Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 3) (1880 11 23)
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The Only Y ~~ nea ihieZ2 A Wn hi fics BE Tg DS WERLE Mateo cit f " K STN I) Pag ul " e hil ll Gas November 23, 1888. $2.5U a year. PRICE, 5 CENTS. No, 54. EE SS SK ORR : Oa ch Pe: ae Poe ee sil ee ee a nena i PLACE YOUR HAND UPON THIS BOOK,” SAID HE, “AND WHEN I REPEAT THE CONDITIONS, SWEAR THAT YOU WILL FAITHFULLY ABIDE BY THEM. One Woman's Heart: or Saved from the Street, BY GEORGE,S. KAIME. CHAPTER. I. ’ ; _.. DOCTOR JAMES RTIN. ey anaiver plate glittered in the sunlight and glimmered in the gaslizht, y As ld no tale of what was passing within that marble mansion. Ladies, n their silks and velvets, passed and looked at it: gentlemen read it; beggars spelled out the name, and turned aw i i : ” away withas : ea men wondered who he was. "But none could fell 1h Bee ane nly * cA — -_ % Mi } i i iy iy " my Nh i a | 1 tt eT A (ee pill) NNT | i ie il Yet he was no myth. There was a Doctor James Martin; a tall, slen- der man, past middle age, with sandy hair and whiskers, never trimmed, and an eye never at rest. He passed in and out through that broad entrance, but was ‘‘ never at home.” : Behind that silver door-plate, which, with the marble front, covered a multitude of sins, Doctor James Martin ate his food, drank his wine, smoked his cigars, slept and plotted. To the right, after passing the entrance, was a door, with the word ‘‘orricE” inscribed upon it in gilt letters. This was Doctor James Martin’s room. None ever entered it without his permission, and very few ever received that permission. Sam, the doctor’s servant and body- guard, alwayscrossed the threshold as if in momentary expectation of © — ————_— ih ————a— ee ETT TM ES
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an onset from some hidden foe; and always Jeft the room with his face to the danger, if danger there ‘Were. _ But’ there was nothing about the room itself to ex- - eite fear. It was a large, square apartment, with - the softest of carpets on the floor, the glossiest of paper on the walls, and the richest of rosewood fur- nishing. One side was occupied by a mammoth book-case, well filled, and a cabinet of vials and de- eanters—a backer to the silver plate on the door. Suspended aeeinet the walls were paintings and chromos, well selected, and here and there a _statu- atte, or the bust of some departed hero. In the Poenter of the room stood a great square table cover- ‘ed with books and papers, bottles and_glasses, and ba 59 boxes and stands, never empty. In the center ts) jee the table was an enormous hookah of the most “) curious workmanship, its long, flexible stem reach- ing over to an arm-chair, deep, soft and easy. b ‘ One prong in the spring of 1860, Doctor James * Ae Martin graced this room with his presence; also this soft easy-chair. He was sitting there very quietly, but those restless eyes—albeit they were shaded by the greenest of green spectacies—were looking at every thing within range; and if they were at rest for one brief moment, if was when he turned them upon the face of a woman sitting at the opposite side of the table. And it was no wonder that this face could hold his gaze, for it was beautiful beyond compare. A dark, tropical face, with eyes blacker than midnight clouds; lips full, ripe and crimson; and a wealth of ee ein softest hair that ever graced a woman’s - ead. One white, round arm, bare to the shoulder, leaned upon the table; the gueenly head leaned upon the hand, small and white; and the lustrous eyes were watching every movement of Doctor James Martin, ' as she waited for him to resume the conversation which he had just broken off. “Tet me see,’ said Doctor James, musingly ee ‘your father has been at Arrancourt a number of years. How long it has been since I saw Moses! I : wonder if he would know me now? He was here in the city when I went away.” . } “He went to Arrancourt soon after you went away,” said the lady. “Yes, yes. Norman Vinton was fortunate when .*..* he secured my brother to look after the estate. I am well acquainted with Mr. Vinton; and, although j Moses knew nothing of it, it was through my influ- ence that he got the place. Mr, Vinton ites me that he will be at home soon.” ‘ Ye uncle James)’ exclaimed the lady, in sur- 7 prise, ‘‘ Norman Vinton is dead.” j “A strange mistake,” said Doctor James, with a smile that seemed to say, “I pity you for your igno- rance.” ‘‘ His wife died. I was in Italy at the time. Poor Norman was nearly crazed. I fear that he has not quite recovered from the shock. He has been roaming, nobody knows where, ever since. He lost a daughter, too, about the same time. But, he will be at home some time this month. When do you go back to Arrancourt?”’ “T did intend to remain in the city a month or more.” ‘Very likely,’ said Doctor James, abstractedly. ‘‘ Vinton has a son living. He must be about twen- ty-two or three. How old are you, Dora?” ‘Twenty, uncle,’’ she replied, frankly. “Bless me! how time flies. And Ella?” “Pwo years pouneet i “So she is. I remember now. I presume you in- e tend to remain at Arrancourt?” yee a: Henry Vinto t ed, I beli “Yes, yes. Henry Vinton is not marri ieve. A fine-loo young man he must be. Resembles his mother. Please pass me that paper, Dora. Thank Fou I want to look at the shipping-list a moment, less me! the steamer is due Saturday. You sa, you are going back to Arrancourt to-morrow? W. you can tell your father to have ad thing in readi- ness for Mr, Vinton’s arrival, if he has not already received a letter from him,”’ Dora Martin did not correct him as to the time of her departure for Arrancourt, for, strangely enough, she had changed her mind. _ “T will have a carriage for you in time for the morning train,” continued Doctor James, “‘ and per- haps I will go tothe depot with you. I am very busy, though, and really ought to be at work now; but when one has friends to see them, the case is different, you know.” a ‘*T will not hinder you, uncle,” said Dora, for who could mistake the hint. ms ee) ' for my journey.” 3 “here, now what have! done!’’ exclaimed Doctor James, in well-feigned dismay. ‘‘ Dora, how ead ou have grown! Ido believe Henry Vinton will fall in love with you at.first sight. But you must pay no nee to what I say, Dora. I am always in a *““{ have much to do to get wurry. But, as I may not see you again before you zso—you know a doctor’s time is never his own—I will bid you good-by. It does seem so funny that, after all the pleasure I have anticipated from this visit, you only stay with me one day. ButIam de- ged Py Tell Moses that I shall come down when IT can find time; and surely one ought to take time i a see one’s only brother. I will, too. Good-by, p ¥ ora..”* _ *'There’s ambition for you,” said Doctor James, after Dora had left the room. ‘‘ What eyes! They couldn’t be prettier but there’s a devil behind them! _ How they snapped when I gave her an invitation to go back to Arrancourt! It was rather a cool dismis- sal, but she wanted to go; yet Iwas half afraid to do it, and do not know now but that I have made an enemy. Well, well, it is not the first one; and it doesn’t matter much, for Doctor James Martin will soon be among the things that were. It will be a | A : f i rich joke, and a dangerous one to me lif any one happens to see the point of it. But Pll risk it. I haven’t plotted these two years to give up now, when every thing is so favorable.” He moved up to the table and wrote a brief note. Then he rung the bell. ‘*Sam,”’ said he to the servant, “I am going away. You see this note?” * You saw the lady, my niece?” * Yes, sir.” ; “Give the note to her in the morning, and say omg I was called away. In the morning, remem- er.”’ “Yes, sir.” “And see that she has a carriage ready for the morning train, south,” ‘Yes sir.” ‘* And have my horse saddled at once.”’ **Yes, sir.”’ se Go.”’ “Yes, sir.” Doctor James now pour his coat, hat and hipbaws and when the horse was brought to the door he was ready to spring into the saddle. He crossed the ferry to Jersey City, and a ride of half a miie brought him to a dwelling scarcely less imposing than his own on Sixth avenue. is ring was quickly answered by the servant, who showed him into the parlor.” ‘*Send Meta to me at once.”’ He adjusted his cravat; also his green spectacles; then sat down to wait. A light step was heard upon the stairs, and pre- sently ‘‘Meta’’ entered, bowing distantly to her visitor. ; “Please seat yourself,” said Doctor James, not at all embarrassed by her coldness. ‘‘ [have come jor a purpose to-night.” She sunk into a chair, and dropped her head upon her hands. ‘* How very different from Dora,” thought Doctor James, as he gazed at her. ‘ Yes, she is far more beautiful.” , and his thoughts involuntarily took the form of words. ‘‘ How very, very beautiful you are, Meta.” She started in alarm, and colored to the temples. ‘You are exquisitely lovely,’’ he added, paying no attention to her indignant looks. She now arose to leave the room, but the doctor forcibly detained her. “Does it then anger you so to speak of your beauty?” he sneered. ‘ Well, I'll not mention it. But I have come for a purpose to-night. When I last honored you with a visit, you remember that I prom- ised to come only once more. This is the time, un- less, indeed pon ave altered your decision.” HL Thave not,” said Meta, haughtily. __ ‘No, I did not expect it. I merely mentioned it satisfy any little doubts I might have. But, yo know, Meta, that one cannot bear such disappoint- ment without some little ohig rk “i Meta gave a quick, startled ook, but the mocking face revealed nothing of the thoughts within. “Tell me the worst at once!’’ she implored. But Doctor James looked coldity down into the pal- lid, beseeching face, and went on in his own way. “ When I took you from the streets—when I took you from the woman you called mother—”’ Ah! how he gloried in torturing her, now that he knew that he had nothing more to hope for. ‘*My mother!” she whispered, reverently. ‘‘ What of her? Oh! Doctor James, you have some pity? Tell me of her!” : But he had no pity. What cared he for the beauti- ful face upturned to his so full of supplication? What, though she crazed? what, though she died? Ah! died? ““When I brought you here, Meta,’’ he went on, ‘*it was merely an act of kindness; but, as you grew in beauty, I grew to like you. I gave you_every ad- vantage that wealth could bestow, but I have, to si ’ some extent, deprived you of your liberty.. It was because of my selfish love. I wanted you all to my- self. But you have rejected me; you have shown ingratitude; and now 1 turn you into the streets again—back into the streets where I found you—into the streets—the streets! Do you hear? without a home, a name, or a friend!” : His voice had risen to an angry pitch, between a shout and a shriek, and Meta, shrinking with dread, and trembling with fear, made one desperate effort to break away from him, but his hold was firm. “Mhe streets—the streets!’’ he hissed, his teeth gua and great le seams of rage athwart his face, s io ny pce 4 with—your mother! al! ha “ With my mother?” asked Meta, sinking her voice to a whisper, for she could not speak that name without a feeling of holy reverence. ‘‘ Only tell me of her, and I can willinaly, gladly leave all this wealth with which you have pr to buy my love, and go into the streets to toil with her and for her.’ Doctor James gave hera look that froze all her anticipated joy to the direst dread. i “Remember that it is your own seeking,” said he. ‘But 1 shall require your oath that, whatever may happen, your lips shall be sealed in relation to your past life—to me—to everything, from the moment you leave this house. You shall be as one awaken- ing from a deep sleep, knowing nothing of the past.” ‘I will swear,” said Meta. He took a Bible from the table. He knew that Meta held that book sacred. ‘Place your hand upon this book,” said he, “and when I repeat the conditions, swear that you will faithfully abide by them.” In a mocking tone he proceeded; and Meta, hold- ing the matter in too sacred a light to be influenced by his levity, solemnly repeated the words after him. When it was all hed to his satisfaction, Meta looked up hopefully into his face. ‘*Do not keep me waiting,’’ she implored, He laughed crrtlg ‘** What a pity that I have not pleasant words to whisper in your ear; but, you know I must have my little revenge. Iwill not harm the body. Oh, no; I do not brave the law. My revenge will strike deeper than that. It shall hang a menacing terror over you, until you are carried to your grave! It shall last all hope, crush all pride, and burden your heart with such wretched oy that you will call for death! You will be shunnec by the good, derided by ne wicked, and become a thing hateful even to your- self.”’ He laughed tauntingly, and bent his malignant gaze upon Meta, who stood gazing at him, bewilder- ed by his horrid mockery. “ell me!’’ she gasped. And putting his lips close to her ear, he whispered his revenge. Alas for Meta! It was like a thunder-burst, which eafens and tortures, but does not kill. The mus- cles grew rigid; the blood seemed stagnant; the eyes were stony; the lips deathly white, and the brain in such a whirl, that she caught at the table for sup- port. “False as your own false heart!’’ she said, ina husky voice. ‘Satan himself could not conceive a more fiendish untruth! I will not believe it. Cow ard! to seek such revenge! Oh, take my life, but tell me that you have spoken faisely!”’ “ Thank ven Miss Meta, but I wish you to live and enjoy this knowledge,” sneered the tormentor. **No one will strive harder to keep you out of the gre’ than your very sincere friend, Doctor James artin. As for the truth of my words, my dear child, I must say I pride myself upon my veracity.” They gazed into each other’s eyes; she, with a deeper repulsion for the reptile which he had proved himself, and a sickening horror that was worse than death; and he, with a livid face, and a wicked smile on his lips, fatal as the ae upas. ‘Sworn enemies!’ he hissed, as he took a step toward her, and seized her with a vise-like grip. Then, ere she comprehended his intentions, he pressed a sponge to her mouth and nostrils, and waited until she became a dead weight in his arms. He smiled grimly. ‘** Fool!’ he muttered. ‘‘ Does she think this is al! done for paltry revenge? Let her think so.” He raised her in his arms and bore her out of the house to a close carriage in pa ‘‘Drive! drive!’? he shouted. ‘‘Wehave no time to waste now.” CHAPTER I. OUT IN THE STREETS. A Goop day’s journey from the city was the thriv- little seaport town of Willhampton. It was an everyday sort of a place, never having any excite- ment more startling than a traveling circus, or the capsizing of a fishing-smack; but it was destined to have a first-class sensation—a mystery of appear- ance and Gisappearance, that the shrewdest could not fathom. In a little red cottage down by the beach, lived the widow Morehouse. Since her first appearance in Willhampton, she had led a quiet, secluded life, holding no intercourse with her neighbors, and only venturing abroad long enough to purchase the few necessaries that her simple mode of life required, As a consequence, she was looked upon with some suspicion; but she ite all this, and went on in her own quiet way, biding her time to make plain the mystery which shrouded her life. But one morning the postman knocked in vain at the little red cottage. It was something so unusual for her to be away, and he thought it worthy of note; but he had no time to waste; so he slipped the letter under the door, and passed on, telling wher- hte he went, that the widow Morehouse was not at ome. The grocer came along for his weekly order, and found the house still closed; and the baker was forced to carry his steaming rolls back to the cart and drive on. As no one had seen her leave the house, her ab- sence excited much comment; and toward evening a consultation was held by those in the immediate vicinity of the widow’s home. They decided that something ought to be done, and notified the con- stable, who seemed to be the only public officer within reach. He shook his head mysteriously, and walking over to the cottage, as he was in duty bound to do, beat a tattoo upon the door, which would have roused half the neighborhood, had they not been already wide awake. There was no response, and he tried again. Yet all was silent within the house, save the echoing of his thundering raps. Then he turned to the crowd that had gathered, and made more particular inquiries; but he elicited no further information, except that one man was very positive that some time in the night he heard a carriage drive up and go away again. ““Weill, my friends,” said the constable, putting on a very knowing face, which became him, “ well, it is my belief that there has been foul pias i and I feel it my duty to burst'in the door. Bring mea crowbar.” © The required lever was soon placed in his hands, and after a short speech to the admiring crowd, in which 4 dwelt largely upon his duty, he forced an entrance. a ye The people now surged up to the door to see the horrid sight which all believed was there, but the officer, in the name of the law, ordered them back. Then he called two men out of the crowd, and leav- tt. Pi
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ENE oes ing one to guard the entrance, he took the other in with him. He reappeared almost immediately, and to have answered all the questions put to him would have required a wiser head than his. But he was equal to the occasion. With a majestic wave of the hand, he commanded silence, and called for his wife. The good woman was near at hand, and with a pardonable pride, soon disappeared within the mys- terious portals of the red cottage. Again the constable came to the door, and called for a doctor, ‘‘ewithout d-lay.” The half-frantie people now crowded the man at the door so hard that he was obliged to call for as- sistance; and when the doctor arrived, he found much difficulty in reaching the house. He had heard all that was known of the affair, and exhibited as much curiosity as any of them; ut he was not prepared for what he saw. Instead of tho ghastly form of the widow Morehouse, welter- ing in her blood, he found, lying on the bed, the in- Sensible form of a beautiful girl. “Mercy! what is this?’ he exclaimed, hastening to the bedside, and taking one of the limp hands m his own. “You know as much about it as we do, doctor. Is she dead?” “D-ugged. I will give her something that will Soon bring her to.” The medicine had the desired effect; and the girl Opened her eyes, and stared wildly about her. a “Where am I?’ she asked, rising on her elbow. Who are you?” “We were searching for the widow Morehouse, and found you,”’ said the constable. ‘Morehouse! I know nothing of her. Have I een dreaming?” Probably,” said the doétor. me who you are?” Oh, yes; I am Meta,” she replied, in a dazed sort of a way. Yes, it was Meta, turned into the streets again, Without a home, a name, or a friend; the victim of r, James Martin’s ‘little revenge.” > But how came you here?” asked the doctor. ““T cannot tell,” said Meta, trying to put her be- wildered thoughts into shape. Then she remember- ed Doctor James, and, with a shudder, turned her ace to the wall, and burst into tears. The constable’s wife looked pityingly upon her, but she could not understand it. All at once she Started in alarm. ee She has fainted, doctor!” Then we must carry her into the air,” said the doctor. ‘Ibis too clase and gloomy here.” he wondering crowd outside were all huddled a around the door, but when the doctor appeared wit eta in his arms, they drew back awe-stricken. beautiful, ghost-like form seemed to them to ha’ eg from another world, and they gave her a wi a. ‘“Now, can you tell The cool air soon revived the poor girl, and she stood up, hiding her face from the gaping crowd. Take me back to the house,” she implored. ‘TI can not bear the gaze of all these people. They will Stare me crazy. ‘Take me out of sight.” Come with me,” said a kindly voice; and Charles Matthews, the banker of Willhampton, made_ his way to Meta’s side, ‘Come with me, little one.” hough Meta did not see his face, she knew by the voice that she had nothing to fear, and she allowed him to lead her away to his prneeus home. And all the while she was thinking of the awful words which Doctor James whispered in her ear— the awful doom to which they consigned her. Why, Charles!” exclaimed the banker’s wife when she met him with Meta at the door, “what have you here?” A child that needs a friend,” said the banker, as he gave Meta up to his wife. She shall ave two of them, shall she not, ou said Mrs. Matthews, taking Meta into the ay Yes, mother,” replied the banker, as he passed out the gate, to return to the widow’s cottage, to learn what he could of the mysterious affair. Meta looked up into the kindly face of Mrs, Mat- thews with a hopeful smile. Friends! He told me that I never should have any Sate « Who, child, told you such a falsehood?” Oh, what have I done?’ exclaimed Meta, in dis- may. “Please don’t ask me any more. My name 1s Meta, and that is all I must tell you. When are you going to drive me into the streets again?” Mrs. Matthews held up her hands in horror. We are not heathens!” said she. Then she be- came heartily ashamed of herself, and clasping the poor child to her bosom, she said: ] Never, Meta! you shall stay with us always.” Oh, no!” closer to the good ou do let me stay to-ni No, no, my ¢ ‘Tell me your troubles,” said the banker's wife, again drawing Meta to her. ‘You want a friend?” So much, Mrs. Matthews; but even to a friend I cannot unburden my heart. I cannot break my Promise, You will not ask me?” : 7 But you will tell me your name?” ae I know none but Meta,” trange; and you do not know how you Gaia to be in oe Morehouse’s cottage?” : us ow nothing of the past,” she replied Sadly. “ Only the future i 2 ne, ‘ pin ly s oben to me, and what a place with her. “Then, Meta, we take you as you are,” said the banker’s wife, impressed by her simplicity, that, whatever the wrong, this poor child was not to blame. ‘‘ Knowing nothing—asking nothing of the past, Meta.”’ “Oh, will you?’ exclaimed Meta, joyfully. Then the old look of despair came back to her face. ““You know not what you are saying, my dear friend. I must not listen to you. will go away in the morning, and you must forget you ever saw “We will wait until morning comes, dear.” CHAPTER III. THE BANKER’S WARD. Tur banker was puzzled. So was Willhampton generally. Puzzled at Mrs. Morehouse’s disappear- ance, and at Meta’s no less strange appearance. A. detective came down from the city. He looked the red cottage all over; asked innumerable ques- tions; and worried poor Meta nearly to distraction. Then he went away again. But he left his opinion, waich was, that the widow went away of her free will; and that if there was any foul play, it was in Meta’s case, and must be looked up outside of Will- hampton, Yet there was the mystery, none were satisfied. The old sexton, who was supposed to know more of ghosts and transformations than any other living man, advanced a theory of his own: that the widow Morehouse was Meta in disguise, and that she would change into something else some time. Improbable as it seemed—yet stranger than that is sometimes truth—it was believed by some, while the incredu- lous, seeing no ‘poral solution of the mystery, grad- ually dismissed the subject from their minds. The little red cottage was locked up, and left to await the return of its owner. All this while Meta was with her new friends, the banker and his wife. That first night had been passed in such refreshing slumber; and when the morning came, the banker and his wife would not let her go. They persuaded her to remain with them at least a week, yet she felt all the time she was doing them a great injury. When the week went by, she had been so much happier than she had ever dared to hope, that when Mrs. Matthews told her that she must yet stay a little longer, she said: ‘*You are so good to me, that I dread to go away. Where else shall I find such dear friends!” “You must not luok for them, dear Meta. Stay with us always.”’ And Meta again yielded to the tempting happi- ness. She w almost cheerful under the influence of the childless old people’s love. Not that she forgot, or ever could forget, the blasting hia we of Doctor ames Martin, but she put it away for the time, nd gave herself up to the happiness thrust upon er. And she grew in loveliness. In all Willhampton there was no beauty like hers. Her golden hair was a crown fit foranempress. Her deep-blue eyes, of softest luster, lost their sadness as the time pass- ed, and beamed with love for the dear friends she had found, and kindness for all. The bracing sea air brought the color of health to her cheek, rival- ing the carnation with its soft, peachy bloom. Her form was perfect; tall, graceful, even queenly in its proportions; and she moved with an ease and unaffected freedom which was the envy of half her sex. Who would guess that this regally beauti- ful woman was once turned into the streets She was the light, the life, the joy of the old man- sion. Her ringing laugh, echoing through the lofty rooms, made sweetest music; and her bright face was like sunshine after the storm. The old banker almost worshiped her. He had waited and hoped so long for a pet of his own, and now one had been givenhim, He would have spoiled her by his indulgence, but for her own good sense. His wife was none the less infatuated; but, while she loved the beautiful waif, she watched her with a mother’s care, that no more ill should come to her. She hadreceived her in all thankfulness, and must render a strict account of her stewardship. When George Matthews—the banker’s nephew, who had lived with his uncle since boyhood—re- turned to Willhampton, he was all unprepared for thesurprise that awaited him. The glory of Meta’s wondrous beauty burst upon his vision like the radiance of the noonday sun, dazzling at first with its aplen ay but as the eye becomes accustomed to the brilliancy, and finds ly eos in it, so did George Matthews’s soul drink in the pleasure—the joy of the respendent vision. ‘For Heaven’s sake, uncle, who is that ‘Thalia’ that I see walking in the park?” he exclaimed. “That is. Meta,” said the banker, with a fond smile. ‘‘I haven’t told youabout her. But she is coming this way.” Meta, wholly unconscious of the admiring looks that were watching her every motion, approached very near before she saw them. She flushed a little when she saw the stranger. “We have been waiting for you to come up,” said the banker. ‘' This is my nephew, George Mat- thews.”’ ¥ George Matthews was an accomplished man of the world—a cynic, mayhap, looking upon all wo- men as so many seekers after husbands, as some- thing to be admired for their beauty—to be tolerated for custom’s sake; but as he bowed before this Meta, he felt that fulsome fiattery would be out of He simply said: ‘‘Tam happy to meet you, Miss—” , The hot blood moanted to Meta’s face at his hesita- aoe. and a flash of pain, but she promptly gave him e cue, > , N’'S “HEART. ~ ae, “Meta, is my name,” said she, wrapping herself about with an impenetrable shield of ign yy ae “You shall take mine,” said the banker, quickly. ““Thave been quite thoughtless. in a name?” he added, playfully. ; x “Much in the possession,” she replied, pale with inward anguish. Then she passed them, and went to her room to sols out the withering pain at her heart. ’ The advent of George Matthews made an entire change in Meta’s life. The cynic had found one « b- ject that was above contempt, and he applied hin - self diligently to the following of this new aim—t« the winning of Meta’s love. Meta could not remain ignorart of his admiraticn, nor wholly ignore his attentions, but she strove tu discourage him without seeming to doso. Had she cared for him it would have been even worse; for there was that hideous secret, shutting her out from all love, suspended over her, @ never-ceasing terror, following her wherever she went, a sleuth-hound of revenge. George Matthews, in his love-blindness and exces- sive egotism, closed his heart against her mute a peals, and pra her not. And the banker and his wife marked the growing pallor of their pet, but never guessed the cause of her unhappiness. “‘T must not stay here!” she murmured, as she sat in the darkness of her own room, thinking of the past—that past closed to all but herself. ‘‘ Oh, that. a vail of tenfold ihickness might forever shut it out from my sight,”’ she moaned. ; “TI must go! Out into the streets again—homeless, nameless, friendless.” y How the words rung in her ears, buzzing, hissing, through her brain, until it seemed like molten lava. “Driven away by love, followed by my misery, haunted by his revenge; yes, 1 must go!” The teeth set hard against each other; the hand clenched fiercely the chair she sat in; the brow grew: seamed and rigid; and the eyes looked the torture she was enduring. Maataly gathering a little bundle of clothing, she donned her hat and stepped gor’ into the passa How the very boards creaked with her light yee t and the rustling of the carpet seemed bidding her to go back. Back? To the wretchedness? She kept on, and when she was out in the cool darkness she felt better. Out through the leafy shades, and along the walk to the gate. Hark! was that astep? Perhaps the ps her own soft footfall on the velvet green- sward, “Where now, Meta?” “George Matthews!” Yes, he was in the path before her; and she felt his penetrating but the dim outline of his form. “Where can you be going, Meta?”’ With a little wail of despair, such as he never ex- feet to hear from her, she fled back to the house— ack to her nt Yet she thanked him, for she saw how wicked her thoughts had been. “‘Saved from the streets again! Rescued from— oh, I dare not thinkit! Fly where I might, this tor- 7 ture would haunt me! hy not brave it here? I will ann myself with a mantle of fortitude, and defy my fate!’ After that she met George Matthews with the same chilling reserve, but she could no more with- stand his searching looks. She hadlost power. She had given him a hold upon her that he never would release. Might it not ultimately cause his triumph? CHAPTER IV. ARRANCOURT’S FATE, SLowLy, silently, stealthily, the bent figure of a man crept up the long carriage-way leading to Ar- rancourt mansion. Ever and anon he stopped, and ave a low, peculiar whistle, muttering curses whew he signal was not answered. Then he crept om ae In this way he approached the mansion un- til he stood almost within the doorway. He chirped again, is time he was answered by the opening of the door. Crouching back into the shelter of the shrub- bery, he feasted his eyes yaon the dark beauty of the woman that came out, holding the light before her, into the gloom. She softly spoke a name, and the man stepped from his concealment. “Oh, you are here!” said the woman, with the least perceptible sneer. ‘I feared you would not come.’ “You have kept me waiting, Dora,”’ said the man, and peerin not removing eyes from her face. ‘Is every otis Ready i ““Ready and waiting. She is in the north cham- ber. No noise. Quick and sure, and no traces left. No blood !” f Dora Martin spoke in a_steady, hissing w: that made her listener shudder, yet it gave kim half an idea of the pitiless passions that were sur- ging through her frame. : “Good God, Dora! Can not this be avoided?” he exclaimed, > obs “Do you shrink from the task, Allan Wentworth?” she asked, with withering scorn, while her coal- eyes darted scintillations of consuming hatred. Ah! there was the imp that Doctor James Martin saw so plainly, while loo. ing at her across that table in his. room on Sixth street. ° ‘Let me pass!’ said the man, in a voice quivering with desperation. ‘‘I would dare any thing foryou, Dora Martin.” With a smile of triumph, she opened the door erg Allan Wentworth disappeared within the grea k The elegant mansionof Arrancourt overlooked a beautiful sheet of water of the same name. oz "eb a + But, Meta, what's — rd Jj gaze, though she could see nothing — g we! — ee
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. ‘ee he Poa * Ys * ’ 4 : ONE WOMAN’S HEART. Years ago Norman Vinton was in tradein a south- | a lightning bound, alighted on his feet and darted | in proportions, and majestic in bearing, and you ern city, and even before reaching middle age, he | through the door, filling the house with the most ap- | have the description of a man who always drew a ! hased the beautiful site, and erected the prince- | palling criesfor help. Henry Vinton and Mr. Mar- | second look from all who saw him. ; mansion for a country seat. But ill health over- | tin, who had just appeared upon the scene, gave Cast adrift to battle with life alone at a very early f took him before he had an opportunity to occupy | chase. age, he had yet acquired a fair amount Of book- this rural retreat. With his family, he started for Yet Ella slept. knowledge, and his somewhat adventurous life had foreign lands, leaving Arrancourt to the care of With a madness almost equal to Norman Vinton’s, | given him much valuable experience, and a noble Moses Martin until such time as he should return. Dora raved at the failure of her plans. self-reliance that became him well. Pus. Moses Martin had just buried his loved wife, and “Oh, this hateful night’s work!” she muttered. He was one of the first to seek a fortune in the E tired of the world, Arrancourt offered a quiet re- | ‘‘The blundering fool! And that milk-faced chit | land of gold. Seven years of patient and untiring treat. So, with his two motherless girls, Dora and Ella, he went to the delightful country seat. The years passed, and Norman Vinton did not return. Then came the news of his death. '¢ Meanwhile, Dora and Elia grew in stature and beauty. Their father had a handsome property 4 aside from his savings at Arrancourt, and he gave them covery advantage. They were sent abroad to i school, and it was on their return that Dora paid by her uncle James a visit. As we have seen, her stay was very short. The news that she took back to Arrancourt sur- rised her father. He knew absolutely nothing of orman Vinton, having secured his situation through the agency of others, and meeting his employer but twice. Now, that he was really alive, and coming home, he could not say whether he was pleased or not. He set about renovating the rth hs t rooms, ably seconded by Dora, who could hardly await the arrival. She was maturing her plans to become the mistress of Arrancourt. The Satan which Doctor James saw behind her lustrous eyes was nothing more or less than an all absorbing : ambition to reach the high position to which she felt entitled, by reason of her beauty and accom- plishments. Selfish, unscrupulous, and strong-willed, | she would brook no restraint, nor hesitate in the way 4 aes she had chosen. Withal, she had consummate tact, ri and concealed her real nature beneath a garb of P modesty. Ella was not less impatient than her sister for the “| arrival of the Vintons, but her impatience was the result of different motives. Her volatile spirits i needed a suitable outlet. The somber life at Arran- court was not to her taste, and she hoped that the advent of the Vintons would bring the innocent sayety and harmless amusements she loved so well. utshe was page Norman Vinton proved to be more of a recluse than her father. He was a tall, dark-haired man, somewhat stooping, cold and formal in manner, and reticent. Yet Moses Martin was quite pleased with him; for he never interfered in the management of the estate. If he never gave ij praise, so he never blamed; and the old manager _ went on in the beaten track he had trod for years. Henry Vinton was the opposite of his father, and there seemed no bond of sympathy between them. Generous and frank, the young man’s sunny disposi- tion had not been soured by contact with the world; and he took to Arrancourt a heart untram- meled, and a mind unsullied by the follies and vices of city life. : He was charmed with the sisters, Dora’s brilliancy ; fascinated him, and Ella’s simplicity pleased him. Without expressing avy preferences for either, he played at courtship with them, thus whiling away the hours which otherwise might have seemed tedious in that lonely house. And he hardly knew himself which he preferred. If he loved either, the feeling had stolen upon him } so quietly that he knew nothing of it. But Dora’s keen eye read his mind better than he ; knew it himself. She saw that Ella’s gentle, trust- ways were surely winning him from her. Alas, for the lovely Ella! The hate of a baffled woman was pursuing her, and would hunt her to the death. Allan Wentworth Gag sae the upper hall, but he missed the door. ! Dora Martin’s hireling was a bungler, Ella big pete ita while the assassin entered Norman Vinton’s room. He stole toward the corner where the master of Arrancourt had thrown himself upon the bed, with the intention of taking a short nap before retiring for the night. He hal to prepare himself for the stroke. ith _ alittle steel hammerin one hand, and a dark-lantern in the other, he stood at the bedside, listening to the deep, ar breathing of the sleeper. ho can tell what hh assed through his mind? He moved the slide to the lantern, but when the light fell upon the bearded face of the sleeper, he started back with an oath, overturning a chair in his Norman Vinton awoke, and sprung from the bed to grapple with his unseen foe; but ere they met, the room was flooded with light, and in the door- ‘ way stood a SHADOWY TERROR, with long, golden hair ha hanging loosely about the ghastly face, and a long white robe falling in filmy. indistinctness to the floor; while on the breast gleamed an eye of flame, daz- vling in its brightness. With outstretched hand the apparition pointed at Norman Vinton, then vanished as silently as it came. For one brief moment the two men, left in the : darkness, stared where they had last seen each / other; then Allan Wentworth rushed out of the |! reom, while Norman Vinton, quaking with terror, | sunk ina chair and screamed wildly for mercy. His : screams reached Dora, who, seizing a light, hastened to his room. ' be “Back! back!’’ he shouted, shutting out the light : _ from Dora’s candle with his hands. ‘Take her away! Ididn’t doit! They lied to you! Keep off— » keep off!’ ___ Dora took a step into the room, and Vinton, with a ss gereech of terror, sprung for the window. Dora ; comprehended his design, and, quick as he, grasped we his coat and snatched him back from certain death. He fell tothe floor, a grinning madman, writhing | and gnashing his teeth, and foaming at the mouth. Dora recoiled in affright, and Norman Vinton, with ee ee ee a i ‘her murderous attitude; and with yet lives to cheatme of my right and my love! Oh, this love! It is consuming me! Did I ever believe that any man could, by his very look, so control my whole being as to make me what I am to-night? But I can not help it! And the thought of her spurs me on. She must die! She shall!” Was she not the maddest of the mad? Could the mightiest love, the bitterest hate, or the most absorb- ing ambition, so transform a beautiful woman into a hein soulless demon? Say rather that she was crazed. With cat-like tread, she glided across the hall to her sister’s door. Softly she entered, and without a tremor—without a thought of pity, or mercy, or love, save the consuming passion for Henry Vinton, she advanced to the bedside. Yet Ella slept. The moon, now risen, threw its silver sheen upon the bed, revealing the lovely sleeper’s face, and one white round arm thrown over her head. There was a smile upon her lips, and she whispered the name: “ Henry.” The grating teeth of the pitiless fiend ait 3 over her, aor that her listening ears had caught the sound. “You'll never say that word again,”’ she hissed. And baring the gently swelling bosom, she raised the merciless arm. How like a fiend she looked! How the demoniacal passions had overwhelmed her Reork and left her a grinning, writhing, hideous thing of hate and devil- ishness! But she was not destined to stain her soul with that horrible crime. As that flood of light had filled Norman Vinton’s room, so did it flash into Ella Mar- tin’s, saving her from death, and surprising Dora in it, as if a con- comitant of this effulgence, appeared the appari- tion. Witha ery of baffled rage, Dora turned upon the phantom. Heaven or hell had no terrors for her then. The prince of darkness, or a legion of angels, would not have daunted her. Reason was drowned in the whirlpool of relentless hate, and heedless of every thing, she flew toward the phantom. ; oe ber she was doomed to disappointment. The light and vege eae vanished, and she struck only empty air. ile rushing wildly here and there, yet thrusting with that murderous knife that she might forever silence this witness to her intended crime, the hateful light again burst upon her vision; and casting her eyes upward, she saw, suspended, as if it were, in mid-air, the shadowy terror, with its eye of flaming, dazzling fire. Sickening with horror, Dora gazed upon the awful sight, and realized that she had no mortal to deal with. She fell upon her knees and begged for mercy. In answer to her entreaties came a mocking laugh; and that 5 of fire flashed and grew, reaching out its arms of crimson flame, nearer—nearer—nearer— until it seemed that the devouring element must lick up her garments, and envelop her with its seething heat, Fraught with such terroras she never knew before, she fled , to her room, and fastened the door with bolt and lock. Yet that mocking laugh reached her through the oaken panels, and, spring- ing upon the bed, she buried her head in the pillows to shut out the awful sound. Even ere in the hall affrighted her; he it was only Hen inton re- turning with his father, now sane, but silent, and as weak as Late recovering from a long illness. Then the very stillness was frightful, and the darkness was peopled with fearful fancies. Ah! what would she not have given to have blotted that night’s work out of existence? Still Ella slept the sleep of health and innocence, and dreamed the dream of love. CHAPTER V. "THE MISSION OF DUTY. Frocks of snow-whits foam danced about the prow, and eddied in the wake of a noble vessel, as she steamed tly through the Narrows. On the upper deck, gine from the eager, expec- tant crowd, stood Paul Rodney, his heart overflow- ing with thankfulness at once more beholding the shores of his native land, gazing with pleasure and pride at familiar and half-forgotten objects. Over on the Long Island shore was Fort Hamilton, well remembered; and isolated in waves was the old, round, red Fort Lafayette, as familiar to him as his own name, So was Coney Island, which came in sight as he passed from under the guns of the harbor defenders. But he turned from all these as the steamer passed the westerly point of Governor's Island, and brought the grandeur of the empire city into full view. re years previously he had sailed, a mere strip- ling from the same port. He returned a well-made strong-sinewed man. Hardships and exposure had bronzed his once fair complexion almost to swarthi- ness. He had a full, gray eye, mild in repose, yet gleaming with inward force; his nose was prominent, yet well-formed; and his finely-cut lips could whisper pentl like the fond mother, shout the battle-cry, or url defiance to a merciless foe. His long hair, un- shorn for many a month, was a dark, glossy brown, and his beard of the same hue, was soft and flowing. Add to all these attractions, a figure almost gigantic and a voice spo industry made him the possessor of a few thou- sands, and tired of the almost barbarous life of the miner, he turned his face once more toward his native city. But there was one regret: he left behind the companion of his toils, Walter Morehouse, the dearest friend on earth. “Tf I should not live to see mother again,” said Walter, the night before Paul left the ee “vou 0 will wateh over her, Paul? She has a co ttable home and some money. I will send some more b: you and you will tell her that in another year I shalt e with her, if I am spared.” a aul promised, and sewing Walter’s money in his. belt, separate from his own, he bade him good-by. To save his means, Paul took passage in a sailing- vessel, but the ship was wrecked. e, with man others, was picked up and taken to a South Ameri- can port. ere he waited in vain for some home- ward-bound vessel, and at last took passage to England, and from thence to New York, voter safely after a year of beating about. But his hard- earned store of gold was gone, while Walter’s was yet intact. . hate but absolute starvation would have tempted him to appropriate to his own use a penny of that money intrusted to his care. | As the steamer swung to her moorings, Paul Rod- ney sprung ashore, filled with delight, as once more standing in his native city. He took a step toward the busy street, but a hand was laid upon his arm, ke his name. “Robert Ransom!’’ exclaimed Paul, surprised, yet: evincing a coldness that indicated no great pleasure at meeting this man. the mines?” “When did you return from ‘“More than three months ago,” replied the man. ‘*But where have you been?” “Ae + A shadow fell upon Paul’s face while answer Ont 7 p but he threw off his gloom ere he h nished. “How were the boys when you left?” ‘“We left none but Walter,’ said the man. “How was he? Doing well, I trust? J hoped to meet him here.” . ‘“ We left him in his coffin,’ said Ransom. ‘Good heavens! that cannot be?” “Died in less than a month after you left, Paul. I helped to put him in the ground,” added the man, in ne that grated harshly on Paul’s ears, ‘ You ; is mother yet?” hardly restrain himself from punish- ing the scamp without delay. ‘Going, you villain?” he exclaimed. ‘But IR overlook it, Bob Ransom. Yes, Iam going to Will- hampton to-day, and if you have any word from Walter, or any mone belonging to Mrs. Morehouse, you had better send it along.” ‘*Who told you I had,” cried the man, with an air of bravado, yet unable to meet Paul’s honest gaze. “T will see you again,” said Paul, turning away. “ Wait!” cried the man, in alarm. ‘‘ You mustn't be too hard on a feller. Walter gave me a letter for you. It’s up to the house.” “Lead the way,’ said Paul, sternly. time to waste with you.”’ Ransom’s boarding-house was but a short distance from the wharf, and they set out toward it, Paul’s rapid strides showing his impatience to have done with the villain. Paul almost snatched the soiled envelope from Ransom’s hand, and tore it open with eager haste. A bank check dropped to the floor. Ransom sprung to pick it up, and Paul allowed him to do it. “Fool!” muttered the disappointed villain. “If I had known this!” Paul finished the reading of the letter, drawing his hand often across his eyes. Then he held out his hand for the check, which the man reluctantly gave im. “Now, Robert Ransom, said Paul, _ sternly, “ T have no “where is the money that Walter sent home by ou?” ve He never sent ary!” said Ransom, yet showing evidence of guilt. “He did!” shouted Paul, grasping him by the ie oa) Where is it? Tell me, or I'll thrash it out. of you. nsom knew that he was abundantly able to make good his threat, and he whined: ‘“‘Don’t, Paul! Iwas hard up, and I’ve used some of it. Here is the rest.” Paul released his hold and took the money. “That is all I want of you, Bob Ranson; only for your own good, I would advise you to keep out of ac way.” : he villain scowled wickedly, and, when Paul was out of hearing, muttered: “*You think you have done with me, but I'll show you the difference before you are a day older. The woman, Morehouse, never shall have that money, ifa sure hand and a sharp knife are of any ac- count.” Paul Rodney found some ee, in getting the check cashed, but succeeded at last, and p the money in his pocket, murmuring: LA
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ONE WOMAN’S HEAR — y “Poor Walter, he gave it to me, but his mother must have it all.” 3 mit He now bent his steps toward the depot, and in- quired the price of a ticket to Willhampton. The answer made him aware of the leanness of his pocket-book. “TI must take it afoot,’’ he said to himself, yet half aloud. And at his elbow stood a man who smiled grimly as he heard the words, and gave the wink to another man hid away in the crowd. Paul now purchased some cheese and crackers for a lunch on the way, and then set out for Willhampton. _Behind him skulked the two men, never losing aiget of him, and one of them was Bob Ransom. aul stepped along quite gayly, and when he had left the city behin ,; and breathed the fresh air of the country, his splrits revived still more. He pictured to himself the cosey little home of ‘Warren’s mother, and a mild-faced woman in black, mourning for the lost one. How much good the money would do her, now that she had no one to Jean upon! And if he did sometimes wish that he had as much, it was with no idea of depriving her of it. He would have starved rather than that. He trudged along courageously till dark, stopping occasionally for a drink of water and a bite of lunch. As the gloom of i pe a night deepened, he be- thought himself of a place tosleep. At the time he was passing through some thick woods, and as the night was warm and pleasant, he resolved to try a bed under the trees. He had slept in many a worse lace. Selecting a suitable spot but a few steps rom the road, he scraped some leaves together, Si throwing himself upon them, was soon fast asleep. All the while the two men had been on his track, As it grew dark they drew nearer, and when Paul Sunk to rest, they were not far behind. They saw him turn from the road, and surmised his object. “We must wait until he gets asleep,” said Ran- som, “ for he is a perfect tiger when he gets started and you and me would stand no sight at all. He'd handle us like two kittens. But if we take him When he’s asleep, we can creep up and give him a prick in the heart that will settle him at once. Then we can gobble the money, and slip back to town as fast as we area mind to. And who'll be the wiser?” his very simple arrangement was readily agreed to by Ransom’s accomplice, and the two sat down and waited until hag felt sure that their victim was asleep. Then they skulked softly toward the wood. Paul's regular breathing soon gui ed them to the spot where he was so quietly slee . : They crept up one on each side, and each with a keen knife uplifted. “Now!’’ whispered Ransom, through his hard-set teeth, and simultaneously the two weapons de- scended on their murderous errand. CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOWY TERROR. , THe night of horror left its impress upon the in- mates of Arrancourt. The sickly, cadaverous expression which came over Norman Vinton’s face when he first saw the phantom never left it. The sight alone could not make so deep an impression. ere was something connected with it that was a_constantly-recurrin: terror by day and by night. He grew nervous and, fitful, starting at every sound, and wildly listening to even the rustling of a leaf, as though every moment fearing another visit from the shadowy terror. His face was seamed with care, his body feeble and bent, and his eyes were wild and staring. The canker of remorse was oer eet his vitals. He spent the greater part of his time in the library, refusing all companionship except Dora, and she seemed essential to his existence. He was peevish and fretful when she was absent, and begged hat she would not leave him alone; and with a dis- regard of self that was wholly foreign to her nature, she strove to gratify his whims. Henry Vinton was also changed. A troubled ray. had become the habitual expression of his ace, and he moved about the old house with a slow 1 el step, like one in the presence of the He was with Ella more than ever, now that Dora gare so much of her time to his father, Although the air girl was cognizant of the gloom that enveloped ain recat ne A nae Brea restrain all her cheer- A roved a parti ee! bd a By wretche ness, Reteretate tenry had not yet learned the secret of that night of terror. That something extraordi had occurred to place his father in t state of mental excitement in which he found him, he was well satisfied, but he was far from Pegi d the truth. ,. He had hoped that his father would make him his confidant, but, on the contrary, he realized that a barrier was forming between them that precluded ing from the possibility. He sought to glean some but, as we have seen, she knew even less than Ella, he, and Moses Martin was as much in the dark. there were but two that could enlighten Trt, 4 One day he found Dora in the conservato: It was a fitting time to clear up the mystery, lift the gloom which oppressed him, and telieva: the sus- pense which bore so heavily upon him. She was culling flowers, and deftly arranging them into abo quet for Norman Vinton. She did not see Beary anu he stood for a moment admiring her rare loveliness; yet there came over him, for the first time, a fecling of dread and fear of the dark, ndsome face. When he revealed himself, she was startled, and turned very pale, How you frighten»d me Mr. Vinton. I did not know that any ore was near,” Je & “4 a * a ‘*T have been here some time,’’ said he, gravely. | ““T wish you would give me your attention for a moment.” She cast a quick, searching glance into his face, but saw only a look of sadness. Although she had pe aes him of late, she yet hoped when he spoke. “T must soon return to your father,’’ said she, winding the thread about the flower stems. “Tt is of my father that I wish to speak,”’ said he. “Then [ care nothing for what you have to say,” thought Dora, with a shade of disappointment on her face, but Henry went on. “You have usurpeda place near ay father, ex- cluding every one else,” said he, bitterly. “Mr. Vinton,’ began Dora, haughtily, but her tone softening as she proceeded, ‘it is not of my seeking. You are not aware, perhaps, of your father’s true condition. His mind is fearfully sbat- tered, and only by the utmost care can he be saved from hopeless insanity. To thwart him only aggra- vates the malady, and for his sake and—yours—’ She cate her eyes so modestly, and blushed so charmingly, that Henry almost forgot what she was saying. ** For mine?” he exclaimed. ‘‘ And why?” The answer she gave was a look of absorbing love, that he could not mistake, Thoughts surged with lightning speed through Henry Vinton’s brain, as this new light burst upon him, and unconsciously he put hisarm about her waist, and drew her unresisting form to his. He forgot the errand for which he had come, and the ee vow of constancy to Ella, which was hardly cold upon his lips, and gave himself up to the blissful intoxication of the moment. : “Do you love me, Dora?’’ he whispered, bewitched by the nearness of her perfect form, and the de- vouring look of love in her lustrous eyes. ae than words can tell,” she faintly articu- ed. At this moment the door opened, and Ella ae lightly in, not knowing that any one was there. hen she saw the lovers she stopped. and her face became rigid and white as marble. For a moment she gazed, stupefied; then, with a wail of mortal anguish, she fled from the conservatory. enry Vinton forgot the form that reclined against him, and the eyes that looked so lovingly into his. He stared blankly into space, filled with remorse for his perfidy, and dumb with bitterest grief. “Let me go now, Henry,” said Dora, to break the spell of his misery. ‘‘ I will come again soon.”’ He ively allowed her to disengage herself from his arms, remaining in the same position until the door closed upon her. Then his anguish burst forth: “Oh, what have I done! what have I done!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands in an attitude of de- spair and frantically pacing to and fro. ‘“ Oh Ella! my serine! Can you ever forgive the wrong? Can you ever trust me again? Can you overlook this pertay, and not hate me asI deserve? Ah, I fear not!” He sunk into a seat and buried his face in his hands. He had no knowledge of the ie of time. The shades of evening gathered around him, but he stirred not. All at once he heard the rustling of a dress, and with a thrill of joy he looked up, for he knew it was Ella. : She did not see him, and he caught her hand. **Oh, Ella, forgive me!’’ he pleaded. ‘‘ I knew not what I was doing! I love you, and you only! Say that you have nof lost faith in me!’’ She listened almost calmly to his words; then drew her hand away and pointed to Dora, who was approachin them smiling and radiant. . ““Come Henry,’ said Dora, “‘I have been looking or you.” 4 He looked at Ella, but she had turned coldly away. She had not forgiven him. Dora smilingly awaited him, conscious of her power, and he gave her his arm, escorting her into the house. “‘Mercy! mercy! mercy! Spare my life!” The pitiful pleadings came to their ears as they traversed the broad entrance-hall, and following them were the most heart-rending shrieks that mor- tal ever heard. “Your father!” gasped Dora; and together the: sped up the stairs. At the landing the stopped, transfixed with affright. Right before them s the shadowy terror of Arrancourt, and the flaming Epet of fire upon the breast dazzled their eyes like the midday sun. Suddenly the strange vision van- one es and out of the darkness came the whispered words: “ Beware! Beware!” Dora clutched her companion’s arm. “ What is it, Henry? What can it be?” = “A voice from the other world, perkaps, and we must heed its warning.” As he spoke, a fleeting figure passed them, the wind from her fying garments fanning their faces. e “You have me, sister,’’ was whispered so distinctly that He heard it as well as Dora. “ Ella! Ella!” cried the frantic Henry, darting after her. ‘‘ Wait forme! Oh, do wait! I can not let you oO Ade But in the darkness he lost sight of her. Dora stood gazing down the stairs, a fiendish smile disfi; ng her face. “She will save me the trouble,” she hissed through her clinched teeth. ‘‘ And there’s not so much dif- ference between self-destruction and murder. Ab Henry Vinton, if you find your love again, she will be cold in death. The way is open for me; and I shall yet be mistress of Arrancourt.”’ She now hastened to the library, and Norman Vinton lay in a dead swoon. The shadowy terror had paid him another visit. eae ¢ a CHAPTER VII. ONE WOMAN’S HEART, Mosrs Martin was startled by the unexpected ap- pearance of Henry Vinton. ‘Ella!’ he gasped. ‘She has gone!’’ “What!” cried the father, jumping to his feet. Henry told him in a few words all that he knew, not sparing his own perfidy. “ Arrancourt is accursed!’’ moaned the sorrow- ipsa father. ‘‘There’s nothing but misery ere!” Then he calmed himself, and calling the perverse ordered them to search the grounds, while he an Henry sprung into the saddle, and spurred their horses toward the lake. Dora stood at the window looking out at the smoking torches moving here and there, held by the one looking like so many demons just from es. ‘They have not found her,’’ she muttered, as she saw the lights all coming toward the mansion, and heard her father’s voice ordering out every horse on the place. ‘And they will not find her, alive. But Imust go down and simulate grief. Bah! how can 1, vay my whole being is alive with joy? Grief? a! ha!” She found a sorrowful scene in the great kitchen. The old negroes, every one of whom almost wor- shiped Ella, were bewailing her loss in the extrava- gaunt style peculiar to them. Some were sobbing and wringing their hands, some shouting, some screaming, and all moving hither and thither, mak- ing ahorrible din; while near the door stood her father and Henry, stern and silent, waiting for the horses. She made her way to her father’s side. “You have not found her?” said she, in a subdued voice. “Not yet,” replied Mr. Martin, taking her hand. “You must go back with the master, my child. We will do every thing that can be done, and I think we shall soon bring her home.” . “Oh, father! I fear that you may never find dear sister again!’ sobbed Dora, bursting into a flood of tears, that effectually removed every unpleasant im- pression from Henry’s mind. “Do not despair, Dora,” said he, going over to her side. ‘We shall soon have her safe back.”’ “God grant that you may!” said Dora, looking up to him through the glistening tears; ‘‘ but something tells me, Henry, that I shall never see-her again!” And Henry; again under the spell of her magical charms, pressed his lips to hers in one, long, linger- eg a” ith a face all aglow with triumph, Dora flew back to the library and stationed herself at the win- dow. “Oh, if they should find her now,” she whispered, tremb ng at the thought. ‘‘They must not! They shall not !”” She hastened to her sister’s room, and eagerly tore a strip from the shawl which Ella had worn. ‘*Tll find her now,”’ she said, smiling wickedly. She went out to the kennels. . “Prince! Prince! Here, Prince!’’ she called, and a great bloodhound, savage and grim, came bound- ing toward her, and licked her hand. ‘Good fellow! re Re you want a chase? I know you do. Scent HY She held the piece of her sister’s garment to his nose, and with a low whine he started for the gate. ~ r, are you?’’ said Dora. ‘So am I, old fel- low. t me open the gate.” She swung open the wicket, and away bounded the sleuth-hound, with his nose scenti Cc) praee. He circled round the mansion, mo this way and that, at first puzzled; but at length he started off on a straight line through the park. ““Go!’’ hissed Dora. ‘Hunt her to the death! Tear her in pieces, that she may never cross my ath again! Ha! ha! Prince will find her, and he ows no mercy—find her, Henry Vinton, long be- fore your fleetest horses can come up with her. And what a sight it will be for you!” She waited until the deep baying of the hound was no longer audible. Then she went back into the house to watch and wait for the sleuth-hound’s re- turn, and exult over her triumph. CHAPTER VIII. A FRIEND INDEED. THE assassins were too eager to make quick work with Paul Rodney. They missed their mark entirely. Their knives clashed together as they went down, throwing them both aside, and wens Paul. He jumped to his feet, and dealt blows right and left. But the robbers were not dispo to relinquish their prey, They saw that Paul had no weapon S, and taking courage, they rushed upon him with their knives, pressing him hard. He fought desperately, and might pero conmnanad 1 eventual ¥; i, a Saye person appeared unexpec , an e click 0: pistol sent the robbers off in a . “Upon my soul, you stood them a good fight,” said Charles Matthews. ‘Are you hurt?” . “Not in the least, thanks to you,” said Paul. “I owe you my life.”’ “Tam not sure of that,” said the banker, witha smile. ‘‘ You would have whipped the curs, but not without some ugly cuts, perhaps; so I will take all oe credit that is my due. My name is Charles Mat- ews.’ ‘Mine is Paul Rodney. I was on my way to Will- hampton, and these raseals fell upon me while I was ac Ne ““Willhampton is my home, Mr. Rodney. I ha a carriage in the road, and why not make the rest of | your journey with me?” % “With pleasure,” said Paul, frankly. v *
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6 7 z in WO ONE they were seated in the carriage. “But a few miles now. We shall be there in two hours or less.”’ ““So near! Ishould have kept on.” . “Then you really intended to make a night of it?” asked the banker, with an amused smile. “Tt certainly should, Mr. Matthews, if [ had not Leen disturbed.” | **Tf I had been in your situation,” said the banker, laughingly, “I should thank the prowling thieves for waking: me, though I, can not say that I particularly admire the mode.” Paul laughed gocd-humoredly. “T assure you, Mr. Matthews, that I never slept _ better. I have passed many a night in worse olaces.”” *““You must have seen something of the rough side of life, Mr. Rodney.”’ “More than I hope to again,” said Paul, earnestly. “Tf not painful to you, I shall be pleased to listen “o an account of some of your adventures,” said Mr. iJotthews, quite charmed with the young man’s (manner. Paul readily complied, giving a cursory sketch of nis life, and taking no credit for acts of real heroism. Mr. Matthews was interested. “Thank you, Mr. Rodney. I have derived much aa our errand here reminds me that I have » story. Thereupon the banker related the facts of Mrs. fr \orehouse’s strange Or aiawekes and of the find- ug of Meta, . Paul listened in wonder. “There is an air of romance about this Meta that “leases me,” said Paul. “You are not alone, Mr. Rodney; and I predict nore interest yet when you see her.” “Ts she very beautiful?” “Beyond compare,”’ replied the banker, enthusias- ically. ‘‘She is my pride and my pet. never be- _ fore saw a woman in whom were combined such T tio t ty and grace. And she is accomplished as i. oh interest me more and more,” said Paul, ry “but I must not lose sight of my duty. Has nothing l= yeen heard of the widow Morehouse?” “ Nothing whatever.” “Then my search is but just commenced,” said y. 2aul, weari ae “On the contrary, I think it is ended for the i! »resent,” said the banker. ‘It will be useless to ‘attempt to find Mrs. Morehouse. There is a de- _ *eetive working at the case, but he has not yet de- _ %ermined, to a certainty, whether the lady was car- - d away, or went of her own free will. If he, a an ~ to the business, is puzzled, what can you recy true,” said Paul, thoughtfully; ‘‘yet I feel ‘hat something ought to be done. Advise me, Mr. __. datthews, for T need it.”’ La “The proper course, as it seems to me,” said Mr. \Watthews, ‘is to place the money where it will draw ; : aterest, find some iS Oe for yourself, and 1) a wait at least until the detective gives up the case or .inds the lady. What think you?” _ “Trely upon your judgment,” replied Paul; “and | can see no better way to act.” __“*Yam in the banking business,” continued Mr. Matthews, ‘‘and I will take the money if you wish. | have already a small balance in Mrs. Morehouse’s And I will give you employment, Mr. Rod- I shall have a vacancy at the bank next “a ‘avor. tI have no references, Mr. Matthews,” said ' Paul, much surprised. __‘*Lask none but those you have already given me, f Jil. Rodney. I feel sure that I shall not find my ' voofidence id.” t _“Thank you, Mr, Matthews,” said Paul, with con- siderable feeling. “It has troubled me more than a little to know what I should find to do.” ““Then we will consider that matter settled, Mr. Rodney. You will make my house your home while you are with pote ddin Thope will bea long time.” “‘T shall strive to do my duty in whatever capacity fam placed,” said Paul. _ “YT feel sure of it, Mr. Rodney. Here we are at " “ome.” } CHAPTER IX. | | A SCOWL-SHADOW. Tue banker was not expected home until late in the night, and George volunteered to wait up for him. He looked inquiringly at the tall, sailor-like figure of Paul Rodney, and the banker, seeing the iook, introduced him at once, adding: “He takes Goldthwaite’s place.” The as was not cordial, although Paul strove to make it so; and when the banker requested George to show Paul to his room, he complied with i.very bad grace. ““You have decided to try life upon the land?” said George, glancing at Paul’s coarse garb. ‘‘ Have you _ iollowed the sea for any considerable time?” id Paul saw the covert sneer, but he chose to ignore ““T have crossed it twice.” “ Neither sailor nor landsman, then?’’ “Both, or neither,” replied Paul, good-humoredly. “Thave led a roving life so far, but Mr. Matthews offered me a situation, and I accepted.” “T should think that you would feel almost afraid to it. My uncle is very exacting.” “He is also just, I hope.” “Yes,” #4 ied George, feeling the rebuke, but loth to admit it; ‘‘Goldthwaite hardly suited him; I ‘ou will succeed better.” ank you,’ said Paul, “I hope I shall suc- ‘ho hope ceed,” -| like the Paul Rodney acc : ¥ “How far to Willhampton?”’ asked Paul, after And this was the commencement of George’s en- mity toward Paul Rodney. He hardly knew why he had conceived the dislike. There was no tangible reason for it. It was simply a presentiment that this tall stranger would, in some way, prove inimi- eal to his interests, In the morning Paul met the banker’s wife for the first time. She was yet a beautiful woman, and the young man felt that reverence for her, which a life of compulsory exclusion from the society of woman pt by begets. With a gallantry and sincerity which could give no offense, he bent down from his great hight, and kissed her brow. ‘I never knew a mother,” said he, sadly. The good woman never forgot this simple act. She never knew a son, and this great, noble-looking man oreo more like one than any person she had ever met. Meta now entered the dining-room, and Paul took in her queenly beauty at a glance. He bowed before her with a native grace seldom equaled by the most olished courtier, George looking on the while, with owering brows, for he knew then why he disliked Paul een 8 Without being aware of it himself, Paul, was a skillful narrator, and he entertained his listeners very agreeably during breakfast. The banker was well satisfied, but George, although forced to ac- knowledge his merits, was more than eyer disposed to look aig himasanintruder. _ After the meal the banker very delicately pressed a sum of money upon Paul, which was frankly accept- ed; for he well knew that his present appearance was not in po ie with his changed il! eens He was busy near] day effecting the transformation, which, when_finished, left him looking very little that the banker found battling with the robbers. As it wanted an hour or two to dinner time, Paul strolled down tothe beach. Beneath the shade of jutting rocks he sat down, and while he watched the waves beating at his feet, he wondered if indeed his misfortunes were over. Then he thought of the pleasant people he had fallen among, and of the charming Meta. In all his life he had never thought seriously of love or marriage. Both seemed too far off—something like the end of life—to be troubling his mind; but that was all changed. In an instantit had become a question of the present. He had found some one to live for, and strive for; and he felt that a failure in this would be worse, tenfold, than any misfortune he had yet met. Out in the bay was George Matthews, rowing to- ward the beach. Paul saw and recognized him, but he could not make out the two ladies in the boat with him. He kept his eye on them, yet busil thinking of his own affairs. He saw George pus bravely into the surf, handling the oars with a skill- fulhand. Turning away for a moment, he did not witness the mishap, but when he looked again all three were struggling in the water. He was on his feet in an instant, and hastening to the rescue. When George felt the oars break in his hand, and knew that the boat must surely capsize, he turned his attention to the ladies. He bravely threw an arm around each, and by great exertion kept them afloat, but he could make no headway. One of the helpless beings must be left to drown. Which should it be? He looked into the patient face of his aunt Matthews, and his conscience said, no—no. He turned to the beautiful Meta, and his heart whisper- ed no, Yet he felt that his strength was failing him —that he was slowly but surely giving up to aus- tion. Just then Paul Rodney’s shaggy head appear- ed above the crest of a wave. With vigorous strokes, he soon reached the imperiled trio. k ‘You have done nobly, George,”’ said he relieving him of Mrs. Matthews, and boldly striking out for shore. ‘Follow me if you can! At all events keep the lady’s head above water. Iwill returnsoon.” — As is often the case, there was not_a boat within reach, and the people collected on the shore were oe opie spectators. Paul, however, was equal to the k. He needed no help. His Herculean strength, united with a perfect knowledge of the art of swim- ming, took him safely to the beach with his helpless burden. Scarcely feeling the exertion, he was to plunge in again. rge was struggling heroically, but he was too Bh th ot Paul’s nearly exhausted to make any soon he was on welcome face again appeared, an the return, with Meta in his care. George, relieved of the dead weight, now kept up hat 2 aul, and together they reached the land in safety. Paul shook the sea-water from his hair, and, with a smile, took the other’s outstretched hand. “An unexpected bath, Mr. Matthews, but I really feel the better for it. How are the ladies?” _ “As well as ever, thank you, Paul,” said the banker’s wife. “Why, my dear madam, you were not one of them?” exclaimed Paul, surprised exceedingly. “I never even looked at your faces.” “IT must say I like that,” said Meta, who over- heard his last remark. ‘‘ Who ever heard of such a thing! It is too bad!” , And she held up her hands dopreoatney- “T shall never be guilty of such negligence again,” said Paul, with an earnest look, and a smile that .seemed to light up his whole being. ‘See that you do not, sir,” said Meta, gayly. Then, in a more serious tone, she said: “T thank you, Mr. Rodney, for my life.” “ And I thank God that I was placed near to be of service to you,”’ said Paul, fervently. 5 George stood but a few eo from them, silent and moody. The shadow of Paul’s presence was already failing about him. =) MAN’S HEART. _ Paul guessed something of his thoughts, and felt pained that he had been the cause. ““Come, George,” said ‘he pleasantly, “the ladies are waiting to thank you for your bravery. Had it not been for your presence of mind, at the time of the mishap, I fear that we should not have been blessed with this happy termination.” ; “Yes, George,” said his aunt; ‘‘ we owe our safety equally to you and Mr. Rodney.” And Meta softened a little as she thanked him. The carriage was waiting, and the party got in and were driven home. CHAPTER X. THE HOUND OF FATE. FiLerine through the night-solitude, fleeing from a danger that she knew not of, fleeing from a wily foe that should have been a dear friend, fleeing from the misery of a broken heart, Ella Martin kept on. There was but one settled purpose in view; to escape the ee of Henry’s perfidy, and her sister’s treachery. There was no anger in her heart for either; only a devouring, maddening grief that goad- ed her on, unmindful of results. She scarcely thought of the wrong she was doing her father; but, as the soft night-air cooled her throbbing temples, she grew much calmer, and look- ed less excitedly upon the situation. She would have turned back then rather than bring sorrow upon her poor father, but she heard the deep baying ot Dora’s avenger tracking his prey. ‘The bloodhound is on my track!” she whispered, with white lips. ‘‘ He will tear me in pieces! Oh, they might have spared me this! It is Dora—it is my sister! God pity her—and me!” : he was paralyzed with horror for a moment. Then she ran wildly on to escape the horrible death. Beyond, through the trees, she could see the silver surface of the lake, lighted by the rays of the moon which was well up in the heavens. “There is safety,” she thought. ‘‘ There is happi- ieee is rest—eternal rest, if I can but reach The hound’s deep baying was growing more and more distinct, sporting her to renewed exertion. “Ob, mercy, I shall not escape!” she cried; ‘‘ he is almost here!” Yet she kept on. The water was right before her—a haven of rest. A few short moments and she would be safe. ““Oh, my God! I hear the footsteps in the leaves!” she wailed, in despair. ‘‘ He will overtake me! Oh, what a death! Oh, Henry! Oh, Dora! Oh, father! don’t you hear me call?” The hound saw Ella, and raising his head from the ground, he gave a yelp of satisfaction, and bounded toward her. , She heard him, and with a short prayer for mercy, she made one more effort to reach the water. There was but a step to the verge of the jutting rock—but a step into eternity. But even that was preferable to the fate behind her. How she shuddered at the thought of the growling and snarling, and the gnash- a teeth. or a second she hesitated ere she took the death- leap; and, in that brief time, the sleuth-hound clear- ed the space between, and with a bound bore her to the ground. CHAPTER XI. PLAYING WITH FIRE. Ty_the stay of the morning Dora saw her father and Henry Vinton returning from their search. She felt no qualms of conscience when she saw that Ella was not with them; in place of sorrow, she felt joy. The life that she should have cherished, she offered upon the altar of her ambition, She hastened down to mect them. “Go tell her, Henry,” said the despairing father. “Oh, my poor child!” Henry rode up to where Dora was waiting for . them, and alighted. “We have not found her, Dora.’ His fone, was one of utter hopelessness, and Dora read it, “Oh, Henry!” she exclaimed, bursting into te for they seemed always at commiand. me My Qarling sister! Where can she be? What did she mean? Oh, I never can forgive myself! yet I could not give you up, Henry.” During that night-ride, Henry Vinton had been reviewing his life for the few months just passed and the record was unsatisfactory. He resolved that, whatever might come, he would no more per- ure his soul by such conduct, unworthy of a man. he loss of Ella opened his eyes to the fact. that she was all in all to him, and Dora nothing. Dora, with all her beauty, couldn’t fill the void in his heart. Her ing brilliance ht, for a time, obscure that true passion which he felt for Ella, but ondy for a brief space. This knowledge, showing him how culpable had been his actions, determined his true course. “Dora,” said he, looking down into her lustrous eyes with a steady gaze that told her the worst was coming, “I have wronged you and your sister, and this night’s work has shown me the path that I must take to make the only reparation within my power. I have long loved your sister, but your beauty and your kindness to my father, have sometimes led me from Ella’s side to your own. Yet all the while I was at heart true to Ella, I never can return that love which you have confessed forme. Deeply as it may pain you to hear, and me to say it, I yet believe that you will thank me for it,” Dora listened without once interrupting him, yet the words were like daggers to her heart. She loved Henry Vinton with all the ardor of her Southern nature, and would risk life, yes, even a hope of hereafter. for a pledge that her love was re(urned, ge»
