Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 2) (1880 09 28)
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Sa Pe ', . oar aif ox at BS * The Only Young Ladies’ Library of eS pene Novels Published! Price, but 5 cents each. . rT Carats on aE = STATA a : veer e se ee ee eae $2.5u a year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. pert righted in 1880 by BEADLE AND ADAMS. ioral 28, 1880. No. 46. VoL IL. "PUBLISHED. WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST, iM: ooh PRICE, 4 CENTS. i Mes t ie er { “MOTHER!” ELLA WAS AT HER SIDE, GRASPING THE CLENCHED HANDS, HER OWN SWEET FACE DISTORTED WITH FEAR. * - : : “Oh! Bumbledyhum, you do tell such nice stories!” cried the child, The Little Heras Or Dnder a Cloud. scraping handfuls of fine, white sand, and throwing it upward, from ’ ’ whence it came down again in cloud showers. _ “Sure, yer hair ‘Il be that consistency paste ll be nowhere beside it,” BY MRS. MARYA. DENISON. said the man, looking up for a moment, and wincing as the wind-swept Py particles ‘whirled tow ard his eyes. “ It’s too nice, intir ely, to be makin’ ¥ CHAPTER I. a sieve of, that way, an’ if it works through into the brains, ivll give TIM BUMBLE AND THE NEW-COMERS. you may-be, what little Patsy died with.” ‘‘On! Miss Arty, why do ye be afther t’asing me for stories all the “That was the dropsy—oh! now you're going to tell mea story, T rae Sure, isn’t me head intirely dry wid the ‘dumb-ager? Dobe quiet | know; but, Bumbledyhum, it’s water makes dropsy, not sand,” n’ good, Miss Arty, while I mend this net. If it isn’t done by sun- “And isn’t sand water’s first cousin, sure? Ain’t we right on the aowsk it’s the most illigant scolding Misther Richard ’l lite a | water’s edge, and don’t the sand run with it? Stands to reason, Arty, true gintleman as he is. Now, what d’ye t’ase for?” oe | that—that—” a 5 ‘ Des Ve ; x ¥ Ate, " y a F , , ~~
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a y « * 2 Ss ** Well, say—what is it?” “That they’re relashuns, honey; the dropsy and the wather, and the sand,—and so—howly Saints! I’ve run the net-hook into my j’int: Oh! glory, the pain of it, and you a-laughin’, Miss ‘How can I help it, Bumbledyhum, to hear yeu cry glory, like old Aunty Upham, the ethodist, and all because you hurt yourself— oh! How funny. Why, how the blood does run!” and the beautiful child-face put on a commiserating look. ‘“Yis, miss, it’s a clear strame, it is,” said the man, pressing the wounded finger. ** PH go call Coraline—she knowseverything,” ae away the child flew over the shining sand. It was the bank of a pleasant river, sweeping round in a bright half-circle, the soft, blue water changing and curling as it crept cosily up over the white sand. The banks further on the right were hung with vines, now bright with :zarlet berries, and tall pines, whispering to- , ether, looked down with a protecting air upon them. Crowning this hight stood a grand man- sion, upon which the sun struck dazzlingly, Lurowing flakes of gold on the high, wide win- cows, burnishing the roof-tops, and making <plendor where otherwise there had been the sor- vy display of brick and mortar. The grounds did »10t show from the spot where the manstill sat nursing his wounded finger; but the little that could be seen gave evidence of great cultivation and nocommon taste. At the bottom of the hill, and from which led a gradually ascending road, tood a very gem of a bath-house, over which bent a solitary weeping willow of great size and beauty. Near this pleasant place, beneath the es of the pensile branches, a young girl of m or sixteen sat reading. She was too much absorbed in her story to see aught that was passing around her; even that the waters were lavishing white jewels at her very feet, _ and sparkling all over with opals and diamonds. _ Coraline Reynolds was what all who knew her called a lovely girl,sufficiently pretty to please b her sweet face, affectionate, with dignity enoug tomake her seem a very queen when the occasion required, She was a favorite with every per- sou in the village, from the white-robed rector to the blundering net-mender, seated on the sand, and whom Arty had dignified with the name of Bumbledyhum. Coraline was started out of her dreaming at _. Jast, by hearing her name often called, and be- holding, at no great distance, her little sister fiying over the beach. “Oh! Corry, do stop that reading,” cried the child. ‘ Bumbledyhum has cut himself almost to death. I mean he’s cut his finger awfully,” she added, seeing her sister’s cheek grow quite white; ‘‘no, not cut, but run the net-hook clear through bone and all, and you ought to see how it’s bleeding! Do come quick—poor Bumble!” “How you frightened me, Arty, with your {xtravagance! ou know how wrong it is to make things seem worse than they are.” This “the sister said, as she hurried along by the Bed of the child, keeping up with her nimble ect. = “ Well, what could I do? there it was bleed- ing and bleeding, and just as he was going to teil me a story, too—one of his splendid stories, all pie gem you know—and—there, see; it’s bl 1g now.” “ An’ sure, Miss Arty, there’s no need o’ scaring the young lady; it’s nothing, miss, but a flesh-woun’ through the bony part of the finger, an’ it’ll stop when Providence plazes.” The young girl went up the shore a little way and returned in a moment with thick rolls o cobwebs, which she had found in the bushes, and which soon stanched the blood that had been flowing so eeely ‘An’ it’s many thanks I owe ye,” said the man, ‘ By me faith, there’s goings on at the Grove, sure.” Coraline turned in the direction he pointed. She could see two persons on horseback, riding from the house. A gay plume streamed from the hat of the lady, and the gentleman beside her bestrode a magnificent black horse, whose sides shone glossily as he came leisurely on. “T heard that the Lattisons were coming,” said Coraline. ‘‘They must be a part of the aa come over to look at the premises.” “They are riding this way,” said Arty. Coraline walked slowly toward the water, ee. unobserved, while Arty who thought of nothing long, began tossing up the sand again, and teasing Bumbiedyhum for a story. “Well, [ don’t know any story, then, except about the Lattisons,” said the man, who was at work upon the net again, holding the finger, - < THE LITTLE HEIRESS. { upon which an immense black bunch was now ee visible, very carefully. “Ob! what is it about them?’ queried Arty, watching the coming figures very curiously. _ “Whist! take your eyes over this way, it’s nothing I have to tell, savin’ an’ except it’s a lees family, wid a craziness running around in it. ' ‘“A craziness! ba rh ?? ‘‘What I say, tu be sure. The boys in that family ’ave always kicked up a boderation with themselves, makin’ folks mighty oneasy, such as drownin’, an’ bein’ fished out 0’ es an’ rivers in this an’ furren countries. It’s very ques, to be sure, for if a body ’ave riches and lthe fruits of the airth an’ the- fishes of the sea, an’ the fowls of the air, to keep him in spirits, and make him a gintleman, there’s sure to be a black skelington in the bottom of his trunk. But, whist! I tell ye, now—they’re clos’t upon us, and they'll hear. Sure, it’s no urtier faces I’ve seen, savin’ that of Miss Cora- ine, and Mr, Francis, an’ your own.” The horses’ hoofs now sounded near, and mee voices spoke of the beauty of the scene. oraline still advanced very slowly toward the water’s edge, never turning her head; she was too well-bred for that. he young couple, very young and handsome, looked that way, especially the youth, attracted, no doubt, by the golden beauty of the curls, blown from under the hat, and the graceful contour of the figure. Bumble, as he called himself, (and his name was Tim Bumble) respectfully raised his apology for a ‘‘straw b’aver,” while the young lady bowed and smiled toward little Arty, who was really a beautiful child. ‘*Now do you know any story about them?’ queried Arty, turning again toward the Irish- What do you mean, Bum- man. ‘“‘Oh, whist! there was a man once got mar- ried there!” ‘* Well, go on—do go on,” cried the child, impatiently. “What’ll I go on for? Sure, isn’t that the end of all stories?” * But not of this one, I’m sure. Bumbledyhum.” “Plaze, Miss Arty, I wouldn’t tell story for a hundred dollars,” said Bumble, solemnly. ‘*- Yes you would—yes you will—come, go on now. Vl give you—oli! Bumbledyhum, Vl give, xou a@ hundred dollars some time, if you will. ‘* Ah! miss, it’ll be a good many years before you do that, an’ when I git it, Pll be, mabbe, in my grave, for you'll not have the money to ive as you plaze till youw’re a grown w ut Dll jest say somethin’ of it, though givin’ no names, The young ee ee was the han’somest man ye iver laid eyes on, and as good as he was ban’some. The young lady was like one of the angels, an’ ’ve seen a pic- ture of the howly Virgin looked jist like her, almost. Well, they had a gran’ weddin’—for IT was there an’ seen it. They had tables set out ’way down here. I mane’way down on the place, that was as like this as two peas, for a river pl as this does, an’ all the poor peo- ple feasted. Saying down there was a hollow, which there is a hollow, as yer young eyes can see—an’ saying there was a fire there, which even now the dead ashes is seen some Come, now, ou that oman. Tl be time, or leastwise use to, and saying ye saw one of the biggest oxes, and lots o Bigs all roasting away for the h! but r pa it ware a gran’ time, to be follered by tribela- tion, surely, for the next mornin’ the r bridegroom an’ his bride were all dead intirely —d an’ murthered!” ‘Oh, who could do it?” cried the child, creep- ing close up to the Irishman, with eyes dis- tended; ‘‘ who could do such an awful thing?” ‘‘Well, it’s thought, of coorse, as the young man he did it himself, being crazy-like, and so all the happiness at the house where it all tuk place, was gone forever. Oh! it was a terrible thing, to be sure!” ‘* And who was he, Bumbledyhum?” * Ah! that, I said, I shouldn’t tell at all; and ye mustn’t ask me, for the thing is hushed and uried long ago, for the prisent young man of the family was a babby then in ’is cradle, and is likely niver heard of it at all.” : “T wouldn’t care any thing about the story if I couldn’t know,” said Arty, with a child’s pertinacity. ‘Ill ask mother when I go home, if she can tell me.” ‘And if ye do, Miss Arty, it’s the last story T’ll ever tell ye, as I’ve said many’s the time afore, and repented my promise; but Ill stick to it this time, ye may well believ “But you said a craziness run through the Lattison family. Ah, Mr. Bumble, I’ve got you; I know who it was!” ‘“‘Ye’re wrong intirely,” (the howly Virgin forgive the lie, he muttered to himself;) ‘it’s another family of the same mame as were traveling in Italy at the time. Now where are ye Miss Arty? where are ye now, lady-bird?’ | e cried, triumphantly, as the child stared with a puzzled face, ‘Pooh! I don’t care, anyway. I guess it’s only one of your make-up stories. But, Bum- bledyhuim, are the Lattisons really coming to the Grove “Really and for certain,” responded the Irishman; ‘ anda great family it is, anda grea! house is the Grove. But they’ll give no more parties, for the place is sadly run down—} mane the family is badly give out, There, my’ mindin’ is done, an’ the net is as goed as new. Wait till the first moonlight, Miss Arty. Ili give you a rockin’ in the boat to go out an’ see us ketch shad. Sure an’ it’s Mr. Richard shall. have the first, providin’ it’s the fattest.” So saying, the man arose, shook himself like a great dog, and gathered up the net. Arty bothered him a little, ranning under the meshes, and getting her hair tangled in them, but Bumble was a good-natured fellow, and bore it ‘all with patience, for the child’s interesting face and gleeful laugh showed that she did it more for fun than to tease him. By this time Coraline was ready to go home. The house of Mr. Richard Reynolds was situ- ated a quarter of a mile from the river, in front of a beautiful grove. It was of a con- venient size, and looked like a gentleman’s residence. From its door-steps could be seen the place called the Grove, and which, for | nearly ten years, had been vacant, the family sojourning in Europe. For some months it had been rumored that the Lattisons were about returning, and the premises through which the three children of Mr. Reynolds had been accustomed to ramble at will—for they gained the good wishes of the housekeeper— were now subjected to the hand of improve- ment. They were not over-pleased with the expectation of strange faces until they found that some of the occupants were of their own age. These were Harrison Lattison, a boy of seventeen, and Anne, his sister, a sweet little blonde, with melancholy blue eyes, but a laugh that was worth hearing. cee Se The Grove-house was unded by chest- nut-trees, and its situation was commandingly beautiful. It had been built by a French refu- gee seventy hoaay before, and formed a striking contrast to the light, elegant, cheerful cottage of the Reynolds’. The principe! apartments, parlors, drawing-rooms and guest chambers were very large and handsome, needing only new painting and papering. The rest of the house was cut up into oddly-shaped places, like closets, leading from one to another, and in which much of the broken furniture remained. The Lattisons, when they came from the hote! in the city, brought a great deal of splendid household plenishing, and servants in abund- ance, all of whom were old and well trained. It seemed, after a while, as if everything about the place went by clock-work. The gardeners soon reduced the weedy lawn to order and beau- ty, and planted new ground with choice fruits and flowers. Anne and her brother were often seen walking over the place, or riding through the avenues, or on the shore. Though the sister was the youngest and looked even more childish than she was, by reason of her extreme delicacy, she seemed ever to have a watchful care over her tall, handsome brother. Wherevér he was, she was sure to follow, and whatever he did, to applaud. t was some time—to the Reynoldsesan age— before the two families became acquainted. On no account could they have made the first ad- vances; but morning and night they thought and talked about them, wondering what their ursuits were, how they were educated and what; their future plans would be. At last their dear- est wish was gratified. Mrs. Lattison and her neighbors met by chance, were each pleased with the other, and, waving all formality, the mis- tress of the Grove called upon Mrs, Reynolds, who was an invalid. The young man, with his sister, accompanied her; and of course Coraline and Francis were soon on the best of terms with them. Mrs. Lattison wasa small, quiet woman, with a sorrowful face. She looked care-worn, and though, doceng Soup her children, she must. once have been utiful, was not so now, The soft hair that waved gracefully on each side of the fair forehead was tinged with gray. The eyes wore that heavy fatigued look that
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a aa & ee \ @fHE LITTLE HEIRESS. suggests the possibility of frequent weeping, and her voice was a plaintive monotone, yet music- al, and of rare qualities, Aninvitation for the young people to the Grove succeeded, and with great delight Coraline and Frank looked for- ward to the visit. An opportunity came soonafter. They found the family charming, the house charming— everything charming, in fact. Within doors the brother and sister had rooms allotted to them, filled with everything that could afford relaxa- tion and amusement to the wearied mind. With- out were swings, a bowling-alley, and on the beautiful pond, now cleared from its weeds and slime, and kept in perfect order, a dainty boat sat gracefully. ¥ “ Anne,” said Harrison, pausing on the edge of the pond, ‘‘let us take a sail. You needn’t be afraid of your complexion, for we can row in the shadows, you see.’ “Father likes to be with us on the water,” said Anne, reluctantly. “T don’t think he would object, as our friends are here,” said Harrison, with one foot on the edge of the boat. ‘‘ Come, Frank, you and I will go. I see by Miss Cora’s face that she doesn’t care, and I know Anne don’t.” “Tam subject to dizziness when sailing,” said Coraline; and Anne and her friend moved toward the house. They had been some time en- gaged in a discussion concerning some feminine SRO et when a servant entered, and with Mrs. Lattison’s compliments, desired Cora to ex- cuse Anne for a few minutes. The young girl changed color, but instantly left the chamber, while Coraline sat wondering,and very strangely ee cee! she knew not why. t length, moved more by restlessness than curiosity, she left her seat and walked from place to place, finding something new to admire at every point, until at last she came to a door, one-half of which was glass, through which shone a curtain of crimson stuff. Without re- flection, and Supposing that she was still pea | in her friend’s domains, she incautiously opene the door, and found herse’f standing on the threshold of a small chamber, similar to the one in which she had been sitting. It was, however, very different in its surroundings—in fact one of the most unusual places she had ever seen in her life, and astonishment kept her rooted to the spot. The floor was covered with carpeting so thick and soft that it fell like gickone feathers. The thought flashed through her’ mind, as she laced her foot forward, that there must be eathers beneath, There was one large window heavily arched, and through which the soft’ breeze blew—for, of glass there was not a par- ticle, but instead, narrow bars of iron, crossed closely and riveted in the casement. Every- where within reach, the walls appeared to be stuffed, and so yielding to the touch. A lounge that was immovable stood under the great win- dow, and from it depended the material with which it had been covered in ragged strips. A feeling of horror came over the young girl, as she slowly took in all the surroundings. Her blood chilled to her heart, and she couse scarce- ly summon strength enough to leave the room and close the door. Scarcely had she gained a seat, when Anne came in, flusi:ed, yet smiling. ~ “Dear mamma is so very anxious when Har- rison and I are not together,” she said, very ‘gently. ‘‘ We two are all that are left of nine,” she added, ‘‘and she somehow fancies that one of us will come to harm, if we are apart for ever so short a time.” _ The words fell strangely on the ears of Cora- line. The mystery of that chamber was heavy cn her heart. She seemed to feel a foreboding that it was in some way connected with her fate. And yet she could not speak of it. _ She bad taken an unwarrantable liberty in playing the spy, and she trembled guiltily when, some moments after, she saw Anna, start as she passed the door, looked closely at the lock, then, taking a key from her pocket, fasten- ed the door securely. Her face crimsoned, but she pretended to look across the river, and Anne did not appear to suspect. Presently the boys came out on the lawn. Frank and Harrison stood together. Coraline had been accustomed to consider her brother an unusually handsome = but, in the presence of Harrison Lattison, he looked almost ordinary. The face of Har- rison lighted up in a manner that no pen could describe. There was a glow—a succession of flashes of beauty—that made him seem superior toearth. His was long,of arich saarptetinck, flowing in curls; his eyes were brown, tender as those of @ true woman, enhanced in brightness by the softest tinting and deerenin x beneath the lid, that gave them a dreamy and sometimes a passionate character. Coraline turned to - i , we : ae the eyes wid the pain of looking. 