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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