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part two.
a FATAL PAST,
By DORA RUSSELL.
\utbor of “Footprints in the Snow,” “In* Broken Seal,” The “Track or the
Storm,” "A Bitter Birthright," Etc., Etc.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
CHAPTER XI.
the young laird.
She reached Ardleigh House an hour too
late for dinner, to the great, and not sup
pressed, indignation of Mies Drummond’s
old servant, Elizabeth, who met her in the
tall as she waited in.
•‘D’ye mind what time it is. Miss Helen f
ssked Elizabeth, tartly. “Gone 2; and the
dinner time is at 1, if ye please to remem
ber; and the fish is spoilt, and the beef—l
bad such a fash to get it—is just roasted to
rags.’’
“Oh! I’m so sorry.’’ answered Helen,
pleasantly; “don’t be cross. Elizabeth. I
walked too far, and I hope Aunt Margaret
won’t mind.”
“Miss Drummond’s just one of those who
minds every one but hersel’, Miss Helen,
that's my opinion; but I know she’ll be put
off her dinner at not getting it when she
ought to, and 1 think young folk should be
more considerate.”
Elizabeth having thus unburdened her
mind a little, returned to her kitchen to
serve up the dinner she declared to be
spoilt, but which she very well knew was
nothing of the sort. She was, in truth, au
excellent servant, devoted to Miss Drum
mond, whom she had served long and faith
fully, for Elizabeth had been born among
the Northumbrian hills, and reared in the
late vicar of Brackeuford’s parish school,
and gone from thence to the vicarage,
where a young girl mistress had already
taken her dead mother’* place.
This was Margaret Drummond, the sad
faced woman who had lived nineteen years
in Scotland, far away from kith and kin.
But Elizabeth had followed her fortunes,
end thoroughly deserved the confidence
that Miss Drummond had early placed in
her. The-e two had grown gray together,
and the child prattling about the house bad
been a further lie between them. Elizabeth
knew the secret of Helen’s birth; knew of
her dead father and mother, who had eacu
died so drear a death. But they never
spoke of the pari. Their simple daily life
apparently occupied their whole thoughts,
and the tragic undercurrent was never dis
turbed.
But we are forgetting the penitent Helen,
who, after Elizabeth's rebuke, hurried into
the parlor, where Miss Drummond was sit
ting waiting for her with the table long,
since prepared for dinner by the careful
Elizabeth.
“O! Aunt Margaret," cried Helen, her
sweet face flushed with youth and hope,
end love, “I am so awfully sorry to be so
late, but I forgot the time, and walked too
far, and am an hour too late, Elizabeth savs;
but you should not have waited.”
Miss Drummond looked at her adopted
child with a smile.
“Well, my dear, there is no harm done,"
she said, “since you have arrived all right,
but I was getting a little uneasy about you,
for it is such a stormy day. How far did
you go?”
"Oh, ever so far. Ben and Jack have had
sach fun up and down hill; we've had a
iplendid walk.”
"You looic very well, at all events. Now,
get off your hat, dear child, for Elizabeth is
very anxious about her beef.”
Helen laughed, and ran upstairs to her
own room, returning in a few minutes
looking so bright, s > handsome and so happy
that her aunt gla ce.i at her again during
the substantial meal which followed, and
which Helen was enjoying with a youthful
appetite.
Miss Drummond herself was not strong,
and never ate very much, which, her faith
ful servant Elizabeth observing, as she
waited on her two ladies, she presently
emitted a dismal groats.
“I just thought so. Miss Helen,” she
B&>d.
“What is the matter, Elizabeth?” asked
Drummond, with her sad smile.
I just thought ye’d he put off yer dinner
by waiting for it so long, mistress,” an
werd Elizabeth. “Yer stomach’s not
strong enough to stand it—quite different to
young stomachs.”
And again Elizabeth groaned.
.... '“ re JK?'* reflecting s n my large appe
brightly IZabelU? asked Helen, smiling
v™,*?— Rolen; lam not. I like to see
5 ng folks eat, for what is good food for
InnSVi? l i? l ea *S n? But - “11 the same, I
dinner ” e Drummond waiting for her
™ti e v Ver !?’ ber do 1* again, Elizabeth;
r , .® r have her dinner, and don’t mind
me a hit whether I am in or out.”
my dea r,” said Miss Drum-
Hkdly; “1 am only too pleased to see
you looking so well, and that you have en
yhe looks very well,
doesn’t she, Elizabeth?”
old Lv™ \ I! u denying that,” replied the
the „v?> nt i hß ! f B ru dg;ngly, glancing at
u„l *? r ,® lovely, blooming face; “Miss
with*’’* °° ks are n °t t° he found fault
for tße compliment, Eliza
ail vni ald ,j® eD ‘ gaily 1 “that makes up for
good K.5 old,n K- I like to think l am
B and to ho told so, too!”
a] wavs ,7 m’ my dear > good looks are not
with v blessing,” said Miss Drummond,
* half-suppressed sigh,
would' . bhmk so. Aunt Margaret 1 I
the girl. ot lke 10 be — w eli, plain,” smiled
smdrri rura ' nond looked at her and then
res i,. I? 0 . ' lt '" rai ‘ iudeed . impossible to
worn, „ ' n ? bright smiles and happy
' now that her heart once more was
to*hS? a^ter dinner was over she went up
found joy 11 room ’ u U of her newly
atrnir ] p!37 os mß ‘” *h o whispered to herself
... ?nd again, and that was sufficient.
to-mniM. 866 him to-morrow—Oh! I wish
self b/o°u W was here,” she murmured to her-
tatet£ aC6d h6r Uttlo room WUh reSt '
preset tiindeed settle to nothing, and
room' iywe “t into the rarely used drawing
becan acd “tting down at her aunt’s piano
Sl ,rbll "?., oM ditties in ber Fresh,
the h^„ V ° l . ce ’ w hlie the twe elder women in
DrnnvSf 8 h®tened, and tears stole into Miss
orummemd’s gray eyes.
vr^i 6 ®^ 6 me sair of her who is gone,”
®d Elizabeth in her kitchen, as she
bonnv n - Bcourinz her P an ; “ay. she’s too
°5“ y -Jist as her mother was.”
h ’“heth’s sorrowful reflections were,
rivf V # r ’ fesantly interrupted by the ar
at Ardleigh House. The
tbrn.,-T had a hollow sound, and echoed
u kh the long, low passages, with an un
iPjf JHufnina ffeto£
used and mournful cadence, and created
surprise and not a little wrath In Elizabetn’s
bosom.
