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■ 'oi >i> o> lui: i>ie\iiEii:. Bowie’s rangers, out on the trail. Had galloped from early dawn But the prairie road was cool and sweet And green as a garden lawn, And tin strong air stirred the l*!v<»d like win<— The strong air, rented with llowers and pfne. Silent and stern and ready to tight. They followed the Indian foe. I Till Bowie cried: “Let the bridles fad, For the sun is sinking low. We must feed and rest <-r w»* shall fail. Though fifty miles on the Fijian trail." Th< y had reached the grove of mighty oaks. Into the shadows they went! The saddles were loosened. and beasts and men Were glad of their leafy tent. Said Bowie "Just tak«* your ritle, Hays, And seti how the !a ! around us lays “ The youtli went forward with head-tip step: Came ba< k with a .uieker tread. “Captain. I found beneath yon oak A rani. that is " “Dead?** “bUiite dead. His saddle and whip beside him lay. I reckon his horse lias strayed away. - Yes. dead he lay in the blowing grass. Lay sleeping lik* any eliiM, One arm was under his curly head, His lips still faintly smiled. Hooted and spurred he had gone to res*. But looked like a man that death had blessed. There was not a wound, or mark, or stain; There wu* not a lin»* to tail From whence he came, or what was his name. Nor where he was wont to dwell. “Well, no matter,” said Bowie, “because Where u< know nothing at ali. (b»d knows'" They dug him a grave beneath the oak. And Bowie, with « hunting-knife, Cut deep in ith living bark the date When the stranger stepped from life. Then, glancing down, with a solemn pause. (’ut uu •- the date two v. «:«K <.. <1 kiw-vo !“ i t The Male Flirt; — OK,— i The Lesson She Taught Him. CHAPTER 1. Harrv WwiUvurth >v»‘r -at I* .•asi. . t hat - <1, l.i it tin *n a half j huh •h of a ( ■laitn 1 fur as one < *i iul« 1 ; But slie Fell ievet 1 i ■MltlM ui yt *ars .■id. | [ict; la* was not j as yet irredeemably lost. Out was tremliliugj on* the verge of ■ lest ruction. He did not] drink, swear. n<>r indulge in any of the inn j jor Sills that lieset moneyed f:u*U, but he m- i' a spoiled youth, stepping into manhood. A change must he wrought in his manner of l living or his would lie a miserable life. No. one saw this plainer than did the keen-sighted i little Addie Merton. Rut what could sin* dot He was four vein s her seni' u*: her father was his tenant; he was her 1< was what the neighbors sal dozen other girls had as upon him as she hud. so judge from upgearanees. in him. She was now seve and for two years they had been much to- ] gether. Her father was a cultivated man but a farmer—what people with money call a pool* mail: yet he had a handsome, sensible, ] educated woman for a wife, four children, of , whom Addie was the eldest, a well—selected , library, a good piano and enough of furni- . ture to make the family comfortable and their guests feet at ease. Indeed, Harry W ert worth had often told his mother that the Merton household was the happiest and ! best regulated one he had ever visited, and he could not see why people should rust their lives out trying to hoard wealth, when peo- - pie could be as happy in poverty as they tire. Mrs. Wentworth was a rich widow, and Harrv was her only child, ami she saw with > grief the slippery ground upon which In* stood, and secretly wished that lie would bring home as his wife their tenant's daugh ter; the thought of it piqued her pride at first, but her goo I sense came to the rescue. Slit felt the Mortons’ nobility of soul, and knew it would be her son's earthly salvation to become the possessor of such a treasure as that into which she felt sure Addie Merton would soon be developed. Rut she was a sensible mother and knew ] Ihat Jove was a delicate subject for a third, party to touch, no matter how close the rela tion, or liow deep the interest felt; so site only said; *• Harry, my dear, 1 hope you will not tri fle till you deserve the title of 'male dirt.’” ] “Trifle, mother; Who says 1 trifle;" ** 1 have heard no one accuse you of it. my ■ sou, but what name must 1 give to your con duct when you divide your attention equally among six or seven young ladies who are till in the marriage market, and each, perhaps, thinking that at no distant day she will be come the happy Mrs. Harry Wentworth:" '■ What right have they to think anything.'" said Harry, evidently a little aroused: "1 have as yet never asked that favor of any of them.” "Rut that (bulge will not ease your con science when you feel that they expect it. What right have you to their timet Wlmt right have you to rob other young men of what you do not want simply lie-cause you have the time and power to ilo it; These are questions I would have jou earnestly con sider.” ** 1 hope, mother, you are not trying to bring me to the point and to lind out at once who is to lie your future daughter-in law “Not at all, Harry. 