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VIOLETTA THE SANTIA69 OUTCAST A Romance of Cuba. BY J. R. MIJSICK. Author of John Jacket, Maggie Notes, ♦ Golden Medal, Won Thp.ough Fike, etc., etc. The pnrsning boat turned about and rowed quickly to the shore. The sails ot the little vessel had now caught the breeze, and she was bounding forward at a rate of speed that seemed to laugh at pursuit. The- wheel was given to the most experienced sailor- The small crew was divided into watch ers, and our hero was unanimously elected cap tain. He had had some experience in ocean life, yej did not consider himself a first-clafs sailor. The yacht which Albert had christened “ The Violetta,” was a swift sailor, and in two hours, land had disappeared from view. Our hero then went in the cabin to inform the ladies of their escape for the present. He also pre vailed on them to retire for the night. The newly made captain remained up during the first and second watches, then, not having had any rest for two nights, he left, compelled to retire also. With exceeding great pleasure, he climed in his hammock, and rocked by the waves, he was soon asleep. So exhausted was the young American, that he did not wake until the sun was high in the heavens. The entire crew were already stirring, rations had been distributed by Simon, who was first ! mate, and breakfast was over. It was one of those delightful mornings, ; which can be experienced only at sea, and the i most ready pen is inadequate te describe it. The “Violetta” was springing merrily along be fore a brisk breeze, and the dancing waves around her prow, were flashing ten thousand glittering diamonds in the sunlight. Albert retired to the ship’s larder where he procured cold provisions, salt pork and hard tack, for his breakfast. Then arranging his toiletas best he could, he called at the ladies cabin. He found the girls in excellent spirits, but Madge with her face still bowed in her hands. Supposing that she was a little sea-sick, he did not interrupt her; but after expressing an opinion that in a few days, they would arrive in New York, he went on deck. In the forecastle he found Simon busily stich- ing and pinning strips of red calico on an old shirt, which he hid torn inio a square piece. “What are you doing ?" he asked. “G'apen,” replied the Yankee, without looking up from his work, “it’s no use to sail in these waters without havin’ some kind of a flag, and if we must have one, why I am determined to float under the ‘stars and stripes.’” “Then you are manufacturing your own col ors, are you ?” asked our hero with a laugh. “Ya’s, I’m first mate on this canal, an’ I’ve a right to sacrifice the tails of my shirt for my country’s good.” Our hero laughed heartily at the Yankee’s idea of patriotism, and then turned his atten tion to those who were engaged in managing the vessel. _ . Simon having got the stripes on to suit him, sewed on a blue field in which he put the white stars, cut from the front of his hhirt. > “That will do, first rate ; now to get the con- sarn fastened on the top of that pole,” he said, looking up at the mast. One of the Cubans came to his aid, and Si mon's flag was soon flying at the peak. The yankee stood gazing on it, with a look of admiration, and his patriotism rose higher with everv wave of the flag in the breeze. “You seem to admire your national colors,” said Albert, now approaching him. “I was just thinkin’,” replied Simon, “that our flag was terribly insulted, or my shirt was most highly' honored.” The day passed without anything of import- fnce transpiring, if we except Simons having a few hours.of terrible sea-sickness,during which time he would not even let Adelpha come near him. But finally he recovered and would hard ly admit that he had been ser-sick at all. The night and next day also passed without any sail being seen on all the vast expanse of waters. On the fourth day after their departure from Cuba, near noon, Albert was engaged in con- veasation with Violetta and Adelpha on their speedy trip to the States. Madge, as usual, sat in one corner of the small cabin with her face concealed from view. One of the Cubans came to the door and in formed Albert that a sail was discovered on their weather quarter, and from the way she was steering, would evidently crosse their starboard bow. Having some vague apprehensions, our hero arose and went on deck. For an hour he kept a glass on the sail, then becoming convinced that she was pursuing them, he called Hilton, the most experienced sailor, and consulted him about changing their course. The “Violetta*’ was now standing about N. E. by N. and before they could pass the Florida •Straits, the vessel would overtake them, for she was a full rigged schooner. The little vessel was held to her course, however, for half an hour longer, and by this time the stranger had approached near enough for them to discover that she was an armed Spanish schooner, called the Santiago, and was giving chase to their little vessel. Hesitating no longer, our hero ordered the vessel changed from N. E. by N., to N. N. W., the Violetta's best sailing point. Thr little bark was rounded to, and fairly flew before the breeze. The schooner also changed her course, and spreading every stitch of can vas, she could bear, still gained on our friends. “A long chase is a stern one,” said Albert, * ‘but before we can reach the mouth of the Mis sissippi, the blood-hounds will be on us. *' CHAPTER IX.