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VOL. XIV.
SONS OF THE PRINCESS MAY.
Marsh and April, go your way !
You have Lad your fitful day ;
Wind and shower, ami snow and sleet,
Make wet walkiug for my feet.
For I come unsandled down
From the hillsides bare and brown ;
But wherever I do tread
There 1 leave a little thread
Of bright eraarald, softly set
Like a jewel in the wet;
And 1 snake the peach buds turn
Pink and white until they burn.
Roey red within their cells;
Then I set the bloomy bells
Of thia flowery alder ringing.
And the apple blossoms t-winging *
Tn a shadow of rosy snow,
.Vs 1 come and m! go
On my gay and jocund way,
I, the merry Pnucess May,
Dark Days.
BT HUGH CON WAT.
Author of “Called Back."
CHATTER VI.
THE SCCftKT KKPT.
It la needless to say that when I awoke
the next morning my first thought was of
Philippa; but my first action was to go to
my window and look at the skies. My
aplrite rose; 1 felt that Philippa would be
eared. The wind was due east; so long as
it stayed there the frost would last, and that
white tomb on the roadside hide the secret
of the dreadful night.
I found, moreover, that Philippa’s condi
tion was all that could, under the circum
stance*, be hoped for. Since she had awak
ened from that long sleep into which the
opiate had plunged her. there had been no
recurrence of the delusions; no symptoms
-which gave me any alarm. She was, of
wourae. weak in body, but quiet and col’ect
♦4. Hhe spoke but little, and the few words
which ahe did speak had no bearing on for
bidden or disuniting subjtCs.
Day after day went by, and still the bravo
black froai held the world In its Iron grip,
and kept the secret of the night. Morning
after morning X wok * to liud the wind still
tf! owing from the east, the skies clear and
showing every evidence of a long spell of
hard weather. A presentiment that we
should be saved was now firmly established
In my mind. The heavens them-civ. s secto
ral to be shielding u and wor ;in : f*r us.
Day by day Pjiiipp:i grew better and ,
rpjUri r A* soon ns li Ihc uie a<* rtiimtv
(hat all danserto life or reason was at an I
end, 1 bciraa to consider wlmt course to '
wdopL Tie tu uncut sic wns well enou ’h ;
to ri*k the journey, or <*v -it, IT a th tw s>-t j
in, before then, Puilijem must 11 y from the
arena of the tragedy in winch 8 :e hat piny- •
oil so terrible, yet m ♦rally Irresponsible, a
part. Wo must p t lands and m**s butwceu
ourselves and the fatal spot. Bn: lx w o
persuade ler that sue’ 1 Bight 'van absolutely
uec ss iry? Brother ami > s;<*r a,< we n-v
termed ourselves, wo and she v *r consent o i
aceoiupauy me abroad? Had i the right to
pul the woman 1 loved in sac i au equivocal ■
position?
No! a thousand time* no! Ad yet I knew !
there was no safety fir her in V. igutml; nun (
with whom could she le v 1! g arni save
with me?
I dared nt urge upon heron tr e rot sot*.
for flight. it w.i' my gr* hop th / tlie
events of tiiat light had ieft in . mind w i. u
the htndne** left her. never to be recalled.
And n*w line was pressing: t n day- inui
passed by. T.io glor ti- host -till kept out
counsel, but it eonbi not last forever. Tin- j
time must c in • when the '\ ii..e heaps i.-f ’
Mtow would melt and v-: i away, and I
1 1 ten Sir Mervyn Fei rai n’s ru'd dead fa
would : pp *ar. and tell .ue .a.e ->i ills du..,ii
to the first passer by.
1 had •rnreely quitted the hong* sincothat
•light. Yet one day a kind of m rldd fasci
nation bail 1 r| me to walk along th* road
toward lb sling, a .<1 t 4 halt At wint I judged
to be the spot where I laid th dead man by
tV side of the road. I fancied l could single
<nit the very drift tinder which tiiat awful
thing lay, and a dreary tenr tition to proi>e
the white iwvip with my stick, and make
sure, as*.ailed me. I resisted it, and turned
away from the spot.
There was a certain amount of traffic on
the road. Jtv now the snow had been beaten
down by cart-wlice sand people’s feet, so
that it was qui c possible to walk from one
place to another. As I reached the house
frMii which l'iliiippn tl *d to seek refuge
with me, 1 encountered Mrs. Wilson. I was
roiug to pa>B without any sign of recogni
tion, hut she stoppe I me.
“I thought you were going to take your
•lst**r away?” she said.
"Luijr Ferrand was unfortunately taken
▼cry HI wlnm she left you. She is now hard
ly well enough to be removed.”
**H is she heard from Sir Mervyn?” asked
Mr*. Wilson, abruptly.
"N*>t to my know.inlge,” I replied.
“It Is strange. You know. 1 suppose.that
be was expected at my house tiiat nigh'?”
“Certainly 1 do. It was for that reason
my sister left you.”
Mrs. Wilson looked at me thoughtfully.
“She will not meet him again?*’
“Never,*’ I said, thinking as 1 spoke that
my words bore a meaning only known to
myself.
“Doe* she hate him?” she asked.suddenly.
4| Ble has boon cruelly wronged,” I said,
evasively.
She laid her hand on my arm. “Listen,”
•he said. “If I thought she hated him, I
wonld see her before she leaves, and tell her
something. If I thought he hated her, I
would tell him. I will wait and see.”
Bhe turned away ami walked on. leaving
me to make the l>est of her enigmatical
words. She was evidently a strange wo
man, and 1 felt more sure than ever was in
some way mixed up with Sir Mervyn F< r
rand’t early life. I had a great mind to fol
low her and demand an explanation, but
caution told ine that the less 1 said to hei
the better. It wag troin this woman’s knowl
edge of the relationship between Philippa
and the dead man that, when the.secret of
tle light was laid bare, the greatest danger
must arise.
After walking a few paces, Mrs. Wilson
turned and came back to me. “Give me an
address,” she said; “I may want to write to
you.”
1 hesitated; then I told her that any let
tors sent to my bankers In Lmdon would
/each me sooner or later. It was too soon
to excite suspicion by concealment of one’s
movement**.
It was after 1 had gated at that white
tomb by the roadside that my impatience to
remove Philippa grew fiercer and fiercer.
Moreover, I had at last marie up my mind
what to do with my precious charge. As
•oou as she is well enough to bear the jour
ney, I resolved to take her to London, and
place her in the hands of one of the truest,
noblest, tendered women in the world, my
mother.