1 only wish you to find it out before you weary of the search, before your power of discrimination so weakens that you will not know the real from the counterfeit,” said his mother, with warmth and emphasis. “ 1 mean to find it out to-morrow,” said Harry, glad of a chance to turn the matter into jest, “for I am going to the gypsy camp about two miles from here, and when 1 have learned all about it I will report to you promptly,” and he laughingly bowed himself out into the fresh air, where he vainly ex tiected to fling to the winds the few earnest thoughts his mother’s words bud forced him a moment to entertain, lie sauntered away through the spacious lawn that stretched its lieautiful length before old Wentworth homestead and cast him— it ut length int ■ an old rustic seat wit -re lie and iii- mother hud often sat and read together, and where he . had heard her kind advice tint- and again. [ and bad never questioned her right to give it. Rut now what was the matter with, him: i His mother s words had st mg him—but how*: . She had certainly said nothing unkind to j him, and only meant hi- go,..! in ail that she said. But lie wished she had not said any thing, or that he now could forget her words, • Had lie stolen any woman's fine- r robbed j any man of his own: U as he a social thief: j His mother had certainly couched that uccii- j sat ion in the form of some very pointed ; questions, and he had never known her to i falsely accuse any one. He rested very uneasily :u that seat now. j But we leave him as he reclined there that •’ July afternoon with his hr*tad brimmed hat drawn over his handsome face, dreaming and , trving to drive from his memory the fair ! young faces that now forced themselves in \ fancy before him. in vivid outlines touched i with a new meaning. There was but one ] face among them that was really beautiful i to him, and that was tie* intelligent face of his tenant s daughter. But what of that now*: j llad he not smiled alike on all of them: and ! would she trust Jim now, if Ju-.-imuM de ] clare in favor of the one he really loved.: j Addie Merton had two confidants—two to | whom she turned i:i every emergency—one was her father, the other h<*r mother, and j she had always found them equal To every * occasion. But now would they fail her in this little adventure she was about to make for tin* reformation of the man -In* loved: It w as now almost two months since they had I received the new- of her unetc s death: in* I was her mother’s only brother, and a very j eccentric man. and for year- had been a j widower without children, and had willed ' his entire estate, except three rI.*- m-and dnl [ * lars to his sister, to Adda* Merton, tin* name- 1 snkc of his early-lost, but idolized wife, i “This," said Addie To her father. “Harry Wentworth must not know." and so it had 1 been kept ;i family secret. Rhe believed that Harry loved her.*but sis* must be sure it w as j for herself alone. She knew that the next j day Harrv Wentworth was to vi-it the gyp sy camp to have his fortune told: he had ] mentioned the fact t<* her. and -lie seized up- j on this bit of informatii n. determin *1 to give him a lesson, if possible, that would arouse ! him to nobler manhood and. awaken Ins eon j science in the spots where it lay asleep. She 1 resolved that he should In* called a coxcomb, i a name that she knew lit* despised and did j not dream that he deserved. Love-making t was as natural to him as singing to a canary, jor as honey stealing to the bet—he did not j study it—was unfettered by any rules; his j sentences were spontaneous and his eyes could i speak volumes. | “I have it all arranged, father.” said Ad- 1 die, “and 1 w ant you to carry me out to the j camp in the morning, and then take care of yourself somewhere in w atching distance un til Harry shall have heard liis fortune and gone home: then you may call for mi*. * It was a beautiful naming. and the forest was full of music, and Harry Wentworth I drove gaily along, wondering what the in- i itOFESSOU Jt itiii-'J Id- wife'.- nu:.:c v, uli be according I tithe dusky diviners—what color her eyes ! and hair would lit—if they would have iter short or tall. He secretly wished they would describe Addie Merten, but then, tlmuglit he. . th.-v always make the imaginary wife an heiress, and that Ad lie is n >t. No, Addie i- 1 only my tenants daughter “lio! ho! who says she i- only my tenant’s daughter :" He said this aloud, and was -i ashamed of his 1 absent-minde iiiess that he stopped his horse and looked around to see if any one w as in hearing distance. And as he rode on again la* said to himself, “She is. my tenant s daughter, but not only That, sir* is Harry Wentworth's sweetheart, and he means one dav to make the world and his mother a wa ri ot it, Hey. boy, where is that queen of the woods that sees backward and forward and 1 ali of a fellow's lifeat a glan.