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THE SUntnY SOUTH.
with the stately ladies he meets in society and
thinks me a very insignificant creature,
though he pities me: or perhap he scorns me
for my unlady like escapade.’
But in spite of this Madge is very cheerful:
and her frank delight in her surroundings
charms Mrs. Raleigh. She has long^wished
for just such a companion.
“You will soon make me feel ten years
younger, my child. Paul is such a grave,
taciturn fellow, I almost fear to indulge in a
little levity before him.”
“Do you not like to have a good time Mr.
Raleigh ? don’t you go to balls ! are you not
fond of dancing ?”
“Not very,” snnlhng at the earn* st face.
“Not fond of waltzing ? oh, wise re!" lifting
hands and eves in mock horror.
“He really is quite incorrigible, dear, puts
in his mother, “but now that you have come
we must begin to b • gayer. I am very fond of
the opera myself, but I do not like to go with
out some appreciative one of my' own sex
with me. Give us your arm my son. W e
have kept the lunch waiting too long.
The morning after Madge’s first night spent
in her new home, Mrs. Raloigh S6iit for hei
to breakfast with her in her own little private
boudoir. Madge had dressed herself in the
prettv morning robe, she found ready for her
with its frills of snowy cambric at the throat
and sleeves. She went down where her new
found friend was seated in the little home
like boudoir—whose neat plainness contrasted
with the elegance of the other rooms.
“This is my own little den Madge she
said after the' “good mornings.” “I have a
fancy for homely comfort. If I had been a
poor man’s wife and mother of a ’quiver full
of boys and girls,’ I might have been happier.
But I am 1 ilos-e 1 enough as it is. Paul is a
good son—a dear good And now taking
Madge’s hand and drawing her to her side—
“now 1 have you: who will l>e a daughter to
me—will vou not! I see the Rivers look very
plainly in your face this morning. I know
vou are my own blood. I know too you are
sa'ional powers; he has traveled, has vis
ited all the quaint old cities in distant lands,
she longs to sce.|
Paul has never talked to .her like this man
—he, too, has seen these glories, but never
shared them with her in word pictures. For
the first time she reproaches him in her heart
for selfishness.
It is too late to think of the opera when
they rise from the table, so they spend the
evening delightfully at home. Madge plays
and sings and Major Chalmers charms them
all with an Italian love song.
Madge leans on the piano while he sings.
“Thank you. that is charming,” she says
warmly' when he finishes.
“If you w'ere only in Venice floating in a
gondola in the golden moonlight then the
song would have some meaning,” he mur*
inurs.
But not more meaning than is conveyed in
the long look he sends into her eyes.
They re* ire late, but Madge removes her
dainty robe, slips into a warm dressing
gown, and cuddles dow n before the bright
tire to indulge in a pleasing reverie.
Already Paul’s image is shadowed by the
: darkly handsome face of Duke Chalmers.
I In her inmost heart she feels Paul is vastly'
; the superior, but when has he ever looked at
I her—talked to her—as this English cousin
■ did to-night !
And the incorrigible little flirt determines
i to give bim a lesson.
s down to breakfast in her most
sweet ? Come, no one is looking, pa
wager, my darling—mine—for I lov me my
“Major Chalmers, I wish y r ou to you.”
home instantly,” her voice as icy as.rive me
beneath them. Jie snow
“You do ? I will with pleasure, 1
condition.” one
“Name it,” her eyes resting ijersat
the horse’s ears to avoid meeting Ik-ntly on
which she feels devouring her facaH glance,
“That you kiss me and say ‘11
Duke,’ ” whispering the words in have you,
“I will say I do not love you; aarear,
er the love you offer an insult,*! consid-
flashing straight into his now. ‘her eyes
drive me home ?” *’ill you
“I will not," he mutters, setting
savagely" 'is teeth
“You will not ?” looking him A
the face. arely in
“No,” sullenly.
Swift as a flash her hands grasp
and slie pulls I lie spirited horse shtDie reins,
Before he recovered from his astoq round,
she snatches the whip and deals tlMshment,
sharp blow. ypimul a
“My God! Madge, are you going 1*
the brute is running away!” ' kill us ?
MARGUERITE.
By Stephen Brent.
And the excited man grasps the 4
in his powerful hands; but he migns back
try to stop the keen wind that c.t as well
knife in their faces its they rush ov.s like a
en snow.
Luckily' there are 110 sieij
it is fast growing dark; however,'
the fro
So
oad;
becoming morning toilet, and Major j nearing the city and cannot hop icy are
Chalmers perceives her complexion can t be j immunity long. for such
“washed off,” or her soft brown hair need it comes sooner than they e>
the curling tongs to make it that wavy j frightened animal tears around a
Even in great London he has never met
one more eliarming or deliciously original
than she. Girls far more beautiful to Ire
sure, but none with that childish abandon, or
that witchery of manner.