“It will just be the parson from the
manse coming a begging again,” thought
Elizabeth, "they’re always at lt, there’s no
satisfying ’em.”
Still Elizabeth put on a clean apron, and
set her oap aright before she answered the
bell. But instead of “She parson from the
manse,” as she called the Rev. Joshua
Homes, who wag incumbent of the parish, a
tall, lanky, red-haired youth stood before
her, yclept Johnny Campbell.
Johnny wav the eldest, indeed the only,
son of Mrs. Campbell, of Ardleigh Lodge,
was the owner of much of the property
around, including Ardleigh House, aud, as
the future laird, was regarded with some
respect by Elizabeth, in spite of his lanki
ness aud his red hair.
“Are tiie ladies at home?" gasped Johnny
Camobell, blushing crimson through hi*
freckles, as Elizabeth opened the door.
“Yes, Mr. Campbell, they aro, both of
’em,” replied Elizabeth.
“Could I see Miss Helen?” inquired Johnny
even yet more embarrassed.
The truth was Johnny had fallen a victim
to Helen’s fair face, and, after repeatedly
having met her on the hills, had induced his
doting mother to call on her tena it.
Miss Drummond. Margaret Drummond
had recived this visit civilly but < oidly, aud
certaluly did not encourage the intentions
of the young laird. It was a standing joke,
indeed, with Helen, Johnny Campbell’s
awkward attempts at wooing, aud even
Mis3 Drummond could not resist smiling
when Johnny came to call at Ardleigh
Home, and would sit utterly silent for half
an hour at a time, with his blue eyes fixed
steadily on Helen’s face.
“She’s a-singing in the drawing room,
now,” said Elizabeth addressing him, and
alluding to Helen. “Don’t ye hear her, Mr.
Campbell? She’s a voice like a bird.”
Johuny found no words to reply to this
speech, but stood mutely on the door mat,
listening with all the strength of his great
red ears to the warbling from above. He
was deeply and sincerely in love with Helen
Drummond, though he fouud no language
to express this, and Elizabeth (considering
he would be the future owner of the estate
of Ardleigh) felt some little womanly sym
pathy for this silent lover.
“Shall I show ye up?” she continued.
Johnny gave her to understand lie wished
to “go up," and accordingly Elizabeth
ushered him up the broad oak staircase.
Tbeu she opened tne drawing room door.
“Mr. Campbell, Miss Helen,” she an
nounced and Helen rose from the piano with
a smile, as the tali young Scotchman stum
bled into the room.
“Good morning, Air. Campbell,” she said,
politely, but Johnny spoke no word.
“Tell my aunt that Mr. Campbell is here,
Elizabeth,” continued Helen, and Elizabeth
nodded grimly, ami as she went down
stairs mattered to herself a few words of
wisdom.
“He’s an awkward creature enough, still
Miss iielen might do worse,” reflected the
old servant half aloud.
And in paint of family and wealth there
was no doubt of this. Mrs. Campbell, of
Ardleigh Lodge, was not a highly born
Bootchwoman, but she had married into an
ancient Scotch house, and brought her
wealth to fill the nearly empty coffers. Her
father had been a successful English iron
master, and had left her a large fortune,
and in her girlhood, while staying with
some friends in the Highlands, she had met
the long-legged heir of the Campbells of
Ardleijh, who with Scottish prudence had
admired the young heiress, taking into con
sideration that she had plenty of money for
tt.em both, and that she preferred to be
called Campbe.l to Jackson, had accepted
his advances, and had married Ardleigh, as
he was generally called from his territorial
possession*.
But she was dissatisfied with the old
house where many generations of Camp
bells had been and died, and she pers aded
her husband to build Ardleigh Lodge, a fine
modern mansion, and thus Ardleigh House
was to be let, and Miss Drummond took it,
nd livad there many years without the
Campbells seeking to make her acquaint
ance. But after the laird’s death Jobnny
Campbell rose In importance at the Lodge,
and his wishes were almost law to his fond
mother. Mrs. Campbell, now a stout un
wieldly woman, therefore at Johnny’s re
quest called on Miss Drummond, and a kind
of acquaintance, though not intimate one,
was carried ou between the two families.
Johnny, who was not yet 21, would, how
ever, call occasionally at Ardleigh House,
and sometimes left braces of grouse there,
aud blackcocks, and other offerings for the
two ladies which, as Helen used jokingly to
remark, “were too good do refuse.” But
whatever b meant to do in the future, the
young laird had yet spoken no word to ex
press bis sentiments toward Helen, and his
mother, who was an easy-minded woman,
given to much self-indulgence, did not inter-
fere in the matter.
“He might do worse,” she would say,
alluding to Helen Drummond to her com
panion, Miss MacNlel, who was a cousin of
the late laird’s, and lived with his widow.
“Miss Drummond’s father was an English
clergyman, aud the girl’s pretty, and Johnny
will have plenty for them both.”
So Johnny’s silent friendship was not in
terfered with, but it did not progress rap
idly. He catne and went, and Miss Drum
mond was always civil to him, and though
Helen occasionally made fun of him, be did
not seem to mind.
