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wft ’AH Wj ■ hBI ’ W ® lllllli L VOL. XIX. b... TO BE CALLED FOR. Cingular Story of a False Friend and a Donble Marriage, V. W. Robinson in Philadelphia Press, CHAPTER I. DO NOT know why I should keep this story to myself—to myself and sec ond self, more correctly speaking—any longer. There is nigh upon a score of s’ears between tho time of happening and now, and all the harm the telling of it might have done is dead and gone as Uncle Samuel is. But to begin at the be ginning—which is ship. BfitF Wsll w w- shape and suits me, being an orderly man always. Fly Uncle Samuel was my guardian, my fath er and uncle rolled into one, and took care of me after my own father was drowned. My mother was Uncle Samuel’s sister, and became his housekeeper after father’s death, attended to her brother’s business when he was out at Bea, put up with all his bad tempers when he was on shore and was ‘'a perfect slave to the old brute,” it was said in D< al; though my mother was only a hard working woman, and Sam Nanglo was not exactly a brute. However, my mother did not live to see her brother at his worst—that was in the. latter years of his life, when he lost the proper use of his limbs and had to creep about the house, clinging to the walls and furniture, or to toddle down the street with a couple of crutches which would always go very wide apart, and which he was never able to use with any fair amount of grace. At this period of his career Samuel Naugle was certainly trying, and no one was more certain of that than myself, his nephew —Martin. Townsend, at your service. The most trying time was when I was about five and twenty years of age, and mother had been dead fifteen out of them. Then he was a trouble to most folks who had anything to do with him, to me in particular, to whom the caro of the Flying Fish Inn, and of the Flying Fish steamtug. and of my uncle, the proprietor of both these Flying Fish, had come byway of natural sequence, as the saying is. “Not that you’re going to have my little tug, when I'm dead and gone, Martin,” my uncle would say; “they’re both too good for you,and I haven’t slaved and toiled and moiled all these blessed years to fatten a lazy hunk like you. ovu’t j.qftct ..nythWg’ it si-yjd'H be more out of your reckoning than you have over been in your life. You’ve been too pig headed. too stuck-up, too damned sillyto please me, and you must take the consequences. And I hope before you die, Martin, and when you findyourself in the work house, that you’ll be sorry you didn’t treat me better when you had somebody to see after you, and to keep a house over your soft head. There, get out.” And I got out accordingly, and left him to his own company in the little room at the back of the bar, where nobody came now to smoke a pipe or drink a glass of grog with him, my uncle having insulted everybody all round long ago, and lost all his customers, who would not como and spend money and get drunk in his back parlor to be told they were fools and asses, and encumbrances on the face of the arth, and gib bering, slobbering idiots, who knew no more about Deal, or ships, or the sea than hisspit toon there. It was Uncle Samuel’s idea—and I am rather disposed to think that all uncles have a weak ness this way—that no one knew anything save himself, that no one had over done anything that was worth mentioning except himself, that no one had ever been so wise, so careful, so far-seeing, so lucky, so plucky as he, and it was his great affliction now that, though every body knew this as well as he did, there was no one to :;ay it to his face like a man, or give him any credit for it. Ho Knew that was hu man nature, for he knew everything, but he sat in his big chair by the fire and cursed hu man nature for 'all that, and when tired of Cursing human nature in the abstract he would get to work cursing mo. Well, yes, a dreadful man in many ways, I ©wn i*. There was not much disguising of it in Deal, though 1 did my best to keep tho old man's name sweet in Bilge street, where lie lived. “Why.you don’t cut and run from him I can't make out,” was said to me byway of sage advice. “The way you’re treated, too. It’s abominable.” But I could not cut and run from so helpless an obi man. He was so terrible alone, and my mother's brother, too, who had taken care of us when father went to the bottom of the sea. My uncle told me about twice a day I was Stopping for what I could get—what would come to me after ho was gone but ho had al ready warned me there would be nothing for my share, and I knew that lawyers had been sent for and his will made long ago, and I was out of it. Uncle Samuel had one virtue—he Was always charmingly frank—“infernally rude,” some people said —and he led me dis tinctly to understand that I was “out of it” for many resons he was not going to explain to a jabbering parrot like me who would go and tell all Deal half an hour after I had heard them. Sometimes I fancied that he wanted mo to get away, though what ho would have done without me, heaven knows, 1 do not. But then lam a little conceited, like my un cle. lie always said I was stuck up, ami if so, it was in the family. Whether Uncle Samuel ■was rich or poor was a matter of grave specu. lation to mo, and mote than me. It was gen erally considered that he was a rich man—that he must nave made a lot of