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HEAR IT IN MIND. ■ WpII ’* Wy he “half done;” Hnt. 1* not ending; p n . a t Hin erases ne’er are won Hut only wishing and intending, • Start” is good but “stay” in better, • Start” alone ne’er won a race; Start and stick” is sure prize getter, ■Staying powers” take foremost place, i proud and deep lav the foundation, * lie Htire and count the cost; or voa’ll rue, in deep vexation, Treasure spent and labor lost. -WoqJVuA) BY CHARLES J. BELLAMY. Copyrighted by the Author, and published } ° by arrangement with him. war, so aSsorbCu Li Tils Thoughts that he did not observe that he was close upon au excited ''rowd of village people, until such words as these fell upon his ear: • A noiee friend of rlie poor man he be, with his four fancy bosses, his silver dishes to cat his victuals out of, and his house like a king’s palace, while we lives and dies in dirt end poverty. Who made him better nor us; do In- work harder? do beslcep less? No, but h have his venison and his game dinners, while us starves on tea and crackers; ho sprawls on his fine cushions, and sleeps in his KifS beds, while wo rot inclose atticks, and loafs in dirty saloons, the poor man’s only home. What title have he got to liavo bet ter than we, and give himself airs over us?" Philip was astonished. The man who stood on tho steps of one of the tenement houses, instructing an audience extending quite across tho highway, was no other than the incendiary who had so nearly caused the ruin of the Breton Mills the night of the great fire. The fellow's hair was cropped as close ) to his bullet head as it was then. The audience was mostly made up of old men, women and children, with here and there an able bodied man, who preferred talk ing about his rights to deserving anything. One or two had observed the young mill owner, but they took no pains to spread the intelligence, and in a moment more tho agita tor had caught his breath and went on: “Il< feeds his bosses moro’n would keep two poor families. Tho wines ho drinks every day cost enough to keep another two. Perhaps the man was right ki his tirade. Perhaps Philip Breton had only begun to grasp the first outlines of the great question be had fancied mastered. “But ye kiss his hand.” “No, we won’t:” shouted tho crowd. There stood Thomas Bailes. Philip’s discharged ser vant, in the middle of the street, shouting with the rest. He could afford to be idle since his last liberal present. “Ye will thank him for his be in’ so kind to ye.” “No, no!” screamed the wemen. What a fool Philip Breton had been to count on grati tude. Human nature is too progressive to be grateful. Perhaps he deserved no thanks. He bad done mere than others for his help. The more fool he was, all sides would agree, unless h" went further. Ho ought to have been either a thorough radical, or a thorough conservative. All parties abuse the half way reformer. A vessel of pottery between two jars of iron, ho is certain to be crushed. A carriage was struggling down the street. How slow the crowd were to give way. They were so much interested in their orator that tjicy not notice they were obstructing tb- highway. “What good is such men as him? our wo men is stronger than them sort.” Tho horse seemed spirited, or else not properly guided. Ah, the driver ought not to use a whip in such a situation as this. Hood heavens! the horse had become un manageable. A man, it was Bailes himself, and a woman had been struck by the shafts and rolled under the feet of the horse, who was now rearing end plunging, whiio the crowd scattered in all directions with screams and curses. Under the- very wheels of tho carriage lay a woman stunned and helpless from the blow die had received. Instant death threatened her, when a man's form rose suddenly out of tin* Hunt under the horse’s iron shoes and <■:.nght the excited animal by his bit. The orowd gathered in more closely than ever, v.'hilo a dozen hands dragged out the old wo men from her terrible situation and wiped te dust from her white, ghastly face. The end r had ceased his eloquence, and all dan gcr of accident seemed now averted, so IT-ilip Breton, was passing on his way. But Bertha, for the occupant of the car was no other than she, found her way blocked in all directions by an angry mob. “Hull her out, scarlet lace,” screamed the vo.nii :i. “Tear her pretty rags off from her.” 1 00 1 rcfooted children threw earth at her; lean, dirty lingers plucked at her delicate How dared they touch her! she sl '-.nk from the pollution of contact with such c: oatures as these, with a terror that mould be inconceivable to a man. .She saw Hem gather around the restive horse, who \ ; impatient of their touch as sho; 1 ' beginning to undo his harness. In <U!vi: c moment sho would bo lost/ But the li<t.v v,. ; .strong, could he not break through l A ‘ i he did not care Low many bo should "umpl' to death; she would rather, a thou g- I t :nes rather, die herself, than uicluro '■< ii’ insulting t ueh. But a rough hand