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CHAPTER III. i the arm and leading him through the quarry. Slewlv, but without hesitation, with tb»t game j P er . s,st v in not justifying your- tirm gait he had crossed the threshold of the 8e "‘ said he, placing ms old friend against an farm a few hours before, when he came to ask e normous block of solid rock. Manehen’tt hospitality—which the farmer ex- 1 ,.- I have already told you that I was tired of tended to every one who gave the password. : .; f 1 *® ns get through with this, I pray you," Liardot went towards the door and'down the ' a -, a /? 03 an ^ impassible, two stone steps of the porch, and there staved to ! ... A11 ® n 7°* wlli , have brought it upon your- wait for the friend who was going to have him i selt " . “ a Y e . y°? a b* 8t recommendation, a mes- shot * sage to a friend—to a woman ?" That friend, indignant at so much obstinacy, , * * h8Ve neither friend nor sweetheart. I but amazed at so much courage, seemed tempted : m a8 ^ °* ^ on ’ ^ wls b com- not to follow him; and perhaps, if the doomed ,nw, ’ " T ° here, in New York. Then I recognized the fact j the parlor. They had taken but a few steps Oh, how precious those ^ r0 ned"in° mv ; that my heart had never ceased to belong to when Simpson stopped suddenly and whis- ly I loved the godd •> yo 5‘ . , .. . . . ...... I P®. 1 ^' . . : e f. r r n ' » short while we sailed for home—our Here Lucy made a slight movement which the “les, there she is now. in » snors wm» tr. eon young man interpreted as an indication of im- j The young men followed the direction ot the j native land where on rnand the lire. •‘As you were an officer in the royal army, it is your right. And now, farewell, Liardot!’’ murmured Saint-Victor, moved to tears. Saint-Victor hesitated an instant; then, with man had tried to escape at that moment, Saint- Victor would have let him go. “ I am waiting for you,” softly, said Liardot. “Are you in such a hurry to die?” , . _ , . “Yes, you ought to know that since my fate ! 8 S esture °f desperate anger, he started towards is settled, each minute of delay lengthens my j ^ me °>. w bo had already formed in line, with- -- J p ' out waiting for his orders. A few words said by him in a low tone caused six of the men to leave the group and form a second line within a few paces of the doomed man, who, his arms crossed on his breast, was waiting with his head proudly up above his broad shoulders. “Soldiers, attention!” said Liardot; “shoul der arms!” The stocks of the guns resounded as regu larly as on a parade day. “Ready 1” Another motion, and another sound of the patience. ; sailor's glance, and saw Miss Bnrton. “Let me tell you, Lucy,” he continued, pas- j “Sophie Burton ?' exclaimed George, sionately, “that it is impossible for a man to , you must be mistaken, Simpson.” •Why, love so well without suffering terribly at such a long silence as that, which has been imposed upon me. It depends now upon you to render my love the blessing or the curse of my life. Have pity upon me, Lucy, have pity upon me !” 1 Not a bit of it,” stoutly asserted the sailor. : — ---- -* , T • „ Do you mean that young lady to whom two with horror. Juha an w . P g summated. .. ... “ When ten days out at sea the noble ship that bore ns encountered a fearful storm. It was the first I had ever beheld upon the ocean and filled gentlemen are talking ?” asked George, still thinking that the sailor had made a mistake. “ That’s the one,” said the sailor. “ I could deck, and talking over (for the hundredth time, perhaps,) our plans for the future, when the storm burst upon us in all its fury; the waves became rolling mountains that tossed our vessel Philip’s voice quivered with emotion, as he ! pick her out from among a thousand." ° , ,, , , „„ „ n «-»-*— « — ^ • r _u.._ „ v s i st . er ' s pi ano teacher, and a j about like a chip, and all on board gave up an delay lengthens my sufferings. And I must tell you again: for you, for our friends, moments are precious. Yon are surrounded by dangers which you do not dream of.” “Yes, indeed! the gendarmes whom your mas ter Fouche has let loose after us must be now on our trail, if they have followed your instruc tions,” said Victor, whose anger awoke all at once. “I don’t think they are here yet; but night will not pass before they make a survey of the Therefore, I advise you to haste and get through with me, and, that done, to hurry np 1 8 uns proved that the men who handled them , , ° ,, J * I wprA nnr. four raornno the landing, if it is in your power. ■That is my business,” haughtily said the young man, exasperated by answers which he I began to look upon as a sort of boasting. “ You will walk by my side, and don’t try to get away j on the road, for if yon only try, I’ll blow your j brains out” Speaking so, he had risen and rejoined Liar- j < ot j Taking a pistol from his pocket, he cocked it; | but his companion looked at him, and his eyes ! expressed so much disdain of the threat and | contempt of death that he lowered his arm. “Don’t you understand that I want to die as j a soldier ?” said the old bushwhacker. “I don’t j wish to be shot at like a runaway convict” “You shall be satisfied. And I have but one j more word to tell you.” “Speak.” 