie Wallace, and dishonor on bis name. re too well the plans they had formed ‘suc.
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ROSH MICHEL. “Wallace won the esteem! and respect of the senior partner, Mr. Osgood; and for a time: all went well. He hired cheap lodgings in @ retired street, and for a few weeks Rose’s letters came to him, like rays of Heaven’s sunlight into his lonely toilsome life. All through the long, wearying days the thought of the tiny white missive that would be waiting for - him in his scantily-furnished garret-room, cheered his heart, and lightened his arduous labors. At last he grew so impatient of the long delay that must intervene from the time he left his lodg- ing in the morning till he returned at night, that he wrote to Rose, telling her to direct her letters to the factory, that they might sooner reach his eager hands. After this one letter came, and then a long. si- lence followed, and the little white messengers of hope and joy ceased altogether. » \He wrote once, twice, and no answer came, and ‘then a trouble greater than any he. had ever known came. upon him. He went to the factory at the usual time one morning, after a sleepless might passed in a thousand vague conjectures as ‘to the cause of Rose’s silence. She might be ill, dying, perhaps, and his mother out of considera- ‘tion for his feelings be loth to send the sad tid- ings. ~ “Phis was the thought that rose oftenest to his mind, and on the morning of which we write he entered the engine-room pale and worn-looking, and with the bluish circles under his eyes that be- “token a sleepless night. ’ He had not yet started the machinery when the ‘old porter—Graball he had been christened by the “workmen on accodnt of his grasping, miserly habits—came into the room im evident excite- “ment, to summon Wallace to the office of Mr. Os- good. There was a strange look on the old partner's face, and a stranger look in his round, bead-like eyes that the engineer did not notice, and just for an instant the old man looked after the towering form of Wallace as he walked away toward the “door that led to the lower office ; then hastily re- “entering the engine-room, he glanced around him rapidly, his bleary old eyes brightening as they fell upon the coat which Wallace had just hung upon a peg behind the door. ~~ Quick as lightning a roll of gold and a package “of backs were transferred from his own pocket to the inside breast pocket of the coat “hanging behind the door, and with a gleeful ‘@huckle old Graball stole unperceived from the spot. - Poor Archie, innocent and unconscious of the blow in store for him, entered Mr. Osgood’s pres- What then was his surprise to find himself touched on the arm by a policeman, and hear the ominous words—“ Archibald Wallace, you are «my prisoner !” ‘Me, my friend? What haveI done to merit this outrage?” he cried shaking the officer's hand from: bis arm. as if the touch were pollution, and turning his wondering hazel eyes from face to Mr. Osgood shook his head, and his voice had more of regret than anger in it, when approaching the prisoner, he said: “Do not try to brave it out. Wallace, you rob- bed my safe before daylight this morning. A gen- tleman saw you creep atealthily from the building, | and is willing to swear to the fact. There is no ~ use of ——” “ Where is the gentleman who is my accuser ?” , interrupted Wallace, in clear, sonorous tones that rang through the silent room like the notes of the slogan among his native highland hills. “ He is here,” replied the mild voice of Mr. Miller, and turning on his heels Archie Wallace stood face to face with Henry Barton. .., For @ moment not a word was spoken. Accuser > ae cig aes Apt es aces nate “Phe two faces. would have made 4 study a 00 eae Yieone, evil, crafty, exultant and sneer- now ont He otter apie and candid but dikeied ns ea s +7 | ~ wh he “by the imm aitabt scorn and contemipt which i, overheard a conversation which led him Barton’s villainy evoked, — —— ee a OS “I might have known this; was your work, Henry Barton,” he said, quietly. There was nothing in the words themselves, but there was that in the voice in which they were spoken tha’ caused Mr. Osgood to glance sharply into Barton’s face. It was turned partly from him, but he could see the dark red flush that had crept up to. his very brow. ‘“‘ By Heaven! if ever I saw guilt written on a human face, I see it in that of yonder gentleman,” thought Osgood while the officer of the law pre- pared to do his duty and remove Wallace to prison. “Leave your prisoner with me, I will be an- swerable for hissafety, while you search his room ; his address is in our books. Search his clothes and his person, and if no trace of the property stolen be found, he'shall not be convicted on one person's evidence.” Mr. Osgood glanced full into Barton’s face as he spoke, but the latter betrayed no sign of having understood the covert threat contained in the words Search was made accordingly in the poor place Wallace called his home, but. no. trace of the money was discovered. The searchers found one thing in the. garret- room that served to strengthen their suspicion. Wallace’s bed had not been slept in during the previous night. The engine-room was next visit- ed, and every place, probable and | improbable, where a bank-note could be stowed away, was diligently searched. They had almost given up the search, when opening the door suddenly one of the men knocked the coat, in which old Graball had hidden the money, down upon the floor. The jingle of gold was heard as it fell, and a dozen hands were eagerly outstretched to grasp the garment. Out rolled the little package of gold and greenbacks, and in a few moments Archie Wallace was on his way, for the first time in his life, to a prison, loaded with disgrace, condemned and despised by the employer whose esteem he had striven so hard to retain, branded as a thief and separated by a barrier worse than death, from the aged mother who depended for bread to sustain life on the labor of his hands, and from the beau- tiful girl whom he loved so well, his heart’s best treasure, And this was Barton's work. CHAPTER XXXII. IN THE TOILS. WaALLace was at once tried before a court of justice, and convicted of the crime of which he was as innocent as the child unborn. 4 Barton’s demoniacal. plan had worked well. He had of course intercepted Rose’s letters to Wal- lace, and obtained possession of several written by the latter, which were never allowed to reach their destination. Consequently he knew just where to find her on his return to Lowell. When he reached his home after the imprison- ment of his rival, he found Clarice, the one being iu all the wide world whom, he really loved, ill with a fever. Fora few days every other thought was swallowed up in the wild fear that almost paralized his heart as he stood by his child’s bed of suffering, and looked into the burning, fever- ishly bright eyes, and watched the pretty golden head tossing restlessly on the heated pillow Ail through the long hours of the night he, watched beside her, bathing her fevered brow, and administering the medicine that had been left for her on a table by the bedside. The struggle between life and death was very evenly balanced, and more than once he thought the breath had left the little body, but it was not to be, and often during the years of woe that came to him he wished in bitter agony that it had been otherwise. : When Clarice was out of danger he returned | § with redoubled vigor to the plans and schemes which were to secure toher the fortune of her wealthy grand-uncle. He sauntered into the reading-room of the hotel to look over the morning paper, on the fourth day of Clarice’s convalescence, and as we have before to fear his uncle’s imbecility was only a pretense to test the depth of his affection for him, and the worthiness of his heir expectant. As we have before related, he followed his uncle to the cottage on the hillside, and to his in- tense delight found Rose Michel there, The words she had spoken in deterioration of himself strengthened his purpose; and he swore to make her his before auother week had passed. How he succeeded in entrapping her we have already seen. He watched her pale, grave, anguished face without a gleam of pity in his eyes, knowing that he had gained the mastery over bi and exulting in the pain he had dealt er. Rose’s heart was full of a thousand conflicting emotions. She knew she need expect no mercy at his hands, and that there was unfortunately no chance of her being able to save Archie Wallace from the fate to which this evil genius of her life ‘had doomed him. That she would accede td his wish, and be his wife she never once believed pos- sible. The sound of his voice was unutterably hateful to her; the touch of his hand sent a shudder of repulsion through her entire being. How then could she Consent, even to save the life so dear to her, to be his wife ? ; Pes Her very soul turned sick’ with horror, and a convulsive shudder shook her from head to foot. Parg* For some time only the sound of the rumbling wheels and the rattling of the window glass broke the silence. At last Barton spoke: “Well, Rose, have you concluded to act like “a sensible girl? have you given up the useless struggle? Will you let me driveto a clergyman who will tie the knot that makes us man and wife ? Your lover shall be freed within twenty-four houts. Come, girl, give me your answer, but think well before you refuse, I am giving you the chance for the last time; should you still fight against the inevitable—well, I can only warn you that you are in my power, andI can force your compliance. Archie Wallace cannot live much longer in con- finement; he is already worn to a shadow; the shame attached to his name and the enforced sep- aration from his mother are killing him; he begged me to compass his release, so you see he has forgotten that pride that agreed so well with his poverty. I told him on what condition he could hope for mercy, and he urged me to ask you, for his mother’s sake, to agree to my terms, Will you heed his wish, Rose ?” ane Despite the agoniziiig pain that tugged at her heart-strings Rose could not forbear smiling, and again her clear eyes daunted him. e “Do you think I am a child, or an idiot, to be- lieve the vile slanders you so bunglingly invent to break my spirit? Bah! Henry Barton, Archie Wallace would die, a8 the martyrs did of old, a death of torture rather than owe his life to you. He loves me as the man loves the woman whom he would take for a life partner, and rather than see me in your power he would bury a knife in my heart. You have some of my letters to him, you say; perhaps so; you are fully capable of stealing them from his room when he was not there to defend them, but you never received them from his hands. I could stake my hopes of hea- ven on that.” aiis The tone of scathing scorn in which the words were spoken enraged him terribly. He knew they were all true, and because he could not triumph over the girl, and make her believe her lover false, he could have strangled her in his blind rage. “Fool! you shall suffer for this, Your devoted knight shall be tortured by doubts and fears that will make life unendurable ; you shall be ‘a wit- ness to his suffering, and your heart will be wrung with the sight of his agony !” mis S Rose moaned aloud, for before her mind’s eye arose the picture of Archie, suffering alone ‘in a loomy prison cell, with no gleam of light to cheer the darkness of his heart—no word of love to bid him hope. se ne In the sad, wild longing that came upon her to see his face, to clasp his hand once more, only once more, she flung herself down on the floor of the carriage at Barton’s feet-—her pride forgotten, her love alone pada Beg He A He TS per t ; 1 i ee ee | « — ted ee Qe ee ee —
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‘-oofTake me to him,” she wailed ; “let me look upon his face, touch his forehead with my lips, and Iwill grant you any boon. Give him liberty ; let me tell him he shall be free, and I will give eomiy life into: your keéping—and end it in the same dour 1” The last sentence was spoken under her breath. Barton only realized that she had given her promise to be his wife, and his dark face grew radiant » with joy, while he tried to raise her in his arms. She shrank from the touch of his hand with a . passionate cry of expulsion, and exclaimed: “ No, no, do not touch me; not yet, not yet, not until your compact is fulfilled. Not until I see him once more, for the last time; not until I part from » him forever.” CHAPTER XXXIIL PAST AND PRESENT. _. Her word once given, Barton knew he might rely upon it, and his heart was lightened of a ‘heavy load, for the days when a man may with im- " punity force a woman into an unwilling marriage, existed only in novels, and by a marriage with Rose Michel he could only hope to share Walter ‘Greyson’s property. He could easily gain for her admittance into the prison where Wallace was confined, and he knew the marks of suffering on the noble, proud face would strengthen her in her “resolution to save him at the price of her own ~ happiness. He had no power to work Wallace’s release ex- _cept by condemning himself, and this he had no notion of doing. What cared he for this ? once the girl was tied to him he could laugh at her ' agony, and laugh to contempt her accusations and reproaches. In. the .meantime, until he could take her to Boston, and make her his wife, he must keep her under his own eye, lest. she should leafn that which would cause her to take back her promise. The carriage stopped at last before the door of a little country inn, and Barton handed Rose out. She was faint and ill, and unable to contend with im. “You shall be my sister to-night, Rose ; I will bid you farewell at your chamber door. Sleep well, and remember that before another sun sets, ‘you will have bidden the old life and its associa- tion adieu forever, and have started on a new ex- istence.”” » ; ~ ‘With these words whispered in her ear as he conducted her to the chamber he had hired for “her, Barton entered the room he was himself to occupy, which was situated directly opposite that of Rose, across the hallway. ~ A new existence indeed,” the poor girl mur- “mured, throwing herself on her knees before the _bed and giving way to the passionate grief that was breaking her heart. ' ’ Raising her eyes toward Heaven, those great, “blue, wistful eyes, wild with hopeless despair, she “tried to pray, but the words on her lips were not echoed by her heart, and great convulsive sobs ‘reached her breast. . “My God! my God! if I end this torture, if I “end this dreadful agony, can the suicide’s punish- ‘ment excel the horror of this wretched life. Oh, ‘Archie, Archie, my love, my darling! it is for -your sake—for your sake, only to see your face once more—and then to die.” All through the long, dreary hours of the night Rose Michel lay prone upon the floor, suffering as ‘few of her tender years had ever suffered, tired; ‘oh, God, how tired of life, and its mysteries, while the man whom she had rightly named her “evil genius,” slept peacefully as if no burden of uilt was on his soul, slept lightly and dreamless- yas an innocent child, whose young life had “known no shadow of grief or sin. . The face of the girl whom he had rendered so ‘unutterably miserable did not haunt him, nor did that of the dead father whose calm, handsome face he had looked upon in the coffin, or the an- “gel mother whose sister had been his own parent, “and with whom she had played in happy ehild- hood’s days. ; His conscience was dead, he was utterly heart- ‘less and unfeeling, and his cousin was no more to ‘him than an utter stranger. The sun was shining bright into the room when ROSE MICHEL, » 28 Rose aroused herself, and attempted to regain her composure. She remembered the journey upon which she was that day going, and removing her shawl she proceeded to bathe her tear-swollen face. Chancing to glarice in the glass hanging above the little wash-stand, she uttered a cry of horror. Was that ghastly, rigid face, the same of which she had been so innocently proud in the happy twilight hours gone forever, when dear old moth- er Wallace nodded over her knitting in the chim- ney corner, and Archie read to them from some tender old romances, pausing now and then to press his lips on the shining curls of golden hair, as she sat on a low chair beside him, sewing in the light of the blazing wood fire. “My God! what a change, what a dreadful change,” she moaned, “and what a short time has worked this change. Ah, Father above, you were kinder to the aged woman whom you called away from earth. She sleeps peacefully, and at rest, while her beloved boy pines in a prison cell, and I—no, no! I must not think of myself, or I will go mad ere I have seen his face, I must not let him see how much I have suffered, I must try to be calm, though my heart breaks in the struggle —hark, I hear his footstep. How my brain reels, and my heart sickens at the thought of him. Bah, how I detest him! I would suffer the tor- tures of the condemned rather than endure life with him.” Henry Barton’s knock sounded upon the door at this moment, and hastily tying on her hat, and drawing her crape veil over her face, she opened it, and passed out, lest) he should enter and have a chance of speaking with her alone. “ Why, my darling! you are looking as fresh as a daisy this morning, did you enjoy a good night’s fest?” he asked, sarcastically, noting, even through the thick folds of herveil, the deadly pal- lor of her face. She followed him into the narrow dining-room and drank a cup of coffee, forcing it down when it almost choked her, that her strength might not fail her, until she reached her journey’s end. When the scanty meal was ended, he motioned her toward the carriage, the same that had brought them hither, offering her his hand to assist her to enter. She did not touch it, but sprang into the vehi- cle without his aid, and turning her face from him, gazed out of the window, with eyes that saw not that on which they looked. Barton did not disturb her, his mind was busy with plans for the future. