BETRAYED;
-OR
A. DARK MARRIAGE
MORN.
A Romance of Love, Intrigue and
Crime
BY MRS. ALICE P. CARRI3TON.
CHAPTER XXII. -(Continued.)
Ho admired her like a rare plant, a
beautiful object, r.n exquisite work, in
which nature had combined phys cal aud
moral harmony. grace with perfect proportion and
His deportment as slave neai
her was not long a pet for mane *.
Our fa r re >ders have, doubt’ess, re¬
marked an odd fact, which is. t' at wher*
a reciprocal sent meat of two feeble hu¬
man beings has reached a ceit in po nt
of malmiiy, chance never fails to iurnisb
«t fatal occ ision which betrays the secri t
of the two hearts, and suddenly launcher
the gathering thunderbolt which has been granuallj
in the clouds.
This is the cr sis. of all love.
This oi cas.on presented itself to Cl rr
Denton and Warren Leland in the fora
of an unpoet c Lcident. with which the
rag-p cker aud his little grandchild.er
were intimately conuected.
It was the end of the month. Lelanc
had gone out afier dinner to lake a ridr
fallen, i» the neighborhood. Night had be alreadv conic
dear and cool; but as
«ot see Mr*. Denton that even ng, he be¬
gan felt to think only of being near her, unci
that unwillingness to work common
to lovers, striving to kill time, whice
hung ht aw on his hands.
He hoped also that v'olent exercise
been ■night calm his spirit, which ha 1 nevei
more proioundly agitated. Still
young and unpracticed in his pitiless sv a
tem, he was troubled at the thougitof a
victim so p .ra as Clara Denton. Tc
heart trample on the life, the repose, nd th;
of such a woman, as the hor-.e
tramples little on the grass of theioad, with ae
care t-r pity, w is h ‘rd for a novice.
As stiange as it may appear, the idet
of mar.yiug her had occurred lo him
Then he said to hims jlf that this weak¬
ness was in direct contr diction to hit
principles, lo®e forever and that she would c us - him
to the masterv over himself,
and throw him back into the nothin nest
of his past 1 fe. Yet. with the co>rupt
inspirations of his depraved soul, he fore¬
saw that the moment be touched hei
hands with the lips of a lover, a new
sentiment would sp ing up in her soul.
As he ab mdoned himself to these p s
sionate imaginings, the recoilec ion oi
Amy Browneil came back suddenly to his
memory.
He grew pale in the darkness.
At this moment he was passing by th<
edge of a piece of woods a portion o:
which had been cleared.
It was not cnan e alone that had di
remed him to this po nt. Clara Denton
lovel t -is spot and h d frequently taseu
him there, and on the pieced ng evening
aecomp mied by her daughter an l Mil¬
dred Lester, had vi ited it with him.
The site was a pee iliar one. Although
ftot far from houses, the woods w^re very
wild, as though a thousand miles dibtau'
from other
You would have snid it was a virgii
forest, uatoueh d by the ax of the pio¬
neer. Enormous' stumps without bark
Iruuks of gigautic trees, eoverel pel.
mell the declivity of the hill, and barr -
cad oil here and there, in a pictnr-sqnt
maun r. the current of the brook whicl
ran i to th • valley.
A little higher up (he dense wo d ol
lufied trees contributed to dinuse ihat
religious ligfit half over the locks, the
brushwood, and the fertile soil, aud oc
the limpid water, which is the chaiin anc
honor of old, u glected woods.
Ia this solitude, and ou quite a space
of cleared ground, ro e a poor cottage.
Thir was Jinnie’s home, and h-re hei
children and her father lived with her.
The old r g-picker intere-ted Clari
Denton greatly, probably because, like
Demand, he hud a bad reputation, She
loved the children, too, who, though
dirty, were beautitul as angels, and she
pitieu The their little mother. had been ill.
Clara had helped ones quite and
to nurse them, ap¬
parently ening they before. h -d recovered; Leland iodee 1, cn j
the e- and the par j
with him had met them wandering in the
woods, careless and happy as children
ought to be.
(ho Leland slowly end walked his liorse over
rocky winding path on t e s o ( >t
of the hillock. This was the moment
when the ghost of Amy Brownell bad, as
it were, risen before him, and he beLeved
be could almost hear her cry.
All at once this illusion g ve place to t
strange re lity. The voice of a woman
plainly called him by name, in accents ol
“Mr. Leland. Mr. Le'and!”