And Miss Drummond having now entered
the drawing room as Eliza eth had deliv
ered Helen’s message to her, after shaking
hands with Johnby, asked after bis
mother.
“Sue’s very bad,” answered Johnny,
briefly.
“I’m sorry for that,” said Miss Drum
mond, civiilv, “what is the matter with
her?”
“Pains all over,” replied Johnny, in an
unconcerned tone.
“That’s very sad; I hope she’ll soon be
well.”
Johnny shook his head.
“She never gets well,” he said; “she likes
being ill, I think.”
“It’s very unkind of you to say that, Mr.
Campbell,” said Helen, with a little laugh,
upon which Johnny grinned inanely, and
looked as if he thought he had said some
thing clever.
The conversation languished, and to
make things a little more cheerful Miss
Drummond asked Helen to aiug them a
song.
"I heard you singing down stairs, Helen,"
she said, “so will you sing a song for Mr.
Campbell now I"
“As he sent us such lovely black-game I
think I will,” answered Helen, rising with a
smile and lookizig at Johnny, who at once
SAVANNAH, GA., SUNDAY, MARCH 1, 1891.
blushed tremendously, and fidgeted on his
seat in a manner painful to behold.
But the next moment a wondrous flood of
melody Ailed the room. Helen had a beauti
ful voice, claar as a bell, sympathetic and
sweet-toued, and her aunt, who had been a
good musician in her day, had done her best
to cultivate thia gift Ami her two listeners
now tat as if entranced with her rare
power.
Jobnny Campbell ceased fidgeting, and
Mies Drummond’s thoughts stole baiz to by
gone days; to a form and face something
like Helen’s, though lacking the strong vi
tality and brightness ot the young girl
reared amid the Highland hills.
When Helen finished her sor.g no one
spoke, and she turned round in her lively
way on the music-stool.
“No one says ‘thank you,’ which means, I
suppose, you don’t want any more?" the
said, good-temperedly.
This roused Johuny Campbell from his
abstraction.
“More, pleaie,” he said, upon which
Helen burst into her ringing, girlish laugh.
“Oh! Mr. Campbell, don’t compare me to
gruel, please!"she cried, and Johnny looked
utterly bewildered.
“S.ie is thinking of poor little Oliver
Twist asking for more," explained Miss
Drummond.
Then Jobnny understood, aud a positive
roar broke from his lips.
"Very good, excellent!” he cried, in ap
preciation of Helen’s stupid little joke.
"Yes, more, please, Miss Drummond.”
Then Helen lang him a Scottish song, and
this so moved Johnny’s heart that be paid
her his first compliment.
“Ii ever would tire of hearing you sing,”
he said, and then once more blushing crim
son, he relapsed into silence, aud during the
rest f his visit scarcely spoke again.
After he was gone Helen, we may be sure,
made merry at his expense, but Miss Drum
mond had a kindly word to say on his be
half.
“I think he is very good-natured and
kind," she said.
“He is a goose,” laughed Helen. "Fancy,
Aunt Margaret, what an intellectual and
lively family party they must ho at the
Lodge! Mrs. Camobell, Miss AlacNiel, and
Master Johuny! I wonder if they ever
speak?”
CHAPTER XII.
TO-MORROW AND TO-MORROW AND TO-MOR
ROW.
The to-morrow that Helen had sighed for
came, and the gray mist wrapped the
mountains aud brooded over the looh. A
gray, cold mist, so dense that any object a
few yards distant was invisible, yet to Miss
Drummond’s surprise and not a little alarm
lielen announced her intention at breakfast
of taking a long walk with “Ben.”
“My dear, it’s hardly safe; you might slip
your foot ou one of ttioei steep paths,” re
monstrated Aunt Margaret.
“I might, but I won’t,” answered Helen,
smiling brightly; “and moreover, Aunt Mar
garet, 1 shall promise to ba back precisely
at l o'clock this time.”
“But, Helen, what pleasure cau there be
in going out oa such a day?”
“I like it, and there is no accounting for
taste, you know,” said Helen, still smiling,
and then she left the room, and her aunt
beard her singing aloud in the gladuass of
her heart upstairs, as she was putting ou her
hat and cloak.
And presently she called the dogs, and
went out into the damp and piercing air. It
was so dense that in spite of her boasting she
was forced to be very careful of her foot
steps, and keep the dogs close to her side. It
was quite a ioug walk to the lone hillside,
where the granite block jutted out from the
lichen and neatber, where she and Francis
Roche had met the day before, and which
they had agreed was to be their trystiug
place. A long, cold walk, but Helen went
steadily aud happily on. She knew each
little landmark by the way, but she forgot,
unfortunately, that Roche did not. And
when at last she reached her destination
she found her lover was not there!
This was naturally a great disappoint
ment, and suddenly the idea darted through
her mind that he might have lost his way.
Poor Roche bad lost his way, and after
wandering hopelessly in different directions
for some timej was about to give it up, and
return to the railway station, when out of
the mist a few inches before him a tall figure
emerged.
“Perhaps the fellow can help me,”
thought Roche, hopefully.
He therefore drew up before the mist-girt
figure, aud inquired if ho could tell him
where he was, and it he were far from Ard
leigh House.
“Ardleigh House,” repeated the young
man he addressed, whose features were now
visible. * ‘Do you want to go there?”
“Not exactly,” replied Roche in some con
fusion, remembering Helen’s prohibition;
“but—ah—-ear it.”
“It’s a good bit off this.”
“Can you tell me how far? Could you
guide me in the direction over the hills, for
this confounded mist has completely puz
zled me,” sail Roche, putting his hand into
his pocket; “and of course I shall give you
something for your trouble?”
All the proud blood of the Campbell
rushed into Johnny’s freckled face at these
words, for it wag no other than the young
laird, and he drew himself up to his full
hight, and stared anjrily at the good look
ing young soldier before him.