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE JOURNEY. Ir was the most wretched journey Rose had ever taken, that morning ride to Boston, in Henry Barton’s company. It was a clear, calm day, very cold, but with a sun that shone so intensely bright its brillliant rays seemed to mock her grief. As the train rattled along over meadows and woodland, her thoughts were all of him to whom every revolution of the iron wheels. were bringing her nearer and nearer—the man whom she love with all the strength and devotion of a woman’s heart, the man whose pulse had been wont to thrill at the sound of her voice or the touch of her hand. ‘On what an errand was she going! Tosee him in a prison cell, innocent of crime, suffering through the villainy of another, and that other—great Heaven! bow her brain reeled, how her soul sick- ened within her as she thought of the promise she had made him, to be his wife if he saved him from the fate to which he had so mercilessly doomed him. His wife’ his wife, when every chance touch of his hand filled her with loath- ing tunutterable, when the sound of his detested voice struck the chill of death to her heart. “My God, what a fate! what a terrible fate ! but there is one release, thank Heaven, and one desperate step will end it all—oh, Archie, love, it is for your sake, for your sake, my darling,” she whispered, as the train drew near its destination, and Barton’s voice aroused her ‘om the reverie into which she had fallen. me aoe “Come, Rose, we are at our journey’s end. When we travel again you will be my wife—nay, do not shudder, there are many wealthy .and tal- ented ladies who would envy you the honor I am conferring upon you.” Rose made no reply, save one quick glance of her blue eyes that made him drop his. own; and when they were stepping, out. upon the platform at the station, she refused him her hand when he would have assisted her to alight. He shut his teeth hard to keep back the ‘angry words that rose to his lips, and called a cab, ordering its driver to convey them to the prison in which Wallace was so unjustly confined. Rose never once thought,in her innocence. of the world and its ways, that to obtain a pardon for the prisoner, Barton would be obliged to for- swear himself, and revoke his former testimony. Had she once thought of this she would have seen how unfounded were her hopes, how useless her sacrifice. ‘ While she fondly hoped that by her sacrifice she was purchasing freedom for her loved Archie, Barton was laughing in his sleeve at his success in so duping her, it would, be a glorious -revenge for him to make her his ‘wife, and when she was. tied to him irrevokably, crush her to the earth by a knowledge of his treachery. He could not have explained the nature of his feelings toward her. She was beautiful as the ‘lily maid of Astalot,” pure as an angel, gentle and loving; as is the nature of one so innocent and true, yet he hated her. In every glance of her pure violet eyes, in e varying expression of her ever-changing, ever- beautiful face, he could read the scorn and con- tempt she could not hide. He was, as she believed, rich and powerful, and that she should prefer to him a poor tradesman, galled him beyond power of endurance. She was his cousin, and since his uncle had discovered his unworthiness, he knew that Rose would be chosen in his place, and that himself and his idolized child would be deprived of the wealth they had expected to inherit when that uncle died. Once Rose was his. wife the property was secure, for as man and wife they would of course be one, and their interests be:identiecal. Rose might—like a captive bird beating its wings against its prison bars—struggle and chaff at the hands that made her his own, but what would it avail her ? He laughed aloud, as the carriage bore them nearer and nearer to the prison, as he thought of his triumph and its anticipated results. Rose sat like a statue carved in marble, motionless, and almost as white and cold. How should she meet her lover, how speak her farewell to him ? ) He must not know what she was about to do for his sake. She knew he would rather a thou- sand times die a languishing death within the pris- on’s gloomy walls. than that she should be doomed to such a fate. “ He must not know it, no! no! I would rather he believed me faithless, I would rather he de- spised me, and make himself {happy in another's love, than that his heart be broken by a knowledge of the truth.” These were the words she would have spokem could she have unburdened her breaking heart, these were the unselfish thoughts that filled her brain, as the coach drew up before the gray-look- ing pile which constituted the city prison. “Remain where you are for a moment, while I seek permission for you to enter,” Barton ex- claimed, and left her for nearly half an hour alone in the carriage. The moments dragged like hours, and Rose’s tortured heart seemed breaking. — Through what a terrible ordeal must she pags. Everything that she had suffered heretofore sank into insignificance before the parting that was be- fore her, and when at last she saw Barton return- ing for her, she threw her harids over her eyes with the anguished cry: 3 wily “Oh, Father in heaven, give me strength; for without thy aid I cannot endure it.” Barton’s hand fell somewhat heavily on her shoulder, and his deep voice aroused het from ber trance of grief. ut Soe a ae eee etl ilies a poor ————— WOOO
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24 ROSE MICHEL. “Come along, Rose; through my intercession, | prison, the lonely watcher behind the grating half-an-hour’s interview is granted you. Say all | utters a cry of astonishment, and his hazel eyes yoo have to say inthat time, and bid him a last | flash and sparkle ominously. farewell, for when you meet again, you meet as strangers ; there can be no friendship between the wife of Henry Barton and a released prisoner.” Rose could: not command her voice to speak, but the crimson tide of anger rushed hotly to cheek and brow, and her blue eyes flashed omin- ously, With steps that trembled so that she was forced to accept the'support of his arm, she walked up the path that led to the prison entrance, where a keeper met them with a bunch of keys in his hands. “Follow this person, Rose, he will lead you to Wallace’s cell. Iwill stay in the waiting-room until, you rejoin me. Remember, your time is limited to half-an-hour,” said Barton, in the quick, imperative tone of one used to command. ith a heart throbbing so wildly that she could plainly hear its loud pulsations, Rose followed the keeper through winding halls and corridors, until at-last he paused and inserted a key in the lock of one of the low iron doors. The dreaded moment had come at last. OHAPTER XXXY. DOUBTS AND FEARS. Avone in his narrow cell, with its damp stone walls and tiny grated window, looking out upon the court-yard before the prison, Archie Wallace sat upon the rude bed, with his: head bent forward on his clasped hands, thinking of the poor old mother whose face he would never see on earth again. “Oh, dear old mother, what would I not give to clasp you im my arms once more, how your poor “Henry Barton!” he exclaims. “ What can bring him here? God grant he has not come to taunt and mock me, for if there be power in my arm, or courage in my heart, 1 will stretch him dead at my feet if he enters my presence to-day.” The blue veins were swollen like whip-cords on his forehead, and his hands were clenched so tightly that the sharp nails cut deep into his palms, Archie Wallace was a good man, brave, and loyal to the heart’s core, but Barton had taxed him too far, and human nature eould endure no more. It would not have been well for Henry Barton had he dared to intrude his hated presence on the man whom he had wronged so terribly. Archie’s face was whiite to the very lips, and when the keeper’s key grated in the lock of his cell door, he trembled from head to foot—not with fear, but with the intense passion that would not be controlled. ‘“‘ ] will be back for you in half-an-hour, miss,” said the keeper, in a gruff voice; and the Jady in black, who had aceompanied Barton, was ushered into the cell, and the door locked on the outside. The heavy evape veil she wore concealed her fea- tures, and Wallace stood motionless, waiting for her to speak, wondering vaguely who she could be, and what was her business with him. Something in the slender, willowy figure, andthe erect: car- riage of the small, regal head, reminded him of Rose Michel, but he never harbored the thought that this was she—this well-dressed woman whom he had seen alighting from a carriage with his bit- terest enemy. The visitor seemed to be pausing to summon strength to speak, and at last, with a cry that chill- ed the life-blood in his veins threw back her veil, heart must ache for me, my loving mother; but|and stood revealed in the dim light of the prison you know J. am innocent, you would not believe me guilty, though all the world condemned me,” Often, oh, so often, he repeated this assurance over and ever again, as though it comforted him. The-mother'spirit seemed to hover round him, for sleeping, his dreams were of her, and waking, his mind dwelt on her continually. His love for Rose was the one passion of his life, yet strange to say, after the first few days of his imprisonment, when he tried to think of herin all her glorious beauty and sweetness, the kindly old face, and drooped white bead of his parent rose in its place. » There came no heaven-born inspiration to tell him ‘that the cheery old voice had for him no more a welcome, and that the eyes which had ever met his own with glances of love and tenderness, were closed forever; and hidden away under the cold, damp’ sods of the earth. On’ the day of which we write, as he sat inthe dreary prison cell whose silence was only broken by the sounds of drunken cries and moans of lamen- tation from adjoining cells, Archie's: mind dwelt on the dear ones he had left with hopeful hearts, but’tearfal faces, in the humble Lowelltenement, “Rose! my darling Rose! will never let poor mother want for anything that her lovifig’care can provide. She will work for her, even as she “worked for the father who isogone; ‘but oh my love! my heart’s darling, how can I live for years confined by prison walls, while you are toiling your young life away, to provide for the wants of my mother ?” The words broke from the prisoner’s heart like a wail of despair, and rising from the bed He paced the narrow limits of his cell like a caged lion, pausing at last before the little grated window, and pressing his face against the iron bars. The azure blue of the wintry sky was beautiful beyond compare to his weary eyes, and he stood for some time gazing up at it as the galley slave on the green fields and fertile meadows his eet may tread no more. The sound of carriage wheels stopping before the prison entrance suddenly attracted his atten- tion, and glancing downward he sees a gentleman assisting a slender, little black-robed figure from the coach, which has indeed stopped before the door. . As the gentleman turns his face towards the cell—Rose Michel, indeed, the girl.on whose fidel- ity he would have fearlessly staked his existence, For the first: moment of rapture her presence gave him, Arehie forgot in whose company she had come; forgot everything but that she was near him, that her pure eyes were seeking his face, and with a glad cry he sprang forward and. caught her in his arms, straining her close to his desolate, aching heart. For a moment she clung to him wildly, nest- ling close to him, likea frightened bird, and re- turning his passionate, lingering kisses, Then she drew herself, shivering, from his embrace, and knelt at his feet, covering his hands with her tears, which had burst forth asif the flood-gates of her soul had opened. Her head had fallen back, and all her wealth of golden hair streamed in cloudlike masses round her shoulders, while a ray of sunlight, entering the barred window, fell full. upon the lovely, upturned face, tear-drench- ed now, like alily beaten down by.a summer shower. There was, something so-expressive of remorse, and even shame, in that beautiful, upward-turn- ed countenance, that Archie drew away from her with a hoarse groan, She tried to speak, but her tongue refused to obey her will, and as Guinever grovelled at the feet of/her betrayed lord with her golden head low in the dust, so now crouched his beloved Rose, with the look of a Magdalen on the face he had been wont to think pure as one of Heaven’s angels. With a violence of which he was not himself aware, he dragged her to the light of the window, crying out ina voice that he would not have nized as) his : “My God! Rose Michel, what means this look of guilt.and fear upon your face? Why do you kneel to me and bathe my hands with your tears ; and now that I think of it why—-oh Heaven! why do I see you in the society of the man who sought your ruin, and who placed me_ here? Speak, Rose, speak quickly. My God! what is this terror that ereeps into my heart? Why do I dread to hear the tones of the voice that was sweeter to me than any earthly music ?” CHAPTER XXXVI. FAREWELL, Wanvacr’s passionate words rang in Rose’s ears ——_ like the ery of a broken heart, and by an almost superhuman effort, she controlled her agitation and raised herself from the crouching attitude at his feet. “Archie,” she whispered, smiling up at him through her tears, “Archie, do not look so strangely at me, it will break my heart. Ob, Archie, Archie, love! I could not live if you were here confined in this terrible place, innocent of crime—for I know you are guiltless. I—I have good news for you, dear, you shall be free ere the dawn of another day; you shall be free, do you hear, Archie? Are they not blissful words? free tae”? Her voice choked her, she could notcontinue ; how could she tell him there would be no kindly mother’s voice to weleome him no word of love to cheer his lonely heart, how should she tell him that henceforth they must be as strangers, he and she, as.strangers forevermore, She must not breath the truth to him yet, for sooner than owe his liberty to the promised wife of Henry Barton she knew he would dash his brains out against the stone walls of his prison cell. He noticed her hesitation, but in. the. simplici- ty of his honest heart he did not wrong her by one suspicion, and for a moment he gazed at her in silence. Her blue eyes fell beneath his steady glance, and again the hot blood dyed her cheeks. Taking her in his arms, and folding her—as a mother folds a weary child-—to his breast, he kissed the down-dropped lids and the tremulous lips fondly. “My darling! My own dear love! I know what you would say; you will tell me that I will be free to claim my little bride, my heart’s best earthly treasure. Oh, Rose, if you knew how my heart has hungered for you, how I have yearned for a sight of that sweet face in the dreary solitude of this wretched cell, all through the long dark hours of the night, and when the sun shone bright on the outer world. My dear one, if my innocence is indeed made clear at last, and as you say I will be free once more, how happy we willbe. My darling Rose—my dear old mother and I—ah, little one, Heaven has blessed me in your love. I will be reinstated in my posi- tion in Osgood’s factory if my innocence is estab- lished, and we will all live in Boston so happily, in the humble home which I will provide for my dear ones.” Archie was speaking dreamily, and half uncon- sciously, his handsome face bright with anticipa- tions of the happy future, and his clear hazel eyes, with the lovelights shining in their misty depths, fixed full upon her face. Rose shivered, as if every word he uttered cut into her heart like a keen-ed dagger, and shrank away out of the reach of his arms, The time had come when she could no lon deceive him, she must wring his honest heart with an agony that only strong men can suffer and en- dure, and with desperate calmness she began the task. “Archie! we may never be happy in the way you mention, your mother: mm “My mother! what of her, Rose ?* Your looks frighten me ; you tremble and you ttn pale when you speak of her; is she ill?” Archie interrupted, eagerly scanning Rose’s face. * She is not ill, Archie, she is happier—oh, God! how much happier than you or I. She will suffer no more, no more forever.” “Dead! dead! my mother!” moaned Archie, with a groan that seemed to rend his heart, as he dropped his head on the stone window-edge, his strong form trembling convulsively. Rose had no words with which to comfort him, and for a moment his heavy breathing alone dis- turbed the solitude. At Jast he looked up and asked calmly: “ When did it happen, Rose? Was it news of my disgrace that killed her, and where—oh, God ! e hen Wave they laid her?” wars Rose answered his hurried questions ard telling him how his mother died, but saying noth- ing of her own share in the interment of the re- mains, The loud striking of the great clock in the hall startled them, and Rose’s heart beat wildly, for the moment of parting was at hand. She seemed
