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VOL. XIV.
GIVING IITMARRIAGE.
Come, tot us sit together for a space, *
In this still room remote from friendly
mirth.
Afar from lijrht and music, face to face.
Each unto each the dearest thina on earth.
Love, they have left us, our two bonny brides.
Our tall, grave girl, our winsome, laughing
pet;
Ah me! Flow wide the chasm that divides
Our life from theirs; how lar their feet are
set
From the calm path they trod with us so long.
How we shall miss them, we who loved them
CO,
On winter nights when winds arc blowing
strong.
On summer mornings, when the roses blow.
But—happy but—we still clasp hand in hand.
Bye still meets eye and true hearts unaer- j
stand.
Love, they have left us empty of the mirth
That cheered our homestead while they so
journed here;
Yea, they have left us lonely on the earth.
Lone, but together, solitude most dear;
AH. God. go with them to the stranger nests.
That love has built for them and theirs
to come.
CkK* keep all warm and living in their hreat
Love’s holy tinme. the altar-fire of home.
Dear, they have left us; we no longer hold
The first, best place, however leal each
heart.
Yet have we treasure left, refined gold.
Love's sterling ore, without its baser part,
She wide old house has lost its nest.ing birds,
ut we are left. Ah, love, what need or
word 6?
—All the Year Round.
Dark Days.
CHAPTER m.
* "the wages or sin.”
Morning! No books; no idle, listless
hours for ine to-day. Plenty to do, plenty
to think about; all sorts of arrangements to
make. Farewell to my moody, sullen life.
Farewell to my aimless, selfish existence.
Henceforward i should have something
worth living for—worth dying for, if needs
be! Philippa was coming tome to-day;
coming In grief, it is true; coining as a sis
ter comes to a brother. Ah! after all the
weary, weary waiting, I shall see her to-day
—to-morrow, every day!
Although Philippa would grace my poor
cottage for one night only, I had a thousand
preparations to make for her comfort. For
tunate')* 1 had a jpnre room, and, moreover,
a furnished one. Not that l should hare
troubled, when I went into my seclusion,
about such superfluity as a guest-chamber;
but as it happened 1 had bought the house
•and the furniture complete; so I could offer
DW welcome guest fair accommodation for
the night.
I summoned my stolid man. 1 told him
that ray sister was coming on a visit to me;
that sue would sleep here to-night, but that
most likely we should go away to-morrow,
lie could stay and look afier the house un
til I returned or et him instructions wlmt
to do with it. William manifested no sur
prise. Had Ito and him to make preparati- s
for the coming of my wife and five children,
he would have considered it all a part of the
day’s work, and would have done his best to
meet tny requirements.
He set to work in his imperturbable,
methodical, hut handy way to get Philippa’s
room In trim. As soon as this was done,
and the neglected chamber made cosy and
warm-looking, I told him to be r ow a horse
ar.d cart somewhere, and fecli the luggage
from Airs. Wilson’s. He was to nr-ntion
no names; simply to say that he had come
for the luggage, ami to ask if the lady had
mnv message to send.
William was away about two hours; then
he made his appearance with some box s. I
was delighted to see these tangible signs
that Philippa meant to keep her promise.
Till that moment 1 had been tioub ed by
b< inething like tlie doubt that after all she
might, upon cilm reflection, rescind the
resolution formed in her excitement. Now
her coming scene and to be a ceitainty.
Nevertheless, William brought no mes-*
sage; so there was nothing for ine to do but
wait patiently until she chose to cross my
threshold.
Although my pleasing labors of love were
ended, I was not left idle. Tncre was an
other task to be done to-day. 1 set my teeth
and sat down, thinking quietly as to the way
In which ll might be best performed. To
night I meant to stand face to face with
that black-hearted scoundrel known as Sir
Mervyn Fcrrand I
I consulted the time table. His letter
named no particular hour: but I saw that if
he carried out his expressed intention of be
ing here to-night, there was but one tram
by which he c mid coine; there was but cue
way from Koding to the house at which
Philippa had been staying, lie meant to
walk, ids letter said ; this might be in order
to escape observation. The train was due
at R ding at seven o'clock. The weather
was cod; a man would naturally walk fast
Mrs. Wilson’s house must be four miles
from the station. L*t me start from there
just before the train arrives, and I should
probably meet lihn about half way on his
journey. It would be dark, but I should
know him. I should know him among a
thousand. There on the open lonely road
Sir Mervyn Ferraml, coming gavlv, ami in
■his worldly cynicism curtain of cajoling,
buying off. or in some other way silencing
the woman who hail in an evil day tru.st.ed
to his Junior and love, would meet, not her,
but the man who from the first had sworn
that a wrong to Philippa should be more
lhaa a wroi.g to himself! He would meet
this man and be called to account.
1 designed no murderous attack. But it
was my Intention to stop the man on his
path; to conf; out him and tell him that his
villainy was known to me; that Philippa
toad fled to me fur aid; that she was now in
my custody; and that I, who stood in the
position of tier brother, demanded the so
called satisfaction which, by the old-fash
ioned code of honor, was due from the m in
who Jiad ruthlessly betrayed awoman. Well
1 knew that it was probable he would laugh
at me—tell me that thedaysof dueling wear'
over, and refuse to grant my request. Then
I meant to see if insults could warm ids
noble blood; if my hand on his cheek could
bring about the result which I desired. If
this failed, I would follow him abroad, cane
him and spit upon him in public places.
Truly, as I said, I had now plenty to live
fori
The hours went by, yet Philippa came
not. I grew restless and uneasy as the dusk
began to make the road, ap which I gazed
almost continually, dim and indistinct.
When the short winter’s day was over, and
the long dark night had fairly begun, my
rest essness turned into fear. I walked outof
my house and paced my garden to and fro.