She was in London, waiting for me to join
her. I had written, telling her that the
serious illness of fl friend prevented me
from leaving ray home for some days. Now
1 resolved to go to her, ami tell her all
Philippa’s sad tale—all save the one dark
chapter of which she herself, I hoped, knew
nothing. I would take her to my mother. 1
would tell my mother how I loved her: I
would appeal to her love for me, and ask
her to take my poor stricken girl to her
heart, even as she would take a daughter;
and I flared to hope that, if oulv for mv
sake, my prayer wonm do granted.
Philippa was by now thoroughly convales
cent. As 1 lay down my pun for a moment
and think of that time, with its fears and
troubles, it is a marvel to me that I could
have dared to wait so long before removing
her from the neighborhood. 1 can only at- i
tribute my lingering to the sense of fatality I
that all would go rig. it,or to the professional j
instinct which forbade me urging a patient
to do anything which might retard recovery; ;
but the time hud at last come.
Save for her quiet and subdued manner, !
my love was ahu st her okl self again. Her
words and manner to me were tender, af
fectionate ami si>t.*rly. I need hardly say
that during that time no word crossed mv
lips which I would have recalled. Love, it
not the thought of it, L had laid aside until
happier days dawned; for—l say It advised
ly, sud at risk of censure—Philippa was tu
me pure and innocuut as on the day when
first we met. If her hands were stained
with the blood of .Sir Afervyn Ferrand, she
knew it not. Iler wrongs had goaded her
to madness, ami her madness was responsi
ble for the act, not she horsedf.
The man’s name never crossed her lips.
For all she spoke of him he might never
have existed, or, at the most, been but a
part of a forgotten dream. As soon as she
was well enough to rise from her bod, ami
1 could for hours enjoy her society, we talk
ed of many things: but never of Sir Mervyn
Ferrand and the immediate past.
But, nevertheless, there were times when
her look distressed me. Now ami again l
found her gazing at me with anxious, troub
led eyes, as if trying to read something
which I was hiding from her. Once she
asked me how she came to my house that
ntrht
“O it of the whirling snow,” I said as light
ly as 1 could. ‘ Von came In a high state of
fever and delirium.”
“Where had I been? What had I been
doing?”
“You came straight from Mrs. Wilson’s!
suppose, l know no more.”
Then she sighed and turned her head
away; but l soon found her troubled dark
eyes again fixed on my own. 1 could do
nothing but meet their gaze bravely, ami
pray that my poor love might never, never
be able to fill those lioum which were at
present a blank to her.
At last, exactly a fortnight from the fatal
day, \vc left my home. 1 was mow what Is
hsta’ly term-d an accessory after the act,
and was making ev ry effort to save the
poor girl from just ce. In order to avert
suspicion, 1 dec'd and it was better n< tto shut
np my house; so 1 left th faithful William
to take care of :t,nn l await my hudrucUoni.’
At present It was advisable that any in
quirers should l *aru that 1 lutd gone to L n
don with my aster. and that the time of our
return was r.i.crlflii. By and by, if all
vent well, 1 <• odd re rid of my cottage in
an oidiuary wa*. 1. f- rone, sh >uld liefer
wMi to visit t ie phu* -eg if.
lVdiippn ncquiesc *1 in a'l mv arrange
ments. She was quit • wiping torceomn'my
wto town. S -I* tru-ted me wit.i c'didislL
sitnpl eit . ‘But. Basil, ufterward—what
afterward?” s e n*k**d.
Even in the mid-ol the menreing jHsii.lt
was j*! 1 1 cm: and do t rofr.in from kneeling
oilier foot and idling h* r flint mv love ,
would so v * tin* <pt.'4!on of th * future.
“I hVe n m i) ri ; * t r v..tt In li ■•■.don.” I 1
said. r. cheerfully •* 1 eon!' 1 . “Trust yoiwr* i
self to mo; you wid not r • r *t i.”
Sic took in' ha: and. “Whom el-w have I ;
to Irn-t?’* she said simp . * B si’. yu h 've i
h**en very irfiod tome. I ha.*made voir!
life miserable; it too atntonton-; but £ j
shall never forget Pics- *l,*\ ’
Her eye* wore f-. l 1 of :*;ir*. 1 ki*. cd her •
hand levurently, an I told lx r t'w when 1 |
saw tlx; old smile 1 t*h upon •-i lip -, all I j
had dune would be i t' ou-ar l lime*- re pa l; !
but a> I s*oke I tn-ml I d if n.e lh- ughtof j
what mgiibe iu *•* re for both <*f r .
We drove lo K ; it-! \*er* jierfoi *p .
oblige ;to t"kc tile roll ' w'lii 1 I pn.-s- and by
Mrs. Vf; *o .'s ho .se. I* : ipp.i half lose
from her se it, and *e u and ob on fix*point
of asking me som •q 1 <o .; iut rth -cining
• and Iwr i. Ind, and r i>*ed i; b* si'oure. [
felt a lx rrlbie dread lest the rindiddoobj-e-s !
and landmarks should awak- u t*e< dlcciion,
and my heart h-.it violeiiti;, as v. i near‘d
tin; white heap by t '• lied re. fiat heap
which 1 believed heb : our seen t. I felt that
1 grow deadly pale. 1 was forced to turn
my head away and look out of the opposite
window. My stale of mlixl was not made
easier by knowing that Philippa was gazing ‘
at me with that troubled look in her eyes.
Altogether I felt that tie- strain was becom
ing too much for me, mid 1 began to wonder
if my life, would ever again know a happy
or secure moment.
After a long silence Philippa spoke. “Tpl!
ni •, ILtsU, have ypu heard from that man?”
1 shook m v head.
“Where I* he? He was coming that night
Did he come?”
“I sunpos * not. Why do yon as!;?”
“Bad , a kind of horrible dream haunts
me. There wa* something I dreamed of
that feai ful night, Honx'thlugl dream of
now. Tell me what it was.”
The perspiration roe to my brow. “Dear
est,” 1 said, “no wonder you dream. You
are well now, but that night you werevjuite
out of your senses. Your fancies are but
the remains of that delirium. Think no
more of that wretch; he is probably living
in Paris, after the m inner of his kind.
Think only that life is going to be calm and
liappy.”
Anything to keep tho knowh*dge of hei
fatal act fr< rn her! 1 forced myself to talk
in a light, manlier. I jested ftt tin
appearance of the few im.ffl *d-up countrj
people whom we pa>se<l on the road. 1
pointed out the beauty of the trees on the
waydde, eneb branch of whMi bor* foliage
of glistening snow. 1d <i all 1 could to turn
her thought* into other channel —to drive
that strang * quest onlng look from her eyes.
