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SONIA. Truitattd from <b« Frcach of Hear! OrcTille. BY ANNIE MURRAY. CHAPTER X This struggle of two hours with the bad disposi tion of the little boy had wearied Boris. His spir its, sad for some time past, had lost their habitual elasticity; leaning his discouraged head upon his hand, he closed his eyes. A slight noise caused him to turn bis head; he saw Lydia. The poor tutor suddenly forgot his fatigue and his cares. Into the unpleasant studv- hall a ray of sunlight seemed to have entered with her he loved. “Lydia,” he murmured, in a low tone, “Lydia, you are my joj and my consolation. You will not forsake me, will you?” A bright flush mantled Lydia's face. For a re ply she placed her hand upon the young man’s head. He raised his eyes; the look he encountered, not very confident at first, gradually strengthened ami Lydia pressed her lips lightly on the forehead of her lover. “You love me, do you not?” he asked, in a low tone. “I do love you,” replied she, overcome by the strength of that love which she confusedly felt was superior to her own sentiments. “I have a thousand things to say to you, Lydia; you will come to the spring after dinner, will you not?” “Yes,” said she. “Listen to me. 1 have suffered much lately. I dared not speak to you.” Lydia’s face grew more and more crimson; her cheeks were burning from shame no doubt and she turned her head away. “I have lieen wrong to doubt you,” he continued. “It seemed to me that you loved me less. Forgive me, Lydia: tell me that you are not angry with me. You forgive me?” And he covered the young gill's hands with pas sionate kisses. The scene of the morning hail weak ened him; if he had not restrained himself he would have wept like a child; but he recovered himself quickly, and folded Lydia in his arms. “I love you, said he. with ardor, “you are my life, and for you I will struggle against the whole world. Kiss me. Lydia lowered her cheek towards him. He made a quick movement and pressed his burning lips to those of his betrothed. The door opened wide. “Mama, look: my teacher is kissing my sister!” cried Eugene, in his shrillest tone. Madame Goreline rushed towards them like an enraged lioness. The loving couple had not time to disengage themselves liefore she saw them. “Miserable wretch.!” cried she, advancing to wards Boris with uplifted hand. She protiably intended to slap his face, but he seized the threatening hand and pulled it down with a firm hold, while she. tried to reach him with the other arm. “Madam,” said he to her in a deep tone in which unspeakable anger mingled with the emotion of a decided step, “I ask you for your daughter's hand.” “Wretch!” repeated the mother in a furious pas sion. Boris relaxed his hold of her hand and regarded her calmly. “I am a gentleman,” said he, “and I am not act ually poor; besides I have courage and the future is before me. I ask of you the hand of your daughter Lydia: without a marriage portion,” add ed he, after a short silence. Suffocated with rage, Madame Goreline had re tired some steps and fell on a sofa. She looked at the young man with terrible eves. Lydia had es caped and a piercing cry from Eugene proved that, in return for his good conduct, she had probably boxed his ears. Under any other circumstances this cry would have alarmed the motherly heart of Madame Gore line, but she did not even hear it. Her eyes fixed upon Boris, standing before her, she searched for w -irds and could not find any strong enough to ex- prV - hfl feciings. \ , » > — “(Jo. robber!’ said she. finally “how Ware you aspire to the hand of my daughter!” He had reached that degree of excitement where one possesses a marvellous calmness far aliove mis erable mortals, whom we regard with disdain. “The hand of my daughter! related Madame Do you think she is made for a poor devil like you? Haf ha!” and she burst into a nervous fit of laugh- te “Then you refuse her to me?” said Boris, un moved. Madame Goreline continued to laugh, making an affirmative sign with her head. “Very well,” continued the young man. “I will go and ask your husband ” More furious than ever Madame Goreline bound ed to her feet. “To my husband? I forbid it!” “I receive orders from no one,” said Boris, direct ing liis steps towards the door. “You shall not see my husband! I discharge you. eontin- ‘Tlie more reason for not obeying you ued he, coollv. Madame Goreline followed him, overwhelming him with invectives, until she had reached the end of all resources. “Moreover,” she said, with disdain, “if my hus band is stupid enough to listen to you, it will be ex actly the same as if nothing had" been said. He is an imbecile and he does not rule here.” “I have already had occasion to jx-reeive that he is not master here.” replied Boris, tranquilly, “and I have more than once had occasion to regret it.” The servants, excited by the cries of their mis tress. regarded this walk of Boris with Madame Goreline following him step by step with malicious curiosity. He could not obtain from them any in formation as to where