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(For The Sunny South.) VICTIMS OF HATE; —OR,— The MysteriousWill. BY GEO. H. POWERS, Author of “The Purchased Bridegroom,” “False,’’ “The Poor Student,” “Which will we Marry,” “The Bigamist,” “The Mysterious Stranger,” etc., etc. CHAPTER XXIY. More than a week had now elapsed, and yet Dr. Campbell had not yet arrived, although expected every day. Since leaving Ron\e, Norman had received no tidings from him; but he was certain that Je rome had not delayed his journey many days after his return from Florence. Candice said nothing concerning the pro longed absence of the man she feared, but her secret wish was that he might never return to America, for she felt a certain mistrust that his presence would bring nothing but grief and misfortune. In what manner he would continue to render them wretched she could not say, but felt a shuddering fear that such would be his purpose, and having the will, the way would not be want ing, however dark and criminal it might be. But as time passed and he came not, forebod ings ceased to trouble her, and she enjoyed to the utmost the life of love and happiness that opened to her. But how could she suspect that the sweet calm of these days was the calm that precedes the storm ? Meantime Norman was saddened by fears that some disaster had overtaken his beloved friend. It was rumored that the Queen Vic toria, which had sailed from Liverpool on the tenth of May, a few days later than the time they had sailed from the same port, was now over-due a considerable number of days. The newspapers teemed with rumors of this nature, yet Norman hoped that they were un founded; and, even if true, that Jerome had not taken passage upon the delayed ship. In political circles it was all the talk, for sev eral Englishmen of high repute—messengers from her Majesty’s Government to the Govern ment of the United States—had embarked on the missing vessel; and while those nigh in pub lic station anxiously watched for the coming of the ship, in England the announcement of her arrival was as eagerly looked for by that Gov ernment and the friends of the doomed pas sengers. The.latest account that could be obtained con cerning the ill-fated ship was from a vessel that had met her, five days out of Liverpool. Nothing further could be learned, except that ! her in that latitude a severe storm had prevailed on or about the sixth day. Other vessels, in passing the same latitude on the seventh day, observed portions of a wrecked steamer being driven over the great deep by the rolling waves. As the'days wore on there could be no doubt that the Queen Victoria was lost, with officers, seamen and passengers. Norman, who had tel egraphed to Mr. Chauncy, and learned by his answer that his friend had really taken passage on the doomed vessel, was overcome with grief. The Tribune, of June 110, contained the follow ing: “ There is now no longer an3- hope that the Queen Victoria, which sailed from Liverpool on the 10th ultimo, will ever reach the port of New York. Over one month has elapsed since she was due, and nothing has been heard of her J since the fifth day she put to sea. The most j hopeful are now without hope. She doubtless i succumbed in mid-ocean to the recent storm, and went dow'n with all on board. Among her passengers were several English noblemen, who were coming to our Government as commission ers to sit in judgment upon certain grave ques tions of international law. There w’ere also on the ill-starred vessel, several distinguished Ame ricans; among them Dr. Jerome Campbell, a graduate of our own Harvard, but more recently of Heidelberg, where he distinguished himself by his remarkable aptitude in chemistry, in which science he has since made several import ant discoveries.” The effect of this melancholy intelligence upon Joseph Wheeler, at this particular time, was quite serious. Since his young brother’s return to America, the health of this erratic individual had de clined very rapidl3 T . It was evident that he could not last many months more, unless some unexpected change should take place, or new medical treatment be devised for his special case. If Joseph should have confessed to the truth, he would have admitted that he had faith to be lieve that Dr. Campbell might effect a cure of his malad3 r . The news of Jerome’s death was carried to him by his son, Oakley Wheeler. He received the intelligence calmly, so far as could be judged from outward appearance. But Oak ley knew that it was otherwise. He turned his face to the wall, and lay as quiet as death for a long time. But for the occasional quivering of his body, Oakley would have said that his father slumbered. Then he knew that a fierce and protracted struggle was taking place in his breast—a struggle in which plans long cherish ed and self-interest were at stake. He awaited the result of his father’s self-communion with an anxiety but too apparent, the wily son know ing that millions of dollars might possibly de pend upon the decision of his parent. He knew that his silent and