I blsm and myself for having yielded so light
ly to Philippa’s wish—her command rather
—that I should on no account fetch her.
But then, whenever did I resist a wish,
•ouch less a command, of hers? Oh, that I
had been firm this once!
The snow-storm of the previous evening
had not lasted Jong—not long enough to
thoroughly whiten the world. The day had
been fine and frosty, but 1 knew that the
wind had changed since the sun w ent down.
It was warmer, a chance which I felt sure
presaged a heavy downfall of snow or rain.
There was a m<w>n, a fitful m°on; for cloud®
were (1 ring across it, dark clouds, which I
guessed would soon gather coherence and
volume, and veil entirely that bright face,
which now only showed itself at irregular
intervals.
The minutes were pacing away. I grew
nervous and excited. Why does she not
come? My hope had been to see my poor
girl safely housed before I started to execute
roy other task. Why does she not come?
Tune, precious time, is slipping by! In the
hope of meeting her, I walked for some dis
tance up the road. "Why does she delay?”
I groaned. Even now I should be on my
way to Boding, or I may miss my prey.
Heavens! can It be that she is waiting to
see th' man price more? NevftJ j
perish me mougnti
But, all the same, every fiber in rr.y body
quivered at the bare supposition of such a
thing.
I could bear the suspense no longer. For
the hundredth time I glanced at my watch.
It wanted but ten minutes to seven o’clock,
and that hour I had resoiv.*d to start from
Mrs. Wilson’s, on my way to Boding. Yet
now 1 dared not leave my own house. Any
moment might bring Pnilippa. What would
she think if 1 was not there to receive and
welcome her?
Fiv* more precious minutes gone! I
stamped in my rage. After all, I can only
do one-haif of mv task; the sweet, but no;
the stem half. Shall 1, indeed, do either?
The train must now be close to Boding. In
an hour everything may be lost. The man
will see her before she leaves the house. Ho
will persuade her. She will listen to hfa
words; for did he not once lovelier? Ho
must have loved her! Alter all, he bruko
the iaws for the sake of possessing her, and
—cursed thought!—she loved him then; and
she is but a woman!
So I tortured myself until my slate of
mind grew unbearable. At nil hazards I
must prevent Ferr&nd from meeting P.iiiip
pa. Oh, why had she not come as sue
promised? Could it be she was detained
against her will? In spite of her uninter
ested manner, 1 distrusted the woman I had
seen last night. It is now past seven o'clock*
Philippa’s house, from which I had reckon
ed my time, was nearly three miles away. I
must give up mv sc.u*me of vengeance. I
must go in search of Philippa, if I do not
meet her I must call at Mrs. Wilson’s, find
out what a- tains her, and if needful bear
her away by ii ce.
By this time my steps had brought me
back to my own house. I called Wiliam,
and told Dim 1 was going to walk up tne
road and meet my expected guest. If by
any chance I should miss her, he was to
welcome her on my behalf, and tell her the
reason for my absence.
"Best take a lantern, sir,” said William;
"moon’ll be hidden, and them roads is pre
vious rough.”
"I can’t be bothered with that great horu
affair,*' I “aid. rather tet.ilv.
’Take the little one—the bull’s eye—that’s
better than nothing,” said William. To
humor him I put it Into my pocket.
I ran at the top of my speed to the house
at which I had last night left Philippa. It
took me nearly half nn hour getting there.
I rang the beli impetuously. The door was
opened by a maidservant. 1 Inquired for
Mrs. Farmer, knowing that Philippa had
passed under this name to all except her
hostess. To my surprise I was told that she
had left the house, on foot and alone, some
little while ago. The maid believed she was
not going to return, as her luggage had that
morning been sent for.
The first effect of tills intelligence was to
cause me to blame my haste. I must have
missed her; no doubt passed heron the road.
No; such a thing was impossible. The way
was a narrow one. The moon still gave
some light If I had met Philippa, 1 must
have seen her. She mu*t have seen me, and
would then have stopped me. She could not
have gone tlie way 1 came.
As I turned from the house 1 became
aware that a great and sudden change had
c mie over the n giit It seemed to me that,
even in the few minutes which I had spent
in considering what to do, the heavy clouds
had banked ami massed together. It was
all but pitch-dark; so dark that I paused,
and drawing from mv pocket the lantern
with which William's foresight had provid
ed me, managed after several trials to light
it. Then, impatient at the delay, I sped up
the road.
I was now almost facing the wind. All at
once, sharp and quick, 1 felt the blinding
snow on my face. The wind moaned through
the leafless branches on either side of the
road. The snow-flakes whirled madly here
and there. Even in my excitement I was
able to r* adze the fact that never before had
1 seen in E )gland so fierce a snow-storm, or
one which came on so suddenly. And, like
myself, Philippa was abroad, and exposed
to its full fuiy. Heavens! she might lose
her way, and wander about all night
This fear quickened my steps. 1 forced
my way on through the mad storm. For the
time all thought of Sir Mervyn Ferrandand
vengeance left my heart. All I now wanted
was to find Philippa; to lead her home, and
see her safe beneath my roof. "Surely,” I
said, as I battled along, "site cannot have
gone much further.”
I kept a sharp look-out—lf, indeed, it can
be called a look-out; for the whirling enow
made everything, save what was within a
few feat of me. invisible. I strained my
ears to catch the faintest cry or other sound.
I went on, flashing my lantern first on one
ami then on the other side of the road. My
dread was that Philippa, utterly unable to
light against the white tempest, might be
crouching under one of the banks, and if so
I might pass without seeing her or even at
tracting her attention. My doing so on such
a night as this might mean her death.
Oh, why had sue not come as promised?
Why had she gone to meet the nan who
had so foully wronged her? After what had
happened, she could not,dan and not love him.