money, and have a rare long stocking somewhere. If the Flying Fish Inn had not been a profitable speculation i the Flying Fish tug had b • n, and be in the days of Ilfs health and strength had certainly I been a shrewd fellow, and not overburdened ' in any way by principles. Ho had had his ■ trials, certainly—ho had even been tried for Smuggling—but tlie tng had brought him in I considerable profits, ami ho was invariably so I early at a wreck that there were a few evil- I minded folk to fancy 1. ■ must have arrang'd the wreck beforehand, .'bi b, of course, was i not always possible. .Ami ho had never been afraid of work—downright hard, awful wo. k, in the face of the storm, and of the death ■ which the storm threat'ned, and Dare Devil ■ Bam bad been his nickname in tho t'wn for years liefore his dan - ■ ilsliip stumped ui*out the streets on crutcles. I remember the last winter I spent with my uncle very well; It was a mc-m* ruble s..t-~ri, and lo maun' rs were | r.-c iliac, even for him. | He v u . -t.r.g worse . d v one, they aid in Bilg- street, and the little ch ,d. mi's!,ricked at s lit . of him raid rm aw..y, though their big b, . ii irs ma le u;> f< r tub th: ,wing ■-tone.'.. B i corner of the bar-parlor ho w.i» only Uarable when fast asie*-;, or after bis so '.rte'nth gi.. ,s | of grog, when ho wo ild become lx astD.l . f his past axid' its, or maudlin oi er li.o helplt >,s which hindered him f ■ tn repeating tfisni. Evo in his miserable <ld ago ho aeei .-d to love the sea, and to be more keen and c.-ar <n his faculties when he could hear it roaring and breaking on the beach,with the wind shrieking like a woman. One winter's night, when the elements were going it in real earnest, ho sat huddled in liis big chair .with bis logs on a foot stool ami a warm rug round him, listening with grave satisfaction to the storm. “Had I been as young as yon are I would have been out in this,” he said to me, “I wouldn’t have been hulking here scouring pewter pots.” I had donq my scouring long ago, but it was his neat way of putting it. “It’s a roughish night,” I said, not caring to aggravate him by any defense, now that he was a little pleasant in bis manner. “I should have had steam up in the Flying Fish and gone. That’s where the pull is, for tho ships are sure to go to pieces er run ashore on a night like this, as sure as thunder and lightning, death and tho devil, boy.” i “Yes, exactly,” I said; “and you were never afraid of danger?” “Afraid!’’he reared forth. “I was never i afraid of anything, you fool, you! I never stopped at anything, or let anything stop me; what I wanted I had always. If they said I shouldn't have it, I took it for myself.” “If who said?” “ What’ii that to you ? And so I’ve got pret ty warm and comfortable, and—” I ventured to supply a word. “And happy?” “No, you wretched, limp, underdone, hair dresser or a man—not happy. Who could bo happy with you? Who' could bo happy with a blazing pair of legs like these, and with—” Then he was silent suddenly, and I mixed him another glass of rum and water at a pecu liar sign he was accustomed to make with one hand and one eye, and which meant rum and water, hot, with a slice of lemon it. He did not say any more. He became strangely silent for him ; for. when he bad not mo to talk to, lie would talk to himself for hours—talk him self to sleep, and then go on muttering in his dreams in a rare, busy fashion. But that night he grow suddenly still and quiet, and stared before him strangely at a Grace Darling pic ture on the opposite wall, and continued to stare after I had left him to attend to a cus tomer in the shop, who was a little impatient, and kept tapping so persistently with apiece of mney oontho pewter-covered counter that I had quite made up my mind to sauce him for his burry. But it was not a “him.” V hen I had reached the shop, which was down a long passage, and a good distance from the parlor, between which and the shop there were more rooms than one, the Flying Fish Inn being a rambling old place, 1 discovered my customer to be a female, a young female and a pretty one. too, for all her pale face and big, blue, staring eyes. I did not know her for one of my neigh bors —for an; one in Deal, where I knew every one by sight, and 1 was sure she was a foreigner before she spoke a word. Her dress was very dark, but it was peculiar; her hair was very light, her hat or bonnet seemed rather of a queer shape, and there were two funny little crystal crosses in her ears. “What can I get you, lady?” I asked at last, as she continued to look at me—to regard me in my turn in tho light of a curiosity. Then she spoke in English, but with a for .eign accent and in a veryjow tone. 'A <f i. . -m. . •’he «•>!