-e said Harry, as he alighted from liis carriage and liegan to arrange his horse in comfortable quarters under a shade tree. “Follow me," said the boy; “there are more ’un one here its can do that, hut if it sher that knows most about yeti you're after scein’ tli.it woman'll show you te her." said ’lie. turning and pointing to a h -mbit—looking bundle of black skin and rags that sat oil a log under an old Is ech tree, who did not seem te notice him until he had advanced quite ch.se to her and asked: “Are you tin* lortune teller !” She arose and looked sharply at him fora monte it, and then her keen, dark glance faded into a vacant stare; she then led him into a little tent, dingy and quaint looking, where .-at a veiled figure at which t *e old woman p tinted and said: “there's the one, she'll tell you all you want to know, and more too.” Harry felt the buoyancy of his spirit de part and bis nerve almost give wav: behalf wished that a gypsy man instead of a wo man would teii his fortune, but all he had to do now was to pay tin* sum demanded, hear his fortune and be gone with liis knowledge. •*1 see much that is interesting in your life." said the gypsy, taking his hand in hers and gazing through her veil into his soft palm. -‘You have had a great deal of pleas ure in your time— much of it the result of an inn tive mind." Here he thought of having defrauded young men. as ids mother had told him, because lie had had the time and power to do it. “But i see," continued the gypsy, "a great change is to come upon your life—a great change. 'What is your wife's name to be :’ Ito not wax impatient now . Suppose you should marry all the girls you court—it would take till the alphabet to sup ply even tin* initials [bother the jade,thought Harry, a little too much confused to speak]; but do not be alarmed, you will not marry t all of them. There is* that young heiress whose initials nre ('. L. V„ you will not mar ry her [never]; and that patient little school mistress, who is thinking this very minute that your heart is hers, loves you, but then you will not marry her; and there are those two pretty young girls who are dreaming they will lie your bride, hut they will be dis appointed, and perhaps will have no con fidence in honest lover- who really love them because of the shake their faith received from you. _V‘'ihat meek-eyed, tall and graceful music HN TYNHAI.R. ;ea**hi*r lias kiudiy received vour attention • •i iu-i* die thinks you a tolerable picture vith vnur fortune fora background but hers , soniv '■ irea *i: but there is another whose ot .- oi uutnble one, whom yon esteem for ler iin;-hties that plea.-t* y,,ii. an* 1 who esteems : you b>r vour good qualities, but I see a bar- : rii-r between you: her iuiti Is art* A. M.. but tlicn sue is soon to go a great distance from home and you will not see her for many] weeks, perhaps years, and by that time your I mutual esteem, perchance, w ill have evapo ; rated ’When* is -he g ling’t The route is 1 not eleir to me, and, as you part paths here, it scarcely need concern you. If 1 read your j face i*i rrectly you have experienced some new trouble of fate; some * *ne near yi*ur heart [ has oflended you; may be he has ‘hurt to ] heal." uid you should keep the wound open til! tilt poison all gets out, which if you do i \ou iji*-* * -possibly outlive your deserved title of Vorconib,' and at last marry the woman t you live, who will bless you with her love and a urge fortune." Here the gypsy dropped Ills bald, and he walked aw ay more dissatis fied vith himself than he had ever been 1 e- fore. I.'.k*- :< thought his carriage whirled out * J sight of the shaded gypsy camp, and then low leisurely he rode! “What does this Mean:" he said, half aloud. “I promised to retort to mother the result of this -illy in vest! ;ation. Shall I keep my promise: or shaill observe a cowardly silence in regard to th: matter.' It seemed only a repetition of he* own remarks the day before. How couh that gypsy wench have learned the trutls she told me—truths, did 1 say: and am I a coxcomb: Is this the despicable light in whiJi Harry Wentworth is viewed; Ah:” O. wad some power the giftie gic us To see ourselves as itlu r.- sec us! “Bt;. Heaven hear my vow, I will live down thattide!” and the handsome fellow stopped his lorse and stood straight up in his open cartiage and drew a long breath as In* re marked: “1 will go this very evening, and, lik* a man. ask Mr. Merton for his daughter, andthen. if 1 can win her love and confidence, mv mother shall know who is to be her diitghter-in-law: yes. it shall lie Addie Mer ton and not that gypsy-begotten one who shal ‘bless me with iier love and a large for- tuie.'” !trs. Wentworth noticed that Harry was no’quite so jubilant on his return as he was wint to be. but she did not question him nor evil remind him of his promise, although she redly did wish to know the meaning of his clanged face that was now making an effort tolook natural. The work of regeneration w;s going on in his heart, she felt sure, for shs had always found him teachable, amlre- ptiaehed herself for not having sooner warn ed him of his danger. The evening came at last, and Harry Jessed himself with more than usual