And for a dreary comfort I recalled the ut
ter bitterness of her arc nt last night when
she turned to me and said, "Basil, did you
ever hate a man?” No, she could not love
him!
I halted, irresolute, in the center of the
road. Instinctively I beat my hands to
gether to promote circulation. I had left
my home hurriedly, and had made no pro*
vision fur the undergoing of such an ordeal
as this terrible, unprecedented snow-storm
itifl cted. In pile of the speed at which I
had traveled, m hands and feet were grow
ing numbed, my face smarted with the cold.
Heaven help ine to decide aright, whether
to go on or turn back 1
The decision was not left to me. Sudden
ly. close at hand, 1 heard a wild peal, a
scream of laughter which made my blood
run cold. Swift from the whining, tossing,
drifting snow emerged a tall gray figure. It
swept past me like t ie wind; but as it pass
ed me 1 knew that my quest was ended—
that Philippa was found!
Site vanished in a second, before the ter
ror which rooted me to the spot had passed
away. Then I turned ami, fast as 1 could
run, followed iter, crying as I went, "Pnilip
pa 1 Philippa!”
1 soon overtook her; but so dark was the
night that I was almost touching her before
I saw her shadowy, ghost like form. I
threw my arms round her and held her. She
struggled violently in my grasp.
"P.dlippa, dearest! it Di, Basil,” I said,
bending close to her ear.
I The sound of my voice seemed to calm
her, or I should rather say she ceased to
struggle.
‘Thank neaven, I have found you!” I
said. "Let. us get back as soon as possible.”
"Back! No! Go on, go on!” she exclaim
ed. "On, on, on, up the road yet awhile—
on through the storm, t hrough t lie snow—on
till you see what I have left behind me! On
till you sec the wages of sin—the wages of
sin!”
Her words came like bullets from amltral
lense. Through the night I could see her
face gleaming whiter than the snow on her
hoo<i. I could see her great, fixed, dark
eyes full of nameless horror.
"Dearest, be calm,” I said, and strove to
take her hands in mine.
As I tried to gain possession of her right
hand something fell from it, and, although
the road was now coated with snow, a me
tallic sound rang out as it touched the
ground. Mechanically I stooped and pick
ed up the fallen object
As I did so Philippa with a wild cry
wrested herself from the one hand whose
numbed grasp still sought to retain her, and
with a frenzied reiteration of the words,
"The wages of sin!” fled from me, and was
lost in the night
Even as l rushed in trarsni* I shuddered
THOMSON, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, APRIL ‘29, 1885.
as the sense of feeling told me what thing
it was I had picked up from the snowy
ground. It was a small pistol! Cold as the
touch of the metal must have been, it seem
ed to burn me like a coal of tire. Impulsive
ly, thoughtlessly, as I ran I hurled the wea
pon from u\e, far, far away. Why should
it have been in Philippa's hand this night?
I ran madly on, but not for long. My foot
caught in a stone, amt I fell, half stunned
and quite breathless, to the ground. It was
some minutes before I recovered myself
sufficiently to once more stand erect. Philip
pa must have obtained a start which, cni pled
with her frenzied speed, almost precluded
the possibility of my overtaking her.
Moreover, a strange, uncontrollable im
pulse swayed me. The touch of that deadly
weapon still burned my hand. Philippa’s
words still rang in my ears. “On, on, on,
up the road yet awhile!” she had cried.
What did she mean? What had been done
to-night?
I must retrace my steps. I must seel I
must know! Philippa is flying through the
cold, dark, deadly night; but her frame is
but the frame of a woman. She must soon
grow exhausted, perhaps sink senseless on
the road. Nevertheless, the dreadful fears
which are growing in my mind must be set
at rest; then I can resume the pursuit. At
all cost I must know what has happened!
Once more I turned and faced the storm.
Heavens! anything might happen on such a
night a® this! 1 went on ami on, flashing
my lantern as 1 went on the center and each
side of the road. I went some distance past
that sp >t where I judged that Philippa had
swept by me. Then suddenly with a cry of
horror I stopped short. At my very feet, in
the m.ddle of the highway, illumined by the
disk of light cast by my lantern, lay a whit
ened mass, and as my eye fell upon it I
knew only too well the meaning of Philip
pa's wild exclamation, ’The wages of siu I
The wages of sin!”
CHARTER IV.
AT ALL COST, SLEEP!
D*ad! Before I kneeled beside him and,
after unbuttoning his coat, laid my hand on
his breast, I knew the man was dead. Be
fore I tinned the lantern on his white face
1 knew' who the man was. Sir Mervyn Fer
raml had paid for his sin with his life I It
need and little professional skill to determine
the evse of his death. A bullet fired, it
seemed to me, nt close quarters had passed
absolutely through the heart. He must
have fallen without a moan. Ki ! led, 1 knew,
by the hand of the woman he had wronged.
It cou ! d not be true! It should not be truo!
Yet 1 shuddered as I remembered the pas
sion she bad thrown into those words, "Basil,
did you ever hate a man?” I gave a low cry
of anguish as I remembered how 1 had
hurled from me the pistol she had let fail—
the very weapon which had done the dread
ful deed.
Killed by Philippa! Not in a sudden burst
of uncontrollable passion, but with deliber
ate Intent. She must have gone armed to
ureet him. She must have shot him through
tne heart; must have seen him fall. Then,
•n!y then, the horrible deed which she had
wrought must have b *en fully realized I
.'non she had turned and fl and from the spot
in a frsiZ’. Oh, my poor girl! my poor girl!
U t vlv bewildered oy my angs ish, I rose
i >m my knees and stood tor a while beside
i • corpse. It was in that moment 1 learn
how lurch I real v loved the woman who
had done this tiling. Over all my grief and
horror this love rose paramount. At all cost
I must save her—save her from the hands
of justice; save her from the fierce elements
which her tender frame was even nt this
moment braving. Bight or wrong, she was
the woman I loved; and I swore 1 would
save her from tin* consequences of her crime,
even—Heaven help me!—if the accusation,
when made, must fall upon my shoulders.