car-aht tho whip from her grasp; the erea tl:r' * unpared ns. :ls hurt her: another hand °a her shoulders; and vile words, whose ! • ;au lg she. only l’elt, were on every tongue. Her heart grew sick; oh, she prayed God v °uld not let her l'qiut; oh, not now; oh, not now— yet Lor vision seemed failing, she could k n .?.l Ke V * lorse ’ s and tho terrible in ‘ the people hurled at her grew indistinct, me a roaring cf many waters in her ears. , l ’“ s be saw hideous faced hag reach lier I ' A: S hrawn}' arm into the carriage and clutch “ur feet; they were lifting her out. But n hum] liko iron Hung tho virago back. “Stand-on’. It is ray wife!” The mill own * * v, *te. The crowd fell back for a moment, b SI / it was news for tliem; but Philip knew F instinct, tho lull would only last for a mo j’K'nt. Ho must make the most of it. He hud only time to rclasten a little of the har hess. when u sharp stone struck him on the k and drew blood. ' Bow many husbands can a woman have:” S(, iyamc>d a woman on the sidewalk. “Jail's the place for her,” growled a man ;u pis shoulder. Theu Uie crowd closed in again. “ Let go the bit,” demanded Philip, never y haiimg. But Bailes only grinned at him, us 7 lj i!:p hud seen him before, and tightened his u °ri on the liorsfe. " too small to give orders; I aint in 'inr p;>y now/’ But beforo tho fellow had j° put up a guard, Ids young master ; y ■ tra< L him a blow ia the face that fairly Su .\ y m - 1 him, large man as he was. 1 .Ln, that’s your game, is it? Make way, .y” 3 ud J want is room. I’ll finish him up , man wanted to make use of his weight ; J1 “ strength in the direetest way possible, so forward to close with his antag ,. L throwing up his hands to protect him , But he miscalculated and his check f“irly cracked with the force of tho -‘yond blow. Bailes drew back for another y ' Tho smile of contempt was gone , 3 Bruised and bleeding face, but a hw dangerous look was in his eyes. His t' IH-h nu-.stcr had lost his first paleness, a b'r. li! 1 rec * S P°" Burned iir each cheek and life r'l ■“ c '?' < s Bashed forth defiance. The dis- Bi ? '"d servant ducked his head and came at ”, *' a maddened ox, Tho crowd hejd \vn.>u“ la; tlio slight form of tho maaJffL i,;„ <l L° down, and the victor would pountr life out of him. Was the lad tL.-g , . Ul ’- ; ite a battle with a man of almost tbu i y l3 v \ e ;ght? The young man (lid not u nil 1 a ,B.air*s breadth, lie raised liis arm ° Ut n bat good of battering against the fellow’s thiol; skull? Ho was upon him—no, Philip had leaped aside at the last moment, and, us Bailes w#it post, had dealt him a blow in the temple that sent his great form reeling to the ground. Before the crowd had time to move Philip had leaj>ed into the carriage and caught the it iris from his fainting wife. He turned his horse into an open space and the half fastened harness let the carriage run against the ani mal's legs. It was 1 letter than a thousand whips, and bo broke into a wild gallop. Bailes had only time to get his feet and shout after the young mill owner: “This is only the first round!” Philip heard his words and muttered to himself; “1 ought to have killed him. since I had to beat him. There isn’t gold enough in California to buy him over now.” “Vi hat did they mean, Philip?*’ Bertha was lying on the sola in her own little blue room. Philip had put a pillow beneath her tired Lead, and was kneeling by her side watching for the color to come back to her frightened cheeks. “Thank God she (’♦! not know, not yet.” He looked down at the veins in her pretty bauds; how many there were to-day. ’•lt was only their senseless jargon. They are angry with me, you know. Do not think about it again.” t She opened her great blue eyes on him. She was going to thank him no doubt for her rescue out of the terrible peril. ou look so small and weak. I wouldn’t have thought you had any strength.” That was all she had for him. CHAPTER XXXI. IXK. Philip left his wife to fall asleep if she could, and made his way to his study where he and his father before him had fought out s<> many battles. His secret was out. Tho police might be at his door that very night to claim his bride back from him. He had beaten one man for her, but he could not de fend her against the force they would bring against him. The air of his little village had grown close and suffocating. How long would it be before the storm would burst. Ho tried to calm himself and calculate how much time his crowding destiny would givo him. He was. rich and powerful and had many friends, and nothing that could happen to his wife could make him less formidable, though it might break his heart. There was not a soul in Bretonville that had some thing to hope of his favor, or to fear from his displeasure. Ho could shut up his mills and the village would become a desert.; he could lower wages and send starvation knocking at every door. And there was not one creature in the village but knew his power.. lie had not used it to harm them yet, but would not a man forget