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f J yol. v. ,i. ti. & w it sea ijS,} jjgggs&S Atlanta ga., For the leaves so variegated Of every hue and shade, While squirrels on the tree-tops Are on their grand parade. While the nuts are sw iftly falling From the lofty chestnut houghs ; And from the withered pasture We hear the lowing cows. Anil now and then the trilling Of some lone, straggling bird. That has not yet flown southward, Is in the distance heard. And we hear the woodman chopping And the haying of the hounds, As they chase the startled game With the wildest leaps and bounds. Closely followed by the sportsmen With their guns and cartridge box, Apparently in wild pursuit Of some poor, wily fox. Then to see the slanting sunshite Down through the branches peering In the deep, shadowy forest, Is a sight intensely cheering. Such a scene is ne’er forgotten, But makes a picture on life’s page Which will never lose its lustre Even in declining age. Pittsfield, Mass., Oet. 187!). THE HOUSE OF SECRETS; OR; THE Mystery of the Miser’s Den By Hfvcrlj <>. Saxe, JI. D. An old-fashioned Parisian mansion, in the Rue de I’Hirondelle, generally known as the house of Fran cis I, because he once had lived in it, was inhabited about the middle of the eighteenth centurv, by one Maitre Dumas, a retired lawyer. His house- hold consisted of a wife and daughter, and a mid dle-age Norman jieasant woman, formerly bonne, or nurse, of the young lady, and who had lieeu re tained ever since as the manager of the house. It was reported and believed that Maitre Dumas was rich, and the estimated amount of his wealth was much larger than its actuality. Certainly, he lived so much lietter than his neighliors, though he kept only one servant-of-all-wnrk, that it was puzzling to think how he could have become so rich from his profession alone. But it was known that he was a miser—that, although he lived well, he made every sou go as far as possible, and never gave a franc to charity. He was a silent, myste rious man, had no confidents, shunned society, and was as unojienable as ail oyster. The old lawyer had a tolerable library, and read a great deal, his study 1 icing a small turret-cham ber at the top of the house, where he sometimes ole- served the stars. It was said that be cast schemes of nativity, its a fortune-teller, and was well paid for them. At three o’clock on every Friday, lie was accus tomed to enter his sky-parlor and doubly lock the door. Every Friday, too, a few moments after he had thus retired to his secret cell, the heavy trot of an unusually large horse was to lie heard in the street, which ceased when the animal reached M. Dumas’ old-fashioned mansion. This horse would have lieen noticeable for its beauty of form and fine grooming. The horse’s rider was a powerful man, very richly attired, wearing a slouched hat pulled well down over his face. On dism unting at the door of the mansion, the mysterious cavalier gave no notice of his arrival, but quickly entered the house, dashed up stairs to the eyrie under the roof, gave utterance to a peculiar hissing sound, which was followed by the grating of a bolt and a key, the ojiening and closing of a door, and lie was closeted with the miser. At the end of precisely one hour, the stranger would descend, mount his steed, and ride off at, his familiar rapid trot. For fifteen years this man and horse hail regular ly arrived at that door, at the same hour of the same day. Many had watched them when they de parted, had followed them, but. bad always lost them at one |K>int or another. Whence the rider came, or whither lie went, remained a secret which the most sharp-eyed curiosity vainly attempted to penetrate. This matter caused great atid continuous gossip in the neighliorhooiL People magnified the myste ry till it liegan to lie whispered about that Maitre Dumas had familiar relations with the Evil One. Madame Dumas was almost as reticent and se cluded as her liege, while the solitary servant—tall, strong, and brawny, as the Norman women usually are—was elo-e and uncommunicative outside of the family. But ilie daughter, Louise, was unlike either of her parents-^ pretty, bright-eyed girl of eighteen, without a trace of family resemblance in her finely-cut f utures. She was gentle, simp e- hearted as a child, with a disposition of unvarying sweetness, and a guileless, affectionate nature, such as no amount ol contact with a depraved and wick ed world could contaminate. Louise would have been a belle had she lieen per mitted to go into societv, but her pretty face was seldom seen out of the Hue de P Hirondelle. She knew nothing of her father’s secrets He was as much a mystery to her ash liad ever been to out siders. She knew that a stranger came every Fri day to the house, and was closeted with her father for an hour in the turret-chamber, but who he was and whi lie came, she had never lieen able to dis cover She had once questioned her mother with regard 1“ it, but that lady, mi far from enlightening her, had charged her never to mention the subject again. The nilv tunes Louise ever went out alone was when -lie took her morning walks, which she did as regularly as the morning came. It w iis h i one of tic sc occasions that lie first ne t Basil Mu iiieau, a handsome and gallant youn tin I. ne'iYTg iKiii inVerh,}’ ,triV c> 4 ifd liitid). He Vtf.W’ deeply impressed by her lieauty.and w!