Bight glad 1 felt when we were at laid in
the train, and the first stage of our flight an
accomplished fact.
Upon reaching London, I drove straight
to the hotel at w;ii i my mother was stay
ing. It was one of those horn-priced respect
able private hotels hi Jennvn street. I en
gaged rooms for my sister and myself. 1
sent Philippa to her room to rest; and then
went to find my m tlier. In another inlimt*
I was In her arms, and ere half an hour war
over I had told her Philippa's story, andmy
love for the woman on whose behalf I be
sought her protection.
Yea, I had done right to first her. I knew
her noble nature; her utter freedom from
the petty trammels of society. 1 knew the
love she bore her son. Let mo here thank
her once more for what she did for me that
day.
Sue heard all my outpourings in silence.
I told iter ail, save two things—the name o%
the man who had wronged my love, and the
fate which had overtaken him. I told her,
as I have dared to hope that in time to come
my love would be rewarded. I prayed hei
to take my poor girl io her hpart and by
treating her as a daught r restore, if it were
possible, her self-respect.
Mv mother heard me. Her sweet face
grew a shade paler. Her lips quivered, and
the tears stood in her eyes. I knew all that
was passing through her mind. I knew how
proud she was of me, ami w hat great things
she had hoped 1 should do in the world. She
wasa woman, and, woinan-like, had counted
upon her son’s bettering himself by mar
riage; but, in spite of all this, I knew I was
right m counting upon her aid. Once again,
mv sweet mother, I thank you.
She rose. “L?t me see the woman you
love. Where is she? I will go to her.”
•*Sbe is here, In this house. Ah, uiothcr,
I knew you Would do this for nuv’
jsh kissed my forehead. ’‘Bring her to
ofe,” she '‘aid. .
I went out. and sent word to Piiilionatlmf
THOMSON, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY> MAY 6, 1885.
1 wanted ner. She soon came to me. She
had removed the stains of travel, and al
though pale, looked the perfection of grace- ,
ful beauty. I led her to my mother’s room, j
She stopped short as she s\w it tenanted by j
a lady. A quick b’u-di crossed her cheek. !
“Pnilippa, dearest,” 1 said, “this is my
mot iter. I have told her all, and she is
waiting to welcome, you.”
Still she stood mot inless, save that her !
head bent down ami her bosom heaved. My j
mother enme to her sole, and, placing her j
kind arms round her, whispered some words
which I neither heard nor tried to hear.
Philippa broke into a storm of sobs, and for
some moments wept on my mother's shoul
der.
Then she raised her head and looked at
me, amt mv heart leaped at the expression
in her te.uful eyes. ‘Basil, my brother, you
| are too good to me!” she ejaculated.
My mother led her to the *ofa, and, with
her arms at 111 round her, sat down by her
| side, i left them, knowing that my love
had now the ftojogt, noblest heart to sob
| against; the, quickest, most sympathetic ear
i to listen to the tale of her wrongs; and the
| softest, kindest voice to soothe and console
her.
! All 1 how happy I should have felt, could
i that one night’s dark work have been un
done— couni that white tomb forever hold
: its ghastly secret!
CHAPTER VII.
THE MEETING OK THE SNOW.
The first stage of our flight toward safety
accomplished, I sat down to once more re- 1
vi w ilm situation, and to take such counsel
as 1 c uid give myself. 1 endeavored to
foreshadow the consequences of the Inevi
table discovery of Sir Afci vyn’s Ferranti's
death. X tra and calm y to ascertain in what
quarter the danger of discovery was situated,
and how best to guard against or turn aside j
the peril.
Undoubtedly the chi *f person to/enr was j
Mrs. Wi.son. She alone knew that t-o man i
intended to reach Boding that night. She 1
alone knew in wlmt relation, or supposed
relation, lie stood to P.iilippu. The very
night of his death would ho fixed by the
snow storm; and 1 felt snr*i that ns soon ns |
the dead man was identified Mrs. Wilson j
could not fail to associate her guest’s and- i
den departure andsubat qticnt illness wiih
the terrible event. Tho moment she reveal- !
ed what she knew or suspected, mispiclo
must point to the right person, and pnnruit
must, at once follow. Aly heart grew sick,
as. think how I would, l could see no loop
hole by which to escape from this danger.
Alum.' secondary things I troubled but
little. Upon dhlm reconsideration, I did not
bell vs that my stolid William would for a
mom *i t j imp at the light conclusion. If ho
were led o suspect either of i:-, it would bo
me, no I*hi ippa; am' l well know that ho
*e us so much attached t me I hat, although
lm felt ('mi la nlh ut dor.o tho i'e d,ho would
feci equally o rmin that 1 had good and
' rope* reasons fordoing it, and no word to
ny and trimefit would jvss Jiis reticent lips.
Nt >tc \x s llttlo t fear from William
I : a<! bhim and myself deep y (i<r the ha
uls • which hud - rued me to hurl tho fatal
\v ajM>u away. Wn and and l net. keep it and
bury it fathoms deep? If that pis.ol were
found, it would po.-d.dy furnish a Few
j which m gut be followed ip, nml undo
, everyt. tin i/. My only hope vn as that Iliad
t u awn It lu some spot where it might !!
j for ye is umiFcoverod. until alt association
! bc'weeii it atal th i tnmder had disappeared.
To s uii up biii fly, i was la,-ml lo and cidc
: that the di ni .iiiu muun-iaitiial evident
' whieli eould i.io furnished ly Mrs. Wilson
drov .* me b > kto my o: L ina! Idea. There
I was no chit: c' of in . poor .•'lillippa’s re
i mai to .; un ;cm -tl i r
J dee* sh • had nnwHingl / don.-; •; • her only
j h] e f safety- mlecd, e n bluing nil,
i n\ a -o say my only hope of safety—was
|* r.ipi llt ght. Wo must gain s,nm land in
! wii-cdi * e << ild d.vell without fear of being
| ; r e- ted. What U; l was tie r•?
i Miioy i one. Too date td my story is be*
I f< re v hen m arly all film extradition
I ti’i-.i1;•.-> wi-ic made. At that time such
j treaiic s exit-led with only two foreign conn
j trie . Franco and tho United Slates; so
i that our elm ee of a restiiig-p.aee was not so
.united as hose who him ll .ingfmm th *
ciuiciieH of liic la.v find it to day. How over,
in (ode \ to make ot r id i, I paid a visit lo a
legal ft end of mine; and, by quoting a sup-
I* s.tious ease, managed to acquire a good
d(*al of information respecting the dealings
of one nation with nnotner, so f.if as fugi
lives wen? concerned.