mercy in defend ing his own homo? And then what did they know, after all, even the mob that had in sulted his wife? They might suspect, but suspicion was not enough to give them cour age to assail all the bulwarks of wealth and respectability about such a heme as Philip Breton’s. Even the discharged servant, Thomas Bailes, did not hold the trump card in this terrible game of life and death. No one held it but (biddings, the lawyer, and he was provided for as yet. Philip paused before the window. There could be no vital danger yet. Ib would take tune. His enemies were on tho right track, but there were blind windings in it that would hinder the scent. Hinder it, but at last what? His mills seemed to hold him in bond age. His life work was here where the dan ger was, to show the world what an em ployer ought to concede to liis workmen. To set a bright example to soften tho rigor of his class. Could he forsake his glorious work? To bo sure his workmen were prov ing themselves ungrateful, and murmjired louder against him today than ever against his father. They had taken their children away from the schools to spite him, though lie would not suffer their little bodies to bo tortured in the mills any more. They be grudged him his luxuries, as if it were their money that bought them. There were no more smiles and hearty words for him from the poor he had done the best he knew for, and all the manufacturers around were laugh ing at his failure, as they called it. But a look of determination came over the young man's pale face. He believed he could plant his feet like the rock and wear out their impatience. The violence of his people should not make him tremble. He was their friend and they would come to be lieve it. He lmd not done all they wished, but lie could not see any further yet, and lie would take no step blindly because of re proaches. If he were not right lie was nearer right than thousands of liis class. By and by their turbulence would subside, when it could not stir him, and his measures would have time to bring forth their certain fruits of smiles and prosperity. New blocks of mills would stretch away in all directions, and the homes of his working people would dot with happy cottages ail the lulls and valleys near. But Bertha. Did ho love his mills or her the more? She should not be permitted even to guess her own terrible story, or her life would be clouded like his. But the air of the vil lage would soon bo trembling with the news, and the hand of pitiless justice would be laid upon her. Should he wait for it? God had granted him one week of peace, and now this month for warning. Was not the world large? Were there not high mountains and hu peopled deserts, where they could bo safe? where ho could hide his Hurling from insult ing looks and words, where no prison cells gaped open lor her? A sudden great light broke over Philip’s face as he walked Ids little study with rapid turns. He could save her. The plan un folded itself in his mind. There was yet time if he weie quick. He must give up his great plan for liis workmen; he must sell his mill, but he could yet save his wife if she were willing. But she might refuse to go Philip hurried to the room where lie had left her and opened the door so suddenly that she started up in terror. Iter nerves were so shaken that day, poor girl. “Bertha, my love.” he said, breathlessly, “how would you liko a trip to Europe.;” “You are joking, Philip.” Was it eager ness or aversion in her eyes? He felt afraid to look and see. What resource was left if she would not go? “How can you leave your business?” There was an inflection in tier voice that made him glance quickly at her face. The coldest women have their enthusiasms; he had touched hers. He hardly knew her, Lier face had such anew vitality in it. “And. would you really like it so much?” ho said, with his ei cp tenderness that had a touch of rej.roach ia it, which she was too dull ever to catch. He came up to her and explained what charming routes they should take, and what lovely lands they should see. Not France and Italy and the banks of the Rhino alone, but even Egypt and tho far east, not a spot of beauty in the whole far off world, but they would enjoy it. A flush was on Bertha’s cheeks, at last, and her eyes shone like a young girl's while a lover whispers the first romance into her cars. And Philip sat by her side only too happy to see her smile, and to touch lier golden braids of hair. It was after the table in Mrs. G-inness’ fac tory hoarding house had been set for next morning’s breakfast, which was soon at pa tea this sAme day, that one of tho Hoarders came into the dining room and cleared away the dishes m front of him to write a letter. It was no a very highly ornamented room, but everything was painfully clean, remind ing ‘one of the aching arms of some poor w oman, everything but the table cloth. Clean linen is one of the most exclusive luxuries of the rich; the industrious poor may Achieve shining floors, and glistening faces, but spot less linen is quite beyond them. But it made reir.