protracted stud}* was not solely the melancholy contemplation of one who mourns for the departed. After a time, the invalid changed his position in bed and faced his son. His features were haggard and pale. The last half hour seemed to have added five years to his feebleness. "Well, what shall we do now?” demanded the impatient son. "A question that I have been considering,” answered Joseph AVheeler. “With what conclusion?” inquired Oakley, gazing into the face of his father as though he would read his answer before it was expressed in words. "None,” replied Joseph AVheeler, thought fully. "Since my brother’s return to America, I have formed somewhat a different feeling for him. As I inherited the bulk of my father's estate, my income has been quite comfortable. Now Norman makes me a very fair offer. He proposes to give me enough of his estate to make mine equal to his. It is very liberal in my brother, but he forgets the terms of the AVill. AVhen he comes to consult a lawyer, he will dis cover that he cannot do it. You know how the AVill reads ?” "Yes,” responded Oakley, "but why need he consult a lawyer. Let him do as he proposes to. AVhen once the deeds are in our hands we can take advantage of so stubborn and idiotic a document.” “It is a plan that would not turn out well, Joseph AVheeler replied. “ The transfer of estate would be put in the hands of his attorney, who would straightway point out to him the result of making such deeds. Unless Norman would consent to have the deeds made out by some one unacquainted with the terms of the AVill, we should fail, which we cannot afford to do.” "Then, must we abandon the hope?” asked ilakley, "or shall we go on with Dr. Campbell’s laD you cannot, with safety,” said his father. Pshaw 1” was the answer. " For small cost secure help.” “ A'ery true; but I am not certain that I desire it. Sometimes I think I would not have a hair of your uncle Norman’s head harmed for three times his wealth. Again, I can scarcely restrain the hatred I bear him. Often, when alone with him, I feel like plunging a knife into bis breast. But to-day I feel calmer, and less like a devil incarnate.” Surely you have no intention of relenting?” exclaimed Oakley. “I <R> not know. I have given the subject much consideration, and it seems to me we can accomplish our ends in a different way. I be lieve that your uncle has conceived an affection for you. It is possible that he may never have any children of his own; in such a case, he will regard you as his heir.” “But who wants to wait till one is old to enjoy a fortune, and on uncertainty at that? I don't.” "But I am confident,” urged Joseph A\ 7 heeler, “that my brother will not live to be older than I am. Besides, if he takes the fancy to you that I think he has, you can enjoy the advan tages of his fortune from this day; just as he enjoyed the benefit of my uncle’s wealth while he lived.” “All gammon, father!” exclaimed Oakley. “ I am not going to get chicken-hearted, if you are.” “Oakley, Oakley!” cried Joseph AVheeler, in grieved tones. “ It is true, father,” answered Oakley. “ You have always taught me to regard the estate as justly belonging to us; you made me believe that we were wronged out of it; you caused me to hate my uncle when I was a mere child, and have fed that hatred from day to day, until now it is so bitter that you need not ask me to forget it. You made me a dissembler and a hypocrite to gain certain ends; you instructed me in schemes concocted by yourself and Jerome Campbell. You may forget and forgive; but I cannot and will not.” The vehemence with which these words were uttered astonished Joseph AVheeler, and gave him an insight into his son’s character that had here tofore escaped his observation. He now saw that Oakley was fully determined to accomplish the purposes for which he had been so carefully trained, without regard to what his opinion might be, and he felt that he had not the power to resist. Turning to his son, he said: "Oakley, I do not feel equal to the task of discussing this matter more to-day. AA’e will do so at some future time, when I shall have made up my 7 mind fully. Of course, ray boy, your will is your own, and as you usually do as you please, I presume that you will in this in stance.” "Of course I shall,” was the prompt answer, and the evil-natured youth left the room. Never was woman happier than beautiful and beloved Candice. Fear had been stricken from path, and her heart, lightened of its ■ onlj' burden, basked in the light of love and happiness. Alas! that it could not always have remained thus. Toward the last of June, Mr. and Mrs. Chauncy arrived from Europe, and visited their beloved daughter and her husband. There accompanied them upon their journey an Italian by the name of Beppo, a middle-aged, gray-haired and gray-bearded man, who, having rendered some important service to Mr. Chanucy, had been taken at his urgent request as a kind of valet or body-servant. He had been at the home of Norman AA’heeler but a few days when he begged to be transferred to Norman’s service, and as