1 found tin t although, with the two ex
ceptions above-named, there was no sett ed
International law on the subject, there was
a kind of unwritten substitute, which was
known by the name of the Comity of Na
tions. Under this code of courtesy, a no
torious criminal, who had sought refuge in
the aims of another country, was not un
commonly, although there was m> law under
which he could l>e arrested, given np to his
pursuers, by being simply driven across the
front Dr of the country in which he had
hoped to find security. However, I gather
ed that this so-called c-mity was scarcely
exncct and to be ex rc.scd by the most friend
ly state, mile s the fugitive had fl and aim s*
red-handed, and so placed his g i.t beyond
doubt. No one ex ctly knew how far this
obliging expulsion might be count* and upon.
it was generally Mi;posed to be decided by
the amount of influence or persuasion which
one government cou.il x rcise onlhu other.
This information rather upset my precon
ceived ideas as to the ease with which safety
might he obtained; but reflection told me I
bad little to fear. The case against Philip
pa c mid be, nothing more than one of sus
picion. X > one, not even 1 myself, had f.oeii
Hit* deed done. A warrant would, nodoubt,
bo issued for her ar.cd; but if our flight
precluded its execution. I did not he lb vy
tiiat any goven.mcnt wou’d put Itself out of
the way to aid the English law. Tne.ru was
no one, save my self, who could positively
swear that Sir Mervyn Ferrand had been
killed by Philippa.
I learned that .Spain was then, even as it
is now. the land safest acainst EnelMli law.
Perhaps tne reason Is that the trrave, yet at
times hot-h ooded Spaniard n ckons human
life at a lower value than more northerly
nations. Any way, it wa* to Spain that I
;urned my eyes; Spain ihit I reso.vcd to
reach without an hour’s unenforced delay.
The very next day 1 broached the subject
of foreign travel to iny mother. Although
go shor. a tint i had p tssed since they first
met, I was overjoyed to see the terms upon
which she and Philippa stood. The girl
seemed to cling to her as to a natural pro
tector—seemed ready to install her .n the
place of the inotlzer she had lost. After a’l
the Jove of her own sex is indispensable to
a woman’s happiness, ft- did my heart good
to see the two together. Philipp i talked to
my mother as she had never jet talked to
me; and I knew that when the day came
upon which I should nsk for the only re
ward I wanted, my mother’s kindness to the
forsaken and shame stricken girl would be
an advocate that pleaded strongly in favor
of my suit.
But, could ft cvrr Ik*? Could wc know
happiness in the face of that dark night’s
work? Ah me I ray heart sank ns I thought
that nny day might hrin rtlic crushing blow.
Let there be lio delay. Let m 5 not bln me
myself hereafter for nny ncgligenee or false
security. L*t us away from the peril.
“Mother,” I said, “will you cornu abroad
with Fniiippa and nx*?”
“Abroad, Basil I 1 have only Just come
home.”
“No matter; come with u* at *uice. !x*t
ns to to some place where is warmth and
bright sun shine. us go to Spain/”
‘■•Spain*! why Spain? Besides, surely
Philipp* is not fit for a lone Journey!”
“It will do tier good, )b*r recollections of
this country aro but sad ones.”
“Well, lii a Wt?ek or two i will see ghaut
H.“
“No, at once. Lotus start to-mov'cwor
the next day. Mother. I ask it as a lor. * i
“Give me some good reason, Basi li d}ud 1 I
will do as you wish.” g h I
“L >ok at me, and you will see tl JLson. •
Cannot you sec that lam ill, worn 1 * nerv- I
ous? I must have a change, andicsonice.” j
.She gazed at me with solicitude | Ts I j
know you are not well; but why *
“A whim—a sick man’s fane
b<*cause it is Philippi’s father* ;it
it into my head. Mother, do’
you like her?” S| 4
“She is tliu woman you ry j
beautiful; she has been Sihe
is blameless; o say more
acipia ntance would' Ck' |
“You will come to Spain
her?”
She kissed me -and gave ii R m .
I sought Philippa.
**M> mother ia going to v,” I I
said with a smile, wh:ciY y all ;
my Mulles now were. “She to
everything for you.”
‘ She is kind—she is sweet,” flip- !
pa, clasping her hands. “BaslK* a n\bt- ;
ginning to worship your jvhy
are wft going abroad?” j
“To get away from sad \ on© 0 n©
thing;.for another, beeaupti I
She gave uie a quick look of
wh ch brought the flush to Voh,
let us go at once!” she cried. e #feava
this land of ice ami I will 0111*0 make
you well. Where are wo )x aro
we going?'* • Mt #
“To Spain—to-morrow or the toraMlay.’'
Si’.e looked at me with the tro fil'd gazo
which l had so often m>tfc.;d. “Basil,” sho
said, “you are doing thL for my sake.”
“And my own, 1 fear.”
“1 threw away your love—l spoiled your
life. I came to you n shamed woman. You
s vcdinc! You did not scorn me. You
brought me lo your mother's arms. Basil,
may Clod r< quite you; l never c m.”
She burst into tears, and left tho room
hastily.
It was well I se'thd the matter of tho for
eign Journey then. That afternoon the wind
j changed and a thaw set in -a thaw that
slow ly hut surely drew away the thick white
veil which cover ‘ I the whole of England,
That night I hud little sloop. I eould do
I nothing but lie. awake and picture that white
tom * slowly melting awn' , until the white
face beneath pc red out of it and made the
dread s. cret known to a'l. To-morrow morn
lug wv wo re to start. I prove i Heaven that
it might ii 't be too let*; th t the mxi twn
t\-four ho rsn.ipitpnss without what l
dreaded taking place. For I knew that by
now that ghastly object on the roadside
m st be Ivtng with t;c light of day on its
p ile face!
With nil off r: I on nod the morning’s pn
por, and ran hastily up ami down the col
umns. Wlmt cared I tor p lines, foreign
ileus. ( r money-m uk-d int l.igence? Here
was the one paragraph which rActed all my
attention. 'J’he w..ite tomb hud given up is
s. crt tl To tr.e fim.-c wenis w.re
wviltcn in letters < f fi 0!
“llomtmi.R UiatxiVEiiY’Near I odin-g.—
The nr l ing of the snow has brou.;!it to
i;g!it wind, to all np; oare.nces is a fearful
ci nv*. Vesterday ai iernobn a laborer walk
ing on the liighwny discovered t ■ dy of
ato :.}]• in.ui lyin . 4 by live r;c >1 :<s Ills
den'll luul beeu Cnn-et ir. u pi nf-SH*d. If
is Mipp sed that it ur.i,-, have occurred 0,1
the night of tho great f-now-s’cnii, ami that
the body has lain ever si: conn erllm snow,
wdre.'i had d:i!ie Ito the deplh f some f !, e:.