* little uiiLerenco to this man to-night, for his eyes were swollen so that dis criminating vision was out of tho question. He spread his paper before him, and after uncorking his ink bottle, made two or three abortive attempts to dip Lis pen. Theu Bailes, for it was he, looked around to see if au> body was laughing at him. But the room was empty, all but a French girl and her Jpvcr in one corner, who were quite too much taken up with each other to take notice of anybody else. Then he tried again, and this time inked not alon*- the pen and hrfii the length of the holder, but the palm of bs hand in addition, and a;; a natural but ap parently not foreseen consequence, that por tion of the tablecloth within his reach. It it had been much that Bailes had cared to say, he probably would have given it up in u - spnir. but it was only two lines, and even a blind man could write two lines, if he had a whole sheet of paper for leeway. The two lines Bailes wrote were these: “Curran. Y'ou are wanted here at once! A friend.” CHAPTER XXXIL too Late. It was the afternoon of the Wednesday that the steamer .Salvator was to sail. But Philip Breton and the woman he had hoped to save were yet in their house in Breton ville, hundreds of miles from the pi**r. The clock in Bertha’s drawing room hail struck three. It was the very hour; the lust bell must be ringing now, and friends were say ing their farewell word*, handkerchiefs were waving graceful adieux, with here and there a teardrop. Home seemed very sweet at this moment of separation, and dreams of joys in strange lands seemed too vague to comfort many a heart that had been light and merry till now. Philip had not slept these two nights for anxiety. The very air had seemed so full of danger he had feared the storm would buret upon them before today. New, haggard lines had come into his face. He had watched ell the countenances-of the villagers for signs and warnings. Would his enemies give him time? Well, they had given him time, and yet lie waited. He bad driven to every train for his old friend Philbrick, but ho had failed him. He had strained his blood shot eyes so eagerly last night to make him out of the solitary arrival # on the evening train. If the old man had known how much depended on him, he would surely have hastened. Philip dared not trust his mills in any hands but his. The old man would be gentle with his charge; he was patient, lie laid broader ideas than Philip'Breton, ho was less of an aristocrat. And his mills w'ero very dear to Philip—onlv less dear than his wife. Perhaps the old man might come yet, before the next steamer sailed, but there were three long days for liis terrible secret to work its way to the light— three long, dark nights for a blow to fail. Philip found Bertha in the drawing room, waiting for him. The excitement that flushed her face seemed to have smoothed out the lines of care, her eyes were brighter than love for him had ever made them. IShe seemed grown young as the first day in the garden she had fallen asleep on his shoulder. How the poor girl longed to go. He stood a moment before her, and love and sorrow swept over his soul in alternate waves. She was his beautiful wife, who looked to him for her only protection. And out of pity for the mob that had insulted her he had let slip, perhaps, bis last hope of saving her. What did the wretches deserve? Yet perhaps he had sacrificed liis wife to them. Perhaps this delay would make those sweet, eager eyes weep forever; that queenly, gold crowned head bow in humiliation. How the world would wonder that he had not saved her from a felon’s cell, with such wealth and power as liis to command. He had risked her salva tion to soften the fate of the thousand un grateful creatures in his mill who cared nothing for him. “Oh, Bertha, forgive mo*” he cried as if his heart broke that moment. All his hope seemed dead then; the waters of desolation were sweeping in ceaseless swelling waves over his soul. For a moment the woman looked at him in silence, trying to interpret for herself the meaning on liis wan, passion marked face. It was for him the supreme moment, of au agony such a soul as hers could not even con ceive of. The man suffered more in that mo ment, than the foulest dungeon in the world, or the scoffs of a city rabble, or the contempt of every woman that ever spoke her name could hurt her. Then she drew herself back from him; slio thought, poor creature,, she understood tho expression on his face. “Then you have missed the steamer, and vou knew, too, how much I wanted to go.” 110 did not speak, but a pitiful look of con fusion was struggling into liis face. “When can we go, then?” she asked coldly. “The next steamer sails Saturday.” Sat urday! Poor girl! Poor Bertha! The furies are folding their black wings this instant to settle about her soul. Slte only thought it was her pleasure trip was deferred; it was liis plan to save her from impending ruin failed. One of the ministers of