— Again in the Toils. “She evidently gains on us,” said Hilton, who could speak English as well as his native tongue. “Yes,” said Albert with a sigh. “And will overhaul us before tomorrow morn ing, if we hold to any one course.” “She evidently will," replied the American. “And she is without doubt sent in pursuit of ns by Castino,” continued the Cuban. “I have surmised as much, and would farther add, onr fate is fixed when she overtakes us.” “I know that,” said Hilton, “but I know a plan which I think will put that pirate out” “What is it?” eagerly demanded our hero. “I have spent fifteen years of my life in these waters, and I know thatS. S. E. there are a great many small Islands, not laid down on any of the charts. My plan is this; that we hold on our present course until dark, when we change it and steer for some one of these Islands, where we may remain concealed till this vessel has be come wearied of the search and returns to San tiago. ” The idea is excellent and we shall adopt your plan, Hilton. You shall have the arrang- . ment of the vessel entirely to yourself.” replied ) Albert “What is the matter ?” asked Violetta, who, having heard the confusion on deck had come up. Close behind her was Adelpha and Madge. The face of each was strongly expressive of the excitement they felt. “What is.it, Albert, that makes you all look so strange, and talk so mysteriouslyreiterated our heroine, laying one of her lilly hands on her lover’s arm. “A strange schooner, darling, is ehasing us,” he replied pointing toward the sail, which could now be seen without the aid of a glass, from the deck. “The flag ofSpain is at her peak, and from her course she is from Santiago.” “He’s there, he’s there! ” cried Madge, rush- , ing to the after part of the vessel and pointing to ! the sail, while her large, dark eyes shone, j through her thick veil, like living coals. “Yes, I he’s there; I dreamed last night that he pursu ed and overtook us, and ha, ha, ha, that this hand fired the gun that sent a bullet to his brain Come on, come on; devil in human form, but there will be a fearful retribution awaiting you.” “Of whom do you speak ?” asked Albert Ash- brook. “Of Castino, he is on that ship,” replied Madge. “I dreamed that he pursued us, last night, and I—ha, ha, ha,—killed him. Oh, sweet re- j venge, it shall yet be mine indeed ! A husband murdered, myself a pauper in the woods; but ha, ha, ha, I killed him at last. Ob, sweet Heav enly revenge, come soon, come soon !” and bow ing that prematurely whitened head on her i hands, she sobbed bitterly. “Hang me if that old thing is’nt cracked,” said Simon with amazement stamped on his features. Onr hero prevailed on the three women to return to the cabin, and promised to keep them informed of any extraordinary occurrence that might transpire. Ililton took the wheel and held the little bark steadily to its course until it was quite dark. Before the sun went down, the pursuing sch ooner was near enough for them by the aid of glasses to discover her deck crowded with Span ish soldiers, and the expiring rays of the sun fell on a long brass eighteen pounder, in the forecastle. As soon as it was quite dark, Hilton changed the course of the yacht and steered directly for the Islands. About midnight one of them was reached, and after coasting about carefully, a small bay was discovered. Hilton being acquainted with the land, guid ed the small vessel into the inlet’ and run it up The knife-grinder was only fifty steps behind, and Saint-Victor, spurred by necessity, ran to the building and up stairs. Without taking time to knock at the door, he opened it, and, when in- i side, locked it. The noise had made the Major turn round, and he was looking in amazement at that man who had come so unceremoniously into his room. Saint Victor took off his hat and came straight to the Major. Francois Robert recognized him immediately, in spite of his disguise, and bis first movement was to seize his sword that was on a chair by him. Btit Saint- Victor crossed his arms on his breast and said coolly: “It is useless, Major, l have no weapon.” “What did you come here