the general might l* found. He was not in the house and he turned back still ac companied bv Madame Goreline. “Leave!” repeated she to him, in a rage. “When you provide me with horses,” replied he, finally, turning to face her. “Horses! for you? You are able to go on foot with your boots hung to the end of a stick across your shoulder, like a peasant as you are!” cried she, purple with rage. "I am of noble birth,” replied he. unmoved, “and if you will not give me horses, 1 will find some in the village.” “You shall not have any,” said she. with a mal icious smile. “I w ill have the first person flogged who dares to furnish you with them.” “Y T ou are not up with your age, madaine,” re plied Boris, politely. “Thank Heaven! it has been several years since we could whip peasants with impunity, but you seem to have forgotten it.” “You shall not have horses in my village,” re peated she. “1 will ruin the one who prepares them for you.” “I will find some at the prince’s, your neighbor,” said Boris, abruptly, his patience exhausted. He closed in her face the door of his room and locked himself within. Sonia tremblingly waited under the low window and hearing no more n<iise, called the young man by name. He approached the window. “My master, have they sent you away also?” asked'she, in a low voice. “Why also?” asked Boris, in astonishment. “Yes, they discharged me this morning, and you ” “Very well.” interrupted Boris, “then I will take you away. For this moment you are in my ser vice. Here are five roubles; go to the other side of the river, to the first village of Prince Armianoff and tell them to get ready tor me, immediately, a chaise and a horse to go to the post-station. Run quickly; show the money, but do not give it to them.” Sonia flew like an arrow, and Boris began to pack his effects into his valise. He hardly knew what he had in his head or in his heart: in the midst of his confused ideas, an acute suffering caused him at moments to start suddenly, as in the thick smoke of a burning building,the unfortunate ones who can not escape, feel from time to time a tongue of flame lap their bodies, benumbed by terror and suffoca tion. He had only one clear thought—to leave that ac cursed house. But he left Lydia there! Then a keen consuming desire took possession, to raise Lydia in his arms, to seat her in that humble chaise which would bear him away, and to fly with her no matter where. , , ., ... The sky was blue, the road was.wide and the horizon would always retreat lief ore them. Could he not find a modest roof to shelter two happy hearts? He thought of his mother—and the desire to carry away Lvdia gave place to an inexpressible longing towards his old mother, so good, so worthy, seldom sad, but always calm. When would he see them, under the shade of his birches, seated on the same seat, those two beloved women, his betrothed and his mother ? “Never!” said he, disheartened. “Never!” He went out of his room to try and see Lydia, if only for a second—to see her through an open door. Labor in vain; all the doors were closed. At the end of the house one could hear the sharp voice of Madame Goreline scolding her husband. Boris re-entered his chamlier..and seated himself near the window. This garden, the walk which led to the spring, those last flowers of summer almost faded, the autumn flowers already bright—all was indelibly engraven upon his memory, like the frame of a picture, in which he had loved Lydia. He re membered then that he had forgotten some books in the study-hall, and went to get them. It was so sail and cold now, that hall where he had lieen insulted, where his happiness had been shattered. Forcing back all thoughts, for he felt almost over come by grief, he occupied himself mechanically, in collecting what belonged to him. Lydia’s exer cise lxxik was upon the table, where she had placed it when she entered; he took it up, looked at it a moment, then put it in his pocket. What long nights he passed after that in reading again those lines—and how many times he stopped, his heart too full, over the verses of Lamartine, who had sung for them in the springtime of love. But stronger now he forced himself to see nothing, to read nothing, and toxik the little yellow volume of “Jocelyn” which had lietrayed them, wrote on the fly-leaf the name Lydia, placed it between a grammar and a book of exercises, hoping it would escape the notice of Madame Goreline, mid went out of the room without casting a last look behind for fear of being overcome. Sonia w-as waiting for him under the window, and called him when he opened the door of his room. The chaise is on the other side of the river,” said she. “The peasant who will carry you has not dared to come this far. Why ?” asked Boris, irritated by this last and in significant obstacle more than all the rest. “If he wishes to earn bis money, let him come here to the gate: if not, let him return and I will go on foot.” Sonia left again, and about two minutes after the chaise entered noisily into the yard. The peasant muttered some humble excuses that Boris did not