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. can man of our own safety, and can return and look for the knife to-morrow, when place the heath is of a dark night. I ma
assured the ga reioiced in his. Half an hour the tide has ebbed. As for Walter, the tide will | a light, but before I reached the spot
how exiiltingly we r^oiced in^. hip | carr y him out to sea as it recedes, and he may be
afterwards we were safely.lanaea. /nu^ ^ nlt £ I ^' shore at floofl miles away „’
Once over the broken rocks, he ran along the
beach until he reached a spot at which a small river
flowed through a narrow valley opening to the
and ca*go had been specially insured,
mate evil result of this fearful pa-sage in the live
of th a passengers and crew of the Neptune was a
heavy loss to the underwriters.
A piece of plate, at the suggestion of Mr. Des
mondan 1 his friends, was subscribed for pre
sented to Captain S arkey at a P uWic
a- Kingston in his ho tor—a circumstance th it many
Y-e will remember. In his speech on returning
thanks for the compliment paid him he ex lamed
his motive for resolutely declining to fight a duel
with M Dupont, half a dozen versions of which had
g0 “ n w««ir&"nSS, deprived of twonoble
and lie to veil parents. It is to the duello that I owe
their loss To that false and fatal code of honor 1
owe a lonely and loveless youth, an unchee.ed
sfru** le with life. My father was a Colonel in the
British army. He had been promoted for good
service d.Jin the Crimean war ; h ®,Yv attach^
brave and generous and he was dot otedly a‘W (l
to mv mother—a lovely American lady. LUe ot
fe-ed him everv prospect of hsppifie^. when suT
deutly a’l closed in darkness A\ e ”1
Algiers, and my fatner wasdinmg w£i several of
the officers of the command when one of thmn
Mni'or Walters excied by wine offered him an in
sffit which he resented by throwing a glass of wine
in his face, just as I did on that unfortunate pen
sion at which you were present It all rame otw
me at that moment with such force as to fill me
with the bitterest regret. I saw before me the tei
rible scene that ensue 1—the duel with its fat il re
suit I was pre ent at it, child though I was. It
had been kept secret from my mother but my
black wailing-boy told it to me in the nigh after 1
had gone to bed. He had some how heard it whis
pered that at sunrise my father was to fight with
Captain Walters in a field a mile distant trom our
house. I went to my father’s room ; it was locked,
and there was no answer w hen I called I did not
sleep ’till day, then I fell into a troubled slumber,
from which the black boy waked me and we two
hurried to find my father. He was altea Iy g ne.
We followed through I he dew and chili of the gray
morning. As we came near the fatal spot, 1 saw
the two standing in position with the seconds. 1
was rushing forward when a man it was our army
surgeon—caught and held me. As I s_ood there,
restrained by his arm, the signal was given, One,
two, three, fire !” The sharp report rang on the
still air. I was watching my father s face. I saw
it su Idenlv dashed with blood and brains—saw him
leap into the air and fall with a heavy thud, dyeing
the ground with his life blood. At the same instant,
I heard a scream and saw my mother dart past me
and throw herself on i he dead body of her husband
When they lifted her she was insensible, rilie was
taken home an -5 laid upon her bed, from which she
never arose. She died three weeks afierwai ds, thus
at eight years old I lost both my noble and excel
lent parents—all for a so called point of honor,
Can you wonder that I hate the duello ? that the
sight of that field, and of those two men standing
there in their young manhood to be deliber
ately shot down by each other, comes up to my
mind so vividly whenever I am tempted to resent
an affront or accept a challenge, that it scarcely le-
quires the solemn promise made mv mother on her
death-bed. never, under any circumstances, to tight
a duel. As to my behavior during the unfortunate
conflagration of the Neptune, which iny friend Mr.
Desmond has spoken o s > flatti r .ngly, I can oi l
say that I did no more than my simple duty an the
matter. Both he and I belong to a maritime race,
one of whose most peremptory maxims is that the
captain must be the last man to quit or give up his
ship. Besides, I must have been the veriest dastard
alive to have quailed in the presence of of—that
is, in the presence of—circumstances which in
point of fact—that is ”
Here Captain Stark *y blushed and boggled sadly:
hut whether it was the sly significance of Senor
Arguellas’ countenance, which just then happened
to be turned towards him. or the glance he threw
at the gallery where Senora Argiid'as’ grave plac
idity and Donna Antonia’s brigh;t^\ - s and biusoing
cheeks encountered him, that so ci^epletely put him
out. I cannot say ; but he" continued to s', ammer
painfully, although the company cheered and
laughed with great vehemence and uncommon
good-humor, in ord u r to give him time. He could
not recover himsalf ; and -»t|brrj ^-n-to-mi* about
through a few more uninteOigrolocycA.-u.- -es sap
down, evidently very hot and ipncomfortable,
though amidst a little hurricane of hearty cheers
and hilarious laughter.