for?” thundered the officer. “1 come to ask you for the hand of Mademoi selle Gabrielle Robert, your sister,” softly answer ed Saint-Victor. “What do you dare to say? What means snch insolence ?” “I love Mademoiselle Gabrielle and my most ardent desire is to make her my wife, but I come also to ask you to save my life !” A knock at ihe door was heard, and the Major made a step towards the door. “The man who knocks at the door is a spy of Fouche, and he came to arrest me,” said Saint- Victor. The Major walked towards the door. “He saw me enter this building and is going to arrest me even in your own room.” They Major stopped where he was. “I thought myself safe under the roof of a loyal enemy, and I came unhesitatingly into your room.” The Major blushed, his hand playing nervously with his sword’s hilt. The knocking at the door became almost violent, and a oice cried: “Service of the First Consul! Open if you pi ease.” Francois Robert, pointing to a door at one side of the room, said roughly to Saint-Victor: • “Go in there !” “Saint-Victor bowed in gratitude and went uois- lessly into the shelter offered by the blue-coat offi cer. When the Major opened the other door he found himself in the presence of a mau dressed as a knife-grinder. You do not reccollect me, Major,” said he try- so near the shore that by the aid of a stage plank j ing to smile, they could walk out on dry land. Here the j “I recollect you perfectly well,” replied the small anchor was dropped and the vessel made j Major. “You are an agent in the pay of Fouche. fast. I You have been with me once on the road to Mai- “I’ll be-switehed if I aint goin’ to pass one I maison. What do you want of me?” Miriif nn lon/1 ** ooi/1 .Qtmztn nrlion f 1,.. I - .. „^ H *1?. And you dare to tell me that name ?” “Why not? It is the name of one proscribed, and will soon be the name of one beheaded, but it shall never be the name of a coward !” “But don’t you know that Gabrielle—,’ “You meauto say that she loves me.” “I mean to say that if she dies of sorrow you will have killed her.” “God knows that in order to make her forget me 1 would sacrifice everything, although I adore her. My life is no more miue, and to offer ii would be nothing, but I would give the only thing 1 pos sess now—the honor of my name—I would con sent to be taken for a traitor.” “Then abandon a lost cause; help me to capture the miserables who want to assassinate the First. Consul, and I will ” “You misunderstand me, sir,” haughtily inter rupted Saiut-Victor. “To save the woman I love I would be willing to pass for a traitor in the eyes of my friends, but I would never betray them.” “You know that, your name is at the head of the list of conspirators, paid by England.” “I know it, but I refuse to be paid by anybody; on the contrary I spend the meagre income that the republic has not confiscated from me"” “You cannot hope to be pardoned.” “1 do not want any pardon.” “Unless,” added Robert, “unless yon come with me to Bonaparte. He loves brave men, and if you | ask him to serve France, he might make you an j officer in the army; and—aud you may save a j young girl the horror of learning t hat you died on i the scaffold.” Saint Victor paled considerably, but he said firmly: “I swore te serve none but the king. 1 shall keep my word; but instead of surrendering to the police, I will resist so that they shall be obliged to kill me in the fray. Mademoiselle Robert does night on land,” ssid SimoD when they were safe ly moored. “ I am tired of bein’ cooped up in a water tub without room enough to turn around. So I’m just agoin’ to take my blanket, an’ snooze on shore. ’ Simon’s plan was finally argreed on by all, aud securing the arms, some blankets, and pro visions enough for one meal they all walked out on shore. I am pursuing a ehomn,” said the spy, trying row staircase that led the two men to a sort of to peep into the room. vault that received light and ventilation through a Robert stood by the door, preventing him small opening in the sidewalk, from entering, or even opening it more than it “No one will come here after you,” said Roberi. was. “The door in this corner opeus on rue de Lille, “What is common with that ehouan and your I and there is no guard on this side of the building, presence here?” i and when night comes you can make your escape “Major, the ehouan entered the garrison, and ■ through that door. Here is the key, use it when on shore. the guard at the gate told me that he went to | y OU think proper.” A\e will go up on this bill, said Hilton, your room.’ j Saint-Victor simply said: “where we can have a better view of the sea. “The guard made a mistake. I did not see j wrhanlr von sir” There is a wall of stone up there that would I anyone, and it is altogether improper for you to make an excellent