«, wondcyt ingse“yo-t are younger, taller, different alto gether. You do not answer the description; you—” “What man do you want?” “I wish to see Mr. Samuel Nangle, of the Flying Fish,” she answered. “This is tho Flying Fish and Mr. Naugle is my uncle.” “Is he alive?” “O, yes.” “And well ?” “Not well. Hehasnot been well and strong for years; but then he is very old.” “Yes, I know.” I was surprised at the extent of her knowl edge, but waited for her to inform mo of the object of her visit. "Is he indoors?” “Yes.” “Can I sec him?” “Ye—es, I think so,” I said hesitatingly, “although it’s late in the evening and he is not particuly idee to visitors as a rule.” “He expects me.” “My—my Uncle Samuel—expects you?” I exclaimed. “Yes, he has been expecting me for some time,” was the quiet explanation proffered, “for day#, months, years, 1 dare say. He has been always certain I should come. Why, it was as sure I should call some day as that the sun will ri e tomorrow.” For the first time she smiled, and I liked tho look of her when she smiled. “I’ll tell my uncle you have come, then,” I said. “Thank you ; do.” “Who —who shall I say has called ?” “Bertha Kcefcland. Ho will know tho name.” “Indeed!” “Has he never spoken of it to you?” “That's strange,” she remarked. “Has he altered very much of late years?” “Yes, very much.” “People do. 'Well, tell him I have come, young man.” I was proceeding in a wondering, dreamlike fashion toward the long, dark passage again, when she called and said : “Is his memory as good as it used to bo? Old people forget; my father did, sadly—very sadly.” Her face shadowed at some reminiscence, and I said: “I think his memory’s pretty good formost things.” “Still, ho may have forgotten,” was tho thoughtful comment here.; “the name may have even passed away altogether from his recollection, lie never speaks of me,you say?” “He does not.” “Perhaps it will be as well to say Casper Keefcland’s daughter.” “I’ll make a point of doing so.” “And if he's too old, or too ill to sec me, I will not worry him,” she continued. “Only tell him to let me have the sundal-wood box which was left lu re to be called for.” “To be called for?” “ Yes. Whicli my father left with him— which he told him 1 should fet'-li some day.” I “Oh! did Im?” 1 said, coinpl. tely bowilder ! ed now, and wondering at all this and wiiat it I meant and y,hat was to follow. I was borne down by grim forebodings, which closed thick i and fast about me as I shambled my way along i tho dark, passage to the inn parlor. CHAPTER If. Uncle Samuel Nangle waasittinewy much i i in tho same position as I had left him. only he Dad dropped his ruin and water from hi, bands I i and the glass lay shattered into a hundred ; pieces on the floor. He was still staring at tho ■ picture portraying Grace Darling’s heroism, or I ■ at a something beyond the picture, very far ' ; away, indeed, and which Doubled him that | nig.. t. 1 should I.i-vc laii'i -d in another min- . ute that be had hr.d a stroke of something if ; I he had n >t said to me very plainly, bat huski- i * “V,'hat is it, Mullin?” “A what?” “A visiter,” I t';e..t'd. “Somebody who v itits to .-io you, and who hm; come a long way 1 , f„-'.o yon, I-hould was my reply. ■ “A Ing way, is it. ’ he muttered. “You . I d< n't mean from the grave, Martin?” “Coriaiidy not,” I < ried; “is that like me?” I | “Nothing is i,lie ymr,” 1.0 sa.d slowly and i | rule ti by: “I don’t call to mind anybody! My um ea a . coming round to bis old man rr ri. i'.v in. llvat gad of it, Hi.i staring fit I waaoveruuuubaus.iued mo just a little. 1, ATLANTA. GA., TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 28. 1888. had fancied something was going to happen, having been full of fancies all that day. “Well, who is it wants to see me?” Ire asked querulously. “Who’s come all of a liuot to ask after my health and to wish mo joy ot B?” “It’s a young girl.” “Eh?” “A foreigner—German, without doubt, or Dutch, perhaps.” “Eh?" “A pretty girl, but very pale.” “Eh ? oil, go on. With glass crosses in her ears?” “Why, yes. But have—” “And what’s her name, Martin?” he asked now, very eagerly. “Bertha Keefeiand!” “No— no—no —that’s a lie. That’s a dread ful lie of somebody’s,” he roared forth, sud denly. “I tell you it can’t be!” "<J, but it is, uncle.” I exclaimed ; “and she’s come, sho says, for the sandal-wood box which was loft here to bo called for.” “There's no sandal-wooilbox,” he exclaimed, in the same loud key. “There’s no Bertha Keefeiand, for she has been dead these six years. There’s no—” And then he fell forward, with a horrible screech,face foremost on the floor, and 1 ran to him and picked him up.and wiped tlicdustoll his hard, rugged cheeks and forehead, and put linn back again in tho big chair from which ho had pitched out. I was as sorry to see him struck down like that as if I had loved him or he had loved me a little, and 1 scuttled into tiie bar again for water, for the lielp of the young woman, who might run for a doctor for mo or mind my uncle v.liilc I ran myself. But the shop was empty, and there was no Bertha Keefeiand waiting for mo to como back with my uncle’s answer to her message. CHAPTER iff. The host of the Flying Fish did not recover from the fright or the malady which had seized him. He was one remove nearer to the end of iris time, now; I knew as well as possible that lie would never want his crutches any riore, and that one of these fine days or nights he would be sailing clean away. He knew it himself, I think, though the doc tor had not warned him. The doctor had left it to me, who was not likely to be a good hand at breaking to the old man such ncv. s as that, and who did not caro to toll him, and thought it was well not to tell him, as it was not likely to do him any good. I did ask him if ho would like to see tlie pars! n, and he swore at me with sucli fluency for the suggestion that I thought for a minute or two lie was getting rappidly better. But lie wound up in a milder fashion. “Parsons ain’t any good to me,” ho said, “are they?” “Well, I don’t thinje they are much.” “I always hated parsons. I haven't seen one, of my own accord, since I was christened. I’ve kept out of their way.” “Yes, you have.” “ 1 know I have,” he added. “I could have told tho parson a blessed sight more than he could have ever told me. And, besides, salt water doesn’t mix with holy water, does it?” “I don’t know.” “No. You don’t know much.” He did not say any more that day. He was very thoughtful at times now, as he haclbeop on tho mglit when he was spoken to. dayl.f ills last) illnt,.is to u 'S—JUf'.