Air. Chauncy had but little need of him and Norman thought he could employ 7 him bet ter, the former was quite willing that Beppo should become one of his son-in-laws’s house hold. He seemed steady 7 and efficient, and though he appeared to speak English brokenly, he was so quietly watchful that he understood all orders, and betrayed a thorough, if not a quick intelligence in all that pertained to his sphere. Mr. Chauncy opened negotiations for the purchase of an estate adjoining Norman’s, being unwilling that his daughter should be separated from him. In the meantime, Joseph AVheeler had grown worse instead of better, and was now unable to sit in his bed. He felt that his time was very close at hand; yet he had not made his peace with his brother. At times, his heart softened; but the hate and the purposes of a lifetime were difficult things to overcome. Besides, he was constantly urged bv his son to stick to his hatred and revenge, and the man in his weakness had not the will to contend against the energy and determination of Oakley. It was now the first of September. In the evening of the first day of that month, Norman sought Candice in great haste with a copy of the Daily Tribune in his hands, from which he read the following: “ AVondebfi'l Escape.—AVhile passingagronp of small islands in the Atlantic last week, the captuin of the good steamship Few Orleans beheld a signal of distress floating from the tree-top of the island nearest his vessel. He ‘hove to,’and found the island tenanted by a single man, the sole survivor of all the passen gers who sailed in the Queen Victoria. His name is Dr. Jerome Campbell. During his passage on the Few Orleans to this city, he was taken with a fever, and is now lying at the Astor House. The story of his escape from the doomed ship, and the privations he endured on the island, is very interesting. Our reporter, who visited Dr. Camphell last evening, gives us, in another col umn, a thrilling and faithful account of the same.” "I must go to him directly, Candice !” cried Norman, joyfully. “ Will you bear me com pany, darling, or are you too feeble?” “ I cannot go,” she answered, faintly, the chill of that vague fear striking once more to her heart. The cloud had risen upon her fair sky, though as yet it was no larger than a man’s hand. Oakley bore the news, so unwelcome to Can- dice, to his father. It aroused the dying man, and he exclaimed: "I must live till he comes. The Nemesis is again on the path of Norman AVheeler !” The son cried: " Be firm, father ! Do not waver; our day has come!" CHAPTER XXV. A week passed before Norman returned from New York City with his bosom friend. AVhen he arrived at the Astor, Dr. Campbell was much better. The fever had been broken, but owing to weakness attendant upon illness and exposure, he was unable to stand the fatigue of travel without another week’s repose. As soon as his strength would permit, Norman commenced his homeward journey. Upon their arrival, Jerome was considerably exhausted; yet he insisted upon seeing his friends before retiring to his room for rest. They were all there. Joseph AVheeler and his son had come from a feeling of curiosity, although the former should ha ve remained at home and kept his bed. Since he had learned that Jerome lived, his health hnd improved slightly. Jerome greeted them with affectionate tender ness, and seemed utterly overcome by the joy of seeing them, and by gratitude for his deliver ance. A great change was apparent in his looks and tones. Had his nearness to the confines of the immortal world softened his heart so that good was more to him than evil, and friends more than enemies? Joseph AVheeler thought so, and on being borne back to his carriage by his son and de posited on the soft cushions, he said: " Yon need not look for him to help you, Oak ley. Like me, he has been so near death that he has repented of his enmity and revenge.” Soon after the departure of Josepn AVheeler to seek rest from the fatigue of travel, promis ing to come down in the evening and relate his adventures. Mr. Chauncy was delighted, and informed Jerome that he and his wife would remain to hear his story. Even Candice was fascinated by the words and manner of this wily man, and ac cused herself of unjust prejudice. She followed Norman to the invalid’s room, to ask if she could perform any service that would tend to his ease and comfort. She did not see how his hollow eyes burned with smothered passion as she bent over him, more beautiful and captivating now than when he had last seen her in Rome. As she smoothed his pillows with gentle care, her perfumed breath touched his cheek, and a loose tress of her hair brushed his forehead. A shudder passed over him, and he breathed quick and hard. She thought him ill, and gently brushing the dark locks from his forehead, she sat down by him, while Norman went to get a glass of cordial. "How glad I am to see you happy !” murmured the arch dissembler. “You cannot tell how miserable my suspense was till I knew that you had so providentially been restored to the arms of