breast work, in case we should ■ come to my room.” be attacked.” I “But Major ” “Moreover, who authorized you to say ‘sar- vice of the First Consul,’ while you belong only to the police?” “1 was wrong, Majo •, but it was with a good intention. I am an honest agent; you may re fer to Mr. Fouche.” I dou't need any reference about you, and I Rising, not know my true name and you can tell her that j vanned to the window, and began to gaze—at I went to England.” nothing. j “ We were so much happier as lovers before . we ever moved to this dull, unhealthy, hateful place. Of course the poor people are very nice, and Farmer Roper is the soul of good nature, and one likes to do one’s duty, anil all that sort of thing—but, but—it’s horrid ! It’s ” She might have kept up a steady flow of this style of fault-tiuding for an unlimited period, had not her husband suddenly exclaimed: “I say, there’s someone coming to call ! Who can it be ? By Jove, I believe it’s Blackley ! No ? Yes. It is Blackley. What in the world ? Why, we have not seen him since our wedding.” The bell interrupted surprise, and Adine had barely time to scamper out of the room, with the design of rehabilitating, before the servant usher- ed in Mr. Horace Blackley, looking an older, and I not a better-favoured man. His dress was more ! decidedly clerical than of yore, and his manner | made up with care into a semblance of suavity. Since his marriage he had adopted the heavy respectable style, and a very slow self-contained You refuse to sacrifice your pride.” “My honor, which is very different. You are a soldier as I am. What would you do if you were in my place ?” Francois Robert did not answer, but after a mo ment’s silence he said: ‘•You shall not be killed here. I did not forget the Malmaisou’s park, nor the man who spared me then.” The Major opened a small door, concealed in the wall, and showing it to Saint-Victor told him to walk before him. The door opening upon a nar- “ Hold on !” said Simon, and going back on board he climbed the mast and soon returned with his flag on a pole. “If we are goin’ to capture a fort, I’m goiu’ to plant the stars and stripes over it.” Our party proceeded quietly up the hill to where the natural fortification was. They pte- Thank you, sir.’ “Adieu 1” said Robert, and ran back to his room. “Now we are square,” CHAPTER C. Saint-Victor had nothing to do now but to wait until night came, and then abandon himself to hi« fate. Tired of thinking of the dangers that sur rounded him, he laid himself down on the floor of the cellar, and slept as he used to do in the forest “Show me your heels right quick, if you want j the opening in the sidewalk, walked toward the save yonr ears,” cried the Major. * j Place de la Concorde. His intention was to see “lam going, sit, I ant going; I must have Cadoudal; he had such confidence in his geuer d’s vailed on Simon however, not to raise his flag as tell von again that lam alone in my room.” j Bretagne Jut ing the nights preceding a battle, it might betray them to the enemy. j. | -»Bng, A<- T-bad beard another js 'V hen he awoke it was dark. Although he did The weather being warm, they managed with ! voice and- ” : j QOt know where to go, it was time for him to leave. their blankets to keep comfortable, during the I “What! Do you dare to doubt my word ?” 1 The rain was pouring down. He closed the door night. As the first streak of dawn began to tl- j “God forbid it, Major, but ” | outside, and throwing the key in the cellar through Inmine the eastern horizon*, Hilton who was j standing guard discovered, a schooner .standing to directly into the Island. He soon discovered it to be the one that had chased them the day be fore. Arousing the little camp he said: “All is lost, the enemy is on us." Albert sprang to his feet aud saw the schooner casting anchor about half a mile from the Island. Two boats were lowered filled with men, aud started for the shore. The sun rose brightand clear over the sea, and bis rays sparkled in gorgeous splendor on the burnished arms of the Spaniards, us they sprang on the land, and formed to march on our friends. Simon determind to die by his flag planted it firmly in a crevice of the rock, and vowed he would knock the first man into the middle of next July, who should attempt to lower it. Thirty soldiers were landed and the boats re goin.,. been mistaken ; I am going to Mr. Fouolie’s. : “Go to , if you choose, but never show your face again at the quarters of the gendarme rie d’elite. That is no place for you. There are none but soldiers here, and no policemen, lie- member it.” | Having closed the door, the Major locked it , inside and went back to his prisoner. “Now for you 1” said the Major. “As you please, Major, but first let me thank ■ you for tne service you have rendered