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THE OLD TABBY HOUSE. BY GARNETT MclVOR. CHAPTER VII.—Struggling into Liberty. In the center of the Old Tabby House rose a kind of turret, eight or ten feet square, and the height of a single story above the roof. This formed a very comfortable observatory, for those who were fond of star-gazing, and at one time, many years ago, a small telescope was mounted there, but lrom disuse and neglect, the instru ment had oeased to be of service. Of pleasant evenings the ladies of the family were accus tomed to occupy this room, where the cool sea- breeze was almost always blowing fresh and in vigorating. The entrance to this tower opened only upon two rooms in the house, and one of these was the apartment occupied by Ethel. Her disease had never manifested itself in the form of violent derangement, but a settled mel ancholy which could never be aroused or amus ed in any vi y* For hours together she sat alone gazing at a figure on the carpet or at some point of the wall, or upon a book whose pages she nev er turned. In her room were pens, ink, paper, books of poetry, works of art, little objects of cu- rious workmanship, and several musical instru- ments. In vain was every effort to interest or excite her attention. She became nervously ex cited when one of her sisters attempted to play upon the piano—and conversation seemed to ir- ritate and disturb her. Latterly, she remained alone in her room, and seemed to regard the presence of any one as an intrusion. Wonderful, beyond all other things in nature, are the phenomena of the human mind ! How it is possible for the godlike gifts ot reason to be overthrown whether there be a true lesion of the brain—what subtle ties unites thought to the grey matter which forms the throne ol intel- lect—who can tell? Strangely the balance which preserves reason upon that throne is lost, or re stored. The influences which human philoso phy declare potent are often proven otherwise, and accident or chance, sometimes accomplish es more than all the skill of human wisdom. Perhaps, like many other occult causes of dis turbance in the human organism, the disease may run its course and the oscillating pendu lum returns to its rest from mere exhaustion of its momentum. That there are modes of treat ment more or less favorable to recovery is doubt less true—that science has dispelled the hide ous errors of former times which regarded in sanity as an excuse for cruelty and ferocity, no one can hesitate to affirm. But, as society mul tiplies its luxuries and wants, with equal pro gress. mental diseases in aggravated forms accu mulate, setting at defiance the skill of the facul ty of medicine, and perplexing mankind with multitudes of unsolved problems. Here and there a patient blunders into sanity again, with out establishing a specific for the disease, or contributing ought to our knowledge of either cause or cure. All the night long was the light burning in Ethel’s room. Near by her sisters slept, and every want was supplied by their p itient, sis terly hands. The door communicating between their bedrooms was usually left ajar, _ although, now and then, Ethel persisted in having it lock ed, and not unfrequently, in her days of deep est melancholy, she kept the key in her own possession. At first, this maneuver was dis pleasing to her sisters, but, as no inconvenience came of it, they at last made no objection, fhey knew that, on such occasions it was her custom to ascend into what she called her “star cham ber,” and sometimes they heard her singing in a low, sweet voice, some of the songs of her hap pier years. This they were advised by the phy sician to encourage, rather than otherwise, and so it happened, that the sorrowful one spent many hours gazing upon the stars, and talking in whispers to her unseen, and perhaps, unreal companions. The night of the great storm was one of her nights spent in the “star chamber.” Her usually calm and serene spirit seemed to rise with the increasing fury of the storm. Wrapt in her cloak she paced the room, and gazed through the glass windows at the progress of the tempest. Aw the lightning glared from the heavens above, in blinding fury, she threw up her hands in child ish glee, and saluted the hollow murmurs of the wind as voices speaking to her soul. Her raven hair falling looselv over her fair white shoulders —her eyes gleaming with a strange unnatural fire—she laughed and sang, and clapped her hands and danced merrily, till some ponderous thunderbolt shook the foundations of the build ing,and then she fell upon her knees,and bowed her head as if in prayer. Rising in a few mo ments, she resumed her frantic