Paul has an important suit on hand, so
the Major constitutes himself Madge's escort.
Cold weather is coming on and Paul watches
j start off for a
beneath the lap
must be to
friends, that the thoughtless schemedidnot j “j.^^11^0^’ Xtkfaml
bring mo more suffering—thiit it has brought i J - - -
Madge,” said the elder lady, raising tlie gin f -i w : ndo
till her head rested on her shoulder and em- ! ‘‘ .'
bracing her affectionately. “You are my I Vfamiliar voic
own blood reniemlier, and 1 have more money |
than I know how to spend with my not ex i_ . - - ■■
t. the
ts with a sudden check, for Tier, and
violently struck by the shaft of a s chest is
ing swiftly' from the opposite directgh com-
At the violent collision both are >1.
the ground, but the deep snow re -own to
fall comparatively harmless; the tv'ers the
men in the other sleigh spring to MLgeiitle-
and come to the rescue. I-sound
Madge has already gained lieivl
recognizes with joy, Paul, in one co-t and
tlemen. ;ao geu-
“Madge, are you hurt ?” he
eagerly, taking hold of her arm, !
and the stranger extricate the t?
luringly,
’^here un
drawing her to one side,
«r.e you
on the lady’s knees. . , ln<r
“Never sj>eak ofgenerosit yin this matter,! its a cold wintry afternoon. Madge stands til I see if Duke is hurt and »
Madge, siud the elder^aa^raising^ue gjiii at a si( j e w indo\v, peering anxiously up at home while I see to the horse.”
j “Oh, 110, no, Paul!” she cries, 1
voice at her elliow remarks— i him with an imploring gesture, [j, taming
you gazing at, Queen Mab ? j me pi ease .” take
Trying to find the old woman who swept the j He studies her face for one
travagant wants. My son too prefers1 to spend j V J 1S fronl the sky ;‘>
Ins energies 111 a profession that brings him a j Mim1 i au ,rhs, “for nothing so unreal.
The foam-crested waves broke on the black
rocks, and rolled against the beach in silvery
ripples. Out beyond those shallow, restless
depths, the sea lay broad and tranquil, and
rose-flushed from the sunset. A few fishing
boats dotted the water, and one snowy sail
was outlined against the evening sky, as it
drifted along the verge of the horizon.
The quaint little Norman village straggled
up and down the shore, climbing the cliffs,
and nestl'ng in the hollows. The houses were
nearly' all rude and old; but very picturesque,
with vines clinging to their dark, rough walls,
the friendly leaves hiding all signs of decay'.
An old church with carved doors and high
narrow windows stood in the centre of the
village, and a ruined castle crowned the high
est cliff. The crumbling walls and quaint de
signs of the dark rambling pile, spoke of an
age remote from ours. The wide hall once
rang with the footsteps of gallant knights,
and every nook and cranny were filled, with
mementoes of the Dead Past. For years it
had been the home of the St. Armauds, but
tiie family had all passed away except old
Madame St. Armand and her young grand
daughter Marguerite.
The afterglow of the sunset shone through
the windows, lighting up the rooms and bring
ing out all the stains and faded spots in the
carpets and wall hangings.
Madame St. Annand was at her toilet. “Ah,
Maria,” she said to h r waitingmuid, and
leaning toward the mirror, “how old and
wrinkled I am. I will soon be ready for the
woi 111s.”
The woman who was hastily brushing out
Madam’s flue silvery hair, dropped her brush
with a shudder.
“The Saints forbid! Pray, do not think of
such horrid things, madame.”
“Why not, you foolish Maria! There —
o don’t pull my hair all out. We all know it is
limned 1 ollr tate *° <Be > an< * 6° ,,£U ' k to mother earth.”
! The curtains were drawn, and the candles
lighted. Madame shook out the train of her
rich, though faded brocade, and arranged
some rare lace around her throat.
“If my little speculations proves to lie all
that I hope for, these old things will be ca-t
aside.”
“lint if it fails!” said Maria.
“M011 Dieu! Do not speak of it!” cried tho
madame in tones of horror. “Marguerite and
I would be beggars. Old Satour was stub-
to your keeping, so I promise that she shall
be your wife.”
“Will you call her!”
Just then the window curtains parted, and
Marguerite stepped in. She looked very'
lovely in the soft wax light, but the dark eyes
were full of troubled light, and the young
face was paler than usual. Her simple white
dress, fitting up smoothly round the wlii’e,
softly curved throat, and falling over the
floor in graceful folds, was just suited to her
girlish beauty. She folded her slim hands
011 the back of a chair.