Stopping his hor-e on the ; nstant, he
felt an icy shudder pass through hie
frame.
CHAPTER XXIII.
I AT THE BAG-PICKERS’ COTTAGE.
The same voice rose higher and callec
him again.
He recognized it as the voice of Clari
Denton.
Looking around him in the obscure
li.ht with a rapid glance, he saw a light
shining through the foliage in the direc¬
tion of J ennie's cottage.
Guided by this, be put spurs to hit
horse, crossed the cleared ground up the
hillside, and found himself face to face
with Cl ra.
fehe was standing on the threshold ol
fbo cottage, her head b ‘re, and her beau¬
tiful hair disheveled under a long bl ick
veil. She was giving a farm hand some
hasty orders.
When she saw Leland approaching sht
came tow. rd him.
“Pardon me,” she snid, “but I though!
I recognized you, and so I called ou. 1 1
•m so greatly distres ed—so d stressed!
The two children of this poor woman aie
•lek ag*in-thev are dviug! What into
be done? Come in—come in, I beg of
you! ”
He leaped to the ground, secured his
horse, and followed Ciara info the cott ge.
The two children w*eie ivi>g side oy
side on a little bed, immovable. lieiJ.
th^ir eyes open and ihe r puq ils -tia ueiy
dilated, their f ces red and agitated by
strange contu sions.
They seemed to be in the agony ol
death.
A doctor was le°ning over them, look¬
ing at them with fixed, anxious anc
despairing eves. knees he
The mother was on her her c
clasped in her hands, and weeping bit
teily.
At the foot of the bed stood the rag
picker, with his savage mien—Ms armi
crossed and his ey es dry. He shuddered
at intervals, and murmured in a Loaise
hollow voice:
“Both of them! Both of them;'* Ther
tvo nil.iTOAil intn his mnnmfnl utiitnit.
TLe doctor appto icl ed Warren quickly.
“Mr. Leland, s id he, “wb t cun th s
he? I be iove it to be poisoning, but c n
ietect no definite symptoms; otherwise,
the mother should know—but si e knows
aothiug! A sunstroke, peihaps; but a
both were struck at the same time —and
*,her at this season—ah, my dear sir, ou;
profession is very useless somet met.”
“I n’t it a re 1 apse?"
“No, no! nothing at all like the recen
llness.”
Leland made further and ra. id inqui
•ies.
They had soueht the doc*or, who w t
i ning with Mr. Metcalf's family an i oui
Defoie. He h d h t-te ied. a duuudtlu
ihudren in a sta'e of feirfnl co gestii n
It ippeniel tuey had f.llen into th i
?tate when first attacked, and. became de
Imons.
L< land conceived an idea.
He asked to see the clothes the children
aad worn during the day.
The mother gave them to him.
The doctor touched his forehead, anc
burned over with a feveri-h hand he
rough waisteo.ists, the kDee-breecbes
s. arched the pocket®, and found do erii
if a small fruit 1 ke cherries, hall
irus bed.
ixciaimed. “A spee'es of deadly idea nightshade!" h«
“Thit at ruck me sev
rral time-, but within h >w could 1 be sure? Yoc
raunot fi rd it sixty mi es of here,
jxcept in the vicinity of this curstd spoi
—that 1 am sure of.”
“Do you think there is yet time?” askec
Le’aod, in a low voice. “The childrei
seem to me to be very ill.”
“Lost 1 am afraid; b't evervtbing de
pend« on the time which h s jas^ed, th<
pi antitv I they procure.” have t ken, and the reme
lies cun
'Ihe Clara, good who physician found co 'Bulled qu cliD
with lhat st e hud i o.
in her country pharmacy the n cessary
remedies, or eounti-r-irritants, which th<
ir*enc. of the case dem .nded.
He was obli ed to content himself witl
ihe essence of co-fee, whi h Jennie pre
pared in ha te. and to send to New Mil
lord for the o.her things needed.
“To New Milford!” exclaimed Clara
“Good heavens! it is m r re ti an. ten milec
— it is night, and we shall have to wad
probably three or four horns!”
Lei nd heard this.
“Doctor, write your pres"rip‘ion,” h«
3ad; “my hors v is at Ihe door, and witl
him I can do the twentv miles in >i
hour; in one hour I promise to be her»
again.” thanks!”
“Uh, exclaimed Clar».
He took the p escription which thi
i <ctor had traced on a le f of his pad
mounted bis horse and de] a ted.