care, a;d tried very hard to look easy and uncon- cnied, as lje Wandered off to Mr. Merton’s vith the daily paper in his hand. A beautiful snset gilded the western skies andjformed a gorious background for the picturesque yard .ad garden and the neat white cottage in vhich the Merton family lived. There was : charm about it now that Harry bud never elt before, so he paused for several minutes, leaning over the gate trying to <■> ni[ ose him self, but the unusual stillness that pervaded the place began to grow oppressive, for he ,|i,i l , ;*r Addie s sweet, familiar voice at the piano, and he knew it was the hour for their evening songs, but a gentle “good evening front among the shrubbery relieved his lone liness. and he recogniz.ed'the graceful form and -till beautiful face <>f Mrs. Merton. “I tun out seeking solace from good moth er nature." said she with unusual sadness in her tone, “for I always think we can bear our trials better with lu r than shut in-doors: anti 1 have often thought it strange that, if there i- a sound that we do especially dread to hear, vu* are always listening for it— sharp and loud sounded the whistle of the evening train as it neared the little way sta tion where Addie stood waiting w ith her lunch basket in her hand and her veil drawn (low n a little close, for, to tell the truth, she csiuM not. keep the tears hack when she kissed her father good-by- but she was on and out of sight in less time than it has taken me to state the fact. “There." said Mrs. Merton, “I thought it would sound just so—l did not want to hear it, and yet 1 '-ante on purpose to listen; I did not feel well enough to attend Addie to the train, so her father had to see her off all by himself, but I .do hope she w ill have a safe journey.” “Journey! Where?” Harrv stood like one in a trance Till now. Mrs. Merton saw, but did not seem to see, his confusion tit this revelation. So she told him calmly that Addie had gone East to spend the rest of the summer and autumn with the family of lu r father's old friend, who resided w ithin a few miles of Philadel phia. They had invited her. and she accept ed their invitation. “They are most excel lent people,” added Mrs. Merton, “and so far as worldly comfort is concerned they want nothing: they have but two children, one daughter, about Addies age. and a son two years older." “Confound him!" thought Harry, trying to seem less surprised than he telt. I hat the world would come to an end before his eyes seemed as possible to him as that Addie Met ton would h ave home for the autumn, and that, too. without saying a word to him about it. Why hadn't she told him? What right had she to go awav without telling him: What right, eh: What light would either or all of the the others to whom he seemed equally devoted have to leave their homes without his knowledge: This last mental question stung him bitterly, but he was dumb, and determined at once to flee to his own room or some place where he could be alone until he could feel like himself again. So be bade Mrs. Merton good night, and. without seeing liis mother, was soon in the silence of his own room alone; but it brought no quiet to liis restless feelings. Addie Merton's was one of those candid natures that will not be deceived nor trifled with. She was of medium size, with brown hair and large, lustrous eyes of the same color, a fresh complexion, and a light, elastic step. She had received her education from her mother, but now that she had money she meant to take a more thorough course, “but do not mention school going nor school teach ing." said she to her father, after having dis- closcd all her plans to him, “for I can not bear to have people talk of my plans Is f re tbe\* are executed, for if they prove success ful it - time enougli for congratulate ms. and if unsuccessful for commiseration.” CHAPTER II. Days, w eeks and months went by, and still was Harry Wentworth in the shadow. He ; found no iimre sunshine that satisfied him in ’ society of those w ith whom he had flirted ] and idled so many precious days away. ■ Their witching smiles and winning words were lost on him. He was suddenly out <*f ] society—went from home only when urgent ■ business called him. <)ne day a saucy little i 1 icant} . who had been half in love with him. told him that, “if h<* must wear mourning for Addie Merton, he would look lietter with , it on It's hat than on his face." “1 have arranged to leave h-,me to morrow, , for the East. I shall Is* gone f *ra few weeks, I and I hope you will not be lonely without ’me," said Harry te his mother, about one year after the departtin of Addie from Mer ton Cottage. Time and again had he c!..sed his room door and locked if. and seated himself in hi- great arm chair Iiefore hi- elegant writing desk, and spoiled s l -et after sheet of the very daintiest paper: he r, mid just get down the words "Miss Addie." then, for a changi “Itear Addie." and s . on till his heart would fill with tin* unutterable. At last heconclud- ed