The lac.s that de.-.th most have fi.eu in
strntane -11s, and that no weapon can ho
found near the soot, do away with t <
theory of suicide. L iters and 1* )* r found
upon the corpse t mi to ■•l ow tto b? t. at
of Sr Mervyn F rraml, B.rt. Tin? unfor
tunate gcntl -maii'a friends have been cm
muiiicatcd with, niui the Inquest will be
opened to-morrow.”
For some ininu'es I at lljy* one 'tunned.
I ton* the pap rto pi csa id burned t. I
think of nil my dark days that one vvr the
one l won and be least willing to pass again.
1 trembled at every footstep on the stairs.
Any man who pamed i r a in incut nu; .do
our windows sen: n cohl chit! over nx*. And
in the midst of my misery l had to wear a
cheerful face, and talk to Philippa and my
mother about the pleasure* of our projected
journey! Ah! if we only reached the end
of it in safe’y, the pleasure would not be al
io getlicr imaginary.
Tim morning dawned. No fatal messen
ger had arrived. 1 glanced has ily at the
papers, which, howev ,v . contained no more
information about the tragedy. Shortly after
ten o'clock we started to drive to du ring
Cross. Tlx*, rattle of wheels over the stoix s
seemed to send fresh li ’e through my veins.
We were on the road to saMy.
We started in plenty of time, ns I wished
to call at myr banker’s >n the wsv. It was
inv intention to take with me a large sum
In gold. Note* of any kind c olid 1> * traced,
hut the bright sovereign* would t ;il no tale.
1 changed my check, and while doing so
rs .ed if there were any letters for m *. Sev
eral p -rsoiw addre*ed letters to tue at mv
bank *r*s. The spl ice cashier sent to in
quire, and, with my bag of gold, passed mi
ner the brass wire railing a letter with a wo
man’s handwriting on the envelop*. I
thrust it into my pocket, to read at my
leisure.
\V* traveled by the tidal train for Paris.
v'a Folkestone and Boulogne. It was not
the pleasantest weather In the world for
a Journey; but 1 wrapped my charges up
warmly, and dhl all I could to mitigate the
hardships of the voyage, undertaken osten
sibly for the sake of niy health. Mv moth
er, who was by now n experienced and
S‘nM>ned traveler, settl' and lx r.se f down to
the Journey, although she little guessed how
snort the rest I meant to giv • her until ws
reached our destination. She laughingly
protested nga list the and unity of dragging an
old woman like herself away from England
just as she had returned to It; but Litre was
that in her voice and man tier which to'd me
she would for my sake make a far greater
sac:ific ■ of comfoit than this.
1 thought’that P.illippa’s spirit*, like mine,
ro*e as wo left London 1 euiixiu*. Sim smil
ed at my sallies and feeble attempts at mak
ing merry, which, now that we were fairly
fin our road to safety. w re not quite so
forced as they had been during the last few
days. She listened with interest to the pic
tures 1 drew—lmaginary ones, of course—of
the beauties of the south; and I was glad to
believe that the thought o’f visiting what
might almost be called h r native land was
beginning to awaken her inter st. Only let
inn he able to show her that life could still
promise a pleasant future, ami the moody
memories of the par-t months might be ban
ished forever.
I am sure that no one who con'd have
seen us that morning woiihl have dreamed
that out of that party of three, comlstiug of
u comfortable, pleasaut-loekingEnglish ma
cron. a s rangely beautiful girl, and myself,
two were Hying from the hands of Just ce.
Our appearance was certainly such as to dis
arm all suspicion.
•‘But when* aro we going?” asked my
mother. “I object to go wandering about
without knowing where oar pilgrimage is to
end.”
“We are going to Paris first, then to Spain
—to wherever we can find the warmth and
suinahine which ie necessary to my existence.
Lf we can’t Hud them in bpain, we will cross
over to Africa, and, if needful* go down to
the Equator.”
‘ Then you young people will have to go
alone. I draw the line of my good nature
at Europe.”
1 glanced at Philippa. Her long curved
ln-dn\s hid her eyes; but a tell-tale blush was
on her check. I knew that the day was not
no very and stallt when she would answer my
anneal as 1 wished. I knew that, could I.
but sweep awaytno record or tnaiononigm,
all might yet be well with her. Oil, that she
may never r* ca 1 what l alone know!
As we were nearing Folkestone I remem
bered the letter which had been given me
nt the bank. I drew It from my breast, in
tending to read It; but the sight of the Bod
ing post-mark on tho outside made me
change my Intention. 1 r. me inhered Mrs.
Wilson’s half promise to send me some com
munication. I longed and yet 1 dreaded to
break the seal. Ifdt it would be hotter for
me to read that letter alone. Whatever
might bo the tenor of its contents, 1 was sure
it had some bearing on Pniiippa’s relations
with Sir Mervyn F rraml.
We were soon on board the steamer and
under weigh. Although the Arctic rigors
of the last three weeks hud departed, the
air on the seft was too keen to make the
channel passage an enjoyable one. I per
suaded my mother and Philippa to take re
fuge in the saloon; and then I found a quiet
spot wh re 1 was ab'e to read my letter
without fear of interruption,or of betraying
myself by the emotion its contents might
cause. It was well I did so, for the first
words blanched my check. Tko letter be
gan abruptly, so:
“1 know r r gimss all. I know why Sir
Mervyn Ferrand did not reach my house
that night. I know the reason for her
strange excited state. I know why she left
my home before you came to seek her. I
know how ho met with tho death he doserv
| ed.
“Ah ! sho Is braver than I am. She has
| done what years ago 1 swore I would do;
: ami yet 1 had not tin courage. I was base
j enough to forego revenge for the sake of the
h 'ggarly nia ntennnee ho offered me—for
the sake, pe.lmns. of my ch! dren. I sank
low enough to become his topi—to do as he
bade m \ even to takins under my roof the
woman who thought hers|f y.is wife. Ye**,
she has been l r iver than I. But her wrongs
| were greater than mine: for l hud butmy
i self to blame for b tug in such a degraded
, position that he could throw me aside like
j an old gh v*. lie never married mo.