"I’m no servant,” be said, indignantly,
and the next moment turned his back o.i
Roche, and vanished in the mist!
"Confound the idiot, I took him for a
gillie,” muttered Roche, as he once more
found himself alone os he once more more
found himself alone amid the dense and
clinging vapor, knowing not whithor to di
rect his footsteps; and after a vain effort or
so to find the trysting place, he gave it up,
and returned in a very disconsolate mood to
his hotel at Oban, smoking to console him
self as he went.
Helen, too, after lingering about more
than an hour, aud peering in every direction
through the mist, gave it up and returned
to Ardleigh House, thinking very hard
things,of the weather, which had come be
tween her and “the appointed hour.” And
Johnny Campbell went back to the Lodge
with his ears tingling, and his face burning
still at the indignity he had received in be
ing offered a gratuity.
But the next day promised to make it up
to them all, for the sun rose in his glow,
and the waters of the loch were blue, aud
the mountain aides bathed in the shilling
beams Helen’s spirits rose at once when
she awoke and looked out on the cloudless
aky, and hear 1 Jack b rking vivaciously in
the garden below, no doubt at the prospect
of the joys of the coming day.
"I sba.l sea him to-day at least,” said
Helen softly to herself, as she leaned
against the window-pane, and thought of
Francis Roche.
“To-day,” she repeated again. Oh!
sweet day, with love, and youth, and joy to
make it glad! This girl, with her warm,
impulsive heart, her etrong feelings and
high spirits, felt it was good to live, that the
world’s pleasures were greater than its
woee, and this morning she realized this
more deeply than she had ever done before.
“Isn’t a beautiful day. Aunt MargaretP’
she said, brightly, when she went down to
breakfast, and " kissed her aunt’s pallid
cheek.
"Yes,” answered Miss Drummond, “and I
suppose you’ll be starting out for a long
scramble over the bills?”
“To make up for yesterday—certainly
there is nothing like the sunshine,” said
Helen, and she walked to oie of the win
dows of the room, and etood there gazing
out on the lovely scene below and beyond;
ou the blue waters and the dark pinee; on
the mountain tops, while and majestic,
with their crowns of snow.
Miss Drummond followed Helen to the
window, and also stood looking pensively
out.
“There is a beautiful view from here on
such a day as this,” she said, in her quiet
tones.
“I never saw it so beautiful,” replied
Helen, with enthusiasm, "nature has been
very gracious to us. Aunt Margaret.”
Miss Drummond smiled gently, and then
turned away and began pouring out the
tea. Heieu, however, was too much excited
to eat her breakfast with her Hsual appetite,
and after the meal was over kept moviDg in
an unsettled way about the room. She had
fixed to meet Fraucis Roche at 12o'clock o
the previous day, when she had missed him
through the mist, therefore it was uo use
starting until 11 o’clock this morning, as it
did not take her more than an hour to reach
the appointed trysting place.
It was only 9 o’clock now, and there were
two hours to wait! Oh I weary hours—
would they never pssi, thought impatient
Helen, trying to while away the time that
often Hies too fast. She wont into the gar
den, and amid the fading leaves found a
poor little monthly rosebud, born, as it
were, out of time, and nursed amid the
autumn blasts. Helen plucked it, aud
placed it against her shapely t ,roat, but her
own lovely bloom put its pale tints to
shame. Then she played with the dogs, fed
the birds, and finally' start*d for her walk
at half-post 10 o’clock. She would wait on
the hillside, she thought, and watch there
for Francis Roche.
It was truly a glorious morning; the air
clear and wonderfully transparent; the
grass and heather stiff and brittle, and cov
overed with minute diamonds of white
frost, which sparkled brightly in the sun.
The dogs barked joyously,’ and with a
hoarse crow the gor-cock rose cn the wing.
All nature and all living things seemed to
rejoice, and Helen’s Drummond’s young
pulses beat fast, and her handsome young
face gleamed with beauty, ashe sho went
along the steep paths with ber light foot
steps to meet her lover.
And when she neared the trysting stone
she saw that it was occupied. Yes, Francis
Roche was alroady waiting for her, sitting
sm king a cigarette, which he tiuug away
whan he saw Helen, and rose hastily and
ran down the hill to meet her with out
stretched bands.
“I’m so glad to see you,” he said; “do you
know i missed my way yesterday, and wan
dered hopeloesly about in the mist, and
could not find tne place—hut perhaps you
did not come?”
“Ob, indeed, I did though!” answered
Helen; “I came and waited an hour, and
then I gave it up—but to-day is lovely,
isn’t it?”
“Glorious; but I was fearfully disap
pointed about yesterday, and I met, a long
legged fellow ou the hillside, and asked him
to show me the way, as I took him for a
gillie, and politely offered to roward him
for his trouble. But the red-haired long
legged gentleman took immense umbrage,
and indignantly informed me he was not a
servant, and then turned and Istt me in the
lurch.”
“Red-haired and long-legged,” repeated
Helen, highly amused; ‘‘I jpndur if it was
Johnny Campbell?" araaksPHMbe.
“Aud who may Johnny Campbell be?”
asked Roche.
“A young gentleman remarkable for his
brilliant powers of conversation, long legs,
red hair and freckles, and who is the
owner, or the future owner I believe, for he
is not 21 yet, of a great deal of property
near here, including my aunt's house.”
“Then you kiaow him, I suppose? It’s
just about here this fellow met me—rather
rough ou him, wasn’t it?”
And Roche laughed.
“Rather, for he’s proud as Lucifer, I be
lieve—poor Johnny Campbell, what a
blow!"
They little thought as they thus talked of
him, that Johnuy Campbell himself was
watching them with jealous, angry eyes.