'Ihe highway was, fortunately, not fa:
dig ant.
Yvhen he reached it he put spurs to bii
horse, and rode tike the phantom hor»e
man.
It was 9 o’c’oek when Clar» Dentoi
witn-s-ed his departure; it was a lev
moments *-fter 10 when she heard thi
tr mp of his horse at the foot of the hill
and ran to the door of the cotta.e ti
g ee him.
The condition of the two childrei
seemed to have grown worse in th<
interval, but tl e docto ■ had get hoj oi
in the remedies which Leland Was t<
bring,
She waited wi h impatience, end re¬
ceived him like the dawn of the las'
hope. contented herself with
h bbe hand, b.ea h pressiDf
s when, ess i e de-eendev
fro a his boise. But, worn nlike, sh<
t-irew herself on the i nirnal, who wat
tovered wiai foam, and sieiming like i
3tove.
“Poor Sultan,” she said, embracing
him m her two arms—“hear bultan—
jood Sul a i! You are half dead, art
fou not? But I love you well. Go ir
q uckly, Mr. Leland. I will attend tt
Sultan.”
And while the young man entered th<
:ottage, she confided Su tan to the tarn
hand, with order® to lake him to the sta
Die, and a thousun l minute direct.ons tt
;ake good care of him after his noblt
jonduct.
The doctor had to obtain the aid ol
Leland to pa®s the new medicine througl
the clem bed teeth of tie unfortmiatt
j'aildri-n. While both were engaged 'i
fct»is work, Clara was sit iug ou a stooi
with her head re«t ng against the wall.
The doc'or suddenly raised his eyei
md fixed them her.
“But, mv dear Mrs. Denton,” he said
'you are ill. 1 ou have had too much ex
jitement, and the air in this poor placi
is very bad. You must go home.”
“I real-y do not feel veiy well,” sht
murmured.
“Y’ou must go rt once. We 'shall sent
pon the lows. Your father’s hired mar
will take you home.”
bhe raised herself, trembling; For hut thii ont
look from Jenn e ar ested her.
poor woman, it seemed th -t Providence
aeserted her w th Clara Denton.
“No!” she said, with a divine sweet
aess; “I will not go. I shall only breatht
i little fiesb air. 1 trill remain un il the]
are safe, I promise you," end left th<
room smiling ui on the poor worn n.
Atter a few moments the doctor said tc
Lei nd:
“My dear sir, I th nk you; but I re llj
have no luithi r need of yonr services; st
you. too, may go and rest yourself, io:
you Leland, are growi exhausted ig pale al<o.” ride
felt sutt'oc ited by the by his long
attuospke e of th«
jot'age, and consented to the suggest oi
of the physician, tilling him he w oulc
aot to far.
-^ . . he put . ,. his foot . . outside ...... of the cot-
8
^ a " e » Clara, who was s It ng he ore th«
door, quickly rose and th ew over hu
lls ehouldeis a cloak which had leer
** If”f^hotd^peakhi^ “But ^ 6n resea,e night,’ ^ her
you can ot rtmain here all
'ae said.
“I shon’d 1 e too uneasy at brms.”
“But the night i® dump and coll. Sbal
t make you a fire?"
"If .you wish, she said.
“Let us see where w:e om make thii
little fiie. In the mid v t of the woodt
iere it is impossible; we should have t
jouflagrntion to 1 nish the picture. Car
fon w»lk? 'J hen t ke my aim and w«
will go and search for a place lor our en
)»m|immt.”
She leaned lightly on his arm end madi
i few steps witu him toward «be forest.
“Do you think they are saved?” sht
isked.
“I hope so," he replied. “The doctor’!
!aee is more cheerful ”
“Oh! how gtad I am!”
Both of them »tnml>lel over a root anc
joiumeneed laughing like two children to;
iev>r<ti mi utes.
“We sh ill soon he in the woods,” sait
Tlaia; “and I declare I can go no farther
Qood or had, I shall c' oo®e this sp t.”
They were still quite elo®e to the cot
lage, but the branches of the old tieei
»• ich bad been spa ed bv the axe spread
like a somber d« me over the r heads,
Near by was a lar^e rock, sdgh ly cov
jred with mo s : ltd a numl er of o c
Irunks of trees, on which Clara took hei
seat.