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ONE WOMAN'S HEART. But for ail this, the loss of Arrancourt was tenfold worse. Ambition first, and love next. His manner convinced her that no fair means would accomplish her ends, and she answered with- out any attempt at concealment: ‘ilenry Vinton, you taunt me with having con- fessed my love. I do not deny it, neither can I re- treat. You may say that I am unwomanly, but re- member that I have a man to battle against, and I must use the means that I have. I did love you, Henry. It grew upon me évery day, and became a part of my being. I strove to win you, but strove too hard. Had I scorned you as you deserved, you would now be at my feet, begging for one word of love. But I could not; neither can I Jet you go.” ‘Dora, you know not what you say!” said Henry, alarmed at her vehemence, and troubled by the look with which she regarded him. repeat,” said she, slowly and firmly, “that I can not give you up. t shall hold you until death calls one of us away.” He stared in blank surprise, wondering if this could be the gentle, kind-hearted Dora of former times--this woman with flashing eyes, burning face and grating teeth. And he recoiled with a strange fear creeping over him. “Dora, are you mad?” he exclaimed. ‘Have you lost your senses that you talk thus after what I have 1d? “thold youif you hate me!” she replied, in a yoice that sounded like the hissing of a serpent. And you dare not attempt to break the bonds.” “Dare not, Dora?” “Ay, dare not, Henry Vinton. You shall make me your wife!’ “Never!” said Henry, ha Was appearing in her true le t, and her very beauty was becoming hateful. ‘Now 1 know that you are only seeking my father’s wealth.” , And I will have it!” she replied, coldly. ., Dare you tellme this, Dora?” Seana any thing to attain my ends, Henry Vin- htily 4 for this woman ton, They stood facing each other, he with a look of loathing that he tmade no attempt to conceal, she with an eye flashing with triumph—hot, pitiless and cunning. “Do you consent?” she asked, tapping the grass with her little foot. r Never! never!’’ «, then,” said Dora, turning toward the house, “the world shall know what happened beyond the Seas; and the proud heir of Arrancourt shal! hide his head in shame.” “Good God! you do not mean that?” exclaimed Hops grasping her arm, while his body seemed shrinking with fear at the threat. “Tdo mean it!” she replied, with a holiow, gratin laugh, that went rasping through his brain painful- ly. “Only two things can close my mouth; death or marriage. The first you do not dare; the last, you must and shall do.” Henry staggered against the wall of the mansion. ._Mercy!” he gasped, she looked so much like a pitiless fiend, “I know no such word,” she said, coldly. ‘‘ There are but two in my vocabulary—ambition and love. All others I have blotted out for the present.”’ “Dora, you will kill me with poms cursed madness. Iknow not what secret you hold, but its shadow bas hovered over me for years.”’ Your death will affect me but little, Henry Vin- ton. Wheneyeagen choose to go, do not hesitate on wae account, can not take the wealth with Pie 7 Devil!” hg exclaimed. pare your insults, sir,” she said, haughtily. ane do not move me.” ’ = iad “ Will any thing move you? Gold?” The whole or none, Henry Vinton. You have my answer and further words are useless.” She turned to go into the house, but he placed himself in her way. Not yal +e said, determinedly, “I must know the ground I stand upon. I must know how soon Zoprepares this sacrifice. You will give me time Certainly. It would not ° rea ae be proper, so soon after 4 peel A aumieress, too.” ‘No, Henry Vinton. I am free from ime. You alone must bear the guilt of my aes death. Your perfidy drove her away, a suicide.” Henry was now as calm as she. It was the calm- ness of despair. He looked her steadily in the eye, but she met his gaze without flinching. ; It is false, Dora Martin,” he said’ in slow, meas- ured tones. “If Ella is dead, you murdered her!”” wen flashed upon him a look of hatred that chilled “Dead or not—murdered b: i not alter the fact that you Pid et we, nde Henry turned away with a er and Dora went into the house smiling triumphantly. All through the day the search was continued, but no traces of Ella were found; and all da: dong. ora, waited for the ret c Goleatin. urn of her bloodhound, but he did m, CHAPTER XI. THE MERCIFUL BRUTE. EuLs Marrin felt the bloodhound’s paws upon her breast, but she _had no power to thrust him back. With a low wail of anguish and despair, she sunk Senseless upon the rock. _ The hound, instead of falling upon her, and tear- aki aan in pieces, licked her ds, whining with ter some moments Ella woke from her swoon, and found Prince sitting by her head, and gazing aE into her face. Hardly comprehending her situation, she spoke to him: ** Good dog! good Prince!”’ He crouched joyfully by her side, and allowed her to stroke his head. Ah, Dora Martin, you have made another mistake. Ella rose to her feet overjoyed at her escape. No more thoughts of the dark, cold water! ‘Good Prince, you will not hurt me, will you?’ she said patting his head. ‘‘ Good dog.” Prince took a few step toward the mansion; then stopped and waited for her. ““No—no; not that way, Prince,” said she, sadly. “Come with me.” She started on; and, after some hesitation, Prince followed. About Galant she suddenly came upon a little cabin, and before she could turn back, a familiar voice called to her: “De good Lord save us, Missy Ella! where did ye come from ?”’ “Hush! Aunty Hersey?’’ exclaimed Ella, running gladly up to the black woman. ‘‘No one must know that I am here.’’ “Wal, I neber!”’ exclaimed the old negress, holding up her hands in astonishment, and opening her eyes until they looked really startling. ‘What is de trouble up to de hall?” “Come in and I will tell you, aunty,” said Ella, stepping toward the door. he good woman led the way into the cabin, the dog following close upon Ella’s footsteps. r N ow, aunty, if you will get me something to “Lord bless your sweet face! I ain’t got nuffin fit to eat, but you shall have what dere is,”’ ** Some of that nice corn cake, aunty.” “Yes, missy. And while I’m gittin’ it, you tell me what's de matter ober dere.” Ella told her enough to satisfy her curiosity, inter- rupted often by her exclamations of wonder. r anne I neber did hear de like! What isye gwine 0 do?” “Tm er to my uncle’s in New York, aunty.” “Oh, Lord! so fur? Why ye neber will git back,” Elia smiled. © “T do not fear, aunty. If I can manage to get to the station, I can go allright. Where is Tom?’ “He's after de cow, missy.”’ “He will show me the way to the viliage?”’ gore be glad to, missy. Now set right up and eat.” Ella’s appetite was keen after her night-waik, and she ate the coarse, yet wholesome food, with a relish very pleasing to Aunty gee During the meai Tom came in. e was 2 bright- looking negro of twenty-one or two, and his mother told. him enough of Hlla’s situation to give him a good understanding of it. It was well that she did so, for a few moments afterward Henry Vinton galloped up to the door, and inquired for Ella, “T doesn’t see’d her,” said Tom, who had ste outside the door; and Henry rode away again, little Geeernie that he had been so near the object of his search. Ella watched him until he was no longer in sight; then she sunk upon the floor, sobbing bitterly. Aunty Hersey strove to comfort her, but finding it useless, left her to herself. ‘She'll feel better for it,’ she said to Tom. ; And Elia did feel better, and became almost onsen? | showed her the impossibilit: enry’s appearance show! er the im y of atteinpting to reach the station by day lightage she remained hid away in the cabin until the dark- ness came on. : Tom procured a horse from the neighboring plan- tation, and as soon as it was dark, Ella took her seat in the saddle, and Tom led the horse all the peck the dog following behind. he station was reached in safety, and she learned that a train going north would arrive at midnight. She waited in the depot, Prince never leaving her for a moment, and when the train rumbl p to the station she hurried aboard, taking Prince with er. So the worst part of her journey was over. While she was speeding in safety to New York, Dora was loating over her probable death, and already mak- ng her preparations for the grand event that would make her mistress of Arrancourt. Henry was yet searching for Elia, and Moses Martin, ignorant of Dora’s treachery, was lavishi his love upon the child that was spared to him, an mourning for the lost one. CHAPTER XII. THE CUNNING SCHEME, Pavut Ropyey’s novel and somewhat romantic. in- troduction into Willhampton made him hosts of friends, so that when he stepped into Goldthwaite’s shoes at the bank, he was well-known and succeeded the better for it. Charles Matthews was charmed with him. In all his dealings with men he never yet found one who seemed to embody so much that was noble and- manly as this orphan. At the end of the first month he declared that Paul was more than filling Gold- thwaite’s aps coal “Paul, I shall increase yout sa’ from this time,” said the banker, as they walked home. « “You do me great honor,” said Paul, yet showing the pleasure he felt. “Not more than you deserve. I will tell you frankly that I expected much of you, but you have gone beyond my expectations.” “Tam glad that I give you satisfaction,” said Paul, “for I took the place with many misgivings.” ‘“‘Tnever doubted your ability for a moment,” said the banker, enthusiastically, “and I am so much Ss | pleased with you that I venture to hope that, before many years, I can leave my business in your hands.” Paul pressed the banker’s hand warmly, and his voice was husky as he replied: ‘*Mr, Matthews, I once almost cursed the fate | which made me what Iam. [had lost all faith in man, and, Iam ashamed to say, almost doubted the existence of a God. Parents or friends I had none, and I believed that every one was against me—that in all the wide world there was not one helping hand. Bless God, I now see my error, You have saved me from infidelity. I know there is a just God over all; and I know, though he has chastened me, that he re it into your heart to save me from myself. With now have in me.”’ is help, I hope to always deserve the confidence you gr : The banker was touched by this exhibition of genuine gratitude, and he replied: “Paul, whatever may happen, you must know that you have a friend in me. ‘Nothing can shake my confidence, and I hope that while we each live we shall not be separated.” ‘ Paul’s life at the house was not so pleasant. The influence of. Meta’s presence grew stronger and stronger all the while, yet opened wider and wider the gulf between them. Since that day when he held Meta’s form close to his heart, and beat his way through the surf, he had known that his happiness depended upon her; and this very knowledge was the source of keenest misery. Although he had given no sign, yet she avoided him. Her manner was coid and distant. His step in the hall would check her mirth,and bring to her face a look of ee reserve, begetting the same inhis. So these two, loving each other, met every day, but drew no nearer; and none guessed the pas- gen that surged beneath the calm surface of their ves, ‘Oh, this mise neath the trees, far away from the house, that she might be alone. ‘‘ This soul torture! Must I h driven into the streets by this love—my love? Oh James Martin! what dread revenge you chose! Will it always follow me? Must I ever be tortured with that hissing—hissing whisper? Was it not enough to turn me into the streets, nameless, homeless, friend- less? Oh, Paul, Paul! if you only knew! o/ No! you must not! T could not outlive your scorn. Cold- ness, indifference, even hate I might bear, but never the meg , the loathing. No, no, yoy never shall hear it! Ili love on and enjoy my misery; yes, en- joy it; loving fom and seeing you, I can r it all; your coldness,George Matthews’s hateful persiste and my foster-parents’ love—bear it all if Iam nea ou,”’ : , The summer breeze fanned her cheek, and whirl the oid iast-year leaves about her face; the fleet insects buzzed close to her ear; and the happy bi sung their thrilling the sneaking listener to Meta’s secret. . _ And Meta walked away, knowing not that George Matthews had heard her outspoken thoughts. “Loves him, does she?’? he hissed through his closed teeth; and his face wore a sickly or as though struck with the plague. ‘“‘Loves Paul ney! And that secret? I care not, only that I might use it against her. Well, well, this has been a good hour's work; and my way is clear to me now. imma- culate Paul must lose his darling reputation. Ha! ha! won’t it make my uncle’s faith in humanity a little weak? I guess not, eh? George Matthews. here’s a chance to show your skill in diplomacy, Ali Iask is the opportunity. I'll make one if there is no other way.” : But the aad one came to him, One day when he was alone in the bank, a gentle- man ge a neighboring town came in to settle his. account. “T shall sail for Europe to-morrow,” said he. “and as I do not know how long I shall be away, t am settling up all accounts. I saw Mr. Matthews in the city, and he referred me to you, Mr. Rodney. William Montrose.” George noticed the mistake, but did not correct it. He turned to the account, and Mr. Montrose paid it. “T will take a receipt, if you please, Mr. Rodney.” Again the mistake; and it matured the plan for revenge which it at first ested—revenge upon P. al Rodney for being loved by Meta. It was ve simple and easily executed, for he was expert wi the pen and could easily imitate Paul's bold chirog- raphy. e wrote out a receipt, and signed Paul’s nate. which Mr. Montrose took, and left the bank. Then he gave the gentleman credit on the boo} and even Paul would have been loth to say it not his own handwriting. The money he — that was all there was todo. Time would do the Paul came in soon after, but George was very bu with the books rk) uf “T grew tired of idleness,” said George, “ and I f n helped thought I would give you a lift. I o Goldthwaite.” “Thank you, George. Lam not feeling very well, and was wondering how I should get through with my work. If it is not toomuch trouble—” ‘None whatever, Paul. 1 would rather do it than not. So go and lie down a while.” Paul thanked him again and turned away. CHAPTER XIV. “Pavt, did Mr. Montrose call to settl hi . Montrose ¢ 0 settle his ac- count?” asked Charles Matthews. It_was nearly two weeks after the occurrence. “TI do not recognize the name,” said Paul looking up from his writing. } a 1” wailed Meta, as she walked be- me: of course, put in his ket, r , * . carols; but whispered naught of iy st , a
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: v : V | é : : i ‘| 4 ’ ~ * y) Ke y bt J Pee + 2 pes » Fon an in the city 8 pcb a did not lift his eyes, but his hand grew so unsteady that he put his pen in the rack and walked to the window. “Why, yes, Paul,” said the banker. “I saw him before he came, and afterward. He had your receipt, for I saw it, and no one can mistake your signature.” “Then he must have been here,’’ said Paul, thoughtfully, ‘yet I do not remember the name. I will look it up presently.” ‘* No matter about that, Paul. I merely mentioned it because it happened to come to mind. One of our bestmen. Iam sorry to lose his custom. I saw him ‘aboard the vessel for Europe.” So the matter was dismissed for the time. As soon as Paul had liberty, he went to the books. Tt was so strange that he did not remember the ‘mame of Montrose. But there it was: “William Montrose, Cr. “By Cash,./ —. ; Pa $537 40.” And the date was June 12th, He was puzzled. He could not call to mind the circumstance. He thought of it all day, but at night was more per- plexed than ever. ‘“ Mr. Montrose did call,” said he to the banker, as they rode home after banking hours; ‘‘ but I do not remember him.” ** June 12th, was it not?” “ Yes, sir. It seems so strange that I should for- get his face so soon.” _ “You were busy at the time, probably. He was in a great hurry tco. Fifteen minutes would have made him late for the train.” Paul was not yet satisfied. There was a look of mystery about the affair that he didnot like. In the morning he ran over his cash balance and found a deficit of $537.40. He turned pale, and his hands trembled as he hastily looked them over again. Stillthesame. | ‘He looked up, and George Matthews was at his elbow. » ~*. “Short, eh?” “ : * » 4] **No,’’ said Paul spares SF he yet believed that he had overlooked something. George smiled and turned away. He felt so secure that he could afford to smile. ““T guess Paul’s cash accounts are getting mixed,”’ he said, carelessly, to his uncle, as he took up the morning paper per. ‘““Why?” asked the banker. “Twas just out there, and he seemed terribly agitated about something. Ispoke to him, and the way he snapped me up was a caution.” 3 Well, if he 7s in trouble he will let me know,” - said the ‘banker, confidently. The words of George, so carelessly spoken, had the desired effect. The banker did not quite forget them, and hardly knowing w he watched Paul more closely. e noticed that manner was not - quite so easy. He had lost part of his frankness, He seemed to avoid companionship, and grew pale _ and careworn. ’ “Paul, you are working too hard,’ said the bank- er. ‘* You must take some rest.’ **T do not need it.” 7” but ou suspect?” bluntly asked ad left the room. uncle, I do not kuow that I suspect was amazed to see how frightened ‘But there was more meaning in that smile than mere amazement,” said Mr. Matthews, curtly. ‘* Now what is it?” “Uncle, I dislike to say anything against Paul Rodney; but he has acted strangely of late.” ‘Enough, sir,” said the banker, with some asper- ity. ‘I understand you now.” oe following morning the banker called Paul aside. ‘Paul, you are in some trouble. Tell me all, and I will help you out.” If Paul had unburdened his mind then, all would have been made clear; but he could not. He yet had pores of finding some error in his calculations, And if that failed him, he had hoped to replace the loss : m his own savings. ‘Do not ask me now, Mr. Matthews. I shall be all right again soon.”’ But the seed of suspicion had been sown, and feorge Matthews took good care it should germi- nate. By a careless word now and then, a look, or asmile, he kept his uncle in a state of perpetual uneasiness. At last he resolved to see for himself whether George had any real cause for his whisper- e went to the bank after dark, and remained half the night. When he came out, his face was white and stern. In the morning he was closeted with Paul Rodney for along time. What passed between them no one knew, but Paul did not go to the bank, neither did he wait for breakfast; and the next train to the city . took Paul Rodney. CHAPTER XV. OUT IN THE STREETS AGAIN. Mrs. Marruews kept the breakfast waiting for her husband and Paul. George was walking the floor, uneasy, yet tri- umphant. He knew where his uncle had been for Pid half the night, and he could guess the consequences; but he felt greatly relieved when the banker entered the room alone. ‘We are waiting, pa,” said Mrs. Matthews. ““ Where is Paul?” “He has gone to the city.” His wife was about to question him further, but his stern, careworn look restrained her. Man and wife they had lived for thirty years, but she never saw that look on his face before. She felt that something dreadful had happened, but was far from suspecting the true state of affairs. The meal was eaten in silence, and as they arose from the table, the banker said to George: “You will take Mr. Rodney’s place until he re- | turns.” That was all that passed between them for weeks relating to Paul, ‘‘Mother,’’ said Meta to the banker’s wife, one day, ‘‘ where has Paul gone?” “T know no more than you, Meta,’ replied Mrs. Matthews, in a whisper that sounded ominous, “I wouldn’t say any more about him,” Meta did not reply, but she read in Mrs. Matthews’s | | for us to know. She and Paul were sent to us in face something that roused her fears still more. She waited, hoping that the good woman would say more, but in vain; then she went away to think. All day she roamed here and there, listless and lonely. Paul’s presence was the greatest comfort of her young life. She could sit all day listening to his voice, yet knowing that the barrier could not be passed. She waited for his ag a every night, and put on her guise of coldness to hide her joy at his return; and every morning she watched his tall form, as he passed out of sight, on his way to the Me ce and thought how far removed he was from er. But now he was gone, and even these pleasures were denied her. What ge fen 0 could there be where he was not? The heart-yearning was for naught. The strife against herself was over. Toward evening she strolled down to the beach and sat beneath the jutting rocks where she ha often seen Paul. Sweet memories lingered round the spot. It was there that he was sitting that first day of their meeting. How lonely it seemed. How happy had been the time since then, yet how hope- less was that happiness? Would it ever come again? Would they ever meet again? A shadow fell at her feet, and George Matthews stood before her. Was he so soon to take advantage of Paul’s absence? Yes, he was there for that very purpose. And how unexpected, how ill-timed were his words of love. It seemed to Meta almost like sacrilege, so soon after Paul’s departure. ‘*Mr. Matthews,” said she, ‘‘I am surprised that you apprvach me again with such words. My an- swer was final. Let us not become enemies by fur- ther pursuance of this distasteful subject.” “That is for you to determine,” he replied, some- what haughtily. ‘‘Ido not seek your enmity, but your love.”’ ‘Enough, sir,”? commanded Meta. etting yourself. Let me pass, sir.” ‘““Not yet,” he said, tag himself in her way. “Stand aside!’’ cried Meta, indignantly, yet trem- bling with fear. 5 ‘*Pardon my rudeness,” sneered George, ‘‘but I thought if I only knew the secret that James Martin ee in your ear—”’ ““Oh, God have mercy!’’ cried Meta, covering her face, which was blushing hot with shame. Then she rushed past him, and fled to the house. She ran to her own room to hide herself from sight, and throwing herself upon the bed, gave vent to her an- guish in convulsive sobs and piteous moans, the hot, scalding tears of shame pouring down her cheeks. “Oh! what have I done that I should be so tor- tured! Can I never escape his curse? Oh, it was false! Iknow it! I feel it! I will not believe it! Oh, mother! mother! come to me and tell me that it is false! Tell me that I have a vig to bear my fath- er’s name! Father! mother! if you have gone to the spirit land, look down upon me in my desolation, and send me some token, that I may not,in my madness, curse my own life! If you are yet_living, come tome! Send me the blessed words! Let the breeze wh r them, or the storm thunder them in my ears! Only let me hear them, and I will brave else! They will not hear me! they will not come!” All through the ‘night she struggled with her de- spair, but in the morning she had reached a state of sive yielding, as the drowning man at last ceases strive against the overwhelming element. She wai until George Matthews went to the bank. Then she went down to her foster-mother. The good woman had been very anxious about “You are for- her. ‘“*My darling, I have been up to your room several times,” said she, “and you wouldn’t let me in.” 8 Oh, mother! IT sould not. I am goingaway. I can not stay here another day.” ; ib pees eta!” exclaimed the banker’s wife; and oo could not utter another word for the pain she elt. “Yes, mother, I must go,”’ said Meta again. And her face was whiter than her snowy wrapper, while deep lines of suffering told of the night’s strug- gle, and the swollen eyes, of the weeping. ‘*@hild—Meta! oh, what do you mean?”’ asked the banker’s wife, with a face as pale as Meta’s. ‘Tecan not tell you, mother. Oh, you never can know what misery it bi me to leave you, my sec- ond mother, and my dear pee but something stronger even than love drives me from you. I must not stay! Oh, I can not—can not! Another night like the last would kill me!” Unknown to her, the hanker had appeared at the door, and listened in mute surprise to her words. ee is the trouble with my little daughter?”’ he asked. Meta started in affright; and when he saw her | face, he cried in alarm: “Wife! wife! what is it? Why, she looks like death!” ‘*T don’t know, Charles. are going to lose her.”’ ‘“No—no!” cried the banker. —we can not give up Meta!” ‘*Lost Paul!” cried his wife. ‘He will not come back,” said the banker, with a look half-stern, half-sad. “But why do you wish She is going away. We “We have lost Paul | to leave us, Meta?” “Don’t, pa! please do not!’’ implored the sufferin, girl. “You have been too . I have wrong you by accepting all this kindness and love. I am not worthy of it. But it was so very pleasant, and made me so happy for a while, It is all over now. So bid you good-by, dear Mr. Matthews, and mo- ther.”’ The banker was about to remonstrate, but his wife is arm and led him from the room. “Charles, we can not help it. Her secret is not lace of our own. We have sent Paul away, and eta must now follow.”’ ‘*Oh, God!’ exclaimed the stricken man. ‘‘ And I loved them so.” “Thy will be done!’? murmured the good wife, but her heart was breaking. Never did Meta before realize the love of these childless people as she did when, all ready for her departure, she went into the parlor to say good-by. She found them both in tears, “Must you go?” implored the banker. How hard it was for her to say that she must. “Then good-by, my darling; but come back to see us if you can.” She kissed them and hurried away, her hand hea- vier by the weight of a well-filled purse. “You are going after Paul?” Meta met the baleful look of George Matthews’s eyes, but made no ye e “He isa thicf—a felon !” he hissed. Thus they parted. CHAPTER XVI. THE STREET FRIENDS. “*T pon’? want to be hard on you, miss. I wouldn’t say a word, only you know I must have my bread and butter as well as you, and I have nothing to de- pend upon but the rent; so if you can’t pay me, I shall have to set you into the streets.” The ec was a stout, well-dressed gentleman of middle age, and the listener was a young girl not out of her ’teens—pretty Ella Martin. The white, scared face that she held up to him should have aroused some pity in his heart, but it was harder than the stone pavement on which he stood. ‘“You say you have no money?” a ** Not a cent,” answered Ella, quite abstractedly. ** Then, miss, I'll help you get out what few mova- bles you have.” “T have nothing to move,” she said, staring at him in a listless sort of way. ‘* We’ll see about that, miss.” And he made a movement as if to push her aside; but he was met by a savage grow] that sent him half- way across the street. ‘““Whose dog is that?” he asked, yet trembling with the fright he got. = ‘Mine, sir. Back, Prince!” “Well, are you going?—you and the dog?” “Yes, sir,” said Ella, going into the house. “ Stay here, Prince, and don’t let himin. I don’t like him.” The man stepped further away when he saw that Prince was alone, and took his station near a door; for who could tell what notion the brute might get into his head? ’ Ella scon reappeared and took her way up the street, with Prince trotting along after her; and the man waited until they were out of sight, ere he dared to venture across the street. So Ella Martin was turned into the streets. The few weeks that she had been in the great city, had been marked by such trials as only those can know who have been placed in like situations. She had failed in finding her uncle James, and friendless and unknown, with no skill in any handicraft where- by she mi ht earn the food, clothing and shelter which must be had, she had roamed about the city, to her worse than a wilderness, watching her little edi day by day, until at last there was no money eft. Then came the street. : With a brain whirling dizzily, she dragged her weary way along. Close behind, turning neither to the ie ht nor to the left, soberly marched the blood- hoand: and half the busy crowd stopped to take a second look at the beautiful girl and her strange companion. How the dumb brute had become endeared to her! He was her only friend. Patiently he bore pei a and cold; and, when she whispered to him of her wretchedness, he seemed to understand. And he was her safeguard. His instinct seldom erred, and his low growl, coupled with a sight of his sharp, white teeth, never failed to clear for his mistress a wide berth, even in the most dangerous locality. Ella wandered about until nearly nightfall, won- dering where, oh! where she would lay her head. She was so weary; and she sat down fora moment upon the steps of the tall church she was passing. Prinee laid himself at her feet, and looking up into her face, asked with his great, wondering eyes— “what next?” “ Ah, good Prince, I don’t know what we shall do!” me | as ? ae « . Pa * Fas eel le ee