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at a loss what tosay or how to leave him. With faltering voice, and eyes whose look of hunted terror haunted him for many a day, she held out her hands to him and whispered: Good-bye, Archie; to-morrow you will be free; you will go out. into the world again and commence your fortune anew; you will be very happy, my Archie, happy, as, you deserve to be.” “But Rose, my love; what means these tears? You alone can make me happy. Why do you speak as if you would not share my fortune? You do not—no, no, I would not wrong you by har- bering such a thought—you have not eeased to love me ?” “Hush, hush, you will kill me; ceased to love you! My God! when every fiber of my being, every pulse of my heart thrills at the sight of your face. Oh, Archie, fold. me to your breast once more, and whatever the future brings forth, never doubt my love for you; do not despise me or curse my memory when I am dead; you will press your lips to mine when they can give back no answer- ing caress, and to my eyes when they can no lon- ger see you; promise me this, Archie, promise me that when I go to meet my Creator, you will forget my faults and remember that I loved you with all the strength of my heart, all the fervor of my nature.” , She was clinging to him convulsively, her sweet young face working with emotion, and voiceless sobs rocking her slender form. : Unutterably astonished and bewildered, Wal- lace could only cry out: ‘‘My darling, whatdo you mean, is your brain wandering, or,”—and a dark shadow settled over his face—“ or have you sold yourself for gold? Whence came these fine clothes, and why do you ask me to forgive your faults ?. in Heaven’s name do not keep me in sus- pense.” The sound-of a heavy footfall outside the cell door fell upon the girl’s ear as she would havé answered, and a key grated in the lock. “My God! he comes! Archie, farewell for- ever,” she cried wildly, staggering blindly toward the door, which the keeper at this moment opened. “Time is up, Miss Oh, she is fainting,” he ejaculated, and Rose would have fallen to the ground, had he not received her in his strong arms, and drew her out into the corridor, locking the door between her and the prisoner, CHAPTER XXXVII. THE WEDDING DAY, Tue prisoner’s heart sickened within him, and his brain reeled. What construction could he put upon her strange conduct. That Rose was false to him seemed an idea too horrible to enter- tain for a moment, yet every word she had spoken led to that conclusion. For a moment after the door closed on her he stood as she had left him, his arms half extended to take her in their embrace, and his eyes fixed upon the spot where she last stood. Then like one awakening from some horrid nightmare he groaned aloud, and dashing the cold drops of sweat from his fore- head staggered toward the window, which as we have said commanded a view of the entrance. The carriage still stood there, and as he gazed upon it in a sort of fascination, Henry Barton walked down to it, half supporting, half carrying the fainting form of Rose. As he lifted her into the coach she raised her face toward the window from which Archie gazed. It was sucha white anguished face that a heart of stone might have pitied her, but the watcher at the window only ground his teeth and covered his eyes to shut out the sight of the fair, false face. “ Heaven pity me, this is the cruelest blow of all! He is my rival, this man whom she professed to’ hate and scorn, she came to me in his carriage, she leaves me for his arms. Oh, God! how much the heart may suffer and still live on! My dear old mother! faithful heart! thank Heaven you did not live to see me bowed to the earth as I am to- day. She spoke of her love to me—curses on the love that can be bought for gold! Oh, Rose, Rose! would to Heaven I had not lived to see this day. Had an angel from the skies came down ROSH MICHEL. 25 to condemn you I would not have believed you false to me.” Pacing the narrow limits of his cell, Wallace spoke aloud, deep, broken sobs rising to his lips, and the hot tears trickling through his fingers. The carriage containing Rose and Barton drove quickly out of the prison gates, the noise of the rumbling wheels sounding to the ears of the prisoner -like:a knell that tolled the death of all his hopes. What to him now was freedom, when the sun- light of his existence had vanished forever, and black and Jowering clouds obscured the sky. White and cold, and oh, so altered, Rose lay back on the cushion of the carriage, scarely conscious of her surroundings. Once or twice Barton addressed her, but she gave no sign. of haying heard him, until he laid his hand on her shoulder to attract her attention. Then indeed she aroused herself, shrinking with alow moan from his touch, and whispering ina dazed sort of way. “Not yet, not yet, do not touch me, I cannot stand it until all is over— until all. is over!” She was thinking of the death cold face and senseless form that would be all that remained of her when all was. over; liv- ing, she would never submit to his caresses, Her guardian angel was further and further from her with each fleeting moment,for the desper- ate resolution to end her. life grew stronger and stronger. Barton did not interpret her words aright; he thought she alluded to their proposed marriage, and exulted over his easy conquest. “We will be married privately at the hotel, and you will return with me to Lowell as my wife,” he said, and Rose’s face was suddenly upraised to his while her blue sad eyes sought his own. “T must first know that he is free,” she exclaimed with a shudder, and a backward motion of her hand toward the gleymy gray walls of the prison. Barton smiled significantly, and replied : ‘‘ Very well, my dear, when we are wedded you shall see how your husband keeps his promise.” The hotel was reached at last, where the cere- mony was to be performed, and a set of rooms hired by Barton. Leaving Rose in her apartments he set out in search of the clergyman to perform the strange marriage ceremony. He returned in less than an hour, accompanied by the Rev. John Walters, a seedy looking individ- ual, whose small gray eyes sparkled when Barton slipped in his hand a roll of bank-notes,.as a re- ward for the unusual hurried performance. He found Rose just in the same position he had left her, seated on achair near the door, with her hands locked together in her lap, and her blue eyes looking vacantly at the opposite wall. “Come, Rose, my dear, the minister is waiting. Take off that crape-draped hat, and brush out those long yellow curls. You are scarcely attired as becomes Henry Barton’s bride; but, under the circumstances, you will do. Come along, don't. keep us waiting!” Barton exclaimed, eager to end the suspense under which he labored. “‘ Leave me a moment, I will join you,” she _re- plied in a low, strange voice, and something in the blue eyes, raised for a moment to his, inspired him to obey her, For half an hour he and the minister impatient- ly awaited her coming, but at the end of that time she joined them, white as a statue carved in ala- baster, with her golden hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders, and her great blue eyes lighting up her sweet young face like twin stars. “This is the lady whomI would make my wife,” exclaimed Barton, after introducing to her the Rev. Mr. Walters. She bowed slightly, and without a word stood up by Barton’s side; a couple of servants had been called in as witnesses, and everything was ready. The ceremony had just begun to be read by the minister, when the door was opened hastily, and a messenger entered and handed Barton a telegram. With a face changing to a ghastly hue, he opened it and read: “Come home at once; found.” He staggered toward the door like one who had been shot, crying aloud; “My God! my child! Clarice cannot be saddle a horse at once—ah! there is one at the door—I must reach the depot in five minutes, if I would catch the first train, Clarice, Clarice, my child!” Snatching his hat from a table, he darted out of the house, leaving Rose standing bewildered by the clergyman’s side. ; CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE TABLES TURNED, Tne train that bore Henry Barton homeward seemed to the anxious man’s excited faticy te creep like a snail over the meadows. His child was the one earthly being his base heart clung to with true devotion, and she was in peril. The brief words of the telegram left much to be in- ferred, and his brain conjured up all manner of horrors. For the time he allowed himself to for- get his plans, the interrupted wedding, and ‘the girl who had been so nearly his wife. He was only a father now, his whole heart strained out to the little blue-eyed creature whom he loved so well. He had never thought the distance from Beston to Lowell was so great before, but to-day ‘he was wild with impatience and anxiety. Reaching his home at last, he found the house all in confusion. Clarice had disappeared the night previous, and no trace of her could be found. The child had been sleeping soundly in her bed, when Katie, the nurse, left her for a gossip with her fellow-ser- vants in the kitchen. This was about nine o’clock. When she again entered the nursery at ten o'clock to retire for the night, she found thechild’s bed empty. What seemed most strange about the occurrence was that Clarice had evidently gone of her own free will, for her clothes were gone from their chair by her bedside, and her little hat and cloak from the wardrobe, while a gentleman liv- ing opposite had seen the child descending the stoop at a little before ten o'clock, clinging to the hand of a tall man. More information ’than this Barton could obtain from no source. Owing ‘to the darkness of the night, and the lateness of the hour, the gentleman who had seen Clarice leave the house had failed to recognize her escort. , The father was almost wild with alarm and grief, he could imagine no clue to the mystery; the nurse was in strong hysterics and her terrified cries rang through the house. Barton paced the deserted nursery, trying vainly to collect his thoughts, and form some plan for the recovery of his treasure. . “T will go to Uncle Walter, he may have some suspicion of the perpetrator of this outrage. Oh, my child, my darling girl, why can you not answer my call ?” He dropped his head wearily on the cold marble mantel] as he spoke, and tears, bitter as those he had wrung from the eyes of Rose Michel, rolled down his cheeks. Again, like an echo of some long forgotten music, came to him Rose Michel’a . words : “You have a fair young child growing up by your fireside ; she too is motherless. What if, in after years, your gold took wings and left you pen- niless? What if your cherished one was placed in my position and found a master such as you have been to me.” A vague, haunting terror took possession of him. The room seemed filled with ghastly spec- ters of the dead past, and grasping his hat he hur- ried from the house, The air oppressed him like that of a tomb, and cold drops of: sweat stood out like beads on his forehead. He made his way with all possible speed to his uncle’s residence, and was admitted by Paul, who smiled significantly as he ushered him into hia master’s presence. Barton expected to find his uncle still pretend- ing unconsciousness of his surronndings, and thought by suddenly announcing to him the mys- terious disappearance of little Clarice to surprise him into a betrayal of the truth. What was his surprise and consternation when Walter Greyson accosted him as follows: “Henry, what have you done with Rose Michel ? and where have you hidden the gold locket you "| stole from my chamber while I lay at the point of death? Look into my eyes and answer me falsely if you dare” _-
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% ROSH MICHEL, which would call the blush of shame to any cheek ! marble, Henry Barton stood listening breathlessly The villain was taken entirely off his guard ; he reddened to the eyes and attempted to stammer out some reply without meeting his uncle’s gaze. He was too deeply dyed in deception, however, to be Jong at a loss for a reply. Shaking off the feeling of terror that had crept over him at his uncle’s strange manner he spoke in a tone of pretended sorrow, “My dear uncle, what new delusion is this? What possesses you to accuse me of such a terri- ble-crime?’ Surely you know not to whom you speak,” “No, no, Henry, that tone of wounded inno- cence does not affect me in the least, I am labor- ing under no delusion. I know but too well whom I am.addressing, the man whose life I have sur- rounded with every comfort and luxury; the man whom. I have loved and indulged like a favorite son, whose lightest wish has been my law since the days of his earliest childood, You are an in- grate, Henry Barton; you have turned like a snake in the grass and stung the hand that cherished and fed you. A messenger brought me this morn- ing. the tidings of your loss. 1 cannot pity you, although my heart aches for the little one whose fate is shrouded in mystery. Remember Rose Michel and think what a blow it would be to your heart to know in after years that even as you made her suffer, so your cherished child is suffer- j ty The low spoken words sounded like a prophecy, a foreshadowing of the future woe in store for him, and the strong man sobbed aloud in his agony, his massive frame quivering with sup- pressed emotion, while the man. who had loved him. with a father’s love, looked on his suffering unmoved, Suddenly Barton’s mood changed. He raised his face, all haggard and care-lined, [to meet his uncle’s steady gaze, and with a reckless laugh, and a Jook of defiant hatred in his dark gleaming eyes, said: “You may do your worst, Uncle Greyson, [ still hold the winning card ; Rose Michiel will be my wife ere the dawn of another day. You may make her your heiress. if you will, but she shall never enjoy alone the wealth: that would have belonged to my child. The locket you accuse me of stealing——” ‘Ts, once more in my possession,’’ interrupted Mr. Greyson, holding up the little golden trinket before the eyes of tie astonished man. “Curses on my carelessness, how came I to lose it,” muttered Barton between his clinched teeth, while unnoticed by him the door behind him opened slowiy, and obeying a motion of Mr. Grey- son’s hand, the servant Paul and the man Harper, who had been Barion’s tool fora number of years, entered tlie apartment. “Ah! ah! so these are the noble foes with whom I am expected to.cope, are they ?’’ exclaimed the baffled villain, looking scornfully into the faces of his two. accusers, ‘ Since judgeand jury are assembled let me hear their verdict,” he con- tinued, as'a momentary pause ensued. Walter Greyson had thrown himself wearily into a chair, his face was white and worn, and the hair around his forehead was white as though years had passed over him, since the day that seemed so far distant in the past, when Rose Michel had pleaded with him for the mercy his nephew had denied her. . _Fov.a time an ominous silence reigned, broken only by a triumphant whisper breathed by Harper into Barton’s ear: “T told you my time would come.” At last, after many attempts to control his ris- ing emotion, Mr. Greyson spoke: “ Henry, there is no need for further dissem- bling. I know you for what you are, a villain of tlie deepest dye. You have been staking large sums of money—not your own—at the gambling table for the last ten years; that is a fault could have been easily forgiven, but it is your lightest offense. You took a fancy to a young girl em- ployed in our tactory, and followed and persecuted her like the coward that you are. She was too good and pure to listen to your vile pleadings, and for that you hated her and swore to possess her by fair'means or foul, Driven to desperation by your irsecutions, hungry and weak, and hopeless, she oft your office after an interview—the details of} —and blind with the tears which you had wrung from her eyes, did not see her danger until she was whirling round in that dreadful wheel. “ Mangled and bleeding she lay before your eyes, yet no throb of pity quickened the pulses of your heart. She was now utterly helpless in your power, and you exulted in the thought. “When you tegged me to leave her in your eare I assented readily, proud of your generosity ; never dreaming that I was trusting the dove to the mercy of the hawk. : “On the night of the accident the girl's identity was revealed to me, and in hurrying to my home, from the bedside of her dead father, I met with the accident which, as you thought furthered your plans. While Paul was undressing me, he noticed you stoop and pick something up from the ground. “Tn the excitement of the next few days he thought nothing of this, but since I have recovered I knew that it was the locket, the proof of Rose Michel’s relationship to myself. “T pretended continued imbecility the better to watch your movements. Paul has long suspected your rascality, and I hoped to prove his fears groundless ; how great my disappointment! “ Your tool and confident has betrayed you, and been false to the trust you reposed in him. He has exposed everything ; his share in the removal of Rose Michel from the hospital included. “T thought the days of romance existed only in novels ; I imagined that only the heavy villains on the stage employed be-wigged and false-bearded men to carry their fair ones away in the darkness of the night; yet I have been mistaken. You follow out the programme; a red-whiskered, red- haired man, attired in broadcloth and diamonds, claiming to be Rose Michel’s uncle, demands her from the hospital physician, in whose care she has been placed, and shows a note from you, releasing her from your care, She is of course given up and immediately carried to the place you have pre- pared for her, by the pretended uncle, no less a personage than your valet, Harper, in disguise. You think yourself secure then, and congratilate yourself on your easy conquest, but the God of the orphan protects the innocent being you would de- stroy, and she is saved at the eleventh hour. You hate him who was God’s instrument in saving her, and although you afterward owe your life to him, you seize on the first opportunity that offers of ruining him. Hearing that he has obtained em- ployment in Boston you hunt him down, and as if to verify the saying that ‘Satan favors his own,’ you find in his employer a man over whom you hold some secret power; a plan is quickly formed by which your enemy—as you are pleased to term him—is accused falsely, accused of robbery and thrown into prison. ‘* All this time, Harper, who is your bitterest énemy—on account of a cruel blow you struck his mother, who has died since then—followed your movements, finding out with the skill of a practi- cal detective, every incident of your daily life, and reporting to me his progress. “On the day of Mrs. Wallace’s funeral, when your messenger decoyed Rose Michel from the graveyard, Harper was not far away. He lost sight of you for a few hours in Boston; but if the telegram announcing your child’s disappearance arrived in time to prevent your marriage with the girl whom you have wronged so cruelly, allis well, This locket which you seem so much surprised to find in my possession, was given back to me by! ,eaq as follows: Harper, who abstracted it from the hiding-place in which you had concealed it. Ina few hours the world shall know that Rose Michel, the child of my beloved sister Laura, is to be my daughter and heiress ! ‘“‘T will move Heaven and earth to obtain Archi- bald Wallace’s release, and tuus frustrate your hellish design! Go, now, you are no more to me than a stranger to whom I have never spoken. Go from my sight, Henry Barton, and darken my doors no more!” CHAPTER XXXIX. BETRAYER AND BETRAYED. LrkF one suddenly transformed into a statue of to the words that struck like dagger thrusts to his heart, speaking no word, and giving no sign to tell how they crushed all the life and hope out of his heart. He knew that the game had gotie against him, and he must throw up his ecards. One long, vengeful glance he threw at Harper as he staggered toward the door, then, on the sud- den impulse that prompted him to repay the debt : of hate he owed him, drew his pistol, and point- | ing it at Harper, would have fired had not Paul sprang forward and dashed aside the uplifted arm. The pistol exploded, but its contents lodged in the opposite wall, and Henry Barton was spared the doom of a murderer. Cursing the man who had betrayed him, and the uncle whose kind heart had cherished him through all the long years of his boyhood and youth, he hurried away in the direction of the lonely home, where a merry childish voice had been wont to welcome him; a voice whose music he might never hear more. The home was his no longer, for, once it be- came known that he was not to be his uncle's heir, his creditors would come down on him and he would be obliged to part with it. In one hour he had been robbed of everything his life held dear; his home, his wealth, his hopes for the future, and—worse than all—his darling child was taken from him. The thought of little Clarice drove him almost frantic, and before returning to bis desolated home, he called upon one of the most skillful de- tectives of the town, and employed him to search for her. After a statement of the case, his suspicion at once fastened on Harper, who, knowing his mas- ter’s love for the child, would be the one most likely te injure him through her. _ With a heart’ somewhat lightened by the detec- tive’s words of cheer, Barton returned to his home for the purpose of obtaining a Horse from the stables to convey hiin to the railway depot in time for the next train for Boston. Firm in his belief that Rose would await his re- turn for the sake of the lover whom she believed he alone could save, he determined to return to the place where he had left her, and unless his uncle’s servant had already found her, make her his wife, and thus foil Walter Greyson’s plans. The journey was the longest he had ever taken, he thought, for beside the haunting terror that possessed him concerning his daughter's fate, the thought of the fate in store for him should he fail in making Rose Michel his wife almost mad- dened him, Arriving at the hotel in which he had left her, he fouud to his consternation that she had left it only a few hours after he was called away. Rendered, almost frantic by the disappointment and the despair that brooded in his heart, he did not notice the strange, questioning glance cast upon him by the people surrounding the cashier’s desk at which he had inquired. Scarcely knowing where to turn his steps he sauntered into the reading room and. took upa morning paper, more for the purpose of hidin his white, haggard face than for any intention o reading it. Mechanically glancing through its columns his wandering gaze became suddenly riveted by a paragraph which chained his attention, It was headed: “Sudden death of a prominent. citizen,” and “Theodore Miller, the junior | partner of the well-known firm of Osgood and Miller, died suddenly of apoplexy, at his residence in Fremont street, He was the son-in-law of Oscar Osgood, the senior partner of the firm.” This was all; a simple announcement of the man’s death, yet it was sufficient to blanche the cheeks of the reader, and send a vague thrill of terror to his heart. What if in dging Theodore Miller had betrayed his share in Archie Wallace’s imprisonment ! What more likely? The man was one of those timid, feminine natures that would shrink, from the thought of death, and betray every misdeed he had committed in life in the hope of winning forgiveness after death. “Curses on my luck! the whole world seems te have taken up arms against me in the one hour,”
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os oo ROSE MICHEL. £7 he muttered, the veins on his forehead swelling like whip-cords, and his breath coming in panting gasps, . ; ’ He had flung the paper from him, and was just emerging from the reading-room when a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder and a slow, de- liberate voice spoke in his ear; “Henry. Barton, you are my prisoner; come with me.” With a cry like that of an animal brought to bay, he faced his captor, faltering out. some words of protest against his arrest, e officer did not heed him, nor rélax his firm grasp of his prison- er’s arm. “ Come, sir, it will be useless to resist me. I will summon help unless you come with me arletly, Y “What are your charges against me?” Barton asked, in.a voice utterly devoid of hope, The officer glanced carelessly over a paper he held in his hand, and answered : “You are charged with theft and perjury.” The answer convineed the prisoner that his sus- picion had been correct. Theodore Miller had be- trayed him, He had fallen in the trap he had laid for another, and there was nothing now for him but to bearit in silence. Without a word he allowed himself to be conducted to the prison in which Archie Wallace was confined. The latter had been released about one hour previous to Barton's arrest, and by a singular coincidence, chanced to, be coming down the steps.as Barton ascended them, For one brief second the rival Jovers glanced full into each other’s faces; there was nothing but scornful contempt on that of Archie Wallace, while Barton’s gleaming eves seemed to fairly blaze with passion and suppressed rage. Archie was going out into the world, cleared of every suspicion, going out free to build his for- tune anew, but there was nothing but desolation and loneliness in his heart, All that held life dear to him was wrested from him The dear old mother would never more greet his coming ; she slept on dreamlessly by Jessie’s side. And Lose, the one love of his heart—w lat of her? He had sécn her last in Barton’s arms, entering wilfully the carriage which lie occupied. When was false to him what joy did life hold, what hope had he to live for ? He wandered aimlessly for some time after leav- ing the prison, turning his steps .at last in the direction of the house occupied by Oscar Osgood, whose card he carried in his pocket. “T will call on him as he requested; he may uire me to take back my old position, but I will not accept. his kind offer. I am alone in the world now; I will seek my fortune in the far West. Icould not live among these old familiar scenes; they. would recall to me constantly the fond hopes that are dead. Oh! Rose! Rose! I can understand now the meaning of your wild words when you begged me not to curse your memory when you were dead—dead to me—as you are to-day,” Musing thus he neared the residence of his old employer. He found the aged man bowed to the earth with shame and sorrow, for the dying con- fession of his daughter’s husband had almost broken his heart. He greeted Wallace kindly, heartily sorry for the injustice which had been done to him, and offered him the place he had lost, which was firmly but respectfully declined. Then, leaving Mr. Osgood alone in his grief, Archie took his departure. THe was obliged to re- main in Boston until after Barton’s trial, as his evidence would be required and until that event took place he determined to seek lodgings in the little-garret room he had occupied previous to his incarceration. All unprepared for the surprise that there awaited him, he tapped at the door that led into the landlady’s room, and listlessly awaited an an- swer to his summons. — CHAPTER XL. ARCHIE AND ROSE. Wuen Rose found herself alone with the clergy- man after her intended husband’s unceremonious departure, she could not realize for a moment that she had escaped the terrible fate of being his wife. She half expected to hear herself. addressed by his name, and a gleam of joy shone in her sweet azure eyes when she heard the minister’s aston- ished voice exclaiming : “This is indeed a most unprecedented occur- rence, Miss Michel, I never saw anything to equal it. Pardon me, but is your intended husband sub- ject to fits of insanity ?” She scarcely knew what reply she made him, she was s0 rejoiced to find herself free, and hurry- ing up to the room in which she had left her hat, she tied it hastily over her loosened golden hair, and with a feeling of intense relief left the hated place behind her, breathing in the fresh air of the outer world as if she had been stifling. She had money in her possession, thanks to the generosity of Walter Greyson, and her first thought was where to obtain a lodging where she might have time to rest and compose her agitated mind. She was a stranger in Boston, and knew not where to seek for what she wanted. All at once a sudden thought struck her. She would go to the address she carried in her pocket, the former lodging of her lover, poor Archie Wal- lace. Perhaps she might be lucky enough to se- cure the very room in which he had sat while he wrote the loving words she carried next her heart. “My poor Archie, my wronged Jove, he is jnno- cent, surely God will not let him suffer unjustly. I will pray oh, so fervently, that Heaven willspare him, but never again, oh, never again, can I con- template the sacrifice I would have made for his dear sake.” Rose was walking briskly in the direction of the house for which she was seeking as she medi- tated thus, and when at last she reached the little green painted door bearing the number for which she was looking so eagerly, her heart seemed to stop its pulsations. Here was the humble habitation he had chang- ed for a prison cell. Would she succeed jn find- ing shelter beneath its roof? It would bring her nearer to him, she imagined, to be in the house where his face was known so well. With her fair young face flushed and eager she knocked upon thé door, which was almost immediately opened by the woman of the house, who gazed in mute admiration on the lovely upturned face of her vis- itor ere asking her errand. She was somewhat taken a-back on learning what the pretty blue-eyed girl was jn search of, and for a moment hesitated before replying. Rose’s heart sank within her, and the brightness died out of her eager blue eyes. “TJ am not in the habit or letting my rooms to females, miss, but I would make an exception in your favor if I had one unoccupied. As it is, every room is full, except the garret, and that 1 have not tried to let, thinking every day that poor Mr. Wallace who used to sleep in it will return to claim it.” The woman spoke softly, with a kindly gleam in her large, gray eyes, and a brightening of her placid face when she mentioned Wallace’s name. Rose caught one of her large, toil-hardened hands in her own, and with tear-streaming eyes raised in mute appeal to her face exclaimed: “Oh, madam,dear madam, Archie Wallaceis my dearest friend; his mother died in my arms; let me occupy his room until he returis. Iam an orphan, and utterly alone in this strange city, he will thank you for me if you do not turn me from your door. I have money to pay my way until I can obtain employment; please, kind madam, say that I may stay with you.” The earnest pleading words, falling like strains of sweet, sad music from the pretty tremulous lips, would have moved a heart more hardened than that of genial Mrs. Brown, and wiping her eyes with the corner of her blue gingham apron, she replied: “Bless the child, does she think I have no heart at all in this worn out old body? You may stay and welcome, little one, your face is good and pure-looking, I do not think you would deceive me; come, no thanks now, it is but a sorry home for such as you, but he has ‘occupied it, and- that will make it sacred, you need not blush so rosy red, I knew what love was when I was young like you; ah, me! what a pity those days can’t last forever.” With a sly glance into Rose’s. blushing face, and a sigh for the days forever dead, Mrs. Brown Jed the way to the little low-ceiled room last oecu- pied by Archie Wallace, and left Rose alone. Until the night was fast advanced the poor girl knelt by the low window under the eaves, her face turned upward toward the star-gemmed sky, and her guileless heart uplifted to the throne of the all-powerful Judge who alone could save the man she loved go dearly. She laid herself down to sleep at last, and such happy dreams came to her; Archie was with her again, in the old peaceful home, She felt the pressure of his lips upon her own, and the clasp of his strong arms about her. She was oh, so unutterably happy while the dream lasted, and when she repressed the cry of disap- pointment that rose of her lips, and thought of her dreams as happy omens of the futute that might hold more of joy than the past had ever known, , She was strangely hopeful and expectant this morning, Mrs. Brown’s kindly manner and genial good nature inspiring her with a feeling of confi- dence and rest. She had no fear that Barton would find her here; but she would not venturé outside the docr for worlds. Until the noonday sun was high in the heavens she sat in the little attic room, merely tasting the meals Mrs. Brown carried up to her—thinking, thinking, till her brain seemed in a tangle, of the future and what it held in store for her. Suddenly the sound of voices in the lower hall- way attracted her attention. The tone of ene of these yoices was strangely familiar, and rising from her chair she slowly approached the door, her beautiful young face all aglow, her vivid blue eves radiant with happiness, and her slender hands clasped on her breast in an attitude of thanks- giving. e “Tis surely his voice; I cannot be mistaken— oh, Archie ! Archie! are ny beautiful dreams to be realized?” she murmured, almost uncon- sciously descending the stairs, her curling golden hair falling cloud-like to her waist, and her black robes enhancing the matchless beauty of her ex- quisite face. “Ob, Mr. Wallace, the sight of you does my old heart good. I knew you were innocent; I never for a moment believed you guilty,” Mrs. Brown was saying just as the light footfall of Rose was heard on the carpetless: stairway. Archie Wallace, for it was indeed he, dropped the old woman’s hand and Jooked up quickly. The sight of Rose’s lovely, radiant face called an excla- mation of joy to his lins, and he sprang forward as if to clasp her to his heart; but the recollection of their Jast meeting came up vividly before him. The outstretched arms dropped heayily to his side, the joyous light died out of his handsome face, and with a deep groan he sank down into a wooden chair ard covered his eves from the sight of the fair, false face that had come to mock him. Mrs. Brown, like the sensiblewoman she was, Jeft them together in the little parlor and returned | to her duties in the kitchen, muttering as she , went: “Well, well, well, that was not the way lovers met in the days when I was young, and after sucha parting too. Perhaps he thinks she believes him guilty—silly boy—why, the pretty little creature worships him. They will be as happy as turtle doyes in half an hour.” For some time after Mrs. Brown had left them an embarrassed silence reigned between them, which Archie was the first to break. Looking up into the face of Rose, who was standing pale and silent before him, he asked, with aring of pain in his clear, deep voice: “Rose, why do I meet you here? Where is Henry Barton? You left me in a prison cell for the shelter of his arms. One of the keepers told me you were to be Barton’s wife. I would have choked him fora liar had I not seen you with my own eyes leaning on Barton's arm on entering i