“i> othing “I could be better,” materials.” said Leland
lavly. must collect my
A m< his ment alter he re ppeaied, bring also
ing in b.auket arms brushwood, hud found and t»
heavy which he some
were.
vi« ont no his kneeB in fiontofthe
ro k, prei&red the fuel, and lighted it
wuh a match. 'W hen the flame btgan to
A cker on the rus ic hearth, Cl ra trera
bl d with joy and held out both hands tc
the bl ize.
“Heavens! how nVe it is!” she said
“and then this is amusing; odo would say
we had leeu shpwrickei. Now, Mr.
Leland, if you would le perfect, go and
tee He wuat the doctor says.” quickb
ran to the cottage, and
returned.
“Well!" she ex "Limed.
“A “Oh! great deal of hope.* am!”
bhe how glad his I hand.
presse t
“Sit down there," she stick
He sat down on a rock ne^r her, and
replied to her eager questions. He re¬
peated in deta 1 his < on ersation with the
hoc tor. she listened at flist with inter
ist, but little by little, wrapping her lieac
in her ve>l, anu res iug it on the bough
interlaced behind her, she seemi d to be
uncomfortably le-ding from f t gue.
“You are likely to f .11 asleep tuere,” h<
said laughing.
“Quite so," she murmured—smiled, ant
went Her to sleep -leep. resembled it
death, was sc
profound, and so calm w«s the bealirg
of her he rt, so regu'ar her breathing.
Le and knelt! down aga n by tue hearth
to listen breathlessly and to gaze u, oi
her.
From time to time he seeme 1 to medi
taie, and the eolitm'e was on y disturbed
by the rustling of the leave®.
His ejes rollowed he flickering of the
flame, sometimes resting on the w h te
lock sometimes on the wood-, sometiu es
ou the arches « f the high trees, as tbougt 1
he w sLed to fix in his memory a be
details of this sviest scene. Then bi
g ze would r< st ou the young woman
clothed in her beauty, grace and confiding
V\ hat heaven’y thoughts defended a
that moment on t. n somber eoul—wba
i esnadou, what doubt assa l« d it? Wha
images of peace, truth, virtue, and hap¬
piness p s-ed m o th it brain full ot
storm, aud enased awav phan oms of the
sophistries he chi t shed? He himseli
knew, but neve told.
’I he brisk crackling of the wood aw k
• ned her. Sbe opened her ejes in sur¬
prise landing and before as sue saw the young him: mar
1 er, addres e l
“How are they now, Mr. Lt-laud?”
He di i no know ho * to tell her tha.
for tL e ast hour he had but one thought
ind tuat was of her.
'ihe doctor appealed suddenly befori
;bem.
“Tuey are saved, Mrs. Denton,” hi
sard, alnupt y; “come and see for \o r
self, i nd tueu return home, or we shat
have to cure > ou to-u-Oirow. You t rt
very impiudent io have remained in ihest
damp woo s, and it w s foo.ish of Mr
Leh n 1 to let von do so.”
Sue took the doctor’s arm and re-enter
ed ihe cottage. The two eri dr«n, not
roust d Irom ihe dai gerous toipor, bu
who seemed t-till lerrn.ed by the threat
oued demh, raised their little he d®. Sh
m de them a sign to keep qu et, anc
leaning over their pi low, kissed th ra.
“jo-mono*, my dining®,” she sa’d.
But the m ther, h If 1 -uj hing, half cry¬
ing, followi d Cla ■) tep by s ep, speak¬
ing to Ler, and kiss fig her hand.
“Let her alone," cried the doctor, quer
alously. “Go 1 ome, Mrs. Denton. Air.
Lei md, take be.- th-re.”
She was go ng out, when the old rag¬
picker, j?ho who had not befoie sjaken. of and
was sitting m ibe coiner the room
is ii stupefied ro-e suddenly, seized the
irm of Mr®. Denton, for who. s vibtiy terri-
3ed, turned rouud, the gesture of the
man was so violent as to st era menacing;
ns eyes, hard continued and diy, were fixed upon
be**, and he ro squeeze hei
irm with a conn acted hand.
“My Liend,” she sail, although rathei
jneerttin.
“Ies. your friend,” muttered t 1 e old
•ag-picker, with a bol’ow voice; “yes, friendl’ re.
nember! whi t. ver comes, your
He could not continue; bis rnoutb
ivo.ked as if iu a convulsion, his fri ht
fill weeping shook his frame; ho ther
hrew himself ou bis knees, an I they sas
v shower of tears ior;e themselvei
h orrgh the hands clasped over his face
“Take ter away, g r," said the doctor
Le and rently pushed her out of the
;ottage and followed her. She tco'v hit
irm and descended the lugged path whicl,
ed to her Lome.