evil was at the gate this moment; now at the door; in the hall. Then the servant announced a name, and Mrs. Ellingsworth stepped into the room. She had been smiling her best, but every smile vanished at the sight of the shawls and traveling bags. She looked sharply at Ber tha, who was dressed in her blue traveling cuit; her hat was on the sofa beside her. She glanced about the room. The chintz covers were placed over the damask upholstery: tne piano was closed and packed. Bertha looked listlessly at her. “Oh, won’t you sit down?” But this strange visitor stood as if rooted to her place. “You ore going away?” Philip turned a surprised glance at her, the tone she assumed was crisp and imperious. He saw the dan gerous look come into the dork, brilliant eyes, which forgot their dissembling for the moment. The woman knew everything. Ia some way she had learned the secret. Would she dare denounce his wife before him? Was he so poor a man a woman like this dared to beard him ? He did not speak. Her message of scorn and infamy would come in a mo ment, she would tear down the veil ho laid spread before his wife’s crime; lie saw her red lips fairly trembling with the bitter words. Then Philip looked at her no more, but his eyes rested pityingly on Bertha. How would see meet it ? Would she flush into rare passion? Would she turn pale and faint in overpowering shame? “Yes, we were going to Europe,” answered Bertha, utterly unconscious of the hate that glowered at her out of the flashing eyes. “Philip did not want me to speak of it or i should have told you before; but I suppose it don’t make any difference now, since we've lest the steamer. It left the pier an hour ago. So we are not going now till Saturday. Isn't that it, Philip dear? Whv, you don’t mind my tolling Jane?” It was Bertha’s own words then, that had decided her fate. There had been some hope before, Philip now remem bered; but at last her deadliest enemy knew .everything. The mine would be sprung 1 >©- lore to-mor- ow's sun had set. He could see it in the sudden triumphant gleam in the woman's eyes before she thought to smile. But Bertha was tne only one who could talk, just yet. y "Ytl : ,CjPr~i v y\ j > _ bh; V | - ! % iw vi- 5 1 tvfer- A yf fill! pi il “ injy you don’t mind my telling Jane?” “TV o:ft you lend mo a few tilings,, to gel mo over a few days, everything is packed ujfc. a i i> ur Laggage on tho way, you know?’ and Bertha went on lo explain in detail her ludicrous necessities. “To-morrow will do.” “Certainly. I only wish you had let me help you get readv.” But her lipht laugh could l ofc deceive Philip again, but it was too late now to guard against her. “I will run right home and ger the things you spoke of ready for to-morrow.” Yes. and there were some other things she had not silken of. Jane Ellingsworth would have ready for to-morrow, too. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE LAST STRAW. “Y'ou are too late, my friend.” Philip had been sitting in his study in the darkness which was not more black than his life. But he arose to give his cold hand to Mr. Phil brick. \vh<> had come at la^t. “Why too late? This is only Wednesday. Have you changed your mind? I did not suppose thcr was so much hurry, and I wanted to have everything ready.” “It is too kite,” answered Pfiilip gloomily. What list to tell the old gentleman that Philip Breton’s wife was a criminal before the law, that the transfer of the mill property was only a part of his scheme to save her from an infamous penalty, that their deadli est enemy knew all their plans now, and no doubt her sleepless eyes watched their every movement, lot they should escape her hate. The servant came to the door. “I supftise you will have lights, sir. Borne men from the*mill folks want to see you.” “Oh,-yes; show them in,” he said care lessly. There were not chairs enough for the four workmen who came stumbling in like pall bearers at a country funeral, but Philip did not seem to look at them. One took his place by the window, and soiled the curtain with his hands; another, apparently the spokesman, disdain© l to lean against any tning. but, stood stock still in the centre of the room, bent forward a little in an attitude borrowed from the prize ring. His feet were planted well apart, and his arms bowed out at the eli*i'vs. “I suppose you have some complaints to make,” said the young mill owner with r. gentleness of tone that was quit** misunder stood by the delegation, who immediately tried to look very fierce. “Ye’re right, sir,” answer'd the man in the center of the room. “Ye know verself, ye aint doin’ the right thing by us.” Philip did not sjieak for a moment, •#ud Mr. Philbrick would have thought lie had not heard the fellow, only for a little twitch ing ai the corners of his mouth. Apparently tile young man was deeply hurt by his fail ure to satisfy his men. “I have done the best I knew.” “Wal, we kin tell yer, if ye don’t know no better,' - -resumed the workman insolently. Philip’s eyes flashed at him, then dropped to