3 Anna; she knew the fond sister was thinking , I’ve got nev's fcr yc—sure, an’ hasn’t the gintie- how beautiful he was, by the dimpling smile and eager gaze. 4 Your brother is very handsome,” Coraline said. ‘“T think so,” she replied, still gazing. “ But if you call him so beautiful, and he is—what would you have thought of Eric?” ‘Eric was another brother, of course,” @ora- line responded. “Yes, he was nineteen—only nineteen when he died,” she replied, and Coraline saw that she shuddered from head to foot. ‘‘My brothers all met with a violent death,” she added. “ Eric was found in the river—a beautiful river in Germany. Oh! if:you could have seen kim—he was glorious!” There were tears in her eyes— her tones affected her young friend strangely. “Met with violent death,” repeated Coraline, shuddering; “I should think you would feel afraid for Harrison.” ‘We do,” she replicd; “but. we have taken the greatest precautions—” suddenly she paused —her cheeks crimsoned—she stammered—” and at length said: ‘‘ you see how fearful mamma is to have him go out alone. It is perhaps foolish, but we all feel so. When papa isat home, he devotes his time to him, superintends his studies and all that, you know, as mamma does with me—then we do not feel the least fear. But, when he is away, we are almost foolish in our anxiety.” CHAPTER II. A QUEER COUPLE. ‘*Ou, be aisy, now, beaisy, Bumble; sure, an’ you’ve done no harm to tell a bit of a story as e did to the child. Didn’t I kape the names ack an’ the place to mesilf intirely, so’t no bad can’t come of it at all? Bad luck to mesilf, though, if the Lattisons should hear of it, though, for the matter of that, the whole counthry round knew, an’ if that excellent gintleman, Mr. Reynolds, had been here at the time, wouldn’t he ’ave heard of it, sure? Bother! jist mind yer own business, Bumble, and howld yer tongue; ye’re always gitting into mischief, ye are. By this time, the Irishman came in sight of his rude home, a hovel built by the edge of the wood. It was a picturesque location. The river could be seen far off to the right. Behind the little tenement, made of rough-hewn logs, filled in with clay, a hill gradually ascended, filled with trees and tangled vines, with massive rocks cropping out here and there, and little black nooks, suggestive of mossy resting-places. A stout woman, twice the hight of her husband, stood vigorously applying an ax to a good-sized log, and ever and anon addressing the stubborn victim in no measured terms of disapprobation. ‘Eh! ye lazy raskill, ye won’t split, will ye? ugh! there was a blow now, might a cracked yer hide, Ye think a woman’s got hold of ye, do ye?) Ugh! there ye go; ye’ve got a skull hike my Tim; it’s my belafe that I might crack him as many times over the head and he’d no feel it. Taik of a woman, ugh! when it’s me as bas to ’arn the bread to put into his mouth, and he dawdlin’ on the bache, mindin’ nets to ketch gudgeons. Whop! ye’re beginnin’ to listen to r’ason, are ye; it’s not very sharp_r’asonin’, aither, the edge of this ould, ax, but Pve asked Tim to grind it till me very breath in me body is gone, and like a spent fire, an’ I’ve had to kin- dle it with a scoldin’. Sure, that’s Tim, bad luck to him. An’ this is the way ye l’ave me to split wood and do the drudgery; oh! boy, little did I think I’d be used this hard, when I mar- ried ye.” “ Ah! an’ if ye knew how near I’d come to bringing mesilf home widout the breath ov life in me, you wouldn’t be after scoldin’. As it is, T shouldn’t wonder if I’d the lockjaw in me fin- . : * ; ger this very night. ve run the boat-hook clear ough it. “Run the boat-hook through yer finger, ye ee Don’t ye suppose I know better nor 4 ‘“* Well, then, couldn't ye tell that I meant the net-hook? Am I to find ye ideas as well as words? If I made a mistake it’s because I’m half crazy wid the pain. Ah! Bridget, darlin’, if ye’d seen me bleeding to death on the sand, ye’d had some pity in yer stony heart.” Bridget replied by a succession of unbelieving nods, and as she had managed the refractory log, by dividing and subdivi ing it, she took u an armful and walked into the house. Tim fol- lowed with a dogged air, and nursing his finger tenderly, though by the pucker in his lips, they had a decided inclination to whistle. ‘Now mind the fire, will ye, unless ye’ll have » i a ae eS eee ery man from the Grove been here?” 5 “Ye don’t say!” cried Tim, nearly upsetting the tea-kettle, which stood near, ready filled, as he sprung from his seat. “There ye go!” shouted Bridget, saving it ly a masterly bound. “Tim Bumble, ye’re the most ongracious, onruly boy I ever did seo. Ye can’t move yer foot widout doing scme mis- » chief.” ‘Nor me finger either,” spoke Tim, dolefully ; ‘“but come, aisy, Bridget, jist tell me what did the gintleman say to ye? “The first thing he did was to be plazed be- cause ye’d a wife that knew something. ‘Ah,’ says he, ‘so Tim is got a nice tidy wife of Lis own.’ Says I, ‘ Yis, yer honor; and it’s mighty littie he does toward gitting her a livin’, any- way. It’s I that have to kape the pot Vilin’, and put what’s in it—an’ split what’s under it, too,’ says I.” “ Ah, now, Bridget, ye’re too hard upon me intirely, an’ I wid me finger kilt.” ‘Didn’t I jist till the truth? An’ thin he says, ‘says he, ‘ Well, now, perhaps I’ll give him somc- thin’ to do—’t’ll be aisy—so Tl] jist call ag’in.’” ‘An’ sure, that’s himself, though it’s bowed down that he is, poor gintleman, an’ no won- dher. Bridget ye’ll go out when he comes in, I’m sure he’ll want no women in the way.” “Tl not do that same, thin. No, I'll not,” cried the woman, as a gentleman outside reine: up his horse and dismounted. “Oh, well, now, honey, p’raps’ ye will,” said Tim, good-naturedly, pleased at the prospect of having his own way for once, ‘‘if the gintleman says so.” And the gentleman did say so; almost his first request was that Mrs. Bridget might leave the room, and she, though rather s Ys obeyed. = ‘*And now, Tim, I suppose you are not over- burdened with work,” said Mr. Lattisdn. vA He was a pale man, very thin, very quiet, and with a look of Habitual suffering stamped upon his features, 2 “Not so much overburthened but what I could tear more,” was Tim’s cautious reply. ‘¢ Youremember—you—reme ber ”--the man parsed for a moment, struggling with some powerful emotion. “Sure, an’ you needn’t say it, Mr. Lattison, for, indade, I remember it all, an’ how I loved him to that extint I'd a lay down my life fcr him. Sure, an’ I remember toc much, Mr. Lattison. It’s a dale the boy locked like him as came ridin’ along the sands to-day with Miss Anne.” “« Ah, that was Harrison,” said the gentleman, with a sad smile. “Of coorse he didn’t recollect me, bein’ a mere b’y when he left the Grove. But ef I may beso bold, Mr. Lattison—if ye’ll pl’ase ex- cuse me—how is the—the sickness now, in the family?” “Oh, Tim, you know how it used to be,” half groaned the man. ‘‘ Well, it’s no better now, only there is some hope—some, I say. There’s decided hope that if he lives till he is ae one, the disease may be eradicated. Oh, to keep him: till then, Tim—only to keep him till then! Besides, you never could count upon the —the sickness, you know, at any set time; it would come when nobody expected—now it oc- curs periodically.” oa ‘* An’ may lask, yer honor, when that manes?” queried Tim. ‘‘QOh, at a certain time of the year. .W6 all know what to expect now, and use every pre- caution. And, Tim, that’s what I want to see you about. Times have been going hard, have | they?” “Oh, indade, sir, ’m not a-goin’ to throuble you with the story of me trials, but if it wasn’t for me wife, who knows how to turn an honest pi ina woman’s way, faith it’s not at al! d gittin’ along, but the revarse of the matter, saying as I’d be takin’ me two steps back to me one forward,” and he shook his head with a melancholy survey of the fire, now caus- ing the kettle to sing. r. Lattison sat listening to this tirade with an pacgata i air. At last he said, with a start: ‘ ““Well, well, never mind that now, Tim. The fact is, ’m not satisfied with the man I have to attend upon my poor boy at times. He makes himself too forward, too cfficious. Now with youl could always get along, and ! believe my poor boys loved you. What do you you did the other?” x say to taking charge of him in the same wey Pr “Sure, an’ it’s too happy I’d be, intirely. i But there’s me wife, Mr. Lattison, what ?’d Edo “- ee OO | lS _—_ ~~ *¢ .
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ete - A, bee ¢ Eee « a ‘ : a ™ sae THE LITTLE HEIRESS. wid her? She’s aitogedther too capable for a \vroman.” Mr. Lattison could not forbear a smile at this evident depreciation of the notable Mrs, Bumble by her quiet husband. ‘*Couldn’t she get along here—or, by the way, we shall be wanting an assistant in the dairy. I wonder what she could do in that line. “Tvery thing, Mr. Lattison. Shure, it’s out of a dairy I took her, as I’ve good occasion to lmow, for there’s no day passes over me head that she don’t twit me of the same.” “Tf I thought she could be trusted,” mused Mr. Latitison. “That she can be, sir. The woman would scorn to do a mane thing, indade she would.” ‘And for a handsome sum—” ** Ah, she be very fond o’ money, sir,” replied Tim, with a sigh. ‘* Weil, Tim, I think you’ll have to come up to the Grove. By the way, what obligations = you under to Mr. Reynolds, my good neigh- por? ‘Nothin’, nothin’, sir. Sure, he only toler- ates me,” said Tim, with a whimsical look; ‘that is, I do odd jobs for him, and little ar- rands for the young ladies; he keeps a man, sir, or he might want me more.” ‘“Then I shall not be discommoding him.” “Not at all, at all, sir,” was the reply. “Come up on Monday,” said Mr. Tathacn, ‘‘and we'll settle matters.” ° Mrs. Tim was summoned after his departiire, _ and her wrath smothered in the beginning by the jubilant expression of her husband’s counte- nance, his repeated hops, and the rapping of his knuckles. “What are ye goin’ out of yer senses for, ye spalpeen?” she queried. hts in me senses I’m going for I’m going into good luck. Arrah, it’s no more ye’ll be throwing ib at me that I’m no man at all, and ot able to support ye. I’ve a place at the trove for life, and all my atcetterys ” (he meant perquisites) ‘“‘for nothin’, An’ ye’re to go into the dairy, an’ I’m to go into the—och, it’s no matter what, to be sure. I’ve me secrets, and of course ye wouldn’t be afther perpetrating into them. Och, good luck to the Bumbles— good luck to the Bum’ ledyhums, as the little ane says. Iknew I'd come out straight at the end. CHAPTER III. THE GREAT PARTY. True passed, and the Lattisons and Reynolés- es wore on the most familiar terms. As the month of August approached, Coraline noticed that an unusual depression weighed down the spirit of her friend. At one of her visits the latter said, with a strange hesitancy: ‘¢ Will you excuse us from meeting with you + atall during August? We keep ourselves quite ~ secluded at that period, as we have peculiar duties, and mamma has some unusual notions concerning our health. After that, perhaps by the middle of September, we are to give a grand party, and invite all the best families, but re- member, we are going to be intimate only with yours. - The request seemed reasonable enough, and was acceded to; but Cora noticed that the sad- ness of her eyes had deepened, and that in her last visit to the Grove an inexpressible dejection seemed to pervade the whole household, down to the humblest of the domestics. Still, as this feeling seemed to gain in the family, Harrison grew more spirited, and, it seemed to ber, more beautiful. How gleeful, almost fearfully so, became his laugh! His movements were more capricious, his wit keener. He flew rather than ran; there Seemed no bounds to his happy, frol- icsome mood. To Cora he was always gentle, and she felt conscious of a blind impulse to obey him in every thing. She did not seem to belong to herself when he was near, but was ever on the watch to see if he intended to make any de- mands of her, and felt a singular happiness in complying with his lightest wish. ‘*T wonder who those Lattisons are?” queried Mr. Reynolds one morning, when the family sat a breakfast. It was rather an unusual thing for him to wonder at any thing. “Do you hear any reports about them?” asked his wife, who had been the confidante of her youngest daughter, and to whom the strange story of the murder had been told with childish variations. ‘“‘Only that they must be enormously rich, for they have been constantly traveling for years—and they certainly keep servants enough for the household of a petty sovereign. They have no less than three gardeners, and each one party.” ne nee neem eei ate eer SSS sss spss SSS SSS > | of them affords to keep menin his employ. Be- | sides that, they have hired Tim Bumble and his wife, that untamable shrew, and Tim goes about dressed like a gentleman with his hands in his pockets. It’s very singular, but wherever the young folks are seen, there is Tim—at some dis- tance off, tobe sure. I expect he’s a sort of body-servant. Why in the world has such a stylish family come to live in such an out of the world place as this is? I can’t understand it.” ' Mrs. Reynolds told him of Anne Lattison’s singular request. “Well, that is strange enough,” was his repl —‘an odd affair, on the whole. However, it’s no business of ours, as I know of; they can af- ford to be singular, at any rate.” *¢ Oh, Cora,” cried Frank, (this was a week afterward) ‘I’ve been hearing the queerest sounds. 1 was down at the hedge fence at the boundary of father’s land, and I saw the most beautiful bird Iever met with in my life. It was of the rarest colors, and seemed tobe wounded, and it flew so low I thought perhaps I might catch it. It was over the fence—so 1 jumped it and ran on, for itappeared every mo- ment as if I could just put my hand on it. Well, before I knew it I was plump on the back gar- den of the Lattisons, and on the point of turn- ing away whenI heard the most awful cries. ell, I lay low and listened, and the sounds went on, shriek after shriek, till it seemed as if I couldn’t stand it. And there, a little way off, on the other side of the house from where | was, who do you think I saw but Mrs. Lattison, cry- ing asif her heart would break,and wringing her hands. I never felt so badly in all my life, and the way I turned and ran from there wasn’t slow—but Iseem to hear those fearful sounds now; who do you suppose it was?” ‘‘ Perhaps,” said Coraline, ‘‘Mr. Lattison— you know we have scarcely seen him—is one of those cruel, tyrannical men we read of some- times—and he might have been punishing one of his work-boys. Every thing seems strange over there.” “Nonsense,” retorted Frank; ‘‘it isn’t possi- ble for Mr. Lattison to be a cruel, tyrannical man. Father and I met him, yesterday, and hed quite a long conversation. He is slender and gentlemanly, and father declares has the most refined and poetical face he ever saw. But ll tell you what,” he added, in an aside to his eldest sister, ‘‘ he’s got the—there —I’d like to have called it ‘hang-dog’ look of the whole fami- ly. You know what I mean—as if th. y’d lost all their friends. How singular!” For a long while, Coraline, whose heart was beginning to be strangely interested, pondered over the news Frank had brought—but the month and several weeks passed away, and then came the great party. The Reynoldses, especial- ly Frank and Coraline, had longed for the time. It was Coraline’s first participation in a festival of the kind, but neither the grand dresses prepared, the news of the great goings on, or the joy of the party weighed as muc with Coraline as the delightful thought that she should meet with Harrison again, The night came and they were driven to the Grove. Cora was ushe at once into Anne Lattison’s own room. Anne was dressed in white satin, and looked as pure as an angel— Coraline, being dark, wore pink with white lace that became her wonderfully. The band ar- rived—the company gathered steadily, and by the hour of nine, the great parlors were filled. Up to this time, young Harrison had not made his appearance—Cora’s quickly throbbing heart would not let her ask for him—but as the clock struck, he entered with his father. “My poor brother has been quite ill,” said Anne, who stood by Cora, and watched him nervously. Coraline, looking up at that mo- ment, her eyes fell upon Mrs. Lattison. The pale mother stood almost motionless. Her lips were partedJ—her fingers moving, her eyes fas- tened upon Harrison, who had never appeared so pale, so spiritless, so entirely lifeless, but at the same time so supernaturally beautiful. His glance wandered indifferently. “T say, Cora,” said Francis, who was also waiting to be recognized, ‘‘it’s all mighty queer, and seems to me more like a funeral than a At that moment the boy’s glance settled upon Coraline. There was a wavering, uncertain light in his face, then a faint flush, then a joy- ous look of recognition, and he sprung toward her almost childishly, welcoming her so noisily so cheerily, that all eyes were turned toward her. From that moment he was no longer pale and tame, but the handsome, laughing boy, ths witty, spirited companion. Heartily and with = TF nunorv "rr — — —————— —— ——————————————————————————_————— — —— ——- oOo" ct a kindling of his olden self he entered into the sports of the evening, but toward Cora his man- ner was different from that with which he treated all the rest. Now, Anne and Mrs. Lat- tison’s manner changed—they, too, threw off ali appearance of care, and exerted themselves to make the time pass agreeably. As for Arty, she had made interest with some of the family, and gone off to see Mrs. Tim Bumble. She found the latter in the act of setting down a huge hamper. *“Oh! Miss Arty,” cried the tall woman, shak- ing her cap-border, out of which the starch had vanished, ‘‘it’s glad I am to see you. And what for did you Pave the dancin’ an’ come here?” “Why, I wanted to see you and Tim,” said the child. “ As for Tim, he’ll be hanging roun’ the young masther till they’re sure of him, I suppose—thin he’ll off, like the lazy boy he is, for a smoke, and his feet on the mantle.” ‘But, Bridget, what has Tim come here for —and why does he have to go with the young master, as you call him? I suppose you mean Harrison?” “It’s Harrison I mane, and it’s him is been sick,” said the woman, witb a great air of mys- ery. Bat what’s been the matter with him?” per- sisted the child. ; : “Why, you see, Arty,” said Bridget, glanc- ing slyly round, “it’s bis brain is the worst of him, and_ a great pity it is that he thinks so much of Miss Core—that I say.” “ Why—will he kill her?’ queried Arty, with a frightened look, the sad fate of Tim’s person- ages in the story floating through her brain. “The saints forbid!” cried Bridget, crossing herself hastily; “but it’s mesilf,” she added, hurriedly, ‘‘that wouldn’t want a child of me own to marry into this family.” . There apyeared to be little danger of such a consummation—the thought cecurred even to a and she laughed to herself. “TH tell Cora not to marry him if he asks her to,” said Arty, precociously. ‘‘La! Miss, pray don’t say that I said a word,” cried the cautious Mrs. Tim, and Arty promis- ing so much, hurried back into the parlor. The first thing she saw was, seated in a recess and busily talking, Coraline and Harrison. Cora’s face sparkled as if the interview were unwont- edly agreeable, while Harrison’s smile fascinated even the childish feeerateoe of Arty. But there was a dim foreboding of evil in her mind, and she lingered about ler sister for the rest of the evening asif she feared harm were coming to her. But Cora was almost wildly happy. To be near him, to listen to his beautiful words, to gaze in that face so perfect with its star-like eyes, was life’s completeness. It was the clear dawning of her first love. CHAPTER IV. FRAGMENTS FROM CORA’S JOURNAL. ‘Tp was the tenth of August, and nearing twilight. My father and motter, my little sis- ter and myself, sat in the cool west parlor, The day had been unusually sultry, and as my father went to the window he said: ““¢There’s a terrible storm coming up, if I can read the signs aright. Such a silence through the woods is portentous.’ ‘‘Gradually the air darkened: a dense cloud came from the horizon, spreading and deepen- ing, while gusts of hot, damp wind, whirled dead leaves and crackling twigs into the entry, till we could no longer sit with the doors open. It was not many minutes before the blinds were closed, the curtains thrown down and the lamps lighted. The storm burst now in all its ayy. We could hear the heavy throbs with which the heart of the forest responded—the wind howled, and the thunder, leaping from point to point, seemed to fall at iast with a succession of eavy crashes, as if the very earth were split asunder. “In the midst of the worst of the tempest came a heavy rap atthe door. It was opened, and there stood Mr. Lattison’s coachman, cover- ed with mud, hatless and coatless, and holding the heavy is with which he had knocked. “«¢Oh! sir,’ he cried, as my father confronted him, ‘has my young master Harrison wandered this way? Have you seen him anywhere about? He went out—and—and his father thought may- be if he wasn’t lost—if he hadn’t lost his way, that is—he’d be here.’ “ T sprung from my seat in the utmost affright. Arty sat near me—she moved, came to me, and whispered in my ear: ‘I guess he has killed himself.’ It went to my heart like a stroke of fierce lightning, and I cried out: ‘Oh! John, what makes you think harm has come to him?” eopat iki ey «i ee ee ee