exercises, till exhausted and out of breath, she sank upon the floor. At last, sleep—the balm for all human woes—the Lethean stream that brings forgetful ness of sorrow, pain, humiliation and regret— came to seal her eyelids once more, and for the last time, as it proved, in her world of fancy and disorded imagination. When at dawn her sisters sought her, and found her not in her chamber, they went up to the observatory, and found her lying asleep, a secret smile playing upon her countenance. The spray from the crevices of the window had be dewed her locks, and her hands were lying fold ed upon her breast, the picture of the sleep of death. But the warm color had resumed its place upon her cheeks,and there was more of intelli gent expression upon her face than they had known for many years. Gently they sat down by her side, and, fearing to awake her, looked in si lence upon the wreck of the once beautiful and accomplished young girl. As the morning sun began to gild the tret-tops, Ethel sighed heavily, and opened her eyes. •Dear Ethel,’ said Mary, ‘you have had a sweet sleep, but why did you not return to your room my dear?” _ . , ‘I do not know—Mary, Lucy, mv sisters, where am I? This is a strange place, and on the floor—what does it mean ?’ She looked around her with a puzzled air, mixed with a slight ^Oniy a little walking in your sleep, dear, that is all. Come, let us go down to your chamber. Take my arm, dearest, you are weak and ill you kn ‘IH?no, no, Mary-I am well, quite well-but this place—where is it? what is it ? who brought me here ? when did I come? Just now I was on board the ship, and he was talking to me, as he stood on the deck, and saw the white waves creeping up to kiss the stars. Where, wh be, M<n-y ? Tell me quick—is he—no 1 am wan- de ‘D n eSriiitor,; said Mary, as the affectionate tears glowed with a hope born and crus thousand times, ‘let us go down to you* ber, and there we can talk, and I will tell you ** She placed her thin, blue-veined hand u]»n the arm of her sister, and slowly, unsteadily, de scended the stairway. Every object she met, seemed to be strange and unknown to her. Ar rived at her chamber, she looked around with astonishment. , . ‘This,’ she exclaimed, ‘is not my state-room on the ship—no, there is a piano—and pictures, whose are they ?’ ‘Your own, my dear sister—all these are yours. Do you not remember the snowstorm m the Alps—your own sketch? See, there is the canon of the Rocky Mountains—the copy which you made—’ . , ‘Yesterday, Mary?’she asked, with the sim- t plicity of a child, to whose untaught fancy all jj past time is but a day. Yes, a long yesterday, Ethel! but come, you must have a cup of coffee, or of chocolate; you are hungry, are you not?’ ‘No—yes, I believe so,’ she answered, sinking into a chair, and covering her face with her thin hands. ‘Here, I have brought yon some tea and cof fee, and there is a cup of chocolate Lucy made for you. Which will you have, Ethel ?’ ‘Anything, dear Mary — choose for me, I can not.’ ‘My dear, dear little sister!’ exclaimed Mary, throwing her arms around her, and indulging in the sweet luxury of grateful tears, T am so glad to see you better—to hear you speak again. You have been very ill a long, long time, Ethel, and now you are so much better. God be prais ed, you are so much better, and can speak to me again, as you used to do. Oh ! Ethel! you have been very, very ill 1’ ‘Have I, then ? How long? I do not remem ber it. Yes, it seems to me like a dream—• and, Mary, my baby ! my baby! where is it ?’ She rose to her feet—the strange fire returned to her eyes—her lips were livid and compressed —her bosom rose and the color faded from her cheeks. ‘Be quiet, dear Ethel,’said Mary, ‘you have been too ill to see any one, and you cannot yet awhile—but dear little Ellen is well.’ ‘Ellen ! Ellen ?’ she said, again calming down and resuming her chair, whilst her face recover ed its wistful, puzzled look. ‘Ellen ! yes I think that is her name. Tell me—does she look like him—’ ‘Dear sister, I will tell you everything after a little, but first drink this cup of tea — your nerves are weak, and you must not be too eager to speak now.’ She placed the cup in her hand, and Ethel raised it mechanically to her lips. Slowly she seemed to return again to conscious ness of her surroundings. One by one, the shadows about her assumed reality, and her mind, still oscillating back and forth, gradually reached its center of rest. But yesterday, she had only monosyllables for answer to any ques tion. Never before, during the many months and years of her stay in that apartment, had she expressed curiosity, or shown interest in any thing. As helpless as a child, she seemed even now returning to childhood again. But there was hope in the dawn of this new day. A lucid hour had come- strangely, mysteriously, but it had come. Motherly instinct was around. Memory re-asserted her power. There was the glow of thought looking out of those calm, bright eyes where unnatural fires had burned so long. But here arose the fabric of another problem as profound as that which seemed to have solv ed itself. How was it possible to bring the mother and the child together, without the risk of overthrow to reason to the one, or both? Ellen believed her mother dead—had mourned for her —and frequently expressed, the evening before, whilst yet the storm was rallying its forces, the wish to visit her grave. So profound was her conviction, that a rude shock, even of joyful surprise, might seriously involve her own rea son. The mother’s recollection was of her child, a baby—but able to walk and lisp her name. How could she be brought to realize that this fair, beautiful young woman was that child? Is there such a thing as intuitive knowledge of offspring, even in a mother ? To the daughter, how could explanation be made ? Of her father, she knew nothing—and of him she made no en quiry. No child memories of his tenderness and love were planted in her soul. No recol lections of sweet affection felt or expressed for her, were in the heart or mind of Ellen. Why, she never enquired. Who, or what her father was, she had never been informed, nor of her mother’s living death. Tenderness, perhaps, had kept the truth from her ears — or perhaps another motive not so noble. At all events, there was the living mother, raised from the tomb of reason, and the daughter in a few steps of her living mother, and both utterly ignorant of their near neighborhood. Ellen had a keener relish for her breakfast that morning than usual. She ate heartily, and after her solitary breakfast, took up a book, an old volume of Bulwer’s works, and became at once absorbed in it. The breakfast in the din ing hall was over. Major Barton and Miss Ma ry were in the Blue Parlor, discoursing upon the midnight adventure of the Major in his fly ing cot. Ellen had wandered into the opposite parlor, known as the Red Room, and sat down to the piano. She was a good performer, and understood what few performers do, the power of musical expression. She began to play those simple, old-fashioned tunes which, in our day, it is heresy to admire, although they stir the depths of the soul, not by their recollections, merely, but by their truth to nature—their real ity in art. Her fingers glided over the keys, and she sang one of those simple, but imperish able airs in the opera of La Norma. The whole building seemed to echo with the music. So long had those halls remained in silent awe and undisturbed dreaminess, that music seemed im possible in the old Tabby House. But a sweet, buoyant, restive young spirit was there, that nothing but physical force could silence. The tones of the piano came swelling up the stair way, and jarred upon the door of Ethel’s room. The sound filled her with electric power. She dropped her book and stole softly to the door. With her hand shading her eyes, she cautiously crept onward to the head of the stairs, and lean ing upon the railing, she seemed to drink in ev ery note as a cordial which exhilerated and re newed her nature. Song after song followed, and still Ethel remained at the head of the stairs, and narrowly escaped the eye of the ven erable butler whose nerves were as much shock ed, as hers were stimulated, by the musical in trusion. But the butler only shook his head and retired, as fcis younger mistress, Lucy, re called him to his duties. Tears, bright, beautiful tears eoursed down the wan cheeks of the invalid. The notes of the piano were cutting the leaves of memory’s book—long, long sealed up—and she was read ing again her girlhood's happy lessons. Fig ures of the long ago came rounding into shape, and sounds of merry voices rang out in the notes of music—faces of friends shaped them selves into likenesses, and names long forgot ten seemed spoken to the soul of the poor suf ferer, as though she saw, and heard, and lived over again the by-gone days and scenes. It was not fancy, now, but memory, that brought back the white locks on her father’s head, and the deep furrows in her mother’s cheek. It was not imagination, but recollection, that peopled this house with old-timed friends, until the dry laugh from Major Barton through the closed door of the Blue Parlor seemed the echo from a well-conceived toast drank by the gentlemen in their wine-supper, and relished by a peal of hearty laughter. They were coming from all