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ONE WOMAN'S HEART. she said, in seeming answer to his look. ‘I am so | bed. By a faint light through the open shutter, she tired and hungry. Are you hungry, Prince?” He gave a low whine in answer. “Yes, [know you are. Well, we must beg a little. There is a lady coming’now. She has her purse in her hand. I know she will not let me starve. She is young and good.” The suffering girl watched her as she slowly ap- proached, but before she reached the spot where the two were waiting so anxiously, a man darted from a by-way, and snatching the purse, started to run. “Oh, Prince!” cried Ella. ‘‘It is gone! The purse! No supper—no bed.” Then there came another thought. “Take him, Prince!’ she shouted, clapping her hands tospur him on. But all he needed was the word. With afew long, rapid leaps, he reached the thief. Then there wasa short struggie, a moment of ae ed the man, and the dog’s snarling; then all was still. ‘““Oh, what have I ,done!’’ cried Ella, in alarm, as she hurried to the spot where the man was lying so still, with the dog’s grip at his throat. ‘You have caught a rascal,” said a policeman, who had witnessed the whole affair from a distance; “or, your dog has, so it’s all the same. Now call him off.” “Here, Prince! let him alone!”’ Prince obeyed rather reluctantly, and the man, feeling no ill effects, save a slight shortening of his breath, eae to his feet to find himself in the cus- tody of the policeman. ‘“'Here’s your purse,” said the officer to the lady, who had hardly recovered from her astonishment. She thanked him and then turned to Ella. “IT am so much obliged to you, my dear girl. What should I have done! It was all the money I had in the world.” 4 But it looked so much,” said Ella, innocently. “Oh, no. But you have served me in one thing; please do so in another, and you shall have half the money. Iam a stranger here, and need a home. Take me to yours, please.” ogee said Ella, ‘*I have none now.” The exclamation was one of pain. “No home! I know how to pity you. Have you friends?” Ella pointed silently to the dog. “T can not even call a dog my friend,” was the Ditter reply. arriving in the city, and Meta to “Prince shall be a friend to us both,” said Ella, brightening up a little. “And you will be my friend, too?’ fii Yes,’’ said Ella, ‘‘if my friendship is worth any- in Bh “It is worth every thing,’’ was the earnest iy ‘*Now let us find some place to stay to-night. Then we will get some work, and be so happy. My name is Meta.” Yes, it was Meta, turned into the streets again. “And mine is Ella Martin.” “Martin!” exclaimed Meta, trembling with dread. **Do you know James Martin?” have an uncle by that name, but I never saw the bell, lady came to the door. We are strangers in the city,” said Meta, “and have called to see if you will let us stay all night.” The een who was scarcely more than a girl her- Self, looke at the plain, modest attire of the appli- cants, and said, kindly; Your request is quite unusual, but I will not turn you away. the dog yours?” “He is mine,” said Tha. ‘And he must go with us,” ; spoke Meta, quickly. tds has just caught a ihief who irs ‘dy The dog now ste up and looked the lady in the er as though antag: his appeal to theirs. ci « a Cannot resist that,” said the lady, with a smile. Come in and welcome.” ting-room and parior Coapens ae apartment, alt d ined, and while they were ie their wrappers, she went out to ate the wl then called them to supper, ce was not for; natal all not forgotten, and enjoyed a huge em shed, both the girls hel the lad Rei cuct tcl away the Supper dishes Yor she . nat j room adjoining.’ Re J cece age Ella frankly related her stran “ a tp enstote noe e curious inci- dent that brought them together. Of course Prince came in for share of praise. Then good Mrs. Weller, happy inher new wedded life, had much to say of the loved husband; and the time passed pleasantly for an hour or more, after which the young wite showed her guests to their room. Ella and Meta were both very tired, and the nm fell asteop, with Prince who had vary positively re: rom them, lyi the head of the bed. ee mre Some time in the night Ella awoke, feeling Strangely, and, while lying there wondering what had disturbed her, she heard a faint noise at the Window. The room was on the ground, and her first thought was that somebody was trying to break in- to the house. Not Re to move, she kept her eyes fixed on the window, and saw a dark form draw it- self into the room, and creep stealthily toward the 4 e » we caught the gleam of a knife. Palsied with terror, she could only lie there and wait. Nearei—nearer crept the assassin, until he stood eering down into her face. How like him had Dora artin once stood, yet Ella had escaped unharmed. Would she now? She was asleep then; now she was staring into the murderous eyes, for her terror seemed to give her new sight to see in the darkness. She heard Meta’s deep, regular breathing as she slept on, unconscious of all danger. She attempted to move her arm to wake her, but she had not the ower. No hempen cord, no forged steel, could nave held her more firmly than did that overpower- ing terror at the sight of the dim outlines of that midnight assassin, standing there by her bedside, ust ready to strike the blow which would send her 0 eternity. Once she would have coveted the stroke, so that it sent her to oblivion, and begged that he would not delay ; now she prayed for life—thought her prayers, for her tongue refused its office—and implored Di- vine aid for her friend. Ah, how hopeless! She saw the arm uplifted, and knew there was but a second; but in that second the thought of a deliverer flashed through her mind. With the thought came speech and motion. “ Take him, Prince!” she cried. Then she closed her eyes and awaited the result. CHAPTER XVI. THE TIGRESS SHOWS HER TEETH. ‘ DerprerR and deeper settled the gloom around old Arrancourt. Norman Vinton, harassed by repeat- ed visits from the dreaded phantom, which es ed always unexpectedly, was but the shadow of his former self. He lived entirely secluded from every one but Dora. She alone kept him from absolute insanity. Moses Martin, too, had grown under his dire sufferings. He ha all hope of ever seei lla again, yet was continual- ly searching for her. How much more terrible would have been his misery, had he known the full extent of Dora’s wickedness. Neither was Henry Vinton like himself. He wan- dered about the vast estate of Arrancourt, looking in every possible and impossible place, for some trace of his lost Ella. He never dreamed that she could go further than the boundaries of Arrancourt, without having been seen, and he had inquired for miles around. There was but one solution; the dark waters of the lake had closed over her And yet— Ah, that one spark of hope! It kept him alive, and sent him further on his search. He knew that Mo- ses Martin had a brother in New York. Perhaps she had eluded them, and gone there. It was worth a trial; but he could not go without Dora’s consent. How he loathed himself. “Dora, I am going away in quest of Ella,” said he the same day he formed the resolution. ‘I mus know her fate, and then I will answer you. Keep your secret, I know not what it is, but the dread of it cr been my curse ever since came to Arran- court.’ Why did the ambitious woman allow him to leave her sight? It could not be for pity. It was that she believed the excitement would sooner make him for- get her sister. “Baby!” she muttered, but he did not hear it. ‘*Silly fool! I shall hate him yet for his weakness— his goodness.” “You do not answer me, Dora?’’ “ Because I hate to let you go, Henry. _It will be useless. Ella, poor child, is no more. I feel it— I at it, though I have seen or heard nothing, and—’ “And you ask me to marry you!” suddenly ex- claimed Henry, while a look of the deepest detesta- tion was stamped upon his face. The question was a surprise to Dora, but she ral- lied instantly. ““T did ask you, Henry Vinton, but I do not now. I command you. Now go e your wild-goose chase, and when you find that I have spoken the truth, come back to me, or—”’ He went. And close upon his track was a human sleuth-hound, Allan Wentworth, working for the love of the beautiful maniac, for what else can we call Dora Martin? loomy and silent nearly given u CHAPTER XVIII. THE SCHEMER FOILE. THE loss of Paul Rodney and Meta had a marked effect on Charles Matthews. He had loved Meta with true parental affection. Indeed, but few - rents so fondly cherish their children as did he the orphan waif. He missed her in so many ways that it seemed he would never get over the loss. He had looked upon Paul with a different feeling, yet none the less binding. He had admired him as something more than common man; and when his confidence in him was shaken, he lost faith in all mankind. The men at the bank felt the change; and old Morton Talbot, who had been with Charles Matthews | ever since he commenced business, was so hurt that he spoke to him about it. “*Oharles,”’ said he, ‘do you mistrust us all just because you have found one man delinquent? Must the whole world be gauged by Paul Rodney’s dis- honesty?” ‘“ Who told you that Paul Rodney was dishonest?” sharply demanded the banker, ‘“Why, bless your soul! all Willhampton knows about it, even to the amount he was short. Ah, Charles, you made a great mistake,” “TI do not profess perfection,” said the banker, testily. ‘But I want to know who has been telling 9 this story about Paul Rodney. Where do you think : it started?” ; “Why, don’t you know, Charles? If you don’t I mustn’t tell.” “You must tell me!” was the stern reply. __ “‘Mr, Charles,” said old Morton, slowly,” if it had been for your interest, I should have told you be- fore; but as it is not, Ishall not say another word. Now, all I ask is for you to trust us the same as ever.” : The old man waited a moment for some reply, but as none came, he stepped carefully out of the _ office, ipod but little better. This was the first intimation to Charles Matthew that the true reason for Paul’s departure was known. He had purposely worked ibe cautiously in the matter. At first he believed Paul innocent, and wished to shield him from unjust suspicion; but when he saw indubitable proofs of his guilt, he worked for his own interests, and congratulated himself on haying kept the whole affair a secret. The knowledge that all was known, combined with his other troubles, made him exceedingly wroth, and very unlike Charles Matthews. | ; He was in this vexed frame of mind when his nephew entered the office. George,” said he, ‘‘ do you know anything about this Paul Rodney affair?” ; ‘ ““Well, not much, uncle ’ said George, not quite at ease. ¥ ‘* How much?”’ “Why, you remember my words that led you to examine the books—”’ “Who told you that I examined the books?” ex- vapiae the banker, in an angry tone that startled eorge. ‘*No one, sir. I merely guessed it.” “What business have you to guess anything about my affairs?” : ‘T could not very well help it.” “Well, what else have ite guessed?” ; ‘Nothing, sir,” replied George, who was also be- coming angry. “What do you know?” “Tknow that Paul Rodney was sent away for tak- ing money that did not belong to him.” * And you have told this?’ ‘*T presume I have.” The banker’s face grew cold and stern. “Well, sir, it isthe last of my affairs that you will have to gossip about. You can go, sir, and the soon- er you can make it convenient to absent yourself from my house, the better pleased I shall be. I wish you a very good-day.” So the banker and his wife were left alone; and very lonely they were, too. : ‘*Mother,’”’ said the banker, ““we can_ never live . . - ‘ so. We must have some of them back, Have I wronged Paul, mother?” “Yes, Charles; he was innocent.”’ . CHAPTER XIX. ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD. PRINCE was only waiting for Ella’s command. He had not been put upon the track, and, though he knew this man was an intruder, and was crouched ready for aspring, he yet was wai for the word. The moment Ella spoke, he was at the ruffian’s throat, and the two went struggling to the floor. Ella screamed and covered her face with the sheets. Meta awoke, and hearing the growling and snarling in the room, echoed Ella’s cry of terror. Then hur- ried feet came along the passage, and Mr. Weller entered the room, bearing alightin one hand and a revolver in the other. His wife was just behind. Weller gave a grim smile of satisfaction when he saw the man’s face and at once produced some handcuffs for the wretch; but Prince warned him off wlth a growl. “Oh, he is your prisoner is he?’ laughed Weller, not inthe least disconcerted. ‘‘ He is worth an even thousand dollars.” Then he spoke to Meta to call the dog a. Prince, however, would not obey her voice, and E! now called him. The faithful hound instantly released his hold, but stood ready to take another grip if he thought it ne- cessary. The villain was not injured in the least and the moment he found himself free, he sprung to his feet and made for Weller. But the detective was prepar- ed for this. “Not so fast, Flashy,” said he, coolly plenty well directed blow straight between the eyes. ler was amanof great muscular stre , and stroke felled the man to the ficor. : He followed up his advantage, and had the ir upon his wrists in a twinkling. d ‘* There, sir, I have a hold on you now,” said Wel- ler, “‘ that will not ‘Tet up’ very soon. Now move along, and I'll find you some } gings. The man obeyed, for the detective’s revolver was uneomfortably near his head. There was no more sleep for Meta and Ella; nor, indeed, for Mrs. Weller, so they all went down to the kitchen and began preparations for an early breakfast. ' ‘““Mrs. Weller, do all the men in the city carry pis- tols, and those funny bracelets that your husband put upon the man?” asked Ella, after the excite- ment was over. : ** Oh, no,” said Mrs. Weller; ‘‘ Andrew is a detec tive.”’ ‘© A real detective!” exclaimed Ella. “ I’ve heard so much about them, but I never saw one before. Did you, Meta?’ But Meta was very busy, and pretended not to hear. * She had seen one at Willhampton, and it was the same Mr. Weller. She had not forgotten his face or the questions he asked her. . 1 ” a 4 .
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10 ONE WOMAN'S HEART. } Ella thought she had grown strangely reticent since the preceding evening, and rallied her upon $ her serious, woebegone aspect. y Meta smiled and attempted to throw off the incu- | bus which the sight of the detective had settled upon 3 . her, but she could not. Poor child! Wherever she -* -~went her wretchedness followed her. __*~Vill he know me?’ she thought. ‘“‘ Must I be riven from here, too? Is there no rest for me this side of the grave?” She evinced much agitation when Mr. Weller came n, but he gave no sign that he recognized her, and . she felt more at ease. “T congratulate you, ladies, on a good night’s ; work,’’ said he, with a smile. ‘ Your reward is just ~ one thousand dollars.” Ella looked her surprise, but Meta understood at once. “Oh, Ella, how fortunate!” said she. ‘“‘ You are almost rich.” Yet Ella was puzzled, and the detective explained to her that the genileman captured by Prince, was an old offender, for whom a reward was offered. “A thousand dollars for that man!” exclaimed Ella, with a look that was almost ludicrous. ‘* Well, \ Prince, I guess we had better continue the busi- ness.’ “You couldn't take me for a partner?’’ asked Meta, playfully. "You are.one already,” replied Ella. ‘‘ But what - . do you get, Mr. Weller?” b . * ‘My life,’ be answered, earnestly, glancing at his wife. ‘‘ You occupied our sleeping-room last night, and the rascal’s knife would have found my heart, had you not been providentially put in my place, with your noble dos to watch over you.” “4s h, Andrew! never thought of this!” ex- claimed the young wife, as she threw her arms about her husband’s neck, weeping tears of thank- fulness. ; 7 “Tt is worth more to me than all the reward,” said Ella, with true sympathy. “ Ah, Prince, you know not what good you have done.” - x But Prince locked up so knowingly, that she doubted the truth of her words. Flashy Dick was remanded to prison for a term of years that would probably last his natural life. The reward offered for his capture was Homey F paid to Mr. Weller, who in turn gave it to Ella. She & insisted that he should take a share of it, but he would not. “You know, Ella,” said he, “‘that I have received the lion’s share already, for what is gold to a life?” \ Nevertheless Ella really wished that the good peo- ple should have their share of this money, and, un- own to Weller, she placed a sealed package in the young wife’s hands to be opened after she went away. The balance of the money she divijed equal- ly with Meta. Meta took it, but she laid it by for a’s use, should she need it. , Their next step was to procure some employment. “We must go away from here,” said Meta, who could not get over her fears. “At t I must.” “T shall go where you go,”’ said Ella, . “Then let us go far away from here, into some quiet country-place.”” : The girls had exche secrets, all but that whi ed revenge of James Martin—Meta could not tell that—and E. i felt justified in SoHSHEne SWAY from her father until she could meet Henry Vinton without betraying her misery, so she readily con- sented to be governed by Meta’s wishes. They informed Mr. Weller of their determination, : and he promptly offered his advice. He knew of a family who were in want of a teacher for their grandchild, and he had no doubt that they would ac- cept the services of both. : He opened correspondence with the Moreleys, and received very sati pater replies; but how far he used his influence, the girls never knew. : So they bid good-by to the kind Wellers, and set out for Palm Grove. CHAPTER XX. ‘STO THE FRONT, MARCH!” , Atmost hopeless, Henry Vinton set out for New York. He had procured the addre' Doctor James Martin from his brother, but he had no better suc- cess than Ella. To besure, he found the house with that silver door-plate, but the doctor was in Europe. 5 He never thought to inquire if Ella had heen there. | The very fact of the doctor’s absence seemed to im- ply that she had not. That night a letter for Dora Martin was dropped to the post-office. It read: “Doctor James Martin isin Europe. Elia has not 7 3 here. Henry will remain in the city for a few ; ** ALLAN WENTWORTH.” Henry spent two or three days in wandering about the city, hoping that some chance would bring him tidings of the lost one; but he at length became aware of the futility of further search without help. Much i as he detested it, he resolved to employ a detective. He returned to his hotel, and dispatched a message to Mulberry street, which was promptly answered by our friend Weller in person. € . Haney was sitting at a table with his head lean . upon his hand in a very despondent attitude. ““What’s that hangdog doing at your door?” was. the first question of the detective. ~ “‘T’m sure I know nothing about it,” said Henry, - sop to the door. “Oh, you'll not find him,” said Weller. ‘‘ It doesn’t matter much—he’s of no special account. You sent : for me, Mr. Vinton? Andrew Weller, from Mulberry | street.” , _ “Yes, sir. I need help.” “Tn what way?” = The detective leaned his chair back against the wall, threw one leg over the other, and tipped his hat down over his eyes in a way that was suggestive of a comfortable nap. Nevertheless, Henry went on, concealing nothing of importance. Weller heard him through without comment. Then he arose and eg Da! toward the door. “Where shall I find you when I want you, Mr. Vin- ton?”’ “Tf I leave here, I will send you my address,” said Henry. ‘But do you give meno oper “*T will see you again,’’ replied Weller as he bowed himself out of the room. Hardly was the detective out of hearing, when there came a loud rap at Henry’s door, followed by the entrance of a man in military garb. “ How—are—you—Hank Vinton!” exclaimed the new-comer, boisterously, shaking Henry’s hand until the continued motion grew painful. “ Will Harding!” exclaimed Henry, in pleased sur- prise. “Captain Harding, if you please. But, when did you arrive?” “Three days ago, Will—excuse me, captain.” “'That’s right, my boy: I thought you had not been here Jong, you look so blue. But I’ve found a panacea for the blue-devils, no matter what is the cause. Join thearmy. What do you say?” ‘Not yet, captain. I have other work to do.” “Fudge! You're inlove, I'll bet.” Henry colored slightly. “T’ve guessed it the first pop! Well, Hank, it is good business, provided always that you have a good partner; but it won’t do for times like these. _ Let it rest for awhile and come with us. We’ve got the jolliest set of fellows, and our colonel can’t be beat. at do you say?” “Let me think of it awhile, captain. I certainly can not say now.” ‘Just as good as gone!” cried the captain. “Tl have you a commission by Saturday night. We want one more good captain. Now good-night, old boy. Go to bed and dream of the lady as much as you please, but when you wake, ““Gird on your armorand be marching along!” Henry Vinton had but little idea of joining the army when he asked for time to decide, but as the days passed and he heard nothing whatever of Ella, he grew to think more seriously about it. It certain- ly offered strong inducements; a life of wild adven- ture and daring; of excitement, to drive away his sorrow; perhaps an honorable death, to escape the dishonor which he felt sure Dora could heap upon him. Then there came a letter from Mr. Martin, saying that he had given up all hopes of meeting his lost child again in this world. And there were a few lines from Dora, reminding him of the terrible power she had. He replied to Mr. Martin, but not a word to Dora. Her threat decided him—drove him fur- ther away. Though he did not write to Dora, she heard of . Allan Wentworth wrote, and received the an- swer: y Henry Vinton must never return alive to Arran- court |” Allan Wentworth pocketed the crisp bank-note, muttering: “The devil is in the woman; but I must do it.” So Henry Vinton became Captain Henry Vinton, and the commanding officer of the regiment was Colonel Paul Rodney. ; Another week passed and the regiment was or- dered to the front, Just as they were embarking, detective Weller stepped up to Captain Vinton, put a little card into his hand, and went away again. The captain bre ale and staggered against the ear, as he read Ella’s address on that little bit of haat but it was too late. He heard Colonel dney’s voice, ordering his company into the cars, and he mechanically attended to his duties. Dogging his steps everywhere he went, waiting, seeking some chance to do Dora’s bidding, was her human, or inhuman, sleuth-hound, private Allan Wentworth. : CHAPTER XXI, A VILLAIN’S WOOING, Mera and Ella found Palm Grove a delightful re- treat; and the Moreleys were very pleasant people. The girls’ duties were merely nominal, and the time passed agreeably, saving their own secret griefs, which even a paradise could not assuage. ‘* What a queer world this is,” said Meta. ‘‘ What we want we can not get, and what we detest is thrust upon us. I have been thinking of George Matthews, and what might have been, had I not refused his tempting offer. No doubt, by this time, I should be a staid matron in stiff silks and stiffer satins, with a ruffled cap on my head and a lie in my mouth for everybody.” They wre strolling through the crimson-tinted woods belonging to the Moreley estate, one autumn afternoon, the crisp leaves rustling under their feet, while showers of them fell from the already half- bare limbs above them. “Why, Meta! how strangely you talk!”’ exclaimed Ella, laughing. “T fee piraneehy sister mine. ii, thoughts are rambling here and there in the wildest confusion. Ido believe that pocree atthewsisa villain. Ihave thought much abou m lately, and to-day I can searcely get him from my mind. He hated Paul. pig i Paul! where is he, that he does not come me “Why, Meta!” exclaimed Ella, really alarmed. “What has come over you? I never knew youso be- fore. Let us go back.’ 4 “Not yet, Ella. I will try to act like myself, but I do feel as though something dreadful will happen soon, Oh, Ella! we are not happy! I know you are not, and what would you think if I told you that Iamin misery all the time? Oh, Ella, shall we ever be happy ?”’ Ella was shocked at this strange outburst of an overburdened heart, yet it was but the counterpart of her own feelings. “We must bear it patiently,” said she, ‘‘and be thankful that it is no worse.”’ ‘Patiently!’ cried Meta, chafing like a caged bird. ‘‘Patiently! I never can do that, Ella! It is killing me! Why, was it not ehough to turn me into the streets! Ella, I shall go mad! Paul! I love you so, yet you are as one dead to me!” ‘“Hark! hark! did you hear any thing? a rustling of the leaves? Come, Meta, let us go back.” “No, no,” said Meta, quickly. “Let us rather see what itis. I fear nothing now!” Meta’s cheeks were crimson. A feeling of desperation held posses- sion of her, that made her careless of danger. “Where is Prince?” “Chained at the house. I wish we had him here.” “Never mind, Ella, We will go a little further.” ‘Only a little way, then,” said Ella, looking cau- tiously ahead. “There, Meta!’ she suddenly exclaimed, seizing her arm, and turning to flee. : But Meta could not run. She seemed chained to the spot. A face was just visible through the bushes—a face changed from what it was when she saw it last, yet unmistakably the face of George Matthews. “At last I have found you,” said he, with a look in his dark eyes that made Meta shudder. ‘‘ But you give me no greeting, Meta, Aren’t you glad to see me?”’ “No, Iam not!” said Meta, disdainfully. ‘‘ Were your words when I saw you last calculated to beget a feeling of gladness to meet you again? Have you forgotten the lie?”’ Paul Rodney is a thief, “Lie! it was no lie! and—” ‘Stop, George Matthews!’ cried Meta, blazing with indignation. ‘I will not hear it!” “T presume it is distasteful to you,’ sneered he; ‘nevertheless itis true. But I did not come to speak of Paul Rodney. I am here on my own account, and while we walk alone will explain.” , “We do not desire your company,” said Meta, turning away. ‘‘Come, Ella.” ““Not so fast, my pretty one. I desire your com- pany, and that of your companion as well. You must come with me.” “JT will not go with you!’ cried Meta, angrily, as she took Ella’s arm and started for the house. “We will see,’’ said George. ‘‘ Ho! there!” At the word, a dozen men arose out of the bushes all around them; rough, repulsive-looking men,ready for any atrocious deed. “Oh, Paul! come to me!” shouted Meta, in her extremity; for who else in all the wide world could she appeal to? Not one friend in all the universe to save her from this cruelfate. Paul! Paul! don’t you hear me?” George Matthews laughed a bitter chuckle of rage and derision. To hear an avowal of this love a second time—thrown in his face so mockingly— roused all the cowardly cruelty of his nature. “Yes, call—shout—scream for him, but he will not come! He does not hear you. He has forgotten your pretty face, for he knows that—”’ Meta turned a face to him whiter than death, “ Not that—not that!” she implored. “Yes, that!’ shouted the craven. ‘“‘ That/ I told him! He would laugh at you now. Spurn you for aah was it that Doctor James told you? Ha! But Meta was like a statue, rigid as the marble it- self, struck senseless and motionless by the das- ’s base aspersions. “Seize them and mount!’’ commanded Matthews. And the poor girls, powerless to prevent, were hurried away. CHAPTER XXII. — IN THE TOILS. Tur shrill notes of the bugle rung out the call to halt, and Colonel Paul Rodney alighted and threw himself on the grass to wait for the wagon-train to comeup. — He was perfectly at home in this wild life. He loved it; and it was so much in consonance with his feeli Days and nights in the saddle could not curb his restlessness. He craved excitement and danger, to deaden the torturing thoughts that made his life miserable; and he braved death with a fear- lessness that made his name a synonym of heroism. He was worshiped by his men, and wherever was seen his tall form, battling with the foe, could be found his faithful followers, ready to die in his de- ense. Only second to him was Captain Henry Vinton. He lacked the commanding presence, but in reckless daring, in a total disregard of danger in every form, he was not surpassed by even Colonel Rodney. And these two men, drawn together by similar tastes, by their utter loneliness, by their griefs and their despair, were the stanchest of friends. Henry rode up to where the colonel was sitting, and took a place at his side. ‘Colonel, I have come to ask a favor.” “Tt is already granted, captain; that is, if within my power.” ‘or answer, Captain Vinton placed in the colonel’s hand the card which Detective Weller had given him 80, nie ‘An months before. you have waited all this tir-o!’’ exclaimed
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ONE WOMAN’S HEART. 44 Colonel Rodney. “Captain, you are a martyr to principle or patriotism! which?” y Neither, I fear, colonel; but to my own doubts.” “Doubt no longer. But how in the world did that detective learn her hiding-place so far from where any one would think of searching? It is a mystery tome. But Henry—Paul spoke with much hesite- tion—you may be too late.” “JT have thought of all that,’ replied the captain, sadly; “but, I can not rest without a trial. Can I go?” nf “Captain, you wrong me by repeating the ques- ion,’ fs “Thank you, colonel. I will start for Palm Grove at once.” ‘Pick your men, captain.” ae go alone, colonel.” _“T fear to have you, captain. We are yet on hos- tile ground.” ““Very true; but I must go alone. I will be very careful, and shall return before you break camp.”’ “You must be very careful,” again cautioned the colonel. : With a feeling of joy that he had not known for long months, Henry vaulted into the saddle, and set out for Palm Grove. H2 rode cautiously at first, seanning both sides of the road, for now he was so near to Ella, life was very sweet. The road, nearly all the way, was through a thick wood, yet, after he had traversed half the distance and met nothing to excite suspicion, he relaxed his Vigilance, and gave himself up to a reverie of antici- pated pleasure. & was a fatal mistake. Leaving the camp but a moment after him, was a wily foe, private Allan entworth. By a shorter cut he reached a lovely Spot in the woods in advance of his victim, and sta- tioning himself in a dense hazel thicket, he awaited S coming, Henry, doubting and feariug for the success of his mission, had allowed his horse to slacken speed as he neared Palm Grove, and absorbed in thought, he rode abreast of the ambuscade. His horse gave him warning of the danger, but he did not heed it. A desperate face rose out of the bushes, and with the suddenness of a thunderbolt the fatal shot was given, and Captain Vinton reeled and fell from the saddle, while his terrified horse dashed away toward Palm Grove. Coming out of the woods but a little way from where Captain Vinton fell, was George Matthews’s party. They heard the shot, but could not overtake € assassin. They saw the body in the road, and patting, Jong enough to see that the man was yet alive, George Matthews left a squad to take him’ to the camp, while he rode on with the remainder of the party and his fair prisoners. aching the camp, Ella and Meta were shown every attention compatible with their situation. George Matthews vacated his own tent for their use, and took them supper himself, “Tam really sorry to inconvenience you, ladies,” Said he, with mock courtesy; “but as the fortunes of war have placed you in my power, I beg that you will judge me leniently.” Meta smiled with cold disdain. Your acts call for all the apologies that you can invent, yet you can make it nothing more nor less than a cowardly war upon defenseless women. A dozen men or more to capture us!” The coward heard her through, while a look of cruel cunning became visible on 5 face. The scorn of such as you affects me but a trifle,” said he with a smile that meant more than is en Paws ap it does not ¢ e my pur- poses tow, ou. You spurn i ie agen” purned me once, but you He ended this demoniacal thrust with a short, i ard, cruel laugh, that chilled the blood of his help- ess listeners. And thus he left them. Speechless, nestled closer to each other, and bore the tor- fare The supper went untasted and unnoticed. fe ey could hear the steady tramp of the guard, as © paced to and fro before the tent, the laugh and ribald jests of a party grouped around the fire, atid occasionally the voice of George Matthews; but no a of poe, hope, of succor. a nt pack) at is it that lights up Ella’s face ith blessed hope? Does she hear Henry Vinton’s voice as he stands by the fire? Henry Vinton, alive and well, save the little bullet’s furrow on his’ head beg at tks stunned him? Can she tell that voice ee all the rest? Yes, from all the world! And e forgets their parting —forgets everything only at he is near in their dire extremity. With a cry of joy, she disengaged herself from the wondering Meta’s arms, and rus ing out of the tent, ke of the sentinel’s glistening bayonet, she fell, sobbing, on Henry’s breast. ’ form in close embrace) “Tee nore Hold. the dear en i i Wi age a tp situation. segirnery stn my dar 93 ae oF ng! how have I found you?” he ape she eer up and cried: ave me! save me! Henry, te “Meta! where is she?” oe agen ign ‘“A prisoner like myself. Can you save us from his power?” , God Se ang rie, you shall be saved,” said a ! Lam a prisoner too,” Remy “but, a 4 SY ake co i aie with Pade my darling. I will save you or eorge Matthews now approach brutally foreed lla back tothe tent.” 2 OS® . . So Paul did not come!” moaned Meta, bursting yo tears. “Will he ever come? But I am selfish. ou have found Henry. I will rejoice with you.” CHAPTER XXIII. THE TRAIL RUN DOWN. CotoneL Ropnery waited for Captain Vinton until the sun was an hour high, and then ordered the command forward. Even then he was loth to be- lieve that any harm had befallen Henry, but to make matters sure, he left a squad of men, under the command of Captain Harding, to go over to | Palm Grove. Captain Harding was not quite so easy about Hen- ry, and he ordered his men into a gallop. They did not take the same road that Henry chose, although they did not know it at the time. The horses were oe with foam when the troop reached Palm rove. “Has Captain Vinton been here?” asked Harding of an old negro, who stood at the gate watching their approach. ‘*Ts’pec’ he hab,”’ said the old man, “ kase de gals is gone.” “Have you seen him?”’ , ‘Lor’ bless ye! no, I habn’t, and I doesn’t want 0,7” Yinding that he was only wasting time, Captain Harding rode on to the house, where he found the inmates hurrying about in the wildest confusion. Mr. Moreley quickly acquainted him with the facts, > tes as known, of the disappearance of Meta and a. Harding was surprised at the mention of Meta, for he had incidentally learned something of Paul’s his- tory; but that was neither time nor place for con- jecture; so, after a moment’s thought, in which he determined to follow after the lost girls—he believed that iy, ye Vinton had been captured by the same party—he asked to be shown where they were last seen, “T can not tell you that,’ said Mr. Moreley, ‘‘ but I think Prince will put you on the track.” ‘“Take me to him at once.” Moreley led the way to the dog’s kennel. “A bloodhound!” exclaimed Harding, in surprise. “ T thought it was a man.” ‘* Prince is better than any man for this business,”’ at Moreley. ‘‘Be ready for a start and I will loose im. 9 : The moment Prince was free, he gave a glad bound, and almost instantly struck the scent. ““Forward!’’ cried Captain Harding, excitedly; and the troop pressed on. When Prince reached the spot where George Matthews and his party surrounded the girls, he was uzzled fora moment by the great number of tracks; ut Captain Harding saw the trail plainly, and kept on. They soon came into the road, where they saw that a halt had taken place. Captain Harding found the spot where Henry fell from his horse, and picked something bright from the dust. It was Henry’s n g. “Good heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘I fear we are too late. Forward with all haste!” They pressed on again and found the ee, exons With scarcely a halt, they resumed the pursuit, Just after noon, as they rode to the crest of a hill they saw, in a little ravine just below them, the party they were searching for. “ At them, boys!” shouted Captain Harding; and down the hill they dashed. The surprise was com- plete, and the struggle brief. ‘* But where is Meta?” cried Ella. “ And George Matthews?” spoke Henry. Sure enous! they were gone. “What Golonel Rodney say?’ exclaimed Ca) tain Harding. ‘Henry, we must findher! We will ride over to the village and find a place for Miss Martin to remain, and then we’ll scour the coun- t cat my: Yes, yes,’’ said Henry, almost as much interested as tho it were Elia. But where was Prince? CHAPTER XXIV. THE TEMPTRESS AT WORK. Dora Martin stood at the door of the library in a listening attitude. She had just assed through the hall, but the sound of horses’ hoofs on the hard road had poirggeed her attention. After ting a moment, she hastened to the door and looked out. A horseman was coming up the avenue, and when he saw Dora, he urged his horse to a quicker pace, and was soon at her side. “Well?” said she, coldly, yet trembling with eager- ae hear what private Allan Wentworth had to er. : “Hank Vinton will trouble you no more,” he whis- pered, scarcely above his breath. j “Come away from the house,” said Dora, taking him by the arm. ‘*Now, how do you know?” “T saw him fall,’’ said he. Dora clapped her hand to her heart, for with the Imowledge of Henry Vinton’s death, she realized what it was to sacrifice love for ambition. ‘““How? When?” she asked, after a pause, duri which the man was bending looks of the deepest ad-' miration upon her. i “Tn battle,’ he replied, choosing to keep his own part in the affair a secret. “Two days ago.” “Are you sure?”’ she asked. / ““T know it, he replied. And he thought he did. “Then you had no hand in it?” Wentworth smiled. ‘What does it matter?” “Nothing in particular,” said she, carelessly, ‘only that it does not put me in your debt.” tos hi 4 ‘““You are already beholden to me,” he replied. “T ask no stronger hold upon you.” ‘““What do you mean by that?” she asked, betray- ing no agitation. ; ote ‘Nothing in particular,” he ap imitating her careless words and manner, “‘ only I thought we had. been in partnership so long, that we might continue Dora did not start or change color, although well knew what was coming, but her active brain — never worked so busily as it did then, searching a some way out of this difficulty. “Speak plainly. Mr. Wentworth,” frigidly. , : “T thought I spoke plainly enough,” said he, re- proachfully. ‘‘ You know I have loved you from the first moment that we met at school; you know that I have left home and friends for you, and steeped myself in crime at your bidding; and you know that you have given me hope that some day you would be my wife. I ask it now.” 5; Dora gave him one of her sweetest smiles. She saw her way clear for the present! “That cannot be, Allan. Did you never guess why I wanted my sister and Henry Vinton out of the way?” oT never cared, only that I pleased_you,’’ he said, recklessly. ‘‘Now I want to know why this cannot be?” “ Tam a wife already, Allan.” ; He started back, and the agony of his look almo made her pity him. ; * ““ Whose?” he demanded, hoarsely. ‘Norman Vinton’s.” ; He groaned in anguish, and staggered toward his horse. She followed him. ** Allan.” He turned his face to hers, for the voice was very low and sweet. ees If at any time within a year my husband should (a “Back! you accursed temptress!’’ he thundered, “or I shall forget that you are not of my sex. Leave me!”’ He vaulted into the saddle, and dashed away, the most reckless being that God’s sun shone upon that she said, day. fore, gazed after him in fear and surprise. It was so unlike him. - “Faugh! he'll only kill himself, perhaps, and that will be the end of him.” She turned and went into the house. She had only spoken the wish of her heart, when she uttered that falsehood to Allan Wentworth. It was strange, knowing her as well as he did, that he should believe her; yet it was not impossible. Ever since she became convinced that Henry Vinton was beyond her reach, she had cherished a hope that she might have better success with the father, weak, suffering, almost crazy though he was. He was not less sane than she with her blooming health, but she was the more cunning. She already had a power over him that he could not resist, and she was only waiting to satisfy herself that she could hope no more from Henry. She heard of his — death, and the time had come. After the singular interview with Allan Went- worth, she went to the library. Norman Vinton was sitting by the window, looking out upon the autumn landscape. He looked up with a pleased smile when Dora made her appearance. “You have been gone a long time, Dora. I get so lonesome.” “But a little while,” said she, with’a loving caress ‘yet it seemed so long to me. How do you feel this morning?” “No better,” said he, sadly. ‘‘ My days are num- bered. The doctor tells me that I am not long for this world. How lonely! There is not one to mourn for me.” “You forget me,” said Dora. ‘ ““Do you then, care for such a wreck, my child?” “You have been very good to me,”’ said she, with the same look of love that had won Henry Vinton from Ella’s side. He saw it, and understood it. Nothing that she could have done would have given him such a realiz- ing sense of his entire failure to achieve the happi- ness, the power, the fame, which had been his aim. A miserable failure. “Why not?” he thought, as he sat gazing at Dora. ‘*T have not long to live, and she will always be near to pov me until the dreaded end. I will! I Ww ” It was a great triumph to the scheming woman, but she felt insecure until man’s edict made them man and wife. Norman Vinton cared not how soon, so Dora com- menced preparations at once. It was to bea quiet affair. Mr. Vinton was toc weak for excitement, and Dora, half-ashamed of the invalid bridegroom, desired no display until after the wedding. So the priest was brought from the neighboring town, and with only the Arranc household to witness it, the ceremony commenced. But Dora’s triumph was not yet. The work was but half done, when Norman Vin- ton - a shriek of terror, and sunk senseless to the floor at the very feet of his bride. Full well the pl’ ointed woman knew the cause, of this sudden fright, and turning her eyes toward the door, she beheld the shadowy terror which had so long cursed Norman Vinton. ° The other inmates of the room followed her exam- ple, and when they saw the dreaded phantom, they cowered in the corner of the room until the specter vanished. Dora sprung to the door and bolted it. Then, with unspoken curses, she set about the resuscitation of Norman Vinton, ox” »
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i 12 vi : CHAPTER XXvV. i LIGHT! : Buia waited anxiously for the return of Cap- on Harding’s party, but a week passed and no ' + ings. . ’ She was sitting one day by the window of the little cottage, thinking of Henry and Meta, as indeed she had been ever since they left her, when she was star- tled by a bugle-call, and looking up the street, she saw a body of cavalry entering the village. At the head of the battalion rode a tall, noble-l ok- ing officer, sitting on his horse with the utmost «ase 4 and grace, but neither turning his head to the right or left, He halted his men beneath the trees of a "grove just opposite the cottage, and within fifteen - minutes, a little city of tents sprung up like magic. “Colonel Rodney wants to know if we can get water here for supper?” A soldier, with’ a bucket on each arm, had ap- proached the window where Ella was sitting, and asked this question. “Colonel Paul Rodney ?’’ she asked, quickly. a ‘*- Yes, marm; the best officer in the army.”’ F Ella forgot about the water, and the man asked ’ again. “* Oh, I will see.” She ran back into the kitchen. “T may as well say yes,” said the woman, in re- ! ply to Ella’s question about the water. ‘‘ They will . ave it anyhow. See there!” ure enough, the old well-sweep was creaking up and down, and the soldier was filling his pails. Ella went out to him. “You can have the water.” ‘Yes, thank you,’ said the soldier, with a merry twinkle in his eye. ‘‘I knew I could, so I thought I would be drawing it to save time.” He seemed, however to be in no hurry, for he was unnecessarily slow. He loved to look at the bright, pretty face. Perhaps it reminded him of some dear one at home. > “Do hf think Colonel Rodney will come over here if I send for him?” asked Ella, as he took up his buckets and moved off. | “Certainly, marm. I'll tell him when I go back. Shall I give him your name?” “He does not know me,” said Ella; ‘‘ but, for fear he may not want to come, tell him that I have seen Captain Vinton.” i Mes eo Vinton? You have? He is my cap- tain. he alive and well?” ; ‘““'Yes; he was a week ago.” ** Bully! I'll have the colonel over here ina jiffy.” The soldier hurried back with the glad tidings, re- fore of the pod aa water which half-emptied is buckets. He spoke to a comrade here and there, and presently there arose three rousing cheers from the whole regiment. Ella felt a Pade engl pride at this homely tribute to Captain Vinton’s worth, and wished that he could be there himself to see it. . . Colonel Rodney had looked on SUEDE 5 and q s when the demonstration was over, he hastened to % ul +2 ni “ You have seen, Captain Vinton?’’ said the colo- nel, kindly. ‘Pardon my eagerness, but we have been very anxious about him,” “Nay, colonel, I like your eagerness,’’ said Ella, warmly. , ; “Then you must class Captain Vinton among your friends,” said the colonel. ‘ 1 fo very dearest friend I have,” said Ella, rankly. * “Then you are Ella Martin of whom I have heard him speak so often?’ said Paul, rising, his face , ing with pleasure. “Yes, sir,” said Ella, with a pretty color stealing over her face. “T need not tell you how pleased I am to meet one who is so dear to Hen inton, and I know that you left him well, by the happiness that I see in your face.” “Yes, colonel, although I am somewhat anxious now. But I must tell you the whole story.” She related the whole in as few words as possible, reserving the names of George Matthews and Meta for the last. When she told of the dastardly conduct of Mat- thews, the colonel fairly shook with indignation. “The miscreant!” he exclaimed. “I know him aon. , But, you speak of a companion; where is she now?’ “Captain Vinton and Captain Harding are in quest of her now. Geor, atthews slipped away uring the fight, and took Meta with him.’ ‘*Meta!’’ cried the colonel, starti from the chair. Then his face assumed a cold, stern expres- sion that was ve ainful to Ella, She went over im and placed her hand upon arm. ‘You knew her once, Colonel Rodney ?”’ ‘ phd once,”’ he said, bitterly. e ead oe Pg > « n Ella thought of the Matthews had . She shrunk from the task, but it was Meta that she was battling for. ** Colonel Rodney, have youseen George Matthews ‘ since you left Willhampton?” “Not once.” ‘Did he ever say anything to you about Meta?” » “Never.” : “Then it was a base falsehood!” cried Ella, stamp- one ing her little foot upon the floor. ‘‘Oh, the wretch!” F lonel Rodney looked his surprise. ; oe A a not Nags now,” — aut eeraming a playful manner. ut you must not look so blac when I spcak of Mete. She is a dear girl, and spoke often of you.” Paul’s manner softened a little. Fp oe knew you by her description of you.” ihe e words which ’ ONE WOMAN’S HEART. Fo Lived “She has many a time expressed a wish to see you again. Would you like to see her?” This direct charge was so entirely unexpected, that he hardly knew how to answer; but, after a moment’s thought, he resolved to reply frankly. ‘*Ella, it has been the dearest thought of my life that I might meet Meta again.” aot is waiting for you,’ said Ella, with a glad smile. A joyous light broke over Colonel Rodney’s face at these words, and he pressed the dear girl’s hand so warmly. “How much I thank you, Ella. She has told you something of my life, and you know that [ could not tell her how dear she was to me, until I felt worthy of her. Then came that awful blow that sent me away dishonored. [I lost all hope then for awhile; but I will yet clear my name of the foul suspicion.” “She knows that you are not guilty,” said Ella, determined to bring these two together. ‘*The world must know it, too,” he replied. ‘‘ But tell me of Meta. Why she left Willhampton, and how the time has passed since.” a Ella readily complied, and Paul thought he would never tire of listening. Of course she knew nothing of Doctor James Martin’s revenge. That was Meta’s secret. at it not yet keep these two apart? “T could listen all day,’ said Colonel Rodney, as he arose to go; ‘‘but I must not waste time. Meta is in peril, perhaps, and I must hasten to the res- cue.”” At daylight the next morning, the battalion was ready to move, and Ella, who was up _betimes, watched them gallop out of sight, going 70 the rescue / CHAPTER XXVI. HUSBAND AND WIFE. Dora Martin worked faithfully to bring Norman Vinton back to life, and her efforts were at last crowned with success. “You are better, now,” said she, lifting his head into her lap. But he had not recovered from his fright. ‘* Where is it? where is it?’’ he asked, looked wild- ly about the room. “Dear Norman, you have been seeming ” said she, soothingly. ‘‘ There was nothing—is no hing to harm you. You fainted from weakness. There, now you can sit in a chair, and I will stand at your side.”’ “No, no, no,” he said, firmly. ‘It never can be.” “Oh, Norman!’ said she, reproachfully, “it will kill me!’ ? dear child, I can not wrong you so. I have sana most wickedly; but not this—not this!”’ “Tt must be,’ she answered, vehemently. ‘“‘* /¢ must [”” He only shook his head sadly. ‘* Tt shail /”’ she cried. Then she whispered something in his ear that made him reel and faint—the one word—murder ! ‘“ Who told you that?” he gasped. **-You told me that this must not go on,”’ said she, with a burning light in her dark eyes. ‘‘Dare you = ig now? Say quick! shall it be priest or eriff?’ “God have mercy!” cried the stricken man. “‘ Must it be?” “Tt must!” said Dora, coldly. “The priest! quick!” “Come, sir, we are ready again,” said Dora, exult- ingly. And the priest, gazing with mingled astonishment and fear, stepped forward to do her a While this scene was enact in the library, a troop of horses had halted at the gate in front of Arrancourt. We recognize Henry Vinton and Ella and Captain Harding; but Meta was not there. No trace of her nor of rge Matthews had a gpa and Fl were returning sore-hearted to the regi- ment. It had been decided to leave Ella at Arrancourt; and while the command halted, Captain Vinton and Ella rode up to the mansion. Ella went to her own room, finding every thing ust as she had left it; but Henry Pewee on to the races The door was locked, and he rapped loud- Ve “ The door was opened by Mr. Martin, and Captain Vinton stepped into the room. Dora looked up and met his , but not a muscle of her face betrayed the agitation she felt. He was like one risen from the dead, yet so remarkable was her self-control, that she bowed and smiled, while at the same time she motioned for the ceremony to oO on. . Captain Vinton was at a loss to comprehend the meaning of this singular scene, but when the cler- gyman again essayed to perform the ceremony, Henry coeayed up to him and sternly forbade. “Go on!” cried Dora. ‘ You have no right to in- terfere!”’ c , oun turned to his father with a questioning ook. “It must go on, Henry,” said he, despairingly. ‘No earthly power can es it.” ’ Without another word Henry strode from the li- brary, and waited outside until he knew, by the noise in the room, that they were husband and wife. Then he called Mr. Martin. : Not a word was said about the marriage—not a re- proach uttered, but he led the old man to Ella’s room. His knock was answered by Ella, and the father and child fell sobbing into each other’s arms. He waited until the father had recovered from his rise; then he spoke: “Mr. Martin, I have found your daughter and re- turned her to you. I claim her as my own, but I leave her in your care for a brief time, and I charge you to cherish the trust.” a ae ‘God willing, Henry, I will keep her from al} harm,” said the old man, fervently. Then Henry took an affectionate leave of Elia, and hastened out to rejoin his comrades, without a word of adieu to his father or his father’s wife. Wife! How the thought rankled in his bosom as he strode from the house, and leaped into the sad- dle; and how the men stared at his anguished face and wondered what he had seen in that grand old house to change him so. “Tt is the parting with Ella,” thought Captain Harding, ‘‘and partly the sad news for the colonel. I wish we had found her.” So no questions were put to Henry, and he volun- teered no information, but took his place by Captain Harding’s side, and the troops moved on. They had ridden but a few miles when they saw a cloud of dust in advance, indicating the approach of another party. Captain Harding halted, and made Se eg to meet the advancing cavalry, whe- her friends or foes. On they came, halting within rifle-shot: and when the dust had cleared away, Captain Harding’s party gaye a glad shout of welcome, for they recognized olonel Paul Rodney. Each party now advanced, and there were glad greetings, and questions that could not be answered in a week’s time. Y You have not found her?” asked Colonel Rodney. “we m ean—’ J “We have not found Meta,” said Henry, sadly. ‘* Nor we,”’ was the colonel’s reply. ‘‘ And we must give up the search now, for we are ordered to Wash- ington without any delay. Fall in.” CHAPTER XXXVI. THE PRINCE OF DOGS. Wuen George Matthews found the tide of battle turning against him, he began to think of escape. But he could not leave without one more effort to retain Meta in his possession. He watched an op- portunity, and when the combatants were shrouded with dust and smoke, he grasped the now hopeful girl, and before she was aware of his intentions, she was on a horse with him and galloping away. It was then too late to ery for help, for her captor had bound a handkerchief over her mouth. She felt but little fear, however, for she doubted not that her friends would soon discover her absence, and come to the rescue. George Matthews took his way down the ravine, notwithstanding the roughness of the path. He urged his overladen horse over the uneven ground at a speed that threatened to unhorse them every moment; but he was a good rider and desperate. At last the faithful animal could go no further. He had been slackening his pace for some time, yet his master urged him with whip and spur until fur- ther efforts were useless. He jumped to the ground, taking Meta with him, and the horse fell over on his side, completely exhausted. “it won't do to leave him alive,” muttered Mat- thews. ‘‘He may wander up in sight, and bring them all after me.” Drawing his knife, he ei he the poor horse at once. Then grasping Meta’s hand, he hurried her along through the tangled bush, dragging and car- rying her by turns. ter a weary hour of this traveling, in which the poor girl’s feet became bruised and sore, her hands and face scratched and bleeding, and her clothing rent in a hundred places, they came to a river. Then George Matthews spoke to her for the first time since starting. ‘*T have eluded them, Meta,” he said, triumphant- ly. ‘‘They may search all they please, but they can not overtake us now.” He removed the handkerchief from her mouth, but she only gave him a look of cold disdain. ‘* Your scorn is ill-timed,’’ said he, starting toward the water, and taking her with him. She saw a boat there; and when he bade her enter it, she obeyed, knowing how useless resistance would be. “*T hope you will pe 4 the boat right side up,” said she, ironically, for, with all her terror, she could not get over her scorn. “You will not have Paul Rodney to rescue you if I do not,’’ he replied, hotly, as he stepped in and took the oars. “Then I may as well make up my mind to help myself, sir robber.” ‘*Robber!’’ he shouted, his face livid with rage. “T know no better name to call you,” she return- ed, provokingly cool and haughty. He choked back the a words that rose to his lips, for he saw Meta’s eyes light up with joy as she gazed toward the shore they had just left. Some- what alarmed, for he was not ag out of rifle-range. he quickly turned his gaze in the same direction, anc was very much relieved when he saw nothing but a bloodhound following along the shore. He drew his revolver, but Meta comprehended his purpose, and struck it from his hand into the water. ““Coward!” she exclaimed. ‘Do you war upon nothing but women and domestic animals?” He drew back abashed; for with all his wicked- ness, it was of a negative kind, that might be kept in subjection by a loving hand. He resumed his rowing, oe ee boat to the other side of the stream, while Prince trotted along the shore, keeping them in ger Meta grew more hopeful. One faithful friend had not lost sight of her. Might he not be the forerunner of others? Silently the two sat in the boat, George rowin rivers t all the while, and gazing at the beautifu face of the woman as she looked hopefully at the op- posite shore. What were his thoughts? Good ones perhaps, for his face grew kindlier as he gazed and | thought; and once he Jaid down his oars to rig an a
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‘12 AS ONE WOMAN'S. HEART. awning to shield Meta from the burning sun. She looked up in surprise, but when she saw the changed look she thanked him. George kept on his way until an hour or more after ie tea Then he struck across the stream and land- ed, “We are now safe from all pursuit, Meta,” said he, more respectfully than he had yet spoken. ‘‘ We will pass the night on shore, and resume our journey in the morning.” ; p Where are you taking me?” she asked. ‘Where I can have you all to myself, Meta. Where I can love you with a love that knows no equal in the wide world. Oh, Meta! you know not this passion which drives me into all manner of wickedness, that I may possess the object! You, dear Meta, have the power to make me a man or a demon. Which shall it be? Let me know my doom!” He was kneeling at her feet, and grasping her hand so firmly that she cou!d not withdraw it. She looked down at his burning face, and knew that his words were sincere, however differently she might interpret them. Yet she could only speak the truth, though it Sere her life. ; “George Matthews,” she said, kindly, but firmly, ‘the way you have chosen will never win a woman’s love; and you have gone so far that I can never feel aught but repulsion for you. I say it in all kindness, but I can not perjure myself even to save my own life, Forget me. Take me out of this wilderness, and let me go my way. I will forget and for- give your insults and injustice, if you will take me away from here and leave me forever.”’ “Never! never!” he hissed, with a terrible oath, ashe sprung to his feet. “I have given you your last chance! You will never hear my pleadings again! But I swear that you shall be mine, and I will seal my vow with a kiss.” His horrid fury struck Meta motionless, and not until she felt his polluting arm about her waist did she rouse to action. Then she cage fee with the energy of despair, shouting all the while for help. Help? In that wilderness? But help was near for all that. Pat-pat-pat went the bloodhound’s soft feet over the ground, and then there was a tiger-like Spring, and the sharp teeth were fastened in George Matthews’s arm, freeing Meta. She flew to the boat, Jumped in, and seized an oar to push off; but she could not leave Prince. She called him, and he came bounding to her, and springing into the boat, crouch- ed at her feet. Then she pushed off, and the current caught the skiff and bore her down the stream, away from that sickening sight which Prince had left. In comparative safety, and weak and exhausted, she fell asleep, the dog watching over her. CHAPTER XXVIIL. THE HOSPITAL REVELATION. Mera slept in her floating couch until the morni sun, shining full in her face, awoke her. She starte up, and gazed about her at the broad field and com- fortable arm-houses, still under the effects of the bewilderment of her awakening; but when her look fell upon Prince, wide awake, and looking up to her So intelligently, it all came back to her in its most hideous aspect. She had, however, escaped, and was free once more to go where she pleased; yet Doctor James Martin’s revenge—his curse—had not left her. She was yet nameless, homeless and friendless. Right before her was a city, and she was slowly nn Wanye it. It seemed not far away; yet she almost hoped that she might never reach it. “Would She find a home there? Yes, in the streets! She ye and wondered, and racked her dizzy brain in er vain attempts to penetrate the future. How dark it looked—growing darker and darker all the while, for ever ringing in her ears were the words, ae homeless, friendless,” and those that came “What have I done?” she murmured: ‘ what, that I should find no peace, no rest in all the wide world? oe : bie hep es are you that you do not come reliev i - ed brain e my bursting heart and my tortur e looked down into the deep, dark waters of the Potomac. But one more pang like the last, and she would have thrown herself into the depths, and bid adieu to earth; but, Paul’s face seemed looking up to her out of the. turbid element—his voice seemed calling to her—his arm seemed drawing her back. No! no! no! I must never do that!” she murmur- ed. Only cowards flee from life. I'll brave all; t roach, insults ominy, ev ke my own tae, ign y, every thing rather than € seized an oar, and, with the little skillshe had a at paampton,uhe worked the boat out of : e cwtrrent toward theshore. Past small boats like er own, past ships, steamboats and vessels of war, heeding not the stares and the shouts, she kept on her way and touched the shore at last. With hearty thankfulness she stepped ashore, leaving the boat be whoever might take it, and, followed + Prince ragged her way through the streets of the National eak, faint and hungry, she knocked timidly at the door of a house and begged for bread. Gniee she would have starved ere she stooped to this; but for some reason the love of life had grown strong within her. The vail that hid the future was not lifting, but a brightness shone through it that she never saw before, revealing nothing, but ed much, f Some hing to eat?’ repeated the kind-faced wo- man. Certainly, my child. It is not often any one 80es away hungry from my door; nor shall they estes to ve. Come in and rest, for roa look u Wo rop. rin ed 0. e's a noble-looking fellow. i abe : How much good the kind words did: almost as much as the fragrant coffee, and the light, crisp bis- cuits. And how reluctantly she arose to go. “You aren’t going?” asked the woman. ‘You don’t look able to stir. Stay with me, dear, to-day and rest. You are welcome.” Meta hesitated. The temptation was very. strong. ‘“You are very good to me,’’ she said. “I really do not feel able to walk.” “T knew it, child. Come right in here, and lie down.”* Meta was only too glad, for she was weary of body and mind. It was quite late in the afternoon when she awoke, feeling much better for the rest. The interval until supper-time was taken up by Meta in recounting her capture and escape, and never had narrator a better listener. “Perfectly wonderful!’’ exclaimed the good wo- man. ‘And this dog did all that? Why, if I had him, I wouldn’t take a hundred dollars for him; but I suppose he will eat as much as a Pig. After this outburst of enthusiasm, Meta made in- quiries about employment. Perhaps the mention of Prince's capacity for victuals reminded her that her purse was ie de “T know of but one place,” replied the lady. “John—that is my boy—was saying this morning that nurses were scarce at the hospital. Would you like such a place?”’ “T really do not know,” replied Meta. ‘I can try it, ” i 3 will speak to John when he comes. Here heis now.’ John proved to be a sergeant in the infantry, and on duty at the hospital. In answer to his mother’s question as to the probability of procuring a situa- tion for Meta, he said there was not the least doubt but that she could get one; and readily offered to go up with her in the morning. Meta thanked him and accepted his escort. The situation was easily obtained, but there were many objections to Prince, who could not be induced to leave Meta; and it was only by telling how he had rescued her, that the faithful dog was allowed to re- main. How strange it all seemed to her; but as she look- ed at the long rows of beds, on each of which lay a eae soldier suffering for love and care, she forgot erself. How her tender heart bled for them, Lack- ing skill, she made up the deficiency by kindness and ee How those lonely, suffering men—not one of them so lonely as she—stared when she first appeared among them, followed by Prince. She seemed so like a ray of sunlight bursting in uponthem. How they watched her passing from ove to another, with a gentle word and a smile that were worth more to them than all the drugs. How they looked for her coming, and murmured a ‘‘God bless your sweet face!’ when she was there; and when she went away, they thought of her until she came again. And Meta found pleasure in this self-sacrificing work. It opened her eyes to the fact that her lot was indeed blessed compared to the misery she saw res ae her, and she went cheerfully about her du- ies. She had been there a week when another sufferer was brought into her ward. Not that there was -any thing singular about this, for they were brought in every day, but the man was no stranger. It was George Matthews. All the happiness went out of her face, then, and a crushing weight seemed laid upon her heart. There were fears, too, and doubts as to her proper course. Should she remain and nurse him back to health an life? Or, should she flee ere he saw her? It was a struggle between fear and duty, and du prevailed. George could scarce believe his eyes when he saw the beautiful face bending over him, and her voice speaking to him in kindly tones. “Good heavens!” he articulated, in a feeble voice; “Meta, is it you, come to nurse me back to life?” ‘Yes, George.” “God, I am thankful!’ he murmured, between the choking sobs. ‘Meta, while lying there in that deep wood where your faithful dog left me—while ey there to die—I thought over my past life, and I made a solemn promise that if my life was spared, I would make amends for my sins.” How rapidly Meta’s thoughts ran over the time from their first meeting until she left him, as he said, todie. How every word that he uttered came back to her. How she longed to ask him one ques- tion, but she could not. And he was lying there waiting for her to speak, yet what could she say? “Meta, you do not seem pleased,” he said,.re- proachfully. “Oh, George! you do not know how pleased Tam!” said she, bursting into tears; “‘ but—’ The blush that unconsciously overspread her face told George what was in her thought«. _ “Oh, Meta,” he cried, “I Pig dew I = you, but it was nothing—nothing to the love I feel for you now—’ Meta drew away and looked coldly at him. “Nay, Meta, do not misjudge me now. I am not what I was. I thought only of my own pleasure then; now my greatest pleasure isin seeing you hap- py. [lied to you about Paul Rodney. He was inno- cent of the crime that drove him away; and I know nothing of your secret only that you have one; but whatever it is, I know that you are the noblest, purest woman that ever lived. I will see Paul when I get off this sick bed, andif I can bring you two toge- ther again, it willbe all thatI can ask. Meta, I have your forgiveness?” i ‘“ Yes, yes,’’ she cried, joyfully. ‘“‘T wish I could forgive myseif,”’ he said, sadly. With a sister’s care, Meta tended the remorseful man; and when he was able to travel she went with >. fae 13 him, for she had a yearning to see her dear foster- parents again. She never doubted, but with a child’s trust looked forward to the happy meeting. CHAPTER XXIX. TEE RECORD CLEARED, We have passed lightiy over Colonel Paul Rod- ney’s war record, for history claims that, but no one who saw him enter Washington, at the head of his war-worn veterans, could doubt, foramoment that he had seen ‘‘active service.’ Of the thousand men or more that went out with him, less than one- third returned: He cast his eyes over the remnant of as brave a regiment as ever went into the field, and a feeling of : sadness came over him. He, who had cared so lit- tle for life, had passed through all unscathed, while all around him, fathers, brothers, sons and hus- bands, had been cut down in the dread strife, carry- ing sorrow and distress to many a home. Who would have mourned for him? And now the sur- vivors were going to meet the loved ones. Who would meet Paul, the hero, the loved commander? Who would welcome him? ‘“T feel lost,’ said he, to Henry Vinton, ‘as the walked arm-in-arm to the hotel. ‘“‘ My men are leaving me, and Ihave no one to care for but ws 2 self. Where shall I go? and what “ey do 2 et searc make me forget my loneliness? I shall nd her al- for Meta, but the fear that I shall not most deters me from the attempt.” Henry was pained by his utter sadness. * Come With 16, Paul,’ said he. ‘‘Come to Ar- rancourt. You will always finda welcome there as long as T live.” ‘Perhaps I will, Henry; but_I must first g0 to Willhampton. You know why I left there? Ah! I was crazy then, but I can see through it all now. I must go back and see Charles Matthews, and good Mrs. Matthews. Sheseems like a mother tome; and I went away without a word to her.” Henry waited awhile, and then said: “ After that you will come?” _ “Yes; thank you, Henry I will come over for a few days.” Charles Matthews was sitting in_ his porters con- versing with another gentleman, whefi Paul Rodney —or Colonel Rodney, for he was yet in military dress —was shown into the room. The banker stared in surprise, and a stern look came over his face as he arose, and, with chilling courtesy offered Paul a chair. Le “To what am I indebted for this unexpected visit, Mr. Rodney ?”’ } : yao was chilled by his coldness, but he replied, rankly: ap ite hardly tell you, unless I express it by the one word hope.” “Tam at a loss to know, Mr. Rodney, what you et hope for here,” said the banker; for, at sight of aul, Paul sat a moment, hardly ae that it was Charles Matthews who spoke; then he arose, and without a word, stepped to the door. “Colonel Rodney !’ It was the stranger, whom the banker had not in- troduced, that called to Paul. He had been gazing steadily into Paul’s face, as though it were a very study for him. Paul stopped with his hand on the latch. “Do yeu recognize me, colonel?” “Never, to my knowledge, have I ever seen y before,” said Paul, after closely scanning his fea- tures. ‘ bs “Neither have I ever seen you before,” was the ‘ somewhat unexpected repl “ What?” exclaimed the Paste: starting from his ' chair. ‘‘ You never saw him before?” “Never in my life, my friend. There isa terrible mistake somewhere, but I think I can see through it. “Good Lord!” gi his chair, overcome to Paul. : f He stared from one to the other in questioning surprise. “You are yet in the dark, Colonel Rodney,” said the stranger, ‘‘and as I believe lam at the present time, clearer-headed than our friend Matthews, I will try to explain. My name is William Montrose.” ‘*Montrose?” exclaimed Paul, starting forward, for light was breaking through his bewilderment. “T see that you remember the name, colonel, Mr. Matthews has been telling me of the strange affair following and connected with my settlement at the bank—you know I have but just returned from Euro d I have been very innocently censuring this Paul Rodney, who proved so recreant to his trust. I now see my mistake and that of Mr. Mat- thews. You are not the gentleman with whom I transacted the business; but who it was that so ma- liciously used your name, I do not know. It was a cruel act; and I think if I had him now, I could teach him to impose upon me no more, the villain!” Paul listened amazed; and the transition from Pere misery to transcendent joy was more than he could bear calmly. He silently grasped the hand of Mr. Montrose, while a suspicious mist was before his eyes. : “God be praised!” shouted the banker, a out of his maze. ‘Paul, my boy, I very humbly a your pardon. What a fool I was, to be sure.” “T never blamed you, Mr. Matthews,” said Paul. “Everything was so against me that you could not believe my unaided statement. But, it is all clear to me now.” “Yes, my dear boy,” eried the banker, joyfully; ‘‘and we'll bury the past, and let the future 5 ne toes happiness. HowI havemissed you, Paul. Nothing oe ed the banker, dropping inte y emotions that were a puzzle his bitterest feelings came back to hin. a , ou |