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DN —— and descending from his carriage; and now I meet you here. Could he have provided no better home for you than this?” There was a world of bitterness in his voice, and almost unconsciously he had arisen and was grasping Rose’s arm tightly, and looking down in her face, as if he would fain read the inmost re- cesses of her heart, She made no answer to his breathless question ; but the poor, proud, tender eyes met his unfal- teringly—full of reproachful pain—but with no look of guilt in their limpid, violet depths. One long intense gaze into azure orbs, that seemed the mirrors of her pure soul, and, doubts and fears alike fergotten, Wallace was kneeling at her feet, pouring out his love in broken, disjointed words, and pressing passionate kisses on the little hands he had imprisoned. “ My darling! my beloved! can you ever forgive me, that even though all the world condemned you, 1 could, for amoment, have believed you false to me?” A soft, tremulous light broke over Rose’s per- fect face, like a ray of sunshine, and tremblingly, with a passionate, innocent rapture, she held out her arms, and, in an instant he had folded her close, close to his breast. A crimson ray from the setting sun, entering through a chink in the shutter, fell full upon them; its beams lending « shadowy sweetness to the fair, blonde face, and making every silken hair gleam brightly, like waves of molten goid. “See, darling, how brightly the sun shines on you. May its future be as bright as its rosy rays,” the lover replied. “But Archie, the sunlight is fading, let us pray God our happiness may not fade as swiftly,” Rose replied, in a low, awed voice. The sound of carriage. wheels stopping before ge door aroused them from their blissful love- ream. Something of the brightness faded out of Rose's face, as visions of Henry Barton coming to claim her and force her away from Wallace’s side flashed through her brain and caused her to cling more closely to kim. Wallace had told her nothing of Barton’s arrest, thinking she was aware of his movements; and, indeed, in the first moment of surprise at meeting her, forgetting everything but that he had seen her in Barton’s arms. A loud knock sounded upon the door, which was soon opened by Mrs, Brown, and Walter ! Greyson, his servant Paul, and a tall, legal-look-| into the presence of Rose, whose sweet young ing gentleman entered the apartment. ose’s face paled, while Archie glanced from face to face in surprise. Mr. Greyson broke the spell of silence. Extending a hand to both Rose and Archie, he exclaimed : “My dear young friends, ’tis of you we are in search. Wallace, this gentleman—pointing to the legal personage—is my lawyer, Mr. Hargrave. Tle has been aiding me in the search for Rose ROSH MICHEL. plead the cause of his disowned nephew, the trial went fearfully against him, it was clearly proven that he, Barton, with the aid’ of Theodore Miller, had himself broken into the safe, and taken the money, paying the miserly old porter a large sum for his share in fastening the guilt upon Archie. He held a secret power over Miller, be- ing aware of the existence of Sadie Ray, Miller’s deserted wife, and hence the wretched man’s ter- ror of him. t The evidence against Barton was fully con- firmed by the old porter who, when brought to bay, confessed the whole affair, and Barton was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment, despite the eloquent pleading of his lawyer. The miserable man’s despair can be better imagined than de- scribed. Deprived of his liberty, his child’s fate unknown to him, doomed to labor among crimi- nals all the best years of his life, what wonder that that he gnashed his teeth and tore his hair in mad, rebellious grief. Mr. Greyson’s white head was. bowed to the dust in shame and sorrow. Henry Barton had once been very dear to him, and was he not his sister’s child? He wept for his downfall many an hour in secret and alone, but made no attempt to pay him a farewell visit, his heart was too sore for that. He woald spare neither money nor time in the attempt to recover the lost Clarice, but more than{this, he would uever do for Henry Barton. After the trial Wallace paid Rose one visit in her beautiful new home to bid her farewell ere starting on a journey to the far West. His was far too proud and self-reliant a nature to «dmit of nis taking advantage of Walter Greyson’s gen- erosity. He would try to win fortune and fame for himself, ere he would dare to hope that she might be his bride, and so he told her uncle, when that gentleman met him at the door of the stately residence which was now Rose’s home. His manly eloquent words, the ring of truth in his clear young voice, and the light of proud re- solve in his brown eyes, won the lasting friend- ship of Walter Greyson. “Heaven bless you, my boy, you are right. Rose is very young, she should see something of the world before she settles down to the life of a married woman ; when you return she will be bet- ter capable of judging her own heart than she is at present. May God prosper you, and crown your effort with success.” With these words the speaker ushered Wallace face was fairly radiant as she came forward to welcome him. Holding her close to his heart he told her all his plans for the future, and all the fond hopes he cherished of one day being worthy her priceless love. Kissing away the tears that flowed down her cheeks when he spoke of parting, and building such fairy castles of future joys. “Darling, I will bind you by no vow; should you find among the brilliant throng who will wor- Michel, this girl by my side, whom, in the presence | ship at your shrine, one with whom you could be of you all, I acknowledge to be my own niece, the | happy, let no thought of me intrude itself upon daughter of my dead sister Laura and her hus-; you, for, oh, my precious Rose, your happiness is band, Julian Michel, Count De Orme.” * This announcement fell like a thunderbolt on at least two of the little group. Rose and Archie glanced from face to face, in unfeigned amaze- ment; the former eager and expectant, the latter pale and silent; his heart seeming to die within him, as he began to realize the gulf that had so suddenly arisen between them. He, the penni- Jess mechanic, and she, the beautiful heiress of proud Walter Greyson. CHAPTER XLI. CONCLUSION. Tux trial of Henry Barton came off just two weeks later, during which time Wallace remained in Boston, while Rose returned with her new- found uncle tof his home in Lowell. Mr. Greyson had cordially invited the young engineer to visit her when he returned from the trial, for his dead sister’s child would henceforth be denied no wish dearer to me than my own life, and it would break my heart to think that I would be the means of robbing you of one moment’s pleasure.” Long after he was gone these words rang in Rose’s ears, and she smiled to think how impos- sible it would be for her to love another than the noble friend who had saved her from such a ter- rible fate. * * * * * Three years rolled slowly away on the wings of time. In the golden gleam of a wintry twilight a bridal party were gathered in the spacious parlors of Walter Greyson’s mansion, and sweet Rose Michel, in heavy trailing robes of white satin, sweeping veil of misty lace, and crown of delicate orange blossoms, stands with her Uncle Walter alone in the conservatory, previous to the ceremony that is to make her a wife. She is radiantly beautiful, fairer than the angels, that he could gratify, and one look into her elo-; thinks the white-haired man whose eyes are fast- quent eves told him how dear to her heart was ened upon her peerless face with a look of adora- Archie Wallace. - Notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Greyson en- gaged one of the most noted lawyers in Boston to | breaks my heart to give you up; you seem a part tion. “ My darling child, my own dear Rose, it almost of my very life, but I know that the man to whom you have been so faithful all these years is well worthy of my treasure. He has returned to you rich and prosperous, he loves you with a devotion that has never wavered, and may God reward him and spare you long to each other.” “ Amen,” echoed a deep, rich voice, and togeth- er Archie Wallace and Rose Michel knelt in the sweet solemn hush of the twilight to receive the blessing of Walter Greyson, ere joining the bril- liant throng gathered together to see them united in the holy bands of matrimony. * * * * * Seven years later. Once again we raise the éurtain on our dram of real life. / A pleasant family group are seated near the open windows of a stately residence in the city of Boston. It is summer time, and the balmy air entering through the low French windows, lifts the snow-white hair from the brow of an old gen- tleman who sits looking off toward the western hills, behind which the sun is setting like a huge ball of fire. It is our old friend, Walter Greyson. A little more aged and worn-looking, a little more feeble than when last we met him, but with a look of in- finite happiness and peace upon his calm, pale face. Opposite him, at the other window, Archie Wallace stands, one arm thrown caressingly round the gentle, blue-eyed wife. “Papa! what makes mamma look so sorry, she almost cried just now ?” asked the sweet lisping voice of their only child, the little golden-haired Minnie, the treasure of their hearts. The mother looked down upon her child with a tender smile, then dropping her head on her hus- band’s shoulder, said softly : “ Minnie’s eyes are sharp, Archie, I have indeed been feeling sad to-night; do'you know that Henry Barton's term of imprisonment has expired. How strange that Uncle Walter should have failed to find any trace of his child, and how sad that he should have neither friends nor home to come——” A quick exclamation from Walter Greyson in- terrupted further conversation. “A woman has fallen on the sidewalk, Archie, she seemed to have been coming to our door.” Scarcely waiting to hear Mr. Greyson’s last words, Archie had darted out of the house and raised the prostrate figure from the ground, while Rose dismissed little Minnie to the nursery, and prepared a couch for the reception of the unfortu- nate stranger. It was a young girl of seventeen or eighteen years of age, with a face that would have been extremely handsome but for the marks of dissipation and fast living which were undeni- ably written upon it. Walter Greyson turned pale when the girl’s face was revealed to him, and put his hand before his eyes as if to shut out some terrible sight. It was plainly evident that the girl was dying, and they could do nothing for her but put a few drops of wine between her lips; this re- vived her, and she raised herself on her elbow and looked around her, pushing back the tangled golden hair from her temples, : ‘Ts this the house of Walter Greyson?” she asked, feebly, and when answered in the affirmative con- tinued: “Last night, in aden kept by my father— Harper is his name—I met Henry Barton. There was a fight between him and Harper. A hard and terrible story was thentold. Ihad been calied Clara Harper. Last night my true name was revealed. I am Clarice Barton, My true father drove a knife through his own heart when he was told that this wretched, degraded, drunken outcast was all that remained of his child. I am too weak to tell all the story. My father lies in the morgue. Harper sent me here to tell you all that father’s dying words were—‘ Rose Michel is avenged,’ ”’ The terrible revelation was spoken in short, gasp- ing breaths, and ere the little awe-stricken grou around the dying girl had recovered from the terri- ble shock it gave them, Clarice Barton had breathed her last. Rose Michel was indeed avenged. The returned convict and his unfortunate daugh- ter were buried side by side, and from the day when the sod hid their coffins from sight their names were never mentioned by those whose lives Henry Barton would have rendered desolate as his own had been hai not the God of the orphan watched over and protected the sweet little factory girl—Rose Michel, [THE END.) en ee
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“A FIRST-CLASS FAMILY PAPER AND MODEL WEEKLY.” UNRIVALED AMONG POPULAR PAPERS In the good repute of its large corps of Contributors; In the variety, scope and interest of its contents ¢ In the beauty of illustration, typography and order of its ‘“‘make-up.” A FIRST-CLASS POPULAR WEEKLY, aiming at what is Brest, Fresmest anD Most Arrracttve in Fiction, Romance and. Novel—in Sketch, Story, and Narrative—in Adventure on Sea and Land—in City Life Revelations—in History, Biography and Evente— in Wit and Humor-in Poetry and “Essay—in the Useful and Practical—in Answers to Correspondents, Topics of the Times, Biitorals, etc., etc., etc. ENTERTAINING, INSTRUCTIVE AND AMUSING, it meets the tastes, wants and demands of old and young alike, and is the Congenia: Companion, the Welcome Guest at Firesides, in Houses, Shops and Offices IN ALL PARTS OF THE UNION! No paper now published in this country having a wider circulation, and mone being received with so much favor by that class of people who are solicitous that what they read shall ba both pure and good. The corps of regular contributors embraces the following MOST POPULAR LIVING AMERICAN WRITERS: ALBERT W. AIKEN, CAPT. MAYNE REID, PHILIP 8. WARNE, MRS. MARY REED CROWELL, EBEN E. REXFORD, BRACEBRIDGE HEMYNG (“Jack Hark- OLL COOMES, MATTIE DYER BRITTS, away,”) CORINNE CUSHMAN, Cc. D. CLARK, EDWARD L. WHEELER, JOSEPH E. BADGER, Jr, COL. PRENTISS INGRAHAM, GARRY GAINES, MRS. JENNIE DAVIS BURTON, HON. WM. F. CODY (‘ Buffalo Bill,”) CAPT. CHARLES HOWARD, CAPT. FRED. WHITTAKER, T. C. HARBAUGH, A. W. BELLAW, LUCILLE HOLLIS, RETT WINWOOD, MARY GRACE HALPINE, CHARLES MORRIS, “ MAJOR SAM 8. HALL (“ Buckskin Sam,”) FRANK DAVES, ‘ ROGER STARBUCK, CAPT. SATTERLEE PLUMMER, 48 WELL AS THE INIMITABLE WITS AND HUMORISTS, WASHINGTON WHITEHORN, JOE JOT, Jr., and BEAT TIME. AND THES SPARKLING ESSAYISTS AND PEN-PREACHERS, THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER and EVE LAWLESS, all of whom cater exclusively for the SATURDAY JOURNAL, while in its department of ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS, those who are conversant with such literature pronounce it the best and most interesting column of the day. Taken all in ail the Sarurpay JOURNAL is the Journal Par Excellence for the Lovers of a Wholesome Popular Literature, And those seeking for what is best and most enjoyable in that line should become its readers. >. The Saturday Journal is Published Weekly at the Following Rates: Se an Ee er ee een fc an $1.00 Two Copies for One Year.................00.0008 $5.00 Por One Vear.......--:::0: 6000s este eee ee cee eee ee BOG | | Mirna Gaal soe ss «a oa sak sas ds ovscas cons ce cee 6 cents alah aCe BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 88 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORE.
