Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, November 18, 1891, Image 1
_ ^ ~" ^ ^ ^ ^ mm '' ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ?
lewis m. grist, proprietor. J ^ii Jndtptndcnf nfamilij Newspaper: ^oi[ flic promotion of llti| folitujal, Social, ^5i;itiiltu];al and (foinmci;tiat J liferents of the .South. | TERMS?$2.00 A TEAR IN ADVANCE.
VOT, ft*. YORKYILLE, S. C., "WED3STICSDA.Y, ]STOYEMBER 18, 1891. ISTO. 41.
' ---? * J.l r? X i ? tin,
THE MAN III
BY W. C. :
Whose Nom de Plum
Author of "The X>
[Copyright, 1881, by Cassell Publishing Cor
ment with
SYNOPSIS.
Chapter 1.?John Dorison, son of the
head of the house of Dor:3on Co., deceased,
returns after eight years of wandering
under a cloud, to the old home in
New York city. The basement is used as
a saloon, and stepping in Dorrison makes
a chance acquaintance with Job Nettleman
who knew the Dorisons in their
best days
Chapter 2.?Nettleman leaves the
saloon and in a few moments blood is
seen trickling from the ceiling. The saloon
keeper and his customers rush to the
front stairway to reach the floor above.
Dorison goes up the rear stairs and And a
a young woman weltering in blood. He
also discovers a miniature portait of his
father and a familiar ring on the stand,
both of which he secures. A scrap
of paper in the dead woman's hand ana
another on the floor are also taken and secreted.
The entry of detectives and police
?laoe him under suspicion. The room
i used as a costumer's establishment by
Mme. Delamour.
Chapter 3.?Dorison, using the alias
James Dudley, calls on Dettleman to help
him oonceal his identity. At Xettleman's
office he meets Simon Cathcart, a private
detective, who engages him to assist in
working up the muraer case. Dorison's
father died while writing the letter, which
apparently accused the son of grave
crimes. The scraps found in the costumer's
room are in the handwriting
of Dorison, senior, and appear to relate
to the subjeet broached in tne unfinished
letter.
Chapter 4.?Madame Delamour, the
oostumer, is Mrs. Farish. Cathcart goes
to her private house and finds that she has
been murdered in the same manner as
the young woman in the costumer's shop.
The latter was Mrs. Farish's daughter
Annie. A mysterious young man called
on the Farish's at intervals, and on his
last visit went away angry. Cathcart finds
a man's glove near Mrs. Farish's body.
Chapter 5.?Mystery in the Farish
house. Mrs. Farish assumed mourning,
Annie withdrew from society and a son
disappeared, all about the date of Dorison's
death. The glove found near Mrs. Farish's
body has an extraordinarily long
thumb.
CHAPTERO.?uuaotrmuifva inuiauu uu?
as a young man of fashion to discover the
wearer of the glove with a long thumb.
Chapters 7 and 8.?Dorison saves a
young lady from being run down by a
carriage on Broadway. She is the daughter
of an old friend of his father, Mr.
Eustace.
Chapter 9.?Dorison protects a woman
from insult and arrest, and disoovers a
man with a long thumb.
Chapter 10.?The man with the long
thumb is Charlie Eastace, brother of the
rescued girl.
CHAPTER XI.
TALL, SLIM, WITH BROWN HAIR.
Cathcart had said he would be present
at the Hoffman cafe at the time of
the dinner.
Uonseqaently, when the three gathered
about a round table in the middle of the
room on the corner of Broadway and
Twenty-fifth street, Dorison looked abont
for the old detective. He was not present
as yet Noting his absence, but believing
he would soon appear, he gave
himself np to the enjoyment of the dinner.
Dorison and Eustace were manifestly
drawn toward each other; it was plain
to Boshnell that they had discovered a
ing until they had made plans for an
early meeting. 1
Finally, Eustace ana Boshnell rose, i
bent npon an engagement they had previously
made. As they donned their i
overcoats, a man with black bushy beard
and hair, who had been sitting at an adjoining
table, roee also, passed close to ?
Dorison on his way ont The latter felt
a. slip of paper thrust between his finoara
?** ?