>"n asked per mission to walk home with her. slu; was so confused and frightened that she acquiesced. But when they turned into the Rue de l’Hiroiidelle, Louise frankly explained to her escort that her parents would lie displeased if they saw her in the company of a strange gentleman; and so they separated. But they met again the next day, and many days after that. It was always by design on Basil Martineau’s part, and he was candid enough to con fess it; yet Louise did not have the heart to censure him. She wondered if it were very iniproi>er to permit this gentleman to accompany her in her A man sprang from behind a monument, and a handkerchief was tied over my friend’s eyes. . < ie.-i a delicacy aoout plena- i cidedlv: | ing against the innocent little things. | ,,^ T l u Iliac lie knows more aiaai.^tiie'ni;"^,' , iggg'tii re’ ami his child than he would care to tell.” ' “But what has all this to do with my father’s af fairs!” asked Louise, as the young man paused. “Perhaps nothing—perhaps a great deal. I tell you this to let you know why I think the marquis is a viIlian. But / have something more to tell.” “Yes, monsieur."’ “I know positively that the strange horseman who pays your father weeklv visits is the confiden tial valet of the Marqus de Hautville!” Louise looked up quickly. “You know this?” “Positively. I had it from his own lips. I have Jacques, the confidential valet of the Marquis de Hautville; the other was a stoutly-built man, some forty years of age, with a handsome, noble face, and wearing a heavy, fur-trimmed coat. Basil sprung from the carriage, and heljied Louise out. At the same time he whispered to her: "This is your father.” The man in the fur coat stepjied forward, an ea ger light in his eyes. “My daughter!” he exclaimed. “I xvould know her among a million. She is the very counterpart of her mother. Child! child! look at me; 1 am your father!” And Louise liewildered and astounded as she was, knew that he spoke the truth. She hesitated hut an instant—then, with a glad cry, she sprung into his arms. , . , ., "Thank God I have lived to see this hour! said Pierre de Hautville, in a tremulous voice. We will not dwell on the happy meeting. After awhile the whole party entered the carriage, including Jacques, the valet, and were driven rapid- lv towards the Chateau de Hautville. Arriving in the vicinity of the grand castle, Pierre and his daughter stepped out, leaving Basil and Jacques in the carriage. The father and child then proceeded towards the huge iron gates that opened into the chateau grounds. . . “Where are we going now?” asked Louise, begin ning to feel somewhat alarmed. “We are going to inform the present occupant of these domains that he has no right here—that I am the real Marquis de Hautville, and he a would-be murderer. Ah! yonder he comes. We will stand here and wait for him.” Three men were coming slowly down one ot the shady avenues toward the gate. One of them, by his dress and carriage, was easily identified as the proud marquis. The other two were flashily-dressed chevaliers, in swords and high-topped boots—evi dently guests of the < Id noble. Louise and her father stood outside the open gate, waitin'-- The three men came down the walk— came through the gate. Pierre stepped forward, and took otf his hat, confronting the marquis. “Monsieur,” he said, in a tone of mock deference, “are you ready to relinquish your title, your for tune, and your estates to their rightful owner ?” The marquis looked him in the face—first with an expression of haughty surprise, as he would have looked at a beggar who dared to stand in his way; then, with a gradual dawning of recognition in his glance, accompanied by a perceptible whitening of the lips. , , “You knoxv me!” continued the man, his voice changing to one of bitter sarcasm. ’You recognize the man whom you thought vou were well rid of— wliose.ho »“i W ’I tbono-bt, were wmosimv,*" the boA )M , ar . ’ I civilization are as different from the American and , T | European standard, as that of the African, and the i tom of the Seine! Tremble, craven! You have cause to tremb'e now, for Pierre de Hautville still lives!” The marquis was thoroughly pale now. He stag gered back as if he had been struck, and leaned windows of the drawing-room, and mused vei the