There was one spot at tbs end of the
grounds of Ardleigh Lodge, from wbioh
you could see any oue emerge from the gates
of Ardleigh House, and thither the love
sick Johuny morning after morning re
paired in the hope of seeing Helen Drum
mond, and he often followed her in her walks
at a distance and unseen.
He bad done so this morning, and to his
dismay saw her meet Francis Roche on the
hillside; saw their clasped bands and smiling
faces^aw —Oh, poor Johnny I—Roche draw
her band through his arm and lead her op
to the bill, and then they sat down to
gether on the gray granite crag, end
Roche put his arm round Helen’s slender
waist.
Johnny’s blue eyes opened wider and
wider, and a sharp narg shot through his
heart. Who was this man? Ho was the
very fellow, Johnny reflected bitterly, who
bad insulted him the day before in the mist
by offering him a shilling! But this little
incident sank into insignificance now in
Johnny’s breast. But to sit with his arm
round Helen Drummond’s waist—it was
monstrous.
Johuny, in fact, could not stand it. A
clump of storm-rent pinee hid him from
their view, and after staring at them for
five minutes or so, Johnny roused himself
to action. He would go to Ardleigh House
ask Miss Drummond who the man was with
Helen. It might be a brother of hers, or a
coudn, th ught Johnny, trying to console
himself as be started back on his way to
Ardleigh.
“But a cousin—confound itl That’s
nearly as bad. People marry their
cousins!”
The next moment he reflected, and with a
hot, sore heart, an Indescribable sensation of
discomfort and anger, Johnny at last
reacted Ardleigh House, and having rung
the bell asked to see Miss Drummond.
“Miss Helen’s out,” answered Elizabeth,
who could not imagine what had induced
the young laird to call at that time of the
morning.
“I know,” said Johnny, almost with a
groan; “it’s Miss Drummond I wish to see.”
Whereupon Elizabeth ushered him into
the parlor, where Miss Drummond was sit
ting placidly knitting by the fire.
She rose and received Johnuy civilly,
though she also was extremely surprised to
see him at this hour.
“It’s a very line morning,” she said, by
way of beginning the conversation.
But Johnny took no notice of her remark
on the weather. He was very much agi
tated, and erew pale and red by turns, and
then blurted out:
“Miss Drummond, has Helen a brother?"
Miss Drummond’s gray-tinted face flushed
deeply at this question.
“.No,” shs said, after a moment’s hesita
tion; “Helen has no brother.”
“Then who is the man,” asked Johnny,
yet more agitated, “with whom she is now
sitting on tbe hillside?”
“Bitting on the bihside?” repeated Miss
Drummond in extreme astonishment. “You
are mistaken, Mr. Campbell; Helen is out
walking alone.”
“No, 1 am not mistaken, Mis* Drum
mond,” Johnny positively affirmed. “I saw
her meet tins fellow, and I saw her take his
arm, and I sew-——”
But here Johnny paused abruptly, for iu
spiteof bis uncoutbnessan inborn gentle
manly feeling forbade him to tell her aunt
that lie had seen this stranger with his arm
round Helen’s waist.
“I cannot imagine who it can be, then,”
said Miss Drummond, slowly, •'unless,”
sue added, "it is some oae whom Helen may
h7e met at our old friend, lady Knnis
luora'a. ’’
“PerhaDs," *aid Johnny, huskily: and
then, after sitting silent for a fsw minutes,
rubbing his big Fee: (as was bia wont when
he was nervous or agitated) backward and
forward on the carpst, ha rose, held out his
hand to Miss Drummond, and without an
other word want away.
He left Mias Drummond also painfully
agitated. She never doubted for a moment
that the young man with Helen was the
same person whom I.ady Ennismore had
parted her from ao abruptly, and she knew
that Jjtdy Kunism i t's reasons for doing
this were strong and powerful. Yet when
Helen presently came in, loosing so happy
aud lovely, she did not speak at first to her
on the subject. She waited until the oarlv
dinner was over, and then said in her sad
and gentle voice:
“Helen, Aunt Margaret,"answered Helen,
looking up with her bright face.
“Yonng Campbell wss hare this morn
ing.” continued Miss Drummond, "and he
told me he had seen you walking with some
young man—who was ft, Helen?”
Helen’s beautiful bloom deepened consid
erably at this q cation, but she auawered at
once straightforwardly and bravely;
“It was Francis Roche, Aunt Margaret—
the—the gentleman I told you I mot at
Lady Enuismore’s. ”
“And he has followed you here?” asked
Miss Drummond in a low tone.
"He is slaying at Oban. He came to
Scotland to see me; he thought Lady Ennis
more had no right to act as she did.”
“Heleu, she had a right!”said Miss Drum
mond, with agitation. "You are acting
most unwisely; you should not go to meet
this voung man.”
"You are mistaken. Aunt Margaret,” re
plied Helen with spirit and sparkliug eyes.
“I have a right to meet Francis Roche; wo
are engaged to eaoh other; we shall be mar
ried before long, and Lady Ennismore can
not prevent this.”
Miss Drummond’s lips began to tremble
painfully, and her hands shook.
“And you have settled this without a word
to me,” she said; ‘‘to me who ”
Hut here she broke off abruptly, and rose
and was walking feebly from the room,
when Helen, in her warm, impulsive way,
ran after her aud put her arms round her
waist.
“Don’t be vexed with me, Aunt Marga
ret,” she said in her pretty, ooaxiug way.
“wait until you know Francis Roche, and I
sure you will like him. He Is the nicest fel
low, and he wanted awfully to coma and
see you, only I was afraid of any row
with lAxiy Ennismore, and would not lot
him.”
"il v poor child, murmured Miss Drum
mond, and sho laid her cold, shaking lips
against Helen’s rosy cheeks as she spoke;
“my poor, poor child.”
“Why do you speak of mo like that. Aunt
Margaret?”