So soon as he could he looked at the
slip. It was a bit torn from the margin
of a newspaper, and on it was penciled
these words, "Wait for me in the office
of the hoteL"
Wondering who the stranger could be,
??id what business he conld have with
him, and speculating as to what the
message so strangely cominunicaieu ,
could portend, Dorison lit a cigar and
wandered into the office. Pacing np and !
down the long corridor he thought upon I
the singularity of events which had ,
crowded upon him during the previous
forty-eight hours.
While he was speculating upon the j
possible outcome of these events, Cath- j
cart suddenly appeared before him.
"You were wholly right," he said J
quietly, before Dorison could remark |
'upon his failure to appear in time. "It 1
is the hand and the glove as well. I ob- !
served the gloves as he put them on." ;
Dorison stared at him in astonishment.
A light broke upon him.
"You were the man with the black '
hair and beard," he said.
"Yes; didn't you know mer
"Know you. I did not dream it was
you. You were completely disguised."
"You did your work excellently well,"
said Cathcart, ignoring the compliment, '
as if disguises were matters of hourly '
occurrence. "But 1 was never more 1
puzzled than 1 am now. If one could 1
only trust to appearances. If 1 were to
do so in this case 1 would dismiss all idea 1
of young Eustace being implicated in 1
iL.i .i__ ... * i L.J y
mat uiuruei as pt^c^uouctvus. i uau uij
lesson, however, twenty years ago. 1
was given the work of tracing the murder
of a whole family in a town in Illinois.
Indications pointed to a young j
girl living hi the family. When I saw
her sweet, soft, innocent eyes, her face
almost angelic in its expression and her
pretty, coaxing manners, ! dismissed
suspicion of her and went off on a theory
which led to nothing. She moved away,
and two years after was caught in the
very act of crime. Having been convicted,
she confessed these murders, and
an examination into her life showed her
to be a monster of depravity. It was inconceivable
that one so young and tender
could be so black."
"You have returned to the theory then
that Eustace is the man you want,"
commented Dorison, disappointment and
regret plainly visible.
"I have neither returned to nor abandoned
that theory," replied Cathcart "I ;
hold everything in abeyance pending | (
further inquiry. Our puzzle does not
fit?the pieces do not match. We sup- i
posed that the wearer of that glove was i
tall and slim, with brown hair. In ;
other words, that the wearer of the i <
glove, the tall, slim man, and the i i
walker in Union square were one and
the same man. What we have discov- c
ered is that the wearer of the glove is c
one person. Whether the tall, slim t
man and the exquisite of Union square j
are one or two persons has yet to be determined.
My theory has gone astray just I
so far. What was it we learned in
school? 'Falsus in uno falsus in omni- l
bus.' If I am wrong in one particular I t
may be wrong in all." t
ffl A THUMB.
HUDSON,
e is Barclay IVorth,
iamond Button."
npany and published by special arrangetnem.]
""Eustace could"hot have been either
the caller at stated intervals nor the exquisite
of Union square, exquisite though
he is."
"Why?"
"Because he has been continuously absent
from the country for six years
until four months ago."
"Another complexity. Why should he
return home after so long an absence to
murder two inoffensive women?"
"He is a surgical student, having
studied here and abroad," said uorison. i
"The devill" said Cathcart "The
proofs accumulate against him. You J
know that to be true?"
"His friend BushneU told me so."
"The case presents more perplexities
than any 1 ever was engaged in."
"Those gloves were not made In tills
country," said Dorison irrelevantly,
though thoughtfully.
"Just what I have been thinking si<ise
you told me he has but recently retun ed
from Europe. Well," continued the old
detective, "there has been substantial
gain. We have discovered the owner of
the glove, and at the proper time we can
compel him to explain its close proximity
to the body of the murdered woman. He
must have bad some relation to the
women, and, if not guilty of the murder,
must be possessed of knowledge concerning
them. You must gain his confidence;.
You are in a fair way to do it"
"I never entered upon an enterprise
with greater reluctance or loathing," replied
Dorison. "I freely confess I have
an extraordinary liking for the young
fellow. It seems like treachery to seel:
his friendship to his own undoing."
"That does not necessarily follow,"
sharply replied Cathcart "But you
must put aside all such notions if you
propose to succeed in your search." Recollect
the interest you have at stake?
the rehabilitation of your own good
name."