to go to her instead of trving to w rite to j her. The grandeur of the mountains, the heaven ly lieauty . if the Juniata that winds like a line of light around their base, the busy ] cities, the sleepy villages, the silent fields. ] the lonely fores:s were to him as if he saw ! them not. Addie Merton was the prelude, ■ the interlude, and is including symphony of I hi- soul's song—tie* burden of his heart's thought. Nor v as in* aroused from liis I reverie until the great city w as reached and he stood clone and unknow n among the busy, | crowding populace. The crimson and gold light of a glorious sunset tinged with worldless beauty the tep- of the old chestnut trees that stood like senti nels around the magnificent home of the i int oils. Atldie Merton and Maud Vinton w ere now engaged in a happy vacation. I Tin y were reclining in an old rustic -eat, ! over which an arch had been made by bend J mg and fastening together tin* tops of two ] trees, which were now thickly grown . ver * by fragrant honeysuckle. Nor did they see. through the nias.-ive wall of green and v. i- low, tne handsome form of one w ho paused Jon his pathway toward the house at the mention of liis name by a voice familiar and musical to him. It was not right to hear ' w hat he knew was nut intended for a Tho* 1 party, but he had no power to resist the temptation. “t tell you, Maud Vinton, I am not engag- n.aines ill vain, simply because 1 told you he is the best that I know of his sex ; an. 1 here let tin* tell you that even he ;s not without his grievous faults. I haven’t a lovi if I had I should not want to make him a honeysuckles are almost as pretty as those • ■range flowers yhi will wear n* xf Wednes day night,” said Addie, holding up a wreatli she had twilled. ••Yes.” said Maud, without raising! .*r eyes, for she was a w.*i* bit stung by Addin'- j .• marks, since she had talked to her almost- in cessantly about Carl Summers. She loved talk of him. and it seemed to her a top: that eould never be exhausted, and had not tin tight till now that it might possibly be more inter esting to her than to her silent listener. “1 hope,” she said, timidly. “1 have not wearied you talking of mv lover." “Not in the least. It has done tne more good than you know. Vour confidence in his singleness of heart has touched the buds ' of charity in mine, and who knows but tliev may sometime blossom into a beautiful faith in a lover who will not have his heart divi ie.l nor his sweethearts multiplied—a lover who is all mine." said Addie, in an apologetic 1 tone. ; “Then 1 take it that Harry "Wentworth :- - somewhat Byronical in his nature: “ ‘has loved u good number’ r but there, the t. a ] nell is ringing: let's go and have some refresh meats, and when the sweet, love-making moon laughs down upon us. you may be in a better humor, and be communicative cm ugh j to let me know, at least, whether Harry is a j great, burly, red-whiskered man, or a i- . cate figure with n.ellow brown hair and wi - to match.” “Maud, you ar. a persistant little tease. 1 but earnestly. 1 wish you would not mention that name again, and. if you please, excuse me from tea this evening 1 prefer to t* -team I here just a little while alone; but I will be home soon." said Addie. in that peculiar t.-ne of hers that forbade any insisting or question ing of the why and wherefore. ! Maud tripped light !v homeward and told I her mother that Addie would not be home to j tea: that she was holding one of her Usual prayer-meetings composed of one—she pn* j stmied she was offering up a petit ion for faith. | This excuse was :t little mystical to the go- >.!. j unromantic Mrs. Vinton, but she supposed j “girls were girls" and did not venture a qiies- . ti in. "Happy hearted Maud,” said Addie aloud. \ "I really believe I should be silly- enough to j love Harry Wentw orth as devotedly as she loves Carl Summers if. like Carl, he loved but one. Yet, w hen L think of the number • .f : good and worthy girls—” | “Whom Harv Wentworth has thought ' lessly wronged, you are tempted to hate j him,” ’ man instant a pair of strong arms ] had c. , the graceful form of Addie Mer* I ton. and held it tenderly in a long embrace, j “I have deeply and sincerely repented, and like Carl Summers, ldo love but one: yes, darling. 1 love you and you only: have never loved any one else, and since your flight from | Wentworth farm 1 have been most wretched and lonely, and in the utter darkness to which your absence consigned me, if no bud of hope had dared to put forth, a sense of right lias taken root in my soul which hits quite sup planted those poisonous weeds of selfishness and thoughtlessness. Then, dearest, will you not forgive the past and say you love and trust me. go home with me and be my wife!” Harry Wentworth was not in a trance, but he felt that the spirit of love had entire pos session of him, and he spoke as it prompted. Addie Merton loved the truth so well and and hail practiced it soiling, that now if she Continued on sih page.