occurrence. YVheu the horseman left the house that day he was not alone, but was accompanied by another man, who walked in a half-stooping attitude, and heavily on tin- arm of one of the chevaliers for suje walks, hut whatever her decision was, her gratitude ! known it for six months, but I never gave the mat- would not all -w her to be rude to him. ~ Besides, slie liked him. She learned to look for him when ever she went out alone, and felt a pang of disap pointment if he failed to meet her at a given point. So, in time, her conscience ceased to reproach her for indulging the one gleam of sunshine that had broken into her clouded life, and the acquaintance speedily ripened into friend-hip. Basil’s manner betrayed unusual eagerness and excitement one morning, when he met Louise. “I have been thinking of sotn-thing since I left you yesterday,” he said, tiying to speak in his usual tone, "lam surprised that it has never oc curred to me before.” She looked up at him quest ioniugly. He had dropped alongside her, and they were walking slow ly toward the Cemetery of tin- Innocents. “Will you answer me a question, mademoiselle,” “Yes monsieur,” returned Louise, a little startled by his manner. lie hesitated a moment, drew a deep breath, and then asked; “What Ls-your father’s name?” ‘‘Maitre Dumas,” she replied. His faee|hrightencd. “My conclusion is the right one, then,” he said. “Your father is a retired lawyer, i believe?” “Yes, monsieur.” “And a fortune-teller?” “1—1 do not know.” “At least he is regarded as such by liis neighbors, who think lie is leagued with some supernatural power?” “Monsieur?” “You need not hesitate to tell me this, madem oiselle. I will explain all in due time.” ‘ But indeed I know nothing, monsieur, except that my father is regarded as a very mysterious be ing.” “He divulges none of his secrets to his daughter, then ?” “None, monsieur.” “But you surely know that a strange horseman pays him a visit every Friday at t hree o’clock?” “Yes; but I do not know who he is, nor why he comes.” “Did you ever see his face?” “Yes;—that is, i have had glimpses of it, but he always wears his hat drawn down over his eyes.” "You would not know him then, if you met him face to face in the street?” "1 d" not know, I am sure.” Basil relapsed into thoughtful silence. At the end of a minute he spoke again. “Louise, I know something about this mystery, and I am going to know more. Will you keep a secret if 1 tell you one?” “Yes monsieur.” “It is not n.ueh,” continued Basil,” but it will show you that I have a clue to the mystery. I hap pen to la- on friendly terms with the Marquis de Hautville, who owns the grandest chateau in the suburbs of l’aris. I cannot say that I admire him; he is not a person that any one can love; besides, I have reason to elieve that lie is a villian. He nice liad a cousin named Pierre de Hautville. Pierre was the nearest heir to the title and the fortune, and the only person who stood between them and the present marquis—whose name is Landre, by the wav. Landre was a scapegrace, Pierre an honest ana honorable man. While Pierre’s father was on his (leathlied, Pierr e suddenly and mysteriously dis appeared. Hi- infant daughter—a child only three years old, whose mother had died in giving birth— disapjieared at the same time; and neither of them were ever heard of afterward. Of course Pier e’s death ceased to he a matter of doubt after long and . - ., „ , patient search for him, and Landre became the man. win happened to In- cross ligone of the crowd- j Marqu-s de Hautville, a position which he has enjoy ed thorongi lares jnst in time to save the young gjrl ed for fifteen years. There are those who believe ter much thought until last night, when I began to w-onder if you were related to Maitre Dumas. Jacques, the valet, imagines himself deeply indebt ed tome because it fell to my lot to save his life one day. He told me what 1 have just related to you, but nothing more. I am sure that he will tell me more if 1 insist upon it—perhaps will even tell me the object of his weekly visits to your father’s house.” “But why should we try to fathom the secret?” inquired Louise, looking really alarmed. “Because I am satislied that there is villiany at the bottom of it,” replied Basil. “Do not imagine that I will seek to get your father into trouble. If my suspicions are correct, the culpable party is the Marquis de Hautville, and Monsieur Dumas is sim ply a tool. Listen, Louise; Pierre ile Hautville was my dearest friend. I was n mere boy when he liv ed, but 1 was strongly attached to him, and if it lies in my power, to avenge his death, L shall feel called upon to do it.” The girl la-gged him to do nothing rash, and he promised to exercise prudence in whatever he un- ’ dertook. But she was not at all easy in her mind, and when she returned home sue felt as if something