listen to; he had his valise and a small case of books put in, he installed Sonia upon the seat amid the jeers of the servants, and said in the tone of a mas ter, turning towards the footman. “Tell the general I wish to sjieak to him.” Under the threatening gaze of the young man, the sneers ceased, the servants disjx;rsed, and in an instant the general appeared on the steps, His wife marched at his heels. As for Eugene he had dissappeared altogether: liis malice had succeeded too well and in a corner he wept hot tears at the departuie of bis preceptor, whom he really loved. “General,” said Boris, “I wish to thank you for the esteem that you have shown me,” and his loyal hand was stretched towards the general who placed his own within it, without knowing the reason. He had for an instant thought of withdrawing it. “I have this morning asked your wife,” continued Bo ris. “for the hand of your daughter; I received a formal refusal. I repeat this request to ycu; what will your answer lie?” Madame Goreline was about to interpose when Boris said to her, politely: I believe, madame. that'the affair is settled be tween us. It is your husband that I have the hon or of speaking to. I await your reply, general.” “But,” stammered the old man, “my wife said—” “It is your reply that I desire to know,” said Bo ris, ]x>rsistently. “As for me, I do not know. I love you well and take you for a perfectly honest man, but I do not interfere in these things; they are my wife’s affairs, and then, the prince ” “You refuse, then?” said Boris, with the same apparent indifference. “But ” “Yes,” cried Melanie Goreline, “how many times ' - k tj , .c-iiytci iell you?* ‘ S ' The general bent bis head in 5 ilenee. “Well,” said Boris, “I have yet a request to make of you. Your wife has driven away from the house and grounds, this little orphan. I beg you to trans fer to me her papers, that I may be able to take her to my mother’s, where she will have all the atten tion that her age and destitute condition de<r and.” The general regarded Sonia sadly, who, seated in the hack, shed bitter tears. The servants no long er laughed; the hospitable instinct, which vibrates so strongly in the heart of every true Russian, hud been touched by the last words of Boris. “It is true she is an orphan.” said they to them selves, “and God loves the poor and the orphans.” “You wish to carry her away?” cried Madame Goreline. “I am not willing. I have ran her off it is true, but I forbid you to take her away. Sonia, come here, little unfortunate!” General Goreline assumed his full height, and for the first time in his life, lie looked his wife in the face and dared to act against her. “And why should the young man not take away this child since you have turned her off?” said he, in a voice so clear and stern that the servants ex changed surprised looks. “I do not wish him to take the child away because that will give him pleasure, and ” “It is a bad act that you wish to do. Julia,” said the general, in a severe tone, “and you have been cruel to the orphan ” “What! you censure me and in the presence of my servants? It is too much! and for this outcast. Come here, you little villain!” “1 will not have it!” said the general in that thundering tone with which he commanded liis bat tery. “The child shall follow this young man, who has been good to her and who wishes to take her to his mother.” “But, Stephan Petrovitch ” “That is enough. I have the right to govern this house and I say that this young man shall take the little girl, so you need not lie uneasy, Boris Ivano- vitcb,” said he, to the tutor, “before eight days you shall have the necessary papers. Give me your ad dress.” Madame Goreline foamed with rage, hut she felt that here resistance would lie vain. She had never known her husband to speak to her thus, and her habitual scorn gave place to a sort of deference for a will so firm. She kept silent, chafing at her re straint. “Thank vou, general,” said Boris, relieved of a great weight. “Adieu.” He was about to mount into the hack wiien Mad ame Goreline called to him: “But your money—we must give you that!” This crabbed woman was honest in all her dealings. “No,” replied Boris, “I do not want the money; you owe me nothing. I take away your servant—I am paid. Adieu.” For the second time that day Madame Goreline felt her disdain give place to respect. This young man was truly disinterested. The general took from the hands of his wife the package of roubles destined for Boris, and dividing it into two parts, he gave one to his surprised wife, and, approaching the hack, placed the other in the hand of Sonia, who wept more than ever and kissed the hand of her first protector. “I will come to see you,” whispered he, in her ear; “hush! do not speak of it.” “Adieu, general,” said Boris, in moved tones,“yon are a brave man.” “Good-bye,” said the general, winking mysteri ously. “Have you not finished yet, general?” cried Madame Goreline sharply, from the steps. Boris raised his hat ana saluted the servants. All —servants and peasants—raised their hats. “Try yourself