"I know, 1 know," hastily responded
Dorison. "Nothing shall swerve me
from that But even with this before
mo I cAnnot renress a feeling of regret
for that proud father and tender sister
when disaster shall overtake the son and
brother, nor the remorse I feel in anticipation
that I shall be an instrument of
its precipitation."
"Better curb that imagination of
yours until you see that you have precipitated
disaster upon them," said Cathcart
contemptuously, evidently annoyed
at what he thought was a lack of proper
Bpirit
A moment later, his mind having reverted
to the practical bearings of the
matter, he said:
"Cultivate an intimacy; become a visitor
to his family; impress yourself upon
the father, aud get him to talk of your
own father if possible."
Nettled, stung indeed, by the waj the
old man had treated his sentimental outburst,
Dorison steeled himself and replied
curtly:
"Give me your instructions. They
shall be obeyed to the besfcof mvnbil
The old man fixed his keen eyes upon
the younger one for a moment, and
turned as if to leave him. As he d'l so
Dorison hastily placed his hand on the
detective's arm, detaining him and whispering:
"Do you see that man who has just
entered alone?"
Voa "
"That is the one who crossed my path
three times yesterday?first, when i rescued
Miss Eustace; second, when I saw
him have that mysterious meeting at
Twenty-ninth street and Third avenue
and lastly when he attempted to ( peak
with Eustace and was rebuffed."
"Ahl" said Cathcart, as he closely
watched the young man walk up the
long corridor.
"Tall, Blim and brown haired." he
muttered.
Dorison started with surprise.
"Dressed in clothes of extreme fashion,"
added Cathcart.
Dorison felt his heart bound.
"Dissipated and fast in appearance."
Dorison saw the resemblance and the
pertinency of the old detective's words.
"He answers to the description of
both," continued Cathcart "Stay where
you are and keep yourself out of sight."
Cathcart sauntered after the young
man, who had disappeared in the direction
of the art gallery.
Dorison retired behind the pile of
trunks which encumbered a part of the
corridor. The old detective was not 1
gone long. When he returned it was
with a letter.
"There is a letter to Captain La.wton,"
he said. "Juinp into a cab and promise '
the driver three times the amount of his
fare to get you quick to headquarters.
That letter asks for a discreet and intelligent
shadow. Bring him back with you
in the cab. I will wait for you here, un- '
less the man goes out, when I will follow
him. In that event let the shadow go to '
my rooms and await me there."
Dorison without question did as he (
was bid. Reaching headquarters he de- f
livered his letter, and a moment later 1
was leading the way to his cab, f ollowed f
by the man hastily summoned, and was
soon driving back as rapidly. 1
Entering the hotel, Cathcart met
them.
"He is still here," he Baid to Dorison.
"Stay where you are. 1 will rejoin you
in a moment." 1
To the shadow he said:
"I will, in a moment, point out a man ; 1
to you. I want to know his name, his i ]
business, his associations, his habits, in i 1
fact all you can learn about n:im. Ke- I
[>ort to me at any hour of the day or I
light you may happen to have informa- i |
don. Here's my address. Nov/ follow ! '
me.'" i
He went directly to the art gallery and 1
jointed out the man sitting at a table ' '
lear the door, which the young man was I j
watching, without being observ ed by the ;
>bject of their attention.
"That is your man," said Cathcart. i !
Find out especially where he lives and j
what places he haunts."
Cathcart returned to Dorison, who I '
was awaiting his return with impatience, i 1
"What has occurred?" he asked anx- t
lously. j
"Nothing," replied the old detective !
mrtly. "I 6hall go to bed now. I am j
dred. You liave done a good day's work
;oday." j
What further might have passed be- !
;ween them was prevented by the ap- j '
learance of the young man on his way ; \
JUt of the hotel. i
The shadow was behind him.
"Good night," said Cathcart, as he,
?o, moved off.
Dorison had already learned not to
juestion him, and so he did not seek to
letain the old man.
He, too, went out in the night air to
:ool his burning excitement
CHAPTER XIL
NARROWING THE CIRCLE.
The days immediately following the
sxciting events which have been detailed
n the previous chapters were uneventful.
Dorison had fallen again into what he
called aimless dawdling. The high hopes
>f rapid progress he had begun to enterain
died within him and despair took
lossession.