-i • I'lent / waixi nearly—he had never alluded to the girl who had called at the Flying Fish, and whom I bad not set eyes on since that stormy night. And yet I believe, lie was thinking of her a good deal, and of tho message she had sent to him by me. Presently 1 knew he was think ing of her, and could think of nothing else. One day,and a very long and thoughtful day it was to him. ho beckoned me to his bedside, with his thick, crooked linger. He had got very hoarse, and there was a difficulty in making out all lie said, but I had managed it somehow during the morning ami afternoon. “Martin,” ho croaked forth, almost like a raven, “I don’t fancy I’m quite as well as usual tonight.” “Perhaps it is fancy, uncle?” “Am 1 looking as well ? I don't want any lies about it!” “I don’t see much difference in you.” “Tlien I don’t suppose there is.' You were never much of a liar, Martin. You have been over particular that way, and that's bad for a man who means to stick to business, hard and fast.” “I’m not so sure of that.” “But I am, and that's enough, ain’t it?” “All right,” I said, although I knew it was all wrong, and so had begun lying on my own account. But I did not wish the old gentleman to get excited over any argument. “Give him his own way,” had been the doctor’s orders; “let him say and do what he pleases.” “I know lam not going to get over this, Martin,” my uncle said. “’That's all square enough; and I’ve had my innings, and don’t grumble. But, Martin, where the devil am I. going to?” “For mercy’s sake, don’t go on like this!” “I didn’t reckon on her calling for me, on her waiting for me,” he muttered. “Fancy her always with mo afterward. It’s awful!” “Do you mean—” Then I camo to a full stop, but he under stood me. “Yes, I mean that girl.” “Bertha Keefeiand ?” “Yes, Bertha Kcefcland.” “How can sho be waiting for you, uncle?” “Didn’t site come two weeks ago?” “Why, yes.” “.She came out of her coffin,” he whispered, “and I was waiting for her that night. She had been upon my mind all day. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Sho was troubling it very much.” “That’s all nonsense,” I cried. “Sho was lie b and blood. I’ll swear.” Ill: shook his hi ad. “No, sho wasn’t,” he said; “how could sho be?” I could not rcai n with him. Ho wasso con vinced to the contrary, and I was perplexed and goosetlc-.by. Certainly Bertha Keefeiand had mysteriously disappeared after giving mo tho message to my uncle, but people are always disappearing and being advertised for, ami turning ui> again. And this might have been a practical joke, only—and then I thought of a sandal-wood box, which was up stairs, and had been upstairs for years, on the top of a tall, double chest of drawers belong to my un cle, and tho mystery of it was beyond my fathoming. But lie lot in the light upon it presently, and it was a tod light, warning him of danger—a light as red as blood. “She couldn't iiavo been flesh and blood, Martin,” ho went on slowly; “for, six years ago, when you were away in London once, she j camo into this house, into that shop down ■ stairs, just as she did a fortnight since, said Bin: was Bertha Kcefcland and had called for I the box her father bad left with me.” “Good gracious!” “Sho was tall and thin and pale, with glass crosses in her ears, and sho knew very little English and spoke it very badly. Is that tho girl?” “It answers tho description,” 1 answered, witli a shudder. “Well, she has called again, i that's all.” “Yes, she’s certainly called again,” he re pea'cd grimly. “ Well, then —” “But.” lie added, with a Fx.k which I nball I never forget, and which silenc' d nie at oir'.o I —a I'Xik which coni' s to me often and often in my sleep still, ami gives mo awful nightmares I —“I killed her on tho night she culled to see ■ me first, and for three day . her body lay behind the big vat in tho cellar where the whi ky is, ' until one dark night I tmilt it down to tho ; b ach, and the sea carried it away fi r inc. and 1 there wan an < nd of it, I thought. An end! As I If there can bo an end to tilings like that—asif ; She w ntto < ou.e ba< k some day jutt s . sho I i iaa dene. I feel that's a clean breast of it, Martin, and you’re not the man to put a rope round my neck for telling you; not you.” “No. Not 1.” I stood and looked at him and wondered if he were raving at the last, for I did not think there were many more hours of life in him, and his senses might have left him first, as they will do sometimes, perhaps out of polite ness. Could it be possible, I thought, that my uncle was a murderer, that this was true, and that the Bertha Keefeiand of a fortnight since was a spirit from another world ? Were there, after all, such things ns ghosts to walk tho earth and avenge the deeds which made them so? To look upon this agitated, earnest obi man was to believe it almost. It seemed so