Hut Miss Drummond madenoreply. She
wrenched herself away from Helen’s de
taining grasp and quitted the room, loaviug
Helen feoiiug anything but happy. Still
Francis Roche’s love made up for all, she
told herself; but before the day was over
another incident occurred which did not add
to her equanimity.
This was nothing less than a letter from
Francis Roche himself to toll her he was
obliged to return duty on tho following
day.
“My own sweet Ile'en,” the girl read,
with shining, dewy eyes, "I am so sorry
that my first letter to you should contain
bad news. Very Pad news for ino at least,
for I found a telegram from the chief on
my return to the hotel to-day to recall me
to I.ynewood to-morrovr, as there is going
to be an inspection there tho day after.
Thus I shall have to tear myself away for a
while from the lovoly banks aud braes, and
from someone bonnier, sweeter, dearer
than them all. But you won’t forget me,
will you, Helen? And now I am going to
ask a groat favor. As to-morrow will be
our last day together for a while, do let us
make the most of it. Meet me, like a clear
girl, on the hillld, as usual, at 12 o’clock,
and then again at b. Let us have two walks
instead of one; two or three more happy
hours to think of when we are parted. *1
know you will not refuse Yours always,
‘‘Francis Roche.”
And she did not refuse. She met Roche
the next day at 21 o’clook, and they whiled
away the sweet morning hours talking of
those yet left to them. Miss Drummond
made no remark nor remonstrance, and
when Helen again went out In the afternoon
she asked no questions. But somehow this
second meeting seemed very sad. They
were about to part, aid It was uncertain
when they should meet again, and as the
swift-closing dusk stole around them the
farewell words seemed harder still to ear.
“But you will be true to me, Helen?” half
whispered Roche.
“Yes, always, quite true,” she answered,
with trembling lips.
“My own dear little girl—my Helen?”
“Your very own."
He clasped her in his arms, and kissed
her agmu and again. But remorseless time
went on and tho golden moments passed
only too swiftly and at last they stood
band-iu-hand In the gloaming and knew
the time had come when taey must say
good-by.
Lingeringly and unwillingly the words
were spokeu. Mauy a promise was given,
and many a vow was made; ardent, tender
vows of unchanging love; and thou Helen
with wet eyes, and faltering footsteps
turned homeward, anil it was almost dark
when she reached Ardleigb.
As she entered the parlor she heard some
one speaking to her aunt, and the next mo
ment the flickering firelight revealed to her
the familiar form and face of Lady Ennie
more.
[TO BE CONTINUED. 1
LEMON ELIXIR.
Its Wonderful Effect on the Liver,
Stomach, Bowels, Kidneys and Blood.
Dr. Mozley’s Lemon Elixir is a pleasant
lamon drink that positively ourea all Bilious
ness, Constipation, Indigestion, Headache,
Malaria, Kidney Disease. Dizziness, Colds,
Loss of Appetiie, Fevei-s, Chills, Blotches,
Funnies, Pain in back, Palpitation of Heart,
and all other diseases caused by disordered
liver, stomach and kidneys, the first great
cause of all fatal diseases. 50 cts. and Cl
par bottle. Bold by druggists. Prepared
only by H. Mozley, M. D.. Atlanta, Ga.
Lemon Hot Drops
For coughs and colds, take Lemon Hot
Drops.
For sore throat and Bronchitis, take
Lsnion Hot Drops.
For Pneumonia and Laryngitis, tak
Lemon Hot Drops.
For consumption and catarrh, take Lemon
Hot Drops.
For all throat and lung diseases, take
Lemon Hot Drops.
An elegant and reliable preparation.
Sold by druggists. 25 centa tier bottlo.
Prepared by H, Mozley, M. D'., Atlanta,
Ga. ______
President National Bank,
McMinvlUe, Tenn,, writes: From experi
ence in my family, Dr. H. Mozley’s Lemon
Elixir has few, if any, equals, and no supe
riors in medicine for the regulation of the
lirsr, stomach and bowels. Dr. H. Mozley’s
Lemon Hot Drops are superior toaQy reme
dies we have ever been able to get for throat
and Inng diseases. W. H. MAGNEBB.
THE DOINGS OF WOMEN.
80ME FRESH MANIFESTATIONS OF
THE E WIG W.< IBLICHE.
These Fin de Slecle Days are Interest
ing-Miss Florence Balgarnle-Bbe
Would Give sl—An International
Novel Mr*. Beecher - Men Buy
Books, Women China.
(Copyright.)
New Your, Feb. 28. —The evolution of
the art of advertising is something ourious
and interesting. Particularly is this the
caee when it is in a woman's fertile brain
that it evolves The other day there was a
dressmaking establishment opened on a
fashionable thoroughfare. The statement
is prose, but an epic of advertising follows.
Tho dressmaker hired a theater, she set it
with palms and flowers, she engaged an or
chestra and she sent out tickets for a mat
inee. Bhe got an audience so big that
“standing room only” might have been
posted if only there had been standing room.
Then to the strains of “I Dreamt I Dwelt
In Marble llalls” she posed against paste
board pillars and under portieres and let the
women s(otstors dream they too wore
loves of trucks and ahainsd vasals aiul serfs
at their sides.
Her methods revealed study of feminine
nature and an appreciation of the taste for
realism. Hhe rode a live horse upon the
stage to show a riding habit, had hsrself
lifted off by a devoted attendant and stood,
skirts in hand, feeding the pretty animal
sugar and—setting forth her prioea.
(She hail baskets of flowers passed up to
her over the footlights, aud she lingered ihe
cards attached to the handles and studied
them visibly and smiled at the audience aud
said it was “a woman’s curiosity.”