Yet it was not the beginning of any
scheme to evade justice which induced me
to raise the dead body and bear it to the
side of the road, where I placed it under the
low bank on which the hedge grew. It was
the reverence which one pays to death made
me do this. I could not leave the poor
wretch lying In the very middle of the high
way, for the first passer-by to stumble
against To-morrow he would, oi course,
be found. To-morrow the hue and cry
would he out! To-morrow Philippa, my
Philippa, would Oh, heavens! never,
never, never!
So I laid wiiat was left of Sir Mervyn Fer
raml reverentially bv the side of the lonely
road. I even tried to close his glassy eyes,
and I covered his face with his own hand
kerchief. Then, with heart holding fear
and anguish enough for a lifetime, I turned
and went in search of the poor unhappy
girl.
Where should I seek her? Who knew
what her remorse nay have urged her to
do? Who kii w whither her horror may
have driven her? It needs but to find Philip
pa lifeless oil the road to complete the
heaviest tale of grief which can be exacted
from one man in one short night! I clinch
ed my teeth and rushed on.
1 .had the road ali to myself. No one was
abroad in such weather. Indeed, few per
sons were seen at night in any weather in
this lonely p art of the country. I made
straight for iny own house. The dismal
thought came tome, that unless Philippa
kept the road she was lost to me forever. If
she strayed to the right or to the left, how
on such a night could I po sibly find her?
My one hope was, that slip would go straight
to my cottage; so thither I made the be-t of
my way. If she had not arrived, I must get
what assistance I could, and seek for
her in the fields to the right and left of the
road. It was a dreary comfort to remember
that all the ponds and spaces of water were
frozen six inches thick!
I hesitated a moment when*! reached her
late residence. Should I inquire if she had
returned thither? No; when morning re
vealed the ghastly event of the night, my
having done so would awake suspicion. Let
me first go home.
Home at last. In a moment I shall know
the worst I opened the slide of my lantern,
which was still alight, and threw the rays
on the natli which led to mv door. Mv heart
gave a great bound of thankfulness. There
on the snow, not yet obliterated by more re
cent flakes, were the prints of a small foot,
Philippa, as I prayed but.scarcely dared to
hope she might, had come straight to my
house.
Sly man opened the door for me. It was
well l had seen those foot-prints, as iny
knowledge of Philippa’s arrival enabled me
to as-mne a natural air.
“My sister has c une?” I asked.
"Yes, sir; about a quarter of an hour ago.”
“We mi§sed each other on the road.
What a night!” I said, throwing off my
snow-covered coat.
"Where is she now?” I asked.
“In the sitting-room, sir.” Then, lower
ing his voice, Wi liarn added, “She seemed
just about in a tantrum when she found you
weren’t at home. I expect we shall find her
a hard Jady to please.”
William, in spite of his stolidity, occasion
ally ventured upon some liberty when ad
dressing me.
His words greatly surprised me. I forced
myself to make some laughing rejoinder;
then 1 turned the handle of the door and
entered the room in which Philippa had
taken refuge.
Oh, how my heart throbbed! What would
she say to me? What could I, fresh from
that dreadful scene, say to her? Would she
excuse or palliate, would she simply con
fess or boldly justify, her crime? Would
she plead her wrongs in extenuation? Would
the assert that in a moment of ungovernable
rage she had done the deed? No matter
what she said; she was still Philippa, and
even at the cost of my own life and honor I
would save her.
Yet as 1 advanced Into the room a shud
der ran through mo. Freh to mv mind
came the reinemoranc ! of that white face,
that still form, lying as I had left it, with
the pure white snow falling thickly around
it.
Philippa was sitting in front of the fire.
Her hat was removed her dark hair dis
heveled and gleaming wet with the si\ow
which had melted in it. She must have seen
me enter ami close the door,!but she took no
notice. As I approached her she turned her
shoulder upon me in a pettish way, and as
one who by the action means to signify dis
pleasure. I came to her side and stood over
her, waiting for her to lo kup and speak
first She must speak firstl What can I
say, after all that has happened to-night?
But she kept a stony silence—kept her
eyes still turned from mine. At last I call
ed her by her name, and bending down,
looked into her face.
Its expression was one of sullen anger,
and moreover, auger which seemed to deep
en as she heard my voice. She made a kind
of contemptuous gesture, as it waving me
aside.
"Philippa,” I said, as stefnly as I could,
"speak to me!”
I laid my hand upon her arm. She shook
it off fiercely, and then started to her feet.
"You ask me to speak to you,” she said;
"you who have treated me like this l Oh, it
is shamefu I shameful! 1 come through
storm and snow—come to you, who were to
welcome me as a brother! Where are you?
Away, your wretched servant tells me.
Why are you away? I trusted you! Oh,
you are a pretty brother! If you had cared
for me or respected me, you would have
been here to greet m*. N>\ you are all in
a 1 ague—all in a league to ruin me 1 Now
lam here, what will you do? Poison me,
of course I kill ine, and make away with me,
even as that other doctor killed and made
away with my poor child? He did 1 I say
he did! i saw him do it! 4 A child of shame,*
lie said; so, he killed It! All, all, all,—even
you—you, whom 1 trusted—leagued against
me!”
She was trembling with excitement. Her
words ran one into the other. It was ns
much as I could do to follow them; yet the
above is but a brief condensation of what
she said. With unchecked volubility she
continued to heap reproaches and accusa
tions, many of which were of the most ex
travagant and frivolous nature, on my head.
At last she was silent, and reseated herself
in her former attitude; and the sullen, dis
contented, ill-used look again settled on her
face.