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li dle” ¢ THE LITTLE HEIRESS. ‘The man looked confused, stammered, but answered: ~ **Oh, because—because, miss, we always looks after him, at this time.’ “*This time! What did he mean? The hour, the twilight—or the month? Jt was Au- gust! My father assured him he had not met with Harrison, and questioned every member of the family. No one had seen bim. “The coachman had been gone twenty min- utes, perry when there came anotherrap. It was the head gardener, this time—he held a lan- tern in which was a powerful light. ‘«¢Tf you please,’ he said, appealing anxiously to my father, ‘Mr. Lattison would like you to give me the privilege of searching your grounds. ‘We miss young Master Harrison—he has been gone two hours—we—they are all very anxious at the Grove, sir.’ ‘‘He paused here—and my father replied: ‘Go, go immediately—search everywhere—and taxe any of the servants to aid you; butit seems to me,’ he added, turning to my mother, ‘the boy is old enough to take care of himself. Searching in this way for a fellow of nineteen with lanterns—why, it’s ridiculous.” “T was crying to myself, for there was a heavy weight at my heart; but I swallowed my tears as I said, ‘Oh! father, they have lost six sons—six beautiful sons, Anne says, and they all died by drowning or by other violent deaths.’ “*T never heard of this,’ he said; ‘is there any—any—trouble in the family? He would have said insanity, I knew by his hesitation and his glance at me. ‘That is dreadful—I don’t wonder at their fright then. Ill go over there and see if I can be of any service, Hark! I hear Tim in the hall.’ “* Arty was on her feet in a moment. ‘Oh! Bumbledyhum,’ she cried, flying out, I follow- ing her, ‘have you found him? ‘* Found him is it, Miss Arty?’ said the man; niver a bit except the trace of him. > how could it be my fault? Wasn’t he as like a man in his sinses as could be, this wake past? ‘‘T shuddered from head to foot. «Sure he was r’ading as quiet as a lamb,’ he continued, turning to my father, ‘and he’d been quiet all day, having nary one of his t/aring turns that takes the breath from me body to howld him. And he asks me to go git him a book from the libery as purty, now, for he al- ways was the gintleman, even when he wasn’t himself—an’ he looked so innicent, thinks I to mesilf it’s no harm, which as ye may say was disobeyin’ orders intirely ; but how’d I know, so desaved as I was—well (here he paused to take breath, to strike an attitude, and to run his fin- gers through his hair), as I live, I weren’t gone a minnit by the watch, Shrewsbury time, an’ no mistake, when I goes back with the book that it took me a long time to hunt up beca’se of its name, which [ ain’t used to like a scholar might be—-and by me sowl the bit of a body was in the piace at all, at all. He couldn’t git out o’ the windy in his room, ’cause that were barred wid iron—and he didn’t git out by me, ’cause I’d felt the rush as he wint past. But he jist cl’ar- ed the hall, and let himsilf down by the grape- vine under his sister’s windy—that must ’ave bin the way of it. Wohin I found him missin’ I just stood and tore me hair out by the handfuls, for how’d I meet his father or his mother, an’ they to put such confidence in me? An’ whin I told ’em—an’ whin Bridget came to hear of it— och! the way me ears was battered to be sure, and now they’re all going crazy, ivery mother’s son of ’em, and—’ ‘* Another rap and another visitor—this time Mr. Lattison himself, his hair drenched and the rain streaming down his haggard cheeks, his beautiful dark eyes strained and shot with red, his thin lips quivering. r ‘“““ Have they found him? he cried. ‘Oh! Heaven!—my poor wife is almost beside herself —Anne is prostrated. I cannot lose him—the last of seven. Oh! sir, you behold an unhappy father—oh! wretched man that I am!’ ‘“*Where can he be—which way could he have taken?—let us begin the search anew,’ cried my father, taking his hat and hurriedly leaving the room with Mr. Lattison. “ As for me, I was in agony almost too cruel to be borne. ‘The thunder still rolled harshly along the far-off heaven, the lightning still pene- trated, in vivid flashes, the cracks in the window- blinds, and the rain poured continuously. 1 gave loose to my imagination, I pictured my poor friend Anne, faint with terror and apprehension; I saw all the distress of the wretched mo- ther—I went down in fan to the deso- late shore, now angry with the wildly-tossing elements, and, traced the footsteps of the ‘ 3 ‘ $ t © = eee ae Se ee ee = fugitive. I saw him running wildly in the face of the tempest, courting danger, and knowing no fear, I saw him rush into the whirl- ing waters; and then his cold, beautiful form lay on the stony bottom of the river, and the waves, lashed by the furious wind, threw his long hair from side to side orsswayed his lifeless arms. These pictures grew too horrible. ‘The storm was somewhat lessened in violence, and I gained a reluctant assent from my mother to go to Anna and comfort her. Under the guidance of Tim I gained the Grove, and a scene of Geso- lation it was. Servants were hurrying to and fro with bright lanterns, under whose light the wet ground shone as if it were jeweled thickly —servants stood in grOUDS on the porches, and the house alone looked dark. I found Mrs. Lat- tison Walking the floor in disordered attire, her ir thrown down, her eyes cold, hard, unnat- ural. She turned to me as she cried, hoarsely, ‘Onee more 1 am childless,’ and pointed to where Anne indeed lay like one bereft of life. I hurried to the poor girl’s side, spoke her name and kissed her. She roused herself instantly and throwing her arms about my neck, kissed me and sobbed her brother’s name, ‘“ ¢ He will come back,’ I said, soothingly. “ “*Ye’ll pardon me I know—if ye can bear the | sight of me for the sake of that careless Tim Bumble who niglicted his duty as I never done such a thing in all me born days. Now won’t the miss jist taste 0’ the tay? It'll stringthen ye to watch for the blissid young gentleman the like o’ which ’arth basn’t got, an’ heaven would be findin’ it hard to bate. Sure ye'll take a trifle of the toast jist to keep swate life from Yavin’—come now. Ye'll not feel better, while it’s ’ating, but after it’s down ye will. a ee Lattison shook her head. ‘Com My e, now—it’s good news ye’ll be afther hearin’ any way, and ye’ll reed as oe ? a ob ed stringth for that as for the bad. ’Tis Mr. Har- rison is not goin’ for to Yave us now, and such swate young ladies in trouble. Now ye’ll jist try a little, and Pll give yea good say. They use to call me a witch in ould Ireland because me good says come so thrue. Why there was Maggie MacAllister half dead over the coffin of her baby —I might say it were the coffin, though, to be sure, the childer lay in its cradle with the life in it jest as if it were flickin’ cn the edge of its lips and goin’ cut. She, the mother, were takin’ on that wild that ber screams might be heard by iverybody round her, and more too, for that matter. So says I, ‘ W bist, Maggie—I’ll tell ye the koy’ll live to look down on ye yit,’ and so ke Gid, glory to the saints in more ways than one; but we won’t rake up any cast-bys. Come, drink the good tay and I'll tell ye that the blessed Mr. Harrison *1i live to be married—ye hear that?’ “T felt that Bridget’s eyes were upon me, and along with my unspoken thanks for her kindly- meant encouragement came a blush of scarlet to face and neck. Mrs. Lattison seemed fora moment inclined to believe her, paused and sipped a little of the tea. Suddenly there came a lull in the tempest, and,.as we listened for another outburst, we heard a different but more welcome sound, the hoarse cheer of men’s voices. A wild cry broke from Anne end her mother. They hurried down-stairs half crazed with excitement, while I remained at the win- | Although the thunder had ceased, — and the rain fell no longer, still there were oe- | dow above. casional lightings up of the atmosphere, caused by the refiection of some far-off flash. In one of these I saw several persons leading scme one in their midst, who leaned exhausted om the arms of two men, my father and Mr. Lattison. I sunk back, terrified and grateful. Another moment and Frank was at my side, for I sum- moned strength enough to descend tke stairs. ‘« Where did they find him? I asked. ““*Qh! such a chase,’ said Frank, still panting; ‘he has been doing nothing but running and doubling for the last two hours. Why, he seem- ed sometimes to have asmany lengths as a ser- pent. Isn’t it odd, Cora? They captured him at last, when he had fallen from exhaustion, Here he comes, poor fellow!’ : ‘Mrs. Lattison would have rushed forward, but Mr. Lattison made a sign that she should not move. They came quietly in; Harrison artly leaned, like one almost inanimate, upon his father’s shoulder. How beautiful he was i: that moment, the wet curls laying loosely on the pallid temples and the wide, white collar— only peace shining upon his face, and still my heart bled to see it. They would have conduci- ed him up the stairs, but, suddenly seeming conscious that he had been b and stood alone, while they barred the door. Never shall I forget the look that flashed over his face. Then he broke into a wild, long peal ef laughter, and springing up, cried, hoarsely, ‘Tam king David! king David; where is Bath- ‘sheba? I sunk in terror before his wavering look. His father began to exposiulate, gently, but he would hear to nothing. “Ob, Cora!’ cried Anne, ‘this is terrible, that you should see him thus. What will he say when the paroxysm is over? og? ‘**Cora! where, where is Cora? he cried. ‘f will give Bathsheba for her—yea, ali that a man hath will he give for— ‘* At that moment he caught sight of me, and with a wild cry of delight sprung forward, crouching like a boy at my feet, catching atard fondling my hand—lookin pits my face with such innocence of trust and childlikeness that f could not keep back my tears. It was very af- fecting. That night he followed me to his room-cell; at my wish lay down, aud Isat there till he slept. My spirit grew very heavy asf reviewed the scenes of the past few hours,” ; CHAPTER V. a HOME AGAIN, ARLING, we are back again at th ft I hasten to tell you that one fearful pedis pected trial has been spared us. We passed last August in Paris, and there was no symptom of disease in Harrison. Do you not congratulate us #—for there is hope. They tell us so, all the old physicians, and that we need no longer dread for him. There is no danger now, except from some sudden and serious trouble, and even then, they say, that will not shock his brain, but may affect his spirits, causing a wild melancholy. You do not know how happy this makes us all-— no more dread, no more trial. My mother is so changed in a year that you would hardly know “her, She seems regaining her youth, co heayva * ~ = rought without re~ © sistance to his home, he sprung irom his captors — Site
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ie-- hos a 6 eee Oey See eS den has been rolled from her life. Come and ‘see_us, 1 am at present ill, with a sprained ankle, and confined _to my sofa, so that your _ presence will be doubly welcome.” 4 at op = ais » . whe Coraline received this welcome letter with rapture. It came when she was engaged in cooking, for she did not disdain, as the majority of delicately bred women of the present day do, to make herself mistress of all household duties. Very pretty she looked, too, in her neat chintz dress, her hair securely hidden under a tasteful little covering, and her sleeves tucked around her elbow. The sunshone in with a broad smile, lighting up all the corners, giving grand illumi- nations by dancing over burnished tins, and en- folding Cora in its luster as in a mantle. She went with the glad news to her mother, with whom Arty was sitting, smiling over her stent. ““We didn’t expect them for two months, you know,” said Cora, blushing and smiling. iis Oh, I’m so glad,” Arty responded, with a quicker motion of the needle; ‘‘ the Grove has looked so awful dull since they’ve been gone. If it hadn’t been for Bridget Bumbledyhum, it would have seemed just like atomb. Now, when shall we go ?” ‘““We!” said Mrs. Reynolds, with a quiet smile. ‘* Why not ?” responded ce I’m as tall as Cora, and mean to be taller. ides, I don’t go there because I think I’ve got a beau,” she add- ~ | Py
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seesteten Sh. THE: LITTLE) HEIRESS. 7 —_— ‘“‘It’s the raal truth I’m sp’akin’, ye may be sure of that—I tell you they’re grissels, and I never saw a shawl on one of "em—they’d walk in the strates jist as you would, if ye’d go out now, savin’ the flat.” “Well, I’d say they was that onproper I’d niver have tospake wid them,” replied Bridget. ‘‘ But it’s the custom there, honey, and if the grissels wore bonnets, there’d be a revolution— cause they’re on the p’int of a revolution every day, and the men all go to sleep wid their arms in their hands—oh! ye may belave that.” Harrison beckoned Cora away. Instead of \ going up to Anne’s room, he led her into the _conservatory. The sweet sights and scents made the pico replete with a luxury all its ,own, Scarlet roses, snowy lilies and vari-col- ored petunias hung from their delicate stems, while.the fragrance of all Arabia’s spices seem- ed gathered there. They walked along the brilliant length. ‘Here is a plant we brougbt from Paris,” said Harrison, moving some huge leaves to show a cluster of purple red bervies, shining as if sprinkled with fine dew. ‘* And what do you call it?” she asked. “The French name is insignificant,” was his reply. “‘T have given it another—I call it Coral- ine. The look that accompanied this little speech, more than the matter itself, brought a deep flush to the cheek of the young girl. “You thought of your friends then, when you were away.” **T thought of you, Miss Cora,” he answered, in a low voice, and her heart beat heavily as she listened. ‘‘I thought if ever,”—his voice trembled—“ if ever I might call you mine, there would be no happier man on earth than 1” This was abrupt, and found Cora speechless, A thousand emotions rushed over her mind— the predominant one love, pure and holy almost as an angel’s might be—and yet all were shad- ‘owed by the darkest forebodings, notwithstand- jing the security his family seemed to feel. That beautiful eye! she had once seen it light- ‘ed with the fires of madness; that cheek had been white with the pallor of insanity—those hands had clutched wildly at the air, and more than once thinned the locks on his own head. There was but one gleam of hope—ii was not believed to be hereditary. But might it not be, and the family unaware of the fact?’ Supposing it had not appeared for three, four or five gen- erations, and the records had been blotted out. One look at him, and all dread, all foreboding vanished; but as soon as she turned away, there me a dark cloud and settled on her soul. eantime his glance was resting upon her—so full of the tenderest love. ‘¢-You will excuse me,” she said, confusedly, “if I do not answer you now. { must have time—to—consult my—” “As long as you please,” he said, softly, yet passionately, ‘‘ only tell me I am not indifferent to you. For years I have loved you.” he looked up—her gaze was half mournful as she said, in whispering tones, ‘‘ And so I have ou. % Thus love was plighted while the air palpita- ted with the breath of the rose-leaf and the odor of the mignonette—under the sweep of the aceful vine, heavy with purple sweets—within earing of the southern birds, who, perched in cage-like sunbeams, trilled their little songs of love. * ‘Where is Cora, dear?” asked Mrs. Lattison, entering the room where Anne was alone. ‘“‘Harrison carried her away, to hear Tim Bumble talk French-Irish,” replied Anne, laugh- ing. ‘‘I suppose she has no idea how time is flitting. They have been gone nearly an hour.” “Cora is a very sweet girl,” said Mrs Lattison, musing. i ‘Ana did you know, mother, that Harrison loves her? Iam sure of it,” she said in reply to her mother’s glance. ; “« But what of her?” queried the mother, has- tily. uf I believe the love is returned,” rejoined An: ne. “Thank God!” and the mother bowed her forehead upon her hands—‘‘my only dread is removed. But, Anne, suppose her parents have rink They are not very rich, I don’t care for that—they are not very famous—their name is not an old one; so far we have all the advan- tage on our side; but they may make objections on account of—of Harrison’s malady.” “But that, mother, we have no longer any. fear of; think what competent judges have pro- nounced upon hisstate. I believe we need have = no scruples—I am sureI have none. If they Pris Te marry, they will be very neither of them regret it. But what letter is that, mother?” Mrs. Lattison was drawing a letter from her pocket. ‘You remember the lady at whose house we visited in. London who had so much trouble about the disposal of property left her by her husband?” ‘Oh! that pale, pretty lady, Catharine, as many called her,” replied Anne; ‘ yes, indeed— I remember her very well. Her relations, or rather her husband’s relations, were trying to contest the will. Oh, yes, her face would be one of the last to forget, so small, so perfectly beau- tiful. Well, what does she say, mother *‘ That she has married again,” was the reply, ‘ta strong, noble man, a barrister, who will he her keep her rights.. I hope so, for she has suf- fered much, and if those cruel people can con- trive to keep her from the property, they will. But here comes Harrison and Cora; find out if Cora truly loves him.” What would not that mother have sacrificed for the sake of her idol? CHAPTER VI. BRIDGET’S MISGIVINGS. “‘Tr’s attached to me he is—very much attach- ed to me is Misther Harrison, an’ therefore, Brid- get, you an’ Tis to go wid the new family and be in first rate positions. Arrah! see what ye got now by marrying me, Tim Bumble.” “Ye'd better be done throwing that same up in my face, ivery time you spake of things. Mightn’t Ta had old Croole the widdyer wid a fortune of twinty poun’ to begin wid—and mightn’t I ’ave Deltared mesilf wid young O’Shane who tinded to the illigant brass works o’ the factory—an’ wasn’t me faether Colonel of milishy, and ain’t I Bridget Rourke, that was the capablest woman for making butter an’ cheese in the country where I come from? See what I got, indade—but for the blissings of Providence, I’d been splitting me own wood and porting me own ’arnings into the pot—that would [.” : “Ah! but ould Croole war a miser,” cried Tim, with an exultant laugh. ‘‘ Besides that, hadn’t he an illigant expression on the side of his face where there wasn’t no eye at all—and a correspondin’ one whin he opened his mouth, where there wasn’t no teeth at all! To be sure he wasn’t but seventy, and so bulged out wid the rheumatiz that his knees was behind him. Then there’s O’Shane, och! but pers mighty funny now—isn’t it all for drink he spinds his money? Doesn’t he come home and abuse the woman that would be his wife, if he had any, ivery night of his life? O’Shane to be sure! But come, Bridget, darlin’, we won’t be after quarreling because neither of us wouldn’t give up the ship nohow. But what are ye making there so tasty I’d like to know?” ‘Tt’s a dress for the weddin’, to be sure, that Miss Anne give me wid all the trimmin’s. And it’s vexed I am that I kape gittin’ ee wrong side out—for it’s a bodin g of ill-luck, so [’m afeard. There’s Tip Connell’s weddin’ that I tinded xe know, in the capacity of bridesmaid, and while I was making the skirt of me dress, sure I had to rip it up four times intirely, an sure enough, she’s lost four childers this very ear. ' ‘‘And what is’t ye mane by calling Tip, she?” asked Tim. x “Because she is a Tip. Her father was a drunken fellow and he called her Tiperary—so it was aed goed by, poor thing. Id give me dog a better name, But do you know jist whin this weddin’ comes off?” “By the twentieth of the month,” replied Tim pre ing his pipe for a smoke. “6 , dear, and it’s the sixteenth to-day. Mie ie mighty sorry I'd be to marry my Bary sant “Whist!” exclaimed Tim, suddenly; ‘‘ don’t ye know that walls have ears and Misther Har- rison is all over the house?” As if to verify his words, in came Harrison at that moment, holding up an article of apparel. ‘*My darling woman!” he cried, his fine eyes beaming with nae light, ‘‘do help me out of my snes ere’s my favorite collar, but- tonless—and mother and Annie are so busy that absolutely there’s no getting near them for a pian word, Come—will you help me, and now “Sure will I,” said Bridget with alacrity. brag Seas poe his ipe ey id pecker! “and it’s much joy I’d wish ye for the prospect of so good and pretty a ite, Mr. Harrison The sight of her is a blessing,” she added. Aye—aqual to father Hennessy’s, any day,” rejoined Tim. ‘I wasn’t comparing with the praist,” said 2» ‘ happy together, and | Bridget, in a cold tone; ‘‘the blessing of the eyes is one thing—the blessing of the howly t:- ther another.” * They’re both different,” mumbled Tim. ‘You may well give me joy,” said Harrison,” lifting his head proudly. ‘A fairer or a sweet-. er bride never came to any man’s home than. she will be.” : ‘*So say you true,” spoke Bridget, handing him the mended article. é Bog Bande: a. are wits our needle! In. act, with everything,” said Harrison, pressing into her fingers a silver coin. “ There, that will buy you a ribbon if nothing more.” ‘Isn't he handsome, though?’ ejaculated Bridget, looking after him—“‘ but as I was say-. ing,” she added, with a glance of oracular wis- dom, ‘‘ shouldn’t you be afraid?” ‘“« Afraid of what?” ‘* Of them turns,” she whispered. ‘‘ They’re all gone,” was the reply. “ But it’s in my head and on me heart the story ye told me about the odther r boy. The rage came on him suddenly, and he—” ‘“‘Whist! I tell ye,” cried Tim, really fearful; “that’s a thing that if mentioned and got to the ears of Mr. Lattison would ruin me intire~ ly. Besides, it wasn’t wid him as wid Mr. Har- rison, for he weren’t of age, which Mr. Harri- son is, and the danger gone, accordin’ to the medical men in Paris, Vou Le Fronchee.” ‘Sure, an’ I bope so,” said Bridget, turn to her work. ‘There! d’ye iver see the like if I haven’t sewed this whole seam wrong side out! Tim, ye may depind upon it, there’s a trouble brewin’ somewhere.” ‘* It’s all your nonsense, Bridget.” ae “Didn't t note it at the time Tooney Mike’s daughter died, jist on to tin wid the mazl 2 was the one to sew on her dress, and I kept. makin’ wrong stitches and gittin’ corners turn- ed end for end, and true as ye live, Tim Bum- ble, there was an accident happened at the- ave,” Y “ “ An’ what was that?” queried Tim, with wide-open eyes. ‘‘Sure, what could happen to the dead?” ? ‘Well, it war the strangest sight these eyes iver saw—an’ if ye’d been to Ireland then, ye’d heard the story from town to town, for the tid- ings flew like the fire ina high wind, Why—__ uow be aisy, Tim—look alive, man, ye’re ing all the ashes out of your pipe on the clane floor. Well, they’d jist come to the ve af- ther they’d had their i wake, and the mo- ther was crying fit to kill herself, and_ the coffin was sot down—an’ the praist, he—well if iver, Tim Bumble ye’re trimbling like a lafe.” “Now, Bridget, be aisy and go on, woman— be aisy and go on.” “Well, we stood there thinking of the cowld corpse an’ the poor mother’s sorrow, when some- body kneeled down to takea look—an’ he sprung up to his feet with a loud schriek, an’ says he, ‘By the howly Virgin, she’s a-livin’!’” “ “Now, Bridget,” gasped Tim, whose eyes stood out like two small globes “now, Bridget, it’s a sin and a shame to be tell: able stories.” “But didn’t I see wid me own eyes, and isn’t; _ seein’ bel’avin’?” ote Bridget, indignantly. n “Very well—then I'll howld me tongue; it’s no_ use for me to be talkin’.” m “T ax your pardon,” said Tim, humbly, ‘‘ Tk not interrupt ye agen.” ; ‘But it makes me shiver in me bones to think of it,” continued Bridget, ‘how, as I stood there, there come a whisper, sort ty hollow-like, ‘she’s alive,’ and the people, ‘specially the_ yo ones, begin to scamper from the place. t were a time of confusion, intirely, an’ a thing I couldn’t see through, for ’d sot up wid her, an’ saw the child breathe her last—an’ made her shrowd and seen the breath kindly out, and had the mates an’ sperrits at the wake, an’ I couldn’t bel’ave anythin’ about it. But as thrue as ye live, Tim—” 4 ‘¢Howly saints, what?” cried Tim, with star- ing e balls, é ‘The girl was alive, an’ she’s alive this day,” said Bridget, with emphasis. “And d’ye call that an accident?’ queried Tim, shaking as he spoke, and laughing a little; “if it were, it were a mighty fine one, and itd not trouble me if it happened the same to me- silf, when I lave ye a widder, Bridget.” . Sure, it’s a burial I like to see whin I oS tio a buryin’,” said Bridget, coolly, ‘‘ and a weddin’, whin I go to a weddin’; aither one is proper in its place. Well, well; by the way, me cotton kinks; era akt ogee to be hard words somewhere. But what is Mr. Harrison going off for?” “Why, afther he’s made his tower, I hear,” said Tim, quietly, for the story his wife had_ ~ ill- ~~ 4 i ie ¥ in’ sich unprob-. ” ¥ x