your husband. The feverish anxiety of that journey to Florence is something I will never forget. But that is all over. You are at home— your own beautiful home; you are loving, be loved and happy. Heaven grant it may always be thus. Yes, I say this now from the depths of a true heart, dear Candice, though once I could not. Once I envied my friend his happiness, and spoke words of bitterness I am afraid you have never forgotten, but yon must forgive them, sweet friend, and forget they were ever uttered. I am a changed man utterly. I believe my health is hopelessly broken, and I desire the remnant of my life shall be devoted to doing what good I may.” He spoke feelingly, with a musical, tremulous intonation, and his large, melancholy eyes looked into hers earnestly while he talked. Candice fell under his influence and said to herself: "I have done wrong. I have suspected my husband’s best friend. I will make amends for my injustice.” And then she kissed her husband, who had just come in, and with a lightened heart went to her room, to look at her treasures—a drawer-full of tiny, daintily laced and embroidered little garments, that were meant for an expected vis itor, a small but all-important addition to the household. It was a happy group that gathered in the par lor of the AA’keeler mansion that evening. Je rome was its centre, sitting in a large easy-chair, and looking pale but animated. He conversed with ease and grace, and threw into his story a depth of interest and pathos, and a variety that charmed his hearers. He gave them a brief acconnt of the shipwreck and of his own escape. " I and my Italian servant,” he said, “ escaped from the wreck on a spar, just as the furious waves closed over the vessel forever. AVhile the storm prevailed, I thought that we should cer tainly perish. The waves swept over us, taking our breath and benumbing our bodies with cold. But we clung to the spar desperately, believing that while there was life we might hope. “On the next day the winds went down, and we were in mid-ocean with death staring us in the face. No land could we see, or passing ves sel. Above was the cloudless sky, from which the hot sunshine came down, parching our flesh and driving us mad with heat and thirst. Be low was the still-heaving ocean. AVe were al most famished. AVe cried for a morsel to eat, a drop of water to cool our longues; our sufferings drove us furious; we became madmen, or wild beasts, with carniverous instincts. I could see that my servant was looking at me greedily, and savage instincts woke in my own breast. I saw him take his gleaming stiletto from his breast and eye me steadily and savagely. I drew my revolver from my pocket—the necessity of self- preservation was upon me. He placed his sti letto in his mouth and folded his hands upon his breast, and never removed his blood-shot eyes from mine for a second. There we sat, star ing at each other like fiends, drifting on at sea. “To-ward night of the fourth day I said to myself: * This cannot last much longer. I must shoot Ticino, and then—I can eat him.’ He read my thoughts and hissed at me. ‘Cne of us must die; we are both starving; I shall kill you, eat your flesh and drink your blood !’ “ He moved slowly toward me, the stiletto flashing in his uplifted hand. I saw that it was life or death to me. I raised my revolver, and taking quick aim, fired at him. AA’hen the smoke cleared away he was gone from sight. He had tumbled from the spar into the ocean, and sank from view instantly. I had simply prolonged my 7 own wretched existence; I had accomplished nothing else. I had lost my com panion, and had gained neither food nor drink. In the despair of the moment, I glanced around to see if he had not risen to the surface; but I had floated so far from the place of the tragedy that I could not have seen anything of him had he been floating on the surface of the water. “Hours passed on, hunger and thirst con suming me; and to render my condition more desperate, sleep besieged me, and numbness assailed my body. Believing that my death was at hand, I still clung to life tenaciously. I lay down upon the spar and wrajiped my arms around it with the strength of despair, and then my senses left me. “AA’hen I recovered consciousness, the morn ing sun was staring me in the face. I found that the tide had cast me upon a small island. I arose with difficulty, for I was stiffened in every joint and weakened with hunger. My first thought was to procure food and drink. AVith great difficulty I crawled away, and soon found a spring from which pure cold water bub bled. I slaked my thirst with the delicious bev erage, and then found some berries, of which I ate plentifully. I soon discovered that the island had game upon it, and that in a small stream that traversed it there were multitudes of fish. “ I had a hook and line in my pocket, and soon caught enough for a meal. AVith flint I kindled a fire, and cooked my fish. I then constructed a trap in which to catch fowls. Con cluding that I might have to remain upon the island, perhaps for years, I