And yet, although I, who loved her above
nil the world, was the obj ct of her lie ce
reproaches, no words I had ns yet listem and
to came more sweetly to my ear than these.
A great joy swept through me; a tide of re
lief lore me to comparative happiness.
Whatever dreadful deed the poor girl had
that night ace uiplished, she was morally
innocent. Pnilippa was not accountable for
her actions! She was mad when she broke
from my grasp; she was mad now as she
sat by my fire, eying mo with m nos *, sus
picious glances. She was mad—and inno
cent !
llcr manner toward me troubled me but
little. It is a well-known peculiarity of the
and seaso that, the patient turns with hatred
from those who were the nearest and dear
est to her. Fils of sullen, stubborn silence,
alternating with fierce outburstsof vitupera
tion, are the most common e araeterlstics of
the mania. Hideous, startling as it is to
s*'e the change wrought m the stiff *ivr, tin*
malady is by no means of such an la ruling
nature as it seems. In fact the iimj u*ity ol
cases are treated with perfect si c ess.
But all this is professional talk. Again I
say that the discovery of Philippa's state of
mind*was an burn *nse relief to me. My con
science was cleared of a weight which was
pressing upon it. L felt braced up to use
every effort, and thoroughly justified in fol
lowing whatever course I thought best.
Moreover, anew relat ionahip w*as now estab
lished between I'h.lippa and .myself. For
awhile ev ry feeling save one mast he ban
ished. We were now doctor and patient.
After much persuasion, 1 indue and her to
let me feel her puls *. As 1 expected, I
found it up nearly to one hundred and
twenty. This did not alarm me much, as in
the course of my practice I had seen several
of these eases. Tin* preliminary treatment
was simple as A DC; at all cost sleep must
be obtained.
Fortunately, I had a well-stocked medi
cine-chest. In a few minutes I had prepared
the strongest dose of opium which I dared
to administer. Ju such acase as the present
I knew that no driblets would avail; sol
measured out no less than sixty drops of
laudanum. Sleep the girl must have. That
poor seething, boil ng bra n mil l by artifi
cial means be forced to rest for hours. After
that rest I should be able to say wiiat chance
there was of saving life ami reason.
But preparing a dose of medicine, and
making a patient like this take it, arc two
different things. I tried every art, every
persuasion. I implored and commanded. I
threatened and insisted. Philippa was ob
durate. Pooreoull she knew I meant to
poison her. On my part, I knew that unless
•she swallowed that narcotic to-night, her
case was all but hopeless.
I rested for awhile; then I sent for luke
warm water. After some resistance she
suffered ine to bathe her throbbing temples.
The refreshing coolness which followed the
operation was so grateful to her that she let
me repeat the action again and again. A
soft and more contented look settled on her
beautiful face.
I seized the moment. Once more I pressed
the portion upon her. This time successful
ly. My heart trembled with joy as I saw
her swallow the drug. Now she might be
saved!
I still continued the comforting laving of
her temples, and waited until the drug took
its due effe ct. By and by that momentcame.
The large dark eyes closed, the weary head
sank heavily on my shoulder, and I knew
that Philippa had entered upon a term of
merciful oblivion.
I waited until her sleep was sound as the
sleep of death; then I summoned my man.
I had already told him that my sister was
very ill. Between us we bore her to her
room and laid her on the bed. I loosened
her dress, cut the w< t boots from her cold
feet, did all I could to promote warmth and
such comfort as was possible under the cir
cumstances. Then 1 left her. sleeping that
heavy sleep which I prayed might last un
broken for hours, and hours, and hours.
CHAPTER V.
A WHITE TOMB.
From the moment when the true state of
Pni ippa’s mind flashed upon me, to the
nr incut when I loft her sleepingthat heavy
sleep, I had little time to think of anything
else than the best means of saving her life,
and, if possible, her reason. True, through
out the whole of my operations to effect this
end, a dim sort of horror prevaded me—a
recollection of the chastly obj *ot which lay
on the. roadside, som j three miles from us;
but it was not until I turned from my pa
tient’s door that the terrible situation in
which she was placed presented itself tome
In ail its dread entirety. Half broken-heart
ed, I threw myself wearily into my chair,
and covered my far * with my hands.
Any hope of removing Philippa—there,
put it in plain words-—any hope of flight,
for days, even weeks, was vain. Let every
thing go as well as Cali be in such cases, the
girl must be kept in seclusion and qu.et for
nt least a fortnight or three weeks. I groan
ed as I thought of what would hap)>en if
Pill lppa was arrested and carried before
the magistrates, accused of the awful crime.
From that moment until the day of her
death she would be insane.
Yet, what help was there for it? The mo
ment the deed is known—the moment Mrs.
Wilson learns that Sir Mervyn Ferrand has
been found shot through the heart, she w ill
let It be known that Ladv Ferrand i at
nana; ana rerratid, who lias been
parsing under the name of Mrs. Farmer,
will be sought and found. And then!
Even if she did not die at once—even if
she recovered—oh, the shame of the trial!
No Jury could or would convict her; but for
Philippa, my queen, to stand in the dock, to
plead for her life. To know that, whether
convicted or acquitted, the deed was done
by her. To know that all England is talk
ing of her wrongs and her vengeance. Hor
rible 1 Horrible! It shall never be. Bather
will 1 give her a draught of opium heavy
enough to close her eyes forever. There will
be plenty more of the drug left for me!
Fool that I was! Why did Ido things by
halves? Why, for her sake, did I not hide
the dead man where none would find him?
Why did I not rifle his pockets, so that sus
picion should have pointed to a vulgar mur
derer; someone who had killed hitn for
mere plunder? Why did I not, at least de
stroy any let ters or papers which were about
him? Identification might then have been
rendered difficult, and p rhaps been delayed
for weeks. In that time I might have saved
her.