tin/ carpet again. “Pay us more wages for one thing, shorten up our hours for an other.” “You fare better than others. I divide tho profits v itli you. You thought I was very good with you once.” The young man’s tone was not argumentative, it was too hojieless for that. “Yer don’t divvy even; our share don’t ’mount to much,” put in the man who was soiling the window curtain. “I am sorry for you, but you can’t expect me to make you all rich.” There was such a sadness of reproach in Philip’s voice that a mist gathered before Philbrick’s kind eyes. But the workmen got the idea they were frightening the young master. “I have gone as far as 1 can see my way Don't you think you had better be patient with me?” , “Be you goin’ to raise our pay?” Philip shook his head thoughtfully. “i cannot understand it is my duty or my right.” “Are you goin’ to shorten up our hours?” asked the man at the window. “1 cannot” The chief spokesman turned to his com panions. “Ther ain’t no use. Wal, ’squire, to-nu .'row you may wish you had. Come along, boys.” Philip had dropped back heavily into his chair. He seemed to have forgotten the pres ence of Mr. Philbrick, until that gentleman began to explain his more perfect system. “How can you expect your help to be satis fied,’’ Philbrick was sayi ig; “even if they were well paid it would be small object for them to be shut up all their lives, as if they were convicts. But you don’t pay them, either. It isn’t because the business don’t pay. for your father’s Tyofits and yours were enormous. It is all the lecalt of a false valua tion of the worth of services. Now I shall seek to remove the burdens that crush the people and restrict there natural develop ment.” Philip said nothing. How well his old friend had kepi his enthusiasm through all the years ol liis life ! Well, it would do no harm to let him talk on. “You will ask me for details.” Mr. Phil brick took his seat again and drew up to him a sheet of paper and a pencil. “You will ask what burdens they are that are on the mil lion. besides the common necessary burdens of human nature. 1 will teliyoa the principal burden, it is the intolerable tribute to ac cumulated capital laid upon the working classes. v inch makes a tyrant of the man who has saved a surplus out of liis wages, and caused the hopeless vis inertia* of poverty. Like all forms of slavery its effects are great apparent luxury, which never penetrates below the very- surface of society, and tire less industry which earns nothing for the workers but food barely enough to support his day's work. It is benefit enough for the man who has saved money that he can work to better advantage; it is a lever in his hands. If we permit capital to take such enormous profits as it does, every day and year it in creases, as wealth increases, the crushing tax 0:1 labor, i shall pay you but 2 per cent on the money l shall owe you on aeouuut of the mid property. The rest of the income of the business above two per cent, belongs to the laborer.” The reformer glanced expectantly at Philip. But the dull, hopeless look that was on his face an hour ago had not changed. “1 am not sure but that i$ too much,” pur sued Mr. Jin j brick, “but it will only be a little while before I shall pay up the debt.” There was no use in stopping the. enthusi astic old gentleman, whose great heart was a fountain of human kindness. It would be time enough lor Philip to tell him that he had changed his plans later. “But 1 shall also shorten the hours of work. Six hours of confinement in the mills is enough, and wit Urn 4. leisure all the advant ages I can give my work people will be of little avail. lean let different set> of hands relieve each other if it seems necessary, or build new mills and take in a thousand more hands to share the blessings of justice.” Mr. Philbrick leaned back in his chair and a great light of benevolence shone in his face. It was a pity to di.sapjxiint him. “This is au opportunity I Lave hoped for a whole lifetime. I can show the world that labor ought not and need not be wretched and famished. It is more blindness than 'willful crucify that delays great reforms. If I can once show the world what justice is and how it works it will not be long be f ore “But, my dear friend,” said Philip, drop ping his eyes to the floor, “did I not tell you ii was too iate? lam not going to sell. You will have to select some other spot for your Utopia.” The young man spoke bit ter fy. Unconscious of his selfishness, he begrudged the rest of the world the happiness he had missed. Then came a moment of intense silence which was broken at last, not by a voice, tut by the loud ringing of a door bell. It rang so violently the gi’eat, silent house echoed again. Had the end come then? Philip Leaped to lay feet. Vbild thoughts of desper ate expedients rushed through his fevreish brain, brtt he yet stood like a statue when the study door opened behind him. Ho tore open a telegram and read aloud: “SteaineitfSalvator delayed till to-morrow morning at 3.” For a moment