began to collect ma terial for a hut; but in my ramblings over my little territory, I discovered a cave, w 7 hich saved the labor of constructing a house, and which I appropriated for my shelter. “ I now had opportunity to think over my past career, and 1 saw that it was evil and not good. So I promised God that if he would save my life, and restore me to my friends, the bal ance of my days should be passed in his service. “He heard my prayer. “After the lapse of weeks of suffering and pri vation, a vessel approached the island one day. I raised my signal, and it was seen from the ship. The captuin sent a boat to shore for me and I went aboard the vessel. “I tell you if there ever lived a man with a truly glad and thankful heart, I was that man. My health was, I feared, hopelessly undermined, for every storm of wind and rain had beat into the cave upon me; but I was returning once more to my kind. I should hear the voice of sympathy and friendship. The vessel was bound for New York—a journey of five or six days’ sailing. AVhen I told the captain my story, he showed me every care and attention; yet I was seized with a fever before many hours, and I began to think that I had been spared death on the island to die on the portunity to communicate my fate to my anxious , “Have you never heard of the man who stole friends | tb ® “ ver y of Heaven to serve the devil in ?” “But God was good. He spared my life; he , “Yes. has permitted me to meet with you to-night | “lam he. In other words, I have assumed a I ask no greater blessedness, and am content. new role. Before I left Home, some of mv He held out his hand to his assembled friends, ; friends suspected me.” and they each pressed it in silence, while their | “AVho?” eyes were wet with tears of sympathy. j “ Mrs. AVheeler. You see I was fool enough to “The one drop needed to brim my cup of, love the lady; I proposed and she rejected me T h ®7® ! serve ? m , e . ri g ht ? it has taught me how to happiness is now added,” said Norman; “I you with me, old fellow, and Candfce and I will \ hate with adde<f interest.’ soon nurse you back to health. You shall never “I should be glad to hear,” said Josenh AVheeler, " “ 7, ' < “ ’ ^ leave us.” “ Thanks, best and most generous of friends, but I must not impose upon your kind heart. It is not my inteution to be an idle drone in the world. If I live I will go to New 7 York, get me an office, and diligently practice my profession. I have been already offered a partnership with Dr. Doyle, whose son was, you remember, an old schoolmate of mine.” | “ AVe shall not like to give you up,” said Can- 1 dice, and she really meant it. She was charmed were thwarted so persistently. with his fascinating talk, his tender gratitude to Norman, and the sweet sadness there was in his look when it rested upon her. “I am playing my role of pious and interest ing invalid to perfection,” said Jerome to him self when he laid his head on his pillow. CHAPTER XXVI. AVheeler, “ what measures yon took to carry out the plans we arranged. You received mv dis patch ? “Yes.” And thereupon the Doctor related to his companion in crime the various attempts that he had made to ruin Norman, and how every effort had failed, in some unaccountable manner. Joseph AVheeler was surprised and said: “I cannot see how it came that your plans ire thwarted so persistently.” “Nor I,” answered the plotter. “It discourages me,” added Joseph; “I am half in mind to abandon the scheme entirely, and let my 7 brother go in peace.” “You are!” cried Jerome, fiercely. “lam not. I beg you to remember that there is acom- pact between us, involving the small sum of fifty thousand dollars. Besides, if there was not A few weeks later, Jerome Campbell, M. D. j a cent, I would never relent. The years that hung out his shingle in the city, and engaged ^ lave gone since that night when we met in the boarding at the Girard House. j forest have but added fuel to the flame of my His health was almost restored, and he entered i hatred. Then the fact that my enemy won the upon the duties of his profession, despite the ! heart of the woman I loved makes me furious, persuasions of Norman and Candice, who would ! though I manage to disguise it well. No, Joseph fain have had him remain with them. ! AVheeler, you shall not go back on our contract. Jerome thanked them warmly, but declared ! I hold you to it. Back out at your peril; you that henceforth he would live independently, 1 know 7 tfiat 1 shall not, although yon do not know and no longer be a burden on the generosity of j the first cause of my hatred.” his friends. Dr. Campbell’s vehemence terrified the sick During his invalidism, his society had been nian, and he cried out: very charming to the youthful pair, and they | “Do not talk so, Jerome, y r ou frighten me; I missed his engaging conversation, his pleasant | am with you still, and to the last. Remove my ways and his line voice in their evening concerts j brother Norman, so that Oakley 7 gets my uncle s at home. j riches, and y r ou shall have the amount of money The second day after Jerome’s removal to an ! that I promised you.” office of his own, Norman called upon him. “Good! you talk sense now. But do you “I have just made a deposit of a thousand , know 7 that you have another besides Norman to dollars to your credit, in the banking house of ; contend against?” Mitchell and Lynde,” said he; “'when you need ; “Yes, his wife.” more, you know, Jerome, that it is yours at any “Another still.” time, just for the asking.” 