“Fear nothing for your sister, if she ho
i your sister. Tell her mv lips are scaled to
j the death ; and for the sake of her brave net
I tell her this;
' “S r Men vn Fcr ind's first wife diedon
| the Wth of June ISO—, three months before
I the day on "fi eh lie married vom* sister.
1 She d.cd at Liverpool, at No. •*> silver street.
Show: s buried in the cemetery, under tho
mime of Lucy Ferrand. She has friends
alive; it will he easy to prove that, she was
the woman whom he married. Her maiden
name was King. Mehatcd her. They parted.
H • gave her a sum of money on condition
I tint sho never called herself his wife, 110
lost s ght of her, 1 never did. For years I
hoped sho would die. and that he would
j marry in *. She died too late for the hope
j to be realized. 1 told him of her death; but
i I changed the date. I would not tell him
j wlieiq she died. Part of his object In eom
i in.r to Boding that night, was. to endeavor to
j wring ill* information from mo. He would
j never have had it. No other woman should
j have been his wife so long as l coul.l s.opit.
| “Now that he is dead, you can toll your
brave sister that she may, if she likes, take
tie name, title, and what wealth s' can
1 chi ui. F nr nothing from me; 1 will be si
; lent as death,”
CHAITKIt VIII.
K LIGHT.
I read the wo-nan’s loiter again and again
—read it wi'li fadings in which j.iynnd dis
gust were strangely mingled; but the form
er was tin* |n d'uni'ant .-ensation. in Iho
first pi: c’,it Mr . -Wis >n kept her promise
of < ereey, it M<(\m*d to me that ail danger
of suspicion faToi •: up m Phihppv was re
in vd. Tiiere would be no one 1 1 ;o to make
known t!i ■ t ci, that upon the night of S.r
AI mu’s and .u!i a wronged, distracted wo
man left inT hom a woman whose life’s
happiness had he u oloude l by tho villain’s
tivaclieyous m t—a woman of strong pas
sions, who in h r temporary cleliilum miulit
cM'-ily be tur icd to la 1 ;;* such vengtunce for
which 1, at least, held her quite uuu<count
able. If l could b t feel sure of tho silence
of the one person whom 1 dreaded, wo might
ewe return t<> L union, and fear nothing. I
wavered. After all there ir something con
temptible in fli ;ht, Suould I li m-t to Airs.
Wi-ous juo'ai-e, and re Mir i w th my com
panions by the next boat from Boulogne?
No, a thousand times no I Philippa’# wel
fare is far too precious to mu to be trusted
lu tiie hands of one excitable woman—
a woman, mor.over, who has wrongs
of her own t ailing for vengeance. To-mor
row he r mind may change, and instead of
furtlivi in : on> - v fety, she may be urging on
the pursuit. E*l mu trust no one save my
self.
For my love’s sake, 1 was overjoyed to
hear that, supposing the woman’s state
men! and date were correct, Philippa was
the dead man's lawful wife. Not that this
fact for one moment palliated the guilt of
his intention, f>r lessened the coniomptand
hatred I bore toward him; not tiiat it
changed In my eyes by one iota my love’s
position. Married or unmarried, to me she
was all that a woman could be. Though a
blackguard’s craft had wrought what would
he. her shame iu the eyes of the world;
though her hands were unconsciously red
with a man's blond, to me she was pure as a
vestal, Innocent is a child.
Yet f<r her sake* the, news gladdened mm
I knew that If ever the tinx.i should com
when 1 could place proofs in Her hand* tha f
she was a wife that she could, if she ..'hose,
bear her worthless husband's name, and
face the world without fear of scorn, the
restoration of her self-respect would thing
with It a Joy winch onlv a woman can right
ly comprehend. And Philippa, with all her
pride and passion, was a true woman, rtill
of the softness and delicate dread of shame
which character!/ 'H the best of her sex.
Y<*t when should J he able to tell her?
Whenever I did so 1 must also reveal the
fact of her husband’s being dead, and my
d< Jug so must bring the whole story of his
death to her knowledge. I trembled as i
though: what this might mean. Surely i:s
dramatic surroundings must suggest some
thing to her mind-must bring back the
night and its horrors; must, iu f icf, te 1 her
what *h had done iu her madness! Bather
than risk this, 1 must let her continue to
bear the cruel weight of what she thought
her shame. Mv aim must be to make her
believe tiiat S r Mervyn Ferrand is Hill
alive, and troubling nothing as to what has
become of the woman whom ho once falsely
mv iv to love aixl cherish until death. 1
curse and the wretch’s memory as I thought of
him.
The sending of Philippa to live under the
charge of one of his own discarded mistress
es was but another proof of the man’s re
volting cynicism. Mrs. Wilson’s acceptance
< f the charge allowed me to what a level a
woman could sink. It told me, moreover,
that in B]>ile of her letter she was not to be
trusted. A w man who could lend herself
toher form r lover’s purposes in suon a
way as this must have parted with every
atom ol pr de. It seemed to inn that the wo
man and the man were well matched in
baseness.
Slid her letter lifted a !o:ul from my mind.
I le t that for awhile there could be no pur
suit; yet 1 resolved to risk nothing, but to
hurry on with all possible sp.tud. Only
when we crossed the frontier of Spain
should I sleep in peace.
All researches with a v'ow to obtaining
evidence of the first I/uly F rrand’s death,
I postponed indefinitely, borne day, If nil
went well, I would return to England atid
■ procure the <1 cumcnts nee sstry to prove
the validity of Philippa’s marriage. There
was no pressing hurrj\ A* to any money
which should b t hers, never with mv con
sent should six* touch a pjnny which had
belonged to the dead man.
Protracted as my meditations seem on pa
per, they were in reality much longer; in
deed, they were not at an end when the
boat steamed In Boulogne harbor. I went
in search of my companions, who, I was
glad to liud, had borne the voyage well. We
were soon In the train, and. without any
events oem rrlng worth i wording, at eight
o'clock stood ou lltu U't-o du NT id. Pari*.
We drove tn rough the bright y lit streets
to the Hotel du Louvre. The stains of trav
el washed away, my Toother gave a sigh of
satisfaction as sho seated hor elf nt tho din
ner-table. Like as* n dble woman, she was
no desplser of the good tilings of this life.
There were other late diners in the great cof
fee-room,and many a head was turned to look
at the beautiful girl who sat on my right
hand; for every day which brought her new
health and strength, brought also tinny love
an Installmmt other former rich beauty.
In a very snort time she would bo to all ap
pearances the Puillppa of old.
“How long shall we stay in Paris, Basil?”
asked my mother.
“It is now half-past nine; our train starts
at 8:45 in the morning. Ca'culate the time.”