an fully like tho truth coming from those thin white lips. And presently I did not even doubt it. “I don’t mind telling you the rest of it, Martin ;. you'll understand then why I haven’t loft you any money in my will. It’s more Ilian twenty years ago when Casper Koefelnnd mid I were friends first—when ho ftfll sick one day* in this very room and was afraid he should dto before he got: back to his native village, mid tho wife mid baby ho had left behind him there, lie traveled a good deal between Russia and England, and always put up at tho Flying Fish. The last time I am talking about—when ho was ill, that is—he. had brought with him a box made of sandal-wood, a legacy, ho told mo, from a rich relation who had died in London that year. Before he left Deal lie got tho no tion into his head that ho should die before ho reached home, and so ho asked me to take caro of the box and its contents, being pretty sure Ins mates would stick to it if ho shouldn’t- live t > got off shipboard. For some reason, too, he did not want ills wife to know of this at present. •1 i’ll be a surprise to her some day,’ho said, ‘mid for Bertha. I’ll leave it with you to be called for, Sam,’he said; ‘lt's safe with yon as with the bank of England. Bertha shall conic here for it some day, when sho grows to boa woman—that’s time enough. 1 don’t want for anything now ; lin ay then. I can trust you. ,Sam, and 1 can only trust you to keep it safe for her. And. if I should die before 1 get home, you’ll take it to Germany yourself. Say that’s a promise ?’ And 1 said ii was a promise. So it was.” “Well?” I gasped; “goon.” “But Casper did get home, though Im was taken worse on the journey. Ho was never lit for much work again. He was something like I’ve been of late years, Ind, I’d heard—a star ing figure-head. astuifedGuy Fawkes, a scare crow of tho cussedest. But ho sent mo one line, which somebody wrote for him: ‘Keep it till called for,’ it said ; ’till Bertha comes,’ and 1 kept it.” “And she came?” “Yes. Don't be in a hurry; you’re always in such a beastly hurry,” lie said. “I haven’t told you what was in the box.” “Did you know?” “One night I broke it open.” “Oh!” “I wasn’t particular; I never was over-par ticular,” he said ; “and 1 wanted to be sure what Casper was making all this fuss about. And there were diamonds and laree gold bits of foreign money, and then more diamonds in the queerest settings. They fetched u lot of money.” “Did you sell them ?” “I was in iWliculties,” ho continued.,'.‘l had been tiled foi 'Smug.-ling. wef? heavy expenses for my defense, and heavier fines to pay, and I wanted money badly. When I wanted money badly I always got it somehow, and Keeleland’s jewels came in handy.” “T,liat was dreadful.” “Old Keefeiand took no notice, and nobody called for tho property. 1 thought ho must have forgotten to tell anybody about it,” ho went on ; “that ho bad gone oft for good with out telling wife or child—that ho had thought 1 might as well have tho things as anybody else. Ho was so very fond of mo.” “I wonder why that was?” I Baid. “You mind your own business, and wonder at what I’ve got to tell you,” growled my un cle. “That’ll bo quite enough,” ho added, with a shudder, which lasted so long that 1 thought lie would uhuddder himself out of the world, ami so end himself before his story. But ho suddenly rallied, and went on : “Ono night, though, sho did come -Bertha Keefc laml, at the same time, on the same sort of night as the last, with the wind roaring down tho street, and shaking all the windows. Sho walked into the place, and asked me for the box just as sho asked you, and I would have sooner Been her ghost then. God knows 1 did not know what to do. I had sold tho jewels and the foreign money. 1 could only boo a prison for me, and—and I was always a des perate fellow in my heart of hearts. I asked her to step into the next room—the room close to the bar, which I always keep locked. You guess now why ? and—and—but I’ve told you all the rest. You know —you know! and you have seen her risen from the dead. And she will come once more for me, too; we shall see her walk into this room again, you and I to gether; now, mark my words. That’s what I am waiting for.” “O, don t get that info your head.” “And I shouldn't like you to be out of the way whi n sho calls for me instead of for tiie box. I’m to be called for now, no dent leave me, Martin, not lor a moment; there’s a dear good lad.” CHAPTER IV. Was Uncle Nangle, after all, bo vciy bad a specimen of a murderer, or had he learned re pentance alter his fashion and understood what remorse was—what atonement? Ho told mo before he died that ho had left all his money to tho nearest kin of Casper Keefeiand, win y over lie or she might be; that it was on his conscience—or wiiat ho thought liis conscience —that this should bo the destination of his money, which was not half ho much as people thought he had scraped together. Ho told me something more than this. '1 hut ho hud made himself as hard, cruel and brute-like as bo could to me, so that I should be glad, rather than sorry, when ho was gone—so that there should scorn a natural reason in his strong dis like of me for leaving the money somewhere else, Even after bis death no one would sus pect him of bo babyish a tiling as restitution, ho hoped. Ho would have liked to die “hard as nails,” but it wiih not to bo. lie could not have his own way in everything. Who can ? “I wasn’t half as bad as I tried to be, Martin, that’s all,” he said to mo the next night, when ho was lingering on still. “I wanted you to hate me. But you wouldn’t.’’ His voice wan a long way off now—ho was much weaker ho could hardly lift Ills hand from the bedclothes. Ho was not likely now to spin me any more of his long yarns. That very night again I was trying hard to think it was a yarn and nothing more. Later on he Baid in a hnlf-abscnt way and yet in away that was strangely iinpressivo to me: “She hasn’t called for me yet. What a time she keeps mo waiting!” I put my band on his, which was fidgeting restlessly outside the bedclothes, and Baid : “Don’t think nuything more of such nun sense. If it’s all true you’ve told me—" “if!” he murmured, indignantly. “Think of that a Lit ami Low sorry you are now.” Ho stared at me like a man resenting my ad vice; then lie made a sudden effort to sit up in I bed, and failed; lastly, he clutched my hand i with Ixith his own. . “I’m—called for!” ho said. “Here she is, i by God—at last!” He gavoa long Klgh.shut his eyes, and died ; i : and the breath had not been out of his worn old body half a minute before, to my horror ! and amaz.' iuent,the door v. ns slowly and softly I opened, and tbero stole into tho room thoyoung I woman, or the ghost of the young woman, who I a fortnight since bad told me that her name ■ was Bertha Keefeiand. I thought in that moment it was the ghost of ; i Bertha—a ghost with gla-. earring.l -ter my i nerves were, unstrung; my uncle was just dead, and his story was not four-and-twenty hours old. I cowered from her among tho bed cur tains. I was not half a man for tho next live minutes. 1 could hear my heart pounding away inside me like a steam hammer. Here a very natural woman’s voice ex claimed : “Dead! Oh, is he dead, my poor old father's friend?” I looked round the curtains at her; sho was bending over him witli tears of interest in her blue eyes. She had put a little hand upon his cold, hard forehead. Sho was so uncommonly unlike a ghost that I could not bolievo in Un do Samuel’s story any mojo. His brain had given way in his old age, and that was tho ex planation of it. An odd eoineidenco or two— life is nil coincidences had helped to mako the yarn remarkable, and that was all, “flow long has ho been dead?” shoasked, in a whisper, and as if afraid sho might wake him. “Just a minute.” “I heard in Deal that ho was very ill, and I camo to you at once. I could not make any body hear in the shop, so I thought I would not run away again, but come up stairs to where the footsteps were. I guessed ’ what was hap poning,” sho said, sorrowfully, “and I had hoped to see him once before liis death ; to give him j.oor father’s message—father's thanks,” “You—you have never seen him before then ?” “Never.” “You have never been in England before this year?” I asked. “Never.” “And you are Bertha Keefeiand—Casper Keefeland's daughter?” “Oh, yes.” “I’oorold Uncle Nangle.” I inarm tired, look ing at him, “how your mind wandered at tho last, to be sure.” “Did ho speak of me?” sho asked. “Yes, I should rather think he did.” “My coming to England distressed him a deal, reminding him, I dare say, so much of father.” “Hum! perhaps it did.” , “ 'Don’t tell him everything too suddenly— he's old. like me,’ said my father, before bo died,” she continued; “give him plenty of time to think matters over—say you’ll call again, or anything.' And when, a fortnight ago, I heard him shriek out alter you had ta ken in my me sage to him, I felt 1 had been too hasty, and 1 crept away at once, giving him more time, ns father wished.” “Oh! 1 see.” “Sen what?” “That your father was a wonderfully consid erate man. And yet—” “And yet?” she repeated. “My uncle never seemed exactly tho man for anybody to be considerate about,” 1 con cluded. “My father liked him very much always. I don’t think you could have understood your uncle,” she said, thoughtfully, almost re proachfully. “Well, I suppose I didn’t,” I confessed. “I have a lit tie more to say—but,” aim added, with a shiver, “is there any reason I should say it hero? Any reason we should stop hero longer?” “No. Please como down-stairs.” I answered. ,\i’e wpp.ttetlm bur parlor, where sbn sat dwn In fey uncle’s ?Lafr, nnrl lookod Jra'd at me. Sho wis a very pretty German girl, I thought. “Now, about the box,"' she said, “I don't wish to trouble you concerning it till after your uncle’s funeral. I will simply ask you to take extra caro of it, now that it is In your solo custody, ami not in tho good man’s up-stairs, who has held it ill faithful trust for me so long. I may toll you even there uro jewels of con siderable value in it, and I am very poor. That may interest you, perhaps—for my sake,” Bho added, with a. faint little smile. “To ho sure,” I answered, heartily, “and that it docs. But—” She waited for mo to proceed, looking at mo anxiously. “But before liis death my uncle spoke of those jewels, and said—whether in his Bober senses or oui of them, the Lord knows, Miss Keefeiand—lluit—that,” I stannnered forth, “he had turned tho jewels into money.” “Why should ho have done that?” “As a kind of loan, perhaps,” I suggested. “His statement was not very clear, and, ns there was a ghost mixed up with it, I could not make it out exactly; but the long and the short of it is, he has left all his