I have but a few more words to say. Captain
Starkey has been long settled at Havana ; and
Donna Antonia has been just as long Mrs. Starkey.
Three litt’e Starkeys h ive to my knowledge already
come to town, and the captain is altogether a rich
and prosperous man : but though apparently per
manently donveiled in a foreign country, he is, I
am quite satisfied, as true an Englishman, and as
loyal a subject of Queen Victoria, as when he
threw l he glass of winejin the Cuban creole’s face.
I don’t know what has become of Dupont; and, to
tell the truth, I don’t much care. Lieutenant Ar
guellas has attained the rank of major ; at least I
suppose he nmst he the Major Arguellas officially
reported to be slightly wounded in the late Lopez
bucaneering affair. And I also am pretty well
now, thank ;.oi!
WALTER ELLINGTON,
And
Nellie Cranston.
A sandy path bordered the stream, along which
the murderer pursued his way at the same pace,
and which led to the high road that connected
King’s Lias with the towns east and west of it
along tbe coast.
As soon as he had gained the high road he slack
ened his pace, and walked briskly towards a village
called Nettlethorpe. .
He had not left the scene of his crime many min-
ules, when another person, who had availed him
self of the short cut which the beach affoi ded from
King’s Lias to Neti lethorpe, came up to the spot,
and saw the bleeding and inanimate form of the
victim stretched upon the rocks.
“What is this?” said he, as he bent over the
corpse. “A man, as I live! Blood!” he muttered,
as he looked at his hands after examining the body
to ascertain whether life was extinct. “Then mur
der has been done; and it was not the scream of
a curfew that I heard just now, but the death-cry
of the man lying here.”
A faint, electric flash glimmered over the dark
surface of the sea at this moment, and warned him
of the approach of a storm.
“There is a tempest brewing,” he murmured to
himself, as he looked seaward, “and the tide is ris
ing so fast that if I linger here, I shall nop get off
the beach before it lieats against the cliff.”
He was about to proceed when a vivid flash of
lightning illuminated sea and beach with a bluish
light, by the momentary glare of which he beheld,
lying in a cavity amongst the rocks, the knife with
which the murder had been committed, and which
had been di-placed by the assassin himself whilst
he was engaged in rifling the pockets of bis victim.
Hastily picking up the knife, he thrust it into
the side-p cket of a well-worn velveteen coat, and
clambering over the rocks, followed in the track of
the murderer along the beach.
Thunder rumbled heavily in the distance, and he
accelerated his pace.
Turning off from the beach, and following the
sandy path into the high-road, he turned down a
narrow lane on the opposite side, and traversed it
atji rapid pace.
The sky was becoming darker every moment,
and bluish streaks of lightning played at intervals
across it, followed by peals of thunder that grew
louder as the storm-cloud was borne nearer.
“I shall catch it before I get home, after all,” the
man muttered to h mself, as he glanced upward to
the murky sky.
The lane led to the edge of an extensive heath,
across which he pushed with undiminished speed in
the direction of a light that seemed to indicate a
loi.ely habitation.
As he came near it, the outlines of a hovel, con
structed of what appeared to be portions of a ship’s
timbers, and roof with decaying thatch, became
dimly discernible, and, as his footsteps drew near
enough to be beard within, the outer door was
opened and the slight figure of a girl of thirteen or
fourteen appeared on the threshold.
“Is that you, father?” said the girl, as she peered
into the darkness.
“It is me, Nell}’',” replied the man, “and glad I
am to lie home, for there is a storm coming; and,
though I have seen a deal of rough weath -r in my
time, I cannot say as I like ihunder and lightning.
There is a flash!” he added, as a brilliant gleam
illuminated the heath for a moment. “Come in,
girl, and shut the door.”
They both enterel the dingy, low-ceiled room
that served for parlor and kitchen, and the girl
closed the door and secured it with a bolt and a
wo xlen bar.
The man—who, it could now be seen, was an ath
letic fellow of middle age, with a complexion bronzed
by exposure to the sun and wind, and black hair
hanging in locks about bis forehead, and over the
collar of his velveteen jacket--hung a low-crowned
felt hat upon a pep: and, after wiping the perspira^
tion from his face with a cotton handkerchief, took
from one of his side pockets a flat stone bottle.
“Put that in the cupboard, Nelly,” said he, “and
then see about my supper, for I have bad a long
walk, and I feel hungry.”
The gif-1 and in a fcaj lair-utes^he Ijod
spread * cloth "updn the table, and placed upon it
the man’s supper, consisting of the remains of a leg
of mutton and a loaf of bread.
“Now, you can go to bed,” slid he.
The girl entered a small chamber by the side of
the room in which she had left the man at his sup
per, and, closing the door, approached a narrow,
diamond-paned window, and looked out upon the
storin-swept heath.
CHAPTER II.
