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THE IIMl 0FJED1I CUFFS. Jin Autobiography. By Belt Winwood, Author of 'Nobody's Wife,’ 'The Broken Mar m riage Bond,' 'Ethel Ztreeme ’ 'The White Spectre, •Sweetheart and Wife,' 'The Chilton Estate,’ -The Wronged Heiress,' eta , da. CHAPTER VIII. (wretched and forlorn. Sick at heart, I turned away and left them stand- there. side by side—the murderer, (in the lie' 1 *. 01 his own account of the meeting I could call him nothing elsi), and the wife of the missing man. Thev had < ai 1 other, still. V/hat cared they for the foul wrong they had done, or the unhappiness their folly had entailed upon others ? My recollections of what followed are not very distinct. I have a vague recollection of flying through the purplish gloom to the brow of the fatal cliff and walking up and down, three or four hours, wringing mj hands, crying out to. the pitiless sea and the mockinng sky in the anguish that drove me wild and of shrieking Colonel Fanshawe s name every now and then, as if expecting him to hear and answer me. ...... It was a long, horrible vi zil, and at last thGpraj, ghostly dawn came creeping up out of the eastern heaven ; lifting the shadows from the fatal scene ; but still I lingered, unable to leave the spot. I remember running to and fro like a madwoman, in the gray dawn, searching the cruel sea and traversing the 1< >ng line of yell' >w sand that stretched awav from the point where the cliff terminated m a precipitous wall—stretching away, away, for miles and miles. And here I wandered, seeking vainly for what never met my gaze—a still, cold figure, a white face, a blonde beard dripping w ith brine ! While that dreadful vigil lasted, there was one truth that made itself felt through all the horror of that most horrible night. I loved Col. Fanshawe . At another time this knowledge would have over whelmed me with confusion. Now, the conviction gave me a sense of relief. There was a pleasant pain in the thought it was my hero, my king, foi whom I wept and wailed. Some how I seemed to have been given the right to grieve for him. I make only two excuses for my folly. In the first place, it had been wholly involuntary on my part ; and then, with bis .faithless wife and treacherous ho i e old,there had been no one else to ’avish the free f ift of lo e upon this lonely, heart-broken man. 'ity is the mother of passion, and so my affection haa been born wlieB I knew it not, and had sprung up all-powerful in an hour. . I saw no more of Mrs. Fanshawe and Louis Rem ington, after once I had left them. I did not think of them again. My heart was so filled with its bur den of woe that I had no thought to spare for the wicked woman or her infamous companion. Hours of daylight had passed, and the sun was high up in the heavens when I seemed to wake out of a lethargy to a realization of my own forlorn condition, and the hopelessness of that self-consti tuted quest. I crept slowly and wearily back to the house. It seemed strangely silent, as if a corpse had just been earned out of it. I tottered up the steps, opened the massive door, and entered. . Richard Vann was there, pacing the hall with hurried, uneven steps. He turned, at the sound of my approach, andihis pale face grew a shade whiter. ‘Miss Palgrave—you here !’ he gasped, his dark eves dilating. ‘I thought you were in your room.’ ' I tried to say something in reply, but my voice died away in an inarticulate moan. A sudden darkness swept before my eyes. ‘What is the matter s' cried Richard, ‘You look like a ghost.’ He came up to me, caught my hand, and led me to a seat, into which I dropped, perfectly helpless. ‘Wait here a moment, and 1 Will bring you a glass of wine.’ Fol’ SOHle minutes everything was blank until Richard returned, and I woke up to find him pour- ing the wine he had brought down my throat with no sparing hand. It brought the blood back to my heart, the strength to my limbs. I sat up in the chair, and pushed away the glass. ‘I am better now, Mr. Vann.’ ‘Humph. You look like a rose that has suddenly been bleached. Do you call that being better \ ‘I am able to sit up,’ I said. ‘What made you faint V I did not answer. I could not. And so he asked an "ther question, in nearly the same breath. ‘Where have vou been ?’ His fierce, searching gaze swept over my bedrag gled dress, noting its disorder, and that it had been all splashed with spray. ‘You came from the beach,’ he exclaimed. Y ou were out all night!’ .... I should have known from the words, if his man ner had not told me already, that the events of the last twelve hours were no secret to him. ‘Where is Mrs. Fanshawe ?’ I asked, in a hoarse whisper. His lijts curled in bitter contempt. ‘Up stairs, of course. She is not one to suffer any thing to make her uncomfortable very long.’ ‘When did she come back ?’ ‘Soon after midnight, I think.’ ‘Alone ?’ . He turned away without answering. But there was an angrv gleam in life bright black eyes. ‘Louise is a fool !’ he burst o t, presently. ‘And so is Remington, for that matter. They are both fools. Thev might have waited.’ ‘Waited ?’ I echoed, vacantly. ‘For what V He hesitated an instant, then a horrid laugh gur gled over his lips. ... ‘For Colonel Fanshawe to be taken away in the ordinarv course of nature, I suppose I meant.’ I fixed upon him a glance of horrible surprise. ‘What do you mean ? Colonel Fanshawe’—my voice trembled and broke over his name, in spite of everv effort—‘Cblonel Fanshawe w as a 1 oung man, and likely to out live them both, perhaps.’ ‘Not if he stood in Louise’s way, or in madam ma- mere's,’ he said with another laugh and a shrug. Then, after a pause, he added : ‘Mother is very angrv with Louise, she knew nothing of the contemplated flight—she thought my sister had more discretion. The whole unfor tunate affair has plunged us into a terrible predica ment. M v mother is in the library at this moment trying to find a safe way out of this confounded mess And she’ll do it, too. She always accom plishes whatever she undertakes.’ ‘This mess?’ I echoed, faintly. ‘Yes. Don’t you see it will be very awkward for us when people find out that Colonel Faushawe is missing. Everybody will think it his or her duty to meddle in the affair, and some very unpleasant dis coveries may be made.’ . The cool, business like tone in which he said this, sounded horrible to me. It jarred upon every finer feeling of my nature. „ ,. ‘It all comes of Louise’s insane folly, he went on, growing angrv again at the reflection. ‘She really loves that knave, Remington, and would sacrifice anything for his sake. I am only surprised that all this did not happen before. The dolt! to plunge us all into such needless trouble ! i have no patience ^Ydon’t know how much longer he wonld have run on in this style, if I had not stopped him •Don’t talk of her !’ I cried, with sudden vehe mence. ‘It turns me sick. The body—has—has— 8 Y^w^m change 6 color at the question The red blood surge. 1 over his face and Instantly receded, lea vine: him paler than before. _ ‘No/ he answered, after a pause. I think it was b °Oh e horrible^! Unknelled, < uncoffined ! Must it be so* Were we to be denied the poor solace of drop ping our tears and kisses upon his inanimate face ? P I rose up slowly and wearily, like one suddenly erown old. Pushing aside Richard s offered hand, I crept up stairs to my own door. It was locked—on the outside—and the key was . Vv,. w i. i T n s „ite of my bitter trouole, I felt there was something ominous in this fact. While I stood pondering over it, somebody crossed the upper end of the corridor. It was Susan. I called to her. She approached wit h evident reluctance. ‘Who locked my door ?’ I demanded. After glancing apparently up and down the cor ridor, her wandering gaze came back to fix itself shrinkingly upon my face. ‘It was Mrs. Fanshawe,’ she answered, just above a whisper. ‘Why did she do ito-eaa you tell me that V ‘Hush, miss,’ and Susan made a sign of caution. ‘I am sure she thought you wega in your room, and wished to keep you there. Now, ppt a word more, if you please, miss.’ She hurried away, in manifest trepidation, as if afraid of further questioning ; and I, revolving the matter darkly, and with secret uneasiness of mind, turned the key in the lock, entered my chamber, aod closed the door behind me. CHAPTER XIX, THE CLOVEN FOOT APPEARS. Sometimes we reach certain conciusions after a long and laborious process of thought; and again they seem to burst upon us, without will or effort of our own, like a clap of thunder in a clear sky. In this latter manner came to me the impression that I ought to 6ee Dr, Stanley, and acquaint him with what had occurred ; and if I failed to do so, he and others who were Colonel Fanshawe’s friends, would somehow—I could not see, as yet, in what manner-'be kept in ignorance of the true state of aff iirs. For a long time I had bee i lying upon the couch in my room in a sort of stupor. While it lasted, I had heard the quiet of the house suddenly broken— the tramping of footsteps here and there through the lower rooms, confusion everywhere, and con siderable loud taik ng. These sounds had reached my ears, leaving only a vague idea that something unusual was going on ; but 1 felt too weak and ill to care what it might be. However, when the sudden impression came that I had a dutv to perform, I woke up at once out of the lethargy I was in, and rising, smoothed out my dis ordered dress with trembling, nerveless hands. Then, assuming hat and scarf, I stepped outside the door, and paused there to listen a moment. The confusion had subsided in a measure. While I still lingered, feeling very curious and a little frightened with it all—for I knew very- well no such unseemly uproar would have been raised if the body had been found and brought home—Rose Ver- lorme happened to pass by. ‘What has been going on, Rose,’ I asked, forcibly detaining her. She glanced at me angrily and suspiciously, it seemed, and replied, after a slight pause : ‘Some of the servants are going away, I believe,’ ‘Going away ?’ I repeated. ‘Have they been dis charged?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Why ?’ ‘That’s not my business,’ she retorted. ‘I am among those who remain ; I do not concern myself further.’ ‘This is very strange,’1 murmured, still speaking of the sudden change in the household and nothing Rose’s round blue eves again swept over me, from head to foot. There was something unpleasant in them—something it chilled my blood to see. ‘Were you going out ?’ she said. I replied in the affirmative. ‘Where?’ ‘To the grounds. I am stifling here, and a walk will do me good.’ I did not think it prudent to confide to her my in tention of seeking Dr. Stanley. ‘No doubt it will,’ she made answer ; and passed on. I left the house by one of the side doors, meeting nobodj- on the stairs or in the passage. Ah, how re freshing it seemed to breathe the pure air outside once again ! I had, somehow, the sensation that I was escaping from a prison, that, had I waited, these balmy breezes would never again have kissed mv forehead, or tossed from it the tumbled hair ! keeping, us much as possible, in the shadow of the shrubbery, I took the shortest route to the gate opening upon the high-road, and walked on. In less than three minutes, however, I heard a shrill exclamation at an open window in the upper part of the houB i, and Mia. Vann’s voice screamed after me; ‘Stop her ! She will ruin us all! Don’t let her leave the grounds!’ These are the identical words, and the key was a shrill one. Some sort of answer was returned in a man’s gruff tones, and there followed a heavy step in pursuit. Thoroughly frightened, I now set out to run. But I was weary, foot-sore, almost ill. My l;mbs began to totter under me. I paused, and was compelled to lean for support against one of the magnificent trees that bordered the drive. Leaning there, in an instant I had resolved upon the course of action it would be most prudent to pursue. Calming my agitated pulses as much as possible, I took off my hat and began fanning my self therewith, as if quite overpowered by the heat, but never glanced back at my pursuer. He had nearly reached my side when at last I looked up with an air of well-assumed indifference. And then, instantly, my hardly-maintained com posure give way. Louis Remington !’ I shrieked, and recoiled from the intruder in dismay and horror. ‘Ay, Louis Remington,’ he said mockingly, and stopped directly before me. ‘Are you surprised to see me here ?’ ‘It is the last place to which you should have came.’ I tried in vain to conceal my agitation. ‘Your presence here seems like an insult to—to—’ ‘To whom, pretty one ?’ ‘The dead !’ I answered, boldly. He had the grace to change color. For a moment I feared he was going to strike me. ‘Humph !’ he said, with a harsh laugh. ‘It can not harm the dead whether I am here or elsewhere.’ ‘Common decency, at least ’ ‘Stop that,’he interrupted, brutally. ‘Are you mistress of Cedarcliffs ?’ ‘You know I am not.’ ‘And Mrs. Fanshawe is ! She chooses to have me here. I came at her request, and it seems that you have no call to meddle in the affair.’ This was true enough. But his presence filled me with secret terror. There was something so bold. So daring in bringing him upon the scene at this early stage in the game ! It looked like the move of one who felt that the odds were wholly in her favor. ‘Where were you going ?’ he asked presently, see ing that I remained silent. ‘Fora walk.’ ‘It looks as if you had set . for the village, or one of the neighboring estates.’ ‘What then ?’ I demanded angrily. ‘Am I not at liberty to go where I please ?’ ‘No. To show you that you are not, I shall take the precaution to keep you here. Give me your hand.’ I thrust both hands resolutely behind me, and gve one qu ck glance down the avenue to set if the way was clear. I felt stronger again, and meant to el ide him, if possible. He only laughed at such petty show of resistance. ‘You are planning another flitting. I can see it in your eyes. And as I have no predilection for a second undignified chase, I shall even take by force what you so willfully refuse.’ As he spoke, he encircled my arm with one of his muscular hands, in a grip of iron. To struggle would have been folly and, I remained passive. But the angry red surged into my face ; 1 felt it burning there, ‘What is the meaning of this indignity ?’ ‘It means no more nor less than that you are to return to the house with me. Come.’ I arose and followed him, not willingly, but be cause I had no choice in the matter. We returned q lite slow’ly, for Mr. Remington limped a good ueal, and seemed to walk with difficulty. ‘1 feared you meant to give me chase,’ he said, presently. ‘You shot down the avenue like a deer; and I am not so fleet of foot as I was before that confounded scrape on the water.’ ‘And I am your prisoner ?’ I said, bitterly. ‘Not mine, but Mrs. Vann’s,’ he corrected. ‘Pra\ what have I done, that I should be treated in this shameful manner ?’ ‘We will leave explanations until we reach the house, if you please. Then, mayhap, you will be told all you wish to learn.’ After'that, we walked on in silence. I was more frightened than I cared to have him know. My mind was filled with a thousand vague conjectures, all of which were horrible to a degree. The omi nous insult of being detained in this manner must have its meaning ; but what that meaning might be I shuddered even to conjecture. Mrs. Vann met us at the nail door. ‘And so you are back again, you huzzy?’ she said, with a ven omous glance at me. ‘You found your wings clipped sooner than you counted upon, I fancy.’ ‘Madam,’I returned, haughtily, ‘I object to be ing addressed in that manner.’ She tossed her head and gave utterance to a snort of defiance. , , , . , ‘ ‘Perhaps you can help yourself, my lady. Ana again, perhaps you can’t; andin the lattercase, you will be compelled to hear wbate’r I may choose to S Tl decline to bandy words with you. But per haps you will be good enough to tell me why I am prevented from enjoying my usual rambles. I looked her steadfastly m the face while speak ing. and could see her grow lividly pale—no doubt with passion. ‘Do your rambles usually take you to the village ?^ she sneered. 'That is as I may elect.’ . . ‘It will not be in future. Please bear in mini what I tell you. Your movements will be entirely under my control.’ At til’s instant, Richard approached. He had been standing in one of the niches near th^ door, and the sound of his footstep on the marble floor of the vestibule was the first indication of his vicin al advise you to submit gracefully, and give ma mere her own way.’ he said, bending over me, and I stared at him a little wildly, but made no re- P ^Com '?’ said Mrs. Vann, approaching us, and seiz ing my hand. ‘I can t stay paluv 'ring here. ‘IV here do you mean to carry me?’ ‘To your own room. ’ In silence I followed her up stairs. When we had reached the landing, I paused and looked the wick ed woman in the face. ‘You are afraid of me,’ I said, ‘afraid to let me communicate with a person outside of Cedarcliffs. Some monstrous iniquity is going on here, which you do not wish to have found out. Now tell me what it is, without evasion or prevarica ion; tell me what you expect to gain by keeping me here, a prisoner. The truth will sen e you better than a 1 e, a d it is the truth I wish to hear.’ CHAPTER XX. A NEW TREACHERY. My bold words brought a frown to Mrs. Vann’s brow, and a strange sort of smile curled her thin 1P Do vou take me for a fool?’ she said. ‘If any in iquity is going on here, as you insinuate with such positiveness, think you I shall risk success, or jeop ardiz- my own neck, by revealing it prematurely? Now come along to vour room and be locked in.’ ‘You really intend to restrict my liberty?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Very well,’ I said, turning haughtily away.— ‘Of course you can do so; but I warn you to be careful. These walls cannot confine me forever, and a day of retribution will come.’ ‘You threaten, eh!’ There was a glare of anger in her fierce black eyes. ‘Empty words and so you will find them.’ ‘You will yet learn that they are not empty words. How long can you keep me shut up here, without the cruel indignity being known? Why, the very servants will rise up against you!’ ‘I have taken care of that.’ Something in her tone frightened me more than anything that had gone before. I recalled what Rose had said of the change in the domestic ar rangements, made that day. ‘The inmates of this house are all pledged to my interests,’ she went on, smiling to see the wan ter ror that crept over my features. The few, upon whose fide! it -1 could not rely, have been sent away upon one pretext or another - Now, I have not an enemy in the house and you have no friend.’ ‘People come here, sometimes, from the village— Dr. Stanley and others. ’ To this remark, she replied with a low, faint laugh. ‘Dr. Stanley will not come again. A note has been sent him—signed with Colonel Fanshawe’s name, and written in a very clear imitation of his hand—that will have the effect of keeping him away.’ ‘What must Dr. Stanley think of such a note when he learns that—that Colonel Fanshawe is dead.’ Here, I paused an instant, for any refer ence to that dreadful tragedy overcame me. ‘It will show, on its face for what it is, a forgery.’ ‘I see you do not understand me. Dr. Stanley knows nothing of the events of last night, and it I shall be my care still to keep him ignorant.’ ‘That’s impossible.’ ‘By no means,’ she said, calmly. ‘Even the ser vants who were sent away, suspect nothing wrong. We have taken the greatest precautions all day to keep the truth from them.’ I stared at her in stupid wonder. ‘Did they go away ignorant of what had befallen their master?’ She nodded. ‘I told them he had received a telegram from New York in the night that rendered his immedi ate presence in the city necessary; that we were going to join him there, shut up the house, for a few months, and travel for the benefit of the Colonel’s health.’ There was something horrible in the cool, trium phant tone in which she told all to is. But light began to break upon my mind, at last I vaguely comprehended the infamous plot she had conceived and was carrying out so boldly. ‘All the front of the house will be shut up within an hour,’she went on. ‘Those of us who remain here will occupy a few of these upper rooms, taking care not to show ourselves abroad. Who is to know that we have not. gone to New York, and are not intending to meet Colonel Fanshawe there?’ How could she speak of the dead in that tone,and that connection? It shocked me more than any thing else to which she had given utterance. Such lack of sensibility was something new in my expe rience of women. ‘The body may be washed ashore, even yet,’ I cried, ‘andyour duplieitv then made known.’ Mrs. Vann started, and again that livid pallor overspread her features. I could see I had touched upon the one weak point in her nefarious scheme. ‘I have thought of that,’ she said, after a pause, ‘and am prepared to meet the difficulty. We only need to sav that Col. Fanshawe had forgotten some thing, and set out to return to Cedarcliffs by wa ter, and was wrecked off the coast. Ah, do not imagine I shall fail, in the game I am playing, for want of props to hold up the structure—builded of falsehood and a few clveer deceptions—that is all I have to depend upon. No; I am too shrewd a diplomatist for that. If all things else fail me, I have only to invent new lies, and then I will glide smoothly euough over any sea of trouble that may await me.’ It was strange to see what confidence she put in her powers! It could not be called self conceit— there was something more with it—a subtle certain- tv of success that might well have stricken terror to a stouter heart than mine. ‘I wish to hear no more,’ I answered, faintly. ‘Good. I’m glad of that—it always tires me to talk so long. The prospect of rest is a very wel come one, I assure you.’ She took my hand again—which I suffered to rest passively in her own—and we crossed the corridor and approached my chamber door. ‘The children!’I cried su deuly, ‘Let me go to them. Let me see them a moment—only a moment before you turn the key on me!’ She hesitated, seemed to debate the question with herself, and finally turned to me again with an odd, wicked gleam, which I did not understand, in her fierce, black eyes. ‘Go in and say your last words to the little tor ments, by all means,’ Glad, even grateful for the unexpected permis sion, I passed hastily into the nursery. Ah, what a bitter disappointment awaited me! There was no shout of welcome, no patter of little feet over the floor, no eager clinging to my skirts, as children delight to cling to those they love. Sura i sat by the window, sewing, with very red- looking eyes, and a downcast expression. But she was quite alone in the room. ‘Where are the children?’ 1 cried, running up to her ‘Where are Lottie and Tressy ?’ As these questions left my lips, Susan rased her head a little, but seemed to shrink from meeting my glance. ‘Gone,’ she said hoarsely. I echoed the word in a low incredulous voice. ‘What do you mean, Susan? Speak; or better, still, bring the darlings to me this instant!’ ‘I cmno , Miss; they are not in the house.’ ‘Where are they?’ ‘I—l do not know.’ ‘The poor girl dropped her head aga'n, catching her breath sharply, as if to suppress a sob. Mrs. Vann here crossed the threshold, and came forward with a derisive smile curling her lips. ‘Permit me to answer the quest'ons you just now addressed to Susan,’ she said. The children have been taken from the house by Mrs. Fanshawe’s or ders. She has had them sent to a priva'e board ing-school for the present.’ ‘It is not trii B !’ I exclaimed, utterly beside my- gilf. ‘She would not be so cruel, so unfeeling!’ ‘Humph! Shall I call her up that you may ques tion her to yourentire satisfaction? I assure yon she wifi only corroborate my statement. ’ I glanced at h«r face, in which now could now be read a horrible exultation, a malicious triumph. That she bad spoken the truth, I could no longer doubt. ‘J my God!’ I gasped, wringing my hands in a perfect abandonment of despairing terror; then a sudden darkness fell like a veil before my eyes, and for a brief space I was mercifully unconscious of a’l mis r \ When I came to my senses. I wa in my own room, stretched out at full length on the couch, with Susan hanging over me and delugi g my face with rose water. Oh, my poor young lady,’ she murmured. 1 thought you would never come round again, you locked so pale and cold.’ With difficulty I raised myself on one elbow. The whole horrible truth like a torrent rushed upon my min 1 in an instant. ‘It is true?’I said, appealing to the girl intones that sounded very plaintive to myself. ‘They have taken my pupils away from me?’ ‘Yes. iniss.’ ‘How long have they been gone?’ ‘Several hours, miss. I asked if I might bring them in to say good-bye to you, but they would not listen to me.' It is hard—it is very hard ’ She leaned over me, sobbing like a child. She, too, had loved the little pets! The thought softened my heart towards her. After a pau«e, I said: ‘Susan. 1 believo you are better than the rest. I am going to trust you. Somehow or other you must get me out of tfiis house.’ She shook her head, looking very much friglit- ene '. ‘I can’t miss, indeed 1 can’t!’ ‘Won’t you do it when you know I wish to find our little pets again? For God’s sake, think of it! You don’t know what will happen to them if you and I desert them.’ She still shook her head; but she shivered now as well as sobbed. ‘Oh, God,’ I cried, ‘how can you refnse such a pe- ti'ion?’ ‘Hush!’she whispered. ‘I’d help you if I could. But it would be as much as my life is worth. Them devils would kill me if they found I had betrayed them. Now, they think they have bought me, body and soul with their cursed money.’ ‘You could go away with me.’ ‘We can’t get out, in the first place,’she answered, deadly pale, and still speaking very low. ‘They’ve locked us in together.’ But they will let you out again?’ ’I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘For God’s sake, be silent, miss. You must wait, and try to be pa tient. I don’t know whether I will dare to help you at all. It will be running a great risk—they have all the power in the:r own hands. But wait—wait. I don’t mean to desert you if I can help it.’ With these words she turned away from the bed. and presently somebody came to the door, unlocked it and called her out. [TO BE CONTINUED.] From Pensacola to Cuba. A first-class storm is encountered--ls!e of Pines— The Indian Cacique who did not want to live in Heaven with Spaniards. BY SYLVIA SUNSHINE. Beautiful Pensacola Bay was smooth as glass and the sunshine sparkled over it gloriously as we sailed from the quaint old city on its shore and went seaward with a fleet of white gulls, sailing af ter us in the ambient air. We were bound for Cuba, and had lovely weath er, and fine suiling breezes up to the fourth day out when the winds gradually sunk to a profound calm. The sun shone through a soft, warm haze, and the sea lay stirlesi as a valley lake, and we all cried as we promenaded the deck and looked out over the blue expanse of water, “How lovely! Are we not having a charming voyage?” But the old tars shook their heads and pointed to the little “Portuguese Men of War,” that were ev erywhere skimming the seas with their rainbow sails. They are a sea-polyps and present the ap pearance of miniature sh'ps with emera'd ku'ls ir e- descent sa ls and purple filaments that extend two feet under water and act as rudders. These fila ments are poisonous, and sea bathers often complain of their nettle-like sting. When these “men of war” are plentiful, the sailors say it is a sign of foul weather. Our bluff Captain, who begins the day’s duties by cursing out the steward by way of season ing to his coffee,has been giving the barometer some Very mysterious looks all day. The sun sets luridly—a dini ball of fire behind the haze that darkens as night grows on until the skv is shrouded with a mantle of thick cloud; the wind rises higher and higher, till it blows a gale; the ves sel pitches and rocks on the storm-lushed waters, and amid the creaking of timbers, the roar of waves and rush of winds, we hear the Captain shouting his orders through the speaking trumpet, in tones almost as hoarse and loud as the thunder: “Lower the foresail!” “Lower the mainsail!” “Take down the top sails!” “Let her drive before the wind..’ Old Neptune begins his frolic in earnest. The white caps are rolling higher every moment; the vjssel plunges through a trackless pathway, the groans of the sea-sick mix with the groans of the bending masts. Now the ship plunges into black chasms of water and it seems as though the foam would be its wind ing-sheet; then itj is tossed up again to dizzy heights, only to descend into the boiling abyss. Onlv the lightning’s flash reveal these horrible troughs of the sea, for dense darkness surrounds us as we go plung ing on. On board there is terror and confusion that would be ludicrous if one could laugh in the face of such threatening danger. “Land-lubbers” groan and shriek in the horrors of sea-sickness, frantically ap peal to officers and sailors to know if there is dan ger. The pantry and kitchen contribute to the din. Tables, plates, shelves tumble down and roll over as the vessel pitches from wave to wave. The chairs get in groups and skate over the oil cloth, a big wave washes the tinware from the galley; and the cook stove, fastened securely to the floor, alone contemplates, unmoved the chaos around it. A heavy sea is shipped down the gangway