The shadow had faithfully followed
lis man and had reported to Cathcart.
"The name of the man was Harry
jangdon; he had come from Chicago
hree years previously, and was supposed
o bo a man of independent means, since
he had no occupation; lived generally a
fast life; associated to 6ome extent with 1
professional gamblers; seemed to know i
a good many loose characters and
'crooked' men without associating with <
any of tl?jm; visited a woman who
claimed to be his wife in Twenty-sixth
street, near Third avenne, but yet had ]
separate apartments at number ? Twen- j
ty-eighth street, between Third and Lex- j '
ington avenues; was intimate with a Dr. | i
Fassett, a physician of repute, who called j
upon him every morning either at Twen- j
ty-eighth street or Twenty-ninth 6treet, !
always seeming to be well informed as ! <
As he approached he fixed his eyes upon
Dorison.
to which place he was at; after this call
Langdon walked op Twenty-eighth or
Twenty-ninth street, as the case might
be, to Madison avenue, thence to MadiBon
square, crossing diagonally to the
corner of Twenty-third street, thence to
Sixth avenue, to a restaurant, where he
breakfasted and where he read the papers
for an hour or two, and met one or
two of a half dozen who came to 8ee
him there; from thence he went whither
chance or fancy led him; he had the entree
to all the gambling saloons, where 1
he played frequently, but irregularly,
and always faro; his haunts were places i
of fashionable resort, and he was a fre- !
quent attendant upon the theaters."
In telling Dorison of this report, Cath- i
;art says it was the best shadow work
that had ever been done for him.
While these days were passing, the acquaintance
between Dorison and young
Eustace was fast ripening into intimacy.
The two young men saw much of each
other'B apartments, and frequented the j
theaters together.
Carried by his friend to the Eustace
residence, he had been received with
rmaof nrwl roitVi ??verv annarent
disposition to treat him as a friend of the
yonng gentleman of the house. He had
been presented to the ladies of the family
and had been received cordially, and
especially by the one he had rescued, 1
with all the warmth his service deserved
and all the reserve modesty demanded.
Charmed with the household, he for
got the part he was playing while with- 1
in it
In time he was invited to a formal 1
dinner and gladly accepted the invitation
as determining his status as a friend (
of the family. 1
On this occasion, after the ladies had 1
retired from the table, the elder Mr. 1
Eustace, moving to a seat beside Dorison,
again referred to the extraordinary 1
resemblance the latter bore to his father, i
In an endeavor to avoid denying a rela- 1
tionship, Dorison tried to divert the conversation.
Mr. Eustace, however, was 1
politely persistent, seeking to inquire
ittto.the_antecedents of his guest, with a 1
View To iwifiug (?" nb courarfiur esnronsn?i
a blood connection. 1
Dorison was not adroit in his fence 1
and contented himself with simply say- 1
ing that he was from Dubuque, and therefore
could not be supposed to bear any I
relation to so old a New York family, i
Indeed, his effort to escape a discussion 1
of the subject was 60 marked that Mr. <
Eustace forebore further questioning, i
Dorison saw at once that he had commit- i
ted a blunder, for the old gentleman 1
froze to him immediately. Too scrupu- <
lously polite to offer indignity to a guest i
whom he had deliberately invited to his i
table, nevertheless Mr. Eustace made '
Dorison feel uncomfortable, so nncom- .
fortable, indeed, that he seized the first i
opportunity to steal away.
The episode greatly annoyed Dorison, i
first, because it foreshadowed an inter- <
rnption in the relations he had just estab- i
lished with the Eustace household, and, \
secondly, because he had stupidly evaded j
the very opportunity to induce Mr. Eus- 3
tace to talk about his own relations to ^
the elder Dorison, Cathcart had so earn- j
estly desired him to make.
As it was, he went to bed thoroughly 3
disgusted with himself, and wholly dis- ,
satisfied with the life he was leading. j
Quite early, that is to say early for the (
UnkUn kn V*orl follun infrt ka troo nrnnoml
uauiio uo uau icmavu iuw| uv ? mu m?vwwvv?
by a message from Cathcart, brought y
him by the officer who had shadowed f
Langdon, and who seemed permanently (
attached to the old detective. The mes- {
sage bade him go as soon as he could to ]
number ? East Twentieth street. ,
Dorison bad now been long enough in
association with the old man not to be t
surprised at any message. He therefore j j
hastened to comply, but yet wondering I
what it could portend and what the ! i
house was to which he was called.