1 “ If you imagine that I merely wish to scare j you by a sham discharge of fire-arms, you are greatly mistaken. My men have excellent mus kets, loaded with solid bullets, and you know that their aim is deadly. I must also tell you, that if you intend to soften them by revealing your name, you’ll miss it. Burban and Deville, themselves, whose lives you said you have saved, will obey my orders and fire on you unhesita tingly.” “I know they will, for they are tried sol diers. But you forget I already asked you not to tell them who I am, and I promised you to manage so that they shall not see my face.” “Very well, let us go,” said the young man, more moved than he cared to own. They crossed the yard, now deserted; the threshers had left, and everything was quiet around the farm of Bois Guillaume. The sea-breeze that rises at night on the coast of Normandy could already be felt, and the last gleams of twilight were disappearing. The two chouans started at a vigorous pace to ascend the gentle slope beginning at the farm, and, at a short distance, suddenly descending to the cliff. The sea could not be seen from that point, but a rumbling sound, caused by the waves dashing on the pebbled strand, could distinctly be heard. “The quarry is yonder in front of ns,” said Liardot, pointing with his finger to a dark spot that seemed to be a split in the earth, plainly visible from the background of the gray waste land. “Yes,” dryly answered, Saint Victor. “Quite near the cliff, then?” “ A little over a shot-gun distance." “The place is not well-chosen.” “You thought it splendid, a while ago. ” “ Good place to die, yes. But you was impru dent in leaving your men there. If the bleus are patrolling to-night, they will certainly follow the cliff, and are very apt to discover your am buscade.” “Well, in that case, the bleus shall have a warm reception.” “ No.doubt but they will outnumber you, and you will not have the best of them.” “Many thanks for your advice. You will, I suppose, let me manage my troops as I please.” “ ’Tis right! especially as in fifteen minutes I will not be here to meddle with your business. I only want you to do me the favor of taking a message for me.” “W T ho for?” “For General Cadoudal.” “I promise nothing. Speak; then I will de cide what I shall do.” “ You will tell George—for I hope still that he will land safely—you will tell him that his un dertakings have lately been signalled to the po lice department. “You know something of it,” ironically an swered Saint-Victor. “And that he has a redoubtable opponent,” continued Liardot, without taking up the sar casm. “Your master, Fouche, of course.” “Fouche, yes, but also a man more dangerous than Fouche, though he is but a second in com mand. Fouche is perspicacious, cunning and persevering; this man is all that, and besides, he is brave. It is an officer who made the cam paigns of Egypt and Italy with Bonaparte, and is devoted to him to the degree of fanaticism. He has token upon himself the special mission to see to the safety of his general, and he fulfills this task with an ardent zeal. It is Georges whom he is after. He has seen him in Paris, when he was so imprudent as to let himself be intro duced to the First Consul. He perceived im mediately the real value of our chief, and swore to take him.” “ Well, he will not take him, that’s all.” “To-night, probably not. But Georges has the intention of hiding in Paris until he gets the chance to attack, at the head of our friends, Napoleon and his escort, on the way to the Mal- maison.” “How do you know that?” “Nevermind, I knoic it. And I also know that that officer is determined to hunt up Ca doudal, incessantly and without mercy, in Paris as well as in Normandy, and that he will stop at nothing to rid the First Consul of such a terrible enemy. As he made himself the champion of Napoleon, it is very important that Georges should know his name; and it is that name that I want you to tell him.” “ Take care !” said Saint-Victor, with insult ing irony, “if one of Fouche’s spies was to hear you, he would accuse you of betraying the bleus, too, before dying.” “His name is Robert; and his headquarters are at qv.ai d’Orsay," continued Liardot, imper turbably. “Transmit that message to our dear were not raw recruits. “ Take aim!” continued the old bushwhacker, in a thrilling voice. (TO BE CONTINUED*) pleaded so nobly for himself and for the love which had been the unconquerable faith of his young life. Lucy remained silent. Her eye-lashes droop ed softly over her eyes; her head was bent par tially upon her breast, and she sought vainly to appear calm. At length she arose from her seat “ Ah ! speak, speak,” pleaded Philip, warm ly” “Well,” she commenced softly, and blushing at the sound of her own sweet voice. “You are going to pronounce my fate,” whis pered Philip. She looked up into his eyes; her own were filled with tears. “ May I hope?” he asked, eagerly. “Yes,” she replied, faintly. “Lucy !’’ he cried, joyfully, as he pressed her hand to his lips. “ I love you, Philip," she answered. That was enough I give you my word that Why, she’s my i well-known artiste.” “ I can’t help that, she’s the woman.” George paled slightly, and Pox's previous hints regarding Miss Burton now forced them selves unpleasantly into his memory. Grave suspicions were rapidly entering his mind. hope, expecting to go down into the briny depths every minute. “ For eight hours we endured all the horrors of snch a situation, but during all that time Ju lia St. Clair clung to me in a manner that left no doubt upon my mind of her love. The storm passed away, we were saved, and without (For The Sunny South.) Taking her face between his hands, the young ; turning around, he saw Fox, the detective Was it possible, after' ail, that Sophie Barton further accident reached our native land, was not what she represented herself to be? “I hastened‘to the interior to meet my parents, George shuddered at the'thought, for he could having an understanding with Julia that we not but remambej that his sister, a pure, inno- were to be married during the coming winter, cent girl, baFldriaTaeen. under her guidance. : “ Imagine my dismay upon reaching home to He b^ame almost bewildered at the thought of hud my father a pauper . His entire tortune treachd5fc.in» ffiis own home, and it was some ! swept away by one scheme ot speculation. 1 time betorfe*hu 1 cMftrtwtoUffnself to speak. At , wrote to Julia of this great misfortune, and last he said^''-«^* ! pleaded with her to give me time to recover “Gentlemen, let us separate, or we may be something of my former means, vowing that I noticed.” ! could not allow her to share my lot id its pres- This suggestion was immediately acted upon, ent poverty, and Simpson himself was about to move away, j “ Her answer was a release and breaking of when he felt himself pulled by the sleeve, and ; the engagement, coldly wntten in a manner that UNDER A CLOUD; -OR- The Trail of Crime. BY E. C. WAL.RAVEN, Author of “The Two Orphans,” “A Wo- Dian’s Devotion,” “A Game With Death,” etc. CHAPTER XVIII. The parlors of Mr. Huntington's residence on Park avenue were ablaze with light, and strains of lively music, silvery laughter and gay repartee floated softly through the air. The magnificent parlors looked more beautiful than ever beneath the streams of gas thrown from a hundred brilliant lustres, and the warm colors of the ladies’ dresses made the rooms look like gardens of flowers. All New York was present—or, at least, all that portion of New York which is supposed to make up the purely aristocratic ingredient. Every branch of art, science and industry was represented, and the gathering was therefore an unexceptionally select one, although there were several present whom a greater portion of the guests had never met before, but had, for that reason alone, no right to say that they were not quite en regie. Mr. Huntington, whose features had in the first instance taken on a half-smile, soon re lapsed into his habitual manners. Although extremely polite and affable, he couid not re press an appearance of gloom which seemed to hover about like a shadow. From time to time his eyes would fix themselves uneasily upon a group which might be engaged in earnest con versation, as though he feared he was in sonru unenviable way connected with the subject of their discourse. Could any one have read his soul, they would there have found a species of trouble that greatly resembled anxiety. Among the many persons present, he appearad to be seeking some one animated by hostile senti ments against him—an enemy, in fact. Lucy, doubly beautiful in her happiness and with her natural charms, was impatiently await ing the appearance of Philip. At times she whisnered to herself that he showed but little anxiety to be with her, and at other moments she trembled at the possibility of some new ac cident having happened to him. Suddenly, as the orchestra commenced to break forth in a waltz, the young girl noticed her serving-maid, who seemed to be seeking her. Stepping forward so that she could be seen by her, the girl came quickly up and whispered that some one was waiting for her in a little room adjoining the drawing-room. Lucy shud dered as she thought perhaps she was about to hear some bad news, and she was so agitated that she did not see her music teacher, Miss Burton, who at that moment made her entrance into the room. Hastily making her way through the crowded throng, she soon reached the spot indicated by her maid. Judge of her joy when in the person