me.” “I do aot render any service to the enemy of France, and ” "Excuse me,” interrupted Saint-Victor. “I am the enemy of Bonaparte, which is not exactly the ! same thing.” I wanted to prove to “No argument of that sort, turned to the schooner; but great Heavens the y 0U that j h ave nothing to do with Fouche’s detec- leador was Castino. He had a patch on his uveS) bm, Jo not expect to come to any cornpro- cheek and his left arm was in a sling, yet there 1 m j se w j l j 1 me >• ! “I do not expect anything of the sort, sir, and I I repeat that I am ready to leave these premises im- 1 mediately if you wish me to do it.” was a fiendish look of triumph on his face. “Forward!” he cried, and the soldiers, in two lines, moved steadily up the hill toward cur friends. [to bb continued.] THE GHOST -OF THE— MALM AIS ON. AN EPISODE OF FRENCH HISTORY Translated from the French for the Sunny South BY CHABLES GAILMABD. [Most of the characters in this story are not fictitious, but real personages who took conspicuous parts in some of the most important events which occurred during the rebellion of the West of France—called Chouannerie.] CHAPTER XCVI1. The promise of suoh a reward had its effect on the clerk, for vigorous efforts were made to burst the door open, but it resisted. “When you enter, I will be far away,” thought Saint-Victor as he jumped through the window into the river. The current was very swift, and in a few seconds the ehouan was already at a good distance from the boat, and he soon passed under the bridge. “The detective cannot see me now,” said Saint- Victor to himself; “it is the time to land.” Nobody was on the quay in such weather, and he landed safely. His clothes were of course soaked but the drenching rain could hare caused it. After walking a few hundred steps he found himself before the large gate of the garrison of the gendarmerie <T elite, and turning to look towards the quay Voltaire, the first man he perceived was the cursed organ-grinder running at his might. He was far yet, but coming fast, for he had thrown away hiB grindstone. Saint-Victor’s strategy had been of no avail, for he had no way to escape now. To wait for the detective and kill him on the spot would have been a sweet satisfaction for him, but the gendarmes would arrest him imme diately. Time was pressing and he had to make a quick determination. Looking towards the build • ing in the yard he saw an officer smoking his pipe at a window and recognized him for Francois Rob ert. “This is my last hope; I mast try it,” he mut tered, and passing the gate he told the guard he wanted to see Major Robert. “Room No. 7, second story on the left,” an swered the soldier. You know well enough that 1 will not let you go out, since it would be like giving you up to your pursuers, but you do not pretend, 1 suppose that I will listen again to the audacious proposi tion you uttered when you entered this room-” “1 do not pretend anything, and I leave imme diately,” going towards the door. CHAPTER XCIX. “You cannot leave!” exclaimed Robert, “or that agent will arrest you; for he mu3t be waiting for you now.” “Never mind, as he will arrest me outside. Ma jor Robert’s honor shall be safe,” bravely said Saint-Victor. “You are not the judge of my honor.” “No, sir, but when 1 think of our respective sit uation, 1 see that it cannot last. This miserable will come back with a squad of police ;tliey will man surroond the building and he will have this time a written order which you cannot refuse to obey. “And how do you know but I possess the means to save you ?” Saint-Victor bowed, saying: “My life is in your hands.” «I do not forget that mine was once in yours.” “You owe me no thanks for preventing a rude soldier from murdering you.” “That rude soldiers was your friend, or at least he was serving under you.” “In a civil war no one can select his associates.” ‘‘Very well. You are a cAouanand I am devo ted to the Republic and to General Bona-parte. I do not wish discuss your morals, but I wish to see that my sister marries a man deserving of her,and I declare that you are not and never Bhall be that m “I know that I never will be her husband—for I am going to die for the king—but you cannot pre vent me from loving her.” “This is too audacious '. I shall never suffer a ehouan, who fights against his country, and who tried to drown me, to come here and tell me so.” “Nothing obliges you to suffer it, sir. In fifteen minutes the police will be here and you can then get rid of me. I only want to tell you that when we were at the ford of Bouchevilliers I did not then know Mademoisalle R >bert. After I knew and loved her, her brother became sacred to me. He is so yet, and should he choose to plunge his 8W ord into my heart I would not move one inch to prevent his doing so; no more than