“1 am here, grandma,” in her sweet steady
voice.
“Did you hear our’eonversation, my pearl!”
“Yes,” a Hush rising over face. Bertrand
went to her and gravely said:
“Mademoiselle St. Armaiul, will you be
my wife 1”
She caught her breath sharply as lie held
out his hand to receive hers. She had her j mired
girlish dreams of love and marriage. Dreams | laughingly
that floated in her mind in a vague misty '
way, until she met Viscount Trelwyn 011 the
beach one day, a week before that evening.
He was an Englishman with a fair, hand
some face, blonde hair and blue eyes. After
their first meeting he walked on the beach
every day, and with art. known only to men
of the world, lie managed to get acquainted
with her. Love had never been mentioned,
but Marguerite’s dreams began to take unto
themselves a shape. It all flashed through
her mind in an instant. She had been v
worldly wise hearts wra refreshed hy a
sight of her fresh lovely iv«-
“An unsoiled [lily,” sad Majlamo Lenoir
to Bertrand one evening. "Really now, were
you not afraid to bring her into this whirl*
pool of folly!” .
He glanced across the room at his young
wife, a tender glow softening Ins whole face,
and quietly said:
“No, I had no fear. She will stand the
test.”
The lady laughed and tapped his arm with
her fan. , , . . .
“It was »n idle question. I otight to have
known that you could see no fault in her.
He flushed.
“Is it right that I should ?”
“No, no, and indeed there is no fault to
find.”
Madame St. Armand was in her element.
To see her beloved child so petted and ad-
wed her own youth, aud she
told her faithful Maria that the
| grave would not receive her yet. Neither
! the flattery and admiration qf her new
! friends nor the gay life could drive the wist-
i ful. questioning light from Countess Ber-
! trend's dark eyes.
i “She is trying to solve the mysteries of
| life,’’ said a romant c young poet.
I If so, she was as far from them, as when
1 she dreamed away the long idle days at the
' old Norman Chateau. It is unprofitable
I work, to trv to find out, the whys aud the
! wherefores’of this life. God never intended
j than silly to think that she would escape the j for us to know them, and sooner or later, we
fate of other giris. Her heart beat quickly, j are forced to realize the fact. In after years
I and a new and cruel sense of bitter injustice ! Marguerite looked back on those days as the
filled her soul. Oh. for the freedom to act ; darkest of her life. Nothing was satisfying,
and think for herself! The dreary moan of j Her heart was filled with hungry longings,
the waves never sounded so desolate as it did Her life appeared so empty and and aimless
that night when she thought she saw all the I that she almost envied the working women,
then answers curtly, “I will.” J™
Paul finds Duke unhurt, but
t-int boraly opposed to it, and actually had the
- 'I impertinence to tell me that I was very fool-
happiness of her girlhood die. .She turned to
her grandmother :
“Must I, grandma !” a wail of entreaty in
the fresh young voice.
“Yes, my darling.” Madame St. Armand
who toiled day after day. She had a taste
for study, and would have willingly joined
her husband in his literary pursuits: but he
ignorant of the change in her feelings, did not
ask her, and she was too shy to propose it.
voice was soft and gentle, but unyielding, j A kinder friend, or more careful guardian
Without another word the giri lifted her
hand and laid it in Bertrand’s. His warm | was all.
fingers closed over it, and bending down be
said:
“You should not be forced into this union if
I did not know it to be the best; and my lit tie
girl, I shall try very hard to make you
happy.” His lips touched her cold fingers
and then Maria came and led her from the
room.
The next afternoon she met Viscount Trei-
wynon thelieach. He came swiftly.forward,
an eager glow in his handsome eyes. She
stopped his exclamations of pleasure.
“I cannot stay a moment. I came only to
sav good-bye.”
“Wily? Has the grandmother found it
out
than Bertrand could not be found: but that
Her shrinking shyness seeme 1 cold
ness, ami dislike to hini, and his reserve
chilled her heart. So they went on from day
to day, playing at cross purposes and with no
prospect of anything better.
The young Englishman had passed com
pletely from Marguerite's mind. He had
never really touched her heart It was only
the passing fancy of a romantic girlish mind.
It was her husband that stirred the depths of
her heart that called into life the deepest,
a woman is capable of. One
sat back in the opera box, looking
her grand-mother touched her
rn, — u noor dependence in a sick
' tri : L ;,; have our tea; this is to be
a bus> day. He a.* to go shopping and I
anticipate much pleasure in choosing your out-
nt. 1 think I aiu a connoisseur in such mat
ters.”