and. washes around the cabin; a gust of wind extinguish es the binnacle lamp. The foresheet has been chained to keep the mast from jerking out. The rattling chains, the beating billows and inky darkness suggest the Apostle Jude’s description of the abiding place of fallen spirits, 4 reserve 1 in ever lasting chains and darkness—unto the judgment of the great day.” How The pumps groan! How the sailors work, and their heavy tread and cheerful “aye, aye, sir” bring comfort to the terrified ‘passengers. Danger and distress level all distinctions. We look with more respect on these tars than we would upon the president of the states or the heir of a throne. We feel our dependence upon them. We hang on their words and watch their movements, and listen for their tread, and ply them and the officers with anx ious questions as they come into the cabin to see the fire does not break out from the lamps or spon taneous combustion does not take place in the hold. Midnight. The twelve strokes have beeu eagerly looked for with the hope that a change may take place with the turn of the night. A change does take place; the wind lulls—there is prospect of peace, though there are yet heavy seas. But there is one more moment of imminent danger. About half past two, a heavy sea suddenly strikes us and in stantly the bow hatches are five feet under water, and the mate swimming against the ^? ck . ra . But the trumpet peals out. the men work, the t>i a vessel strains and labors, and is free once more. At day break, the sky is considerably lightened and the wind less violent. An English ship, bound J for South America sails proudly by without stop- j ping to tell of the night dangers she has encount ered. .. The sun rises; and f C -.ttered clouds, torn sails, drenched decks and a disturbed, “chopped” sea, are all that tell of last nights’ storm and danger. Dur Quadrant indicates the proximity of the Island ol Fines, at midday we come in sight of the green oasis iu the waste of waters, the only land we see in making for the south side of Cuba. The unusual amount of rain w iich falls here (owing to theprev- a'e ice of trade winds that blow from the North east) gives to the is’a id its proverbially verd-nu and fresh appearance. Marble and jispsr of various colors are found here. The Island of Pines was formerly fre quented by pirates, the last of which was Bernardo del Soto, who was a Spaniard and commander! the band. Thev named their cruising ship the Pinta, which implies a hedge. Their closing exploit was robbing, murdering, an 1 destroying the brig Mexi can, near cape St. Antonio. Two of the crew were spared on con lit'on they would join their band Ih se two untortuia e surv vo s, afterwards es caped to the Un’ted States, when they gave infor mation in regard to their c impanions, who baa he -n so cruelly murdered, and also the rendez vous of these high sea pirates, which afterward led to their capture by the brig Summers. 1 hey were ta ken to Boston and t ied for murder, of which they were all convicted and executed except the com mander, whose wife came from Cuba and interce ded with President Van Buren that the life ot her husband might be spared. Her entreaties were not unavailing, and his existence was prolonged, only to return her solicitude, by murdering her in a fit of passion, for which crime he soon atoned with his own life. The most precious jewel of the Antilles is Cuba, wbi-hwe are now approa h ng. It is about 790 miles in length, its greatest width being 107 miles. The mountains add beauty and boldness to its sce nery, the highest elevation on the island being about 8 coo feet. This island was first discovered by the famous Columbus in 1492. It was not enn- q e ediro ithe.lnda s inti! 1^1,at which me !e Spaniards killed nearly five hundred thousand 01 of the Natives. From this well authenticated ac count, we may be enabled to form some idea of 1 he barbarity which characterized these cruelties. 'When the Spaniards were tying a Spanish 1 a- cique to the stake, for the purpose of burning him alive, a Franciseian friar informed him that if be would embrace their religion, he should go to Hea ven. but if not; he must burn in hell forever. The Prince then asked him if there were any Span iards in Heaven. The Friar answered in the affir mative. To which he replied:“If that be so, I would rather be with the demons in hell than be with the Spaniards in Heaven: for their cruelty is such that none can be more miserable than where they are.” The cause of the Indians being socruelly destroyed by the Spaniards, was their covetous wish to possess the entire island with its supposed wealth in silver and gold. After they had murdered the Indians, their dream of vast fortunes was never realized, as very little precious metal was ever discovered. But the soil of Cuba is a mine of wealth itself, on which can be produced from five to seven crops, yearly. Spring time and harvest, ail the seasons.