I will ^ try to escape when, in a few minutes, the police will come for me; no more than I will defend myself before the jndges who will send me to the scaffold.” Robert sighed and threw from him the sword he had taken when Saint-Victor entered his room. capacity that he thought, if he could only let him know what had happened, he might find some way yet to save them. When he reached Cadoudal’s house, he first went all around it cautiously, for it was possible that police had already occupied it. Seeing nothing suspicious, he went to the door and in ide the sig nal, which consisted of three huntings of the owl and then to knock twice at the door, wait, half a minute and knock again twice. No answer was ever to come from the inside, but the door was to open noiselessly and the visitor could enter. Saint-Victor had imitated the owl and knocked already twice, when he felt his throat seized by vigorous hands that held tight as if in a vice. (TO BE CONTINUED.) TAKE CARE WHOM YOU TRUST. BY COMPTON READE. When Lovett said, “I have ample funds,” Adine looked into his face for an explanation. “The fact is,” he faltered weakly, for he was half afraid she would not approve—“the fact is, Adine, I have borrowed three hundred pounds. ” “Where? Who from ?” “Why, that good-hearted creature Horace Blackley has lent it to me, and I only pay eight per. cent and the premium on a policy of insur ance.” Adine started from his side at these words. “I wish, oh, I wish you hadn’t!” she cried. “My dear girl, why in the world not? You are absnrdly prejudiced against this kind friend of mine. Indeed you are, little woman.” He looked down upon her reproachfully. Adine Sinclair said not a word, but her heart seemed to turn to stone. CHAPTER XIII. “It’s not surprising that this living went begging, considering the climate and situation ” —a yawn. T he voice was that of Mrs. Theodore Lovett, a mother, aud none the less interesting from the delicate bloom which had settled on her cheek. She addressed her husband. Since last we saw them, a change had indeed come o’er the spirit of their dream. A residence in Mudflat’s malarious atmos phere for nearly two years had begun to tell unfavourably on the constitutions of both wife and husband. The vicar went about his duties energetically enough, but with an appearance of depression. In his case, however, Mudflat was not altogether blameworthy. Mind turned traitor to him as well as body. The worry of debt and difficulty was piled upon the pain of sore throats and occasional fever. Ot late, too, Adine’s health had proved no small cause of anxiety; and the baby boy, if of pleasures the holiest, was also not the least of responsibili ties. In short, the brief sunshine of prosperity had become obscured by cloud, whilst in the distance might be heard the presages of coming storms. The ordinary parson, unless blest with pri vate means, is tied by the leg to the stool of adversity. In other walks of life you may sing, play, talk, promote, swindle, or otherwise earn an honest livelihood, but in the church you must succumb to your pittance per annum; there is no field for ambition; for the men who work hardest are the least certain of prefer ment. air shed around him a sort of mist, which the world regarded as thoughtfulness. Altogether Horace Blackley acted parson to the very verge of nature. The vicar ot Mudflat greeted his unexpected guests warmly, with enquiries after Mrs. Black ley and tho juvenile Blackley, and his own welfare, anil the usual fire of polite interrogat ories of ordinary society. Then curiosity over stepped formality, aud he ventured to ask what in the world had brought his triend from his heavy-salaried benefice in the Essex Marshes to the wilds ot' remote Mudflat. “ We are on a visit to the Chowners in Blank- ton,” was the reply. “And the fact is, Chowner would have come himself to tell the news; but he has the gout, and has requested me to act as his deputy. ’ “ What news?” ejaculated the other. “Bad news, I’m sorry to say. I hope you will break it g ntly to your wife. However, not to keep you in suspense, Miss Eillt r has evinced unmistakable signs of lunacy, and iu short they have been obliged to—to put her under res traint.” Mr. Lovett looked grave. “Thank you, my good fellow,” lie replied; “thank yon. It is just like your kind-hearted ness to come over and soften the shock of this sad intelligence to Mrs. Lovett. Excuse me. I’ll go and tell her.” After a few minutes husband and wife both returned, and Horace Blackley related his story at ltngtb, and with some delicacy. He could not very well inform the niece flatly that sherry, if not more potent fluid, was the teterrima causa of her aunt’s mental aberration. Nevertheless he contrived to convey the ugly truth through the medium of hints. Adine, who