who awaited her she recognized Philip. “ Ah ! sir, is it you ?” she said with mock def erence, as she quickly recovered her high spir its under the cheering influence of her lover’s presence. “You are a little late this evening.” “ Will you forgive me for calling you so un ceremoniously ?” asked Philip in a trembling voice, not heeding her light tone. “ Why did you not come in?” she demanded with mock severity, and at the same time lower ing her eyes before the ardent glance of the young man. “I wished to speak to you,” he answered, speaking quiokly, as if afraid he could not com plete his sentence, “ and in that crowd, where your beauty is the attraction for all the men and the jealousy of all the women, my looks might have betrayed that which I should wish to con ceal—from the world at least.” “ Then you have some serious business which you wish to talk over with me,” she returned, with a constrained smile. “Very serious,” said Philip solemnly. “But is this the place for such things ?” asked the young girl, anxious to hear what he had to say, and yet almost fearful, as is always the way of true love. “Perhaps not;” and Philip’s answer was so moody, so near approaching to positive anger, that Lucy asked in some surprise: “ Well, then, why ” “Unfortunately, we can’t always choose,” in terrupted the young man quickly. “ Of course, you know best,” said Lucy, de murely. Philip could not but smile at this reply, and taking the young girl by the hand, led her to a seat. “ Now, Lucy,” he began, “ I am going to say honestly what I have long been wishing to say to you.” Lucy blushed, and appeared suddenly to be taking a great interest in the progress of the waltz, which had not interested her in the least a moment previous. “Lucy,” began Philip, tenderly, “I know that the candor of a heart like yours is sacred; but should I be acting honorably if I concealed any general'and tell him to be cautious. That is ; portion of the feelings with which you inspir .. -r * -i , . vt. \ 3 I mo nr allnwpn von tn Hirino them incteorl n all I had to say to you. We have arrived, any how, if I am not mistaken; so tell me what is left for me to do.” The two men had in fact reached the accessi ble side of an excavation, perpendicularly cut ou the opposite side. By the duflky light of the dying day, several human forms could be seen moving silently in the bottom of that cir cular hole. Saint-Victor made a motion to Liar dot to stop, and he imitated with a rare cor rectness the hooting of an owl. A similar sound, but feebler, came in answer to this call of the ^bushwhackers. “Come,” said Saint-Victor, taking Liardot by me, or allowed you to divine them, instead of j making an open avowal? Love should never j remain hidden, and I love you; ever since I first j knew you, I loved you; and this love, while pa- j rifyiug my heart and elevating my ambition, | renders me every day more worthy of you. It was in Italy, you know, that I met you for the I first time. Upon leaving you, I carried in my j heart an image which was at the same time cruel j and delicious, for my love seemed to be without j hope. I believed myself forced to forget you, j if I did not wish to suffer for a passion which j could irever be satisfied. Oh ! can I paint to you | the joy I experienced when once again I met you j | man imprinted a warm kiss upon the fresh, red j lips. | I With a quick movement, Lucy released her- I self from her lover’s embrace, and was about to j ! rush away in order to hide her confusion and i unutterable happiness; but before she could ! take five steps, she found herself face to face with an old gentleman, who was regarding her with a kind smile. This smile, which, in another, would have | been an impertinent indiscretion, seemed to light up his noble features, and completely reassured the young girl as to his intentions. This gentleman, it is almost needless to say, was the unknown of the deserted house, and the rich foreigner of the Westminster Hotel. Upon seeing him, Philip hastened forward and extended his hand. “Y'ou here, Mr. Gordon?” he exclaimed. Lucy regarded her lover with surprise. The young man, who divined her astonishment, looked from one to the other, and said: “Miss Huntington, allow me to present to yon Mr. Gordon, who, to me, is a real father.” “ Since Philip gives me that title,” rejoined Mr. Gordon, with a bow, “permit me, Mis3 Huntington, to assert the paternal rights.” Lucy blushed a deeper crimson, but remained silent “ I know the heart of my son Philip,” he continued, “and, although your superiority and accomplishments are uncontested, I do not think him nnworthy of you. You love each other, my children, and I am glad that you do. This very evening, I shall speak to Mr. Hunt ington, and ask his consent to your marriage.” “Oh! sir,” cried Philip, joyfully, “you are too good. Can I ever repay the many kind nesses you have shown me?” “Y’our own happiness will be my greatest