quarters. Faces of young school-mates, glossy ringlets innocent of curling tongs—lips of rosy youth dewy with the grace and gentleness of innocent young maidenhood—hands of shapely cunning weav ing bouquets to telegraph the language of young hearts through the alphabet of flowers—eyes of sparkling energy, blazing with frank and girlish sentiment, coquetting with the fairy forms re- fl oted in the morning dew-drops. Feet of mod est beauties twinkling like stars beneath the snowy skirts not made for exhibition—necks of rounded symmetry over which long flowing locks lay hiding the alabaster tints from the too glaring sunlight—and hearts beating high with holy hop 8, that form the poetry and glamour of innocent young girlhood. They were com ing, coming still, faster and faster. Drawn in the chariot at that sweet music's will— dancing on the waves of merry roundelays, joys which time can neither destroy nor restore. Flowers of spring-time, breathing sweet perfumes, re viving mystic covenants between earnest souls, vows of eternal fealty, broken but not forgot ten. Grief that died on the bosom of a new joy, and sorrows that were coffined only in a surprise of pleasure. Halls where merry feet chased time away, and the full heart sighed from very exuberance of happiness. Autumn strolls in woods embrowned by the ardent sun of sum mer, printing his burning kiss into the cheek of nature, and leaving her face sallow and care worn by the excess of his consuming love. Winter evenings of song and story, with their tales of fairy land, and long, but well-rewarded trials of prince and princess whose meridian sun at last broae from the clouds of adverse fortune, and sent the glowing beams of deserv ed prosperity to gladden and inspire the world of childhood. Still they were coming faster, thronging upon each other’s steps. The first kindling blush startling the young blood to cheek and brow, at the first spoken compliment from lips that fan cy painted with the eloquence of inspiration. The first glance of awakened interest which con veys meaning higher, deeper, broader than the realm of language. Words that carried proph ecies of grander mission than the fate of em pires, or the fall of kings and coronets. Dreams that fancy wove into garlands, and crowned the fair young brow with tLe wreathes of priceless victories. Hopes that painted the horizon of the future with golden images of beauty, and raised ethereal palaces of pleasures unalloyed. And Ethel was standing at the head of the stair way, looking, but seeing only the faces, forms and shadows of the past—hearing, but only the voices that had been hushed in weary silence those long long years—a lifetime of bitter pain and suffering. Her heart was beating with a strange unwonted thrill. Her eyes were pour ing forth drops of tears that were renewing, not exhausting, the stream of tenderness. She was transported backward, into memory’s pat hs again to find her long lost self, and as the music ceased, she felt the doors of the sealed chamber in her heart opned once more to the light of a new day of consciousness and reason. CHAPTER VIII. —THE BEGINING OF THE END. ‘I have made one child happy to-day !’ It was the voice of Major Barton, talking to him self. He had made his final preparations for depar ture to the Queen of the Antilles. His passage was secured in the steamship for Havana—his ward robe was complete, and waited the calling of the vessel in the afternoon. He had a few hours of leisure, after he hadbidden his friends adieu. Strolling without purpose or aim through the street, he saw a little girl peering through the glass of a shop window. She was not a very beautiful child, and the Major might have shown more taste and sentiment, but he did not. He became interested in that little girl, with dry, tangled, flaxen hair, and bare feet and calico gown, much the worse for ware, but clean and neat, nevertheless. She might have combed her head with more care, but her locks were long, and somehow these needed some one to infuse a little pride into the homely face and heart of the little girl. But sometimes we find little maidens who have no mothers, and some that seem from their appearance to be motherless, who only need a mothers attention and thought ful care. This little girl was standing in the street, gazing at the window, wherein the large blue eyes, and flaxen hair, and rosy cheeks, and dumpy hands, of a smartly dressed doll stood vis-a-vis to the little flesh and blood girl without. The Major stopped, and spoke kindly to the child. She looked wistfully into his face, and read, and most chi!d*a*J^feirn to read faces before they know anything of books—excepting always the species