Why do I not do this now? I started to
my feet; then sank back into iny chair. No;
not even for Philippa's sake could I go again
to that spot. If L did so, I should return as
mad as she is now.
Not being able to bring myself to adopt
the grewsome alternative, I could do noth
ing, save wait events—nothing, at least, to
avert the consequences of her delirious act
But for her something must be done. llow
could she, in her frenzied state, be left here
—her only companions two men? Nurses
must be at once procured. I summoned
William, and told him he must go to Lon
don by the first train in the morning.
William would have received my instruc
tions to go to the Antipodes with impertur
bability. He merely expressed a doubt as
to whether any one would be able to get to
London to-morrow on account of the snow.
I walked to the window and looked out.
The night was still one mad whirl of
snow-flakes. The window-panes were half
covered by such ns managed to find a rest
ing-place there. As I watched what 1 could
see of the wild white dance, I found myself
thinking that by now that dead man on the
road must be covered an inch—must have
lost shape and outline. 1 shivered as I turn
ed away.
"They are sure to keep the line to town
open,” I said. “If you can get to Boding,
you can get to Loudon.”
"Oh. I can get to Boding right enough I”
said William.
Then I told him what he was to do. lie
was to take a letter to one of the Nursing
Institutions, and bring back two nurses with
him. No matter what tie weather was
when they reached Boding, they were to
?ometn my house at once, even if they had
to hire twenty horses to drag them there,
lte was also to get mo a few drugs which 1
might want.
William said no more. lie nodded, to
show that lie understood me; and I knew
that if it were possible to do my bidding it
would be done.
Of his own accord he then brought me
food. I ate, fori knew tliat 1 should want
all my strength to support the anxiety of
the next day or two.
I stayed up the whole night. Oh, that
awful night! shall 1 ever forget it? The
solitude—the raging snow-storm outside—
the poor creature, to wiiose side 1 crept
noiselessly every half an hour. She lay
there with a face like marble, calm and
beautiful. The long, dark lashes swept her
pale cheek. The only movement was the
regular rise and fall of the bosom. Oh,
happy oblivion! Oil, dreaded wakening!
As 1 looked at her, in spito of the love I
believe that, had I thought such a prayer
would be answered, I should for her sake
have prayed that those lashes might never
again be lifted.
Morning at last broke on my dreary vigil.
Philippa still slept. I returned to the sit
ting-room and drew back the curtains from
the window. Yes; it was morning—such a
morning as leaden, wintry skies can give.
It was still snowing ns heavily, if not more
heavily, than it had snowed last night. For
twelve hours the flakes had fallen without
Intermission.
There was little wind now; it had drop
ped, I knew, about an hour ago. The world
so far as l could see, was clad in white; but
the snow lay unevenly. The wind had
blown it Into drifts. On my garden path its
depth might be counted by Indies; against
iny garden wall by feet.
William now made Ids appearance. lie
prepared some breakfast for himself, and
then, having done Justice to it, started for
Boding. It occurred to me that he might bo
the first to find the object which lay on the
roadside.
Except tliat so doing might delay him and
cause him to miss the train, this mattered
little. I was now calmly awaiting the Inev
itable. Someone must make the discovery.
However, as I wanted the nurses, I said to
him:
“Remember this is life and death. Noth
ing must stop you.” He touched his hat in
a reassuring manner, and tramped off
through the snow.
I returned to my patient’s bedside and sat
watching her, and waiting for her to awake.
Hour after hour I sat by her motionless
form. Now and again I glanced from the
beautiful, senseless face, and looking out of
the window saw the snow still falling.
Would my messenger ever be able to reach
town; if lie did so, would he be able to re
turn? I was bound to have a woman’s aid.
The presence of the roughest daughter of
the plow would be welcome to me when
Philippa awoke. And it was now time she
did so.
Although I felt her pulse almost every
other minute, and could find no reason for
alarm lain bound to say tliat her longsleep,
protracted far beyond any I had in my ex
perience seen produced by the exhibition of
narcotics, rendered me very uneasy. I shall,
I am sure, scarcely be credited when I say
that Philippa’s unconsciousness lasted for
sixteen hours—from half-past nine at night
to half-past one on the following afternoon.
I began then to think the duration abnormal,
and deteimined to take some steps toward
arousing her.
But I was spared the responsibility. She
stirred on the couch. Her head turned lan
guidly on the pillow, llerdark eyes opened,
closed, and opened again. She looked at
me in a dazed manner, not at first seeming
to know me, or to understand why I was
near her, or where she was. A prey to the
wildest anxiety, I leaned over her, and
waited until she spoke.
Little by little her bewilderment seemed
to leave her. II t eyes rested with curious
inquiry upon*mine. “Basil,” she said,
faintly, but in a tone of surprise, “you here I
Where am I?”
"Under my roof—your brother’s roof,” I
said.
"Ah! I remember,” she said, with a deep
sigh. Then she closed her eyes, and once
more seemed to sleep. I took her hands and
called her by name. Once more slfr opened
her eyes. They expressed no fear of me, no
dislike to me. They conveyed no reproach.
They were c.ilm, and, weary, but gave no
evidence of any m ntal disorder.
"II ive I been ill Jong, Basil?” she asked.
"Not very long. You arc going to get bet
ter soon.”
“I came to your house, did I not?”
"Yes; and h *re I mean to keep you. Do
you f el weak?”
"Very weak. Basil, I have dreamed such
horrible tilings.”
"You have been feverish and delirious.
People like that always fancy strange
thin/s.”
She was Indeed as weak as a child; but
for the time, at least, she was perfectly
sane. I could have cried for Joy as 1 heard
her faint hut collected words. She was now
fully awake, and perfectly quiet. 1 gave
her some refreshment; then seeing she was
lying in peaceful silence, I thought it better
to leave her. As I quitted her room 1 drew
down the blind, fearing that the whirling
snow might bring recoliec'ions which it was
my one wish to keep from invading her
mind.