money, every scrap of it to you.” “To me 1” “To tho next-of-kin of Casper Keefeiand. That is you, 1 hope?” I asked, nervously, “or tho poor old boy has made a pretty mess of it.” “Yen; it is I.” “That's all right. I'm glad.” “But you are his nephew—should bo his heir,” Bho exclaimed. “What has ho loft you?” “He lias not thought of me in any way.” “(th, that is wrong!” “No; I think it is right,” I answered. “How can it be?” “How inn anything bo?” I said, in my des perate bewilderment. “Don’t try to make out anything just yet, Miss Keefeiand, please. If you had only camo before— years and yours be fore!” “ I was taking caro of father, and he only spoke of tin; box a few months ago, and just before he died. It had passed out of his memory completely, he said. Ho was a very forgetful man ; and,” she added, thought fully, ,‘ns ho had many troubles, It was just as well.” “Yes,” I assented, “I should Bay so.” “1 should not have bc< n surprised if tho box had been missing altogether,” sho remarked. “1 was prepared to hear you tell mo that when I first called here.” “Why?” 1 asked, cautiously. “Thcio was some one who knew tho box was here—my father's second wife and a Bertha Keefeiand, too. My father had told her of it once. He remembered that he had spoken of it to her.” I felt a creeping up my back now. “ Your father’s second wile,” I repeated in a husky whisper. “Yes. He married her a year or two after ho had come back from Deal for tho hist time. Married her for a nurse and to take caro of mo, left niotberlcM. And sho was too wild and passionate and - and wicked. (She desert ed him.” “Wiiat—what has becorno of her?” “I don’t know. Sho left a letter on tho table, one night, stating that she could bear her life no longer and must go away from him and me. She was then about the ago I am,” Bertha added, thoughtfully. “She was much too young for father, Un was very fond of her, though ; n! n.r sho had left him ho made her dress like her, and wear ornaments like mo, too. It was a strange fancy.” Yes. I raw tho story now, 1 thought, from its Bhadowy beginning to its end. The young wife of Cnsjier Keefeiand, after deserting her husband, had come to the Flying Fish for tho sandal-wood box, hud como with a lying mes sage frem Casper, and met her death in coming. Uncle Nangle's confession was true, after till. Bit by bit I Bil led it out. 'The old man had kilftld the wrong Bertha Keefeiand, and year after year it lieeamo more and more plain I to nie more and more of a terrible tale of i temptation and cupidity. Let mo turn away ’ freCii it for good—it will be known only to , Bertha and me until this hand is mill whicli i puts the record on paper. Bertini is my nite. She came into my | uncle’s money, and, as she insisted upon Bliar- Ing it witli me, we made up our minds just to sliaro our lives together os well, and so round the story like an orange. And lie moral of this story always strikes I tno its A queer one. if Uncle Nr.ngle had not I murdered Caspar Keefeland's second Wile I PRICE FIVE CENTS. should have never married Bertha Kcefcland and been happy for the rest of my days. Bertha says I must not put it down as murder, but then she always looks on tho bright side of everything. HOW INDIANS FIGHT. Fictitious Itepiitatlons Hold by Many ot the Savage Tribes of the Far West. From the St louis i ost-Dispatch. “I have had many years’ experience as pur chaser of saddle horses,” remarked a major of cavalry on his way to Chicago to a I’ost-Dis pntch reporter in tho corridor of tho Southern hotel this morning, “having been a member of horse boards for tlio last thirty years, and hav ing bought cavalry horses for the United States service. I therefore feel that I know whereof I speak when 1 say that the supply of good saddle horses in tho country is smaller than it has been nt any time since the war. Ido not mean that there uro fewer thoroughbreds, for there are probably more, but horses suitable for other purposes than racing and park use are becoming inter every day, and although the price paid by tlio government is higher than it. has been for tho last twenty years, it is very difficult to seciiro proper mounts for the cav«, airy, while ten or even five years ago at lease three times as many horses able to pass muster were presented as the advertisements called for. The horses that wore raised in the coun try districts of Kentucky and Missouri wero splendid animals for all around use, but now there seems to bo nothing between tho weedy, delicate racer good for a mite dash, but who would break down in a three days’ forced march, and the heavy animal that does excel lently for wagon or light artillery use, hut. is too slow and clumsy for the cavalry. Evon when wo got a horse that lias at once bone and stamina it is nearly always the case that he him a long back, that curse of tho cavalry horse, for weak kidneys are inevitably tho result after ono season’s campaign. Dorse hoards now have to go over the country with n fine-toothed comb to finil tlio active, short-coupled horses that are tho best for service and which used •to be found on every largo farm. Unless some thing is done by tho breeilors tho splendid sad dle horses tor which the Mississippi valley once was famous will entirely disappear, “1 have served on the plains m arly contin uously for more than thirty-live years,” con tinued the speaker, “and am tolerably familiar