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| BEADLE’S 1 Deadwood Dick, THe Prince or THE Roan. By Edward L. Wheeler. 2 Yellowstone Jack, By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 3 Kansas Kingyj or, Tae Rep Ricut lan. By Buffalo Bill (Hon. Wm. F. Cody). 4 The Wild-Horse Hunters. By Captain Mayne Reid aud Captain Irederick Whittaker. § Vagabond Joe, TH: YounG WANDErING Jew; ; or, ‘“G Foz A Lecacy. By Oll Coomes, 6 Bill Biddon, Trapper. By &. 8. Ellis. 7 ‘The Fiying Yankee; or, Tum Ockan Ovut- cast. By Col. Preatiss Ingraham. Seth Jones. By Edward S. Ellis, Adventures of Baron Munchausen. Nat Todd, By E. 5. Ellis. Lhe Two Detectives; or, Tar Forrunss or A Bowsry Girt. By Albert W. Aiken. Gulliver’s Travel«. By Dean Swift. The Dumb Spy. . By Oil Coomes. Aladdin; or, Tat Wonpverrvt Lamp, The Sea-Cat. By Captain Fred. Whittaker Robinson Crusoe, (27 Ilastrations.) 7 Balph Roy, tae Bor Boccancer; or, Tes FuaitiveYacut, By Col, Prentiss,Ingraham. 18 Sindbad’ the Sailor, “His Séven Voyages. 19 The Phantom Spy. By Buffalo Bill. 20 The Double Daggers; or, Drapwoop Dick's Deriuance. By Edward L. Wheeler. 21 Whe Frontier Angel, PE Kdyward.§, Elis. 22 The Sea Serpent}.or, THz Boy Rosson Crusoe. By Juan Lewis. 23 Nick o° the Night; or, Taz Doy Spy or "76. By T. C. Harbaugh. 24 Bismond Dirk. By Colonel P. Ingrahan. 25 The Boy Captain. By Roger,Starbuck. 26 Cloven Hoof, Tue BurraLo Demon; or; Tre Borprer Voutures. By Edward L. Wheeler. 27 Antelope Abe, tue Boy Guipz. Oll Coomes. 28 Buffalo Ben, THe Price or THE PIsToL; or, Deapwoop. Dick im Disevise. L. u..Wheelr. 29 The Dumb Page. By Capt. F. Whittaker. 30 Roaring Ralph Rockwvood , Tae Reck- ness Kanaer. By Harry St. Geor, ‘31 Keen-Knife, Prince or Tux Oli Coomes, 32 Bob Woolf, Taz Borprr Rorrtan; or, Tar Girt Deap-Suor. By Edward Le Wheelcn 33 The Ocean Bloc son a a Tar Rep PIRATES OF THE CARipaEEs. . B Ww. Pierce. 34 Orevon Sol; or, Nick W * Buy Spy. Sr t. J. F. G, Adams. 35. Wiid Ivan, rue Boy Ciavpr Dovan; or, Tur BROTHERHOOD oF D&ATH. By EJ. L. Whudler. 36,'The Boy Clown... By Frank S. Finn. 37 The Hidden Lodge. By T. C. Harbaugh. 38 Ned Wylde, TH: Boy Scour. By Texas Jack. 39 Death-Face, THe Derectivz; or, Lirp anp Love In New Yors. By Edward L. Wheeler. 40 Roving Ben. A Sroryor 4 Youna Axyrrt- caAN Wao WANTED TO'Ser tHe Worn. 41 Lasso Jack. By Oll Coomes. 42 The Phantom Miner; or, Drsapwoop Dick's Bonanza. By Edward L. Wheeler. 43 Dick Darling, Tus Pony Exp Rimcr. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 44 Rattling Rube. By Harry Bt. 45 Old Avalanche, THE Great ANyNINILATOR; or, WILD Epna, THE Grru Bricann. FE. L.Wheeler. 46 Glass Eye, Tae Geeat Saot oy moe West. By Capt. J. F.C. Adams. 47 Nightingale Nat. By T. 0. Harbaugh. 48 Black John, THe Roap-AGENT; or, TuE Ovt- Laws’ Retreat. By Jos. B. Badger, Jr. 49 Omaha Oll, THE Masked TeRRoR: or, Dmap- woop Dick In DANGER. By Edward L, Wheeler. 50 Burt Bunker, raz Trapper. C. E. Lasalle. 51:The Boy Rities. By Archie C. Irons. 52 The White Buffalo, By C. E. Lasalle. 63 Jim Bludsoe, Jr., Taz Boy PuHenrx; or, THROUGH TO Dearu. By Edward Li. Wheelor. 54 Ned Hazel, Tue Boy Trapper; or, Tur Puan- Tom Princess. By Capt. J. F. 0. Adams. 55 Deadly - Eye, rae Unknown Scovr; or, Tar BRANDED BrorHEernoop. By Buffalo Bill 56 Nick Whilfites’ Pet, oe J: FCC. Adams. 57 Deadwood Dicks ng RE or, Tuz Parps or FLoop Bar. By Edward heeler. 58 The Border ing By Oll Coomes. 59 Old pray & By wy St. George. 60 The White Indian. Capt, J..F. C..Adams., 61 Buckhorn Bill; or, Taz Rep TeaM. 62 The Shad< w shiz By Col. P @ adow Ship. ‘ol. P, Ingraham. 63 The Red Brotherhood, W. J. Hamilton. G4 ndy Jack, By T. C. Harbaugh. 65 Wurricane Bill. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 66 Singie Hand, By W. J. Hamilton. € é SUw ow moose J a 1 1 1 1 J 1 Palties’ By 67 Patent-leather Joe. By Philip S. Warne. 68 Border obin Hood, By Buffalo Bill 69 Gold R EOCTIVE OF THE Brack Rancr. eeler. 70 Old Zip’s Cabin; or, Tat GrREznnORN IN THE Woops. By J. F. Gs Adams, 71 Delaware Dick. By Oll Coomes. 72 Mad Tom Western, TH: Trxan Rancer; or, THE QUEEN OF THE PRarRIE. By Hamilton. 73 Deadwood Diek on Deck} or, CaLauity JAXE, THE Herome or WHoor-Up. By Wheeler. 74 HMawk-eye Harry. By Oll Coomes. Taehe Boy Duelist; or, THe Crus or THE 4+ Wonr. By Gol. Prentiss Ingraham. 76 Abe Colt, THE Crow-KIER; or, THe Great _ FIGHTING Man or 1HE West, A, W. Aiken. 77 Cordtroy Churilie, Taz Boy Bravo; or, Degapwoop Dick’s Last Act. By E. L. Wheeler. 78 Slu» Dick. By Captain Mayno Reid. 79 Sol Ginger, Gunt Peer, By A.W. Aiken, 80 Rosebud Rob; oy Nueoer Nev; tue Keicur or THE GuicH. By Edward L. Wieeler. 81 Lightning Jv. By Captain J, V. 0. Adams 5, THE Sioa tate? bo Tak Boy 92 Cunada Cuet; or, THE Woop-Hawk; Tis Demons, By Harbaugh. Oll Coomes. EBUD Ros 82 Kit WHaretoot Powprr-Fack AND * 83 Rollo, the Boy Ranger. B $4 Idyl, the Girl Miner; or, on Hanp. By Edward L, Wheeler. 85 Buck Buckramy3 or, Bess, THe PEMALE Trapper, By Captain J. F. C. Adams. 86 Daudy Buck. By G. Waldo Browne. $7 The Land Pirates. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 88 Photograph Phil, tue Boy Suturx; or, Rosrcup Roz's REAPPEARANCE. by E, L. Wheeler, 89 Island Jim. By Bracebridge Hemyng. 90 The Dread Rider. By @. Waldo Browne, 91 The Captain ofthe Chub; or, Taz Youna Rrvat Aruuetes. By Bracebridge Hemyng, ANACONDA IN* SITTING Brut’s Camp. By Edward L. Wheeler. 93 'KThe Boy Miners. By Edward 8, Elis. 04 Midnight Jack, ‘THe Roap-Acrnt; Tur Boy Traprrr. By T. C. Harbaugh. 95 Tho Bival Rovers. Lieut. Col. Hazeltine. 96 Watch-Eye, tee SHApow; or, ARArs AND ANGELS OF A’(GREAT.Cr.y. By E, L. Wheeler. OT The Outlaw Brothers. By J.J, Marshall. 08 Rob'n Wood, tur Ovrtawep Hart; or, Tat Merry Min or Greenwoop. Prof. Gildersleeve. 99 The Ticver of Taos3. or, Witp Kate, Danpy Rock's AnGew. By George Waldo Browne. 100 Deadwood Dick in Leadville; or, A Srrance Srrokge For Lisrrry. By Wheeler. 101. Jack Mlarkaway in New. York, By Bracebridge Hemyng. 102 Dick Dend-Eye, tm: Boy Sivaaten; or, Tox CRUISE OF THE VIXEN. By Col. lugraham. 103 ‘The Lion of the Sea. By Col. Delle Sara. 104 Deadwood Dick’s Device or, THE ‘IGN OF THz Double Cross. By E.L. Wheeler. 105 Old Bube, tnx Hunter, Capt, H. Holmes. 106 Old Frosty, tax Guipz, By T. C. Harbaugh. 107 One-Eyed Sim, Ly James L. Bowen. 108 Dartng Davy, THe Yorna Bear-KmueR; or, . Tue TgatLor THs Dorper Wour. H. St. George, 109 Deadwood Dick as Detective, By Edward L, Wheeler. 110 The Black Stecd of the Prairics. A Turilling Story of Texan Adventure. By Bowen. 111 The) Sea+Devil, » By Col. P. Ingraham. 412 Tho Mad Hunter. Dy Burton Saxe. 113 Jack, Hoyle, tre Yorna. Srrccator; or, Tur Koay To Fortune. By Ed. L. Wheeler. 114 Tho Biack Schooner. Roger Starbuck. 115 The Mad Miner; cr, Danpy Rock's Doom. . By George Waido Browne, 116 The Hussar tet en or, Tre Herurr or Hewti-Gate. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 117 Gilt-Edged Dick, Tre Srort Derrcrrvn}; or, Tus Roap-Acent's ‘DavcuiEer. Wheeler. 118 Will Somers, tnx Boy Derecrive. Morris. 119 Mustang Sam, tar Kine or tux Puaws. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 120 The Branded Hand. By Frank Dumont. 121 Cinnamon Chip, tHe Girt Sport; or, Tre GOLDEN IDOL or Mr, Rosa. 4d, L. Wheeler. 122 Phil Hardy, tr Boss Por; or, Taz Mys- TERY OF THE StTRONGBOW. Py Charlies Morris. 123 Kiowa Charley, Tae Wiure Mustanorr. By T. C. Harbaugh. 124 Tippy, Tue Texan. By George Gleason. £5 Bonanza Bill, Minrr. By Ed. L. Wheeler, 126 Picayune Petey or, Nrcopemvs, THE Doo Detective. By Charles Morris. 127- Wild-Fire, Boss ortne Roap. By Dumont. 128 The Young Privateer, By Il. Cavendish. or, 129 Deadryood Dick’s Double; or, Tat Guost or Gorcon's Gutcn. Ed. L. eeler. 130 Detective Dick. By Charles Morris. 131 The Golden Hand} or, Danny Rock to tue Rescun By George W. Browne. 132 The Hunted Hunter. By Ed. 8. Ellis. 133 nd ae THE. KING or TH™ Boorruacks; . or, PAWNBROKER’S Plot. Hd. L, Wheeler. 134 Sure Shot Seth, rat Boy Rirtrman; or Tat Youne Patriots or Tae Nortu. By Oll Coomes, 135 Captain Peul, tae Kentucky Moonsuier; or, Tut Boy Spy or THe Mountarss. By Clark, 136 Night«Hawk Bit... By Jos. B. Badger, Jr. 137 Tho Helpless Hand, Capt. Mayne Reid. 138 Blonde Bill3_or, Drapwoop: Dick’s Hous Bass. By Edward L. Wheeler. 139 Judge Lynch, Jr. By T. C. Harbaugh. 140 Bine Blazes}; or, Tot Break o’ Day Boys or Rocky Bar. By Prank Dumont. 141 Solid Sam, tue Boy Roap-Acent; or, Tar Branpgep Brows. By Edward L. Wheeler. 142 Handsome Harry, tae Boorpiack Dz- TECTIVE, By Charles Morris. 143 Sear-Face Saul. By 0'l Coomes. 144 Dainty Lance, THe Boy Sport; or, Tar Bank-Breakers’ Decoy Duck, S- Badger. 145 Ceptsin Ferret, toe New Yors Derec- TIVE; Or, Boas Bon" Boss Jon. By Wheeler, 146 Silver Star, Tar Boy Kaicur. A Prairie ' Romance, By OL Coomes. 147 Will Wildfire, rae TxoxoressrReD; or, Tor’ Winning Hand. By Charie. Morris. 148 Sharp Samy} or, THE ADVENTURES oF A FRIENDLEsS Boy. By J. Alexander Patten, 149 A Game of Goldj or, Deapwoop Dicz's Bia STRIKE. By Edward L. Wheeler. 150 Lance and Lasso. By Capt. F. Whittaker. 151 Panther Paul, Ta Prarrim Prmare; or, . . Dawsry Lance to THe Rescuz._ J. B, Badger. 152 Black Bees, Wm. Wiprmer’s Racer; or, WINNING AGADNsT Opps. By Charles Morris. 158 Eagle Kit, me Boy Devon. By Oll Coomes. 154 The Swerd Hunters, By F. Whittaker. 155 Gold Trigger, Tae Sport. T. C. Harbaugh. 156 Deadwood Dick +f Deadwoodj or, Tue Picked Party. By Edward L. Wheelér. 157 Mike Merry, tam Harsor Porice Boyjor, Tue Nicut-HAWKS OF PeILADELPHiA.. Morris. 158 Fancy Frank of Colorado} or, Tur TRAPPER Buffalo bill. ‘s°Trust. By 159 The Lost Gaptain; or, THe. Open Potar Sea, By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 160 The Black Giant; or, Damry Lancs In Jreorparpy. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 161 New Work Nel), Tae Boy-Gimu Derective; or, OLD BLAKESLY’s Money. By E. lL. Wheeler, 162 Will Wildfire in the bh Sonat or, Camp LIFE IN THE.ALLEGHANIES. By Charles Morris. 163 Little "Téxas, Tre YouNe Musrsncer. A Taleof.TexanPrairies. By Oll Coomes. 164 Dandy Rock’s Pledge; or, Hunrep To Deatu. By G. Waldo Browne. 165 Billy Baggage, tue Ramroap Poy; or, Row To Earts. By Charles Morris: 166 Hickory Harry. By Harry St. George. 167 Asa Scott, THe Steamnoar Boy; or, Tax LAND Prates or THE Mississrppr. By Ed.'Willett. 168 Deadly Dash. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 169 Tornado Toms or, Ixson Jack From Rep OorgE. arbaugh. 170. A Trump $ or, Wit. Wiwpris Wow anv Losrs. By Gharles Morris. 171 Ebony Dan. By Frank Dumcnt. 172 Thunderbolt Tom; or, Tre Wciy-HERDER OF THE rs. By Harry St. George. 173 Dandy Kock’s Rival. By G.W. Browne. 174 Bob Rockett, THz Boy Donerr; or, Mys- TERIES OF New YorkE. By Charles Morris, 175 Captain Arizona, tHe Kine Pm or Roap AGENTS; cr, Patent Leather Joe’s Big Game. By Philip 8.Warne. 176 The Boy deg pig Mek BuccANEER or THE Bay. Lieut. H. D. Perry, U.S.N. 177 Nobby Nick of Nevada; or, Tre Scamp OF THB Sierras, By Edw L, Wheeler. 178 Old Solitary, THe ermrr TRAPPER; or, Tue Dragon or binver Lakr. By Oll Coomes. 179 Bob Rockett, tue Bank Recnner; or, THE Roap To Rury. By Charles Morris. 180 The Sea Traller; or, A Vow Wet. Kepr. By Lieut. H. D. Perry, U. SN. 181 Wild Frank, tHe Boucrsxiy Bravo; or, Lavy Lity's Love, By Edward L. Wheeler, 182 Little Hurricane, tut Boy Caprany; or. Tue OATH OF THE YOUNG AVENGERS. on Coomes. 183 The Hidden Hand ¢ or, Wu Wrprme's REvENGE. By Chas. Moiris. 184 The Boy Trailers; or, Damry LANcE on THE War-Patu. By Jos. E. badger, J ¥ 185 Evil Eye, Kixe or CatrLe Trirves; or, THE Vv Dumon ULTURES OF THE Rio Granve. By F. t, 186 Tool Desmond; or, THe Gamster’s Bro Gamez. By Col. Delle Sara. 187 Fred Halyard, tne Lire Boar Poy: or, Tue SMuGGLERS OF THE INLET. By C. Morris. 188 Ned Tomple, THe Borver Boy: or, Tue Map Hunter or Powper River. By Harbaugh. 189 Bob Bockett, tr Cracksman; or, Driven To THe WALL By Charles Morris. 190 Dandy Darke}; or, Tue Tierrs or Hiex PINE. Wm. R iter. 191 Buffalo Billy, Tre Boy BuLiwrAckeRr; or, is em THIRTEEN, Capt. A. B. Taylor, 192 Captain Kit, tre Wr1-0'-rne- Wisp; or, THe Mystery or MontavK Port. By Lieut. Harry Dennies Perry, U.8.N. March 29th. 193 Tho Lady Road-Agent}3 or, Patent Leatuer Joe's Dermat. Philip 8. Warne. Ready April 5th. 194 Buffalo Bill’s Bet; or, Tez Gameter Guipr. By Capt. Alfred B. Taylor. U.S. A. y April 12th. 195 Deadwood Dick's Dream} or, Tur Rrvatsor THE Roap. A Mining Taleof “Tomb stone.”’. By Edward L. ry “Aprib 199th. A new. issue every week, The Half-Dime Library is for sale by all Newsdealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents cach, BRADLE & ADAMS, Publishers. 98 William Street, New York.