Oh, Mrs. Raleigh, do not go to the ex
pense. I ” 0
“Hush! not a word of that. And do not
call me Mrs. Raleigh; if “cousin” seems un-
suiteJ because of the difference in our ages,
then call me aunt. Will vou not !” |
“I shall be proud indeed to
says with happy eyes, and the .
the steaming tea, delicate toast and other ae- „ - , , - . „ . „
cessories of a delicious breakfast 1 “ rst of the species 1 ve met.
After breakfast. Mrs. Raleigh orders fine I “ B J’ You s I ,eak } were , s01 ! le
whispers. “I have cou-ins at home who
think nothing of being encircled by my arm, i
and very often kiss me,” bending his mous- !
tached lips close to hers.
“I om not one of them!” cries Madge, I
haughtily, drawing forcibly away. “They 1
probably have known you all their life, j
while I never knew of your existence until !
one short month ago.” ■ |
“But what difference does that make?” ho
;es, “we are cousins, all the same, anil j
ly seating Madge, springs in besid.
drives off.
As they leave the scene of the (lisa
asks abruptly:
“Can you tell me how Phyllis car
away, Madge ?”
Madge is silent. |
“Duke is generally considered a li"
whip, and the mare Ls nos unusually v
continue
0 do so ” Madge cous ' ,ls have some privileges, have they not!”
they sit down to I ‘ I .,' 1 , OI ‘’* k,,ow i J?" s ' in V’, ' vit V* jusfc
1st and other ae- c Ptible shrug of the shoulders, you are the
Marguerite to come to me.
Five minutes after the faitlU’ul servant
went out the door was opened and gil l en
tered.
Marguerite St. Armand was a tall, slender
girl of eighteen, with liquid dark eyes, red-
brown hair and a lovely, high-bred’face. She
j carried herself like a young queen, with the
rate ! shapely head held haughtily erect and a proud
- tender lq>s. But she was tender
pure of soul, anil the clear,frank
mirrors of the soul, had nothing
send for me, grandma!’, she ask
ed in a clear, sweet voice.
“Yes, child; come here.”
She knelt down at her knee. Madame took
. j. | the young face m her hands, and liending
truest love,
night as she
at 1 he stag,
arm.
“Marguerite.”
She turned slowly, and there before her
stood Viscount Trelwyn, bowing, and smiling
his handsome eyes full of admiration. Ihe
sight of him did not rouse any pleasant emo
tions 111 Marguerite's heart. She was utterly
indifferent: but he was not. She had caught
his fickle fancy the first time he ever saw her,
and now that "she was beyond his reach, she
was tenfold more attractive. Gradually but
surely he came to be the friend of the family.
Marguerite could not tell how it happened,
but he was always near her at the theatre,
at balls and parties ready to do anything for
“Stay” lie plac. - . . - . . ,
“Do you really intend this to be our last I her pleasure. She was often wearied with
meeting!” ! his presence, but she could not tell him to
“Yes. now let me pass.”
A sudden fire flashed into the lazy 1
little !
jiascm- j
ration !” j
two superl. horses to the door and given her 1 s ^nd Madge creeps over to the fire feelin;
her first lessons in riding. If poanUe she I . ed and Gambled.
looks handsomer in the simple black clotn , The first tiling Madge does on waking next
habit than the rich dresses of silk.
CHAPTER III.
"Paul is unconscionably late this evening
morning is to fly to the window nnd lift the
curtain with a low cry of delight, for the
earth is wrapped in a mantle of snow.
She diesses hastily and descends to the
. . beautiful room, brimming over with fun and
Mrs. Raleigh says impatiently, glancing at 1 go,*} humor.
the drawing room clock, “we will not only i “Oh, auntie! now we can have that longed
have a spoilt dinner, but will be too late for i f or s ] 0 igh drive. Have you peeped out doors !
the oiiera, and I do so .wish to hear Lohen- j it mustbe two feet deep,” she cries in a breath,
“Perhaps he has lieen unavoidably detained,
and you know it’s fashionable to be late at
the opera," Madge replies.
How lovely she looks as she stands 111 the
bay window" in the soft evening gloaming,
plucking idly the rare tropical flowers that
grow there in massive urns.”
as she takes her place at the table.
"1 am very sorry, Madge, but I suffered
horribly with neuralgia all night anil would
not dare venture out to-day; but that need
not prevent you young folks going, and en
joying the first snow of the season.”
“You will have to excuse me mother, as I
will be engaged in court all day,” Paul says
not looking at Madge, who casts
They are (iressed for the opera dining late jck , uot looking at Madge,
they would not have tune to l ,re J ,a *? elat ’J imploring glances at him over the cup of tea
rate toilets afterwards Mrs. Raleigh is 1 ich- 1 1 ’ (lri * £
ly <lre-sc! m black silk and yel\et, a costly “Then it is left to me to show you the fas
cinations of Fifth Avenue on a gala day,”
Major Chalmers says gallantly, illy conceal
ing his triumph, at the turn events had taken.