The Mysterious Murder.
An Exciting Story*
CHAPTER L
It was a dark, tempestuous night on the English
coast. Black clouds overspread the sky, and as
fast as they sped across, other dark masses came up
from the horizon to succeed them.
The tide was rising fast, its advance being accel
crated by the gale that, had been blowing from the
south since sunset, and the dark water roared and
foamed amongst the jagged rocks.
Wild and unpropitious as was the night, not
without danger as was the passage of the beach at
that time of the tide, a man was walking quickly
along the narrow shore.
By the confident manner in which he pursued his
way. it seemed that he was not a stranger to the
locality.
He did not advance towards the sea, nor pause
in hesitation, but walked quietly and steadily on
ward.
Behind him, dimly defined against the dark sky,
was the little town of King’s Lias, where a few
bright lights yet lingered in the windows of the
houses that overlooked the little harbor.
Before him there was only the wijd beach, con
cealed at a short distance ahead by a small head
land, beyond which there was only the dark sea.
The solitary traveller at length reached the pro
montory, advancing cautiously over the broken
rocks.
Suddenly the right hand of the man, who seemed
to have watched for the traveller’s coming, was
raised; it descended swiftly, and a sharp cry, sub
siding all at once to a half-stiffled groan, burst from
the latter’s lips as he staggered a step or two for
ward and then sank down upon the broken frag
ments of gray rock.
The assassin stood still a _ moment, gazing upon
the inanimate form of his victim, and then he made
a step or two forward, and bending over it, placed
the knife with which the horrid deed had been com
mitted upon a fragment of rock, and rifled the dead
man’s pockets.
“It will make it seem the act of a prowling rob
ber,” he murmured, as he transferred to his own
pockets his victim’s watch and chain, and a small
leather purse containing a few gold pieces and
some silver.
This done, he looked around for the knlf j, which
had disappeared.
He felt in his pockets to assure himself that he
had put it away, and then looked arc uud him; but
tie darkness rendered the search difficult, and the
recovery of the knife exceedingly improbable.
The murderer seemed to be convinced that the
chances of finding it in such a spot, and in the dark
were very few; and after a few minutes he aban
doned the search and clambered over the rocks.
“If I delay longer I shall be cut off by the tide,”
he muttered to himself as he went forward. * I
Large drops of rain were now pattering fast
against the window.
The man heeded not the storm, however, hut con
tinued to ply his knife and fork vigorously until he
had satisfied his appetite, when he replaced the
viands in the cupboard and sat down to the enjoy
ment ef a pipe of tobacco and a tumbler filled in
equal parts from the kettle of the hob and the flat
stone bottle, which he had brought in his pocket
from King's Lias.
“Now I will look at the knife,” he murmured to
himself ; and he took from liis pocket the knife he
had picked up against the roadside. '
It was a large clasp-knife, opening with a spring,
and having a name engraved upon a silver plate af
fixed to the buck horn handle. Both blade and
handle were stained with blood.
A hurried rapping on the outer door startled him
from his examination of the instrument of crime,
and nearly caused it to drop from his hand.
Recovering himself in a moment, he hastily con
signed the knife to his pocket, and sprang to his
feet.
“Who is there !” he demanded, in a rough voice.
“A stranger,” was the reply. “I have lost my
way on the heath, and would be glad of shelter
from the storm.”
“Let us look at you,” muttered the man, as he
drew the bolt, and removed the wooden bar.
He opened the door cautiously, however ; but on
seeing that the applicant for admission was a youth
of sixteen only, and appeared to belong to a* supe
rior class of society, bis mistrust vanished, and he
threw it wide open.
“Come in,” said he. “I would not keep a dog
outside such a night as this ; but there are rough
characters about, and it is well to know who you
are admitting when it comes to two-legged visitors.
Sit down, young gentleman,” he continued, as he
closed and re-fastened the door. “You had better
take off your overcoat, and dry it a bit.”
The youth took off a fashionably-made overcoat,
and having thrown it over the back of a chair near
the fire, drew a stool to the table, and sat down.
The man resumed his seat, and stole a furtive
glance at his visitor, for he rarely looked direct at
any one.
The youth was tall for his age, and his figure gave
promise of symmetry that would render him a
model of masculine beauty. He had removed his
hat on entering the hovel, and displayed a profu
sion of light brown hair, curling over a ample fore
head, and the hand that rested carelessly upon the
table was as white and smooth as a girl’s.
“I have come from London, where I arrived this
morning from the continent,” said he. “I have just
finished my education, and have come down here
to spend a few weeks with my father before I go
into an engineer’s office, or a lawyer’s, for I have
not yet decided which it is to be, and my father
leaves the choice to myself.”
“Does your father live about here ?” inquired the
occupant of the hovel.
“Do you happen to know Mr. Ellington, of Fern
Lodge, Nettlethorpe ?’’ rejoined the youth.