now,” said he to the coachman. The hack rattled off, the poor little horse trotted away and the roof of Lydia’s dwelling was hidden among the trees. CHAPTER XI. The peasant who drove Boris longed to question him. He made two or three attempts to draw him into conversation, but without success. Soon the green roofs and the cupola, shaped like an inverted turnip, which surmounted the church of the little district town, could be seen at a bend of the road, and less Hum a quarter of an hour afterwards the calache drew up before the wooden building, which represented the post station. No one put himself to any trouble to receive a traveler of so little importance. The peasant was about to leap from his seat, but Boris told him to | wait, and entered alone the greasy apartment where the post-master smoked his pipe in a sulky manner. “At what hour does the diligence pass for Mos cow?” asked the young man. The post-master drew two or three whiffs from pipe before replying; then, without disturbing his Olympian tranquility he lazily dropped these words: At eleven o’clock, if it is not delayed.” “Is it necessary to enter my name to obtain a place?” “There is no use; the diligence is full when it {lass es here.” “I can always find a space of four square inches to seat myself,” said Boris by way of consolation. Then he returned to the hack. Sonia, uneasy, turned her anxious gaze towards the door through which her protector had passed. “Listen, Sonia,” said the tutor, taking her in his arms and placing her on the ground. “You must be very good. 1 will make them give you some tea, arid you will remain here and wait for me. The diligence will not pass here until late this evening; you will watch my things till I return,” “Are you going away?” murmured Sonia, full of fear. “Be calm; I will come Imek again. As for you,” said he to the peasant, “do you lielieve that your horse is ab’e to return and bring me back here by nine o’clock?” The {leasant who neld his hat in his hand, turned it over two or three times, examined attentively the inside of it, scratched his head and finally replied: “How much will you give me for that?” “How much did you promise him to bring us here?” asked Boris of Sonia. “One rouble and a half,” replied the child.” “Very well, I will give you four in all. Are you satisfied ?” The peasant looked at Boris, then replied in a low tone: • “My horse is tired sir; why do you wish to re turn?” “Boris was angry, but he remembered that the greatest prudence was necessary.” “I have forgotten something which I cannot do without,” replied be. “ Then, sir, you will give me a little blue paper, (equal to five roubles); I have another horse that is idle; I will harness it and we will return as fast as the wind.” Agreed.” said Boris. “We will leave in half an hour. ” He had his baggage carried into the travellers’ hall, a large apartment, with greasy furniture, and 1 floor of marvelous cleanliness. He ordered supper to lie bronght in and prepared several eups of tea for Sonia, which she drank with aviditv ; and without taking anything himself he left, after having cautioned the child not to leave the valise and little case of books, which was all he possessed. Sonia seated htiaelf on the ground at the side of the precious charge and guarded it with canine fi delity, long after the rays of the sun had ceased to enter the 01*11 windows of that dreary room. The little horse carried Boris rapidly back over the ground he had so recently traveled. It seemed to the young men that the long, white road, stretched out to an infinite length. His whole lieing was concentrated upon this single thought: “Should they kill me like a mad dog, I cannot leave thus! I must see Lvdia again.” He finally arrived at the village where the peas ant lived. He told him to be ready to leave without losing time, and directed his way towards the Gore line house, still distant nearly a verst. From where a grove of trees concealed the village, he turned to the left, plunged into the wood and descended the ravine, with a iKiund he crossed the brook, which murmured over the pebbles, then advanced softly along the* garden hedge. In all this agitation the time had passed like a dream, and at the hour the young man reached the ravine, the rays of the sun, robbed of their warmth, flickered like a golden vapor through the forest trees. It was nearly five o'clock, the hour when the general and his wife took their nap; it was the hour when the young people had promised to meet at the spring. “She will be there.” said Boris to himself; “she will be there unless the}' have shut her up.” He approach lit ijtoppirjB at times to still the ex cessive Lis'; ' irt? he no longer thoi’ght of being seen-AoT* xir d.Ling him ignominiously away; he thought only rl.at lie was going to see Lydia, that he would see her or that he would die from pain and anguish. “She is there,” said he to himself, as the gurgle of the spring told him that, he had reached the place. A thick foliage separated him from their place of meeting; he tried to look through the branches and thought he