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been telling had subdued him, ‘his father’s “ in’ to make him into a merchant. It’s the ife of variety they say he wants, and that?ll give it. Then, sure, won’t we go to the city wid oe an’ won’t you an’ me shine, Bridget— oc CHAPTER VII. THE GRANDFATHER’S STORY. Cora and her sister sat together in one of the cosiest little boudoirs that was ever seen. The Reynoldses, if not wealthy, still had enough’ to live in ease and refinement, and the elegancies of the rich man were, many of them, scattered about their dwelling. The room in which his daughters were ensconced, like pretty pictures in a costly frame, was lined with tasteful hang- ing of blue silk and lace. It had been a dream » of Cora’s, when she was a little child, that she had such an apartment, and her father, to grat- ify her wish, caused it to be arranged so as to surprise her on her return from a visit. Hence- forth, the sisters occupied it together, and many happy hours had they passed there. Now, up- on the soft, white counterpane of the bed, a costly dress of rich lace lay gleaming in white light and gray shadow. ow beautiful it was! never ceased to admire it. Neither child nor woman, her manner and her conversation presented the peculiarities of both. . “The most splendid thing!” she exclaimed, looking up from her work every other moment; ““how I should like to see myself in it over pink brocade—low neck and short sleeves. Shouldn’t I look pretty, say, Cora? But you will wear it over dead white—spoil the effect. Oh, Cora, how shall you feel when you come to stand up? That must be the most trying part—before all the people—I never could in th is world.” *“Yow’ll not be very likely to in the next,” said somebody, entering at that moment. was Frank. **You needn’t scold, now, because I came in without knocking; I never thought. Flushed, am I? I’ve beeu running a race with Harrison —he’s the greatest fellow on horseback! Why, ‘he goes like the wind: he seems fairly wild, and the faster he flies the wilder is he. I wonder we didn’t both break our necks or our horses’; but I was determined not to be beat. I put my determination into practice, and, consequently, wasn’t beat. But, oh! that’s the wedding fix- ing, is it? I a I must buy some white gloves to say good-by in.” He stooped and kissed Cora on the cheek. Only a.year older than his favorite sister, he felt keenly the pang of parting, and, though no one suspected it, there were tears in his eyes when he lifted himself up. “T wish I were going off with you,” he said, my future interests with a certain merchant in B—.,, why, I suppose I must stay at home. One comfort is that you will be in the city, and I can come and see you as often as I like. That _-will seem quite like home.” “You shall come and stay with us altogether,” said Coraline, warmly, her cheek taking on a deeper hue as she used that conjunctive syllable, “ No, no, if you please, little woman. A home of my own or the home of a stranger. How do you suppose ld feel if I overheard Harrison and you quarr ? Tobe sure, I should take our part, and get myself into trouble.” “Oh! but we sha’u’t quarrel,” said Coraline, so earnestly, that her brother laughed outright. “Td like to know who could quarrel with Coraline,” said Arty, quietly. ‘Oh, Cora! we're to have lots of those superb roses from the Grove; cut them all down for bouquets. on’t they be Hye eg I'm going to have japonicas in my nair. «MSE dare say you'll be trimmed up in great style, both of you,” Tepes Frank; and he began humming the “ ge, Pata 4 Meantime, Mr. and Mrs. ynolds sat to- gether, holding a conference. ‘‘Mr, Lattison insists upon presenting the house to Coraline,” he said, coming out of a brown study. “He is very generous and very kind. I sup- pose he thinks—” she hesitated; their eyes met, “Thinks what?’ queried Mr. Reynolds, ner- wae: _“*If anything should happen,” she began, timidly, “she would have something for ler- “Tf anything should happen,” murmured Mr. Reynolds, in an undertone. ‘Sometimes, wife, I feel miserably about this match. We are not sure of hig enure recovery: and what were all carelessly ; ‘‘ but, as arrangements are made for’ Harrison has ordered abenee to. THE LITTLE HEIRESS. o¥ wealth and position compared to a fate like that? ‘« She seemed to feel so for some time,” said his wife, thoughtfully; ‘‘ but the poor child has loved him for years, and the pleadings of Anne and Mr. Lattison effected the matter at last. I think we have been wise in saying as little as possible, and, after laying the possible con- uences before her, leaving her to her own judgment. It is strange that Harrison prefers, with his want of experience, to go into active business.” ‘*His partner understands enough for both. He is a fine, capable fellow, so my brother says, who is much interested in him, and thinks there never was another like him. TI don’t know that I quite agree with you about business affairs. I think it will give Harrison constant and active employment, which he needs. Let us hope for the best, wife. It is very certain that there is no hereditary taint in his blood, and a more beautiful, bright, determined creature I never saw. I love him already like a son.” At that moment a carriage drove up to the house. Two venerable faces looked forth on the little throng that was instantly gathered in the veranda to greet them. Still hale, hearty and handsome, grandfather Reynolds needed no assistance from the vehicle. * Well, children,” he said, as they gave him a loving welcome, ‘‘ I have come to the wedding.” * And I, too,” cried grandmother Reynolds, who was leaning on the arm of herson. ‘‘?m so young and smart,” she continued, smiling ‘*T don’t know but you wiil want me for one o. the bridesmaids.” By evening a pleasant company sat in the cheerful parlor. Anne Lattison and her brother were there; the old people, refreshed and smiling, sat in arm-chairs, looking around them with thankful hearts. Arty, and a young lady acquaintance of her own age, were sea at a table, and from the chandelier above fell a flood of mellow light on the beautifully colored plates of a book full of Indian faces, groups and costumes. “Oh! I do so dote on Indians,” exclaimed Arty, after i ara her enthusiasm on a pe- culiarly handsome and richly-dressed chief. ‘*So what?’ exclaimed her grandfather, shak- ing back his silvery locks as he lifted his head, and his piercing glance went over to her. ‘Why, dote on Indians, dear grandpa; they do look so noble here in their splendid furs, their richly-colored robes and their feathers.” ‘* Noble! the bloodthirsty wretches!’ said the old man, holding forth one hand as he spoke, and smiting it with the other; ‘that, and this and every part of my body, in fact, is scarre by those infernal dogs. y, look here, child,” and he drew the white locks from his ample forehead, ‘‘see the marks of their scalping- knife. They left me for dead, once, and came near having these locks hanging at their accursed es. , ‘Your grandfather always ks plainly on that theme,” said Mrs. Reyiolds : “Why, grandfather!” exclaimed Arty, draw- ing foward 4 the old gentleman, ‘‘is it possible that you ever had any trouble with real In- dians? Was that white mark made by the say- ages?” “Ves. Talk about their bravery—the stub- born, inborn fiends, they don’t know what true bravery means. The courage of a. beast is all they have. If you had seen as much of the In- ians as I have, you’d never take those creatures of the painter’s imagination to be the Simon Pure savage. No, no; there’s a difference. Come, children, draw near, and Ill tell you a story that will cure you of doting upon Indians. “When I was a young man, 1 went West, and had many a bout with the border savages, There was never any poetry in your.old grand- father, Arty. I never could see anything beau- tiful in their hideously-painted faces, and, to tell the truth, they killed my only brother, and I hated the whole race. “Well, we had a long spell of peace, and had become tired of our gag life in our cabins up- on Poon BUC ‘ was too oh Ba gi for young fellows—simply gunning, fishing, sleep- ing ape eating. We weren't like the mustached entry of the present day—begging your par- on, young men. We couldn’t dress up in those times, and take little bits of paper in our hands, and go call upon the pretty ladies, to show off cur teeth and broadcloth the best part of the day. We were rough men in our hunting- frocks, who thought a good-sized deer none too heavy to throw over our shoulders after we had run him down, and to whom other dears were as fabulous as myths. “But, as I tell you. we—there were four of et a us—had become tired of idleness, and wanted another bout with the Indians. So knowing that a party had stolen some horses, and that. they had taken their way to Chillicothe, we set: out after them to regain the booty they had. taken, We reached Chilli icothe a few days af- terward, and fell in with a drove of horses feed- ing in the rich prairie-grass. Of these we se- cured six, and started on our return. Before we reached the river a storm came up. The heavens grew black with clouds, and the wind blew like a hurricane. What to do with the horses we could hardly decide, for they had be- come unmanageable. ‘The river was so swo!l- len—its waves lashed with fury—that we dared not venture to cross, and we were fearful of be- ing pee It was nearly va and we could just find our way back to the h 1, where, after hobbling our animals, we remained during the night. It was an awful scene. The rain poured in torrents; the lightning blazed from point to point; and the thunder seemed to crash and break against the hills. We were all ex- posed to the fury of the tempest. In the morn- ing our clothes were drenched, and we only saved our powder dry by the greatest precau- tion, The wind, however, had subsided, and we tried again to get our horses over to the other side. It was in vain; the creatures re- sisted every attempt, and we were driven to the alternative cf losing our lives or losing our horses. Of course we chose the latter, and se- he each of us cne of the best, we made for the falls, “There was a handsome young fellow with us, a Kentuckian by birth, who thought we had scarcely had adventure enough yet, so he poe to me to let the rest go on while e and I captured two splendid bays. We turned back, accordingly, and came the first thing on a trail of smoking savages, who had been undoubtedly seeking us from the first. My dear child, if you had seen them es they really were, their faces streaked black crd yellow, their untanned blankets, rough leggins and demoniac faces, you never would have doted on them, Willis, the Kentuckian, was some ways ahead of me, and, by unsuccessful maneuvering, fell immediately into their hands. It was a direful sizbt to see them each drive with his heavy club at the head of the poor fellow. He was down in less than a minute, and they scalp- ed him, throwing the fresh, bleeding skin over their weapons, and waving it in my sight. ‘“‘T was mounted on a splendid horse. They, too, were mounted and had flcet animals, so they pursued me at the top of their speed. For a time I escaped—only to fall into their bar- barous hands, however. Deceived by a voice L thonght familiar, and the pronunciation cf a word in English, 1 followed a trail, and still lured on by the supposition that Iwas on tho track of the friends from whom I had separated, and who might have come back to the rescue, I went cautiously forward, but suddenly founa myself anong a party of Indians who were so engaged, that, I suppose, if I had possessed presence of mind, I might have escaped, for I think they did not see me. . However, deemix § k the boldest course would be the best, I plunge away into the forest, but they were too quic for me, and were after me like a pack of hounds. Springing from my horse, I took ad- vantage of some fallen timber, and tried to dodge them—to hide among the underbrush, but. their cunning defeated. my purposes. They divided into two parties and_ rede along on either side of the timber, beating it with their horrible weapons and driving me out at the op- posite end, where stood an enormous savage with a lifted tomahawk. As he was about to strike me to the earth, however, another Indian, equally powerful, lifted me as if I had been a fea- ther out of the way of the descending instrument of death.. I was a prisoner, and obliged to make the best of it.” é ‘Oh, grandfather!” cried Arty, “how did you,feel?” __ ‘ “How did I feel? How would you feel with ten jabbering savages about you, each one look- we as if he could eat you without pepper or salt?” “ Oh! dear,” cried Arty, shuddering, ‘‘I don’t know what { should have done. It must have been a trying moment.” “Not half as trying as whet followed,” re- lied the old man, shaking his white locks. ‘They muttered their outlandish gibberish in my face, making up hideous mouths, expressive of their intense disgust of me and of my race. They shook the scalp of poor Willis against my very eyes, and 1 don’t doubt wanted to serve mine the same way. Then leaving me helpless- Iv tiod, they went cut to cateh the horses, The es ieee s — hk,
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i ® THE LITTLE HEIRESS. difficulty with which this feat was accomplished made them wilder than ever in their rage against me. I.saw them deliberate, and knew by their gestures they were reserving me for some fearful doom. At last a tall Indian went without the circle and succeeded in leading one of the horses, a fiery, vicious animal who had given me great trouble, and who, in his looks and movements seemed almost demoniac. Close to me they led him. I felt his hot breath against my face, and more than once his hoof threatened to crush my foot to atoms. I thought that in some way they intended my death by that monstrous gray horse, and so they did, but Thad not calculated for the extreme cruelty of which they are capable. What was my horror when I found they were going to bind me on the animal, torture him, and set him free. “Oh! grandfather—you are a second Maze pa!” cried Arty, listening meanwhile with hush- ed, intense interest, «A distinction for which I paid cruelly,” said the old man, folding his arms and gazing into the fire. ‘They then lifted me upon the horse, he all the while rearing, backing, snorting, and seating me with my back toward his head, they tied my feet under him. This made them great trouble, for the horse was nearly un- manageable, what with terror and viciousness, but for every annoyance he gave them they paid me in blows or wounds with their knives, They then threw a rope about my arms, draw- ing and lashing my back on the animal, another around my neck, tying that to the neck of the horse, from whence it was carried to his tail, making it serve the purpose of a crupper. In this way they secured me to the frantic beast, and all the while the demons incarnate danced, yelping and screaming about me, tes- tifying their infernal delight in the anticipated suffering that was to overtake me. They lashed the horse, not sparing me, shouted in his ears, thrust their knives into him, and with shouts that sounded like thunder, turned him loose.’ The poor animal with the poor wretch upon him, dashed into the thickest of the woods. The horse, feeling his unusual burden and frantic to rid himself, took his way among the tangled undergrowth, bruising me at every step, throwing me against. eke (sare branches rearing, plunging, uttering the wildest cries of terror. I longed and prayed for death, I raved and sent up my cries of anguish with his. Sometimes I laid insensible, and then a dread- ful blow would bring me to agonizing conscious- ness. I knew death would come at last, but ch! the awful uncertainty! the sufferings that per- meated every bone, nerve, sinew. I can de- scribe nothing like it. It is too dreadful to re- call, too frightful to portray.” ; The old man shuddered ‘as he held his hand before his eyes asif to shut out a fearful specta- cle. The young creature before him shuddered too, and tenderly took his hand in her own. Coraline was occupied in watching Harrison who sat nearer the light than she did. ‘‘If he betrays any unusual excitement,” she thought, as the story progressed, ‘‘I tremble for my future. If not—then, heaven be thanked, I do not fear.” Harrison’s eye had indeed lighted more than once, but his whole exterior was even calmer than that of Frank Reynolds. It wasa splendid test. “Well,” continued grandfather Reynolds, the horse at last became exhausted. What pre- vented him from rolling over and crushing me, heaven ouly knows. _ I was dying with hunger, sore in every inch of my body, longing only that death might put an end to my sufferings partly conscious—just alive, that was all—I - seemed to know that my breath was near] one and wished to make no effort to retain it. hen there came a long silence—a great blank —and how long after I know not, I found my- self lying on a bed in a log-hut, and an angel- faced gi N bending over me. sa He. has opened his eyes, mother,’ were the first words I heard, and then all was a blank again. It seéms the sagacity of the horse had led him to the first habitation after he was thoroughly subducd. It proved to belong to an eastern family. They treated me with the greatest care, the tenderest consideration. It was months before I was well, and completel cured of a longing to encounter the Indians. referred after that a home of my own and the biotite, girl in the log-house for a wife. ‘ ‘“And aunt Margaret was your nurse?” said a ‘“Not this one, my dear; that Margaretsleeps roposed music. Frank whirled iano and dissipated ® ina grave in the prairieland.” Somebody himself round toward the pany by a vigorous sweep up and down the ceys, breaking into a lively barcarole, until singing and mirth became the order of the evening. In one week from that time there was a wedding in the mansion—and Coraline became the wife of the only hope and heir of the Lattisons, CHAPTER VIII. A TERRIBLE SHOCK. ‘ WELL, Sylvester, how is business?” The question was addressed by a portly old gentleman to his wou'd-be young friend—an exquisitely made-up man. ‘Business, sir—a—I—really can not tell, sir. I’ve left your nephew, sir. I really couldn’t stand it.” “What? You don’t mean that you’ve broken the partnership?” ‘To be sure I do, sir, and I prophesy Lattison will go to to the dogs—to the dogs, sir,” ‘Why what do you mean, sir?” “ Just what I say, Mr. Reynolds. Lattison is a queer fish—a little unsettled I should think. Zounds, sir, because I was somewhat attentive to his handsome wife, he picked up a quarrel with me; in fact, once or twice as good as told me to leave the house. I won’t putup with an insult, sir, from any man, and so we are no longer friends. Besides, he’s living ruinously. Why, his father’s fortune is all run through— that stud of his would break any man but a millionaire.” ‘‘Sorry to hear it, sorry to hear it,” respond- ed the old man, with a malevolent shake of the head. ‘‘ Well, if he gets into trouble he needn’t come on his wife’s old uncle—can’t do a cent’s worth for him—not a cent’s worth.” The object of their discussion was Harrison Lattison. Old Mr. Lattison was dead. He had left less of a fortune than his family had reason to expect. Mrs. Lattison had gone with Anne, who was married to a western lawyer. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds had also passed away, Arty had been a wife some time, and Frank was a merchant in the city. Coraline had been married sixteen years. Du- ring that time she had known no wish ungrati- fied. Three children blessed their fireside—Ella, a girl of thirteen, Harrison, in’ his sixteenth year, and a little pet called Charley, of some six or seven summers. It was true that Mr. Lattison had been living agreeably fast. His house was a wonder of beauty and, convenience —his conservatory a miracle of sweets and color, while his splendid barouche, and elegant coachman in livery were the envy of the city. Harrison had shown a great dislike of his part- ner, Mr. Sylvester, who really took great pains to be attentive to the ladies of his acquaintance, and who frequented Lattisou’s much more than was agreeable to either the husband or the wife. This had resulted in the grievance Mr. Sylvester complained of, and that in the dissolving of the partnership. Meanwhile Harrison went on making bad speculations until matters came to a crisis, and, one day, he found himseli a bankrupt... This was terrible as death to him. Could he, who had all his life been accustomed to luxuries, come down to humble quarters and niggardly fare? Never. The crisis came and passed, leaving him subject to a singular baliucination. The house was Cora’s; his father had given it to her. That was, therefore, safe. He would not bur- den her—would not suffer her wordless accusa- tions—he would begin life anew in some strange capacity and leave her to think him dead—and then he should see what he should see. It was a sudden resolution, born of a temporarily dis- ordered brain, He sat down to his table, and wrote with a desperate hand, the following “note: “Dear Wire:—When you read this, forget me. TI am going to throw myseif into the river where the current runs strongest and deepest, and cursed be he who attempts to findmy body, I know you love me dearly, and I would say here, it is my wish that you do not marry again. I have failed, but the house and furniture are yours to do as you please with, Adieu, and God bless you. ‘Ever yours, even in death, : “ HARRISON LATTISON.” This he wrote, signed and sealed; he smiled over bis cruel determination, with the heartless- ness of derangement. He then went to his wife’s dressing-room (she had gone out), and left it on her table. Such a singular hallucina- tion had taken possession of his mind that he laughed at his own cunning. ‘She has often said that if I died she would never marry,” he said to himself, standing be- | beautiful wife; ‘this will put her to the tesi— , and I shail see, uow, the depth of her sorrow.” Again and again he read the note, each perusal seeming to plunge him deeper and deeper in thought. As he looked up, his glance fell upon pictures whose prices would have beggared some men, statuary. upon which the soft light fell like sifted’ gold, hangings whose gleams took the hues of rich metals, and swept the thick carpets as the glossy locks of dusky beauties fall on the woven fabrics of their robing. He walked idly to the window, attracted by some commotion in the street. posite, at the end of a small square, dangled three gilt balls. It was the only blot upon that re- spectable neighborhood, as he himself had often said--that detestable broker’s shop. Ee had many times wished that some friendly fire might turn the place into ashes—it seemed so natural that ashes should be the end of things. Now a cart rattled down and stool fronting the door. A few bundles were thrown in, a chair or two, an old desk, and the window stood blank, deserted. The broker had broken. No more to him should come faded old women with faded old shawls bringing their hard-earned treasures on which to raise a few pennies that they might buy bread for hungry mouths. No more would gaunt and haggard men turn the corner—gazing with fierce eyes beyond them to see if they were noticed or recognized; or little children, thciv rags and tatters flying, creep with bare bluo feet to that place of Jewish extortion. The broker as well as the merchant had dead failed. Harrison stocd there vainly dreaming, a strange, wild thought came into his brain. It was this: he would turn broker, and enjoy the daily pleasure of beholding his wife and chi For a long time he laughed and chuckled like a child, at the idea; then leaving the note where his wife would be sure to see it when she came home, he hurried from the house, toward shop of an old Jew by the name of Elam, an found him at home. “Well, what do you want?” he eried, wrink- ling his long nose, his eyes like two coals burning in the center, shining straight on his visitor. “To hire the little hole oposite my house for a poor friend,” was the reply. ‘Vat little hole? Ish it in de pavement?” queried the old man, shrewdly. “No, no; you know well enough whatI mean —the three balls.” “Eh! dat ish it—you turn broker—ha! it would pe goot,” and the eyes twinkled with a Satanic merriment, ‘ ‘‘Nonsense; I came to hire the shop for a friend,” said Harrison, nervously, ““Ah! but hash bin offered three dollars a week for him.” } “Too much; but for the sake of securing it, Tl give you three and a quarter, and pay you down for two months.” : “Done; you is a shentleman.” “‘T wish I could return the compliment,” said Harrison. The Jew_ laughed, wrinkling his long nose, twinkling his bright eyes. e would have theught, if he had been in the secret, that this was very queer work for a man who contem- plated his own funeral. ws “When will your friend take ze shop?” asked the son of Abraham. oh ‘*Perheps in two days,” was the reply. “And if he not pay me goot when ze two months gone?” : “Then turn him out.” “Ay! I turn him out,” was his quick answer; “ do it a great many times. I says money cr out—and it is shenerally out—he, he!” Harrison sniiled, in fact he chuckled to him- self. In bis hallucination it seemed such a fire thing to deceive this old wretch of a Jew—io deceive his wife and everybody. A fine chance it would = to learn gs they regarded bim— passing judgment on his actions, giving false versions of his life—making love ‘to his widow ! ob! it was too good; and he rubbed his palms together as he t ought, and screamed internal- ly with laughter. His next movement was toward an old ¢ shop. Here he exchanged his garments a dusky, bottle-green suit, and learned the art understood by Jews, of dyeing his skin and hair in such a manner that the disguise was most. complete, especially when aided by a false beard and mustache. In this make-up he was quite as handsome, perhaps presented a more imposing appearance than in his usual garb, It | gave an Israelitish cast to his features and made the representative of a cast-off nation kingly in- | exterior and splendid in face. Quietly he en- {Lo sedness that had settled vpon the littl: ecim- ° fore an exquisite little picture representing his tered the forsaken shop as if he had forgotten ae nes > ee! ee
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40 THE-LITTLE \HEIRESS. ‘. BR BSPT he finds we are not there—but it is strange we did not meet him, thouzh I suppose he has gone round by another street.” “Well, what did the misthress say?” queried Tim, who as usual was lounging and smoking after his customary nap. It is needless to re- cord that Tim’s place was a sinecure, “Not at all surprised,” said Bridget. ‘‘In- dade, I don’t belave she iver thinks of the ould times.’ ‘Well, I’ve seen it comin’ on him, and it wouldn’t surprise me in the laist if he’d one of his ould turns as bad as iver. There’s the look in his eye I don’t like, and the way he moves about from one thing to the odther isn’t right and reasonable for any sane man. Jist as he used—there he’s a-singing to himself and a- smilin’ and a-mutterin’. The saints protict_us if he’ll have ’em as bad as he iver did. It’s what I’ve bin seein’ wid me eyesshut for months an’ months.” ** Ab! poor lady—it’s her I pity, an’ she so on- conscious of it. An’ it’s afraid I am to go to bed of a night for fear I'll be dragged out of me sleep and murthered before ’mawake.” . Lattison followed her daughter into the latter’s dressing-room. ‘*T believe I'll lay my bonuet on your bed and ge down immediately to practice: The clock. as struck six, and when your father comes, you know, we don’t like to practice. He is so good a husband, so excellent a father.” : There was a musical soiree in prospect in which Mrs. Lattison was to show her fine abil- ity. Seven o’clock came, and she was deep in the intricacies of a difficult waltz, when the door opened and Ella entered. ‘Has your father come?” asked her mother, without glancing up. “No, mothers bat what is this ?” “What, darling?” and still the bright eyes were bent on all but impossible chords and frantic quavers. “A note, mother—in papa’s writing, I should his previous existence, and domiciled himself there. The strange malady of mind under 2 which he labored precluded any feeling of re- _ gret at his change in life, at bis separation from a beloved family. He was like a child in an absorbing play—forgetting himself in the fasci- nation of personating somebody else. Before night the few humble household articles which were needed to furnish his narrow quarters ar- - rived, and be was established. Coolly and com- posedly on the following morning he read the _ following paragraph in the morning paper: “Tt is our painful duty to record, ete. . . . left his home under melancholy circumstances, ete. . . . afflicted family, etc. . . . one of our sterling citizens, previousto . .. etc., etc.” He had now commenced in good earnest— and, quietly seated opposite his grief-stricken family, amused himself with his disguise. CHAPTER IX. | A WIDOW, YET A WIFE. CORALINE, unconscious of the strange hallu- cination that had overtaken her husband, or the sudden failure, was spending a pleasant afternoon with a friend. She was yet a beauti- ful woman, looking scarcely older than when, sixteen years before, she had given her hand so trustingly to Harrison. The remembrance of his ear y malady had become like a dream to her, and though she had met with trouble in the loss of ber parents, she had been so shielded and cherished, that age sat lightly on her. She was et scarcely thirty-seven, and the little daughter, la Lattison, was a miniature edition of her mother. Mrs. Lattison, was a great favorite with all who knew her. The life of her own home, she was also the delight of each circle that numbered her aimong its members. Her husband had lavished every care and attention . upon her. She was a finished musician, an ac- complished artist, and adorned her beautiful home with every grace belonging to the feminine character. f think.” . She stood in the conservatory with her friend ‘“‘Oh! a note, child, let me see it,” and the i and hostess. Twilight was gathering. They | hand was stretched forth, now—the face all ex- tation. “T found it on your dressing table, mamma,” and Ella gave it to her, her bright face yet un- blanched of its smiles. Tremblingly Cora held the fatal missive. The moment she felt its touch, a deathly faintness seized her—a presentiment of coming evil gave her a sharp chill. Her face grew white; she looked at it as a thing afar off. Slowly she opened—hurriedly readit—then cameacry such as you may have heard once, reader—a voiced bert see with anguish, fright and horror. “Mother!” Ella was at her side grasping the clenched hands, her own. sweet face distorted with fear. ‘ Mother, what is it? What has i Where is my father?” ead—dead!” came in piteous gaspings. ‘¢Oh! heaven, be merciful. Ella, your father is dead—drowned!” Shrieks and uproar—faintings—frantic flying from place to place—was the order of that ter- riblehour. The physician was sent for—Frank was summoned—Arty was ill and could not come. The house was a caravansary until the following day. Tim and Bridget had their hands full. Old Mr. Reynolds, the uncle, stalked from room to room, uttering wren, Pepe on adjec- tives as the cost of this and that elegance occur- red to his mind, “Fool and his money soon parted,” he sneer- ed, tapping the beautiful statue of a Hebe con- temptuously with hiscane. ‘‘ Sylvester foresaw it—smart fellow that Sylvester; saved himself remarkably. Ah! there youare!” he muttered, as Tim flourished his immense bandanna over the head of the statue, solicitous to remove the slightest dust. ‘‘ Yowre out of a place.” *M’aning me, sir?’ queried Tim, looking up. “Oh! no, sir—it’s in me place I am,” and he wiped away so vigorously that the dust caused the old man to sneeze. “Look out, you rascal!” he cried, “‘ you’ve got no master to indulge you now, remember.” “Sure, an’ it's the same as if I had,” quoth Tim, indi tly. “IN. not be Paving the house, nather me nor Bridget, till the mistress puts me out.” “ Humph—mistress—she’s not worth a farth- ing now, man; how will you get your wages?” jd Troth, an’ won’t J work for me board?” que- ried Tim, opening his eyes. ‘Sure an’I will if the board be buta crust an’ that not large enough for twoivus. It’s not money I cares about— it’s Bridget ’Il’arn the money—for more than me, mark ye—she’d work her hands off for the mistress, an’ she’ll do it if it’s necessary it is.” “You're a numskull like the man that hired aK, q * y = — a ee oe eS ee oo io oe ~ bs es were admiring a superb calla lily, throug whose creamy, crystal-like veins the rays from ; - the sinking sun sent a crimson so delicate that it seemed the touch of some spirit mingling the hues of heaven with the tints of earth. ; “ By the way, have yow'seen that lily Harri- | yay —— me last week?” asked Cora, of her riend. ) “No, but I am told it excels nature,” was the { ; 3 | z y | reply. ais is a wonderful work of art,” Cora re- mded, ‘Harrison was tempted to its pur- chase, because it once belonged to a friend with whom his family became acquainted in England —a lady Catharine Worthington, who had a great deal of trouble, poor thing, and whose little daughter, I have heard said, is the disputed heiress of fifty thousand pounds which she will probably never recover. You must come and see it, for I am sure you will admire it as much as I do. But I must hurry home—Harrison would never eat his supper without me.” The house of Mrs. Lattison was but a few blocks from that of her friend. Oh! how little seeming trouble—so real to her— soon to fall upon her defenseless she knew t ) that was _ head, as she neared that beloved place. Pee Charley, love, stand up straighter,” she said 2 to her little Hei 6h they passed gayly on, “or ) you will never be a gentleman.” “T can’t, mother; I want a cane like Harry’s 4 —a gold-héaded cane, his is, but I'll be content with a silyer one with two cunning little tassels. 1 know it’s the cane that makes gentlemen stand up so straight.” ‘“ What an odd child!” said Cora, turning to Ella, whose sweet face, framed in its blue and te, reflected her mother’s smile. “ How very quiet it looks,” said Mrs. Lattison, ? lancing up at the window-blinds. “TI don’t ) think your father has returned yet. Did he s of an engagement, Ella?” ‘“T think not, mother, but you know he is not at home sometimes till the last moment.” - The bell rung. Bridget Bumble, stouter and | louder voiced than ever, let them in. “Ts Mr. Lattison in, Bridget?” , | __ * Tt?g not to me positive knowledge that he is, | but he’s been scudderin’ roun’ the house like a | cat sence you went out, Missis Cora.” | “What! has he been at home all the after- noon?” > Bh _ “That's true he has, boderin’ me entirely by askin’ when would ye be home. And ag’in it is he’s gone afther ye.” A . ‘‘Gone after me!” exclaimed Cora, in ‘ ishment. “Oh! then he’Jl soon be back you,” muttered the surly old fellow, angry in his selfish heart at finding so much good in an inferior. . ‘“T¢’s not you I’ll be hearin’ call Mr. Harrison names, nor any odther man,” he responded. ‘“Thare wasn’t many fit to walk in me master’s shoes; an’ if iver he turns up—which mayn’t be likely, as down in the ocean he is—he’ll prove it, ye better belave. Och! the crusty ould bach that he is,” added Tim, as the object of his wrath moved down stairs, ‘“‘I’d like to fetch him up wid a kick clare to the bottom of the steps. Tn the hall below, uncle Reynolds, the dis- satisfied, met a magnificent individual, ‘“‘ Very unfortunate, very; but it was well he left her something—that is, he didn’t leave it, but the house belonged to her—a gift from his father, I believe,” said Mr. Reynolds, at the same time perang the youngest boy on the head as he passed, to the child’s great terror. “ Yes, left a handsome widow, though,” said Sylvester, with a significant leer. ‘‘ Sti young, charming—make a very good match yet, should- n’t wonder.” “ Hum! shouldn’t wonder,” echoed the elder- ly relative, with an expressive gesture. “I rere thought there was a wrong streak in that fellow’s brain. He was an enigma to me. How he became a settled man of family, I can’t for the life of me tell. I heard that my brother knew before his marriage with Cora, that there was trouble of that kind. Iam astonished that the union was allowed.” : ** Yes, she’s a charming woman,” said Mr. Sy1- vester, still soliloquizing. He had a face like those wax heads one sees in barbers’ windows, and, like them, all false. His forehead and nose were as straight as a rule—every other feature was mathematically ide Aan but he was fifty, wore false hair, alse teeth, a false complexion and a false bust, though a very military one, ‘* Well, well; in time initiate yourself into her good graces—that is all I have to say.” Poor Cora; she was plunged in the deepest affliction. Her husband had been an object, al- ways, of idolatry. She robed herself in deep mourning. Days, weeks, months passed, and still the same rigid propriety. She seldom spoke of her husband save to her children. Her sorrow was her own—too sacred, too great for worldly eyes to look upon, CHAPTER XX. THE PAWNBROKER AT HOME. MEANTIME, the new broker was an object of unlimited curiosity. Who could he be? The last proprietor was a stooping skeleton, with knees and elbows threatening to develop into rags, and an impudent resolution in his thin face as he peered into every window. But this man was a gentleman—so tall, so superb a figure. The young lady who lived next door to the Lattisons declared him magnificent; and, as she was given to reading old- ‘ashioned novels, she put him down at once for a nobleman in disguise. ‘‘ff there was only some way of learning about him,” she said, igi sate! to her Jady’s maid; ‘I should like to find out if he is really a gentleman. By his walk and bearing I am about certain; but then, his business!” ““Why! I shouldn’t mind going there with something just to please you,” said Jennie, who wanted to see the man just as much as her mis- tress did. “Well, meg oP you do, Jennie. Put on an old hood and cloak; and, by the way, I shouldn’t mind having a iittle extra change—papa is peowne stingy, and I will pay you for your ouble. ‘Oh! no occasion, miss, I’m sure; and, thank ou;” which latter clause was equivalent to say- ing that of course she expected nee g ennie made up her bundle—an old satin dress, a shawl, almost as good as new, only out of fashion, an gp es Bee Bence cee, and a queer miniature of somebody’s grandmother, set in brilliants, that had been found by one of the family in the streets of Live 1, and which the young lady had often laughed at for its oddness and age. The goldand the brilliants were dim, and not worth much, At the same time that the girl entered the broker’s shop, there went in a tall, lean-lookin woman, of an uncertain age, who held a child of some ten or twelve summers by the hand. The child made a comical picture. Her pretty head with its flaxen curls was hidden in an over-large bonnet of the coarsest straw—evi- dently of home manufacture. Her little hands were incased in loose, large, wrinkled gloves; her dress was entirely out of fashion, being
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long, dowdy and uncouth, while two pretty little feet tried to show themselves under the creasing of stout, homely morocco shoes, Jen- nie felt like laughing outright at this diminu- tive, dressed-up specimen of childhood, but there was something in the lovely blue eyes up- turned to hers, something in the stern, pale face of the woman who stood guard over her, that checked the disposition to make mirth, and she turned quite soberly toward the broker. He stood there, serene, dark and handsome. His piercing eyes put her quite out of counte- nance. His air—so Jennie told her mistress— would well become a great lord; ‘‘ and oh! but he is handsome, miss. He showed such white teeth as he talked. But, dear me, there was the queerest woman there, and the oddest child; and when [I laid that picture on the counter, you should have seen the old creature start, and come forward and look, and look at it, and look at me, till her mouth opened, and her eyes shone, and I really thought she was going toeat me. Ido believe she was a poor thing, and tempted to stéal that old miniature * &'But, did he. reall ‘But, did he rea ive you any money, Jennie, for those old duds?” - “Oh! the money, miss; why, here it is—six dollars, ma’am; dhe gave to the utmost he could afford, Sk said, and four months to re- deem them.” ‘‘ Why, that shawl cost me twenty-five only summer before last,” said the young lady; ‘but never mind; it’s a good way to sell ol duds. But come, tell me how he looked, and what he said, and whether he really is as hand- some near, as he seems from my window.” While Jennie is entering into particulars, it will be worth while to return to the three balls, and witness the close of the interview be- tween the pale woman, the little child and the broker. The latter had noticed something peculiar in the couple who sig Fe his attention. Perhaps his heart yearned toward the frail, perishing beauty of the sweet-faced child. He gazed at her long and earnestly, then broke the silence by saying: Well madam?” She came forward, and seemed his respectful look and manner. singular being in appearance, so very tall, so weird in her face. Depositing a small bundle on the counter, which could bring but a meager rice, she waited his inspection. Her cheeks Esa not lost the unnatural red that had flushed them as the last comer went out, nor her eyes the singular light. ‘Oh, sir,” she cried, eagerly, ‘I’m afraid you will think very strangely of me; but, if you would please let me look at the miniature that you just took of that young woman.” ‘* Certainly,” said the broker, smilingly, pass- ing it into her hands. “Oh, yes, it is the very one; it must be. Catharine—my lady—oh, sir, I am so much overcome, you must excuse me;” and she leaned her head on her thin hand. “Have you really found it? Is that the miniature you talked so much about?’ lisped the thin, unchildish voice. ‘‘Oh, Bentley! Iam so glad. “Yes, child, I have found it, but, alas! it is not mine, Miss Catharine, not mine, you see,” she replied, in a mournful voice; “though, - haps,” she added, her face brightening, ‘‘ the entieman knows who brought it in and I can earn where she got it, and may recover it. "You see, sir,” she went on in a lady-like manner, ‘‘I am very anxious indeed to find out about it.” , ‘‘T am sorry I can’t enlighten you,” said the broker, his voice and manner full of interest; “but I don’t know the Pgune woman, nor where she belongs. Most of the respectable peo- ple who come here, when bor ve names, give assumed ones, and many of them never call rateful for he was a again.” L Tot a moment the woman held back, as if her _it was only a moment. . cried, eagerly. pre had been touched by these allusions; but “Oh! then rha ou will sell it,” she y f vie cold only let me have it, sic, for the trifle you gave her, or something over, cing in time, I may be able to offer you a undred dollars for the favor.” _ She spoke eagerly, clutching at the counter with both hands, and her prospective offer of a hundred dollars seemed so almost ludicrous that the broker smiled. > ‘‘T assure you, sir,” she continued, excitedly, “it is not worth much to anybody but me, sir— this little child and myself. Those stones are not real, sir—they were, once, or rather the sir re good jewels have been taken out, and paste sub- stituted.” ‘* You have a keen eye,” said the broker. “ Ah! sir, I have seen precious stones enough, in my time, to detect the imitation readily. husband was a jeweler,” she added, her voice faltering a little. ‘‘He often said my eye was as good as a glass.” “You seem very much interested in this min- iature,” said the broker, taking up the tarnished oval] frame and scanning it closely, during which time the woman trembled visibly. “Yes, sir, lam. It—it belonged to the mo- ther of this poor little orphan, who is an English girl, and has been cruelly wronged and ke; t out of her rightful property. For over ten years it has been lost and mourned. She is eleven—you mightn’t think it, sir, being so small of her age and not over strong.” ““So it is a family relic, I LE raea ‘“A family relic, sir; the likeness of this dear little child’s grandmother, and if you could by any means let me have it, you don’t know what a favor you would be conferring—indeed, sir, you don’t know.” ‘IT will do this, madam,” said the broker, im- phage? by her grief and earnestness. ‘‘Come ere in a month; if the woman redeems it, I will ascertain who she is, and what it can be ob- tained for. If she never returns the trifle shall be yours for the same amount I gave her for its keeping—if you are not able to pay me that, why I will make it a present to the little blue- eyed lady here—and she shall only thank me.” ‘Oh! sir, I will work my fingers to the bone but what I will repay you for your kindness,” replied the tall woman, tears of gratitude which she strove in vain to repress, each from her eyes. ‘‘ Come, Catharine, my little lady, thank this kind, good gentleman, who does not know what a weight he lifts from two grateful hearts.” *‘J’m sure I thank you, sir;” and the smallest white hand, the most perfect model of a child’s hand he had ever seen, was held toward the counter. The broker shook it very gently as he replied, in even softer tones: **'You are very welcome, both of you; it is a very trifling service on my part.” Another moment and the woman and her charge were walking rapidly down the street. ‘“‘Oh! Catharine, Catharine; God is good!” the woman said, with emphasis, clasping the child’s hand so tightly that she exclaimed: “Bentley, you are so glad for something, that do you know you hurt my hand?” “Do I, darling? ‘Well, it’s worth it; worth being hurt for; worth laboring all these long, dark, awful years, feeling that others were feeding off your dishes, others were trading with your gold; it’s all worth it, Catharine—I should say, my lady,” she added, her voice changing. ‘Oh! pray don’t, good Bentley; it hurts me to hear you say that. No matter what comes, ou must always call me Catharine, won’t you? ut I don’t see, after all, what makes you so glad. To be sure you have found r dear grandmamma’s likeness, but she has n gone these many many years, and the frame isn’t worth any thing? ‘That frame is worth half a million,” replied the tall woman, solemnly. “Why, Bentley—I hope you are not going to be crazy,” said the child, with an odd serious- ness, “Crazy! ha! ha! I’ve heard of such things as people being turned crazy for joy, but I think my old brain is too strong for that. It has borne the shock of your mamma’s death and your misfortunes, poor little soul! it can bear more,” “Well, I only hope you will get the minia- ture, since it pleases you so, but I’m sureI can’t see why it should,” said the child, composedly. - ate ao ts mind, Catharine, darling, and when I you my lady, as is your proper right and title, don’t you say nothing to me; it does me good, you see. And I think I’m not forward, nor hopeful, nor presuming either in saying that one of these days, not very far off either, Catharine rides in her own carriage, as me should, and mayhap poor old Bentley beside er. _ “Of course,” said the girl, with her unchild- ish seriousness, ‘‘ whatever comes, you shall al- ways be close. to my side. I am very grateful to you for your eee and patience; I only wish you would let me show you now, more than you do, how much I love you; but you won’t.” Eig time the two had approached a large, smoky tenement, whose hanging shutters, ra tling windows, uneven doors and unpainted an dilapidated exterior told of a general decrepi- only barrin 44 > tude. The stains upon its sides, seen in the moonlight, looked like tears wept ages and ages ago, and every broken and hanging clapboard seemed to havea meaning of its own, more of the sad than agreeable past. Very soon the quaint tall woman, and the little, queer, oldish child passed into the narrow entrance and were lost to view. After they had gone, the broker stood some minutes in deep thought. ‘‘I have certainly seen that woman before,” he mused to himself, “her countenance is as familiar as if we met but yesterday—yet where?’ Again and again the thin, stern face, so impossible to forget_when once seen, came up before his vision. ‘‘I have seen her before—but not here,” he still solilo- quiet ‘it must have been in England. The child is wronged—she is English—her name is Catharine—can she be in any way connectcd with the Lady Catharine with whom my motker corresponded? It must be that I saw her in thai family—yes, I remember now—” c His ages te was interrupted by the entrarce of Tim Bumble. Tim came in a new character and sidled up to the counter, looking askarce at the broker as if caught in the act or with the in- tention of stealing. ‘ An’ sir, if I may be so bowld, do ye take in watches, sir?’ queried Tim, bringing his two hauds closed upon the counter. : “What do you mean—have youa watch to pawn?” asked the man in disguise. ‘*By all the powersif ye haven’ta voice like the masther that’s drowned and the same figger, batin the whiskers and baard,” cried the man, taken by surprise. ‘‘ Bridget said the misthress noticed it too—a—ye’ll excuse me, sir—it’s only dr’amin’, I ar.—l’m mighty apt to dr’ame whin I’m wide awake. Sure it’s a good watch if is, an’ pure qowin ane no harm aither to put it where it’ll kape safe.” ¢: The broker took the watch: it was his own, Something seemed to go through his brain like lightning, when he lifted it in his hand. The two separate beings he sometimes seemed con- flicted; for a moment he was himself, tremblin under a sense of possible degradation, anxio to fly to his family and make reparation for bis long absence—then that singular dual Oo claimed no. affinity with eny human creature, who existed only to hide all. traces of bis for- mer kindred relations to the world—drcve the other from his mind, and he was the broker again, chuckling over his success in duping the very persons to whom he was nearest and dear- est; and he rejoiced over the cunning that en- abled him to hide his identity while he had mind enough in full force to understand all that was assing around him, and to transact the business 1e had undertaken. ‘‘How came you by this watch?” he asked, sternly. “It is not yours,” The Irishman eave one terrified glance at the eyes that seemed to read him. “It’s very quare, intirely, that you ccme to know tbat,” he said, in a thick voice, ‘‘ an’ sure though I’m not a man that the looks of me would suppose could own a gowld watch—t ut if ye'll be aisy wid me, I’J] tel “ag It’s the son of the poor gintleman as drowned himself, wid your figger an’ form intirely, as put the watch into me hands fora loan cn’t, re ay say, an’ the thought struck me that mebke See edaliess was wanting money. Ye’ll not whisper it, but it’s afraid 1am the young gintleman ’ll go to the bow-wows and break the heart of his modther, though I know it’s in poor circumstances they ke,” and he shook: his head wofully. ‘How came your master to drown himself?’ asked the broker, chuckling over his secret. “Sure an’ his biziness wint wrong intirely, an’ whin there was nothin’ to the fore, why he wint an’ put himself out of the way. An’ it wasn’t the fault of him aither, for he’d a verra bad constichusion.” . 5 ‘* And his wife?’ queried the broker, ‘‘ she’s as gay as ever I eres - ‘Gay, is it? Ye'd betther be saying gay, ye had, iver a woman was sp’iling herself, an’ _ lettin’ her good looks go hang, it’s the mis- thress. Och! it’s verra dark she kapes, an’ niver asmile on her swate countenance. Sure, an’ I think she married him for life and death too— indade I do.” “She doesn’t have much company, I per- *, ceive,” said the broker, ** Company—it’s company she won’t look to in her own sisther and brodther. Bridget, who’s me wife, an’ as smart a woman, as the nixt if not smarter, says there’sa power —__ ntlemen that come there, jist for to make to the widdy—but she jist shakes her head, ’ Bridget’s the one to tell them the misthress is ingaged so they will know what she manes.” 2. Fae
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> . 12 ‘That oldest boy, you say, is rather fast.” ‘“Yis, jist as fast as he can be widout the money. If the father’d a lived—heaven rest his sowl—it’s afraid I am he’d had big throuble with him; out poor boys, sir, even if they makes a show, sir, can’t have their own ways on’y to a pa gin ye know.” he broker shook his head, but Tim, grown garrulous, detailed the circumstances of the ae from Bridget’s standpoint, and_ finally ended with the sagacious remark that Bridget thought their best course would be to take boarders. At this the broker started—it seemed to wake up that other self for 4 moment, and a keen shock of regret passed through his mind. But - he conquered himself in time to hide all signs of feeling; and giving a larger sum on the time-piece than Tim had been told to expect, he watched the Irishman’s furtive attempts to cet his route more circuitous as ke left the shop, * a CHAPTER XI. ue TAKING BOARDERS, - Tur broker diminished his light, and stand- ing in the door-way (it was a summer night) looked over the way. Six months had passed, ‘and as yet there had been no sound or sight of merriment. The curtains and inner blinds were closely drawn. Sometimes the tones of the piano could be heard—they were no longer full, merry or harmonious. But the pseudo-broker stands by his shop door; let him speak for him- self. “Well, the play progresses—and I know pret- ty well what people think of me now. My wife’s precious old uncle, it seems, never thought my brain sound. It may be; I've been open to debate upon that subject myself, more than once. By some I’m looked upon as a swindler, and but few, very few, in summing up my char- acter, say, ‘He was an honest man.’ All this time they think me dead and food for fishes,” he broke into a nervous laugh. ‘“ No matter, - Vm careless upon that point—let the world wag and spout—am I not Benjamin the Jew and the broker? “So that contemptible Sylvester, my partner , —he whose envious tongue was half my ruin, Henitiet thinks that my wife looks very charm- ing in black. He’s a great favorite with my wife’s dear old uncle—ah! there he goes deliber- ately up the steps of my wife’s house. Mistaken for once, my dear fellow. Your exquisite por- trait will hardly gain admission into that house to-night. He comes down the steps with a hang-dog look. I know what the fellow means, My eldest precious hope is in a bad way. - Sent my own watch to be pawned. Some- thing must be done’ to save him, or else his mother will die of a broken heart. Charley, the rogue, is a thorough boy, with a great heart and generous impulses. He will become a good man if the example of his brother does not spoil him. My little Ella is still fresh and beautiful. She will be having lovers soon, but, thank God! in her position, no merce- nary ones. I can watch over her better, perhaps, than if she knew my true relation to- ward her. Sometimes my brain is confused— sometimes I feel that [ am wronging them—but no, no; that can not be—that can not be;” and talking still to himself, he entered his shop and retired to his old place. - Mrs. Lattison sat smiling and sighing over a small miniature. A letter, broadly edged with black, lay open before her. _ It was from Anne. mene intelligence of her mother’s death. Old Mrs. Lattison was ‘gone—had died ene blessings on her'son, of whose supposed fate she had not been allow- ed to learn. Anne’s letter was like herself, i assioned, but filled with expressions of sorr or her brother’s misfortune and sad suicide, and her mother’s less terrible fate. It seemed as if she had of late been fearing some such termination, and that she was in a measure repared. Misfortune had also overtaken her— er husband had failed, and her great regret was that she was not in a situation to offer her sister a home. “Who would have thought, sixteen happy years ago,” she wrote, ‘‘ when we all met at the Grove with our loved ones around us, that in this time we should. be separated—some of us dead—and others in affliction?” Again the deserted wife lifted the miniature. | + “Tf I could have seen him only once more,” she | C athering, “if I had only stay od | wh OW said, the tear: at home that day! I see him in dreams h from sore long journey, with the white light of heaven shining in his face.” A light footstep was heard. Mrs. Lattison gathered the letters together and placed them away. Ella came in to her for some advice. She was working ata dress which she had turn- ed, for their means were so limited that new dresses were an impossibility. | Ella was start- led at her mother’s look. ie, ‘“Mamma, do tell me if you have any new grief,” she asked, as her mother sighed heavily. ‘My dear,” was her reply, ‘‘I believe we are growing very poor.” “Poor! oh, no, mother—uncle would not surely let us be ver or.” “Ah! my child, how little you know of men’s hearts. He is entirely unlike my father, your dear grandfather, whom you remember. He has an object in his kindness, a selfish object to advance.” “Oh! now, mamma, that is es Think how beautifully he spoke when he gave me that little eng and some pocket-money. Here—I thought of buying some new dresses, but you sball have it all.” “Thank you, darling—but you know little of money-matters. This will do something, but not much. We must begin to cast about us and see what can be done, might teach music but for my failing health. You can as yet do noth- ‘Why mother—must we go out from home to work—why need we?” asked Ella, with a morti- fied air. f ‘*Because we are in debt, my child. Your brother is not careful with the money he earns —there is nothing coming in—and we shall lose the little we have, if we do not make some ex- tra exertion.” Ella was thoughtful. ‘““What motive do yeu think uncle can have?” she asked, a few moments afterward. “He wishes me to marry Mr. Sylvester,” re- plied her mother. Ella raised her hands with a ery of horror. “Marry him!—that frightful man—I hate him —it makes me tremble to go near him. It can’t be possible. Why, mamma, you wouldn’t dream of such a thing!” “* Of course not, my dear,” said Mrs. Lattison, quietly. *“Oh! uncle Ben really don’t want you to do that—only think how much father disliked him; I always saw it.” “Tt is true—for so uncle Reynolds has told me. Mr. Sylvester he considers a very good match, says he is very rich, and—in fact—has long loved me. I told him no earthly power could induce me to marry again, and with that he went away angry. Henceforth, I have no doubt we must = are upon ourselves.” “Marry that Mr. Sylvester! cail him father. Why Id a great deal rather you’d marry that broker opposite. He is a gentleman, and he does look like poor papa,” said the young girl, with energy. . ‘Hush, Ella, hush!” said her mother, her cheek slightly tinged, ‘‘ you must not speak SO thoughtlessly. I shall never marry,” and a oe sigh ended the sentence. ““T hope not,” responded Ella, after a pause. “Tt seems to me we can think of some way to get along among us all. Let me see—what can we do? Oh! we might sell the house and furni- ture, buy a little wee cottage in the country, put the rest of our money out at interest, and in time make quite a little fortune, you know.” ““My child, I have borrowed several sums of money on the house; there isa mortgage to be paid first.” Ella looked blank. “What can be done?” “T think I shall look with favor upon Bridg- et’s plan,” said her mother. ‘** And what is that?’ “Taking boarders. The good soul will not leave me. She says she can do about every- thing, with my superintendence, and a small girl to help her. It is an important matter to consider, and will keep us all very busy, for I shall give your little brother entirely to your ae and in time, I think, it can be made profit- able. ‘And we shall have all sorts of people here,” said Ella, her face growing longer. ‘No, my dear; we need take no one out suitable recommendation. I know of several— among them your uncle Frank and his wife, who would come and pay a fair board in order o help us along. Henry can keep accounts, harley help with the errands, Tim be porter, ile you, with a little chambermaid, can over- see the rooms up-stairs; so, if we all do our duty often—and always he has come back to | faithfully, I don’t see but we can make money.” * —— - —— a charitable, | ft - — ee THE LITTLE HEIRESS, — ue ~ ty Sy 2 ‘Oh, mother, I like it,” said Ella, after a moment’s consideration, her face brightening. “ After all anything would be preferable to calli: g that odious Mr. Sylvester father. Oh, mother, you won’t be coaxed into it, will you?’ ‘*No, nor driven,” replied her mother, in her usually quiet way. Not long after, due preparations were made for turning the handsome house of Mrs. Latti- son into a genteel boarding-house. Bustle and confusion reigned throughout. Bridget was in her glory. oms were papered and painted and sundry improvements made. The ol uncle, Reynolds, looked on with haughty indit- ference. ‘Let her go on,” he said, sneeringly, as he listened to the plan; ‘‘she’ll ruin herself in one year—just one year. Ill give her that time.” “Tllengage board there,” said the discomfit- ed Sylvester. ‘She can’t refuse me, and Vil ees good care if I don’t get her nobody else shall. “That’s right,” said uncle Reynolds, patting his favorite on the shoulder; ‘‘true blue, Syl. Never give up the ship—you’ll get her yet.” Whether or not because the widow was hand- some that the house filled up so rapidly, we can not tell; suffice it to say, there was no lack of boarders. There were old men and young men, and it was noticeable that the former always handed their cups to Mrs. Lattison, while the latter passed theirs, if possible, by the hands of pretty Ella. ee CHAPTER XII. A LITTLE PLAIN TALK. ‘Now, Mr. Henry, it’s no place for ye to be smoking. I don’t allow me own husband to take his pipe here; so, off wid ye, or ye’ll fill all the victuals full of the nasty smell.” “Don’t be cross, Bridget,” said the boy, sauci- ly puffing almost in ‘ace. He wasa gentle- manly-looking little fellow, and very much like his father. ‘I saly, Bridget, what was that beef a pound?” “More than you'll airn for a week to come, I’m thinkin’,’’ said Bridget, angrily. “Oh, I’m living on my interest,” responded the boy, throwing himself on a seat. ‘Livin’ on yer mother’s hard work an’ mine, ye’d better say,” she muttered, angrily, to her- self. ‘‘lt’s livin’ a life ye are that won’t make ye a better man,” she said, aloud. ‘** But when I get tired of doing nothing, I’m goin to get a wife that’ll support me, as Tim id,” he remarked, whiffing the smcke as nearly in the direction where ske stood as possitle. “Tf it wasn’t for the sake of yer mother, I'd tache ye to insult _a respictable tamale,” cricd — Bridget, stopping shortin her work, and shaking her head and kands at him. ‘“ But I'll not ave her until ’'m taken away, and thin it won’t be of my own will, nor on me own feet, I’m thinkin’. An’ remimler, if Tim’s got a wife that supports him, Bridget’s got a husband that kapes no sacrets from her. Would ye be kind enough, Mr. Henry Lattison, to till me the time o day?” Bridget’s face, as she said this, was a study for a painter—so triun:phant, so cunning, so searching; the lips shut and pursed up, the Riad tossed aside and shaken with that ‘‘ Ive got you now” expression, that gives shrewdness to the most commonplace countenance. The hoy started, took his cigar from his mouth, and clenched his fist at an imaginary Tim, “Well, what of that?’ he asked, fiercely. S*pese your mother knew it, my young sir, Don’t you think it would take the heart of her out—her son a-pawning of his dead father’s—” “Sh!” cried the boy, casting a fearful glance about him; ‘for goodness’ sake, Bridget, hojd your tongue.” “‘T will, if ye behave yourself as a boy shotld, an’ help your poor mother,” returned Bridget, with warmth, “even if Pve to pay for the pawning myself.” ‘Oh, you needn’t do that; I’ve got friends,” replied the boy, sulkily. ‘Vis, an’ one of ’em’s Mr. Sylvester, a-wor- riting your mother’s life out of her. I s’pose ye wish she’d marry him for the sake of your idle. ness,” spoke Bridget, flouring the beef with an energy that proved her mind preoccupied, per- haps, with the idea that she would like to inflict personal chastisement on the man before spoken re see “T wish she would, for her own,” said the boy ; ‘she wouldn’t have to drudge any more, and you—” “Vd have to march, wouldn’t I?’ laughed ee ee “Oh, don’t I wish [’d see him doing i ‘You may talk as you please; I’ll bet mother a %: > Oe eee, OR ee a ee