reward,” replied Mr. Gordon, quietly. In the meantime, the waltz had ended, and the happy trio were about to enter the parlor, ! when a fourth pep»on made his appearance. This last arrival was the faithful sailor, Simp son, although nearly unrecognizable in his evening costume. Upon entering, he hesitated a moment, thinkirg that he might perhaps be interrupting sonrV_private conversation; but a glance from Philip reassured him, and he ex claimed: “ Ah ! Lieutenant, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” “Did you want to speak with me?” inquired the young man. “Yes, if you can spare me a few moments’ time.” “Well, what is the matter?” The sailor was about to reply, when Lucy, disengaging her arm from that of her lover, said: “I will leave you, gentlemen, to your privacy.” As soon as the young girl had left the room, Mr. Gordon said, quickly: “Before telling us anything new, Simpson, let me ask you what you have done with those two scoundrels, Rube and Legget, whom you captured so bravely ?” Simpson laughed as he replied: “ What would you have had ine to do with them, sir? I’ve put them under lock and key, that’s all. They may he smart, but I’ll answer for it that they won't escape this time.” “It’s best not to be sure,” replied Philip doubtfully. “ But I am sure. Lieutenant. If you only knew the thickness of the door and the strength of the bolts, you wouldn’t fear that they would get away. But let’s drop them for a few min utes, while I say what I came here to say.” “ Let’s hear it,” said Philip, not a little curi ous to know what was weighing so heavily on the old sailor's mind. “Well, Mr. Philip,”rejoined Simpson gravely, “ it seems to me that the society here is a little mixed, not to speak of the fact of my being found here.” “ Indeed ?” laughed the young man. “ Have you been taking notes for some of the newspa pers, Simpson?” “Not for the newspapers, but for myself,” and the old sailor's tone and voice were so grave that Philip could not keep himself from being just a trifle uneasy, although he could not have told why. “But we are not responsible for that,” said Philip. “Ah! here is George; speak to him about it” George, who was passing the door, joined the party as he heard his name called. “Did you wish to speak to me, gentlemen ?” he questioned. “May I repeat it, Lieutenant?” asked the sailor. “Certainly, if you think you are not mistaken,” replied the young officer. “ Oh ! I am not. I know what I am talking about” Turning to George, Simpson repeated what he had already remarked to Philip. “Yes,” answered George, carelessly, “ we are obliged to receive a great many people.” “I suppose that’s natural enough," rejoined the sailor; “but would you believe that I saw a woman here a minute ago the sight of whom gave me the cold chills ?” “But who is she?” “You remember my first adventure in the city, when I was almost demolished? I got into a hotel down town, and one morning I saw a woman in my room.” “Yes, yes,” said Philip impatiently. “Well,'this woman, who was evidently a spy and I don’t know what else—forgive my suspi cions—is just the one I saw here a moment ago.” “Do you know her?” asked George. “No, sir.” “ How could such a woman have gained en trance here ?” demanded Philip, who had been left in ignorance regarding Fox’s stratagem. “Come, Simpson,” said George, not paying any attention to Philips question; “I should like to have yon point out this woman to me.” The four friends left the room in which they had held the above conversation, and entered (TO BE CONTINUED. ) conveyed her contempt for a penniless lover. In my frenzy I raved and swore and traveled : night and day to see and upbraid her with all • the vehemence of my wounded passion. She i was cold, haughty, unmoved, and all the con- | solation I received was a dismissal from her I presence with the gratuitous information that i she had decided to marry a man who oonld main tain her in the style she had been accustomed 1 to. “Stunning as this blow was I did not become i crazed, or throw myself head-long into dissipa- The heat of a sultry day had given place to } tion, as your average swain would have done, the delicious coolness of "a summer night, and j but with my bitter load of sorrow returned to the gentle breeze wafted to a young man sitting j my stricken home to make easy the last days of on the piazza of a fashionable watering place j my aged parents. I never asked the name of hotel the fragrant odors of semi-tropical flow- : my successful rival, nor have I seen Julia Bt. ers. ■ Clair since. Raymond Damont, tired of the heat and cares ! “It was not long until I was the only living (For the Sunny South.) FIVE YEARS AFTER; OR, THEN AND NOW. BY CABL CBISP. of the city, had consented, after much coaxing, to accompany his friend, Merty Bed way, to the springs for a month’s rest and reoreation. And as he sat there listening to the melodious, twi light cry of a whippoorwill in a grove