Without a word upon the part of the ' ?
servant, he was ushered into a richly i {
furnished apartment upon the right of !
the hall. At first his eyes, not y?t accus- s
tomed to the darkened room, could but i i
iimly distinguish three figures, but be t
soon realized he was in the presence. of ! r
iu old lady, an elderly, clerical looking I e
jentlemau and Cathcart.
"This is the young gentleman," said ; j
Jatheart, rising as he entered. j j
"Mrs. Belknap, I introduce to you Mr. r
Vf r- Harmon Mr Hii^IaV t.llA
iev. Mr. Carman." \ c
Motioning to Dorison to be seated, as j r
f be were dispensing the hospitality of j
:he house, in that masterful manner s
which seemed to make him the leader ^
wherever he was placed, the old detect- j ?
ve continued the remarks the entrance | a
>f Dorison had evidently interrupted. i a
"1 regard this step," he said, as most ! ^
issential to ray search, or I would not j
mve asked so great a favor. And neither e
would I have presumed to ask it were I j j
lot certain 1 had convinced the Rev. i a
Mr. Carman of its importance. His j ^
presence here is a guaranteo of my good : >]
Faith." ! f
Dorison, who had taken his seat, did
aot make any remark, principally, per- 8
haps, because none was addressed to | ?
him, and perhaps, for the other, that he 8
lid know in what character he was pre- ;
rented to these people, and therefore c
waited for some cue from Cathcart. i a
The old detective now turned abruptly t
to Dorison and said:
"Mr. Dudley, that man Latigdon, in \ ?
whose identity you have an interest for \ t
pour own case, as 1 have with reference
;o his possible relations to the Farishes, | ?
raters Madison square every morning 8
rad crosses to Twenty-third street. I t
Through my urgency Miss Belknap has j
jonsented to accompany you to the l t
square to see if she can recognize the j
nan you will point out to her. I will i ?
se in the square at the same time." I c
Before Dorison could 6eek further information
a young lady attired for the
street entered. Dorison thought that au J i
jxpression upon her face indicated that ,
the was not well pleased with the mission
she was about to enter upon, but s
ilso thought he recognized, with some I
self flattery, that when he was presented c
;he expression changed to one of satis- j
'action. At all events she accepted him j x
jraciously. ; t
"Now, you cannot get there any too g
juickly," said Cathcart, with his enerjetic
manner, hurrying them off. c
In a moment more they were upon the j
street and walking in the direction of t
Fourth avenue. ?
Both were evidently under some con- ' ?
straint, feeling, as Dorison put it ufter- t
ward, as if they had been pitchforked c
together. c
"Perhaps, Miss Belknap," he said,
"you will do me the favor of explaining
the purpose and object of this expedition."
The lady cast an upward glance of incredulity
as she asked:
"Do you not know?"
"Beyond the fact that 1 have been im- j
peratively summoned from my slumbers ;
at an unconscionably early hour, and ;
that 1 am to point out a man whom you j
are to say whether or not you recognize, i
I know absolutely nothing."
"Really," replied the young lady, as
fun and mischief twinkled in her eyes, !
causing Dorison to reflect that those j
organs were very -pretty and attractive, |
"really, our adventure is beginning to
take on an air of mystery. Are you
always so amiable that you obey sum'
' - 'L. ???
mODS Wltnout Knowing HID iraouu ui
them?"
Dorison perceived she did not believe
bis assertion, and was desiring him to
understand she thought he was mildly
chaffing her.
"I assure you what 1 say is true," he
returned earnestly. "You have no idea
what an inexorable master you engage
when you employ Mr. Cathcart. He has
reduced me to such a state of submission
that I run, fetch and carry at the least
uod of his imperious head, or at the least
crook of his potent fingers."
"Do you mean to say," she asked, her
eyes dancing with merriment, "that he
has not confided to you his purpose in
sending us out?"
"He has not confided anything to me.
He rarely does," replied Dorison lugubriously.
"When my curiosity is excited
slightly he sits down on me crushingly
with the remark that he confides
his plans to no one, and I remain silent
with fear and trembling."