“Oh, nonsense l It is years since I have
been In Paris. I want to look at the shops.
So does Philippa, 1 am sure.”
“My dear mother, the man, much more
the wom iq, who ling* rs in Paris is lost. If
you are going elsewhere the only way is to
go straight through, or else you get no fur
ther. I have proved this, and mean to run
no risk.”
“But remember we are only weak women.
This poor child is far from strong.”
She smiled at Philippa, whoso eyes thank
ed her for the affectionate appellation.
“Don’t be merciless, Basil,” she continu
ed, “give us at least one day.”
“Not one. lam just going to look after a
courier, so that you may travel in all possi
ble oomfort.”
My mother seemed almost annoyed, and
again said I was merciless. What would she
have said had she known tlmr, unless I had
received that letter, instead of going to our
present comfortable quarters, we should
have driven to the Orleans Railway, and
taken tlie first train to the south? How lit
tle she knew--how 1 ttle, I trusted, Vliillp
inv knew—from what we were flying 1
I felt I must give mv mother some reason
for my haste: so, before going in quest of
my courier, I took her aside.
“It is not well for Philippa to stay in
Paris,” I said. “Seine one whom she ought
not to meet was bore a short time ago.”
1 blamed myself for tho deception; hut.
what could I do? Alas! It seemed to mu that
mv life, which once was fearlessly open to
tin* inspection of all, was now full of little
else save deceptions. Should I ever again
be my true self?
My mother raised no further objection. 1
found a cmirler-a bearded gentleman of
commanding preset)e \ who spike every
European language with impartial imper
'i ction. 1 gave him instructions see to
everything the next morning; to collect our
luggage, save the small quantity wo carried
with us, and to register it through to Burgos.
L had no particular reason for choosing Bur
yon, but it seemed a convenient place at
which to take our first thorough r st.
The next day’s journey was A dull, dreary,
wearisome affair. My companions had not
shaken off the fatigue of the previous day,
ami now that I felt Philippa’s safety was,
comparatively speaking, assurud, a reaction
set in with me. No wonder. I shudder now
th 1 think of the strain to which both body
and mind had been subj cted during the last
fortnight. 1 was moody and listless. The
air was full of fig anil mist. Tno so-called
express train pound'd along af or tho well
known stylo of French railways. Orleans,
Bluis, Tour.', Poictiers, Augouleme, Contras,
ihd other >t.uins p issed me as one In a
dream. Thu dud day crept on until dark
evening was upon ih, and we were all thor
oughly glad when our day’s Journey ended
nt B rdeaux.
Aly mother, who was rather groat at guide
books. had begnil. and part of tho Journey by
i ALur.iy, which somehow made Its appear
ance from her traveling bag. As sho knew
wo were to sleep at Bordeaux she had been
laying down the law as to what we were to
took at. We were to see the curious high
wooden fifteenth-century houses of the old
‘town; the cathedral, with ratine towers;
the very old churches of St. Croix and St,
Seurin, and ;v variety of other Interesting
ol j els. it needed a l the assurance I pos
sessed, all tho Invalid's quern ousness and
insistence I could assume, to induce her to
consent to resume our journey the first,
thing in the morning. Even Philippa plead
ed for delay, and gave nn to understand
t hat she thought I was using my mother un
fairly. But I was firm. If 1 could I would
have hurried on by the midnight train. Any
way, now that we were within a few hours’
Journey of the frontier nn lof safety,l would
leave no more than I could help to chance.
bo, in the early morning, I got in.v party
together and before it was light led them to
the train. 1 believe that by now my mother
looked upon mu as rather out of my senses,
bin* frankly owned she could not see the
necessity for making sue.li a toil out of what
m-ght be a pleasure. Sho little knew that
nothing could have made that Journey a
pleasure to me; that even finding Philippa’s
eyes now ami again fixed on my face with
what I almost dared to think was tender in
terest— that cv *ii the b tish which croaod
her cheek when I caught t hose glances—was
not Miifficient to reward m • for my anxiety.
A slow, a painfully slow train. Innumer
able stoppages. A country which under the
circumstances would have given me no inter
est even if we had been in summer instead of
winter; and then, after nearly five hours’
alow traveling, Bayonne at last. Bayonne,
with its strong fortifications. Bayonne,
with the welcome Pyrenees towering above
it. In less than two hours wo should bv iu
Spain.
A curious dread seized mo—a presenti
ment so strong that ever since then I have
lost faith in presentiments. Something
seemed t tell me that all iny efforts had
been in vain; that at the frontier there would
be certain in'.elilgencorcc Ived which would
lead to our arrest; that Philippa, with one
foot, h.h it were, iu the land of refuge, would
be seiz *d and carried back to face the hor
rors and the shame of a trial for murder. It
was, as events showed, an absurd fancy,
and only the Increasing tension of my nerves
can account for the ho’d it gained upon me,
I grew so pale, trembled so in every limb,
that my companions wore thoroughly alarm
ed. We had brandy with us, which was duly
administered to me. After awhile I rec v
cred, aixl although th • fear whs still with
me, sat with the stoicism of an Indian at
the stake, awaiting w lrat might happen at
the frontier. I had done all I could. If, at
the last moment, disaster overtook u*, I had
at least striven by every means within my
power to avert it.
We have passed Bhrritz, the merry bright
wat**rlng-p!ace. We have passed II *ndiye,
the French frontier station. We leave the
towering Pyrenees on our left. We arc at
I run, where all baggage must bn jealously
scrutinized. We are in Spain! Nobody has
troubled us. No susp clous-looking stranger
lias watched us. Th * stoppage has h *en
long, for the custom-house officers are an
noying! y particular in the discharge of their
duty; but our noble-looking courier has
saved us all personal trouble. 11c had done
us yeoman’s service. At last we are in an
other train, a train which runs on a line of
another gauge. The very time of day has
changed. We have lost or gaine l—l forgot
which—some twenty minutes. Wo now
count by Madrid time. We ore fairly on
Ppinlsh ground, and I have saved my love.
Saved her from others—now to save her
from herself. N *ver, never shall she know
the secret of that dark night. We will speed
away to the south—to the sun; the odor;
the brightness; the flowers. AH shall be
forgotten. The dark remembrance shall be
swept from my mind. I will call itadream.
1 will win Puillppa’s love—the love that I
dare to believe Is already almost mine. We
will live forever In br’gtit, sunny, glowing
lands. Who cares for dull, dark, disma!
I England? Have we not youth, wealth, and,
I oil. Messed word! love? Before my love
‘ and in/ lie ye rs aixl years of swocfqwhs and
Uy. J>!-ako i.ff black gloqir| anr| pti merrv.