CHAPTER XXIV.
AN ASTOUNDING PBOPOSITION.
It was a walk of fifteen minu'es from
;be woods. Half the dis ancu was parsed
>ver without interchanging a word.
Once or twice, when the rays of the
oooon pierced through the clouds, Leland
Lought he saw her wi> e away a tear.
He guided her cautic sly n the dark¬
less, although the light st-p of the
foung )b®curit'\ lady was bc&rctdy slower iu the
Her springy step p e®sed noiselessly
Ihe full n leavfs—a'Oi led without assist¬
ance the rirs and marshes, as thou ;h en¬
dowed witu a magical cl iivoyHnce.
M hen they reached a cro s-roa l and
Leland st emed urn-eitain, she would indi¬
cate the way by a slight prtssuie of the
arm.
Both were no doubt embarrassed by
the long silence—it was Clara who lirat
broke it.
“You have be^n very good Ihis evening,
Mr.< Leland,” she sa d, in a low and
slightly “Ah! I agitated love voice.
you so!” said the young
man.
He pronounced these words in such a
deep, trembled inipaBsii ned toueth .t Clara Denton
and stio • still iD the road.
“Mr. Leland!” she ext-lomed.
“ u ell."" Le deniande in a strangetone
“Great hea'en-! What is this? Lut—
Out it cau I e nothing. I must have mis
indcrstcod yon!"
“You did i ot, rra am. But I have said
iither o r much or too litt e. I will en
Ita.ortoexpl H in tieer or.”
s »o <e was c 1m. but she recoiled a
rtep rim. or two and stood trembling before
“ W bat I said just now,” he went on, “is
ao more nor less than tue truth. I love
]ou -1< ve you as you deserve to be loved,
with r.ll my soul and might and strength.
[ never ki ew wh t love wa® before.”
Cl r ( stood there trembling, but made
so s gn. /
“B t don’t fear that I would take ad
v>n age of this sori nde— of your oneli
ness. B- lieve me, you are sacred to me.”
“I have no fear,” she whispered.
“Oh, no! have no te r!” be r peated, in
i tone, of voice infinitely sofiened and
;euder “It is I who am afr id it is I
ivho tremble-you all see it; for since I have
spoken, ’s over. I ex oct i othin> more
—I DOssible hope for nothin ; I this night has nc
to-morrow. know it. Youi
husbandlda e not be—your lover I should
aot wish to be. I sk nothing of y ou -
understand well! I should like to burn
my bea t at your feet, as on an altar —
tLis is all.
“Do you believe me? Answer! Are
yon ea m? Are you coufidem? Will you
hi ar me? May I tell yon what image I
carry of yon in the secret rece.-ses oi my
leart?
“Dear creature that you are, yon do not
—ab, you do not know bow great is your
worth, and 1 fear to tell you. so mud
ami i fraid of stripping you of yoni
charms, or one cf your virtues. Ii yov
had been nroud of yotuse f. as yon h ive «
r ght to be, you would be less perfect,
n i I should iove > ou lei®.
“Bi.t I wish to 'ell you how lov ble and
row ch ruling you are. You i lo e do not
mow it. lou alone • o not see the solt
lame of vour 1 rge eyes—the reflect ou of
rour heroic soul on your young but serene
>ro\v.
“Your cherm is O’ er everything you do
—your slightest gesture is eng.aven m
ne. into the most «r l nar.v duties oi
svery-d .y 1 fa you carry a ] eculiar grace,
ike ii young piiesfi ss who recites her
1 ily devotions. Your ban I, yonr touch,
^our lue ith purifies everyth ng—e'en the
3iO>t humble and the most wicked beings
-and elf hist of ali!
“v h, how I am astonishel at the words
which I piononuce, au i the sentiments
vhicu animate me, to whom you have
na le clear new truths. Yes, all the
rhapsodies of <he poets, all the loves of
;be martyrs, I comprehend iu your pres
rnce. This is tru fi itself. I underst nd
tLose who < ie l for their faith by toiture
—bee iuse I "ho Id like to nuffe for you
—because 1 be leve in you-beca ise I re
rpect you- 1 cbe i h ybu-I adoie you!”