saw a white dress upon the meadow- grass. Without minding the scratches, he forced his way- through the hedge and advanced rapidly toward the spring. She was not there. His heart seemed to sink within him. Overcome by unspeakable grief he fell upon the grass where she was accustomed to sit and pressing his lips to that cold anil lifeless earth, he wished to die—yes to die, since he could not see her again. A bird piped sweet’y, as if to warn him that it was late, and that the servants would soon come for water for household purposes. A whole hour pass ed away, and Boris did not think of leaving. It mattered little to him who found him there; his life had 110 further value in his eyes. A footstep aroused him. For the safety of Lydia it was necessary that lie should keep concealed, so he secreted himself behind a thicket of barberry bushes and waited. The little pebbles rolled down, the sound of the heel of a boot resounded on the si lence of the wood, then a rustling of skirts; it was not a servant. Boris listenad attentively, a feeble sigh. then a cry .4 stifled grief. "My God! It was she! Boris sprang to his feet, not without frightening her, for she nearly fainted. “Lydia,” murmured lie. covering her face with kisses, “did you think that I would leave without seeing you again: I should have died of grief, my Lydia. In order that I may live, that I may lalior you must tell me that you iove me, that you are mine, that you still wait for me.” He might have spoken thus for hours. Charmed, she listened to him without replying, her eyes fixed upon the radiant and transfigured visage of the young man. He was no longer the poor tutor in a dependent position, he was no more a lover of hum ble birtli: he'wusthe man who loved her, who spoke to her as a lover and as a master; he was more than all that, he was the impersonation of love itself, passionate and irresistible. Dazzled by the splen dor of that apparition, she felt a sort of vertigo steal over her. “Yes,” replied she finally, “I am yours: I will wait for you, for I love you—I love you!” repeated she more' sli ivvly. as if to hear herself pronounce that word, of which she did not well comprehend the importance. Boris was about to reply; the song of a servant girl caused him to keep silent. “We are discovered,” said he, in an under tone, seized with fear not for himself, but for her. The song drew nearer, but as yet they had seen no one. They are coming for water for the tea,” said Lyd ia. “Follow me.” She went away rapidly, urging Boris on before her. She opened a little" gate in the hedge and they found themselves in the forest. Farther yet,” she said to Boris who wished to stop. They went a few steps farther and placed them selves in the shadow of the bushes. There they re newed their pledges and made arrangements to cor respond without 3anger. The sun had disappeared behind the hill, the birds were no longer heard, save a rare and sle epy chirp; a blue vapor began to con fuse the distant borders of the ravine. “I must go,” said Boris, desperately. He stopped, looking at Lydia, whom he held in his arms and who, was crying with her head upon his shoulder. “Lydia,” continued he, if you would—” She raised her head with a questioning air. “I have a good horse above here,” said he rapidly and passionately, “I am going to my mothers. Will you go with me? We will be married imme diately, the priest of Grebova will raise no objec tion, and afterwards we will tell your parents. Say, will you do so?” And he pressed Lydia to his heart as if to con vince her more easily. His whole life seemed concentrated in that ques tion, his eyes penetrating the depths of the young girl’s soul, he waited her answer. Herarens, which she had passed around the neck of Boris, relaxed their hold. “No,” murmured she, feebly, “I dare not—I can not.” Was it the anger of her parents or was it pov erty that made her dread that decisive moment? She scarcely knew herself—the anger of her parents alone would probably have not stopjied her. “As you wish,” said Boris sadly. “I scarcely thought you would consent to do it—Good-bye, Lydia, my life—” She sobbed bitterly; many confused impressions agitated her and caused her grief. She felt guilty towerds whom, she scarcely knew. She wished to do more for him, whom she had free ly accepted for a husband, yet felt herself weak and powerless before him—and who knowsthatshe was not near lieing persuaded by him? She thought a moment of leaving with him; to live by liis side, du ring her whole life. Was it not the "happiness of whieli she dreamed? Why should she not say yes? “My duty,” thought she, to justify herself in her own eyes. But at the liottom of her conscience she scorned her father and thought of and judged her mother severely. Those thoughts’ tormented her cruelly; she eliased them hack like a troublesome fllock of pillaging birds and turned towards her lover. Strangely enough Boris suffered more than she, but his grief had a character of deep serenity— which the young girl inwardly thought was cold ness. “Adieu.” said she, with internalanguisn, pressing