near by, his thoughts wandered back to “the long ago.” Let us describe him as he sat there with his member of my family, and from that hour I have had but one desire—ambition is now my sole hope—I have eschewed society, pleasure, every thing, and consecrated my life to that ambition that has long since taken possession of my soul. “No, Merty, go back to your company, and leave the misanthrope and recluse alone in his chair tilted hack, his feet upon the banister, j sorrow; your widow-goddess may enchant and and a cigar between his teeth—medium height, | captivate those light-headed society fools yon- curling brown hair, a smooth faoe, except the ! der, but for me I have had my dream, and her npper lip, which wore a short, silken rnous- * blandishments cannot awaken in my breast one tache, expansive forehead, a mouth like a wo- j thought of admiration, for man’s in its delicacy, and eyes of dark blue. There was an expression of hauteur and gravity in his countenance seldom seen in one of his age, for habit had made him callous and cynical. He was thinking now of his past life and of “the might have been” that sometimes beckons to us regretfully. Lost in his reflections, the rustle of a lady’s dress approaching him was unheeded, till Merty Sedway placed her jewelled hand lightly upon his shoulder. “ Why Raymond ! You here alone, and this the night of the grand ball too ? Come, let’s go join the dancers. Do you know that Mrs. Grand •T would not give my bnried love For any heart of living mould.” During this recital Merty Sedway had re mained still and silent, and a close observer might have seen by the moonlight that her cheeks had become very pale and her hands nervous. Those few minutes had been suffi cient to take the light out of her eyes and all hope from her heart. While they continued sitting there he so un conscious that his words had been a death-knell to her hopes, there was a sudden burst of music from the parlor—a grand march, evidently played by subtle, skillful fingers; then came a son, the widow, to whom I promised to present i different note, accompanied by a rare, melodi- you, has just arrived and is the cynosure of all ' " eyes,a queen in society, yon know, who will cap tivate you at first sight. Come, you misanthrope and be happy.” “ Happy ! ’ he echoed in an absent-minded way. “Come, Merty, sit down and listen. You have often asked me why at my age and with my prospects in life I am given to this cold, in different manner; why I am misanthrope and recluse at twenty-five, an age when others are buoyant with hope and joy. I feel strangely moved to-night, and trusting in your confidence, will tell you a portion of my past life—my se cret history—not known to yon.” The fine, blue eyes assumed a hard expres sion, and the handsome forehead became cor rugated, as he continued : “Seven years ago no man’s prospects of hap piness were brighter than mine. At eighteen, I left college with first honors, and with anticipa tions of a bright career. Young, ardentand im pulsive, blessed with wealthy and honored par ents, what more did I need to make life happy? Possessed of ample means, I had occasion to pursue nothing but ambition’s lofty aim. I chose the profession of the law and devoted a year to the acquirement of its abstruse lore, and by persistent study prepared myself in this science, by which I was to attain ambition’s goal. I then determined to go to Europe and travel a year for recreation and improvement. For weeks I roamed about the gay and frivolous French Cap ital, each day learning something of interest, or tasting some of those many pleasures that make it famous; hut growing tired of the mercurial French I sailed for Greece. At Athens, I lin gered awhile, visiting all those places which have such interest for the lover of art and an tiquity; Italy I reserved for the last. It was around the history of that sunny land I had twined the love of my whole youth. I wandered out one evening from n little vil lage upon the banks of Lake Como, down to the beach, and throwing myself upon the white sand was feasting my eyes upon the glorious view a full moon afforded me. I noticed several strollers upon the beach, but was too much wrapped in the beauties of nature to give them any attention. “ At length one of these groups approached me—two ladies and a gentleman—it was upon the younger lady that my attention fixed itself. She carried a sketch-book in one small shapely hand, while the other played with her remsrka- bly long and pretty silken tresses, exposing a perfectly moulded arm of exquisite whiteness, j Her figure, slightly above the average height of j ladies, symmetrical and queenly; her face of rare beauty, alabaster skin, cherry lips, eyes I ous voice. Ere the singer was half through the first stanza, Raymond had arisen and looked wildly about him. “It is Julia Grandson, the widow, you know," said Merty, noticing how much he was moved by the voice. He