he did not take in its mean ing. Then he cauglfe Phi l brick's arm so tightly the old gentleman almost cried out. “Do yon want the miils as you said? You were not joking, oh. you were not joking?” Philbrick gazed at him in astonishment. Philip seemed in such a terrible state of ex citement. liis pallor was replaced by a burnmg flush, Luo eyes that had been so UuJi theme with unnatural brightness. “Your plans will succeed better than mine, and you can't find such a good place as this. You will take my mills.” “Of course I will, but I thought you said” “Never r.rind,” crie<l the young man, ‘'never mind what I said. Draw the papers at once. But no, I cannot wait.” Philip turned on his heel jus if no earthly power could detain him a moment longer. “But the papers are all ready.” And Mr. Philbrick took a bundle of documents from bis breast |M"kct, and laid them on the tt.ble. “Where shall I sign them —quick?” de manded Philip. “No, no, not there, that is my note to you; sign here, and here, and here.” “I can hardly see: everything dances before mv eyes. Ts it all done now:’’ Tie hardly waited to take the papers Mr. Phiibrick had signed for him. Then, with out another word, he rushed from the room and bounded up the stairs. Freedom! safety! oh, thank God. thank God! He could save her yet. A castle on the Rhine, a palace in Venice; he would find the rarest homes for her. How sweet it would be to hide with her. The awful sense of hourly peril would lift from his soul. He pushed open the door of the white chamber. Bertha had been sleeping. The tear marks were on her cheeks that had lost their beautiful flush. She was so disap pointed, poor girl; and yet she never guessed ' “Wake up, wake up, my darling.” She started from the bed and feil to weeping on his shoulder. “I dreamed they were taking me away from you, Philip.” But he dried her tears with merry kisses. “We are in time yet. The steamer don't go till 3 to-night.” CHAPTER XXXIV. UNWELCOME VISITORS. The watchman at the mills was not a little surprised, as he went his first, round that night, to see a man's figure leaning against a pillar in one of the weave rooms. The fellow did not appear to mean any harm; he was not breaking anything or stealing any cloth, but how could lie have found his way inside? The watcliman felt a little uneasy in spite of himself; it was such a thing as had never happened before. “Hello! what business have you got there?’ But the interloper did not appear to hear him. How oddly he looked at the looms, as if they were living things that he loved. He had not spoken, and his hat shaded his ejes, but the expression of the attitude was so plain that even so rude a man as the watch man could road the tender reminiscence in his heart; Perhaps the fellow might be crazy, but this was no place for him. Oh! I didn’t know you, Mr. Bret. - *.. It’s a nice evenin’, sir.” But the mill owner did not even answer him, and moved away toward the window as if impatient at being interrupted. The moon was full, and the sky was clear, only for a few silver edged clouds. One, he fancied a ship sailing over the sea, but how slowly it glided; could it go no faster? Ah! suddenly it parted into bright fragments, and the wind scattered them pitilessly. He looked across at the other mills; the moonlight kissed their grim walls fondly, and sparkled in their windows like a hundred brilliant lamps. Why, here were his fire escapes, closs to the window coping—his first busmes. venture. Philip raised the window and stepped outside. It must be nearly time for Bertha to come with the carriage, as he had arranged, to avoid possible suspicion. No, there was half an hour yet. But Philip closed the window behind liim and went down the silent stairs He went into his office. He would wait there for the carriage, it would not be very long, and then there was one last duty he must attend to before it came. He struck a match, and the gas shot up so brightly it dazzlCi his eyes. He turned away for an it;- stant. A massive form stood in the doorway. Philip must have left the counting room un locked when he had come in. Some one had followed him, apparently. But the young mill owner took only one step toward the in truder. It was no stranger that crossed his threshold, but a man whose name was burned into his heart. It was the rightful husband of Philip Breton’s wife—Curran. His hair had grown long and almost straight about his neck. His cheeks were thin and haggard, and the form that had been like a proud oak was bowed as if it had been weighed down by a burden too heavy even for a giant to bear. Philip stopped short and looked at the man with speechless terror. He had supposed him hundreds of miles away. Could it be possible the outraged husband had never left the village since their last meeting? Perhaps his flashing eyes had watched Philip wooing his wife a second time, and begrudged him his few cold kisses. Perhaps he had peered in through the win dows of Philip’s home; had he not a right to look at his wife, and followed