“I know the house, but I cannot say as I know
the gentleman who tives there,” replied the man.
“Well, he is my father,” continued the youth. “I
was net surprised to find no conveyance from the
Lodge awaiting me at the station, for I am not ex
pected till to-morrow ; but I thought I should bi
able to get a cab, aud, at the worst, I could walk ”
“And you have to tramp it,” observed the man,
with a hard snii'e.
“Just so,” said the youth. “It was so dark, too,
that I could not see the road until my eyes got used
to the darkness ; and, to make tbe situation worse,
I was induced by a person of whom I enquired the
way to Nettlethorpe, to take a short cut acaoss this
heath.”
“And you lost your way,” said the man, with an
other dry smile.
“There was no way, or I could not see it,” re
turned the youth. “I need not tell you what a
I made towards
where it
glimmered, it had disappeared
Presently I saw another, or perhaps the same one
had reappeared, but it seemed to be to be i i an-
oiher direciion. Then it beg m to thunder and light
en, and I had not the least idea to the direction in
which to proceed to reach Nettlethorpe.
All around was dark and dreary, and only
faint line of light on the .horizon separated the
darkness of the earth from the darkness of the sky.
At last I sa»Uh s light from your window and ran
here as fast as I could for the rain was coming down
fast. Listen to it now,”
“You will be weather-bound. Master Ellington, I
am thinking,” said the man, rising, and drawing
aside a white muslin curtain at the window; “the
sky looks as dark as ever, and the rain is coming
down in a deluge. You are welcome to such ac
comodations as my poor hovel can afford, but that
is not saying much.”
“If you will allow me to sit here till daybreak,
or till the storm ceases, I shall esteem it a favor,”
rejoined the youth.
“Oh, you are welcome to that,” said the man.
“But do not think of leaving till there are people
about to direct you on your way; and my little
Kiri shall get you a cup of coffee ready. Take a sip
of this, Master Ellington.”
The man pushed the tumbler toward tbe youth,
who, however, declined to partake of the contents.
“You will not take a pipe, I suppose,” said his
host.
“No, thank you,” replied Ellington.
“Well, I vvj,sh you good night. There is wood in
the chi.’frfit^c.iyfner to keep the fire up if you feel
cold, Goouniigbt, sir.”
“Good night, my friend,” rejoinedtlie youth. ‘ I
shall take your advice, and not proceed till morn
ing.” • . '
The man. entered a room, behind the one in which
they h id been sit: ing, and the youth settled him
self m his chair for a nap.
Sleep soon comes to the young, and Ellington
would have^been in profound slumber ten minutes
after his host had left him alone had he not been
roused suddenly by a light touch upon his arm.
He openednis eyes with a start, and beheld a
girl of thirteen or fourteen, clad in a patched stuff
fr -ck, standing at his elbow, with the forefinger of
her right hand held up, as if to enjoin silence aud
caution.
“Fly!” she whispered, “you wiil be robbed, per
haps murdered, if you stay here.”
The youth gazed intently at her as she uttered
this startling warning, and saw by her pale and agi
tated countenance, and her trembling limbs, that
she believed in the reality of the danger that she
announced.
She pulled his sleeve gently, and pointed towards
the dour fWierJjltle chamber. Ellington rose, took
his overcoat from the back of the chair over which
he had thrown it, and followed her with noiseless
stefis.
“He would hear me move the bar and draw the
bolt,” said the little maiden, by way of explana
tion. “You must escape by my window, aud be
must find it open and me asleep. ”
“Thanks for your warning,” whispered the youth
as he noiselessly opened the winuow. “Tell me
your name.”
“Neliy,” she replied. “See!” she continued,
storm has ceased. Now, away with you.”
“Nelly what!” said the youth as he prepared to
pass through the window.
“They call me Cranston,” she replied. “That is
his name; but he is not my father, and I do not
know wiie: her I have got one or not, or what my
name is.”
“Good bye, Nelly,” said the you'h, as he slid to
the ground, aud lingered a moment under the win
dow.
“Good-bye,” she whispered, and then she retired
quickly from the window, leaving it opened, and
Cranston crept stealthily from his chamber.
His surprise at finding Ellington gone caused him
for a rnomeqt to stand sfill, gazing with a look of
perplexity-ground the room.
“The op-^Mcor of Nelly’s chamber at once caught
Jiis eye, ati ajtistrode auross the room, and passed
through' ft " <
The operW mdow seemed to tell the whoVj story.
He glanceu towards the bed, where Neb ca £pear-
ed to be sleeping so soundly With her wavy black
hair stravil‘~’ over her pillow, that he did not sus-
P'-'-h - -s i- , J
rifle mus®P<t catch cold, or there wii: be a doc
tor’s bill to Ay,” he muttered as he closed the win
dow. “I dujnot want the parish doctors prying
about my juice.”