“Thank you,” answered Madge, in great
. .| ^ .. chagrin, “but if aunt is suffering from non
old lace almost as yellow ite tin silk the j j j inM , ni } to st ay at home and coddle
x sleeves are also trunmed with the price- | j le ,P, I jj v
word of endearment; is it possi!
love him ? After being subject to
ations of his handsome cousin ?
“Madge, will you answer me one
“Yes,” she answers humbly.
“Do you love my cousin Duke
engaged to him ?”
“No, no. a thousand times 110!
iy-
“Then—do you love me
wife ?” not touching her, only
ly into the lovely faee
" “I only promised to answer
she says demurely, tho’ all her jlfulses are
dancing, and her heart throbbing [with the
thought—“He loves me—lie loves k me—my
; king—my own.” *
I “Answer me this one too, dear, s ing we
, are at home, shall I take my promijfsed wife
to my mother!”
He" has stopped the sleigh at the
stepping from it, stands ready
from it.
“Yes. Paul,” she whispers, as ne
in his arms.
With tender fervor he presses )i
her’s sealing their betrothal. A j Imp ix>st
down kissed the white brow.
“Where have yjiu been, my pearl!”
. “Down on the wadi,” answered Marguerite
*--fi"Vjt!biuY- I.
i qp 1 ’ , and a trebled look difwnerl in the 1
trl’seyes. I
i “ n hy!” she asked s owly.
Madame laughed lightly'.
“VY hat a singular question! Do you wish
to !>e ugly', my child!”
. -Some sudden thought made the fair face
rfAre you , ,
j <Jh, no! no!” she cried quickly.
Ic-bement- j Uf course not._ You would lie worse than
eyes,
“By heaven! it shall not lie the last meet
ing. Mademoiselle Marguerite, say that you
were only jesting.”
“But 1 am not jesting, Lord Trelwyn. Last j
night I was betrothed to Count Berti
and in a few weeks I am to be married.”
She bowed and turned quickly away leav
ing the Englishman astonished for once in his
life.
Louis Bertrand was not a demonstrative
lover. He scarcely ever fi mched Marguerite’s
hand, but he was not lacking in courtesy. In
a quiet way he paid her every lit! le attention
possible, and while he would sit and talk to
tbe\grandmother, his grave eyes would lie
'xc'Lon H-ej.ile. proud voting fneeiof the
away
The u odd
quaint o'Ulci
brought tjier
iugs to ihe fa
The day wa.<
blue as a sap
the sun.
They were t_ i.
leave her u ithout any excuse fi u- doing so.
The thought that he si ill cared for her never
entered her mind. To her tne marriage vows
were too sacred to ever be trilled with. She
was yet to learn how lightly som 1 people
hold them.
t j Spring came and they joined a gay- party
, I going to Switzerland. They lingered in the
little chalets on the lakes; climbed the moun
tains, and watched the evening sunlight Hush
the towering, snow crowned peaks with the
loveliest of rose and amber tints. Marguerite
enjoyed it all intensely, and was sorry win n
the time nine for them to turn their faces
homeward again.
“Where would you like to go now Margue
rite!” Bertrand enquired, ns they traveled
slowly homeward, and with a sudden home
sick longing filling her heart, she/Answered:
; silly if you (lid. Be careful with your toilet i Chateau. It 5 £ 5 = i = =~
will v |>u he my j t!us evening. Monsier Latum- and Count Ber- i strong love L .".= £•= j
1.ioki ; :g eager- j tra,, 'l will lie here. Go now and look as fair j stronger still i_. * £ i ^ >.~ | * 5
as possible.” Evening wa~ ( .§ ' ~ ^ ='7 S~ 3
i- one ( ueslion,” , al '°se, and with a soft, bright smile on ! ding guests ha = " . /.r. - 2 .
" • ’ Latonr. FeelK.* s
Marguerite sto '■$! _ 5 ~.- >i
her young face, disappeared.
“My beautiful Mart
•She will win
slow us Madame St. Armand had
those people who venture all. either to be
made rich, or to be ruined in a day'.
Louis Bertrand was a dark,
thought the girl, gasp
irguentt i
S2L2 s H >.•!
diamond brooch fastening the lace at her
throat. , . . .. ,
Madge wears a combination suit ot navy
blue sal in, and old gold-colored silk; the neck
is cut ]lompndeur and finished with a ruilic of
rare ’ " " o-- *- 1 --
elbow sleet-
less lace. The cropped hair lias grown won-
dei fully, and ti e short brown curls are fas
tened back with a dead-gold band. She wears
other ornaments of dead gold, but she Ls so
lo\ ely os not to need them.