1 “ What do you .mean?” “Thank you, my noble friend,” replied Je- “Norman’s heir. Do you not know that a rome, “but I do not feel that I am deserving of I child will soon be born to them? In that case, this money. Besides, I have no use for it. the simple removal of Norman would avail little. j and his son, Dr. Campbell retired to his room, j ocean. Even that was preferable, for I had op- Flease, do not urge me to accept it.” “But yon must, Jerome. If you do not re ceive it as a gift from your best friend, I shall be offended.” “Then I shall accept, of course, but still I must protest that I am not deserving. I do not wish to wound your feelings, and therefore I will accept, and I am very grateful to you and to your excellent wife. How is her health this morning?” “Rather delicate,” Norman answ 7 ered blush ing, "but you know the nature of her ailment. She is as well as could be expected.” “Ah-h!” whistled Jerome; “I understand. Allow me to congratulate you, my friend; may your future heir be handsome and healthy, and grow up to manhood w 7 ith the graces of manner and the ennobling goodness of heart which so eminently distinguish the father. God bless you and Candice!” These kind words quite melted Norman’s heart, and he shook hands with his friend in a glow of happy feeling. “If I can be of service to your Candice in a medical capacity,” said Jerome, “ let me know it.” “You can !” cried Norman. “Come over and see her often. You can tell w 7 hether she needs any strengthening medicine or change of air. Come whenever you can spare the time.” Jerome declared that, so far, time had hung heavily upon his hands, and that Candice might expects visits from him frequently. AVith this understanding, Norman left his friend, his heart brimming over with love and happiness. “So ! so ! a child !” hissed Jerome, as the door closed upon the retreating form of his friend. “I must see Joseph AVheeler; but I think that I shall wait until he sends for me. By the way, it seems to me that both he and his son are rather distant. I wonder if they dread to part with the fifty thousand. AVell, their offishness cannot last very long, for they need me as badly 7 as I need the fifty 7 thousand Joseph promised me, so many years ago.” A few evenings later, and Oakley AA’heeler dropped into Dr. Campbell’s office, and said that his father desired to see him. Jerome immediately prepared to accompany the young man. As they passed down the street, a figure en veloped in a long cloak stole from the hall which led into Dr. Campbell’s office, and fol lowed them with short, cat-like strides. Passing under the gaslight which burned in the street, an observer would have noted that a terrible scar furrowed the side of his swarthy cheek, and that his eyes were fixed upon Jerome Campbell with a look of ferocious hatred. Beyond this, there was nothing unnatural about the stranger, except the stealthiness and caution of his gait. A walk of a quarter of an hour brought the young physician and his companion to their destination. Jerome found his old comrade in evil propped up in bed, and gasping for breath. Had Norman AA’heeler seen their greeting of each other, he would have been somewhat sur prised. Although barely in the prime of life, Joseph presented the appearance of a man in his six tieth year. Jerome was shocked at his altered appearance and premature age. In their brief interview at Norman’s residence, on the day of his arrival, he had failed to observe him so closely. He took the withered hand in his with a feeling of pity and said: “lam sorry to see you so low.” “Yes,” answered Joseph, “ I am going rapid ly. I feared that I should be gone before morn ing. I wanted to talk with you once more be fore I go hence, and so I sent Oakley for you; I am very glad that you have come.” “ You should have sent for megsooner,” said Jerome. “If I had known that you were so feeble, I should have visited you before now. I was not aware of it, and I thought it strange that you did not come to me.” “I could not, and I did not send for you ear lier, because I was afraid of you. You are an altered man, Jerome. "Oakley,” said he, turning to his son, "leave us alone for a short time; I will rap when yon may return.” “Had I not better remain, father?” asked Oakley, hesitating before obeying the command. “No, my son; whatever pusses between us you shall know. Retire until I call you.” Oakley went out, leaving the door ajar, so that his father might have the benefit of all the cool air circulating through the hall. No sooner had he passed from view than the dark-robed figure that had followed Jerome from his office slid