The long dreary day wore away. The
light faded, and another night began. Philip
pa still lay calm, silent, and aiiuo-t apa
thetic. 1 did nothing to rouse her. I went
to her side as seldom ns possible. Most
anxiously, as evening cam'*, I awaited the
appearance of my faithful William and the
nurses.
Would they be able to reach us in such
weather? It was still snowing fiercely. For
more than twenty-four hours the mad white
revel had continued without intermission.
Tideed, that storm which burst upon the
world as I turned from Philippa’s house on
the preceding night is now historical; it was
the beginning of the heaviest, and the long
est fall which the record of fifty years can
show. For two nights and a day the snow
came down in what may almost be called
drifting masses. During that dismal day I
saw from the window the heaps against the
wall grow deeper and deeper, and even in
my preoccupied state of mind found myself
marveling at tin* sustained fury of the storm.
At eleven o’clock at night I sadly gave up
all hope of the much-needed assistance ar
riving. After all, it seemed that William
had found it impossible to fight against the
weather; so I made my preparations for an
other night of solitary watchfulness. My
delight then may be imagined when, look
ing tor the hundredth time up the road, I
saw close at hand two flashing lights, and
knew that William, the faithful, lmd done
mv bidding. In a lew minutes two respect
able women from one of the best of the
London Nursing Institutions were within
my walls.
The train had, of course, been late, very
late. At one or two places on the line it had
almost given up the battle, and settled down
quietly until dug out; but steam and iron
had conquered, and at last it did get to Bod
ing. There William, knowing my dire
necessity, offered such a magnificent bribe
that he soon found an enterprising proprie
tor who was willing to make the attempt to
force two horses and a carriage over six
miles of road between Boding and my house.
The attempt, was successful, although the
rate of progression was slow; and William
triumphantly ushered liis charges into uiy
presence.
After giving them time for rest and re
freshment, I explained the nature of the
case, set out the treatment I wished to bo
adopted, and then led them to Philippa. I
left the poor girl in their charge tor the
night, then went to take the sleep of which
I stood so much in need.
But before going to bed I saw William. I
dreaded to hear him say what gruesome
sight lie had seen that morning; yet I was
bound to learn If the deed had yet been
made public.
“Did you manage to get toßodingall right
tills morning?” I askeu with assumed care
lessness.
“I managed all right, sir,” said William,
cheerfully.
“Snow deep on the road?*'
“Not so deep as I fancied ’twould be. All
drifted and blown up to one gide, like. I
never seen such a thing. Drift must have
been feet deep this morning. What mast it
he now, I wonder? Som* thing like the
Arctic regions, I should think, sir!”
For the first time for hours and hours, a
ray of hope flashed across me. William had
walked that lonely road this morning, and
noticed nothing except the drifted snow!
Oh that Philippa were well enough to leave
this place to-morrow! We might fly and
leave no trace behind us. She might never
know what she had done in her madness.
The fearful secret would be mine alone. A
burden it would be, but one which I might
easily find strength enough to bear. Bear
if! I could hear it, and he happy;for some
thing told me that, could 1 but save her
from the peril which menaced her, Philip
pa and I would part no more in this world
until death, the only conqueror of such love
as mine, swept us asunder.
Once more 1 looked out Into the night.
Still the snow-flake* whirled down. Oh,
’•rave, kind snow! Fall, fall, fail! Pile the
masses on the dead wretch. Hide him deep
in your bosom. Fall for weeks, for months,
forever! Save my Jove and me!
[2b be Continued.']
Rules for Good Health.
Sleep, like any otlior nppetito, can be
cultivated and pampered; nnd just as
any nioutlifu! of food more than we
really want is waste, and something
worse, so every wink of sleep more
than we need is dead loss, and that
without the redeeming quality of 'over
eating and drinking, viz., pleasure,
says Rev. H. L. Hawaii. For to be
asleep is not pleasure; simply dead loss.
To sleep from 11 to 9 in the morning is
too much; from 11 till 6 should be, and
is, for one averagely healthy and nor
mally’ constituted, quite enough. The
point I want to fix on especially is
those two precious hours before break
fast. How many people only begin
their day after breakfast, say about 10
o'clock! I myself lived for nearly forty
years without realizing that I hail
thrown away about 21,900 hours of
good working life. Of course, the
candle cannot bo burned at both ends.
You must get your sleep. Xhave known
more than one professional man to
succumb to the habit of retiring too
late and rising too early. That was tho
beginning of my poor friend the late
Baron Amnhlett's collapse. As Q. C.
he never should have gone into parlia
ment, and when he retired from the
house on a judgeship the mischief was
done. He used to be up late with
briefs, or down at the house till 2 or 3,
rise at G, light his own tiro and work
till 9. AH such overpressure is, of
course, bad. Young men may stand it
for a few years—young men can stand
almost anything for a few years—but
it is a vicious principle. Give the body
its dues, or the body will revenge it
self. Still, to acquire the habit of
early rising is worth an effort. I recom
mend it for health and pleasure as well
as for profit. No one knows how ra
diant and vigorous nature looks who
has not cared to assist her at early toi
let, and seen her bathing herself in
crystal dew and do. king ncrsolf with
opening blossoms between 4 ami G
o'clock on a midsummer morning. So
much and iiow much more for tho
pleasure-seeker? But the early-rising
worker all tho year round is rewarded
by an increase of produce, an economy
of time, and an invigoration of mind
and body. Morning literary work is
usually characterized by freshness,
continuity, grasp, and vigor; night
work by fever, excitement, and less
condensation. This I believe to bo the
rule, and with exceptions, in speaking
thus generally, it is, of course, impossi
ble to deal. Of ono thing lam certain,
that for all headworkers, especiall" '
literary men, the following r"' v
be found golden:
To bed oefor' j n
To w< befo “ ro j
-is little liquid as possible, and no
smoking before bronkfusu
The Rothschilds never employ a mnn
who has the rooutatiou for ill-luck. "
NO. 17.