“Here he comes, auntie, and a stranger
with him,” Madge calls out, while a swift
blush covers her face.
Already she lias discovered Paul s worth,—
bow far above other men he is—so noble, so
grand, in all his actions; and yet she is con-
itantly piqued by his seeming coldness. He
never pay- her the vapid compliments of
other men, so she fancies be sees no beauty
in the fair face over which others rave.
Paul enters the room with the stranger,
and Mrs. Raleigh starts forward with a glad
erv of surprise.
“Wliv Duke Chalmers, where did you come
from? A thousand welcomes, my dear, dear
‘‘Thank vou. aunt. I only arrived a few
hours ago. ” Even as lie answers her, his eyes
turn admiringly upon Madge. Mrs. Raleigh
hastens to introduce them. YVith character
istic boldness, his first words are:
“From what old painting have you stepped
down, M iss Rivers? ’Pon my honor you look
extreme! v like the portrait of my grand-aunt,
the beauty of our family.” .
“And why should she not, Duke? .She is
related to that same grand-aunt, being the
daughter of your uncle Dick Rivers, whom
you certainly remember!” ....
“Remember! I should think I did. Many
a scrape has he pulled me out of by taking
the blame on his own shoulders. But where
is he? Is he with you.”
“No: Madge is an orphan.”
“Then we are cousins,” familiarly taking
her hand. "You are nearer to me than to
Paul.”
“I suppose so,” releasing her hand from his
close clasp.
f “Dinner is served, madame,” announces
the French butler.
Duke offei-s his arm to his aunt and Paul
anvl Madge follow them.
He Ls just from London, this debonair
man of the world, but it is not his first visit
to the United States. It is whispered in his
club at London, that when England gl ows
too hot to hold him, he takes a trip across the
Atlantic to see his American cousms who re
main blissfully ignorant of what rumor says.
But to all outward appearances no mao is
more polished — more truly refined—than
Major Marmaduke Chalmers.
He fascinates Madge with his rare conver-
Youshall do 110 such tiling, luy dear: stay
at home and miss the fh-st sleighing of t lie sea
son! My face is much easier, and I will do
very well alone.”
Paul rises and leaves the room as if tne
conversation was indifferent to him; Duke
alone notices that his breakfast has scarcely
“Well, it is settled then, 111a belle. I will
order the sleigh around at three; will that
be too soon !" Duke questions.
“1 don’t know,” Madge pouts. “I had
hoped we would all go in the large family
sleigh and have a jolly time; now I don't
care whether I go or not.”
“Complimentary to me,” laughs Duke,
“but I’ll wager a'liox of gloves against a—”
and bis eyes look what his lips dare not say—
“that you’ll go, when you see the sleigh at
th»* door.” „ ,
“Shall I ! You'll see.” Madge flashes
and runs up the stairs to her room, fully re
solved not to go.
But alas, for a woman’s resolution! When
she stands by the front window and sees the
sleighs go by, with their merry liell-', and
merrier occupants, tho blixid dances in her
voting veins, and by the time the Major
drives around to the door, she is quite willing
to don her sealskin jacket and cap aud lie
tucked into the cosy little cutter.
The air is so exhilarating, the horse so
spirited and the Avenue so bewildering with
its myriad sleighs and cutters,that Madge finds
herself in the most exuberant spirits, and
laughs heartily as they pass a rude sleigh,
looking like n wagon box put upon runners
and filled to overflowing with juveniles of all
sizes, while a comical little woman, in a
bright red shawl sits perched on the front
seat directing in a shrill voice the big boy
driving.
“Lawsa massy ! we shall all be spilled out.
she shrieks, just as Madge and the Major fly
past; he turns and solemnly enquires of the
laughing girl: • ,
“Don’t you think that’s the old woman who
lived in a shoe, out for an airing with her
brood ?” ^ ,
They reach Central Park, and passing
straight through, are soon in the open coun
try, meeting but few sleighs now.
-‘Are you cold ?” asks the Major, seeking
her hand under the robe and looking into her
^“Not the least in the world,” coldly trying
to withdraw the hand he holds fast.
. “Mab, what a little icicle you are, or pre-
tend to be; were you born at the North Pole, national weapon.
A KnjahN Vanity.