of children represented by Lord MaCaulay for they play wijh Greek grammars, and criticize Bion and Moschus before they leave the cradle—well, this little girl saw at a glance that the soul of gentleness and goodnes stood before her. The only thing a child can do under such circumstances is to cry—and the little girl cried. A tew questions in a kindly voice loosed the child’s tongue. She had no mother living—that head of hair said as much to the Major. Her father—well, he was like many other lathers, he worked hard, drank a great deal of strong liquor, treated his children either with indifference, which was his common custom, or punished them for his own faults, which was his drinking custom. So the Major learned from somebody else, not from the little girl. She would not tell that. But she had never owned a pretty doll, she had made some out of rags and bits of calico, and the like, —but a real good doll she never owned. The little eyes told how much the young heart was filled with a desire for that doll, and the Major bought it, and gave it to her. Not a word did she say, but the big tears looked her thanks as she took the great doll in her own chubby arms, and her little bare feet pattered away on the pavement down the street, then stopped; she turned around, held up her prize, and bounc ed away again. “One child made happy to-day.” Yes, dear Major, and if there be virtue in prayer the angels of God will watch over thee, and guard thee in thy journey. The stormy petrel will not pilot the ship into the fierce tem pest of the tropics, albeit this is the season for sudden and terrible cyclones in those waters. The night will never come down with twinkling star-eyes looking out from the deep concave of the sky, without summoning the angel-guardi ans to keep watch for thee! The sleep that comes henceforth to those eyes of thine, will bring sweeter rest to thy wearied limbs, because of a thoughtful kindness to that little child, But the Major thought only of her pleasures not of any benefit to himself, unless charity is the minister of self-love, as some have vainly imagined, and it is impossible to do a truely disinterested act. The Major thought it possi ble—tried to do one on ^this occasion—and—he succeeded. Ten days have elapsed in the order of this history, and must be accounted for ere we can permit Major Barton to depart in peace. Her bert Gordon visited Howard Hall, read the will in the presence of the Doctor and Miss Howard the elder, and was busy among his books, read ing up all available law upon the subject in hand. Bertrand Montmollin had left the city to spend the summer at a famous watering- place, whither the Belle of Brookline had pre ceded him three or four days. The black-eyed beauty remained at home to concert measures for a similar disposition of herself during the summer months, and Holland House was aban doned by the family to the care of a housekeep er. Gordon belonging to the Can’t-get-away Club, was content to spend his time in attend ing to business. At Howard Hall, Ellen was perfectly content ed and happy. She had been told that there was a sick lady in the house, too feeble at pres ent to see company, and the kind-hearted young lady was very careful to act accordingly. She was informed, also, that her music was very grateful to the patient, and sne enjoyed the practice of her old pieces the more, on that ac count She could not wish for gay and noisy company, if any one could be discommoded by theirmirth and frivolity. So the days passed much after the old fashion, except that the door was often opened and Ellen was seen walking in the garden, and now and then the young lawyer might be seen picking flowers with her, and talking—of law, and deeds, and industries, perhaps; but most likely of pofetry, and flowers, and travels, by land and sea. Thus the ten days passed without any notable event until Major Barton departed, and asj two days on the ocean are just long enough to get the shady life of sea travel well worked into the constitution of a landsman, we shall have noth ing to say concerning him until he ■ assed inspection with all his baggage at the custom house in Havana. There were not many objects of interest to the Major in this ancient city of the ‘ ever faithful isle.’ If there had been, he was now too much absorbed in the purpose of his expedition to en gage his attention in subjects of mere curiosity. The places he thought most likely tp be the haunts of Henry Gaston he visited, and made enquiry day after day for several weeks. In vain were all his efforts, however, for he could only find two Americans upon the island who had ever seen Gaston, and neither of these knew anything of his present whereabouts. A simi lar search in Matanzas. Cardmas and other prin cipal cities, was attended with no bettersuccess. Discouraged, and almost ready to despair, Major Barton returned to Havana. One evening, whilst the band of the Captain General was performing its not very delightful music in front of the Palace, the Major entered the plaza, and sat down upon one of the stone seats. The roar of the volantes passing over the narrow streets, and the constant hum of conversation from the crowds in the promenade, mingled with the noisy efforts of the royal mu sicians, afforded the Major sufficient themes for contemplation, if he had no other to amuse his thoughts. He fell into a deep reverie, from which he was aroused suddenly, by a stranger at his side. He was a dark, swarthy Creole, whose countenance was by no means preposessing. Touching the arm of Major Barton, he requested him to withdraw a few paces, to the shadow of a tree not far from the spot celebrated as the place in which the first mass had been said or sung on the island. Naturally unsuspicious in his disposition, the Major could not help feeling j some slight question of his new acquaintance, but the hope of obtaining some intelligence of Gaston overcame his momentary fear, and he complied by following the Creole. ‘ Senor Barton is seeking an American called Gaston?’ asked the Creole in a low whisper. ‘Yes, senor,’ replied Barton, ‘do you know him?’ ‘I do, senor,’ said the Creole. ‘Perhaps the Senor Barton may not like to tell the reason of his search. This Senor Gaston nas not been guilty of any crime?’ ‘No, I am not seeking him on that account,’ replied Barton, ‘I have a particular matter of business with him, but of such a nature as can best be told to himself.’ ‘ And will the Senor Barton pledge himself that no harm shall happen to the Captain Gas ton ?’ asked the Creole. ‘Certainly I will. It is only a matter of busi ness with Captain Gaston, as you call him. An hour, or half an hour will be sufficient, it I could see him.’ ‘Captain Gaston has not injured Senor Bar ton ?’ ‘No, by no means. I owe him no ill-will.’ ‘ And you do not wish to give him into the hands of the rulers of this island ?’ continued the Creole. ‘I do not—why should I? I know of no rea son why he should be given up. What has he done ?’ ‘No matter, senor. I do not say, anything. And if I have the honor to procure an interview between Senor Barton and Captain Gaston, what will be my reward for the service ?’ ‘If you will tell me where I can find him, I will give you two hundred pesos, senor,’ replied Barton. ‘It is agreed, Senor Barton,’ said the Creole. ‘Perhaps the senor will not object to witness his promise by the cross?’ asked the Creole. ‘ I will swear that I mean to do Gaston no harm, that I will not betray him to his ene mies ’ • And that you, Senor Barton,’ interrupted the Creole, ‘will keep to yourself whatever you see or hear, that does not concern you, and that the senor will not reveal by what means he finds himself in the company of Captain Gaston.’ ‘I will,’ said the Major. ‘ Then let this be the witness,’ said the Creole, extending a small crucifix to Major Barton, whose Protestant scruples did not at all inter fere with the ceremony of kissing the image. ‘And now, senor,’ said Barton, who remem bered that possibly he might be embarking upon a dangerous adventure, and his companion was bound by no obligation whatever, ‘ perhaps you will not object to swear that you will conduct me safely to the place of Captain Gaston’s resi dence, and see me safely back to this spot, or to the walls of Havana?’ ‘I will swear it,’ said the Creole, devoutly touching the little crucifix with his lips. ‘When shall we depart?’ asked Barton. ‘ To-morrow, senor, at the tenth hour, you will leave the gate Monserrate; on the Grav Paseo I will meet you. At the Monserrate gate you will find a volante in waiting—enter, and drive up the paseo in the direction of the Campo de Marte I will recognize you, and join you, for further directions. Remember, senor, silence and obe dience to instructions. Adios.' The Creole vanished before Major Barton had time to express his assent. A ray of hope had crossed his pathway at last. He returned to his hotel, and retired to think over his plans. There was no room to question the fact that the Creole knew both the occupation and the residence of Gaston. But among a people proverbially treacherous, might there not be a plan to entrap the Major in a dangerous, or at least an unpleas ant position ? But what object could the Creole have? The Major had been cautious in the ex penditure of money—he had never been given to boasting at any time, and, knowing himself