He stopped, shivering, and h f pros
;rating himself I efor.- 1 er, seized the end
rf her veil aud ki sel it
ow,” continued be. w : tb a kind of
?ravj sadness, “^o, Mrs. Denton; I have
forgotten too lo ig you require rei ose.
P rdon me- proceed. I .b 11 follow
jou at a dista ce. until you reach your
aorno, to proLci you— but fe r nothing
from me."
Cia a Dmton had l stenel, without
ance ds interiup mg h m even ly a sign.
\>o wou d on y exci e the young man
more.
Probably she understood, for the first
time in her life, o e of those songs of
love—one of tb< se hymns living with pas
iion. whi henry woman wishes to Lear
aeforo she nies.
Should she die because the had heard
.tv
She rema awakening : ned without fpe-tking, as
;hou . h just fn-m a dream, and
let tab .fiese words, soft and feeble, l.ke
i sig : God!”
“Aly advanced
Aft r > nothcr pause, she a
few 8t< p® i n the road.
“Give me jour ■. ini as far as my house,
Mr. Lei'lid,” she sai-L
ke obeyed he , and they cent nued
their wnlk toward the hou e, the light of
which they soon siw.
'Jhev dm net exch nge a wovd—only as
they letched the gale, Mr®. Den'on
lumed nd m»de him a slight gesture
with h r hand, in sign of adieu.
In return, Leland bovv^dlow, and with
Irevv.
This mm bad bceu sme^re.
\\ heu true pass on surprises (be human
soul, it t ieak® down a 1 reso >e®, s mps
iway all log c, and crusher all calcula
tio is.
In this lies its gr indeur, and also its
danger. this subl folly
Mhea me possess s you,
it elev i es 'ou-it tian®fieures you. Il
i an suddenly convert a i omm >n man into
a poet, a t o ward in o a htro. an egoiisl
in<o a ma'tvr. aud Don Juan himself iutc
m Hni el of purity.
With woo*, u—and it is to th ir horoi
—this met morphosis with can be durable, lut
it i® r relv so men.
Once tr-ispored to this stormy sky,
women Irankly cccept their proper home,
and the vi -inity of t e thunder does not
disquiet 1 them. i® their element—they feel
as®iou at
home there. There are few women
wo tfiy of the m me who are not ie.idy tc
put in «ct on all tue word, which p®s®ioo
aa® caused to nubble up from their lips.
If th-y speak If they of talk Lig t, they are ready
!or exile. death. Men of dyi ig less they arc
ready for their idea». are far con*
jiB-ent in
It wa® not until la*e ihe next morning
Ihat Leland regretted his on'break ol
sincerity; for, dur ng ihe rein iuder ol
the night st li filled with h<s exci ement,
agitated and shaken confused by the passage of the
rod, sunk into a aud levensb
reverie, he wa® inc pable of he leflec miiveied ion.
But when, on awnfeemug,
the sitnat on ca mly aud by the plain
light of day, and ihoagbto er the pr ced
ing evening and its events, he co< Id not
f ul to reconmze the iact tin t he had been
cruelly dnp. d by h s ownneivous syst m.
'Jo love (JIMa Denton was perfectly
proper, and he loved Ler sill for she
was u person to bj lov -d an 1 desired; bill
;o elevate that ove or auv otler, a® th«
oa ster of his li'e, insle d of its play
king, wa® one of those we-kness than s m
;• r l cted by Lis system more any
>ther -
In fact, he felt he hid spoken and act.
ad like a schoolboy on a holiday. He had
ottered words, made promises, and taken
mnagements on himself which no one
iem nded of him. No conduct could
lave been more ridiculous.
;ime Happily nothing was !o®t. He had yet
to give his love thnt subordinate
jccnpy place whicn th’s sort of phantasy should
in the life of man.
He had been imprudent, b it th's very
imprudence might finally prove of ser
ri e to h ; m All that remained of this
scene was a declarat.on— gr tcefully made,
spontaneous, Clara n dural—wh ch subjected
Deuton to the double charm of a
mystic ido a rv which pleased her sex,
lud to that manly violence which could
not d sp e ise her.
He ha l, therefore, notVng to reeret,
Bltho gh he certainly would have -pre¬
ferred, t»k ng the point of view fiom his
principles, weakness. to have displayed less child
isii
But what course should he now adopt?