him convulsively in her arms. “No, not adieu,” replied he. kissing her; “an re* voir. Rememlier, Lydia, that my life is yours.” “Mademoiselle,” called a voice from the garden, “where are you? Some visitors have come. The two lovers left each other in separate direc tions. An hour after Boris reentered the station. In spite of the prediction of the most-master, the diligence which passed towards midnight had two vacant seats on the imperial for him and his little protegee. To be Continued. Tragedy at Glenford Chase. BY KATE PEMBERTON. Showers of moonlight fell in softened shadows over hill and vale and shone 011 the placid waters of the sea in sparkling rays. Everything was bright, glad and lieautiful. But to me the beauty of the scene seemed only to sadden my heart. A sense of utter desolation swept over me as I sat alone in my chamber that bright June evening be side the great wide window that looked out on the sea lielow. My future life appeared suddenly to loom up liefore me and strange misgivings filled my heart; yet many would have called this a foolish fancy; which one wit limy splendid prospects should never indulge in. Hardly an hour since I had promised Sir Leslie Copeland to be his wife by the coming autumn. Yet strange as it may seem my heart was not as light as the heart of the betrothed bride of a rich Nobleman should be. “But alas!” There was reason enough for this. I did not love Sir Leslie with that fervent love; which springs lip from the deepest recesses of the heart. Although I promised to be his wife my heart was not given with my hand. I simply re garded him as a friend, and try as I would no deep er emotions stirred my heart. It was my father’s wish that I should marry this man, and I had seacely a voice in the matter at all. I was yet scarcely 17 and all my life had been sjient with my father at “Glenford Chase” a great roomy old house near the sea. We lived here alone with the exception of the housekeejx'r, and an old butler the only servants we had kept since I could remember; with hardly a visitor to break the dull monotony of our lives. My fatner disliked company and seldom asked any one to vjsit us. Glenford Chase was a lonely place. The house stooi 1 on a high cliff direct 1*' above the sea. A bleak stretch of sea coast lay Jl about it, below the hill a little way stood a nolilcfcirest whose waving boiiA'is nmrmeredlsCSes - to tin- resljbrt*. sea.> it. nil rlra.i . in il ifinlo Vi n rrnrn. I “Marcia,” he said, gently, “I want to talk with >0 “Well, father, what is it?’I said As he sat down beside me, I fancied there was something more than usual troubling him. “Has Sir Leslie been here?’ he asked, hesitating- ^"“Yes, he was here only a moment since.’ “And he asked you to be his wife? “He did,” I replied simply. “And your answer?” “I accepted him as you wished me to. “My child!” he cried joyfully, “you have made me very happy—a great weight has been lit ted from my heart. Sir Leslie will make you a good hus band; he is rich; you will want for nothing and in time you will learn to love him. Your future is peat “re- , , , ,, T - ‘Father,” I said, trying to speak calmly, I it that I do not love this man though I h have 1 tigered. , happy one, isolated had lived devoid < if Und now had only a ,mally to Glenford fetentious early din- |ick Atwood, the I. wood our nearest [bringing with him er than lie; whose ‘Go away! marry!” said the young girl, turning pale, “and Mamina—how angry she will be! “So much the worse for her,” replied Boris quick ly. “I do not wish to speak harshly of her to you, wit your mother “Well, let us not speak any more of her. Will you go with me, say?” Aliove it all a dre’i J- solitude My life had been altogether as we were from the world, companions in my childhood, few friends who came occa Chase and partook of our un ners. Among these was R< youngest son of Sir Gilber' neighbor. He came some ti two merry sisters both you cheerful voices awakened pleasiFiit echoes in the dull old house. But he came of teller alone and I learned to regard him as a brother and look upon his coming as a matter of course. I did not know how much dearer he was to me until one day he came into the old fashioned parlor, where 1 was sitting with my needlework in my lap and the gleam of an autumn sunset falling about me, and told me that he was going away, an a long journey and would be gone many months. He wished to complete bis studies under the shadow of “St. Peter” with the old Masters to guide him. He was an artist and had often before spoken of this: he had his dreams and aspirations, some of which he was about to realize. Then there arose liefore me like the blank waste of a sterile desert what my life would lie without him; his very presence seemed to add a new lustre to tilings around me which in his absence must tarnish and fade. I was silently pondering this over in my mind, when he took my hand in liis and poured in my ear the story of his love, and asked me to be his" wife when he returned, and I promised in the gathering shades of that autumn evening ever to