was very much affected by the ill tiding, remarked his change of demeanor. To her he was respectful, and he spoke of his wife and child in such way as almost to win her heart. When, therefore, Mr. Lovett pressed him to remain over the following Sunday, and to give his aid in the pulpit, Adine seconded this invit ation with something like cordiality; although, be it added, she rather winced to hear him accept it. “My young friend Ralph is coming down to spend Sunday with us,” observed Mr. Lovett. “ Ah ! Ralph. To be sure. The chorister you befriended; I remember him. He must be quite a man now.” “He is a dear fellow,” said Adine. “I look forwards to his visits; for he always brings down all the newest music, and he is developing such a tenor voice as will make his fortune.” “Don’t be too sure of that,” rejoined her husband. “ However,” he added, “ we are oblivious of the claims of hospitality. Blackley, old fellow, we—we dine at eight. Suppose we give you some luncheon?” “Speak the truth,” laughed Adiae. “It’s supper, not dinner.” “Pooh !”cried Mr. Blackley, good-humoredly. “A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet. I much prefer the natural habits of our grandfathers to the ways of modern society.^ Adine, afterwards felt quite amazed with her self for having been so civil to her quondam foe. She assured her little conscience that the fact of their owing the man not merely principal, but, worse still, arrears of interest, had nothing to do with it. The real reason was that he was changed—for the better. Perhaps she reflected with a sigh, she also was • changed. Certainly he did not seem to regard her now with those eager glances of tender passion. Ah! dear, she feared that she was growing old ! Thus it came to pass that the creditor oblig ingly condescended to become his debtor’s guest for the space of three days, and to aid him on the Sunday by reading prayers—he had brought no sermon, and did nor care to write one. As for Mrs. Blackley, in spite of his oft- asserted affection for her, doubtless she oould amuse herself in Blankton. At all events he had other fish to fry, and a distinct motive in remaining at Mudflat. “Really Blackley is the best-hearted creature in the world,” cried simple Mr. Lovett to his cara sposa, as they were about to retire to rest. “He has begged me by no means to trouble about the interest owing, as long as the insur ance premiums are kept up with regularity. Such kindness makes one believe in human nature.” “Yes,” replied his wife, hesitatingly, “yes. He is very and—and—and—very—improved in manner. “My name is not Valreas,” continued Saint- I Of course, if an incumbent holdsia pleasantly- Victor. “I do not want to lie to the brother of j situated benefice, he can augment his incomi her whom I love more than my life. I am Jean j by takingpupils.who^ Baptiste Coster de Saint-Victoi, first lieutenant of Georges Cadoudal /” ity of a vil'age, besides occupying the parson s time which is already purchased by the State at a price. Parents, however, woula not send their sons to Mudflat. As soon would they have selected Tartarus as a place of education. Hence Mr. Lovett had really no means left ot escape from harass, except rigid economy, an almost impossible virtue in a sick house. No marvel, then, that we find Adine inclined to murmur. Women lack tho stoicism of the sterner sex, which can suffer »n silence. It anything goes wrong, they must liberate their minds, although by so doing they multiply in stead of diminishing evil. “Such as it is, it is our home, responded her husband, sadly rather than drily. “I wish we had not been so idiotic as to qnarrel with myaunt,” continued Adine. “She might have bought you a living in a healthy spot, or have paid a locum tenens, or done some thing. We shall certainly go to our graves if we remain at home for the winter.” Mr. Lovett’s face was very careworn, but he could find no reply. He had no moHey, and the parson without money in this enlightened country may write himself ad script us glebis. It was an autumn afternoon, and they were seated in the drawing-room, a somewhat trisle t apartment, looking north, and insufficiently ! furnished, saving and except with those pretty i knick-knackeries which feminine art alone can 1 produce. These redeemed to a certain extent | the poverty of ornament, giving the room an in- • habited appearance. . | “I wonder how my aunt is,” murmured the wife in a pettish ill-used sort of tone. “ It does seem so hard to be separated from one’s only j relation in this half of the world. Perhaps after all, Dore dear, it wasn’t very prudent of ns to i marry.” She called him Dore, her pec abbreviation of bis name, in order to smooth off the edge of words rather suggestive than acrimonious. But he would not answer. Rising, he ad