through the open door, and hid be hind the curtains which hung around the bed, remaining listless, but watchful, while the two talked and plotted. “ AVhat has led yon to imagine that I am a changed man ?” asked Dr. Campbell. "Your actions; your penitent way of talking; your hearty, sincere address. You know, Je rome, that you are not as you used to be.” Jerome laughed slily and asked: the AA'heeler estate would descend to the child.” “That is true; I had not dreamed of such a calamity. But now I think of it, would it under the old will?” “Calamity !” ejaculated Jerome, unmindful of Joseph's words. “Do you call it a calamity which Norman terms a blessedness?” “Did he say that?” “Yes, he has no desire to see his wealth go to your son; and now if he should yield up the ghost, he knows that he will have an heir of his own flesh and blood to inherit his estate; of course he calls it blessedness.” “Youare sure there is no mistake?” queried Joseph; “who informed you?” “ Norman. Besides, your humble servant is Mrs. AA’heeler’s physician.” “Ah! ah!” cried Joseph, “I remember; my uncle had a family physician. He was of my father’s choice, and a pile of gold made him his slave. Do you understand? Go on, Jerome Campbell! I know you, and you may depend on me. There shall be no faltering on my part hereafter. Do you now promise me that my son shall soon be in possession of all that be longs to Norman AVheeler?” "I do.” “How will you bring it about?” demanded Joseph, excitement giving him strength to sit erect in his bed. “ AVith these,” hissed Dr. Campbell, producing the tin-box which we have before seen, and which was filled with the poisons he had so care fully compounded. “I shall even do more than I promised. But that is nothing to you. It is my revenge. I am determined to destroy 7 both him and her, slowly and surely, so as to make life a miserable burden long before they shall lay it down. ” All that I now need is a faithful assistant. One started with me to America, but he was lost at sea. He was an Italian, and his name was Ticino.” "Ticino here,” cried a low voice; and a tall, dark figure is emerged from behind the curtains. Dr. Campbell shrieked, for there surely stood Ticino, or his ghost, smiling grimly at the dis may his appearance created. “Ticino is here,” he repeated, “and ready to aid the signor in those plans for which we left Italy. Give me your hand, and let us rejoice because I am saved from death, to be of service to you. Ah ! signor, Heaven favors us and will be with us in our vengeance.” Jerome looked again at Ticino, though he still trembled in every limb. “It cannot be his ghost,” ho cried faintly. (to be continued.) LOVE MARRIAGES. A correspondent in the Missouri Farmer says most truthfully: “A marriage should only be consummated when both of the parties are mor ally certain that they are necessary to each other’s existence ; that life would be a dreary waste with out the oasis of the loved ; that the intended one posseses all you admire and esteem, and that the journey through life in his or her companionship will be one of serenity and happiness. The union will then, by the endeavors of both, be attended with all the joy, contentment and happiness that it is in the power of mortals to obtain here below 7 . Marriages are usually contracted to satisfy desires, as love, fortune and position. The results are most truthfully stated by an eminent divine in the fol lowing passages : AVho marries for love takes a wife; who marries for fortune takes a mistress; who marries for posi tion takes a lady. You are loved by your wife, and regarded by your mistress, and tolerated by your lady. A’ou have a wife for yourself, a mistress for your house and friends, a lady for the world and so ciety. Your wife will agree with you, your mistress will rule you, your lady will manage you. Your wife will take care of your household, your mistress of your house, your lady of your appearances. If you are sick your wife will nurse you, your mis tress will visit you, your lady will inquire after your health. You take a walk with your wife, a ride with your mistress, and go to a party with your lady. Your wife shares your grief, your mistress your money, and your lady your debts. If you die your wife will weep, your mistress la ment, and your lady wear mourning. Now, which will you have? To man there is but one choice that he can ration ally make—a marriage ol love. My female readers will also decide rather to wed a husband than the master or the elegant gentleman.’’ Drama. The drama is a department of art; and, like all art, is for the pleasure and benefit of mankind. Its literature comprises not a little of the purest and most elevating composition in the Engligh language. Here may be exercised the patriotism of the orator, the melting fervor of the preacher, the love of justice of the jurist, the pure purpose of the moralist, the warmest love that the philan thropist may feel for suffering humanity. AVhat other field can offer a larger and more varied scope to genius and talent directed by the worthiest motives ?