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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.