NO. 18.
onsu ixoriu. iou nave conquered rate t
Wo have passed St. Sebastiau. The slug
gish train is wearily winding up the valley
of the tJrumen. We are in wild and glorious
scenery. Tho railway Is carried at a great
elevation, from which we got nowandagal*
peeps of far-away valleys. Yes, I could now
find time to admire the wonderful scenery
which lasted until we passed Miranda.
My mood changed .with the country. I
laughed; I jested. E>ch of the ninny'sta
tions at which wo stopped furnished mate
rials for my new-born merriment I tangl
ed at the solemn-looking Spanish railway
officials, and drew pictures of the doleful
fate of imaginary nobly-born hidalgo* whom
poverty forced to descend to such employ
ment. I grumbled not at the slowness of
the train, although an ordinary traveler
might well, when on a Spanish line, sigh for
the comparatively lightning speed of the
much-maligned French trains. Time was
nothing to me now. Was there not a life
time stretching before me—and Philippa?
Aly gayety was contagions. My mother
laughed until the tears came, and Philippa
smiled as 1 had not seen her smile since we
picked up under such sad circumstance*
that long-dropped thread of friendship.
Those who have traveled in Spain will
scarcely credit me when I say we had the
compartment to ourselves. We were troub
led by no cloaked Spaniard who, as l* the
wont of his kind, insisted upon smoking like
a furnace and keeping both windows shut.
Our noble courier had been given his In
structions. His arguments were venal, and
had I troubled about money, I should have
found them costly. But they carried the
point, and no one Intruded on our privacy.
The hours went by. My mother slept, or
pr tended tc sleep. 1 seated myself near
Philippa, whispered words of thinly-veiled
love. She answered them not—l expected
no answer—but her eyes were downcast and
her cheek was blushing. She sighed. A sad
smile played around her sweet mouth; a
smile that spoke of a world of regret. That
sigh, that smile, told me that she understood
me, but told me also that, ah I it could never
be. The past never forgives 1 But all the
same she let her hand rest in rninv; and al
though, considering what had happened, I
scarcely dare to guy so, for once, for many,
many months. 1 was all but happy.
For me that journey ended only too soon.
At night w reached Burgos, the capital of
the old Castilian kingdom, amt 1 laid my
head on mv pillow and enjoyed sleep suck
as 1 had uot known since ttie night before
that one, when Philippa, with the snow
flakes falling around her, stood outside the
window of my cottage and gave mo goto*-
thing to hope fori
[To la Co<dvu(td.]
•*'**’"’ A Dog and A Fish.
A day or two ago a party . f exposi
tion people, consisting of Mr. Arthur
E. Reddle of Now York city, Mcs-nu
Frank and diaries Earle, sons of Mr.
Parker Earle, chief of the horticultural
department of the exposition, and Mr.
T. N. Miller. ma*e a fishing excursion
to Davis bayou, about four miles from
Ocean Springs, Miss.
The party was away several days,
and by the united efforts of all the
members thereof they succeeded in
capturing one fish. This was sufficient
to furnish them with materia) for a
capital fiah story, which Mr. Rcbdlo
told A tto Orleans litt> e>- Iknumrat
reporter in the foHowing words:
While we were waiting one morning
for a fish breakfast that Miller o*hl
Charlie Earle were pledged to supply
us with. Miller noticed a long pole in
the water some distance up the bayou,
which is about fifty yards wide at this
point. It floated dowu the bayou until
opposite our camp, and then sudden
ly turned and went backwards quit*
rapidly. Then wo saw that it was a
fishing-rod and that a big fish must be
at the end of the line. All was excite
ment in the camp. Our breakfast was
assured us provided we oonld capture
that fish. How were we to yet itP Wo
had no boat and the bayou was deep,
the water cold, and our fishy friend on
the other side of the bayou, say forty
rods away. Somebody suggested mak
ing a log raft, aud Frank Earle eagerly
gra.-ped an ax and was about to make
some young pine trees slek, when
Charlie Earle sang out: “Why not send
your dog for it, RendleP”
No sooner said than done. Charlie,
my water spaniel, a magnificent water
dog, who likes nothing bettor than
swimming and diving, had his atten
tion directed to the fishing-rod bv a
stone thrown iu its neigh i. or hood. ft*
swam toward it, divined fcis errand,
grabbed the rod at the thick end, nnd
proceeded to swim back with it. “Our
breakfast" at once noticed that some
body else was bossing that rod, and bo
began to object very vigorously. Ho
tugged at the line, the aog tugged at
the rod, and for a few moments it vm
a question who would win. FinaHy, by
a supreme effort, the fish made an im
mense dash and actually pulled the dog
(weighing fifty-two pounds) oompletely
under water.
First round for the fish.
“Charlie" came up looking half
/frowned, but still holding the rod in
his mouth. Jfe dropped it, however,
and swam to shore looking very puzz
led ami annoyed. Having taken breath,
he was a second Lime dispatched to se
cure “our breakfast," which was now
careering niitcf/y up th ’tneaw, m
doubt chuckling lo “hisself as how ha
had tooled that dawg.”
“Charlie" again swam to tho rod,
grabbed the big end, and bogan haul
ing it to shore. All was quiet until
about half way to the shore, when tbo
fish began to give battle. The struggle
was tremendous, but resulted in a
victory for the fish, who again pulled
tlm dog under water.
Second round for the fish.
The dog again returned to shore,
and was again sent out after our break
fast, He grasped the rod for a third
time, and with a look of desperation
on his handsome doggy face, and a
feeling iu iiis breast, uo doubt, that the
honor of his race was at stake, he
swam toward the shore. The fish
tugged and tugged, but slow y and
surely “Chariie” reached the short*
and at last laid the rod at my foot, and
then L landed a magnificent re*ttish. As
a matter of fact, this was the only fish
caught uu our fishing and ducking ex
pedition.
We found out afterward that the rod
hail been pulled by the fish at the end
of it from the bands ol a (aruier’f
daughter who had been fishing near
her lather’s home. We found the o*vn
cr, and returned the
“The descendants of tbe noble Spar
tans," says an exchange, “are said to
boa race of liam. beggars and thieves."
This would seem to Uko in the Ameri
can Indian.
Harvard College has in tfyree years
received gifts amounting to, nearly
$l,lOO. OtK>.
Avoid a drunken man; tyi rpny gtd
you into a quarrel. Avpitf samti
man when lie is Bob*r; be ina.y gwt you
drunk. — iVc m Oilcans