The following description, by Mr. Vul
Prinsop, of the dressing up the 51. nurrajah
for his portrait, is amusing Ti ;aji Rao
Holkarlias been ill since Delhi; he las even
now fever, the result of cold, and equested
me to paint him as fat as he was a the As
semblage, rather than as he is now. le prides
himself 011 his flesh, and can, they lay, eat a
whole wild boar unassisted at one meal. I
must say I saw but little change ri his vast
bulk: he looks a little grayer, but that may
be that he has forgotten the dyetbisnoming.
However, he is certainly seedy, tnd that
does not render his society or con-ersation
“Yes, but not for mvself.”
„ Afeelingof dread chilled madanie’s heart
“YV ho is it then, if I may ask?”
“Madame, I am unfortunate in being the
bearer of ill news.”
He paused, and madame’s white, withered
. . , hands were clasped together, her face almost
any more fascinating. Holkar is .lie beau j as white as the puffs of snowy hair that
/.f n enLili Hn <ifk; 111 Ills fro mini if
{nil sea, Mai _
Countess B rtrand ha."% ^
sighed and that bitter s'*
justice overshadowed hq'"* % * ^
heart. There was stc'-
brooking over the vast -
, . „ 1 longed to sail out on it an
L 1 mm ^P enence °/ tke ' vorld . For years the sight of earth. To le."
he had been one of Madame St. Armand’s the doubts and fears, the u
valued friends, and as he was a most desira- ! of life
We parfi she thought nothing could be better ’ She sat down at the urea. 6
5’ 1 r “"i t° fcHicy -Marguerite. It would the yellow keys lovingly, iSw! , ‘
be.so fortunate for the child. For a time she through them. She was stil. \ ■ i V,e dark > silk 5 *»“
f ! ee “ ,at V't.’ur looked disturbed, ! with her hands folded and her b.—A dress i One afternoon Mr
t at last noticing ins sdence, she said: I gleaming ghostlike in the gathering gloom. I the beach. It was
‘Y\ hy, Monsieur, you are strangely silent ' "hen her husband entered. After one glance I wedding day, ami she
tonight. Are you troubled!” | at the dark, composed face, graver than a the changes of a year.
big chair while flies are brushed awiy by at- i
tendant slaves, and if his rejabsip leans
“Go on,” she said in calm, even tones.
“The bubble in which you trusted your fir-
back a cushion is put under head oilibow; in . tune has burst. All is lost.”
fact, a rajah for the Surrey Theere—“the I “All!” she moaned, and wr
Great Mogul called Bello”—the vijy dream ) “M011 Dieu! what will
f one’s youth; yet as sharp as.a ■ * lie, ainl 1 Marguerite and I are beggars.”
s cheeky and proud as the Kinl | C’anni- j Count Bertrand got up, walked t
al Isles, with nothing on but a cf:> ami a plane, then came back to the table.
ung her hands,
become of us.
I bridegroom’s should be, she smiled in shrink- j months had given her a
I ing dread. | grace, and a greater know-lei
I “Do not be afraid of me, dearest,” he said j a,1<1 i above all, a full, clear kne
in low tender tones. “I shall not stay but a j self- Her nature had grown nui
moment.” ! and her thoughts ran deeper.
He paused, seemingly listening to the softly j keen a lost year, audits suffering on.
whispering wind that came across the sea I her. Back and forth, she walked, ti
and in at the window. At last he said :
“Marguerite, I know that you were an un
willing bride, that 3 - ou dislike and shrink | a Mn of dead gold. iShe was simply dresb.
from me. and I shall never claim you as my i in soft, fine white, with a cluster of pale pink
wife until you can overcome this aversion.” J rost ‘ s in her belt, and a wide-brimmed straw
She glanced up, white and frightened. 1 ' ~
bal
few beeds. .
The second day I went there the .ajali had
to put on his jewels, and what ai'ight! It
takes at least six men to dress him. There is
the Hereditary Master of the Jewfs, an old lL x lmll
man with spectacles, who puts tbd on with j only been contented and not meddled with
to the fire-
‘Be calm, madame,”—with a faint ring of
command in his voice.
She glanced up.
“How- can I be calm, when I have "slilv
wasted liiv child’s dower. Ah me! it i had
, wmn cum iLM iu, sue WUIKea,
j wavelets rippling almost up to her feci, ,
! yellow, hazy sunlight streaming down
the care of a real artisb while four jon stand
round with trays, on which arc) isjdaved
jewels worth I know not how- any lacs.
“What shall I wear?” says theVjati. “I
think this handsome.” And he Ibis up a
kind of peacock made of diamonds id pearls.