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does marry him, and that before long,” said the boy. excitedly. j ‘Perhaps yell git in a scrape, and run in debt for hundreds of dollars, and thin git him to lend you money, and thin, for the sake of that, to kape your good name up, when you ain’t got any, she’d marry him. I’ve heard tell of such doin’s, indade I have; but the curse o’ that thing ’ll follow ye to your grave, me lad.” “You’ve no right to talk to me so,” cried the boy, angrily. *Tvea eae to tell ye the thruth,” replied Bridget, pic ing her potatoes over with great composure; ‘‘an’ ye ought to thank me for it, an’, mabbe, some day ye will. Mr. Sylvester isn’t a man fit for a lady like your mother, and sad would be the day *I’d see sich a match. -Your father, poor man, couldn’t abide the sight of him, nor I aither, from the first.” ‘*He shall marry her, if I can help him,” cried the boy, angrily; and flinging down his cigar, he left the kitchen. “There goes the lump of laziness,” soliloquized Bridget, picking up the nuisance, and throwing it with a significant ‘‘ugh!” into the fire. ** What wid his laying abed till the folks are all gone, and obliging his sister to wait on him; what wid being imperdent to his mother, poor lady, and saucy to me; what wid pawning things to go pleasuring wid, and tazing the whole house, an’ borrering money from Mr. Sylvester, he’s like to harry the heart out of us all. Oh, sure, the times is different from the good ould times, whin there was plinty to the fore, an’ I got me three dollars a week and board, and the lady lived illigantly. There niver was sich pies an’ cakes as I made wid me own hands for her fine parties. And Mr. Har- rison, that I seemed to love as me own son, he to be lyin’ cold and drownded in the black river, wid the fishes in his hair—oh! it’ makes me heart-sick to think of it. I don’t belave the mistress ll marry that horrid man wid the mar- ble face; an’ I’m sure his heart is marble, too. I can see it in his eyes.” At that moment Mrs. Lattison came in. She never had looked more beautiful, though the border of her morning-cap was pinned back, and her sleeves fastened to her shoulder, ex- posing a healthily-rounded and tinted arm. he paused as she entered. “Why, Bridget, what is the matter?” she ask- ed, noticing her dejected air. “T was only thinking, ’m,” said the woman, “that if you married Mr. Sylvester, what a sorry heart I'd feel. Sure, it wouldn’t be home for me any longer.” “Marry him! why, what put that thought in your mind Bridget? My dear woman, he’s the last man in the world I would marry. Indeed, 1 wish he was out of the house, for I think his influence over Henry is very bad.” ‘* Well may ye say it, Mrs. Lattison, for I’ve kept a watchful eye over the lad, and’sure am I that the man is thrying to gain him to his evil purposes; but since ye’ve spoken, it’s relaved my mind, for I’ll work for ye Lattison, till me hands drop off, for the sake of him that’s gone. An’ as to the boy—he’s a good boy in the main, an’ if plain talk’ll do him any good, why it’s plinty he’ll git from Bridget, sure.” CHAPTER XIII. BOARDING THE BROKER, Mrs. LATTISON was summoned into the par- lor, shortly after; a gentleman wished to see her. Untying her cap-strings, smoothing her ’ bair and turning down her sleeves, she soon hur- ried to the partially-darkened room. As she entered, the man stood with his back toward her, looking intently ata fine painting of her husband. The tall, manly figure, so like that of one whom for months she had mourned as dead, gave her heart a quicker motion; an indescribable sensation thrilled her veins. He turned, hearing her step—the widow grew deathly pale, for there stood before her the broker, in whom she had noticed more than once a wonderful likeness to her husband. But for the complexion, the hair and beard, surely that might be her Harrison. The conflicting emotions caused by these impressions made her speechless. “Pardon me, madam,” ke said, in a low tone; ““T was pleased with this fine painting. I have somewhere seen a gentleman resembling him.” “Tn your mirror, likely,” thought the woman; but she only bowed. “‘T came to see if I could obtain board here. My present boarding-place is too far off for con- venience,” he said, seeing her sitting, expectant. “T am very sorry,” began Mrs. ttison ; then she paused, thou y. Why was there such an attraction in this man THE LITTLE HEIRYSS. 13 ‘ holstery. Now there were only a few pine is and a pine table, a bedstead, an old ase and, next to the fireplace, leaning against the jambs, two huge tubs that seemed recentiy scoured. The only a- pant, at the moment of which we speak, was a child of almost fairy-like proportions, and of exquisite a symmetry in face and form. She stood looking dreamily from a window, her beautiful white arms eo and a smile in her gentle blue eyes. Fair locks hung in circled curls far below her waist. The smile that hightened the lovely expression of her face meant something, for preeently a tall, dignified, but very pale, care-worn looking woman entered, bearing some bundles in her hand. : “You might have let me go for them—you were so tired,” said the child, springing toward her, and trying to take the parcels from her, ; ‘Let you go? oh, no; that would never do; it’s not your place, my little lady; and instead of one, I va only wish you had twenty servants to wait upon * ou.” . ‘Don’t call yourself a servant, Bentley; you | not aservant. You are tes like my mother. uu + are my good friend and teacher; you have done everything for me. Ish:’n't like it one bitif you call ; yourself a servant, Bentley.” _ ** Well, well, dear, then I won't; and I don’t know that I mean just that either, though I’d willingly serve such a sweet child as you. But, look, my little lady; for once you shall have such a supper as you deserve, and such as you hain’t seen since you came from dear old England. See, I have bought cakes, a little cream and some fruit. To be sure you can’t eat it from silver as you ought to, and as is your right, but it will taste good, even on my homely delf.” ‘And so there used to be silver on my mother’s table?” said the little Catharine her eyes brighten- | | | ing. : on, silver! bless your heart—why the silver in pose mother’s family filled great chests. And the ouse you were born in—you don’t remember, I sup- pose—why, you could put two or three great rooms into the hall, Ah! that hall, child—it was filled with Pectnes, and statues, and stags’ antlers, and in hristmas times whole trees stood in © neta that were banked up 7 like a garden. en the rooms were so beautiful, with splendid hangings, and the beds in the guest-chambers had white lace and white silk coverings. In one of them your mother hada window of stained glass put in. That window, child —I used to think of heaven when I went in, and the sun was shining. Such colors as fell over the floor | and over the bed I never could describe; but you, : poor child, never saw them, for your father died in a year after zoe were born, and your mother couldn’t abide staying in that house at all. So she moved ; away, and not long after died, leaving a Mee Og which when the matter of the property was settle: pies se should come to you, That will—”’ “Oh, Bentley! there’s ysome one knocking,” said the child, ee Ee “Don’t you be ‘htened,” replied the nurse, no- ae Se ticing that the child had grown pale. “I'll see who it is; nobody would conse bo lt She opened the door. A woman stood there, clum- in her folded shawl and large bonnet; but out of the crimped cap-border looked the flushed and hon- est face of Mistress Bridget. “s ‘ “Sure it’s half dead 1am,” she said, comes in and seating herself. ‘It’s a hard race'to come jong stairs, an*Z’ve no breath in me body at. Oh! | bliss me, but that’s a pretty little girl ter place ha : she looks as if she ought to be in a better than this;’’ and Bridget glanced around the old room. “9 “So she had, and so = sg she will, Boos ease a vod,” said Bentley, all the time looking with wide- r opened eyes at her strange visitor. ‘e , the matter I've come to see ye on is jist | thi ere’s a man boards where I live an” bro komee x little shop jist opposite. A migh fine man he is, and as like me poor masther that died of his own accord as two paes. So to-night he met me, and ax e would I go to the place what he’d writ down on a card for me, an’ give the lady ee P So I says, yis; an’ here I be, wid his compli- ; : Bentley’s heart beat fast, as, undoing ¢ ight appings, she recognized the miniature, ay - dis there nothing to pay?” she asked ot a stiver: on the conthra id min’. An’ now I’m risted, Tl beeohat =
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““No, no; take some cakes, and let me pour you a _ © eup of hot tea,” said little Catharine, . ~~ * Ah! an’ isn’t it the leddy she is?’ asked Bridget, = an honest admiration lighting up her face, as she helped herself to one of the cakes, still standing to go. ‘* No, darlin’, it’s not the ta; ri have, for, sure. your face makes me like to look at ye, an’ that’s all the refrishment I nade.” _ This delicate compliment went to Bentley’s heart. “She’s a good child,” she said, admiringly; and clutched the locket nervously, a strange comming- ling of hope and fear thrilling her whole frame. When Bridget had gone, her breath came quick and the little girl felt her hand grow alternately hot and cold. Some terrible agitation possessed her. ‘Now, dear, I’ll tell you something,” she said, in answer to her mute Spreng. “In that locket—if nobody has found it, and I think no one has—is your mother’s will. I can’t explain all to tp now. Onl I can tell you that I have suffered for years gadtr agonies, such tortures as none can describe, for 7 lost this miniature.” ? ‘You, Bentley?’ exclaimed the child. “I, Your dear mother intrusted it to my care when she died. ‘My good Bentley,’ she said, ‘ Eieave my child and her interests in your hands. I am confident she will be righted at last, and [ give this to you, because of all my friends [ know you to be the truest.’ Well, darling, I took it, and from that moment carried it with me as a miser carries his gold. It was always a mystery to me how I Jost it; 5 pat, oh! my child, what have I not suffered. When _ the matter had got through chancery—because of at great lawyer your mother had appointed, who your own father’s brother—there were you cut ade, and in your case it was necessary to establish you in your fortune. How I agonized and 4 d, ¥ and made a vow that, God helping me, t won devote my whole life to you! Every day since then, and many hours during the day, have I prayed to God that I ety have this locket restored to me. Something told me that I must bring you over to America; so I sold every thing, and, taking my little fortune, brought you here. Not a cent of the money that came to me from the sale of my property have I touched from that day to this. It is out at interest, and was to be all yours, to educate you, and help you in case I never found the minia- *ture, Oh! truly God is good, and it all seems like a _ wonderful miracle, a wonderful miracle! Yes, if no- body knows, if nobody has stolen it, Catharine, you are a lady this minute.” . “Oh, Bentley! Bentley! can it be?’ cried the lit- e girl, all amazement, the rich color pouring over _her fair cheeks, her eyes shining. “Yes; and though I don’t quite remember the secret of the spring, which is a curious one, yet I dare say I shall when I get to work. Have you ever seen rice paper, lady Catharine?” ‘* That the Chinese oe their pictures upon? Oh, yes; so soft, thin and white.” ‘‘And durable, dear,’ said Bentley, looking at the case. ‘‘ Well, your mother had the will written on that kind of paper, before witnesses—that is, me, my husband, who was alive at the time, and your father’s brother, poor man—and placed in the back here, as you will soon see. He is dead, too, for he lived only six months after he gained the case that ve the money to the wrong people on account of the missing will. There, I have loosened it a little; - see—but, oh! -I never thought. Suppose some one = else has found it? It takes all the strength from me ’ Eas to think of it;’’ and the locket fell from her >: mbling fingers. 7 _ ‘Well, Bentley, you know what you have often told me if it is so, we sha’n’t be any worse off,” said the child in her old-fashioned way. . “No, thanks to God! that gives me heart, darling,” replied the woman. ‘I won’t borrow trouble but go to work again.” 7 Soon the case was opened, and there, fresh as if : just Solem just written upon, was the important rece of delicate papery upon which the fortune of he child depended. Now,” cried the good woman, lifting her stream- fon _ ing eyes heavenward, ‘‘ now we can take the money r* ve been saving so miserly, and buy you some beautiful dresses, and we'll find a boarding-place and live like peony: Seekare. my lady—for I must call you my any —we shall go to land, though I shouldn’t wish it, save to shame the people who have wronged you so.” -. ¥ e 5 ‘3 ‘““ And who wronged poor m 1a so terribly. No, & _ Bentley, I never wish to see them, for I should not ” be happy. Let us stay in this country where they ——s ¢an’t trouble us. Why, doesn’t it seem like a dream?’’ '_ eried the child, clasping her hands. * = Sages: * CHAPTER XV. « ° ae ‘ee E> AN APPARITION, . a arair’? : me “T wish you would see that Mrs. Lattison has a ‘ lage by ten.’’ Sly? ‘And Tim?’ 5 . = ie , sir.” i “Did you do as I wished you to, nig eves: I did, sir, and I found m ) ng sir going into ambling establishment—and I made so - bowld as to on the was overlooked sure.”’ Nin and tell him he “ And what did he say?” . “Sure an’ it was an illigant rage he got into—and pat at all complimentary to ye wid his tongue, was |. e 9 - “That don’t trouble me at all. Don’t about the — and the broker was gone. from every thing, because they said no will was” ‘‘Oh! murther!”’ cried Tim, t the ceiling, r ‘* What's got over ye now?”’ exclaimed Bridget. “‘Sure the man he’s masther an’ misthress both,” was the reply. ‘‘ He does nothin’ but order, and to a the truth, I think Mrs. Lattison is goin’ to marry m , ‘“Git out wid ye, man—haven’t ye more manners than to mate two who ain’t aquals? What'd mis- tress want of a pawnbroker?”’ e “Sure, an’ it’s something else he’d turn himself into, if he took a lady like Mrs. Lattison, that ivery one of the odthers would marry to-morrow ing they’d the chance. Bridget,” | as he spoke, sitting with his elbows on b and his chin in his hands, ‘‘d’ye belave iver come back?”’ ““Whist! what do ye be wanting to talk nonsinse for?’’ ejaculated Bridget, pausing in the midst of her ironing. ‘** Because, if ever I saw the eyes of Misther Harri- son, and heard the voice of him, it is been this blissid day.”’ © What do ye mane, Tim?” queried Bridget, who was not without superstitious fears... “Tt was this morning as I came down stairs to ree the fires. Over the glass door, there, as I look- up, I saw his face.”’ ‘““The masther’s? Ye must ’ave been dr’aming.”’ “ No—it wasn’t dr’aming I was, though whin I saw him, I shut me eyes and looked him full in the face, for I were that trimblin’ ’d no command over me nerves.” “* It’s all nonsinse it is,” said Bridget, giving a hur- ried glance around. ‘“ Ye’re growing old, an’ your sight is failin’.” : ‘Thin he called me—an’ I didn’t went for fright— an’I shook like a lafe a-laying on the ground—an’ of a sudden the door bounced open, and thin—” “Did ye see the masther?’’ cried Bridget, her voice altered. ‘*No—an’ sure it was the broker,” replied Tim, ice “Td like to know what you mane, by frightening an honest woman like me, thin, wid your make-be- lieve stories,’’ exclaimed Bridget, angrily. “Tt wasn’t no make-believe, I tell ye,’ responded Tim. ‘Outside it was the masther, inside the broker, and I’m afeard the avil one had to do wid it.” “But ye might a _knowed by his great b-ard that it wasn’t Mr. Harrison.” “So you may say, but only the top of his face did I behowld, for ye see the glass isset in high, An’ on account of the blue state of the glass it did give the expression an unairthly look altogedther. The saints protect us, but here comes that boy.” It was Henry Lattison. White as a statue—with lips held open as if by violence—eyes bloodshot, and brow swelled out with the entwisting cords—he strode angrily in. “Tim, what is this absurd nonsense?” he asked, stormily. “ Axing your a daha said Tim, ‘‘I don’t sense ” e. y ‘Why, they say that my mother has gone to be a cadet to that broker, and that you know all about “ Howly saints!’’ ejaculated Tim, “‘ what ’d I know! Gone to git married!” ““Yes; didn’t you order the carriage, stupid?’’ ‘An’ was it for that? Oh! the howly saints for- bid! Sure a suspicion of it come over me brain, but I niver dr’amed it was true, niver.”’ : The boy strode up and down in a white heat, his wrath making furnaces of his eyes. ‘‘IT’ll pay him off!” he ejaculated in angry snatches—‘‘ I'll shoot him as true as there’s a heaven.” “* He’s got the Lattisons’ blood in him,” whispered Bridget in terror—‘ there’ll be trouble now.” ‘“Ye'd best be quiet, till ye git cool,’ she said, as Tim darted out of the door. “Quiet! I'll kill him,” cried the boy, in a low, hoarse undertone. ‘Since that infernal rascal has been here, there’s no peace in the house. Why must we all bend down and worship him because of my mother’s—” folly, he would have said, but he had never so spoken of his mother, and he recol- lected that. he was in the presence of servants. Bridget’s bell rung and she hurried up-stairs into the front parlor, where sat a timid little woman, who was trembling like a leaf. It was Frank Rey- nolds’s wife. } “Bridget, do you know any thing of this affair?” she asked. } } “Not a word,” she replied, ‘saving what I heard jist now from Master Henry.” “There will be some pe trouble, I fear,” faltered Mrs. Reynolds. “ nk went out as white as a sheet, and declared he would horsewhip or shoot that man.” ‘*Do ye mane the broker?” queried Bridget. ‘““Yes,”’ and the timid woman shivered. ‘I’ve really felt an impression that something was going to happen ever since I’ve been in the house. I must say I wonder at Frank’s sister—I wonder that the wife of a Lattison should stoop so far. Not but what he’s a gentleman in appearance, but then, a poor pawnbroker.”’ ‘Are AG certain they have gone to get married?” queried Bridget. ‘So Henry told me a few moments ago; the boy was half wild.” e “and who told him?” a much the leddy to go off like that,” said Bridget, slowly. ‘‘I’ve known her longer nor you have,’ she added, as if in apology for the free expression of her opinion, ‘‘an’ altho’ she might be pl’ased wid this man for looking so like Misther Harrison that was her husband, yit, she’d niver go no farder ’m certain—an’ as to runnin’ off wid him, that’s a poe as she’d not be guilty of by any manes. belave it’s Mr. Sylvester’s doin’s, as a body knows that Mrs. Lattison won’t have no word to say to him. anyhow, and I think that the misthress is one on some business of her own that ain’t any- ody else’s, noway. If I may be pardoned for ax- ing, which way did Misther Reynolds take?” ‘He has driven round to the churches—oh! I hope he won’t overtake them if it should be so.” ‘You are frightened, Mrs. Reynolds—but sure I think there’s no need. It’s not to any church she’s gone, or ye may be certain I’d known somethin’ about it. She’d not kipt ivery thing from me. And there’s Miss Ella come home from her visit in the country—so I must go down and kape the child from hearin’ the silly, bad news.” Henry was still walking like a chained tiger to and fro. Bridget saw Ella args inside her chamber. and left her with the words that her mother would soon comehome. Entering the kitchen just as Tim had dashed in again, she read the good news in his face. ‘‘The broker is been in ’is shop all day; hurra!’* he cried, as he entered. “Are you sure of that?”’ queried Henry. “An isn’t it sure lam? It’s mesilf has bin there an’ quistioned him.” . ** What! you didn’t tell him—” began Henry, with knit brows. ‘*T telled him nothing that wouldn’t bear the tell- in’—be aisy on that score. But I’m sure of the one thing—he’s not gone off to be married. I kitow’d it were a lie, Misther Henry, whoever told it tye.” f ‘What under heaven did Sylvester mean?”’ queried Henry, as he hurried from the room. “He meant to make ye as much trouble as he could,” muttered Tim, in an undertone. “He's a snake in the grass—he’s a sting in the flower; he’s the rotten fruit as looks sound. An’ there’s Mr. Frank a-chasing him, eh? It’s as good as a play— ho! ho! chasin’ him all over town, an’ there he be seated cool as a cowcumber.”’ : The true reason for Mrs. Lattison’s absence was this: Harvey Ward, a down-town merchant, had for- merly been somewhat connected in business matters with Harrison. He had formed a most exalted opinion of the young man, and the news of his vio- lent death had given him a shock from which he did , not recover for a long time. One morning, when al- most ill from over-fatigue, he had gone down to his counting-room, where he found himself quite unable to transact business. His weakness grew bak him so fast, that he had serious thoughts of sending for a carriage and returning home. At that moment one of his clerks announced that a gentleman wish- ed to see him. ‘““What name?” he asked. . The gentleman did not wish to give his name, The merchant considered for a short time, and then said he might enter. In another moment a tall man stood before him, enveloped in a cloak. “Whom have I the pleasure of seeing ?’’ asked the merchant. The hat was lifted, the cloak collar lowered. Good heavens! had the grave given up its dead?—for there surely was the face of the drowned merchant, Lattison. He still spoke or a stood composedly, while the old merchant slid back in his chair, his face growing gray, his eyes filming. At length the figure took a letter from some pocket. and laid it on the table, following the movement with instant and wordless departure. It was fully five minutes before the old man moved, se struck into sudden terror was he by this, as he thought; apperiien. Then rushing out i the store, he cried: ‘* Did any of you see that man?”’ “Yes, I did,” and “I did,’ clerks made answer. ““Who did he look like? Who was he?’ This time he addressed Johnson, his confidential clerk. “TIT was a little taken aback, sir,” was the reply, “for I thought I saw a resemblance to ’’—the mer- chant’s eyes nearly started out of his head—* to Mr. ° Lattison, sir.” “So you saw it—by Jove! can a dead man walk?” “Two men can look alike, I suppose,”’ said one of the clerks. ; “There was no look alike; it was the man, onl with the shade of the grave upon him. I'd be will- ing to take my oath that it was Harrison Lattison— I’m sure of it.” “Then his reported suicide was all bosh?”’ queried his confidential clerk. “By Jove, I don’t know what to think,” said the old man, bewilderedly, es chee, out into the street. ‘‘I don’t know what ink. And by the way, I was ill before he came—quite ill. It has all gone now. I’ve a great mind to follow him.” “But did he say nothing—or did he only stand and look at you, and, like Poe’s raven—nothing more?” asked another clerk, his nephew. “ Speak—no—he didn’t speak—but—I forgot—he. left a letter on the table.” “A letter on the table?’ three or four spoke at three or four of the once. “Yes; Johnson, we'll go in and see what itis. T declare my nerves are so shaken that I’m scarcely myself. Such a visitas that! and after sitting up half the night over Mrs. Crowe’s ‘ Night Side of Na- ture.’ You can hardly wonder at it. Johnson, I'll deputize you to r the letter,” he said, as the two left the clerks speculating, and entered the little of- fice. The letter still lay on the green bawe cloth, Aid ee er “sgt § 4