The little lady laughed outright at the
mock confession of submission, and inquired:
"Is not this connected with the search
for the murderer of Mrs. Farish and
poor Anne? And are you not interested
in those poor creatures?'
"As you, or any one else, reading an
account of their shocking murder, might
be," he replied. "But 1 never even
heard of them until after they were
dead," following what he supposed to be
the clew given him by the old detective
in his introduction.
"I cannot understand it," said the
young lady. "What relation do you
bear to Mr. Cathcart's search for the
murderer?"
"None."
"Why does he call upon you for that
service you so much lament then?" she
persisted
"Mr. Cathcart is conducting an inquiry
in a matter which closely concerns
and affects me?an inquiry which he has
undertaken at my desire."
"Oh," she cried merrily, "you have
engaged a servant and found a master.
But how does it touch the Farish murder?"
Not knowing just what Cathcart had
said before his arrival, he hardly knew
how to reply. After a brief moment he
said:
"That I don't know. Mr. Cathcart
evidently thinks this Mr. Langdon has
some relation to my affair. Does he also
think he has relation to the Farish murder?"
The young lady thawed somewhat on
this remark. Why, Dorison could not
Imagine, and he could not take the time
to consider. She replied, however:
"I will enlighten you to the best of
my ability. The day after the murder,
Mr. Cathcart came to our house, sent
there by our minister, Mr. Carman, in
on a..,..tn riirnfvvaxsomething about
Mrs. Farish. You see mother, Is one of
the oldest members of our church and
has always been very active in it. It
was little, to be snre, that shecoald give
him, bat when talking of the reserved
and lonely life the two lived, 1 recollected
having seen Anne Farish, on three
iifferent occasions, walking in Union
square with a young man of dissipated
appearance, but dressed in extreme fashIon.
ThiH was noticeab % for upon each
occasion she seemed to ^ in deep distress,
and the young man moody and
menacing in manner. Then again, it
was the only instance ever known, when
Anne Farish was seen in company with
i young gentleman."
Long before she had concluded Dorison
had grasped a sense of the meaning
>f their enterprise. Probably it was
rery stupid of him that he had forgotten
this episode, which Cathcart had made
& strong connecting link in his chain of
reasoning, but now it came back to him
with great force and he perceived the
importance a recognition would have.
By this time they had reached the corner
of Twenty-third Btreet and Broadway,
and he suggested they should cross
nto the park. As they did so she conjluded
her statement.
"Therefore a certain Mr. Langdou,
with whose personal appearance you are
^arnUioi. Koa fnllnn nn/lar Mr. (Iftth -
jart's suspicions, and we are bent on an
irrand of discovery?to see whether this
Hr. Langdon is the one whom I saw
walking with Anne Parish.''
"And are we to keep on walking unil
we meet this man." asked Dorison
ightly.
"I presume so," replied the young I
ady, "since we have fallen under the |
jower of this man who you say is so inixorable
a tyrant. How do you like play- j
ng detective, Mr. Dudley?"
The question was put so suddenly that j
it first Dorison thought it was a trap j
aid for him?that she had penetrated j
he part he was playing. Her next re- [
nark, however, dispelled the suspicion. |
She said:
"I enjoy it; it gives me an excitement |
do not often have. Do you suppose ;
dr. Cathcart's suspicions rest upon this !
nan as the murderer?"
"It is difficult to follow Mr. Cath- j
art's mind," he answered soberly. "He I
nay be the very man he has under sus- i
>icion, or to identify him may be only a
tep in the maze he is following. Few
vill ever know until the end just what
lis thoughts are. He is very skillful
md wonderfully able. His sagacity. |
muteness and reasoning powers are mar- i
relous to me."
"If," said Miss Belknap, whose quick
yes had perceived Cathcart in an adoining
path, "if he imposes onerous :
ind unwelcome duties upon others, he ;
loes not shrink from them himself. See!
There he is. also attending a 'ladye
aire.'"
"The plot thickens," remarked Dorion.
"Who can she be? And what does
le propose to do with her? Evidently
he is a servant."
"He does not appear to be an attentive
avalier, with his chin upon his breast
ind his hands in his vest pockets," comuented
Miss Belknap.
"He is profoundly thinking. When
le carries his hands so, he is. And ho is
itterly unconscious of his habit."