With the" words he blew out the candle and re
entered his.afjvji chamber.
who is to.have the care of my children in future.
“Poh ! Sophrouia, you’re making much ado
about nothing. I daoresay you’li live a dozen years
yet.”
“Ah, Pratt, you’ve told me so beiore, but you’ll
soon feel very differently about it. I have thought
of all my female acquaintances, but there is only-
one that I think would suit you, and that is Helen
Parker, the Major’s niece.”
“Well,” said Mr. Pratt, changing his plan, “Hel
en is a fine girl, and I think very highly of her. Be
sides, to tell the truth, I foresaw that you would
not be wi ll us long so I spoke to Helen about tak
ing your place provided it was necessary.”
“And what aid she say ?” asked Mis. P., who
seemed to have regained some of her former strength
as she half raised herself in bed.
“Oh, she said she should be very happy to do so,
if there was an opportunity,” said Mr. _ P., turning
away with a smile. Don’t you think I’m fortunate,
riopnronia ?”
“Fortunate !” exclaimed Mrs. P., as forgetful of
her sickm ss, she jumped up and paced the room;
‘ so the trollop is anxious for my death, is she ? She
may have to wait longer than she expects. I’ll live
to spite her—I will!”
The next morning Mrs. P. got up and prepared
breakfast as usual. That was tbe last time her hus
band was called to her sickbed. Judging from
present indications, Mrs. Pratt will live to see Miss
Helen Parker a confirmed old maid.
THE
mm or cedir cuffs.
An Autobiography.
By Rlutt Winnood,
Author of ‘Nicety's Wife,' 'The Broken Mar
riage Bond,' 'Ethel Dreeme,' 'The M hite Spectre,
'Sweetheart and Wife,’ 'The Chilton Estate,' 'The
Wronged Heiress,' etc., etc.
CHAPTER XXIII.
JUDGMENT.
/
I
TO BE CONTINUED.
Mrs. Pratt;
—OR—
The Woman who was always Ailing.
BY A. E.
There are some people who are always ailing.
One of this class was Mrs. Sophrouia Pratt. Ac
cording to her own account she was, without a
doubt, one of the most unfortunate females that ev
er lived. Sue was never known to feel herself well.
When she didn't have the headache, she had the
backache, or some other kind of ache, and, as she
remarked to a neighbor, she hadn’t seen the time
for seventeen years that she hadn’t been troubled
with some ache or other.
She used to be taken very suddenly, and on the
most unexpected occa.-ions. Whenever her husband
refused her request for nipney-, or in any other way-
interfered with her wi-hes, she was sure to be in a
critical condition before twenty-four bom’s had
elapsed. At such times she would send for her hus
band. and inform him in the most solemn manner
that she was about to leave the world, and enjoined
upon him, ii he hatl'a second wife, to treat her with
more kindness ami consideration; and, above all,
never to scold her for complaining when she was
really sick.
Her husband finally got used to her complaints,
and refused to take any notice of them. It rarely
happened that a day- passed without Mr. Pratt’s be
ing informed how delicate his wife’s health was.
And on one occasion, when he told her that more
ihan half her ailments were imaginary, she assured
him that hertvould think differently sometime, for
she could not live long, as she had done.
She told him she couid bear it a little better if he
had any sympathy for her, “but that,” said she, “I
n--ver expect from you.”
One day ear'y n September, Mr. Pratt was en
gaged in digging potatoes in a field about a quarter
of a mile distant from the house, when he was start
led by the sudden arrival of his oldest boy, panting
and breathless.
“What’s the matter ?’’asked Mr. Pratt, in a voice
of mingled surprise and apprehension.
“Mother !—” ejaculated the boy, but being out of
breath, that was all he could say for the time being.
Suspecting what was coming, Mr. Pratt, some
what relieved from his anxiety, went on composed
ly with his woi'k.
“She says she’s going to die !” ej iculated the boy
in a fresh burst, “and wants you to come home and
receive her last words. ”
“Let me see,” said Mr. P., who did not appear so
much overcome by this intelligence as might have
been expected, “this is the third time within a month
that your mother has been dying. She’s kind of
hystericky. I guess she’ll get over it.”
In due time Mr. Pratt reached the bedside of his
wife.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Mr. Pratt,” said she in a
feeble voice; “I dont’t expect I’ve got more’n an
hour to live. You havn’t treated me so well as you
might. Pratt, but I trust I forgive you, as a Chris
tian should.”
“O, 1 guess you aint so bad as all that, Sophrouia,”
said her husband. “You’vegot the blues, that’sall.
You’ll be ijp as bright as ever to morrow morn
ing"
“You’re very unfeeling, Pratt,” said his wife to
address such remarks to a woman with one foot in
the grave and the other just slipping over the edge.