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a square, yellow envelope, commonplace enough, but terribly suggestive. e merchant seated him- J self and tapped the sides of his arm-chair with trembling fingers, while he waited, all expectation, as the clerk slowly unfolded the missive and, pre- paratory to reading it, lifted his eye-glass. ‘‘Not much here,’ he,said, smiling a little, ‘‘ but it is very strange.” ’ “ Pray, what is it?’ queried the merchant, “Shall I read it?” : ‘* By all means,” was the quick reply. “(th Aug., 18—. “Mr. Harvey WArp—Do not sell your shares in the O. mines--now considered worthless---for any amount. My papers are yet safe. Tell*my wife to look at the back of =e secretary over the second door for a small brass headed tack. If she presses that, a cavity will be disclosed containing the true | papers. I always had faith in those shares. Arrange with her to make them over to you, and secure in her name my part of that property which will soon be of immense value. Do not speak of this to any one ae those in whom you have the strictest confi- ence,”’ “Really, really! very strange! very singular!’’ ex- claimed the netchant leaning heavily forward, his face quite pale, ‘ Why! I would have sold that property for a shilling yesterday, This issomething ae pean Johnson. It makes my blood run cold.” ’ “Tt is very singular, certainly,” said the clerk, thoughtfully, ‘and if A do have any calls about the matter, why it will confirm the wisdom of this ce ” ; vice. _“ But I ask again, can the dead come back?” que- ried the merchant. ‘Some say they can,” replied Johnson. | ‘Good heavens! What a thought!” exclaimed the elder man. At that moment some one wished to enter the of- fice. It was an old business friend of his, who came to learn whether he would sell his shares in the O. mines. The merchant exchanged a significant glance with his confidential clerk, who left the counting- room. The offers were declined, and so were sever- al. Being hard pressed, the gentleman declared that he had no faith in the property except as farm- ing land—that he wished to move west and settle, and that was why he made the proposition. The merchant, however, still declined, and hurried home inastrange mood. During the day several proposi- tions were made to him about the same Pre rty, all of which received the uniform answer, he did not wish to sell, That afternoon he wrote a note to Mrs. Lattison, requesti o see her on business of im- portance, andarranging that, as the matter was of a priv nd personal nature, she should come to his ence on the following day atten in the ng m . It was there, accordingly, that the widow went at the aoe time, taking with her, as the merchant had requested, some letters Pence to her husband. She was ushered into a large, light room, where sat a nervous-looking, white-haired in- dividual, who saluted her, and almost immediately handed her a paper, saying as he did so, ‘‘ Perhaps you know that es “ Certainly I do; it is Mr. Lattison’s,” she respond- ed, with a show of grief. ‘‘I never saw any writing as peculiar as his was—” 4 “ Will yon oblige me by showing me some of his letters, that Imay compare them?”’ “Mrs. Lattison complied with readiness. The sig- natures corresponded exactly. Harvey Ward then told the story and gave her the note to read. For a ' few moments she was strongly agitated. “Did he ever tell you, madam, that he owned shares in this stock?” ‘‘ He never did.” “T learn to-day that the shares have gone up, un- poecerend and were your husband alive, he would e a richer man than before. Yesterday, but for this singular occurrence, I should have sold them for almost nothing. What does it mean?” c “Can the dead come back?” whispered the widow. ‘“The very question I asked yesterday. I protest itis the most remarkable thing of the kind I ever heard of.” ‘* How was he dressed?’ ‘In a cloak and a cloth cap.” “That was not like him. He never wore a cloak, and a cap only in winter, and that of fur. Was he pale? ‘*Very pale; in fact, fearfully so. I shudder when I think of it.” Mrs. Lattison shuddered too. She had dreamed of her husband for several nights past—ominous, foreboding dreams. She hurried back to the house to the infinite relief of her son, her sister-in-law and Bridget. _Going into her husband’s private room, she took, not without a strange sensation of fear, the drawers from their places. Yes, there was the head of the brass tack. Pressing it, a door flew open, and in a cavity lay a folded paper. She took it out—it was the identical instrument of which her husband had spoken. Was the whole matter sneer natural? Had he, the dead, he who had perished by his own hand, still the power of appearing at will—of watching over her? She had never been very credulous, but here, certainly, was a marvelous interposition. Might it not be that some friend of hers, who had known all the circumstances, had taken this means of aiding her, and had been able to personate her husband sufficiently to impose up- on the old merchant, whose sight was failing? But others than he had seen the man- -three or tour, In vain she plied her bewildered mind with questions, nor was she aroused from her trance-like reverie till Ella broke into the room, ‘““Why, mother, I just heard—I was afraid—” & at is the matter, child?’ her mother asked, seeing her frightened look. ‘Ridiculous! how could they any of them believe it?’ cried the young girl, half laughing. ‘Believe what, ? Have you heard--” for a moment she thought that this ‘‘ appearance ’’ might rh become known and her daughter had learned of it. oh y, Henry and uncle Frank, and uncle Frank's wife all thought you had gone away to get married. How absurd!’’ exclaimed Ella. mie! We married, child!” replied her mother, in tones of the atm ost surprise. ‘‘ Why, what can you mean?” “S29 Pass “Tt is true mother; and what is the most laugh- able of is, they said you were going to marry— ll is the broker.” Mrs. Lattison’s face became crimson. She bit her lip violently, but made no reply. “T knew better, and so did Bridget. You don’t know what a laugh we had over the whole affair—it was so ridiculous, you see.” Mrs. Lattison did not feel any inclination even to smile, The scenes through which she had so re- cently passed had brought before her mental vision with such distinctness the lover of her youth, the father of her children, that her very soul yearned to catch but a glimpse of his presence. Meanwhile hae San ab ge sat musing in his lit- tle shop. The hallucination was gone from his brain —he was himself once more, looking over the map of the months that had passed. “Strange mental conflicts,’” he murmured to him- self, ‘‘have I been subjected to for this long, weary time. Now im ing myself one person, now an- other, and all the time conscious, as it were, of a double state of existence, the meaner predominat- ing. But, thank God! this strange humor is wearing off, and since I have heard that good news about the mines, the mist has cleared from my brain, and I feel myself aman again, able to endure all things for the sake of those Llove. I will, however, try my- self yet a little longer; I will be positive that the malady has no more control of my will, and then T shall reveal myself. But how? Never mind that now; I will first prepare the way for Bentley to come and board with us, for the poor soul feels such unbounded gratitude to me, that she would follow me to the world’s end,I do believe; and the little heiress needs just such a home as that will be. Mr. Sylvester must take his traps and start; that most dutiful seapegrace son of mine must be taught a lesson or two, and a Pht won again in short meter. Thank God! my intellect is clear—my fortune will be restored; and, hy Sows false wees of this sickening city, I will go back to the dear old Grove. er and fit it up as it once was, and we will ve in peace and quietness. My boys shall learn how hollow the world is; m san on hall be woo- ed by no brainless son of a millionaire; my wife shall be subjected to no annoying admiration; we will leave this false city to its golden worshipers.” CHAPTER XVI. , THE REVELATION, “T say, who is that Mistress Solemn who sits next to the madam with that beautiful child?’ asked one 3 the youngest boarders*of the eldest hope of the ouse. “That,” said Henry, ‘‘is some old lady with mag- nificent expectations. I only wish the child in her care had the gloss of six years more on her yellow curls. Isn’t she a little angel of a creature? and so grave and thoughtful for her years, and yet playful asa kitten when it suits her to be.” * Are they Americans?” ‘“No, English; you might know by_ the way eer carry themselves—so rim and straight. The chil they say, is a millionaire, or in a fair way of becom- in one. She’s been in chancery, I believe, and the old woman has supported her seven or eight years, by doing all sorts of work. Now there’s something found by which the lawyers think she can get her rights, and give them a pretty plum, besides.” a ort fa is we child? z n or eleven. “ And the old lady must beforty. Well, likely her nest is prettily feathered. I wonder the broker don’t look that way. Heseems to have undoubted success wherever he takes a fancy ‘““What do you mean, sir?” asked Henry, growing red. “Nothing particular, except that he’s a very strange man, and where he wants to he rules.” ‘* He don’t rule here,” retorted Henry, proudly. “T shouldn’t want him to undertake to rule me,” said the young man, because he’d be sure to—” “ Get the worst of it, eh?”’ : “No; I should get the worst of it, I’m afraid. The fact is, I like that man—he possesses power; there’s a magic about him that makes him naturally a ruler; in fact, aperson that one need not be asttaatiod to obey.” : You talk nonsense,” said Henry, with a sneer. ‘See that lady yonder is ipoking atme, Pledge me in coffee to the health of my future wife.” . The lady in question was no other than the little Catharine, whose grave, gray eyes often wandered to the handsome face of the youth, who little thought that st might really prove a fact, as many a jest h ne since the world began. At that moment there was a singular sound pro- ceeding from the hall. “Hallo! what’s the trouble?” cried the young an. ‘* Tt's the broker’s voice as true as I’m a sinner.” The young men both sprung from the table a down the stairs, There, sure enough, was the bro ITTLE HEIRESS, collaring the handsome Sylvester, and dragging him along the hall to the steps, where, having adminis- te a ferocious shaking, he threw him out on the on pavement, his wig of false curls plastering his face, ; and his appearance general scandalized. “What is this, sir?’ cried He Lattison, aghast. “Nothing; only I’ve been punishing a puppy for insulting your mother,” returned the broker, pant- ing with his exertion. “ You take a great deal upon yourself, it seems to me, sir. I am the proper person to attend to such matters.” “You should be,” was the stern reply; “but one who is under moneyed obligations to another is not sufficiently his own master to take upon himself the right of defending any woman.” ‘Remember, you are in my house,” cried young Lattison, threateningly. “Tam in your mother’s house, young man,’’ was the cool reply. “You have no right here,’ said the young man, quite angrily. “I pay my board—and I don’t pawn watches to do so, either,” responded the broker, in a low, deter- mined voice, ‘It is useless for you to talk. I wish to hear nothing from your lips. You the proper rson to defend your mother! Take care that you 0 not provoke me to expose your conduct to your oe who little think of some things I could tell | em.” The young man, though still crimson and shak- ing with anger, slunk away at this. He knew hi father’s valuable gold watch was in the broker’s — vest-pocket, while his mother thought it still safe in his possession, ¥- From this time forward it was plainly to be that the broker was the head man of that house. — hat he assumed any thing or put on a bluster- in: ; but, by a quiet, magnetic authority, he ru. not only the hostess but her boarders. * As for Mrs. Lattison, though she dared not confess it to herself, was entirely absorbed in his presence. Since the broker had freed her from the insulting ary ae that had become so odious to her, she had felt her heart his captive. And then he looked so like her dear Harrison. ; The papers were taken Bo the merchant, and . delivered into his keeping. e still considered the visit one of a supernatural character, and told it in strict confidence to more friends than one, so that it \ got whispered round the city, and in fact was pub- » i. shed in the papers. Mrs. Lattison did not thrive under existing cireumstances. Her face grew pale and her movements listless. She sighed frequently —and sometimes started as she heard the deep tones. of her eccentric boarder. One day she sat in her room intent upon a letter which she had been long wishing to find time to write to her sister-in-law, when Ella burst into the room, pale, tearless and indignant. a, on a lounge, she gave a dry sob and buried her face in her hands. Mrs. Lattison arose, disturbed and frightened. ‘‘ What does this mean?” she exclaim- ed, herself as pale as the girl. “Mother,” gasped Ella, “you must—you must turn that impertinent fellow out of the house—in- deed you must.” : “But which, who do you mean, daughter?” que- oe? | Ree ried Mrs. Lattison, much alarmed. “The broker; he must leave the house; he has in- sulted me.” = Mrs, Lattison’s eyes were ablaze as her daughter “ny read gg Her heart beat as if it would leap from > i, er body. ; an : What did he say or do?’ she asked, in a thick voice. ‘He caught me as I was passing, caught and kiss- ed me, and called me his little daughter.” th Ella—did he ever do this before?” her mother | ed. “Never, never! and I liked him so well, too. I broke away from him, oe he cried out for me to stop and he would explain, but I was too angry. and the poor girl sobbed unrestrainedly. “This is too much!” said Mrs. Lattison, unable to restrain her tears at the fancied insult. “I m ¥ inform your uncle Frank of it, and—but no—t s would make a scene, and the matter would become __ known all over the house. ..We must avoid any pub- licity of that kind. Come‘and go with me, Ella, and confront this wicked man; he must leave the house immediat ae She raised her eyes; the ‘‘ wicked man” stood be- fore her, just inside the door, audaciously smiling. ‘What, sir—do you dare to enter my room?” she cried, poe | to her feet, eT a, him—her ~— eyes flashing like those of a tigress, ‘Oh! srttre-— = band—Harrison! why did you leave me? know not whom to trust.” ‘ ““My dear madam—what have I done?” broker, innocently lifting his eyebrows. “Taken advantage of a fatherless and ed girl. How dared you speak to my chi manner you did?” AS “*T protest 1 do not see that I have been Ity of the least impropriety.’ He spoke so like aninjured mai looked so handsome—so innocent cnd gri much the gentleman, Tae “ did Lunderstand you?” questioned Mrs. Lattison. a ‘Yes, mother, I repeat that he insulted me,” said Ella, with spirit. “But, madam, pl sterous, loved her, and so I do. TIT have To you I say the same th ht, I think, ~ more than _ I took the ~
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PP Pre { | | | } audacious! This conduct is unbearable. If you do not leave me, sir, I shail call for help.” “But, madam—Mrs, Lattison—dear Coraline--” will you leave the room? You exasperate me too much.” Sand “No, madam. I make a solemn declaration that I regard this room and everything in it, even to mo- ther and daughter, as my absolute property,”’ re- turned the broker, with great composure. ‘Oh! mother—the man is mad! Call for some- body,” and Eila shrunk in affright to the furthest corner of the room. . Mrs. Lattison was speecbless, bewildered from sheer fright. ‘“* And to prove this,”’ continued the broker in the most leisurely manner, ‘‘I further say, that in the course of twenty-four hours, I shall command you to give up your boarders—and you wil do it.” . Lattison, through, fright and consternation, stood for a moment pale and irresolute. The broker bowed composedly and retired to his own chamber. “Mother, what does it mean? What will that - horrid creature do next? He hates Henry, I am sure; he will kill him; he will fire the house and murder us all—I am certain of it.” ‘““What can I do?” cried the startled woman, bursting into tears. “ Frank is not at home, neither _ is Henry. Hark!” : : At that instant Henry dashed into the room, his cheeks ablaze. “Am I to be ordered round by this fellow as if I were a dog?” cried Henry, bursting into the room. j “What now?” exclaimed his sister and mother. _“T met him on the stairsa moment ago. Says he, | _ *My boy, I wish you to carry a note for me to the ae exchange. Lamina particular hurry,’ ‘I don’t go = a yells, he bounded for the back door; but Bridget had the key in her pocket. *“Oh! howly mother, what *IlI do wid mesilf?” he howled in. agony; ‘‘sure I'll niver git over this,” His teeth chattered in his head—he held on to the lock of the door as if for dear life, and the pe - spiration rolled down his face in great drops. ‘Oh! Mr. Lattison, in the name of the howly Catholic church—the communion of the saints, the forgive- ness of sins—the—the howly Catholic ehurch—the— the howly Catholic church! the howly Catholic church!” this time it was a shriek so prolonged and fearful, that Harrison, though co vulsed_ with in- ward laughter at the ludicrous state of affairs spru over toward the cringing Irishman, and ook his senses into him. - For many minutes it was impossible to make the terrified couple believe that he was really flesh and blood; but when they did, Bridget picked herself out of the clothes-basket, and Tim moved reluctantly from the door, casting sheepish glances toward Bridget, who, now that her fright was over, broke into vehement sobs. “Sure, an’ it’s glad I am, though I don’t undher- stand it at all, at all,”’ she cried. , “*Nor me ither,” dolefully responded Tim. Harrison explained to them his hallucination and its consequences. Their joy was unbounded, and their expression of delight original and Hibernian in the extreme, Six years later, ‘“‘the broker” sat in his easy-chair at the Grove, inditing a letter to his sister Anne. Two or three of the paragraphs ran as follows: “You will be pleased to hear that the marriage ceremony passed off delightfully. Henry and little lady Catharine, as we all call her, made a beautiful couple, They will call on you during their bridal tour. Tim, of whom you spoke, is stillin my service, though he does little but sun himself and smoke his old black pipe Bridget is as active as ever, My daughter named her pretty child on Sabbat last. So look out to see a little Anne Lattison Gray, when you come on again, We are all at. the dear old Grove, save Henry and his wife. It is more of a Paradise than ever, and after my short drives to the city, lam glad to get here and enjoy the sweets of home. wwife was looking over some old letters yesterd, d with a smile full of meaning, handed me one, It bore the appearance of having been crushed and then resmoothed, and was, in fact, the identical letter which, in my utter despondency and something like insanity, I wrote so long ago. That was a strange, wild freak of mine. Ioften look back on its consequences with the wonder how I could ever have accomplished it. Whenever I meet uncle Reynolds, to this day, he shakes his head and pats his brow with an ominous forefinger. When I meet Sylvester, he, frowns and crosses over. They are both as harmless as lambs, though I incline to think the old uncle has never quite forgiven me for turning M4 again, and would not be sorry if I were to give m a chance to attend my funeral, as Tim would say. Ximne thousand and one rumors that followed my “coming to life” have died away. My wife is worthy of my noblest regards, having been only guilty of falling in love with her own husband the second time; and I do not think’ shall ever sigh to oo ‘where the tide runs deepest and strongest.’ So al- low me to subscribe myself, Yours, truly, ‘* HARRISON LATTISON.” THE END. The Saturday Journal. “The Model Family Paper —aAND— Most Charming of the Weeklies.” A pure paper; good in every thing; bright, brilliant and attractive. Serials, Tales, Romances, Sketches, Adventures, Biographies, Pungent Essays, Poetry, Notes and Answers to Correspondents, Wit and Fun— All are features in every number, from such celebrated writers as no paper in America can boast of. What is best in POPULAR READING, that the paper always has; hence for Home, Sxop, Li- BRARY and GENERAL READER it is without a rival;and hence its great and steadily increasing circulation. 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