"What is One’s Social Duty?"
Often we hear one friend ask this
question of another. Is one’s social
duty done bv accepting and giving in
vitations? What do wo bind ourselves
to in accepting the hospitality of a
friend or acquaintance? Is our duty by
her dono when we have entered the
portal of our hostess -and have givon
her greeting? Do we owe anything to
her guests? If we are a man, do we do
our duty when we neglect speaking to
tne ladies whom we know? If we see
a chance when wo can be of service to
our hostess in making things pleasant
and agreeable for her, is not that our
duty to be ready and happy to do hor
bidding or even to anticipate it? If wo
are a woman our power to do more
than to make ourselves as agreeable as
we may is limited. We can then only
be kind, generous and considerate of
other women as it comes in our way.
We cannot seek the opportunity of. be
ing polite and making the happiness of
those about us as men can. Selfishness,
alas that we see so much of it where
there is the least excuse for it. —Ladies
home Journal.
They Improve With Age.
Having occasion the other day to
search for some copies of daily news
papers of a certain date in 1875, I was
not surprised to find that at the offices
of the newspapers I could buy no cop
ies. Not one of the great dailies could
furnish a copy of the date which I
needed, but I was referred in every
case to a man named Robert Budd, for
merly a boot-black, who made a busi
ness of dealing in back numbers of
newspapers, f found him, and iu half
an hour I had the papers.
Budd’s history, or rather that of his;
business, is peculiar. He is a coal
black negro, with an intelligent face
and remarkable faculty for estimating
the value of his wares. Although he
has a regular price-list, his prices vary
according to what he thinks may be
the value of the paper to the would-be
buyer. Some months ago there was a
law case which required the present
ment in court either of certain newspa
pers or of a certified copy of an article
covering several pages in small type.
Budd was the only man in the city who
could furnish the paper; lie asked SIOO
for it, although it was not ten years
old, and had originally cost him but 2
cents, and the sum was paid, for the
certified copy would have cost still
more.
Five years ago Build had a boot
blacking stand on Broadway, near
Thirtieth street, and at the same time
sold old newspapers. He was struck
with the number of demands made up
on him for copies of newspapers two or
three days, or a week, or even a month,
old, and he had the idea of adding to
his business that of old newspapers.
That there is a demand for old news
papers is simply shown by the business
he has built up. At present he occu
pies a large cellar, the walls of which
are lined with newspapers tied up in
bundles, each bundle containing the
copies of one month of each year.
There is a tag attached to each bqndle
giving the month and year.
As lie still keeps up his newspaper
stand lie of course gets his papers at
cost price, and when a person really
wants a paper there is a fine chanco
for profit. Every day Budd puts away
twenty copies of The Herald , twenty
copies of ihe Sun, ten of The World,
Times, and Tribune each, and five cop
ies of each of the evening newspapers.
His schedule of prices is supposed to
be as follows: For papers three days
old, double the price; for papers a
week old, 10 cents; for papers a month
old, 25 cents; for papers a year old. $1;
for papers more than a year old, SI.2A
additional for every year. But, as £
said before, this schedule is no guide
in case Budd discovers that the paper
is of great importance. Soon after he
began business he bought up completo
files of several newspapers, running
back in some cases to 1850. That ho
finds the business a profitable one may
be inferred from his ability to keep two
assistants at work.
The number of persons who wish to
buy back copies of the newspapers i*
larger than most people might suppose.
In course of an half an hour, during
which I searched through an old file,
five persons came into Budd’s place
and bought papers varying in age from
2 days to G years.—A cw Haven News.
A novel incident which occurred to a
stenographer of a Now York court the
other day will raise anew point of law
for the Judges to decide. The steuo
grupher had taken the official notes of
a case tried in court, transcribed them,
and placed the transcript and the notes
in his overcoat pocket. That night ho
went to the theatre, threw his overcoat
over the back of the seat, and the
notes and transcript fell on the tloor
and were lost. There is, therefore, no
record of the testimony of tne witnesses
from which to make up an appeal, un
less the parties can agree to make it up
from memory. The case is unprece
dented, and the unfortunate steno
grapher is in trouble lest he can be
mulcted in the cost of anew trial,
should one be deemed necessary.
A Man of Titles.
I heard a funny story the other day
about a young nobleman, a member of
the Diplomatic Corps at Washington.
It seems that the young man had a
military title of considerable length,
beside having another title, and when
he got ali his titles engraved on his
visiting cards, the bits of pasteboard
were well covered and looked most im
posing. The cards greatly impressed
all the Washington girls, and the young
foreigner became a groat favorite. One
of his friends, however, in a joking
mood one day, told him that he must
add the word “bachelor” to his card,
as that, was the custom here. So the
poor fellow had “uacbelor” engraved
with the rest of his titles.— American
Queen.
~.——— ii— -• i.,
In one of Ueorge Eliot's letters, to be
found in the third volume of Mr. Cross’
biography, she refors to a remark which
Prof. Huxley made on those good peo
plo of London who have pursued him
with false witness in their anti-vivisec
tion zeal. lie declares himself to he
especially vexed with the “profligate
lying of virtuous women,”
The oldest apple t* c(JB West of the
Missouri Riv- ure gaid t 0 be those 0 n
the .powaix. Some of them are over
a foot in diameter. Tho seeds were
brought over by Kov. Mr. Spaulding,
the missionary " who was stations'
Lapwni manv years a'_>o. a>- '
Mrs. Eliza \Varrcn '
I born on the ” ran,' V
I .
1 *llding n aV",
***tof 44 Uus