However, I forgive y >u, as 1 said before. And now
I want|to have a little serious conv -rsa i u with
you concerning our children, who will so soon be
left mo heilfS-. L want them to stay with you for
the present.. When they become older it will be
soon enougli f r them to go from home. But now
th >y need a mi ither’s care, and it is chiefly on their
account that I am so sorry to leave you. Of course
after a suitable time has elapsed, you will marry
again, and I cannot die happy without knowing
(COMMENCED IN NO. 191)
Opening my eyes upon the gray, ghostly dawn of
another morning, I telt as if I must have passed
through y-eurs of experience in that single night.
What was taking place around me, during the
long day which followed, I know not. My doors
were still kept L eked an 1 b >lte l. But Ro e came,
as of old, to br.ng up my breakfast and dinner.—
Judging from the expi essii n of her fair , —the cun
ning triumph, and exultation written upon every
feature—I leltshe was in fa\or again, and having
things pretty much her own way.
It must have been mid aftein >on when I was sud
den'y aroused from the leverieinto which I had
fallen, sitting there alone , by hearing a low, sig
n.ficant cough in the corridor; and an instant later,
the I a fo-ded slip of paper was puihed with a rustling
I sound underneath the door.
I ran forward, secured it, opened it with trem
bling fingers, and found these words written there
on:
“Eat nothing, drink nothing that may be brought
you tc-night. It is the intention to drug you—1 do
not know why, though Master Richard is not in the
p'ot, which makes me all the more alarmed. Be
very carful what you do, dear miss, and I’ll stand
by you, and help you, if there is a chance, and I
shall watch for a chant e to-night. I’ve been your
fiiend, all along, but was suspected, and seeing it
was our only hope, I pretended to come round on
theotbers.de. But 1 never was against you, and
never will be, so help me God.
“Be sure to destroy this. Susan.”
Oh, blessed hope, that oftentimes comes to us
when the heart is almosu broken ■ aith despair, the
last Jwop that upholds us from u *er madness and
misery, trembling underne ith our feet—comes to
brighten, cheer, and give us new life again.
I hugged that letter to my heart, kissing it over
and over again, as lover never y et kissed thy sweet
missives of his mistress! There could be mj doubt
tiut riTi-Uti had written it, vinA • vjtb. ♦*>wio4s was
penned in good faith. It bore, unmistakably the
impress of truth. Susan was my r friend after all, a
true, faithful friend, waiting for ail opportunity to
serve me!
Oa, the bless >d comfort of the thought that one
honest heart in all that bouse, was sympath.zi'n
with me! I no longer felt alone. Sly- tempest
crossed sky was pierced by a s.ngle ray- of light—
very vague, fl ckering and uncertain, to be sure,
but still a ray. I began to hope again.
About six o’clock. Rose m ule her appearance
with a neatly arranged tray. Contrary to her usual
custom, she stopped to speak to me.
“I hope you’ll enj >y your supper, nriss. The tea
anil toast are very nice. I made them myself.”
While speaking her treacherous blue "eyes wa
vered about my face, scanning the floor, the wall,
the ceiling, looking everywhere except directly at
me, as an holiest girl’s eyes would have done.
“Thank you,” said I, making an effort to speak
carelessly. “Iam very thirsty, and my head aches
The tea may set me right again.”
“I’m sure it wiil, miss.”
She went away quickly, perhaps to hide the gleam
of triumph ilia - lighted up her feaiures.
The instant the door closed, 1 stepped to the open
window, emptied out the tea, and dropped the
toast, piece by piece to the bloodhound, chained be
low.
“I wouldn’t care if it were poisoned,” I thought;
“for it might kill the brute.”
After this, the day- waned slowly-. It had been
one long blaze o f splendor: but as twilight crept on,
something lurid and ominous stole in o the sky. A
black ray of a cloud slid up the western heaven,
after the sunset glory had died out in a gray-ish
pallor. That first cloud was followed by a second
and a third, all of tlie same inky, threatening hue.
I could hear the sea sobbing upon tbe sands iike a
plaintive human voice,
Thr nigh the co >1, ilu -ky shadows of the ga alt n,
s‘ole a noiseless figure by and by. It was Mrs.
Fanshawe. She came from the direction of the
beach. I saw her pause, more than once, and look
sbudderingly back, as if some dreadful fear bad
bent her; but, at last she ascended the terrace steps,
and disappeared.
Night, fell, hot, oppressive. The shadows deep
ened anil darkened. Thick, jagged clouds, belly ing
black, swept up the heavens, blotting out the stars.
About nine o’clock there came a great rush aud
roar, as if heaven and earth were rent asunder.—
The spirit of the storm had broken loose!
It was a fearful night. The rain beat heavily
against the windows. The old house rocked in the
fury- of the wind. The air was full of discordant
sounds, like the howlings and shriekings of a legion
of fiends. And above all other noises could be de-
stinguished the heavy canonaile of the surf as it
broke angrily upon the shore.