be true to him. He lingered by my side a while, and then with a sadly spoken good-bye, he was gone. During the first weary days of liis absence letters cams by almost every mail, breathing of the love and devotion of a trusting heart: hut after this came a long silence: weeks, months and even a year went by and yet no tidings came from him to cheer niv drooping spirits. Then came a rumor that lie was dead. I shudder now wiien I think of those wretched days. A dull apathy seemed to settle down upon me, which try as I would I could not shake off. People came and went as in (lays gone by; but to me the house never before appeared so utterly gloomy. About this time an event took place which broke in some degree the sluggish current of mv life. My father who had been absent for a few days returned, bringing with him a friend whom he "had met in the city and who he invited to spend some months with us during the “shooting season.” Sir Leslie Copeland, (that was our guest’s name) had once done my father a great service and thereby won his lasting gratitude. Sir Leslie was some years my senior, a tall, hand some man, with a pleasant expression about the face and a smooth, well modulated voice. I liked him from the first; and I fancied with some sur prise that my father encouraged this feeling. And liefore Sir Leslie had been with us a month I was destined to receive a still greater surprise. He made me a formal offer, urging me to give him a definite answer during the coming week. 1 told him that I could not lie to him more than a friend. “Our feelings are always liable to be modified or altered by time,” he said, gently, “and I shall yet hope to win your love.” In a short time after this my father come to me and urged me to accept him. I told him that I did not love Sir Leslie, and reminded him that I had given my sacred promise to Roderick Atwood. He laughed. “Roderick Atwood is dead,” he said, coldly. “True,” I replied, “but I cannot forget him so soon.” “Nonsense! It is foolish to spend time in useless repining; it cannot bring the dead back to life ” my father said, still coldly. Then he went on to speak of the advantages in wealth and social stand ing to be derived from such a union, and I saw that he had set his heart upon it. I will not go over the arguments that he used. Looking back now to that time I can hardly tell how I was brought to consent, for that was the end. And when Sir Leslie placed upon my finger a glit tering ring I felt that the bargain was sealed. “The bargain” ves, for though submissive to my fate I was literally bartered away! ’ I was thinking of these things as I sat by the win dow that lovely June evening when the door opened and father entered the room. promised to be bis wife, and be knows it: but strange to say is willing to take me all the same for his bride. Please do not talk of my learning to love him for I am sure I never shall.” “Marcia,” he said, gravely, “I am greatly in debted to Sir Leslie for having once saved my life at the risk of his own. There is no one in the world that I honor as much as he, and if you cannot love him, I trust that you will at least respect him for my sake.” Then in a softer tone, he added: “Some day you may think better of what I have done for you in desiring this marriage. ” He bade me good-night and left the roam. After that father never alluded to my marriage. He seemed to consider the subject settled. And it was. I suppose, since I had acceded to everything which was required of me. As the summer waned preparations were made for the wedding. The day was drawing near. Sir Leslie and father had arranged everything. The wedding, would be a quiet one; only a few guests were to be invited. We were to visit the contin ent on our bridal tour. I had manifested so little interest in the whole affair that the programme «as marked out almost without consulting me at all. It was early in September, just a week before my wedding thut I rambled out along the sea coast. The mournful sighing of the wind and and the dull roaring of the mighty sea seemed to soothe my troubled mind. I paced up and down the beach wrapped in a ^ loomy reverie. I did not hear the approach of footsteps until my name was spoken. Then I turned with a sudden "start toward the in truder and found myself face to face with Roder ick Atwood! A cold shiver ran over me. Had the sea given up its dead? I strove to speak; my tongue was paralized! I think I would have fallen bad he not sprang forward and caught me in hi- arms; for a moment all else was forgotten! Then his wild, pas sionate words recalled me to myself. I drew myself away. “d! Roderick,” I moaned, “they told me you were dead! that you would never come back to me again!” “Who told you this?” he cried, fiercely. “My father, Sir Leslie, everyone,” I answered, in broken !