them forth on every walk and drive, waiting to strike till the blow should fall most deadly. He had chosen his time well. Poor Bertha, with her dreams of Como and Chamouni. But what would he do? Leap upon his enemy and kill him? The man in the doorway looked too uale and ill for such violence; would ho then heap curses upon him, the bitterest human lips ever uttered? But Curran advanced into the room with outstretched hand. “Don't you know me, then, friend?” Philip hesitated again. There might be a grain of hope yet; he would surely never have given the young man his hand if he had known—or called him friend. “Some one wrote me to come. I don’t I know wbat he wanted,” Curran explained | wearily. “They expect so much of a man; j they want him to be a God; and if he were ! they would crucify him.” Philip was recovering his composure. At j tii'St he had felt a wild impulse to confess i everything to the wronged husband. He ! seemed so grand, so magnanimous; he would | not lie cruel. But then iiis reason came back j to him. In such a case as this there could be no amends. Innocently, Bertha and Philip : had done him a teiTiDie wrong—and them : selves; forgiveness could not blot it out. God m his mercy might spare them the penalty | of infamy; out tne injured husband had nc I choice but vindicate liis honor, when he i came to know. | “You look ill,” said Philip at last, drawing him out a chair. Should he detain him ? Bertha might come l>efore her time and break in upon them, the two men both of whom : she had injured so terribly? Oh! that must not happen. Was not that a step in the pas sage now ? Should he let Curran go, then * Tlie first mail he met would pour the story of his shame into his ears, and then the catas trophe- He must not go—but he must not stay. Philip looked out into the passage. Nc one was there. Curran had dropped into the chair Philip had offered him. “Do I look ill P he asked, pushing his long hair back from his forehead. “Did you ever love a woman who hated you ? Did you ever want to pour out your life for her, and see that she despised you You know whom I mean. Y lij,! once fancied 3011 and she were lovers, till she told me not. I mean Bertha.” He spoke the name so tender!y, a thrill of shame passed over Philip. Bertha was this man’s wife. Had he not a right then to speak her name tenderly ? And so Curran had fancied Bertha and lie were lovers till she told him not —ah, Bertha. “She has left me,” Curran went on in the same soft, tender tone. “I don’t suppose it interests you. But if I could 01113- see her now, I have such a strange feeling that, I might win her back She made such a ten der sweetheart.” Then he lifted his eyes more firmly to Philip’s face, set like a wall of rock. “Is there any trouble among your help?” “Yes, they have flusg all my offers in mv teeth.” “It must have.been that which made them send for me. I had hoped, or feared, I hardly, know which, itnnight be something of Ber* tha. It is. queer, isn’t it, a woman like her should turn head so completely? What is there about her, did you ever think of it? Of course you haven’t.” Curran seemed to make an effort to dismiss aH thoughts of her that unmanned him. “You needn't be afraid of me; I thought you seemed a little strung when I came in.” Philip started involuntarily, bftt Curran continued; “I shan’t encourage any strikes against you. Gou will bless rour life for your work for the poor. If he hasn’t yet, be will give yon a happier love thro i.e has given me.” Then he rose with new energy to nisfeet. “I must go and stop the mischief. I can do more with your laborers for good or evil than vn\ man in the world. I suppose thf " ma\ i e jn ihe hall to-night?” “Yes.” But Philip hurried up to him and laid his hand on his arm. “But don't go, not yet” “I must. Shall you be hero long? Well, I will see you again to-night.” “God grunt not.” murmured Philip Breton, as the door closed after him. Then Philip unlocked the great safe and swung IKick its green door of iron. He took out a packet and locked the safe again, and carried his packet back to his office. He turned the irua still, higher and held the packet in the flume till all that was left of it was a little heap of charred paper on the floor—all that vas left of Philip Breton’s will. With that act he closed up, as he believed, all that pari of his life worthy to be remembered- Ho was young and strong,but he had failed. Hence forth he must look on while others worked. Fate had taken his work away from him. He must sit back on the seats with the women and children, and look on and applaud when great deeds were doing. He would have liked to work, too; but perhaps others would do his work better. “Hallo, hallo. Phil, don’t you work pretty late?” It was Giddirgs. the lawyer, in a con dition of dei& led intoxication. “1 11 bet yer dollar you don't Know what I came for? ha, ha, ha; you think money; don't you; more money? Bui. I sint that sort of a feller. ” TO BE CONTINUED. 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