I had lighted no lamp. I crouched in the dark
ness by the window, my heart in my mouth. And
there I watched and waited while the slow hours
wore away.
It would be hard to say what I expected. But
at last when a key clicked sharply in the lock, I
felt no surprise, and but little alarm. The door
opened, and da: k figures were faintly outlined
against the deeper darkness beyond.
“Marian! Miss Palgrave!” some one called soft
ly.
sullen answer.
Mrs. Vann gave a mocking cry-.
“Not I. Rose, when you are here to do the dirty
work. Remember you are the one most to be ben
efited. Dick will never marry you while Marian
Palgrave lives; but once dead, and out of the way,
he will forget h'>r. If you turn back, I wash my
hands of you. You must bear the burden of your
own shame without help or comfort fl oin me.”
“Anything but that—anything. Give me back
the knife.”
“Here it is."
* Y ou sw, ar that Richard will do mo justice?”
I swear to use my influence with him. I would
sooner receive you as my- daughter in-law than that
milk-and-water creature in the bed, yonder. I
w ' JU , d indeed, for I hate her. There, not another
word, I in shivering here. Do your work quickly,
and let us be gone.” n J ’
She pushed R ,se toward the bed. In another
moment tney must discover that I was not in if —
A dreadful peril menaced me—a most horrible
death . The very- thought of danger gave me an
odd sort of courage. I could see that the door still
stood wide open. The instant they- drew n-ar the
couch, I rose, my heart heating as if it would suffo-
ca e me, an icy chill cr< e ling over me. and oa tip
toe stole noiselessly from the room.
When the ci r. idor was fairly gained, I dashed
recklessly down the back staircase. In a little hall
at th a foot, somebody met me with a lamp in her
hand. It was Susan.
“Oh!” sh e erie V stopping' and staring, deadly
pale, for she fai ed to recognize me at the first
glance.
“Hush!” I whispered. “For God’s sake, keep
quiet. Ihey will be after me directly. Come
away. ”
Extinguishing the lamp, she caught my hand
and we ran along the h ill to the doi.r. I think she
must hive guessed something dreadful had been
planned, from which I hud barrty escaped. But she
asked no questions.
Whde her trembling fingers still tugged at the
holts, we heard a shrdl, baffled cry, coming from
the upper story, | kn w what it meant. °
“Quick,’ I gasped. “They- have discovered mv
escape _ J
The n xt instant we were out in the wild, wet
night. “On, and on we sped, taking no thought of
the direction in which we were going at first but
only- anxious to get as far away from the town as
possible. Through bush and briar we struggled
panting, breathless, half-crazed with apprehension!
rortuuately, the rain was over. The wind had
howled out itsfu v, and now blew ovtr us with a
faint, availing sound. And presently that great
pall of ebon blackness parted overhead, a few faint
stars shone through, and at last the incon.
VVe could see our way distinctly enough now. No
further need of blind groping, and frant c struggles
with every shrub and bramble the darkness had re
fused to disclose A pale ghastly-light was shed all
around.
Unconsciously, we had taken a path that led to-
war.i the lieach.
“Not this way,” said Susan suddenly, pausin'*
and starmg around at the strange, wild landscape.
V\ e must go to the village. It’s the safest thing to
do, miss, anil the best.”
At the some instant a footstep sounded behind us.
Breathlessly we listened. Nearer it came and
nearer. Pursuit? AVecould not tell. Susan sud
denly caught my wrist. She dragged me almost
angiil> into the shelter of sonic bushes—for I was
trembling in every limb—and held me fast in her
arms. I should have fainted, if she had left me
without suppoi t.
Some one da hed past our h din* place presently.
It was Mrs. Fanshawe. 1 caught a momentary
glimpse of her face in the moonlight. It was like
the face of a madwoman—; a' , wild, and haggard,
with a panic stricken look in tne wide open eves.
She was muttering incoherent 1 }- to herself. ’ A
word or two reached our ears O. my God ! Mer-
c} ! Don t take him from me ! Louis —Louis !”
his was all. she dashed on toward the beach,
and her figure grew faint in the distance.
. . hot does it mean ?” I muttered, quicklv real
izing she had not come in pursuit of me, as I'had at
first imagined. “VI here is your mistress going ? I
don t understand.”
“I do,’’said Susan. “She’s alarmed about Mr.
Remington—you know she loves that man better
than her own soul. He went away this morning
to Swan Island which is some twenty- miles off the
coast, iu <ui open boat. He promised to return to
night. but has not come.”
This explanation made things clear to nte. I un
derstood now why Mrs. Fanshawe had been haunt
mg the grounds before the storm came on. She was
watching for her lover.
“Susan, we must follow your mistress,” I said
suddenly, struggling into the path again, quite for
getful of my own weakness.
• OU,no, no, miss ! Ir, would be madness.”
^ She 11 drown herself if anything has happened.”