-obs. “Yes, yes,” he said, bitterly, “I see how they have deceived you. And they thought when I reached here the bird would have flown. Sir Leslie knew that I was alive; that 1 had been cast on a wild, uninhabited island where I was compelled to stay for weeks and months until I was picked up by a vessel passing that way: he knew that when I landed I was seized with a dangerous fever that confined me for weeks to n.v room, and he knew too, that when I recovered I would come and claim you for my bride. He is a traitor! a villain!” "Oh, Roderick,” I said, trying to speak calmly. *‘I have promised to be his wife—if you iove me go away and leave me!” “Marcia! Marcia! are you mad? You do not love that man! You are mine! I will not give you up!” and he looked with an almost fierce gaze into my eyes. “Kush! Roderick! you are breaking my heart I cried. He seized my hand and looked eagerly into my face:_ his lips moved but before he could speak, a tall figure strode through the purple shadowed twi light and confronted us. I knew without looking up that it was Sir Leslie Copeland. “Marcia,” he said, touching my arm, “will vou retujm to the house with ...e; YKir father «s look ing'or you.” \ He said this without deigning to notice my com panion. He offered his arm. I did not take it; 1 did not speak -I only turned away with a throb bing at mv heart to retrace my steps aione. Roderick Atwood cried out: “Marcia! Marcia! tell me truly, have you ceased to love me? I must hear it from your own lips!” A dark frown gathered on Sir "Leslie's face. He glared at Roderick savagely, but only said: “She is my promised wife." "She shall choose between us," Roderick replied coolly. He held out liis hand to me as lie spoke. Mechanically I placed mine in it. Sir Leslie stood silently watching his dark, handsome face bearing traces of emotfon. “Y ou have deceived me,” I said in a cold, hard tone: “you knew that Roderick Atwood was still living. I hate you!” I spoke recklessly, not pausing to consider the consequences, as I would have done in a more sober moment. My brain seemed whirling about and all my thoughts were in a sea of confusion. I raised my eyes to his face. It was deathly pale. “Yes,” he said bitterly, “I knew that he was liv ing. Come,” he added sueeringly, “you will allow me at least to take you home. If is growing late. Mr. Atwoi id and 1 will settle this affair between ourselves. ” “No, said Roderick, decidedly: “she is under mv care. I w ill escort her home if she will permit me.” “Yes. please take me at once,” I said trembling. A sudden fear had come over me; before this I could think of nothing. Now I began to think mv recklessness had placed Roderick in danger. Sir Leslie Copeland I knew was my nature wicks ed ami revengeful: how far bis anger would carrv him I could not tell. He turned away when I laid my hand on Roderick's arm; “Good night. Marcia.” he said lightly, “to-morrow we will meet again!” and in moment later he luul vanished. Not a Word was spoken between Roderick and my self as w e w alked side by side. I was too agitated to talk, and he seemed deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. When we stopped"beside the little wicket gate leading to the house, he silently opened to ad mit me, and, raising my hand to his lips, he kissed it tenderly, then with a hurried good night, walked quickly away toward the lonely beach. I entered the house and at once sought my cham ber. I had no wish to encounter mv father just then; my mind was filled with dire forebodings. 1 suffered a world of anguish and remorse. I felt that 1 had acted rashly. 0! how would it all end! Overcome with emo tion I sank upon my couch and wept bitterly. The old clock in the hall below chimed the hour of mid night before 1 closed my eyes to sleep. When I awoke it was with a start. The room was full of dim, shadowy light. Morning was dawning. 1 arose with a strange prescience of evil ham,ting me. Just then there came a noise from below fol lowed by loud ejaculations. I listened breathless ly ; presently I heard the rash of feet along the pass age leading to my room. The door was throw n open and the house keeper but st in. “Child!” she cried, wringing her hands. “An aw ful crime has been committed. Have you seen him! Did you know? ’ she went on wildly, in bro ken sentences. A sudden terror came over me. “Oh. Janet!” I gasped, "what has happened? Tell me quickly for the love of Heaven!” “He is deadP' she said in a frightened whisper. “Murdered last night on the lonely beach. Oh. Heaven, your father; this will kill him.” I tried to cry out, but a strong hand seemed to choked my agony into silence: “Sir Leslie has done this,” flashed through my tortured mind; “where is he f' My voice seemed cold and strange. The house keeper scanned mv face curiously. “He is in the hail below. They brought him here not an hour since, together with the one who is , suspected of having killed him.” “Suspected *" I repeated. “Yes; and it muSt be he that did it, for they were known to have met last evening and had high words near where his body was found. Ah, me, we thought him dead in the bottom of the sea. He must have came home to do this deed last night.” “Who?” I asked, in a dazed way. “Why, Roderick Atwood, child; he is the ( is suspected.” I turned away from her and sped down stairs. In Continued on 6th page.