was aliout to happen which would change the whole tenor of her life. What would her father say if he knew of the con versation that had passed between her and Basil Martineau that morning? The bare thought of it made her shudder; and whenever her father glanced at her from under his shaggy brows, she instinct ively shrank, half fearful that he would read her thoughts. What would Basil do? She put this question to herself till it became a torture to her. Would he bring to light the secret of the cavalier’s visits, and would there lie villiany at the bottom of it? If so, tile wicked plot, hail been going on for many long years, for that same horseman hail arrived at her father’s door on the same day of every week as far back as she could remember; all i>er life in fact—or at least, ever since she was a very small child. She saw Basil no more for three days. The third day was Friday, and sue felt more than ever as if something dreadful was about ro happen. At 1 lire.- o’clock M. Dumas locked himself in his study, as usual. A few moments later the rapid trot of a horse sounded in tile Rue de I’Hirondelle, and ihe unknown rider stopoed at the door of • he in msi-m, his slouched hat drawn so far down over his face that scarcely a feature was v sihle. He dismount ed, and entered the house in his usual unceremoni ous fashion, and hurried up stairs to the turret- chamber. At the door >.f tin seore cell he gave utterance to the hissing signal, and was promptly admitted. None of the family paid the slightest heed to his entrance; but, shortly afterwaid, Louise crept up stairs, and stopped just outside the door of h a- father’s study. She knew not. wli.at imjielled her; she had never thought of doing such a thing before; but now an inonlii ate desire to penetrate t a; mystery of these Friday interviews held possession of her. The moment she reached the sjwit she heard strange sounds within—sounds of scuffling feet, as if two men were wrestling—deep, husky breathing —smothered curses—hissing ejaculations—a jostling ef furniture, and an occasional bang against the door. Louise was so frightened by these unm stakable sounds of strife, lhat she lieatah.sty retreat, fly ing down stairs as swiftly as*her lit'le teet could lie made to move. H- r first, excited impulse was m run to her mother with ail account of what slit- had lieanl, but by tlu- time she had reached the lower rooms she hail changed her mind, and decided to say nothing aliout it to any one. But she was so terrified that she hid herself in one of the curtained who was muffled in a long cloak which entirely con cealed his face. The neighbors observed and mar velled Louise observed and marvelled. Madame Dumas and the old servant observed,and a gleam of satisfaction lit up the hard features of the former. “Thank God! they are taking him away at last!” ejaculated Madame. And nothing more was said on the subject. Late that evening Maitre Dumas came down from his sky-parlor, looking at least twenty-five years older than when he went up. He was pale, hag gard, hollow-eyed; he walked unsteadily, and trem bled as with palsy; his nerves had evidently re ceived a shock from which tbev would never recov- port. “Mon Dieu!” he gasped. “You—you here? I thought—I thought you were dead!” “But, as I said before, I still live. The fact is too evident to be denied!” and Pierre gave vent to a hollow laugh. The marquis started up from his drooping posi tion, with a wild gesture. “What does this mean?” he cried, hoarsely. “It is not true—it cannot be true! It is some trick— some hellish jugglery—some foul plot to ruin me! By St. Peter! somebody has played me false!” “You are right,” returned the other; “your valet has played you false—Maitre Dumas has played you er. He had nothing to sav in the presence of Louise | false—an I to their weakness I owe my life. I was and the servant, but he had a private interview ! hired to the old cemetery of St. Martin’s by the with madame, after which inadame also looked pale j hope held out to me that I should there learn some- anil unnerved. j thing of my child who had mysteriously disappeared. The next morning Louise went out for her mom- j Fearful of some plot however, I took a friend with alk, as usual. Basil Martineau met her at ] me. We were met by a muffled female figure who the accustomed place, with an expression of coun tenance such as she had never seen him wear before — an expression of mingled triumph and joy. “Louise,” lie said, eagerly, "come with me. I have goo l news fur you. There is a carriage wait ing for us around the corner.” “A carriage!” faltered the girl. “What does this mean? Where would you take me?” “Can you trust nie, Louise?” “But the carriage? Where—’’ “Louise, can you not trust me?” “Yes, monsieur, but—” “Then come with me. It is for your good that I | do this. / would not harm you. No time is to be ! lost—come!” He took her hand. She went with him, dazed and bewildered. - He hi tided her into a close carri age which was waiting at the corner of the street, ! and seated hims If beside her. Another second and they were whirling away through the narrow I streets towards the suburbs of the city. “Where are you going, mo isieur?” pleaded Louise, looking up into her companion’s face. “To the Chateau de Hautville,” he replied. The girl started. “Why do vou take me there, monsieur?” she asked. “To see Monsieur the Marquis.” returned Basil, with a .