‘Not she. Come away-miss. We’re losing time.”
Slie dragged me into another p ith liy- n ain force.
Along this we sped for a time iu silence. Then sud
denly a distant, cry broke the stillness—not a shout
but a scream of wild terror and despair.
“My- God ! ’ ejaculated Susan, pausing again.
The cry came from the beach. Something dread
ful had happened there. The same thought must
have occurred to us both, for after a second’s wa
vering, we turned our faces toward the sea.
“Come on, if you must,” said Susan. “We’ll go
to our mistress; and if we get into trouble again,
through her, may Go»l forgive her and help us !/
So say,ng she clasped my hand with a firm grasp,
and side by side we rushed down to the foam-
streaked beach.
AY e found Mrs. Fanshawe there, as we had ex
pected, kneeling on the hard sand, as I had seen
her kneel once before, holding something dark anil
s ill clasped to her breast, and moaning over it as if
h 3r heart was broken.
It was the white face of her lover that rested on
her bosom. Leaning over them 11 juched his fore
head, his cheek, his listless hand; they- were cold as
ice.
Mrs. Fanshawe looked up at me with a long low
wail. ° ’
“He is dead she cried. “Oh, my darling! And
I loved him so—I loved him so.”
Yes, he was dead. The same cruel waves which
closed over the body of Louis Remington’s victim,
no reply; I scarcely- d ired to breat
1 here was a moment’s silence, then the two fig
ures boldly entered the apartment.
“She sleeps,” muttered Mrs. Vann. “The drug
h-is taken the effect we intended. All is now safe,
Rose.”
She spoke in a subdued tone. But in spite of the
uproar of the storm, every word reached my e. r i
distinctly. I crouched close to the wall, wishing it
c >uld o ily open and hide me from that wicked wo
men
Fortunately the dress I had oil was black; not
silk, but some thin flimsy goods that scarce y made
a rusrle when I stirred. 1 s sombre hue n:u-t Lave
(To be Continued.)
An Insane Mother’s Deed.
She Cuts the Throats of Her Four Children, and
then Kills Herself.
The inhabitants of the district surroundin'* Peeb
les, Scotland were recently- shocked by the “intelli
gent. wh,ch Passed from heuse to house of a mel
ancholy occurrence that had taken p’aee near the
county town—namely-, tne murder of four children
by their mother, and the suicide of the unhatmv wo
man herself. The scene of the tragedy is "level
crossing on tbe Edinburgh Railway, about a rnde
and a half from Peebles, known as Winkston, where
the cottage has, for the last six or seven months
been occupied by- George Murray, who was emp oy-
ed as a surfaceman on the railway, and whose woto
attended to the opening and doling of the 8 at 4
Murray left his home as usual for his work atfom-
athore, starting between six and seven o’clix*. ami
not intending as Ins practice was, to return UR the
at i—*. 'im t™moffic n
It was Mrs. A T ann’s voice. I knew it, but made i a ] s then ob erring Mrs. Murra^VIe 16 tra ' n ° fl ' C
e as she mIwhvs woe ” V . ean
j» - Ji" « V »}’• «a».S,7SI. r '£?<£* “&
to his calls. Knocking at the cottage door l 1 f SI Y° U ' 1
tained that it was bolted; and somefur^emen who
were m the lieignborhood being then ' h0
ted with it was further discovered that»?/«? n ‘° a '
dows had been made fast. On the Siva SanX
cer, accompanied by the station agent and Set g
Cunningham, the cottage was entered toTr e ' * nt
open the door. In a bed in one of the ro Jnw
were then found lying the bodies of four eh
a rustle when I stirred. 1 ssombre hue mu-t Lave I gir/ofnine'vears^ind a fi° Ut l!* e ,le u k ’ the *a
m lted imperceptibly into the dense blackness that j | oun t , ?’ ’’ other three boys, the
surrounded me, for neither of the intruders noticed ^ ?t many- months old. On «—
my i r luching figure. .
Presently- Rose said with a dreadful shiver in her
voice:
“O my- God; I can’t do it. I am faint—ill!”
Fo il hiss-, d Mrs. Vann. “Don’t pi iy the cow-
close by the bed, lay- the body of Mrs.' Murray ako
deeply- wounded m the r.eck, a b’ood-stai,wo '
flung down by her side affording a .significn^J • f° r
to the meaning of the terrible scene, “i^everv'c ^
life was ext net. The horrible occurrence c— ®
% ro >1 r hissed Mrs. Vann. **iJon t pi iy the cow- | 1 f wcur rence can, it is
ard now. It is too Into. The girl is in our Vay, and i „ if - accounted for only in one way—by the
must be jut out of it.” I ® « of sudden insanity, M,”
“Here is the knife, kill her y-ourself,” was the t J. to ^ estr °y her children, and
’ then to turn her frenzy upon herself.