walked softly to the window and looked within. He stood there less than a minute, but when he returned to Merty he looked five years older. “Miss Sedway,” he said, and his voice was tremulous with excitement, “your friend Mrs. Grandson is she of whom I have been speaking as Julia St. Clair.” Then he bade her “goodnight,” walked down the steps and was gone. Merty, looking after him, thought : “ How talented, how noble ! yet how unhappy he must be. He shall never know how fondly I have loved him all these long, weary years; and since he can never be any thing to me, I will bring about a reconciliation between them, for Julia Grandson is not the heartless creature that he thinks her.” That night, after the ball was over, Merty Sed way and Mrs. Grandson had a long interview in the latter’s room, and there were tears shed by both. When next Merty Sedway saw Raymond Da mont she handed him a letter. It was a sur prising revelation to him, for from it he learned that when the St. Clairs returned with him from Europe five years before, Julia’s father found himself a bankrupt, as well as the elder Damont, and to save himself from utter ruin, had forced her to marry the rich but detested Grandson. How eloquently she told him in those few lines how this repulsive union had been forced upon her by a father’s threats and a mother’s en treaties and tears, and how much she loved him all the time she was uttering those cruel words that set him free, and that to save her parents from the fate that befell his, she had done this wicked deed; married this Grandson but telling him all the while that she did not love him. Four years she had endured this hated life when his death released her. Her love for Raymond had never diminished, and with a candor that, under the circumstances was allowable, she told him so. When the roses had faded, when the summer had gone, and “the sear and yellow leaves of autumn” were falling ’mid the mystic beauty of that weird, lovely season, they were married, these two, their hearts chastened by the sorrows of the past, and their attachments intensified by the bright horizon of the future. large, liquid and intensely black. “ The party stopped near me and I listened eagerly for their first words, for by their lan guage I would know their nationality. She whose beauty had so captivated me, spoke first, and in English. How my heart thrilled at the sound of her full, rich voice! I was now satis fied that the party was an American family, and Economy in Young Men. One of the most difficult lessons for most young men to learn is the fact that they ought to have money—to lay by from week to week such amount as their circumstances will permit. Not to make it the last thing to do, but the first, so their ex penditures shall not reach the gross amount of managed to form their acquaintance, and in a j their receipts, and they have nothing to save, few days I was on terms of intimacy with them. I And this should be done without getting into debt “I cultivated their acquaintance assiduously, | for any of the necessaries or luxuries of life for for my heart was deeply smitten from the first | one may buy ever so large au amount and if he is moment that I beheld Julia St. Clair. jin debt, he is really no better off than if he had “I was soon one of their party, and the msep- : gaTe d nothing, for the money he has is not his, it arable companion of her whom I had determined belongi t0 another . Young men do not know as should be my wife. I exerted all my powers to older ones j 0 by experience, the great advantage please and fascinate and ere we left the land of ofsaTing their money instead of squandering it. We had^cme^one evenins^to the^ Lake for a Zt ' ^ and farewell stroll upon the beautiful beach, i -“ d , wh f t . “ us ® of 3avl fS ? The bright rays of the moon fell aslant upon the j ynard an ‘^ but little they say they quivering waters, and their scintillation was J cnutled t° some of the enjoyments of life as like that of an ocean of diamonds. The ! . e ^’ &° W hile there is a good deal of truth peaks of the mountains loomed up in the far ! in assertions,both classes would benefit them- distance, just visible in the weird beauty of the j 8e l ves very greatly by systematic saving of more or moonlight While we walked slowly upon the j * ess e y ery week. W e have hundreds of t housands white sand I told her of my love and asked her j of men who are yet comparatively young, who de- to be my wife. The answer she gave me filled I plore the fact of their having spent their money as up the happiest period of my existence; and j fast as they earned it, and who are debarred from when we turned to leave forever the spot where j entering into business or engaging in some enter- our rows were now plighted, we sealed our en- j prise for the lack of the very money they as good, gegement with one soul-thrilling, ecstatio kiss, j as threw away in their younger days. UETINCT PRINT