-anile. “ B t before we reach the chateau we will stop and see your father.” “My father!” “Child, have you never suspected that Maitre Dumas is not your father?—that Madame Dumas, so far from b ing your mother, never hail any chil dren of her own.' It is true, Louise. You remem ber that 1 told you about the mysterious disappeur- a ee of Pierre ile Hautville and his infant child? Foil are that cli Id, Louise ” The girl sank back among the cushions of the carriage, pale and speechless, staring at the man as if scarcely able to eredit bis statement. “You saw the strange ho- sem m when he arrived at the house yest rd.ay?” continued Basil. "Yes ” she managed to reply. “That horseman was no other than myself.” “Foil?” “1! Jasques, the valet, after imieh persuasion, permitted me to personate him on ill it, one occa sion. 1 disguise i mys If, sons to look us much like him as possible. I d d not expect 'ofinil Pierre de Hauntville there, aiive anil in the flesh “What!” “But I did, Luiis ; I did not find him there, where he has line , k pt in close confinement for fif teen years. Just think of it! In a seen-', cell, open ing out of the turrot-chamlier, lie has been incar cerated ever since you vver three y ■••u’s old. He has endured t e t rture of kn w ng that his child lived under the same roof with him. in utter igno rance of his existence; that she was being brought up in the belief that another man was her father. T 1 I said she could show me my child safe and well. I followed her to a secluded corner of the cemetery. Suddenly she stopped, straightened her bent figure, threw off the cloak revealing a powerfully framed man. At the same instant another man sprang from behind a monument, a handkerchief was tied over ray friend's eyes. I was knocked down anil stunned, and the next tiling I knew 1 was confined in a secret apartment in Maitre Dumas’ house. Neither he nor Landre hail the courage to kill me as you had ordered, but they have kept me confined there for fifteen long years; while my daughter was reared under the same roof, and 1 not allowed to look upon her face in all that tune. I saw your yalet every Friday, when he came to the house to deliver the weekly sums of money, which you paid M. Dumas for keeping my child Oh, it was a fiendish plot, Landre, and cleverly conceived, but you never dreamed that 1 was only a prisoner, instead of be ing dead. Base, cowardly wretch! if I served you right. I would shoot you dead iu your tracks.” He thrust his hand iti his breast, as if he would carry the thought into execution; but Louise saw the movement, and ran forward. “Don’t, father!” she cried. “Please don’t stain your hand with blood. He looked down into the distressed young face lifted imploringly to his; then folded her in his arms, and kissed her. “No,” he said: “it is not for me to take his wretched life. His punishment will be severe enough.” He put his lingers to his lijis, and gave vent to a shrill whistle. In a moment a half-dozen yens d'nrrnesappeared, approaching from different directions. “What does this mean!” demanded one of the chevaliers. “!t means that Monsieur the Marquis is a prison er,” replied Pierre, with a scornful accent on the title. "I have hail this house guarded ever since la -t night, to prevent his escape in case he learned that l was still alive. Men. do your duty!” There was no help for it. The proud man who liad gloried in the title for fifteen years was seized, handcuffed, placed in the carriage with f. mr yens tParmes, and driven to the Bast ile. So ended the mystery cf the old house in the Rue de l’Hirondelle. The weekly visits of the strange horseman came to an end. Maitre Dumas commit ted suicide, to escape the punishment he so richly deserved. The wronged man regained his rights, and was soon the acknowledged and highly-osi edit ed Marquis de Hautville, while his daughter enjoyed the. distinction of being the. most attractive young hnly in Paris. It. proved to In; a ease of mutual love between Louise and Basil Martineau, and'hey were nmri ieil xvith the marquis’ blessing. Landre died in prison. 1 the here we are -and here is tour father, Louise.” The carriage-topped in front of a small house. Two men were standing 'here, waiting. One was tli tended. “Do if ;ue, ’ sni l pardon—bring him in.”