Blio went shopping for her spectators and
she paid calls and drank tea aud gave re
ception-, and Anally she said she would
place a 85 frock by tho side of one costing
85,000; than she came forward in ballroom
gorgeousness, leading by tho hand a wen
tot of a girl. The audience looked from the
satin and lace and jewels to the curly
headed mite iu pink, two passions were sat
isfied in the same glance, and they split
tboir gloves clapping bauds. Then she said
her little daughter would entertain the
ladies, and the ctdld scraped some wavering
strains on a small ribbon-tied violin. Tho
women dissolved In tender raptures, and
felt as if they had seen "Little Lord Faunt
leroy” aud Mrs. Langtry on joint starring
tour.
Much a dressmaker is almost up to losing
jewels or quarreling with her husband or
stopping a runaway horse or eloping or even
refusing to wear tights, all for the good of
business. Those fin d* steeds days are In
teresting.
MISS FLORENCE BALGtARNIE.
I spent a pleasant hour the other day
with Mis# Florence Bolgaruie, who has been
iu attendance on the sessions of the Woman’s
National Counoil at Washington as the
delegate of the Women’s Libsral Federa
tion of England, of which Mrs. Gladstone
Is preside*it. Miss Balgatnie is a vigorous,
rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed Englishwoman,
with a simple, unaffected cordiality of
speech and manner and a merry, oontaglous
smile. She pushes her brown hair off her
forehead iu soft pompadour rolls, she looks
straight at you and she talks with frankness
and vitality.
Mi s Balgnrnie is at the head of the or
ganized movement for woman suffrage in
Eugland, and she is tho bearer of adilrssn*
of congratulation from various Englishwo
men’s associations to the women of Wyo
ming on their possession of the ballot under
the state constitution. Bhe says woman
suffrage will maze no progress in Great
Britain until parliament has a breathing
spell in that day. not apparently oloao at
hand, "when we have got home rule for
Ireland.”
Bhe thinks women reporters are multiply
ing so rapidly in London that it hat almost
ceased to be legitimate for a foreigner to ex
press ur|iri*e at being interviewed in this
country by a womeu, Like every true
daughter of Britain who ever crossed the
Atlantic ferry she feels as If "plunged into a
Turkish batty in your hot American houses,”
hut unlike most Britons she finds American
women not only more vivaelous tr an thoir
cousins, but, on an average, as clear ef skiu
aud strong and hsiltby looking.
HBF. WOULD (JIVE (It
I heard a little story the other day whioh
was said to illustrate a difference between
men aud women; of that be you the judges.
There was delivered over to the tender mer
cies of a fine, brown-eyed customs msueot
rcss a woman suspected of smuggling, on
whose person, indeed, examination brought
to light silk enough for a dress or two, and
—no ooe will ever know why she thought it
necessary to conceal those—B3oo In gold
pieces. The culprit was overwhelmed with
mortification.
"You won’t expose me,” she begged; “you
won’t give my name?”
The inspectress folded up the silk and Bald
nothing.
"For tho love of heaven, you won’t let it
go Into the papers?”
Tho inspectress did not answer.
“1 beseech you, I implore you,” here ahe
cast herself upon the neck of tee inspectress,
“be merciful. I will give you anything you
ask, I’ll give vou all I have on earth, I’llgive
you a dollar!”
And where does the man come In! O,
nowhere, except that in the opinion of the
inspectress a man affected to such anguish
would have offered the SBUO. *
It is a mors difficult matter for a woman
to conceal anything about her than it waa
in the days of the late lamented bustle—
here one is tempted to allude to the hoop
skirt rumor—and this has lightened greatly
the labors of the inspectresses, who are now
only search-rs of the person; yet as they
stand at the gang plank watching passen
gers come ashore there chances now aud
then to one of them something of interest.
“Have you smuggled anything?’ asked a
bright-eyed, excitable little creature
bundled up In furs, of the woman who stood
next her on the duck the other morning.
“No."
"W ell, I have aud Ido wish I were out
of here.”
A little pause and then, “What it it?”
“It’s just the loveliest iaco wrap that ever
was, uud I cau’t keep my eyes off it a single
minute. lam ao afraid somebody will get
hold of it."
“You mean aa inspector f"
“Yes; it’s In that gentleman’s trunk over
there, done up iu his steamer blankets. I
do so hope I shall get it through.”
“Well, I am sorry you told me about it,
for—”
“What f A atari, a throwing up of the
hands and then, “You’re not—have I been
talking to ooe of thoee dreadful creatures ?”
And the wrap paid duty—hysterically.
AN INTERNATIONAL NOVEL.
In the novel which Rboda Broughton and
Mias Elizabeth Bisland have finished in part
nership, Miss Bisland’s main contribution,
to says a lady just over from London, has
been the touches calculated to give verisim
ilitude to the picture of a bright and inter
esting American girl who figures as one of
the characters. Miss Broughton could have
doue worse than sketch Miss Bieland.
rAGES 9 TO 12.
IT HAS A “FIN DE SIECLB" FLAVOR.
I was chatting a few days ago with the
soprano of the choir of a large ( atholio
onarch. The salaries of the singers, I
learned, covered the stated services, but for
smging at funerala there is extra cumpensa*
tioo. This foggy winter has done a good
many to death, and “funeral ; come” baa
been telegraphed ao frequently that soprano
and contralto, in the growing pride of their
pooketbooks, entered into a little agreements
to meet, whenever toe receipts for the week
exceeded a certain figure, for appropriate
relaxation Saturday afternoons. Out of tbitf
arrangement have come visits to most of
the plays of the season, lunches at the noted
restaurants, a course of Dslsarte lectures,
•ome experiments iu beauty culture at tha
Turkish baths and much careful consump
tion of candy. These are what one may
coll feminine fin dr liuch revels in tha
fruits of mortality. Tnese young women's
Easter bonnets are to be chosen out of thstar
'funeral money.
MRS. HENItT WARD BEECHER.