witli all the features of cm airy life. A cavalry man always hies a fiontior stat ion and only sees civilization during his brief leaves. Civilians do not realize tlio hardships ami exposures to vi h ich a cavalryman is subjected. ILu has sea sons of idleness, but also long periods of great exertion, and-as u proof of the effect of his life it can be safely stated that scarcely one man out of ton roaches tlio ago of forty-live with out being seriously broken down. Indian cam paigns are the cause ot this. 1 have fought and chased Indians from tho British lines to tho Rio Grande, and know whut campaigning means. Tho Indians always got a tremendous start of the cavalry, and seldom are overtaken. The army has been blamed for its ill success, but when the circumstances are understood, it is wonderful that bo much has been accom plished. The Indians never attempt to commit outrages in tho vicinity of an army post, and news seldom used to arrive until twenty-four lioms i,".moy end the a long . f; arty Always they arc provided with roti iuits, the loose iiorsen being driven before tlfir bund, and when an animal shows signs of fatigue another is re mounted and tho flight continued on a fresh animal. Horses arc ulho stolon wherever mot with and the consoquonoe fa that the trooper, who is confined to the use of a single animal, has a i>oor chance of overtaking the Indians. As a general thing they can fight or escape as they please, and never do the former except in overwhelming numbers. Tho fatigues of one these fruitions marches, generally made on short rations to secure celerity of movement by avoiding currying baggage, can well be imagined, and the condition of man and Leant after a two months’ campaign is wretched in tlio extreme. “Nowadays she active Indian campaigning is confined to Arizona, but when I was a young man the northern Sioux, northern Cheyennes, I’legans and Blackfoot in tho north, tho south ern Sioux and the Cheyennes and Arapahoe* on tho central plains and tlio Comanches and K iowas, south of the Arkansas, kept us busy all the time, of all these Indians tiio .iiowas were tlio best drilled, it being hard to distin guish them from the dragoons at a distance of two or three miles. The Comanches never de served their reputation, as they were poor fighters, doing well against tho Mexicans, but never standing against United Stales troops. The Cheyennes were noted far and wide as tho most determined and fiercest lighters, but their onergics wcroj more constantly directed against their hereditary enemies, the Utcs, then against the whites. Tlio Sioux were tho largest mid most powerful tribo, and gave us tuoro trouble than any oth ers. They were in theh way as well drilled as tho Kiowas, I myself having seen a single chief direct tho movements ot a thousand warriors, scattered over an extent of country five miles in diameter, Bimply by tho flashing of a littlo mirror held in the hand. The Black feet, being foot Indians, were more easily reached, and after one or two lessons never gave nny more trouble, although last winter they threatened an outbreak. The Crows and J’awni ' H, being hated liy all other tribes, were our allies and made our best trailers. The L ies, while less daring than the I’lains In dians, fr >m their situation in tho mountains, were enabled to ambush tho troops very easily and many lives have been lost in this way. Fighting withal was rather a run than a com bat and tho troops had for many years littlo chanco against them on account of their groat celerity of movement. It was not. until tho winter of 1878, when General Nelson A. Miles began his series of winter campaigns tlmt the plain Indians wore thoroughly subduod. That officer followed their trail in the coldest weather, drove them from their winter camps, rind although unable to overtake them, kept them constantly on tho move. The Indian.-;, sensitive to cold,’ and ill provided with clothing, died like sheep of hardship and exposure and ono by ono the bands, fairly tired out, came in, surrendered and were disarmed and put on reservations. Tho winter campaign more than anything <he broke the power of the plains tribes, but at terrible expense to tho troops, who wore exposed to tho fury of the western storms in tho coldest months of tho year. The young sters in the army regret the disappearance of the Indians, but wo old follows, who know what a winter inarch is, nr<> most thankful that they are over, probably forever.” Dream, Baby, Dream. cn.IDLE HONO. Darling, lay your tired bond down, And take a trip to Hloepy-town. Dick up all tlio drentiis you see And bring them home to tell to me. Dream you're a honey Lee poised on a rose, Draining tlio dew where tho deep color gLwa. Dream you're a Illy fair, stately ami white. Folding your ;>etul» to sleep all tho night. Dr-am you're a twinkling star up In the sky, t,ut don't stay there leu;;, my pet, stars are so hlglfc -. Im urn you’re* a vlolc' hiding your head, 8 * :<j Ircm the chilly v.iuds, tu mossy bed. I r . nm you're a really sht 11, deep In a cave. Nestling by corals and washed by the wave. Dream you’re a butt -rfly, golden and gey. Wooing the swoelest flow ers all tine leug day. Dream you're a silver bell ringing the hours, To waken the fairies that sleep in the flowers. Drcam on, sweet baby, dream of nil bllrs. Till you wake like a ruN*bud for mamma to klsa, —Maiy U, Hungerford.