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382 Large Three-Column Pages, 1.A Hard Crowd ; or, GENTLEMAN Sam’s Sister. By Philip 8. Warne. 2. The Dare-Devil; orn, THE WINGED Wiren or THE Ska. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 3. Kit Carson, Jr., THz Crack SHOT OF var West. By Buckskin Sam. 4. The Kidnapper; or, THe Great SHANGHAI OF THE NorTHWesT. By Philip S. Warne. . The Fire-Fiends; or, HERCULES, THE Honcupack. By A. P. Morris. 6. Wildcat Bob, Tue Boss Bruiser ; Tak BorpEer BLoopHounns. ° By Ed. L. Wheeler. + Death-Notch, THe DESTROYER; OR, | Tse Sprrrr Lake Avencers. By Oll Coomes. _ 8. The Headless Horseman. A-strange story of Texas. By Capt..Mayne Reid. 9. Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover. 10. Vidocg, THe FrRENcH PoLice Spy. Written b: himenit, 11. Midshipmari Easy. By Capt. Mar- Tyat. : 12, The Death-Shot; or, Trackep To DeaTH. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 13. Pathaway; 0k, Nick Wuirr.es, THE TRAPPER OF THE NORTHWEST, By Robinson. 14. Thayendanegea, THE ScourcE; “or, Tot War-EaGuie oF THE MonAWKS. Ned Buntline. 15.°The Tiger-Slayer; or, Eac.e- D To THE Rescve. B y Gustave Aimard. — 16. The White Wizard; or, Toe Great _ Propuet or THe SeminoLEs. By Ned Buntline. 17. Wi ahade, Pigg M PRINCE or Hounstow Hraru. By Dr. J. H. Robinson. 18. The Sea Bandit; or, Tux Queen or THE Istz. By Ned Buntline. ' 19. Red Cedar, Tue Pramm Ovrtaw. By Gustave Aimard. 20. The Bandit at Bay; or, Tux Pr- RATES OF THE PRAIRIES. ..By Gustave Aimard, 21. The Trapper’s Daughter; or, Tue Ovtiaw's Fars. . By Gullave dinuamay 22. Whitelaw} or, Natriz or THE LAKE Snore. By Dr. J. H. Robinson. 23. The Red Warrior; or, STELLa Devormwe’s CoMANCHE, Lover: By Ned Buntline. 24. Prairie Flower. By Gistave Ai- mond, or of “ Tiger-Slayer,” etc. 25. The Gol reuleg: om STEEL Arm, THE ReauLaTtor. By ohnson. 26. he Death-Track; or, Tare Out LAws: oF THE Mountain. By Francis Johnson, . 27. The otter-Detective; or, THE ‘Gms or New York. By Albert W. Aiken. 28. Three-Fingered Jack, Tur Roap- _ AGENT or THE Rockies. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 29. Tiger Dick, THE Faro Kine; or, Tue Casnier’s Crime. By Philip 8. Warne. 30. Gospel George; or, Firry Frep, Tne Ovrtaw. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 31. The New York ‘Sh 7 on, THE Fase or Licurniyc. By Albert W. Aiken. 82. B’hoys of Yale; on, THe Scrapes ora Ser or Cotuearans. By John D. Vose. 33. Overland Kit. By A. W. Aiken. 34. Rocky Mountain Rob, By Aiken, 35. Kentuck, the Sport. By Aiken. 36. m Dick. By Albert W. Aiken, a... pe the Hunchback +: a THE ORDMAKER OF THE SantrE.. By Dr. J. H. inson, 38. Velvet Hand; on, Tux [Ron GRIP OF Txaun Dick. Albert W.. Aiken, 39. The Russian Sp $ OR, THE BRotH- ERS OF 6S. By erick Whittaker. | Tue TARTARS OF THE 8. By Jos, E. Badger, Jr. 41. Gold Dan; or, Tur Warre SavAcE or Tan Great Saur Lake. By Albert W. Aiken, 42, The California Detective; on, ‘Tae Wrrcnes or New York. By Albert W. Aiken. or, THE Bre-Hunters’ Excursion, By Ol] Coomes, 44, Old Dan Rackback, Tre Great _Extarminator. By Oll Coomes. 2) 1 8b Old oss oa He Lrenrxine Ssor or THE INS. . Badger, Jr. 46. Bowie-Knife Ben, ‘Tar ‘Lirrk |‘ Honvrer or tot Nor’-west. By Oll Coomes. _ 4%. Pacific Pete, THe PRINCE or THE 'Revoiver. By Jos. E. Badger. Jr. 48. Idaho Tom, THE Youne Ovuttaw OF Sitveruanp. By Oll Coomes. 49. The Wolf Demen; or, THE QUEEN or /THE Kanawna. By Albert W. Aiken. _ 60, Jack Rabbit, Tax Prarmrm Sport; | By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. EADLE'’S | I ad a “ 3 de ° i] a 51. Red Rob, Taz Boy Roap-AGEnt. By Oll Coomes. 52. Death Trailer, THz Cnmr or Scours.. By Hon. Wm. F. Cody, (Buffalo Bill.) 53. Silver Sam; or, THE MystERY oF Deaiwoop Crry. By Col. Delle Sara, 54. Always on Hand; or, Tut Sportive Sport or THE Foor Huis. By Philip 8. Warne. 56. The Scalp Hunters. A RoMANCE OF THE Piatns. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 56. The Indian Mazeppa; or, Tut Map Man oF THE PLamws. By xt W. Aiken. 57. The Silent Hunter ; or, Taz ScowL Hau. Mystery. By Percy B. St. John. 58. Silver ife; or, WICKLIFFE, THE Rocky Mounrarmn Ranaer. By Dr,’ J. H. Robinson. 59. The Man From Texas; or, THE OvTLAW oF ARKANnsAs, By Albert W. Aiken. 60. Wide Awake; or, Tur IpI0T oF THE Buack Hints. By Frank Dumont. 61. Captain Seawaif, THE PRIVATEER. By Ned Buntline. 2. Boyal Heart; or, THe TRAPPERS OF Arkansas. By Gustave Aimard. 63. The weoines. Whale. By Aiken. 64. Double- ight, the Death Shot. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 65. .he Red Rajah; or, THe Scource or THE INDIES, By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 66. The Barque. A TALE OF THE PACIFIC. or, hi CARSON TO THE 5 agg Capt. J. F. C. Adams. 69. The Irish Captain; A TALe or Fontgenoy. . By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 70. Hydrabad, THE STRANGLER; or, ALETHE, THE CHILD oF THE Corp. By Robinson. 71. Captain Cool-Blade, or, THz Man SHARK OF THE Mississiprr. By Jos. KE. Badger, Jr. 72. The Phantom Hand. A Srory or New York HEARTHS snp Homes. = pe W. Aiken. 73. The Knight of the d Cross; or, Toe MAGIcian or Granapa. Dr. J. H. Robinson. 74. Captain of the Rifles. A Romance or THE Mrxican VALiery. ‘ By Captain Mayne Reid. 75. Gentleman George, or, PaRrLor, Prison, STAGE AND . Albert W. Aiken. 76. The Queen’s usketeer; or, Tass, THE Princess Paumist. By George Albony. 7%. The Fresh of Frisco; or, Tux Herress OF BUENAVENTURA. Albert W. Aiken. Fea 79. Joe Albert W. Aiken. 80. A Man of Nerve; or, Catmay, Tar DwArF. By Philip 8. Warne. , 81, The Human Tiger; or, A Heart or Free. By Albert W. Aiken. 82. Iron Wrist, the Swordmaster. By Col. Thomas H. Monstery. 83. Gold Bullet Sport: or, THE Knicuts OF THE OVERLAND, By Buffalo Bill 84. Hunted own; or, Wrrox. By Albert W. Aiken. 85. The Cretan Rover: or, ZULEIKAH, THE Bravtirun. By Col. Prentiss 86. The Big H THE WHITE Ingraham. unter; or. THE QUEEN or THe Woops. By the author of “ Silent Hunter.” 87. The Scarlet Crptain; or, THE PRISONER OF THE Tower. By Col. Delle Sara. . Big George, THE GIANT OF. THE Gutcu; or, THE Five OvrLaw Brorugrs, By Badger. 89. Bday: Pirate a or, Pretty NELLY, QUEEN OF THE ISLE. Col. Ingraham. 90. Wild Will, Tnx Map Rancirno; or, THE TERRIBLE TEXAN. By Buckskin Sam. 91. The Winning Oar; or, Tae Inn KEEPER’s DavantTer.. By Albert W. Aiken, 92. Buffalo Bill, Tae Buckskin Kina; Major Dangerfield Burr. POS. Ca. tain Dick Talbot, Kime or THE Reap. By Albert W. Aiken. 94. Freelance, THE BUCCANEER; or, The Warr or tee Wave. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham, 95. Azhort, THz AxMan; or, THE SECRETS OF THE Ducat Patace. By Anthony P. Morris. 96. Double-Death;: or, THE Spy QuEEN or Wyomrne. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 97. Bronze vane, THE CALIFORNIA | THORoverpRED. By A.W. Aiken. _ _ 98. The Rock Rider; or. Tre Sprarr | oF THE Srrrra. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. IBRARY. Each Number Complete, Price i0 cts. 99. The Giant Rifleman; or, Wmp Lire IN THE LumBER Recions. By Oll Coomes. 100. The French Spy; cr. Tez Bring or Paris. A Story of the Commune. By A. P. Morris. 101. The Man from New York; or, THE RoMANCE oF A Rick Youne Woman. By Albert W. Aiken. 102. The Masked Band; or, Txz Man Wrrnovut 4 Name. By George L. Aiken. 103. Merle, the Mutineer; or, Tar BRAND OF THE RED ANcHoR. By Col. P. Ingraham. 104. Montezuma, the Merciless; or, THe EAGLE AND THE SERPENT. By Col. P. Ingraham. 105. Dan Brown of Denver, Trr Rocky Mountam Derective. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 106. Shamus O’Brien, Tur Boutp Bor or GuINGAL; or, Irish Hearts anp Inisp Homes, By Colonel Delle Bara. 107. Richard Talbot of Cinnabar; or, THE BROTHERS OF THE RED Hanp. By A.W. Aiken. 108. The Duke of Diamonds; or, Tux FLower or CatcuTta. By Capt. Fred. Whittaker, 109. Captain Kyd, Tur Kine or tax Buiack Frac, By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, 110. The Silent Rifleman, A Tale of the Texan Plains. By Henry W. Herbert. 111. The Sm ler Captain; or, Taz Sxrprer’s Crmmx. By en Buntline. ’ 112. Joe Phenix, Prryare Derrecrive; or, Taz LEaGUE oF THE SKELETON Krys. By Aiken. 113. The Sea Slipper; or, THE Ama- TrEUR FrEeesooTers. By Prof. J. H. Ingraham. 114. The Gentleman from Pike; or, Tae Guost of THe Canyon...By Philip 8. Warne. 115. The Severed Head; or, Tux Secret or CastueCovucy. By Capt. Fred, Whittaker. 116. Black Plume, THE Devi. or THE SEA; or, THE SoncERESS OF HELL-Gate. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. am 117. Dashing. Dandy; Tue Horsrur oF THE HILts; or, THE Pony PRINCE'S STRANGE Parp. By Major Dangerfield Burr. 118, The Burglar Captain; or, Taz FAuuen Star. By Prof. J. H. Ingraham. 119. Alabama Joe; or, THE Yazoo Man-Hunters. By Joseph E. Badger. Jr. : 120. The Texan Spy 3 or, Toe Prarie Guipe. By Newton M. " 121. The Sea Cadet; or, Taz Rover oF THE RicoLetts. By Col. P. Ingraham. 122. Saul Sabberday, Tux Ipier Spry; or, LULIONA, THE SEMINOLE. By Ned Buntline 123. Alapaha, the Squaw; <r, Taz RENEGADES OF THE Borper, By cis Johnson. 124. Assowaum, the Av rz or, Tae Doom or THe Destroyers. By Fra: Johnson. 125. The Blacksmith Outlaw; or, Merry ENnGLanp. By Harrison Ainsworth. 126. The Demon Duelist; cr, Taz LeaGue or Steet. By Colonel Thos. H. Monstery. 127. Sol Scott, raz Maskep Mrvzr; or, Dan Brown’s Dovste. By Joseph E. Badger 128. The Chevalier Corsair ;. or. Taz HERITAGE OF Hatrep, By the author of “ Merle, the Mutineer.”’ ; 129. Mississippi Mose; or, A Srronc Man's Sacririce., By Eiward Willett. April 18th. 130, Captain Voleano; or, Taz Man oF THE Rep Revotvers. By Albert W. Aiken. Ready April 20th. 131. Buckskin Sam,tTHE TEXAN TRAILER; or, Banpits or TRE Bravo. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham, Ready April 182. Nemo, King of the Tram Tae Romany Grni’s VrxoEeance. By Cap Whittaker, Ready May 4th. - 183. Rody, the Rover; cr, Taz Rm- BONMAN OF IRELAND, By William Carleton. | Ready May 1ith. A new issue every week. . Beadle’s Dime Library is for gale by all Newsdealers, ten cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of twelve cents each. 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4 A SrrRANGE WomAN. By Rett Winwood. .. 6 Two Grris’ Lrves. By Mrs. M. R. Crowell 9 ‘Toe War or Hearts. Corinne Cushman,. 11 THE Faust Wipow. Mrs. J. D. Burton. ... 12-13 Lost ror Love. Miss M. E. Braddon.... 10c 14-15 TormEers oF THE Sea. By Victor Hugo... 10c 16 THe QcapRooN. By Catharine A Warfield. 10c 17-18 UncLe Stuas. By J. S. Le Fanu --- 10¢ 19-20 Dmap-Sza Frourr. Miss M. E. Braddon... 10c 21-22 Lirrie Kare Kirgsy. F. W. Robinson... 10¢ 23 SOWING THE Winp. Mrs. Mary R. Crowell.. 10c 24-25 Birnps or Prey. Miss M. E. Braddon ... 10¢ 26 Taar Boy or Norocort’s. Charles Lever... 10c 27-23 CuarLorre’s Innerrrance. By Braddon. 10c 29 A Grru's Heart. By Rett Winwood ... 10c 30-31 Rep 4s A Rose 1s Sue. Rhoda Broughton. 10c 82 Tae Lity or Sr. Erne. By Mrs, Crow .... 10c 33 STRANGELY Wep. By Mrs. J. D. Burton.... 10c 34 Tre Gresy Brive. M. E. O. Malen. 10¢ 35 Anniz TEMPLE. B v. J. H. In am. 386 Wrrnovt Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbell. 87 BLAck AND Biog. Uorinne Cushman. 38 Brave Barsars. By OorinneCushman .. 89 A Dancgerovus Woman. Margaret Blount.. 40 Ouma's Love. By Henrietta E. De Conde.. 41 Lost: A Wire. Corinne Cushman .... 42 Wownine Ways. By Blount . 43 A Woman's Heart. By M. V. Victor. 44 Tue Deap Lerrer. By Seeley ter. . 45 Lorp Liste's Davenrer. By C. M. Braeme. 10c 46 A Woman’s Hann. Letter.” : 47 ViaLs or WRATH. By author of ‘‘ Dead ie By Mrs, Mary R. Crowell. 10c ‘HIRES! oe . 10c Puritan. By A Parson's Datigneet..i Fi BOA. FESS. 657 Dip Sue Suv? By 68 Dousiy Drvorcep. By Jenny Davis Burton. 59 A Wickep Woman. By Lillie Devere 62. MARGOUN, TRE 70 Drirtine To Ruin. By Mary Reed Crowell. 10c 71 Tae Parson's DaucuTgeR. By A Parson’s Daughter. .... .. 10c YSTERIOUS GUARDIAN. By Oorinne Cushman Pte 73 Was Suz a4 Wire. By 74 ADRIA, THE ApopTEeD. By Jennie 75 PRetry AND Provup. By Corinne 0c D, Burton! 10e m. 1 Cushman. 10c Oc | 77 A Woman's Work. “LIBRARY Of Notable Works by Notable Authors. Beautifully printed in the popular folio form: each issue a complete novel and sold at the uniform price of TEN CENTS. No double price on double or extra size numbers. » | 76 Tue Birrer Fevp. By Jennie D. Burton.. 10c y Mrs. E. F. Ellett... 10c 78 THe BLack Rippie. By Corinne Cushman. 10c | 79 Corat AND Rusy. By Jennie Davis Burton. 10c 80 Drvorcep Bur Nor Drvipgp. By A Parson's Daughter... _........ serch sites 10c 81 ALMost Marrrep, By A Parson’s Daughter. 10c 82 Two Fark Women. Wm. M. furner.... 10c 83 Tue INHERITANCE OF Hats. By Burton ... 10c 84 Peart oF Pearts. By A. P. Morris, Jr.... 10c | 8 For Honor's Saxe. By Mary Reed Crowell. 10c | 86 Lance Urgumart’s Loves. Annie Thomas. 10c | 87 SareLy Marriep. By author of ‘“ Caste.” 10c 88 Fioretre. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham ... Me | 89 Turer Tracks Deap. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 10c | 90 For A Woman's Sake. By Watts Phillips. 10c | 91 “** He Comern Nor,’ Sxe Sap.” By Annie Thomas. Ready April 2ist 10c 92 Toe New MaGpaLen. By Wilkie Collins. | Ready April 28th. | 98 AN Open Verpricr. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 10c Ready May 5th..... Pes Saree 10c 94 Sworp anp Gown. By Geo. A. Lawrence. TOMES MOY EMO cc Rie sacs sone .: We | 95 A Beccar on Horsenacnk. By James Payne. Weedy Mity Was, Vo < cscs cn teet cap tate 4s 10c A new issue every week, For sale by al! newsdealers, or sent, e paid, on receipt of twelve cents. BEADL D ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William street, N. Y. The Only Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published. Price, Five Cents. 1 The Masked Bride}; or, Wr. Sue Maz- ny Hm. By Mrs. oe teed Crowell. 2 Was It Love? or, CoLLEGIANS AND SWEET- HEARTS. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 3 ‘The Girt Wife; or, Tae True anp THE Fatsz. By Bartley T. Campbell. 4 A Brave Heart; or, STARTLINGLY STRANGE. 4 Araella Southworth. 5 Bessie Raynor, the Work Girl, By Wm, Mason Turner, M. D. 6 The Secret Marriage; or, A Dvcress IN Sprite of HERSELF. y Sara Claxton. 7A Daughter of Eve; or, Buropep sy Love. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 8 Heart to Hearty or, Fam Puy.us’ Love. By Arabella Southworth. 9 Alone in the World; or, Tee Youna Man’s Warp. Bythe author of ‘ Clifton.” 10 A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, Taz Emen- ALD NECKLACE. By Rose Kennedy, 11 Kntangied3 or, A Dancrrous Game. By Henrietta teen is F 12 His Lawtul Wife; or, Myra, rar Cap or Apoprion. By Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens. 13 Madcap, the Little Quakeress. By Corinne Cushman. 34 Why I Married Him: or, Taz Woman in.Gray. By Sara Claxton. 15 A Fair Face; or, Our Iv THE Wor~p. By Bartley T. Campbell. 16 Z rust Her Not; or, Taz Troe Kear. 17 r{ G Margaret Leicester. Loyal Lover; or, Taz Last or THE RIMSPETHS. By Arahella Southworth. 18 His Idol; or, Tre Itt-Strarruy Marruce. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 19 The Broken Betrothal; or, Lovs ver- sus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. 20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, Tae Witcues or New Yors. le Penne. 2% Now and Forever}; or, Way Dm Sxer - Marry Hm. By Henrietta Thackeray. 22 The Bride of au Actor. By the author of ** Alone in the World,”' etc., etc. 23 new Year; or, WHY Sat Proposrep. By Sara Claxton. 24 Her Fece Was Her Fortune, By Eleanor Blaine. 25 Only a Schoolmistress3 or, Her Un- TOLD Rooney. By Arabella Southworth. B 27 Was She a Coquette? or, A Srrancre Oourrsaip. By Henrietta Thackeray. 28 Sybil Chase: or, Toe Gampter's Wire. By Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens. 29 For Her Dear Sake: or, SAvep From Himsetr. By Sara Claxton. 30 The Bouquet Girl: or, A MILLI0N or Money. By Agile Penne. 81 A Mad arriage: or, Tse Iron WILL. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 32 Miriana, the Prima Donna: RosEs AND Luis. By A. Southworth. 3% The Three Sisters: or, Taz Mystery or LorD CHALFontT. By Alice Fleming. 84 A Marriage of Convenience: or, Was He A Covst? By Sara Claxton. 35 Sinned Against: or, Tae Wrrsrop PRIDE. — Clara Augusta. 36 Sir Archer’s Bride: or, Tez QvEen or Hw Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 37 The Country Cousin; or, ALL is Nor GoLp THAat Gutters. By Rose Kennedy. 38 His Own Again; or, Trust Her Nor. By Arabella Southwort 39 rt Name. By Ralph Royal. 40 Pledged to Marry; or, Ix Lovz's Bonps. 54 Sara Claxton. 41 Blind Devotion; or, Love Agarsst THE Worwtp. By Alice Fleming. 42 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Sro- OND LovE. by A. Southworth. 43 The Baronet’s Secret: or, Tae RrvaL . 7 on. 44 The Only aughter: or, Broraer AGAInsT Lover. By Alice Fleming. 45 Her Hidden Foe;} or, Love at Aut Opps. By Arabella Southworth. 46 The Little Heiress; or, Unprr a Croup. By Mrs. M. A. Denison. 47 Because She Loved Him; or, How Wu rr Exp, a, Alice Fleming. 48 In Spite of Herself; or, Jexnerts's Rep- ARATION. By 8. R. Sherw 49 His Heart’s Mistress; or, Love at First Sient. By Arabella Southworth. 50 The Cuban Heiress; or, Tae Prisoner or La Vintresse. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 51 Two Young Girls; or, fics BripE oF or, AN Earu. By Alice Fleming. 52 The Winged Messenger; or, Risxma Aut For A Heart. By Mary Reed well 53 Agnes Hope, the Actress 3 cr, Tar Ro- MANCE OF A Rusy Rina. W. M. er, M. D. 564 One Woman’s Heart; or, Savep From THe Street. By George S. Kaime. . 55 She Did Not Love Him; or, Sroorma TO Conquer., By Arabella Southworth. 56 Love-Madj or, Drvorcep anv —., B , By W. i Turner, M.D. or, A Youre Grru's Goon | |57 A Brave Girl; or, Scunsprne At Last. By Alice Fleming. 58 The Ebon Mask}; or, Tez Srrance Gvuarpian. By Mrs, Mary Reed Crowell. 59 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Brrtzr Rz- PENTANCE. By Rachel ernhardt. 60 Cecil’s Deceit; or, Taz Dismonp Lecacy. Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton. | 61 A Wicked Heart; or, Tae Faisz anp ) Tue Trove. By Sara Claxton. 62 The Maniac Bride; or, Toe Drap Secret of HoLttow Asa HaLy. By M. Blount. | 63 The Creole Sisters; or, Taz Mystery OF THE Perrys. By Mrs. Anna E. Porter. 64 What Jealousy Did; or, Tae Hem or Worstey GRANGE. By Alice Fleming. 65 The Wife's aoa ets *Twrxt Cup AND Lie. By Col. Juan Lew 66 A Brother's poe) Bas Fiora’s Foreryer- NESS. By Rachel Bern ardt. Forbidden Bans; or, AumA’s Disavisep Prince. By Arabella uthworth. 68 Weavers and Weft; or, “Love Tsat Hats Us mw His Ner. By M. E. Braddon. 69 Camille; or, Taz Fare or a Coquette. By Alex Dumas. 70 The Two Orphans, By D’Ennery. 71 My Young Wife. By My Young Wife's Husband. 72 The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas. 73 Rose Michel; or, Tae Trrars or a Fac- Tory Gru. By Maude Hilton. 74 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage; _ or, Story oF A BROIDERED SHIELD. By Ouida. 75 The Black Lady of Duna, By J.8. Le Fanu. Ready April 19th. | 76 Charlotte Temple, 4 67 A Mrs. Rowson. eady April 26th. 77 Christian Sg Ag Mistake. By the author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” May 3. 78 My Young Husband} or, A Conrvsion IN THE FamIty. By Myself. Ready May 10th. 79 A Queen Amongst Women. By the author of “ Dora Thorne.” Ready May 17th. A new issue every week, Tae Waveritey Lirary is for sale <4 all Newsdealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. 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