“Yes, that will do.” And the jieaek is “of
fered up” to his head while he lily turns
from side to side, gazing with so satisfied
look into a glass, which originally >st eight
annas (one shilling), and which eld by a
sixth man, contrasts strangely wilthe jew
els it is called on to reflect. Salor and
magnificence are found side by le in all
these rajah’s abodes. None of thenaveany
sense of fitness—in fact, no native s. “YY e
won’t put on these pearls,” cries tlMahara-
jah, “for without them this looks ire like a
crown.” And this in India, tlielatif caste,
changeless through succeeding ag \\ hv,
this man’s ancestor w-as a goaths and he
himself, for all his airs, would cbeolly pay
the sum of money to be consideredhijpopt ;
and while many Brahmins stand ami with
clasped hands, aud probably hisok is of
Brabminical caste, not one of t:i would
chat with him, rajah though he bt
In the early Egyptian times ti armies
were conscripted like the armies Europe
at the present day. The bow waie early
those cheats. My dear Marguerite can never
be settled now. YY’ho would marry a dower-
less girl!”
“1 will,” said Bertrand, the cold composure
of his face broken up.
“You!" iua tone of genuine surprise.
“Yes, I, if mademoiselle will accept 1
In her joy at the turn
madame could have laug_
blessed Fate for the happy
ble. That speculative
on the very- thing th;i „
bring about by- slow degrees. Restored to
her usual graceful composure, she turned to
M. Latour and said:
“You are a wise mail, advise me what to
do.”
He knew perfectly well that she was
pleased with the Count’s offer, but neverthe
less very gravely said:
“You ask me, madame, and so I say, ac
cept Count Bertrand as the husband of your
grand daughter. We know that he is rich
and noble, and in all France there is not a
more generous heart.”
Louis stood silent and impatient. Madame
turned to him:
“Count Bertrand, Marguirite is the most
precious treasure that I have, and it grieves
me deeply to ever have to give her away*; but
I am old, and a life of toil would not suit my
beloved child. I know that I can trust her
“Do not misinterpret my words,” he con
tinue?, reading her thoughts. ‘‘Before the
world you will be my wife, but until you
can say, “Louis. I trust you. I love vou,” I
will simply be your fr
comes I shall treat y
done.” His lips touc
love, my* love, God protect and keep you
He was gone, and with her head bowed on
her folded hands Marguerite wept, while the
last ray of light died on i, leaving the world
to the gloom and silence of night.
Her woman’s heart was stirred as it had
never been before and a new love filled it.
Ihe long dreamy days passed. Bertrand
hat shading her face.
I \ iscount Trelwyn joined her.
I “A lovely day,” he remarked, for the sake
of breaking the, to him, embarassiug silence.
"\es, she answered, glancing dreamily'
wad. Until that time | , y-,?, , ,1, tl ' 1 s . h . laln « s . ea -
ou as I have alwavs ! . 1 1 • i‘^ I< '‘ < ’• he 881,1 "«rt, a sy
died her hair. “My P a t ket “ ( ’ ho " 1 “> voice.
itect and keep you.” " i kurelv you must be mistaken,” in ipi
Iiiiet
careiess tones.
“But 1 am not mistaken. You are very
proud, and try to hide your sorrow; but I
-•an see that you are unhappy.”
" “ ■ - , U(U
lord. ’’
... , - endure to see
you sutl er any longer. I could murder your
an see that you are unhappy.”
Marguerite lifted her head prom
“You talk strangely to-day, my
“I do. It is because 1 cannot en
grew impatient.
“I am tired of this humdrum life,” she said
one morning as they' lingered over their
breakfast. “Louis, why' don’t you take
Marguerite to Paris ?”
“Certainly, if she wishes it. Would you
like to go, -Marguerite !” he asked, turning to
where she stood feeding a pet bird. The dark
eyes, the sweet lips answered “yes.”
“We will go then. ”
The new life was a bewilderingly strange
one to Marguerite. She could not under
stand why men and women should be con
stantly seeking excitement and pleasure.
Count Bertrand’s record had been a singu
larly' pure and honorable one, and Paris
gladly' welcomed him. His fair young
Countess was soon surrounded by a large
circle of admirers. She was so pure, so hon
estly frank and true that tired eyes and tired
one long day' of happiness." *cn
Marguerite listened to this torrent of words
in mingled horror and astonish iient, and a
shamed feeling made her cheeks flush, that
she could have ever thought him a hero—even
m her girlish inexperience, and ignorance
of the world. She looked at his flushed
eager faee, her eyes full of cold, haughty
surprise. b J
r must have affected your brain
Lord Trelwyn,” she said icily. “If you will
stand out of niy path, 1 will return to t’ e
house, now.”
_ Her scorn and composure only urged
lnm on. b
“But you must hear me, before I will let
you go. Marguerite, it was here that I first
s»w you, and it is here that I would tell you
of my love—yes, love. No, don’t move^ or
Concluded on Sih page,