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6 J t l SJ-J ii Continued from 3d page. ••If the letter yon brought there is intended for Mademoiselle Robert, it has oome too late; for she left half an honr ago for the convent of 8aint-Vincent de Paul, where she is going to be a sister!’ CHAPTER CXXVIL In the forest of Hallet, two men are convers ing in a poor hut, before a table where can be seen the remains of a frugal repast At the door a fine dog is lying, raising his head occasionally to catch the least sound com ing to his ears. One of these men is Touguy the owner of the hut an old chman like his friend, who is no oth er than Liardot dressed as a peddler. ‘It is time for me to leave,’ said the latter. ‘Wait a little longer, Fleur de Rose; in less than.nn tour it will be dark, and consequently "^Yes, but I want to be at the anse de Biville before dark, for fear 1 shall get lost ’ ‘No danger. And should you not remember the way, Maneheu’s dog would find it,’ ‘Speaking of Maneheu, has he been seen agaid around here ?' ‘No; but it is not to be regretted, for I tell you he was a bad man—’ ‘Are you sure,’ interrupted Liardot, ‘that I shall find the bark at Biville?’ ‘Yes, my little boy is on board, and he will tell the captain who you are; otherwise he would not take you in.' •Would it not be shorter for me to go by the farm of Roie-Guillaume than through the waste land?’ —‘Y-g, but I do not advise you to pass by the farm—because,’ lowering the voice, ‘the house is haunted, and I believe it is the soul of poor Louise Maneheu, who comes back to its old place, for strange noises are heard there at night.’ ‘‘Hie dead don’t come back to this world, friend Tanguy. But never mind; it is time to leave,’ and whistling for Jacobin, the old chou- an took his stick and shaking hands with Tau- guy: *Good*bye,’ said he, ‘I believe we shall not see 4wh other again. I don’t want you to die in this poor hut Take this hundred louis and buy a house at Treport and live there.’ ‘Hundred gold pieces!’ exclaimed the poor old maw ‘what shall I ever do with so much mon ey?’ ‘You will leave it to your boy, if you don’t spend it all. Take it and let me go. ’ Liardot had traveled for five hours with Ja cobin, when he perceived the farm of Bois-Guil- laune. What old Tanguy had told him, passed through his mind, while looking at the ruins of the old house he had seen on fire, when Cadoudal landed. He had stopped only a moment there, when Jaeobin begun growling. He listened and heard a noise like the sound of a hammer or a pick, striking some sort of metal. He tried to climb a pile of rocks near by, to ascertain what the noise was, but a man jumped from about ten yards further, and ran towards the sea. Ja cobin ran after him, and Liardot was about to fellow the dog, when his feet became entangled among some roots and he fell on a brier hedge. At the same time Jacobin ran back to him bark ing painfully and bleeding abundantly. Liardot mad with anger, took a pistol to run after the man, but unable to see his way through, he concluded to go where the man had come from. Going towards the house, he saw a light at the foot of the steps leading to the cel lar. By the light was a large iron safe that had been broken open. It was evident that Liardot had arrived at the moment the man had finish ed his work. But who was i that man? .Goulds he be Maneheu? And who but he coulo know that there was money there? Leaving the house, he started towards the cliff, where he expected to meet the bark. There he looked down the chasm, but could not see anything on account of the darkness of the night. Meanwhile, Jacobin seemed uneasy and Liardot had some difficulty in making him lie down. The sea was as calm as a lake, and a light mist rising on the horizon, enabled Liardot to see the bark at a short distance. His attention being attracted in that direction, he did not see what transpired at bis feet in less time than it takes to write it. A man emerging from the cliff, pointed a pistol towards Liardot’6 breast, and fired, almost touching him with his weapon. ‘This time I did notmiss him,' said Maneheu, for it was he. Liardot had been killed instantly. But Maneheu, twice a murderer, had not thought of the dog. Jacobin sprang upon him, caught him by the throat and rolled down with him to the bottom of the chasm ! The last of the Earomesnils was avenged. The Bailors of the bark found on the rocks in the morning the corpse of a man who had on him a considerable sum in gold. The dog was dead, but was holding yet to the throat ef the TAKE CARE WHOM YOU TRUST. BY COMPTON READE. Liardot was not recognized by anybody. Francois Robert was billed at Waterloo, and Sister Marcelle (Gabrielle) died of yellow fever at Barcelone, where she had gone to nurse the victims of the terrible epidemic of 1822. But the detective Caillotte survived them all. We may hear of him again. The kingdom of the juBt is not of this world (THE END.) The Gold-Shod Mare Again—A Romantic Story.