Nothing could be more s mple. He
would go to Mrs. Denton, implore her for¬
giveness, throw himself again at her feet,
promising (onsequently, eternal respect, and succeed.
at about ten o’clock,
Leland wrote the following note:
“Dear Madam; I cannot leave with
jut bidding yon adieu, and once more de
ma id n« your forgiveness.
“Will you perm.t me?
“W. Leland.”
Th's letter he was about sendin?. when
tie rec ived one containing the following
vord*:
“I shall be bappy, sir, if yo u will call
upon me to-day, about “Cl four o’clock.
ara D i n ton. ”
Upon which Leland threw his own note
into the fire, as entirely sui ertiuous.
No matter what interpretatinn he put
upon this note.it was an <\ident sign
that iove had triumphed, and that virtue
was defeated; for, after what had passed
the prev ous even ng betwe* n Clara Den
;ou and himself, there was only one
jourse for a viituous woman to take, aud
ihat was never to see him arain.
He eo.iloquized ou the weakness oi
woman.
pro BE CONTINUED. !
lie Had to Exp'ain.
“Madam,” said a dude, as he hob¬
bled up to the kitchen door of a farm¬
house, “your butter’s awful strong.”
“What do you mean, rir?” shrieked
(he fai mer’s wife, as she flourished the
jhurn-dasher.
“Oh, excuse me! I meant to say
that your goat hit me a thundering
bump just as I attempted to pump a
drink of water. No offense intended,
madam, ’pon honah .”—Areola Beeord.
Alcohol in Chicken Raising,
“Yes, sir, 1 can ri-ac chickens threer
days qu cker by planting the eggs than
Ctt-> be done in the regular way,” said an
•nan who officiates as gardener for a
arotnini nt iioa manufacturer on Flvtu
ivenue, Eist Eud. It seems strange but
jhiikeus are about the only things that
nan is able to grow. The usual things
produced iu a garden langu sli and fail
under his Direction, hut chickens thrive.
•“ You see, I brought this idea over
with me from the old couutry. I place
the eggs in a box with a little fertilizer,
then point the box about four or live
iuci es below the surface.”
“Well, some one told me you indulged
in an incantation over the box,” said the
leporter.
“ Not at all; I just put a little vinegar
iver it, nothing else,” was the gardeu
sr’s repl,.
“ You don't understand me. I mean
:hat you use sor_y charm or oth r.”
“On, no! Tm only rule you must
follow is not to open the box except be¬
tween the going down and the coming
up of the sun,” was the way the gar¬
dener answered.
“Tueu there is some mystery about it,
after ab?” was asked.
“No, you must keep the box dry,”
■eplied the old chicken farmer.
The repoittr gave permitted up fuitherquestion¬
ing a® l uiile, aud the gardenei
;o tell his story without interruption. the
• Well, you sco, I let box iemail
under the gn-uud for a period equal tc
that r< quir d for a hen to hatch outeggs,
less tin bo days, then open the box in the
even ng. Then I find I have my chick¬
ens all hatched out, I am met Lore with
a diffi ultv. If 1 tcy to put the young
chickens with a homo raise she Will peck
at them until shekiils t!%m. It is too
much trouble to care for them myself,
so 1 have to play a trick. I take a cnioken
that is not laying wei! and make liei
drunk. I do this by giving her whiskey,
and soon she begins rr. stagger around
until at last in a drunken stupor she lies
down. I take her, aud, fixing her care¬
fully in a box I have already prepared,
place the chicks under her. By morning
the effects of the alcohol have worn oil
and the hen is going around the yard
clucking to* her young brood in the
proudest manner. She imagines that
she has been sitting upon the eggs aud
this is the result of her patience. I hava
tried this a number of times and the ex¬
periment has never failed.”—[Pittsburg
Die patch.
Paper Houses.
The adaptability of paper is regarded
as likely to lead to a solution of the
problem of rendering dwellings and
business that structures fire-proof. It is now
found paper can be made perfectly
fire proof while remaining ameuable to
the sitine treatment in the matter of
color, polishing Such and handling ns most
woods. a material offers all of the
advantages as an ideal substance for
floor.®, anu it can oe. used equqllyt well
for the wulls of buildings. Besides this
| it can be used in the finish and furniture
«,f houses and would unquestionably do
! mu <.h to re duce the piril of fire, against
; ! w |,j c h insufficient provision 1 is * but too
t k
He—It makes me a better man every
time I kiss you, darling. She—Oh, my,
1 Charlie! How good you must be now.
—1 Brooklyn Life.