— Mines of copper exist here, from which the early settlers made their camion. Lowell cotton mills are busy. The Vanderbilts are now at pec.ce. Six million farmers iu this country. China is establishing factories o r woolen and cot ton goods. Kansas does not welcome the negro immigrants. The number of swine in this country is 34,76o,3i)0. In certuir sections ol Texas it has not rained for seven months. Philadelphia has HO shoe lactories, against only sixteen eight years ago. The iron Interest shows marked signs of improve ment. New Jersey’s peach crop will be very heavy. The hog packing industry of Chicago has doubled since 1873. Utica, N. Y., enjoyed 118 days of good sleighing the past season- considerable activity in the real estate market of Boston, is a healthy aspect as indicating general business improvement. Cotton-seed oil is manufactured at Memphis, Tenn., at the rate of 100 barrels per day. The way to retrench is to retrench in all things— short speeches, short sessions, and so forth. It is anticipated with gopd reason that the South ern cities will be again visited this summer by yel low fever. Indeed, tlipre have beeu “semi-fever” cas s there all winter long. The Detroit Riv. r is to be tunnriled at a cost of *1. 500,000. This is a very remarkable enterprise. The tunnel will be about 1,000 feet in length, The Canadian government 1ms been warned to look out and keep Sitting Bull at home, since he is now a Canada Indian. More complications. It turns out that the New York Elevated Railway Company put their stock down at an assumed cost of millions above the real facts. Think of a net profit of $30,000,000 on twenty miles of railroad! The arrivals and departures of Chinese at San Francisco during 187S. are just, about the same iu the aggregate, so there's no gr- at need of going iuto fits of frantic despa*r about them. A dispatch from Berlin announces the death of Professor Heinrich Wilhelm Dure. He was born at LleqUiiZe, Silesia, October 0.1803. studied at Breslau and Ber.in, and at the latter University took the dpgree of doctor In lS-fi. He was A ssistant Professor of Natural Philosophy, first at Konigsberg and then at Berlin, where he eventually become full Pro fessor anil was elected to a seat in the Royal Acad emy of the Sciences. The most celebrated of his numerous writings refer to meteorology, climatol ogy, electricity and polarized light. Church discipline is not asleep in Elizabethport, over in Jersey, not by any means—as is abundantly testified to by the way in which certain reckless young women, members of the Fulton Street M. E. Church, have been cited to appear before the inves tigating committee ot that church to answer au ac cusation of dancing a d of attending theatres, and it looks as if the committee meant to give them a regular warming. A shocking murder has been committed at Bolton. England, by a m in named William Cooper. His ireil Albert Inn, Derby street, occupied bv Mrs Sarah Leach. Both parties were married, Cooper havino- six children, and Mather four. They h «d been •10’ quainted from their youth. Cooper having wooed the deceased. They quarreled, and Cooper enlisted in the army. After the lapse of a few years he ob tained his discharge, and returned to Bolton IU then found tha. in his absence his old sweetheart had married another named Mather She did not live happily, however with her husband- and seven years ago the latter came to America taktog ■»..«? '•mi*'*™. iiKiVi k hS Is said, never ceased to importune her with his ad dresses. He was a constant visitor at the A^rt Inn. In the course of the evening ti,« t. 1 he heard that the deceased intended going to at the Baths Assembly Rooms. He was annoyed and endeavored to dissuade her from Line he- ceased, however, said she was nhii.T. 1 * ,UR ' 1Je 7 Cooper, after threatening het that ^f she .KrtVf"it would be the worse for her left the 4 at that time the worse for liquor S in* L"T street —n vprv Ihhpiv n.. i • tfOiiig into Crook to have awaited the app^ach^f thT^ tl ? ere , see '' 13 was Rrpomnnnifui im t-.,, deceased. She adding Tm’onV ^ ,? h . e re I’ ,ie >> that she was, c’.aredUhat if she persisted* in°" ? lght ‘” Cooper de- wonld murder her V? to the ball he quickly un to her nnd tfi* U '- rt a iterwards stepped 8ack witfoni hand pu^ eS'h^h S VT W^er wards whilst with thY^.i * , ? :r Head violently back- out of his p^ke t . \fteY r inm^ i lleU ? ,a ^ kl > ife slight wounds ou thp unm inflicting two or three front of the lower nifrtVo’ii 1 ' 1 s fol ' el »ead and in the knife into the°Hghr,farf o, her CCk ’ J le ceased fell Insensible ♦<« n *? c k. and the lie- time, the cries 01 MrMivfnTh 11 ; J n the mean- spot Police-coustable Ramsden , brought to once gave himself un whom cooper at and I intended doing*it t1o K \ *,V av J: her * with,” at the sa ne time hieJf tl,e kuifc 141141 knife, covered with blo?^f ^ a 14 ** * n K black - ban d 1 ed woman was removed to 1 the ie R°? cer '. '£, he P oor where she died U l ° the Boi t*m Infirmary,