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yy Tr ae Bi Fl cal cotta Le Eee seme a 14° » ONE WOMAN'S HEART. has i right since you went away. We lost Meta, and then I sent George away.” Their eyes met, when he spoke the name, but more in sorrow than anger. Mr. Matthews resumed: “But we will have it all right again now. You shall take your place at the bank, and I'll have such a jubilee as old Willhampton never saw before. But where’s mother? Bless me!” Instead of ringing the bell for a servant, he hur- ried away himself in search of his wife. No one but himself should have the honor of telling her the good news. Neither could he wait to surprise her, but from his disjointed exclamations her woman’s _wit gleaned the facts at once. ~The meeting was like the coming together of mother and son; and indeed he seemed a son to her, as she seemed a mother to him. ut there was yet a void: Meta was not there. ‘Where is Meta?’ he asked. It seemed a pity to cloud the happiness of the childless old couple, but he only asked the question that they had asked themselves, and each other, a score of times every day since their pet went away. And they gave him the same answer that they had heard so many times from each other’s lips. He said nothing of what he knew of Meta, but mentally resolved to devote his life, if necessary, to a search for the lost one. He ery he at Willhampton a week; then he set out to fulfill his promise to Henry Vinton, promising the banker a speedy return. CHAPTER XXX, HOME AGAIN! Comme home! How suggestive of joy are these two simple words —joy to the fond mother, the loving wife, the trust- ing maiden, who have waited so long for the absent ones. Coming home! | ed through all the perils they met, to carry happiness back to the anxious babe ey Alas, how many looked and hoped in vain! Ella Martin read with joyful heart the welcome news from Henry. It was her first letter from him, and there was a modest glow upon her cheeks as she read the impassioned words over and over again. ‘Were they not penned by him who was dearer to her than all the world beside? No more fears nor doubts, but with perfect faith and trust she awaited his coming. The marriage of Dora with Norman Vinton made but little change in the everyday life at Arrancourt. To be sure, as mistress of Arrancourt, Dora made some changes, and exerted her authority; but, as before, Norman Vinton required all her time, and she made no complaints. : _ The invalid was sinking all the while. He kept his bed nearly all the time, and even his young wife’s inexperienced eye saw that his days in the world would be few. To say that she feared the dread change would hardly believed, yet she was not anxious for it. It was the present position of her husband, holding her there in the sick room, when she might be a reigning belle in the circles of fashion and wealth, that was distasteful to her. And she had another reason for desiring his recovery. She had a power over him that would bend him to her will —a power that was less potent over a dying man than over one imbued with hope and health, The foolish woman was not content with her triumph, but must needs stoop to paltry revenge. ; Ella, in her goodness and simplicity, never thought of wealth. She loved Henry for himself. Reared at Arrancourt, it seemed that it must always be her home; and as all her modest wants had been su og in the past, so it seemed that they would be in he future. She had forgiven Dora—for the schem- ing woman had been very kind to her since her mar- riage—and she told her of Henry’s Jetter. Dora— perhaps we should say Mrs. Vinton, but it seems more out of place to us than it did even to Ella and her father—expressed much pleasure at the news. Was she, in anticipation of widowhood, plotting again? It was the first time the sisters had ken together of Henry since Ella’s return, and Dora’s seeming interest deceived Ella. She spoke freely, just as she had been wont to do before the strange season of gloom just past, and Dora encouraged her. They were both standing near the window, but so earnest was their conversation, that a close carriage drew up to the door unnoticed. The sound of the driver’s voice reached them, and they both looked in time to see Henry Vinton alighting from the car- riage. Ella flew to meet bim, and reached the door just as he was ascending the ste With acry of joy she threw her arms about his neck, and inno- cently beld up her lips for the kiss of welcome. Ah! had Dora seen this! but she was still at the window watching her recreant sleuth-hound, Prince, as he ran from place to place about the familiar spot. _ And she saw another gentleman alight from the. carriage, and a lady, both strangers to her, but Ella knew them; and she gave Meta a loving embrace, and exclaimed: “Meta! Meta! you darling! Iam so glad! Where have you been? Oh, we'll keep you now, shall we not, Henry ?’’ “Certainly, if we can,” ree ete Henry, his face beaming with happiness as_he thought of the sur- prise he would give her and Paul Rodney. Ella now noticed George Matthews, and she was at a loss how to act. She looked questioningly at Henry. and Meta, and Meta quickly said: ; ‘Tt is all forgotten now.” a Fd Dee This was sufficient, and she greeted George kindly, yet somewhat timidly. Dora now made her appearance. The ee was quite embarrassing to Henry, but she passed through the ceremony of introduction with tolerable self-possession. There was a very slight hesitation, however, when he spoke of Dora as Mrs. Vinton. It was so strange, and withal, so re- pulsive. Dora, however, was perfectly at ease, and wel- comed the party to Arrancourt with charming grace and apparent pleasure. Appreciating the dignity of her exalted position, she was very gracious to- ward her step-son and his friends; but Henry felt all the while that she was glorying in her triumph. After a brief space, during which Dora, with con- summate tact, putevery one at ease, she went with Henry to Norman Vinton’s chamber. The young man was shocked at his father’s alter- ed appearance. The face was pale,and thin al- most to transparency; the eyes seemed ever chang- ing; hollow as though some invisible eee were pulling them back; again, they were full and glar- ing; and the hair, once black and luxuriant, was thin and bleached; not white nor gray, but of a lifeless, flaxen hue. “You find me nearly gone,’ said the invalid, reaching out his hand toward Henry. “A few more days will take me. I should have gone long ago but for Dora. She has kept life in me so that I might see you again.” “No, no, father; we can not let you go,” said Henry. ‘We will have you back to health again, if you will only let us. But you must throw off this despondency.’ “No use,” said Mr. Vinton, sadly. ‘‘Iknow I must die soon, and Lhave only been waiting for you. Now I must prepare for the end. Dora, dear, will ouleave us for awhile? Ihave much to say to enry that must not be delayed.” Dora complied reluctantly, for it seemed to her that she was giving Henry the advantage. What secrets had her husband that she should not know? ‘*Pen and paper,”’ said Norman Vinton, when the door had closed behind his wife. Henry went to the desk and got the required articles. “Now write down every word.” Henry put his pen to the pe sentence he started and tremble not make a mark. He controlled himself after awhile, and went on with his task. All the time Dora was waiting in a suspense that was almost past endurance. Just when it seemed that she could not wait another minute, she heard Henry leave the chamber, and lock the door after him. The ominous click of the bolt, as it slid into the socket, made her tremble. He was away but a moment, returning with her father, as she knew by his heavy step along the hall. Then, after another season of waiting, there came a tap at her door. “Your husband is waiting for you,” said Henry. Husband! why did he speak so? Ah! what would she not have given for the secret? She had lost all power over Henry. Her terrible secret was his. r, but at the first so that he could CHAPTER XXXI. A MYSTERY NO MORE, Tere could not be gayety in the old mansion while a fellow-being was lying on a bed of sickness, from which "he never would rise, but there was quiet pone and happiness. Since Hi was closeted so ong with the sick man, he seemed to have received new life; but no allusion to what he learned there was made to any one. Dora sought in every way to glean something from him, but only reply was: “Not yet, madam; not yet.” With which she was forced to be content. George Matthews and Ella had been let into the secret of Paul's promised visit, and it is difficult to say which was pleased the most. And Dairy locke for the colonel at any moment. Although ing from Washington on the same day, Henry’s progress was much the slowest. Soon after starting he fell in with Meta and George, and kept with them. As George was yet quite feeble, they were foreed to travel slowly, and make frequent stops. Then George became so much fatigued— Henry had whispered to him that Paul Rodney had promised to visit. Arrancourt—that it was not a difficult task for Henry to persuade him, and Meta, of course, to halt a few cave at Arrancourt, which was not far out of the way. They were just a week once, there,so Henry had good reason for ex- pecting Paul soon. : The third day after their arrival he saw the well- known form of the colonel riding toward the house, on the same horse that had carried him successfully eg many a weary Segoe tr George, Meta and Ella were in the room, but did not see the new arrival, and Henry slipped quietly out of the house, and grasped the colonel’s hand just as he alighted. “Come right in just as quick as you can,” whis- pered Henry. ‘‘lam Baning a surprise.” He hurried him past the parlor door, and up to his own room. ‘There, Paul, now if you have any fixing to do— but I do not know what you can do to improve your appearance—hu it up, for Tam anxious to pre- sent you to the ladies.”’ The party in the parlor saw the colonel’s horse as the hostler led it to the stables, and Ella recognized it, but said not . Meta admired the beauty of the animal, and orge guessed who had come. While yet talking about it, Henry threw open the door and announced: CJ ~ 4%, ty .saw him in New York, were the green s ** Colonel Paul pean: 7? Volatile Ella clapped her hands with delight, but Meta was so surprised that for a moment she hard], knew what todo orsay. Paul was waiting for his cue from her, and when she arose with a manner positively glacial, he advanced as cold as she; yet there was a yearning look in his fine eyes that made her poor heart throb peachy Ella was disappointed and showed it plainly. “Now you have found him, you will drive him away again,”’ she whispered to Meta, while Paul was bowing distantly to Grong Meta gave Elia an imploring look, but how could she understand it? She knew nothing of the guli between these two. George was also disa he left the room. Witha made Meta happy. Soon after George left, a servant called Henry and Ella out. It seemed like a preconcerted plan, but it was not. However, it left Paul and Meta together, unexpectedly giving him the opportunity he ha wished for. Ithad come so suddenly, however, that he was wholly unprepared for it; yet, with a prompt- ness that was a leading characteristic with ay ie accepted the situation, and irankly opened his heart to the trembling woman. For a moment ail doubts were banished from his mind, for she did not attempt to withdraw the hand which he had taken; then, all unexpectedly, she sprung from him, and when he arose to follow her, she waved him back and tried to speak. He waited in such an agony of suspense. If he had known her thoughts, how he would have pitied her. A vision was passing before her eyes. Shesaw Doctor James Martin just as hestood that night; she felt his grasp upon her wrist; and she heard his words just as he whispered them, even to the hissing tones. That was all that held her back; that was what strained her heart-strings till they were ready to snap asunder. Yet she could not speak. The words died on her lips, while her eyes were revealing that love which she was striving so hard to crush. Perhaps Paul understood something of her feelings. He said nothing, fearing that should he break the spell, she would find speech, and utter the dread word. Until] then there was hope. Thus they stood when Ella ran into the room, but she paid no attention to the singularity of their ar With terror-fraught visage, she whispered o Meta: ‘Norman Vinton is dying! He is calling for Meta Can it be you?” What a flash of hope passed over Meta’s face. She found speech then. “Wait, Paul, till I come back,” she said. Thenshe hurried to the chamber of death, ey did she start and grasp Ella’s arm when she saw the face of thedying man? Ah! her wordssoon told what Dora, standing there by the bedside, should have seen long before: * Doctor James Martin |” What sickening terror that name struck to the heart of Dora, the young wife. She bent over her husband and took one look at his face. Yes, it was her uncle James. The coloring on his, hair had faded, and all that was needed to make him as abe ctacles. Without a word, but with such despair and woe de- picted on her beautiful face, that none could look upon her*without pity, she turned away. The dying man opened his eyes when he heard his name, and looked at Meta. “Poor girl!’ he murmured, tpg Meta.” eta quickly bent down. ‘** You are Meta Vinton, Norman’s child,” he whis- pered. ‘ Your brother Henry knows everything but that. Tell him now, before I die.” Meta sprung to Henry’s side, and whispered the joyful words to him. ‘Is this so, James Martin?’’ he asked, striding to the bedside. ‘‘Is Meta my sister?”’ “Yes, Henry,’’ said Doctor James. ‘“‘God be praised!’? murmured the brother, press- ing Meta to his breast; and her silent prayer of thankfulness was none the less fervent. Oh! ought not the dying man to be forgiven after causing such joy? There was a witness to this scene which none in the chamber had yet noticed. It was the shadowy terror of Arrancourt ; but how unlike she was to the dreaded phantom which had been such a terror to the man who was now passing away. A pleasant- faced woman in black, with eyes so like Meta’s, and traces of beauty which the misery of ascore of years had not eradicated. George Matthews saw her first, and he exclaimed: ‘‘Mrs. Morehouse!” The lady nodded to him, and then drew near the bed. James Martin saw her. “Do not reproach me, Meta Vinton!” said he. ‘“You have had your revenge. I murdered your husband, and took your children from you; butlook! Irestore them to you. Would to God I could also ve Norman back to you! Then I could die happy. ‘orgive me, Meta, forgive—” Doctor James Martin never spoke again. The last act in a wasted life was one of atonement. There was a hushed and awful stillness in the chamber while the life of Doctor James Martin was uietly passing out of the wasted body; then all but oses Martin turned away, sorrowful, but not mourning the loss. But where was the young wife —the beautiful woman who had risked so much and lost all? Gone; no one knew when or whither. And all this while Paul Rodney was waiting—wait- ing, wavering between hope and despair. He heard arustling of garments, and ere he turned his head, Meta stood beside him. No more doubting; no ointed, and sorrowfully his self-denial he had not ‘Put your ear to my
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bares WOMAN’S. HEART. More the child of shame; but radiant and happy. With a home, a name, and so many friends. fo) words were needed to teli Paul of his happiness, but eta put her hand in his, and whispered so softly: “Yes, Paul.” An hour later there was a sad, yet interested sroup sitting in the great oh at Arrancourt, listening to Mrs. Vinton, as she made clear many things which were mysterious. T knew Doctor James Martin,” said she, “‘ before {married Norman Vinton. He sought my hand in marriage, and my refusal made him my enemy. But I saw nothing of him until we met in Europe. Norman was sick, and Doctor James was the only physician we could reach. He attended my hus- band and poisoned him. Then he fied, taking my two children, My nerves were weak from anxiety and long watching at Norman’s bedside, and the double shock was more than I could bear. I grew partially deranged, and wandered from place to place. In my lucid intervals I invariably planned to bring the murderer of my dear husband to justice, but ere Iwas able to accomplish much, my reason would leave me again, undoing all I had done. I adopted a child, hoping that the care might be beneficial, I assumed my maiden name, Morehouse, and gave Walter the name, too. Igrew better under the influence of his love, and when he was eighteen We came to America. I went to Willhampton, de- termined to wait until I was sure that I had strength to go on with the work I had so often attempted. Walter was taken with a desire to go to California, and I reluctantly consented. All went well for a while. Walter sent me sufficient movey for my Simple wants, but suddenly the remittances were stopped. Then came a letter, stating that he had Sent some money by a Mr, Paul Rodney, but I never received it.” Here George Matthews quickly arose, and begged Save to interrupt her one moment. _.. He money is now in the bank at Willhampton,” Said he; “put there by Paul Rodney himself soon after you went away. Why he was delayed, we will leave to be told another time.” Thank you, Mr. Matthews. I have always felt hard about that money, for it was the last that Walter ever sent me that | know of. It was but a i1e6w months afterward that a letter advised me of Walter’s death. “On the same day, or rather during the night fol- lowing, there came a rap at my door; and, on going to see who was there, I met Doctor James Martin. “What followed after that I can not teil positively, for it all seems like a dream, until I stood in the death chamber to-day. As I look at it now, my first recollection is of standing in the door of that ver room, and seeing Doctor James Martin on the bed, and an assassin standing with drawn knife over him. Then I was in another chamber. Ella was sleeping mag 2 while a woman stood ready to take her fe. That woman I do not see here now, but. it Seems that I have met her since.” e listeners looked from one to another, for they all felt that she referred to Dora. After this,” resumed Mrs. Vinton, ‘everythi is so confused that I will not attempt to relate it.” ollowing Mrs. Vinton, were explanations from Paul and Meta, and from Mr. Martin, taking up the entire day. And here will we leave them, and pass over the in- terval to the present. ; Paul Rodney and Meta now live at Willhampton in an elegant mansion adjacent to Charles Matthews’s ome; and Paul manages the banki as Charles Matthews hoped he would. George is there, too, a truly penitent man, and nobly trying to make amends for his _ errors. Moe Vinten and Hila live at Arrancourt with : rs. Vinton, And we must not omit Prince. He ee the liberty of the estate, an honored retainer, but growing old, as we all are doing. : Dora never returned to her father, for the insanity Which we must charitably believe influenced her in and she nor peace her linc aac v € im an asylum, raving of her disappointments. ‘ Allan WY business just entworth, her willing tool, broke awa from her allurements, and year: Idier” J. Thus we bid them all good-by. aa e: THE END. vues > Sunnyside Library 4 Tur Lapy or rue Lake. Sir Walter Scott... 10c. 5 Luciuz. By Owex Meredith... 6 Unpixe or, THE WarTeER-Spirrr, From the German of Friederich De La Motte Fouque... 10¢ For sale by all newsdealers, or sent, postage paid, en receipt of twelve ‘cents for single numbers. double numbers twenty-four cents, ADAMS, VICTOR & CO., Publishers, o ym street, Ney. 1 Lata Rooks. By Thomas Moore........... 10c. * Don Juan, By Lord Byron... 1.00.2... .. 20¢. 3 Parapise Lost. By John Milton............. 10e. THE 15 BEADLE & ADAMS’ Half-Dime Singer's Library STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS. 1 Wuoa, Emma! and 59 other Songs. 2 Caprain Curr and 57 other Songs. 3 Tue Gartnsporo’ Hat and 62 other Songs. 4 JoHNNY Morcan and 60 other Songs. 5 Tui Strmke You Wiru A FEATHER and 62 others. 6 GrorcEe THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs. 7 Tue BELLE oF Rockaway and 52 other Songs. 8 Youne FeLiau, You’re Too FresxH and 60 others. 9 SHy Youne Giri and 65 other Songs. 10 I’ tHE GovEeRNOoR’s ONLY Son and 58 other Songs. 11 My Fan and 65 other Songs. 12 Comm’ THRO’ THE Rye and 55 other Songs. 18 Tar RoxniicKre IrtsHman and 59 other Songs. 14 Ourp Doe Tray and 62 other Songs. 15 WxHoa, Cuaruie and 59 other Songs. 16 In Te1s WHeEat By anv By and 62 other Songs. 17 Nancy Lee and 58 other Songs. 18 I’m THE Boy THAT’s BounD To Buaze and 57 others. 19 Taz Two OrpHANS and 59 other Songs. 20 WHAT ARE THE Wi~tp Waves Sayine, SIsTER? and 59 other Songs. 21 Inpiawant Potty Woe and 59 other Songs. 22 Tar OLtp ArM-CHAIR and 58 other Songs. 23 On Conry IsLanD Bracu and 58 other Songs. 24 Op Smmon, THE Hor-Corn Man and 60 others. 25 I’m mn Love and 56 other Songs. 23 PARADE OF THE GUARDS and 56 other Songs. 27 Yo, Hravz, Ho! and 60 other Songs. 28 *Twiii Never po To Gre ir up So and 60 others. 29 Biuur Bonnets Over THE Borper and 54 others. 30 Tar Merry Lavauine Man and 56 other Songs. 31 Swreer Forerer-me-Nor and 55 other Songs. 32 LeprLe Basy Mine and 53 other Songs. 33 Dr Bango AM DE INSTRUMENT FOR Mz and 53 others. 34 Tarry and 50 other Songs. 35 Just TO PLEASE THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 36 SKATING ON ONE IN THE GUTTER and 52 others. 37 KoLtorEeD Kranks and 59 other Songs: 38 Nix DesPpERANDUM and 53 other Songs. 39 Tax Giri I Lerr Beninp ME and 50 other Songs. 40 "Tis sur A Lirrie Fapep FiLower and 50 others. 41 Pretry WHILHELMINA and 60 other Songs. 42 DANCING IN THE Barn and 63 other Songs. 43 H. 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ee 1 The Masked Bride Him. Mrs. Mi ri tOTT) eee ey J bd LIBRARY S Of Notable Works by Notable Authors. Beautifully printed in the popular folio form, from clear, open type, each r issue a complete novel and sold at the uniform price of TEN CENTS EACH. No double price on double or extra sizé numbers. 1 Was SHE His Wire? Mrs. Mary R. Crowell.... 10c 2 FLeEeInc From Love. By Harriet Irving...... 10¢ 8 Dm HE Love Her? Bartley T. Campbell..... 10c 4 A STRANGE Woman. By Rett Winwood. .... 10¢ 6 Two Girts’ Lives. By Mrs. Mary R. Crowell.. 10¢ 9 Taz War or Hearts. Corinne Cushman,.... 10¢ 11 Tue Fatse Wipow. Mrs. J. D. Burton. ...... 10¢ x 12-13 Lost ror Lovg. Miss M. E. Braddon.,...... 10¢ a 14-15 Torters or THE SEA. By Victor Hugo...... 10¢ Fi 16 THe QcapRoon. By Catharine A Warfield.... 10c , 17-18 Unctm Smas. By J. S. Le Fanu ........... 10¢ 19-20 Deap-SnA Fruit. Miss M. E. Braddon...... 10e 21-22 Lirrue Kate Kirpy. F. W. Robinson....... 10¢ 23 SowING THE Winp. Mrs. Mary R. 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By Rett Winwood......... 10, \e "4 ApRIA, THE ApopTeD. By Jennie D. Burton.. 10¢ 5 PRETTY AND Proup. By Corinne Cushman. . 10c % Tar BirterR Frvup. By Jennie D. Burton...... 10¢ WA Woman’s Work; or, The Adventures of a Young Girl. By Mrs. E. F. Ellett.. . 1 %8 Tar Biack Rmpie; or, Girlish Charms and Golden Dowers. Corinne Cushman. Dec. 2.. 10c A new issue every two weeks. For sale by al! newsdealers, or sent, postage paid, on receipt of twelve cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William street, N. Y. Price, % &e By By Alice { 43 The Baronet’s Secret: or, Tue Rtv. HAs-SIsTEr. Sara Claxton. a 44 The Only oo ee : or, BRorHER AGAINST LovEr. eming. 45 Her Hidden Som Love at Att Opps, Bartle; Campbell. ine. Ara | aA Brave Heart; or, rARTLINGLY Sreanas. | 25 Only a Schoolmistress; or, Har UNTOLD By Arabella Southwort ot By Arabella Southworth. ECRET. By Arabella Southworth. 46 The Little Heiress; or, Unper 4 Croup. ae Hessic Raynor, the Work Girl. By | 26 Without a Heart: or, WALKING ON THE By Mrs. M. A. Denison. Wm. Mason waver’ M. D. Brinx. By Prentiss Ingraham, 47 Because She Loved Him; or, How Wu. : 6 feo Secret pgm we e3 ies DucHeEss Iv | 27 Was ye ie i eg od i ee: A STRANGE CouRT- ir Env. By Alice Fleming. or ELF. ra mn. SHIP. enrie’ ackeray. * ” A Dau iter « of Eve 3,08, Buinpep By Love. | 28 Sybil Chase tor, Tur GaMBLER’s Wire. By | 48 ae ure. gece boo” JENNETTE’S Rep- rowell, Mrs. Ann 8, Stephens. . . > rrom Hm- | 49 His HMeart’s Mistress; or, Love ar Fr _ § Heart to Heart; or, Farm Pays’ Love. | 29 For Her Dear Sake: or, SAVED esr, By Arabella Sauthwo: aE. RST 9 Alone in the World; or, Tae Youna Man’s ire ‘aRD. By the author of “ Clifton.” 410A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, THE EMERALD HOKLACE. By Rose Kennedy. 11 Eee ghia or, A Dangerous Game. By ; . “ss oa Arabella Southworth. :: Wy, on. By Mrs. Madcap, the nne hman. Why I Married Him: or, Taz Woman In Gray. By Sara Claxton. 15 A Fair Face; or, Our IN THE WorLD. By Bartley T. eg Hl. 16 ican ta pie} ot; or, Tae True Knicut. By e : Leicester. 17 A Tue LAST OF THE Loyal Lover} or, RIMSP . By Arabella Southworth. 18 His cog Be THE Int-STARRED MARRIAGE. By : Mrs. Mary owell, * (19 ‘The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Hare. B Grace Halpine. . _ 20 Orphan Ne 1, the Orange Girl; or, THE ; WircHes or NEw York. Agile Penne. 21 Now and Forever; or, Way Dip Sne Marry Hm. By Henrietta Thackeray. 37 The Country Consin THA SELF. By Sara Claxton. 30 The Bou uet Girl: or, A Mion or Money. B e Penne. 31 A Mad Marriage: or, Tae Iron WitL. By Mrs. M A. Dennison. ary 32 Miriana, the Prima Donna: or, Roszs AnD Litres. By A. Southworth. 33 ‘The Three Sisters: or. THe MysTERY OF Lorp CHALront. By Alice Fleming. 34 A Marriage of Convenience: or, Was He A Count? By Sara Claxton. 35 Sinned Against: or, Tae WINTHROP PRIDE. By Clara Augusta. 36 Sir Archer’s Bride: or, THz Queen or His Heart. By Arabella Southworth. or, ALL Is Nor GoLp T GuitrErS. By Rose Kennedy. 38 His Own Again; or, Trust Her Not. By Arabella Southworth. 39 Flirtation; or, A Youne Girv’s Goop NAME. BY Ralph Royal. 40 he Marry; or, In Love’s Bonps. ee on. 41 Blind Devotion; or, Love AGAINST THE Wortp. By Alice Fleming. i 42 Beatrice, the Beautiful: or, His SEconp Love. By A. Southworth. ee 50 Whe Cuban Heiress; or, Toe Prisoner or LaVintressp. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 51 Two Young Girls; or, Tar Brip Fant, By Alice Fleming.” is Nesey 52 The Winged Messenger 3 or, R For A Heart. By Mrs. Mary Reed aor 53 Alice Hope, the Actress; MANCE OF A Rusy Ringe. By W. M Torna Meo 54 One Woman’s Heart; or, Savep Fro THE Street. By George S. Kaime. Nov. 238d. 55 She Did Not Love Him; or, STOOPING TO Congurr. By Arabelia Southworth. Nov. 30th, 56 Love-Mad3 or, BerrorHep, MARRIED AND Drvorcep AND ——. By W. M. Turner. Dee. 7. 57 A Brave Girl; or, Sunsume at Last. B, Alice Fleming. Ready December 14th. . A new issue every week. Tae WAVERLEY Lisrary is for sale by all News- dealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. BEADLE AND ADAMS Publishers, 98 William street, New York,