A few days ago I happened to see a pretty
picture. A woman with soft, white hair
tucked under a laoe rap was standing on
her doorsteep, her slight figure thrown into
relief against tall, flame-colored lilies hloa
somlng In tho window. Over hershouldera
was thrown a fleoey white wrap run with
pink ribbons. There was a pink flush lit
her cheeks as she entered into tho prosaia
task of dismissing a book agent or subscrip
tion man.
Funk & Wagnalls have asked Mrs.
Beecher to edit some of the shoets of thsir
standard dictionary, now in course of prep
aration. The words relating to woman,
her dress, occupations, industries and the
like were to pngs under her view; hut I be
lieve Mrs. Beecher has declined tha propo
sition.
Her friends have not yet done smiling
over a wild tale recently pu dished to thd
effect thut she was and had baon for year*
partially paralyzed.
MEN BID ON BOOKS, WOMEN ON FURNITURE.
Tbero aro certain fascinating places whore
we gather these foggy afternoons to yearn
over ant. quo Kazak and Kerman anil
Ouchak rugs, or fondle the curves of Pysoho
mirrors and gilt bouquet tables aud Cupid
brackets, to eat our hearts out with long
ings for Gbippsndale chairs and Empire
couches dec rated with swans and laurel
leaves aud to ami our gloves with
pointing tha fingers at old Dresden
pistes and old Sevres cups and
saucers, but I notice that we—those ol us
that are women—don’t bid on books very
extensively. Having haunted auction sales
In the art o illection season at muob expense
of time though little of cash now those sev
eral years, 1 fesl moved to say with confi
dence that my sex has quick eyes for a fan
or a candlestick or a Dit of old blue and
white, hut it won’t buy engravings, and
when the auctioneer gem down to books It
leaves the room. At sales of book* only
there are present few, If any women.
And yet it is popularly supposed that
woman reads. I have a notion that the
itching of the fingers to grasp and to keep m
book is not especially common with women.
A book, always excepting a "table” book,
hardly ranks as material for deeorati ve uso,
and so a woman reads it, studios it even,
but is quite oontont to send it book to tha
circulating library. For her money she
wants a oloisaonne plaque or a lamp ttiat
oau be pettiooated. I tin often surprised in
the homes of cultivated, even of lit-rary
women, at tho meager display of book
shelves. How many women in tho country
hare accumulated large libraries)
MRS. LOUISE BENSON.
Lent multiplies the classes in “Current
Topic*,” which divide favor latterly with
Ibsen and Dante. One of the most inter
esting is taught by Mrs. Louise Benson of
Hyracuse, which has been obliged to forsake
the drawing-rooms in whioh it started tot
a good-sized hall. Mrs. Benson is a dark
haired, handsome woman of much per>mial
magnetism, whoso clear-cut style aud brill
iant wit fully explain her success.
CANDLESTICKS.
Wasn’t 1 saying something a minute ago
about buying candlesticks? The candle*
stick to buy just at present is an old Japai
nose piece in bronze, with a spike on wbioll
you impale your candle. You don’t thruitr
it down on this autique bayonet point too
heavily, hut Ist the rnajot
part of the spike show to
get the full benefit of the unusualness.
Next this the most desirable candlestick*
going are old throe-branched Danish pieces,
which are called “three king candles,” be
cause they were used on Jan. G, to cele
brate the Magi’i visit to tho infant Jesus,
Elizabeth Dustin.
LENGTH OF WORKING DAYS.
Divergence* Observed in the Hours oI
Labor in Various Countries.
From, Chamber Journal.
A Turkish working day lasts from sun*
rise to sunset, with certain intervals tor re*
freshment and repose. In Montenegro the
day laborer begins work between 5 o’clock
and 6 o'clock in the morning, knocks off af>
8 o’clock for half an hour, works on till
noon, rests until 3 o’clock, and then labor*
on until sunset. This is in summer. In
winter be commences work at 7:30 or &
o’clock, rests from Vi o’clock to 1 o’clock,and
works uninterruptedly from that time to
sunset. The rules respecting skilled labor are
theoretically the same, but considerable lax
ity prevails in practice. In Servia the princi
ple of individual convenience prevails irs
every case. In Portugal from sunrise to aunaetj
is the usual length of the workiugday. With
field laborers and workman in the building
trades the summer ./working day begins at
3:30 or 5 in the morning and ends at 7 in
the evening, two or three hours rast being
taken in the middle of the day. In tha
winter the hours are from 7:30 to 5, with m
shorter interval of repose. In manilfact*
ories the rule is twelve hours in summer
and ten in winter, with an hour and a half
allowed for meals.
Eleven hours is the average day’s work in
Belgium, but the brewers’ men work from
ten to seventeen hours; bookmakers six
teen; the cabinetmakers of Brussels and
Ghent are of ion at work seventeen hours m
day; tramway drivers are on duty trom fif
teen to seventeen hours, with an hour and a
half at noon, railway guards sometime*
know what it is to work nineteen and a naif
hours at a stretch, and in the mining dis
tricts women are often kept at truck load
ing or similar heavy labor for thirteen or
fifteen hours.
The normal workday throughout Saxony
is thirteen hours, with two hours’allowance
for meal-taking. In Baden the medium
duration of labor is from ten to twelve
hours; but in some oases it far exoeeds this,
often rising to fifteen hours in stoneware,
and obina works and cotton mills; in saw
mills to seventeen hours; while the workers
in the sugar refineries, where the shift sys
tem it in vogue, work twenty-four hours fre
quently, and in too many of the Baden facto
ries Sunday work is the rule. In Russian
industrial establishments the difference in
the working hours is something extrordl
nary, varying from six to twenty. It i*
remarkable that these great divergence*
occur in the same branches of industry
within the same inspector’s district and
among establishments whose produo*
realizes the same market price,