- Appropos of the mare that was recently shod with gold at Edinburgh:—That mare has a his tory. Her owner, Miss Thomson, is an Ameri can heiress worth about half a million of dol lars. She has naturally been, ever since she reached a marriageable age, the object of per sistent attentions on the part of a crowd of needy fortune-hunters, and her life has in con sequence been rendered a burden to her. They drove her nearly wild, and she had a very nar row escape of being hunted down. It was in this wise. One of her admirers was a dashing and handsome fellow, but a terrible scapegrace, and she did not care for him; but he amused her, and she found it at last very difficult to get rid of him. She had just purchased this mare, and in one of her mad freaks, she told this gal lant suitor that he might have her hand if he could beat her mare in a half-mile gallop, she riding the mare horself. He accepted the chal lenge, and a moment later she repented of it. However, there was no help for it, and the race for a wife had to come off. It was a neck-and- neck affair, for the Btakes were heavy, but the mare drew away at the finish, and won by a length. It was in gratitude for the victory which saved her from a husband that Miss Thomson recently had that mare shod with gold. All women play cards alike. Watch a woman at a game of whist, and you’ll get a pretty correct idea of how all women play whist: “Lame, Henry, is it my play? Let me see—second hand low—that’s the first time around of that suit, ain’t it? Well, I’ll play—no, I hardly think I will—now you stop looking at my hand—did ; ou see anything—of course I’m going to play, ut I must have time to think—what's trumps— spades—I thought 'twas clubs—well, I’ll—no— J es—well, there!’’ Then she will clap an ace oh er partner's king and insist upon keeping the trick for tear she will be cheated out of it in the’ I final count. CHAPTER XXV. Miss Smith—or, as we know her better— Lady Montresor’s Poodle, played her game of deceit with muoh pluck, and some little skill. Like every woman under the sun she believed in the infallibility of the medical profession. Sir Joseph Toadie bad advised her privately that Lady Montresor’s chances of life were ex ceedingly small. This dictum of the learned physician formed the major premiss of Miss Poodle’s line of action. She speculated on being her mistress’ heiress in default of anyone with a superior claim. Should that lady hap pen to survive her husband the amount she Wflid have it in her power to bequeath would be almost of fabulous quantity. In any case, however, valuable pictures, jewelry, etc., etc., represented a sum well wortn scheming after. Perhaps, even such a gay Lothario as her friend Mr. Barwyn might cast a more favorable eye on one who became seized of mnch personal prop erty. Besides, she could devote a portion to the well-being of Mr. Barwyn’s numerous prog eny, in whom, strange to say, she took a warm interest Day after day—twice or three times, indeed, per diem—did poor Ralph call. The answer was the same. ‘ Lady Montresor very ill, could see no one.’ Then Miss Smith herself inter viewed the ardent lover, and proved well equal to the occasion. ‘ Did Mr. Ralph wish to kill Lady Montresor?' No? Then he must forego the pleasure of seeing her just yet.’ To which mandate he could but be obedient; so he relieved his mind by writing to her reams of love which were duly read, laughed at, and burnt by Miss Smith and Mr. Barwyn. As for the poor lady herself, when she was informed that her lover had neither called nor written, she suffered a relapse, and in her turn wrote in the language of love, sending many missives and messages, which were never allowed to reach their destination; until at last her aston ishment, anger, and donbt, reached a climax, and she vowed that should it cause her instant death, she would see him, and demand an ex planation. Here was an unexpected difficulty. My lady was self-willed enough to disobey Sir Joseph Toadie. or any other doctor. That Poodle knew by experience. In haste she consulted her con federate. Barwyn was a man not readily foiled. Within a few hours he had packed off Ralph to Man chester to supply the place of a tenor in an oratorio; said tenor having telegraphed that he was voiceless from cold. Then Lady Montre sor, at once, was driven to Ralph’s lodgings in Westbenrne Park Terrace. ‘ Mr. Ralph,’ said the landlady, ‘ was gone out of town that very day. She didn’t know when he meant to return. It might be a week or so. It might be more or less. Mr. Ralph had not left word. She believed he had gone to Man chester.’ Feminine curiosity was not satisfied. Lady Montresor, as an excuse for a reconnoitre, de clared she must lie down. The jolting of the brongham had brought on palpitations. So, by permission of the landlady, she was taken in doors, and deposited on Ralph's sofa. Eagerly did her eyes scan the room to see if there were any traces of her own hand-writing. But no! Thtie **b but one letter lying about, and that unopened. At her request Poodle placed it in her hands. It was from Adine, who had begun to regret that words, spoken with the best in tention, had been productive of a rupture. She really liked Ralph, and he was their one friend in London; so that she hoped a soft let ter might torn away his wrath, more especially if 6he ceded a small point of morality. The moment Lady Montresor caught sight of the monogram A.L., she, I am ashamed to say, tore open the letter, which ran as follows: ‘ Dearest Mr. Ralph,—I don’t think old and true friends ought to quarrel for the sake of a total stranger. Let us agree to differ about Lady Montresor; and as I shall be all alone to morrow evening, Mr. Lovett having to go down after office hours with a City gentleman to Cold- hole, I hope you will come to a tete-a-tete supper and console, ‘ Yonrs most sinoerely, ‘Adine Lovett.’ ‘Poodle,’ faltered poor Lady Montresor, as she hastily crumpled up the letter and thrust it into her pooket, * I’m ill, dear—very ill. Take me home—and—let me die. I thought as muoh. A fresh-faced country girl—married, too. Oh ! my heart, my heart.’ The suffering on that beautiful face would have melted the soul of a stone. For a second, Poodle thought how she would feel had she lost her own lover; and this thought evoked just enough pity to cause a few tears to flow, which of course Lady Montresor misinterpreted as being shed for her. ‘Poodle, dearey,’ she gasped, ‘no one in the whole world cares for me but you. Bless you for it, my friend—my dear, kind friend.’ Whereupon Poodle’s tears flowed all the faster. On the morning following, Lady Montresor, bag and baggage, accompanied by faithful Miss Smith, started for Spa, leaving behind her the following note for Ralph, which, strange to say, did not reach its destination: ‘ Dear Mr. Ralph,—The insufferable heat of the last few days has forced me to take refuge in flight to an airier locality than this Meso potamian region; nor do I contemplate a speedy return, believing that an entire change of hab its and scene will do much towards erasing memories which had better perhaps never have been occasioned. With every best wish, ‘I am, yours truly, ‘Rosa Montbbsob.’ ‘Ha, ha!’ sneered Barwyn, on the Sunday following. ‘ So, Mr. Ralph, my lady has given you the slip.’ * I’ve heard that’s Bhe’s gone abroad,’ faltered Ralph, very crestfallen. ‘ And dropt you like a red hot poker. Eh ?’ • Who told you so ?’ ‘ A little bird. Cheer up, my boy, it’s her way. She has always got a new pet animal about her. After a time, she get’s tired of him, and, presto, another reigns in his stead. Poodle & the only permanence in that establishment, and even her tenure of office is at times inse cure.’ i~> < Ralph was in no fighting humor, so he sighed and tamed away from his victorions opponent. He seemed to have lost heart. His life ap peared corroded-' Everything had changed from gold to grey. Foi^ her sake he had in jured his conscience, broken with his oldest and truest friends, perhaps lost something of repute among his own circle. And for what ? To be toyed with, fooled, deserted, perhaps ridiculed. His thoughts were indeed bitter; nor must we cast too heavy a stone at his yonng head for the sins which a great grief prompted him to commit. For the nonoe, however, we most leave him; an altered being; no longer the art-student sans reprocke, but a wild soul, not‘perhaps so much demoralized, as 'reckless of a-life which had lost to him its one mighty •harm. r CHAPTER XXVI. The next two months were employed by Theo dore Lovett in an endeavor, more vain than that of Sisyphus. Mr. Priest settled terms for him with the Peculiar Advance Co., at a suffici ently exorbitant rate of interest, . and for the nonce Coldhold advowson was his, to sell with immediate possession. But neither Mr. Priest nor Mr. Lovett knew till long afterwards, that, simultaneously with this arrangement, Mr, Plnmley had sent round to every clerical agent in London, to warn them that there were ‘diffi culties’ in respect of the transfer of Coldhole ad vowson. The result of this manoenver was, that man after man went to see Coldhole, liked the place, thought the price equitable, and then consulted an agent, who choked him off. Time rolled on, despair advanced. To raise monev they had pawned their furni ture. Soon, even the cheap lodgings in Port- "*y_ T pr< ^ obello Park appeared to be too dear for them, ne ... for Sunday duty is not easily obtainable in Lon don, and the whole week was employed by the unfortunate clergyman in dodging from agent to agent, from office to office, and attending the beck and call of purchasers, who never purcha sed. * We will ask Mr- Chowner to take in nurse and baby,’ said Adine, with a rueful face at the idea of parting from her little one. ‘ The coun try air will do him good, and Mrs. Chowner is always kind. Besides, now that her poor hus band is so completely hors da combat, it may in terest her to have a child in the house. Oh, Dore! if only Aunt Effler were sane, I would fall down on my knees, and pray her lor God’s sake to help us.’ ‘ And I would become the slave of any good Samaritan who would give me hilf such a pit tance as I enjoyed at dear old Mudflat,’ echoed her husband. Three days afterwards away went baby, the light of his mother’s eyes, and then the mother began to fret—not in words; she was as brave as good; but inwardly—during the long hours when her husband was tramping all over London in bis fruitless but determined efforts to save him self. On the same evil day that they lost their child, a writ was served by Mr. Bulps for the lien of six hundred pounds still due on St. Mary’s Chapel. Mr. Priest advised his client to accept judgment; then, unless be could obtain a written promise from his suicor not to act upon it, and he was of opinion that such a promise could not be obtained, to hide. Mr. Priest’s judgement proved to be sound. Mr. Bulps, furious at the loss of his money, re fused to answer letters, referring Mr. Lovett to his solicitor, Mr Petifer. Nothing, therefore, remained but to go into obsenrity, and with this view they slipped away one dark night, un observed, to a quiet lodging in Kensington. Adine’s jewelry already had begun to be pnt in request to provide food; the wolf was at their door, and the sadden alteration in their circum stances was beginning to tell on both. At length the precipus three months drew to an end. The morrow being positively the last day, Mr. Lovett called on Mr. Plnmley to sug gest that he should be appointed to Coldhole himself, until a purchaser could be found, when he would vacate. ‘The nomination,’ observed that gentleman, ‘for this turn to Coldhole is in the hands of Mr. Blackley senior, who certainly will not act in so hostile a spirit towards us. ’ •Towards you ?’ ‘Certainly, sir If you should be instituted, you might remain incumbent for yonr life. No one could eject you.’ •But I would bind myself under a penalty.’ ‘Illegal, such penalty would be waste paper.’ ‘Is there no hope ?’ Mr. Plnmley could not reply to this; nor could he give Mr. Lc-ett more of his time. So with tho ooiuunt r/yjA- Ire- bowed his victim out Scarce had he reached the end of Bedford Row when Mr. Plumley’s clerk served him with a writ at the suit of the Rev. Horace Blackley. The utter villainy of this proceeding so total ly absorbed all other considerations as to raise the lion in this meek-spirited man. He resolved to act, and act with determination. Marching to the nearest pawn-broker’s, he pledged his watch, and sending Adine a telegram to tell her that he was gone down to Mudflat, took the next third-class train, arriving at his journey’s end about dusk. With what terrible emotions did the poor soul view bis old home. There it stood out in the grey among the trees. The lights were burning cheerfully tnrough the crimson curtains. Men returning from ther work touched their hats, and tried to engage him in conversation; but Mr. Lovett had no words. He dashed up to the door, and administered a knock pregnant with meaning. * Is Mr. Blackley at home ?’ ‘Yes, sir-but—but there’s a dinner party just begun.’ ‘Never mind. Show me into the study. I must see him.’ There was evidently a flutter in the dining room as this message was delivered. Instead of the Rev. Horace, Mrs. Blackley stalked into the study, attired majestically. ‘ Could you not see Mr. Blackley to-morrow ?’ said she, very pale. ‘ I hope nothing is the mat ter. Won’t you come in and join hs ? Only the Rural Dean and his wife, and one or two neigh bors.’ ‘Thank you,’ responded he. ‘I cannot eat, Mrs. Blackley, least of all yonr husband’s food. I am in too great distress. Still I have no de sire to disturb your party.’ He could not make np his mind to be rude to a lady. * Perhaps Mr. Blackley could be spared an hour’s time V * Yes; I think so,’ faltered she. ‘ Will yon wait here ? Shall I send you some refreshment?’ To Bpeak the troth, Mrs. Blackley was woman enongh to feel for bis obvious unhappiness. Of the cause she was profoundly ignorant; she did not know of undefined differences, and had been lectured into a belief that Mr. Lovett had be haved very badly. Mr. Lovett coaid not wait He strode into the village, and eagerly wended his way towards the abode of Farmer Roper. The door was opened by a gruff-looking man, rather drunk than not. ‘ Farmer Roper ? Hey ? He’s gone this month. Don’t know where to. Don’t care. Last parson sold the living to mas ter ’ 1 Who is your master ?’ cried Mr. Lovett. ‘Parson Blackley. I came along with him out of Essex.’ ‘ Did you ? Then don’t propagate such a false hood as the one yon have just uttered. I am the last parson, and I did not sell the living.' •I do not know who yon are,’ granted the man. ‘Master said as he had bonght the liv ing, and he told me to tell the people so, and they all says as it was a great sin of you to ruin poor Farmer Roper.’ * I ruin Roper! What do you mean ? ‘ Well, you got him to spend all his money on the land, on the understanding that you were going to stop here, and then you go and sell the living over his head.’ With which the man, Mr. Blackley’s bailiff, shut the door in his face. More angered than ever, Mr. Lovett walked back to the vicarage. Mr. Blackley met him, slightly flushed with wine, a very evil look on his face, as of triumph hardly suppressed. ‘ Look, you 'villain!’ cried Mr. Lovett, bran dishing the writ in the face of the sender. * Tee, Mr. Lovett. I perceive that Mr. Plum- ley has already acted on your instructions. You surely don’t imagine that I am going to abandon my 'claim ?’ ‘ Sir,’ oried Mr. Lovett, tremulous with pas- lion, ‘it is in vain to appeal to Christianity, or indeed humanity, with such a rogue as you. Had you one spark of honor, you would try to rescue me from the hideous ruin in which I am involved through you, and you alone.’ ‘ I have a letter in yonr own hondwriting to assert that I have acted by you honorably.’ ‘ A letter forced from me—a letter I now re tract ’ * Mr. Lovett, I beg you will not shout in my honse. You forget that you have selected as an occasion to intrude upon me an evening when we entertain oar friends.’ ‘ Blackley, this is no time for idle punctilio. I have oome here to tell you that I am desper ate. I verily believe that you intend to consign me to prison.’ ‘ If you dare to make this unseemly noise, I— I shall leave the room.’ ‘ What matter ? I will tell my story to yonr guests—I will proclaim your infamy to the ‘Stop—an end, if you please, to this. I con clude you have come here to induce me to stay proceeding^ V ‘That is part of my errand—only part.’ ‘ Ah ! I can guess the rest. You think to bully me out of hush-money. Mr. Lovett, a few words in reply; and then, by your permission, I will close this painfal interview. You are aware that, from my point of view,’—shrugging his shoul ders iu insolent contempt—‘you have not meted me good measure from first to last. You have, in short, not only returned evil for my good, but have also aspersed recklessly my fair fame. It cannot be, therefore, that xfoa deserve my mercy. To this, I have to add an old score, of which I presume you are ignorant, for wives do not, as a rnle, make confidants of their husbands.’ Mr. Lovett paled. His tormentor smiled hor ribly, as he proceeded, with provoking slowthof utterance: ‘ I was curate of St, ’s, at Brighton, and there first made the acquaintance of Miss Adine Sinclair. She was then a school-girl—young, impetuous, very lovely. We—ah !—had a sort of love affair, which began with a flirtation, and ended—in earnest.’ • What can you mean ?’ Mr. Lovett’s face expressed some little sur prise, mingled with obvious incredulity. ‘Just this much—that the same Adine Sin clair played me fnlse. Ah ! you smile. Yon im agine, in your innocence of heart, that I pro posed, and was refused, in the ordinary society style. Nothing of the sort. Had such been the case I should not regard your wife as my debtor. No—the fair young lady acted differently. She accepted me as her lover. She did more, too, than give me her heart—she Why, what is the matter? Are you going to faint ?’ Well might he ask that question, for the lips of his auditor blanched in a trice, whilst the clenched teeth scarcely repressed a terrible emo tion, as Mr. Blackley proceeded, in a lower tone: ‘ She eloped icith me !’ • ’Tis a paltry lie!’ shrieked the agonised man —a righteous indignation fairly conquering his apprehensiveness. ‘You can interrogate Mrs. Lovett at your leis ure,’ was the retort. ‘ Certainly not. I am not the man to hear my wife slandered calmly, without ’ ‘ Some kind of bravado, no donbt. A breach of peace, committed by late Yicar on present Vicar, would be a pretty bit of clerical scandal. However, seriously, Mr. Lovett, l am not invent ing; ergo, all things considered, you need not ! expect me to forego one item of advantage which the law allows.’ If you were able to watch [narrowly the fea tures of these two men, as they fronted each other, you would perceive that the one who was pale and trembling was not the coward; for the other, whose words were so brave, was quailing before the eye of honesty, whilst his legs show ed symptoms ,of edging towards the door. Mr. Lovett perceived the movement. ‘ Stop !' he cried; ‘you have said too much or too little. I demand proof of these unmanly insinuations of yours.’ Thus brought to bay, Mr. Blackley advanced to bis desk, unlocked it, with well-affected com posure, and tossed across to Mr. Lovett his wife’s letter, imploring him, by their old friend ship, to advance money. Then he watched him read and flush crimson, and bite his lip for sor row at Adine s foolish deceit. Then he remark ed, sarcastically: ‘ Am I to suppose that Mrs. Lovett yrrote thus with your knowledge and approval ?’ • No—it was unwise of my dear wife. Never theless, I read here of nothing but friendship. You, Blaekley, have given the matter a very different colouring. This letter does not justi fy you.’ , And Mr. Lovett looked very much as if he meant mischief. ‘ You had better ask your wife. ’ ‘ No, I prefer to compel you to substantiate your words.’ ‘ Suppose I were to decline ?’ • Then I shall administer to you the chastise ment you so richly deserve.’ Horace Blackley paled. There was something in his opponent’s manner which warned him that he was capable of executing this threat, irrespective of all consequences. He reflected fora moment—then an idea flashed across his brain. ‘I have stated,’he said, ‘that Miss Sinclair eloped with me, from Brighton. The affair was hushed up; and, evidently, care was taken to prevent its eoming to your knowledge—perhaps otherwise you might have been less eager in your suit. Now, am I to understand that you demand proof of this fact ? Yes ? Weil, you are somewhat unreasonable; however, it does so happen that, by a strange accident, I have a witness close at band—in fact, in the village. We pnt up at “The Langham;" and one of the chambermaids of that hotel was a Mudflat girl. Follow me, and you shall hear from the daugh ter of Poacher Nevis ’ ‘ A tissue of falsehoods. Do you suppose that I should credit such a witness ?’ Mr. Blaekley shrugged his shoulders, impa tiently. • At all evente,’he said, ‘yon can hardly be lieve that I am in collusion with such a person, more especially as yonr visit here is most un expected. Go yourself, and ask the woman Nevis whether I have spoken the truth.’ ‘ No,’ replied Mr. Lovett, ‘I shall not. My confidence in one who has been so true to me from the first shall not be thus shaken. Yon have Bpokeh of my debt to you, and of my wife’s debt to you. Believe me, Horace Blackley, there is a heavy debt you owe us both; and the day will oome when that debt Bhall be paid in full. As a Christian, I can forgive personal in juries, however great; but, as a gentleman I can not pass over an amputation on my dear wife’s honour. For that you will have to answer.’ Baffled of the revenge he would have satiated on the spot, Mr. Lovett tamed on his heel, to the intense relief of Horace Blackley, who, as soon as he heard the hall-door slam, gave stict oruers that that person was on no account to be re-admitted. Then he rejoined the Rural Dean, and his clerical guests, and openly lamented that his old friend Lovett was such a bad man of business. He averred that he was a heavy loser by his unjustifiable improvidence, and thereby contrived to secure the condolence of all. Mr. Lovett, angry-headed, but heavy-hearted, stalked forth into darkness, resolved to push for the nearest railway-station, and to return to London by the night mail. He bad already got as far as the end of the* little village, when, as Ul l'uoh would have it, he espied a light in the cottage of Poalher Nevis. Thought he: ‘I am so eonvineed that I have heard a lie, that I have a great mind to refute!it by this woman’s witness. Let me only cross- question her, and I shall arrive at the truth. Then I will return to the Vicarage, and beard this slanderer before his gnests.’ Perhaps, if he had not been over excited, he would have reflected that such a course was hard ly fair to Adine. Make, however, what allow ances you can for a brain over-wrought—for a soul ground down by adverse circumstance. He had passed the cottage, but he turned back, and, with a load rap, demanded admit-' tance. The door was secured fast, for Mr. Nevis was engaged in the manufacture of certain snares, which would eventually yield a profit in the shape of so many hares, or in a loss of lib erty— owing to the lawB regarding game, which are still in force, and interfere uncomfortably with the romantic profession of a poacher. ‘Be that you, Bill?’ growled the old man, from the inside. ‘It is Mr. Lovett,’ responded that gentleman. ‘ Muster ’oo ?’ Whereafter followed a considerable amount of whispering between father and daughter, who were clearly disagreed as to what course to adopt. ‘ Is it Mr. Lovick ?’ cried the woman, whose ears were sharper than her father’s. ‘ Yes. I wish for a few words with yon.’ In an instant the door was opened, and the bold-faced, bad woman faced him, smiling. She conld not guess the purport of his visit; but it did so happen that she had often discussed with her father the propriety of extracting money out of Mrs. Lovett by a threat of making mischief. They had had, however, no means of ascertain ing Qer address. This important item might now be obtained from her htisband. ‘Hope you’re well, sir, and the young missus: and where be you a-preaching of a Sunday now- a-days ?’ she exclaimed, m a breath, as she offer ed him a seat, which he declined. The old poacher shuffled his wires into a canvas bag, keeping an uneasy eye on the clergyman, lest he should detect them. ‘Thank you! thank you!’ exclaimed Mr. Lov ett, in a hurried, strange manner, which, with his flushed face, did rot escape the keen eye of the woman Nevis. ‘I believe you were former ly one of the chambermaids at the Langham Hotel, in London?’ ‘That I were, for three'ears,’ answered she, glibly enough. 4 Mr. Blackley has just made a very strange and incredible assertion concerning my wife, and— ‘ Oh!’ cried the woman, jumping hastily to a conclusion that money might be made by tra ducing Adine; ‘so you’ve found ’er hout, and wants to know all about it?' Mr. Lovett stared hard at the speaker, turned to the door, for support, and, with one deep groan, fell prone at her feet. She had dealt a blow heavier than her imagination conld have conceived, for he lay like one dead, whilst the woman, stooping over him, rifled his pockets to her heart’s content. ‘ Run to the vicarage, father!’ she cried. ‘Ax for the parson, but don’t go for to tell no one of the neighbors.’ (TO BB CONTINUED.) New Fashions in Jewelry. Etruscan gold jewelry is the popular wear Most of the new patterns are copied from anti ques, and please the most artistic taste. The jewelry found in Cyprus has been taken for models, and authentic copies have been made of necklaces, brooches, pendants, earrings, etc. The pale yellow gold is most used for these, and the quaint pieces are necklaces of coins, of pendant beads, lotos leaves, slender Roman vases, the square cnmpanetla or.little bell, link ed crescents, keys, etc. Eab-ringh and Bbacelkts.—Handsome ear rings of half-hoops, with tassels, have soft gold rims that bend to pass through the ear in a primitive and safe way. Ear-rings are of the most varied designs— round, long, short, or slender, to suit different faces* Slender bracelets are preferred to wide bands. They are very narrow bands, with a sort of brooch in the back, showing a flower in pearls, turquo ises or other stones, or else a pendent locket; or the back represents buckles, or a key or some peculiar device. There are also bangle brace lets, representing five bands clasped together. The newest bangles consist of a chain, with pen cil attached for making memoranda; they are called shopping bracelets. The charity bangle has a little case attached for receiving coins Enamelled bracelets are also very fashionable, and there are bracelets of squares of inlaid sil, ver in Japanese styles. A large solitaire dia mond on the baok of a narrow gold bracelet is preferred to the clusters of smaller diamonds. Necklaces and Rings.—Gold necklaces fit closely, like dog collars, and are in designs of lotos leaves or beads, or else they are Indian patterns, made of gold beads all clustered to gether, irregularly, or heavy gold fringes with each strand forming a ball or a tassel, while more expensive ones have Delhi paintings and represents Hindoo gods- A novelty is the ban gle necklace, which passes over the head as ban gles do over the hand. This is a single stiff band, with pendent ornaments—coins, CampaneUa charms, and crescents. Finger-rings have long marquise medallions, or else they are separated like tiny bangles and banded together. Diamonds are set to show no gold, but merely to display the finely cut gem. Turquoises and pearls take floral designes. Large amethysts and large carbuncles are again in favor, set in pale yellow gold. A great deal of pieced work, in platinum and red gold is us ed for mounting rich stones. Newest Sensation in Bbacklets—the ehttke. —The fashionable bracelet in Paris is called Vesclavage. It is a fetter of gold, worn on the arm above the elbow, and is riveted and solder ed by the jeweller in the presence of the giver, to be worn till death, or divorce, or separation. The jeweller, when the operation is over, bids the lady call next day to see that the rivet holds firmly. She comes, and the treacherous gold smith confides to her the secret of a concealed spring, by means of which she conld remove the fetter at will. —“Johnny,” said a Fourth street mother to her hopeful, “run down to Mr. Lee’s and get me a pound of sugar, and stop in at Mrs. Par ker’s and see if my polonaise is done, and tell her I must have it as I’m going to a party to night, and tell her to be sure and put in 19 brass buttons down the front, and, Johnny go to yonr uncle’s and ask him to come down to morrow, and stop on the way and get the um brella we left last summer to be mended ■ it’s got my name painted on it in big letters,’and inquire if there is any letters in the post-office and you might as well—Johnny, come back here and listen to me—get some shavings as you come back—and ask Mrs. Mudge for her flat-iron, and get—but remember, Johnny, that procrastination is the root of all evil ” Kni Johnny went right off to hunt up Jim Ba~n«s. ana go fishing, and asked him what procrasti nation meant. a student, an austere and grave sci entific dignitary, an old man, may b* excused if they use no perfume; but a womah, young and beautiful, imaginative, gay, and happy, cannot forego the luxury, the elegance, the pol etry of perfume. °