to be surrounded at all times by spies, he had been particularly careful in Havana. He had confided in no man. The reason for desiring to find Gaston was only a business one, involving nobody else, and there could scarcely be a mo tive for capturing or betraying him in any way. Still, to a temperment not given to romance, or fond of hair-breadth escapes, a pardonable un easiness appeared very natural. When the mornrng arrived, however, the Major found himself pretty well prepared for the journey. Conscious of the rectitude of his intentions, and animated by the recollection that he was about to perform an act of essential service to a worthy family he set out at the ap pointed time, found the volante at the place in dicated, entered it and at the Camps de Marte, his friend the Creole entered the carriage, and seated himself beside him. ‘The Calesero is a friend of mine, Senor,’ said the Creole, and we can talk at liberty, now. You are very sure, Senor, that you intend no injury to Capt. Gaston ?’ •Most assuredly I do not intend to harm him, Senor—what shall I call you, for I am at a dis advantage for a name ?’asked the Major, taking leisurely survey of his companion. •Ah, yes, Senor—call me Francisco Lebon— that is my name replied the Creole, with a smile that seemed to say, ‘or one of my names.’ ‘Well, then Senor Lebon,’ said the Major, ‘I have told you the exact truth. I desire to see Capt Gaston on a matter of business that inter ests no living man in Cuba but myself and him. It is not necessary to say what that business is.’ ‘No, Senor Barton, replied the Creole, ‘I do not ask it But this Captain Gaston is a rare, brave fellow. I know him well, and I should be sorry if anything should happen to him. Though, to say truly, two hundred pesos are not to be picked up on the street every day— and besides—well, no matter, I owe the captain no ill will, andsif he never wears an iron collar until I buy it for him, he will flourish a long time, yet.’ The Creole seemed to be in an exceedingly good humor with himself and everybody else. He laughed, sang snatchas of songs, told merry tales of noted characters in Cuba, and evidently had no intention to play a trick upon bis sober fellow traveler, Major Barton. For all that, the Major did not feel wholly at ease. He had no high opinion of the Spanish character. The Cuban Creole he regarded as men more treach erous and unreliable than the Castilian. For the hope of reward, he believed any man among them capable of delivering him up to captivity or death, without so much as makings wrv face or feeling a single scruple of conscience. But wicked men act from motives—and what motive could this Creole have for leading him into a snare of any kind. He was not rich—he had no wealthy friends—he had no reputation for wealth or influence: why should any evil minded rob ber. cut-purse, or brigand of any sort or degree, wish to capture a man who had neither wealth of his own, nor influential friends to redeem him from captivity? So the Major reflected, as the Creole sang, and joked, and smoked his tobaccos by his side. The broad highway was becoming narrower; the houses became by degrees, farther and farther apart; the dense forests of the tropics appeared in view, and still the ambling pony in the vo lante, kept up his steady pace. Two hours had passed away—they had left the main thorough- tare, and following a gradually diminishing road, which 3eemed utterly neglected, and was broken up by the summer torrents into a rough and almost impassable route, when the driver suddenly halted. “We can go no further, Senor,’ said the dri ver, touching his hat, and addressing the Creo e. ‘Very good—we have no further use for you ! now,’ said the Creole, as he stepped out of the i carriage. ‘Here are the pesos, Don Carlos,’ and the Major heard the rattling of coins, as the Cre ole touched the hand of the Calesero. * Remember,’ continued the Creole, ‘ silence— and meet me here this day week, Don Carlos.’ ‘Good, Senor Francisco,’ replied the Calesero, ‘ I will come.’ The Creole spoke to Major Barton, and the two soon disappeared in the depths of the forest. A I walk of three hours more brought them to the bank of a stream. The Creole had been silent for some time, and Major Barton was not in a talkative mood. The fact is, he had a great dread of venomous reptiles, and could not be 1 induced to regard the numerous snakes, lizards, i and other denizens of the wood in the same light as his companion. It might be true that ! no poisonous serpent is found in Cuba—it might ■ be true that the scorpion rarely becomes an ob- ; ject of dread to the native—Major Barton could not resist the impression of terror at the sight of the huge serpents, and the lounging lizard species, many of which seemed capable of dis patching human life without great effort. At last, they stopped. A stream of sluggish water, flowing inland, arrested their steps. ‘This is not the place,’ said the Creole, mus ing, and speaking to himself. ‘ The boat must not be far off, though. Ah ! bravo ! I have it! This way, Senor Barton,’and he led the Major through the dense undergrowth a few rods above the place where they first saw the river. Stoop ing down, and examining closely the bank of the stream, the Creole continued: ‘ In half an hour, Senor Barton, the tide will turn. This boat is not*very large, you see, but it is an excellent one, and you Lave only to stir the water a little with the oar, and she runs like a steamer. You will get in this boat, Senor, keep to the right bank, and follow the tide. I shall expect you, and will meet you at the land ing on your arrival. Adios.' In an instant the Creole disappeared in the forest. If Major Barton’s feelings had been uncom fortable before, they were now decidedly miser able. Alone, in the depth of a forest sorround- ed by the myriad forms of tropical life—insects, crawling, flying, leaping-serpents of many hues lifting their heads, and darting their forked tongues at him on every side—the drowsy hum of birds and creatures which he could not see— the sense of loneliness, of danger, mystery in the conduct of his guide—the possibility that, after all, he might be the victim of a fearful tragedy, and that Gaston had a reason for pro curing his destruction, for he did not doubt that the Creole was acting under the orders of the man he was seeking, All these influences pro duced in Major Barton a sense of fear and ter ror, that for a considerable period seemed to paralyze him. But what could he do? A thous and times he cursed his folly in attempting this Quixotic enterprise, and as often his good sense assured him that courage and determination were his only possible means of extrication from his embarassing surroundings. To go forward, appeared dangerous—to return impossible. He knew not the direction from which he had come. The tortuous pathway through the forest, he could not follow, if he tried. To be lost in the depth of a tropical wilderness of trees, and vine, peopled with a multitude of hideous rep tiles—he shuddered at the thought. Night would soon approach. He must go on, and risk the consequences. The tide had set outward nearly an hour be fore the Major pushed the little boat from its moorings,and committed himself to his fortune. Down the stream he glided, among the long branches trailing in the water, between the banks of a stream garlanded with flowers. Two hours passed away, and the great sun was going down upon the waters of the Gulf. (TO BE CONTINUED.) Novelties in Jewelry. Gold filagree bouquet holders, studded with turquoises are among the latest novelties. Gold bugs and butterflies, studded with jew els are worn in the hair instead of ribbons or flowers. Springfield girls ask their gentlemen friends to give them ten cent pieces, which they adorn with monograms. These coins the fair ones wear about their necks, the one with the largest string being an object of congratulation. Bangle finger rings are the latest agony, and they give promise of becoming favorites in the beau monde. It has been the fashion for three or four years past to engrave the word “ Mizpah” upon look- ets for presentation by young gentlemen to their sweethearts. Some of them desire to know the meaning of the mystical word. And well they might.. The answer usually given to the in quiry is that the word means “ The Lord watch over thee when we are absent, one from an other.” This is certainly a liberal amount of English translation for one Hebrew word. If you look it out in a Hebrew dictionary you will find its meaning given as simply a watch-tower, and nothing more. And if you look into the Book of Geneses you will find no very happy or affectionate associations attaching to the use of the word as a proper name in the 31st chapter. After Laban and Jacob had cheated each other, and could trust each other no longer, they made a oovenant, in token of which Jacob set up a heap of stones, which was called “Mizpah,” be cause Laban said: “The Lord watch between me and thee when we are absent, one from an other. The Lord judge betwixt us.” Absence was not to make the heart grow fonder, but more suspicious; and the watchfulness of Heaven was invoked against some dishonest trickery which each feared that the other would be guilty of. A pretty sentiment, this, for young lovers in the nineteenth century to ex press towards each other! 1