They walked on, chatting easily. As
hey neared the corner of Twenty-sixth
treet and Madison avenue, Dorison saw
he person they had coine to observe apiroaching.
He was passing in front of
he Garden building.
"Cathcart has timed our walk well,"
le said. "There comes our man, LangIon."
"Oh, indeed. Where?"
"Immediately in front of the Garden J
loors."
"Are we to turn back?"
"Better go forward and pass him
lowly."
"Should wo not indicate to Mr. Cath:art
that the man is coming?"
"By no means. He would not thank
is for that. Do not fear he will miss
he man he has routed us out so early to
ee."
By this time they had reached the
Tossing of Madison avenue and LangIon
had already stepped down on it from '
he other side. As he approached he
ixed his eyes upon Dorison, scowling as
le did so, thus enabling Miss Belknap to
ake a fair look at him without being ;
ibserved. As 60on as he had passed out j
if hearing she said:
"That is the man. It ia he without
question." 1
This with a tone admitting of no ?
doubt
"He recognized you, and does not re- j
gard you with favor," she added. R
Dorison told the young lady of his en- b
counter with him at the time of his res- C
cue of Miss Eustace, concluding his tale ^
with these words: C
"I presume no man can philosophical- *
ly receive such humiliation from a lady t
before other men, especially after he q
has boasted of a friendship between a
them." g
They had walked up Madison avenne t
as he talked, but now Miss Belknap said: 0
"Our task is dona I must return F
home." *
"I hope 1 am not to take your remark c
as a dismissal, but shall be permitted to ?
accompany you to your door?" t
"Thank you," said the lady, thus giv- C
ing her consent. Arriving they found t
Cathcart at the door viewing with high ^
displeasure their slow approach. c
"I have been waiting for you at least
Tninnfpfl." he said fihAIDlv,
The young lady resented his tone and
replied: "
"That is to be regretted?by you."- -??
But, impervious to the sarcasm, Catheart
said:
"Well, is it the ms,n?"
"Yes."
"It was the same man?" His face
lighted up.
"Unquestionably. I would have known |
him among a hundred. He is noticeable
enough." I
Cathcart was evidently greatly pleased, i
"Come," he cried, "we are getting on '
famously." 1
"Did you learn anything?" asked the !
young lady. (
"Much," was the answer, in a tone j
which did not encourage further ques- ,
tioning.
Before the young lady, if she had desired,
could inquire further. Cathcart i
said: '
"Now, Mr. Dudley, I must see you !
Come with me."
Dorison lingered only to take polite 1
leave of the lady, and followed the old ,
detective down the steps i
[to be continued'next week.] ]
Ipiswllancousi Reading. ;
A CRISIS AT FONTENOY. i
I
I
-rur- inieu OC.1/??riC I cn TUP nPf.l- ,
I nL in ion ui iiunuu i.h.M . ?
SIVE CHARGE. '
When the French Were Broken and About
to Rotrcat Irish Genius mid Valor
Arose and Won the Day?A Story of (
the War in Flanders. j
(Copyright. 1801, by American Press Assoela- *
tlon. Eook rights reserved.]
tW ONTENOY was
the turning battle
, in the war iu FlanMaria
Theresa for
the German
throne, and the
, charge of the Irish
bloody field iu less
than ten minutes'
time wrested victory
for the French
from impending
disaster. The battle
was not a model one on the pe rt of the
French. Under command of Louis XV [
and Marshal Saxe they were laying siege
to Fournay, on the Sheldt, an?l when the
allies, 50,000 to 60,000 strong, came up in 1
the rear to raise tbe. siege Saxe swung 1
40,000 of his troops around on to a slope, (
presenting two faces to the enemy. Hi? '
lines thus had two directions and met iri '
an angle at the center, the same as the un- 1
fortunate position occupied by Sickles' '
corps on July 2 at Gettysburg. The French '
ranks rested on the Sheldt on the right, and c
in an impenetrable wood on the left and '
the front was strengthened by heavy redoubts
having a diverging fire that swept *
the whole plain beyond. The left side of {
the angle had but two redoubts, one at the (
point and one at the extreme left. The 1
right side was better supplied. Marshal J
Saxe stated that he did not believe that a , '
commander existed bold enough to attempt s
to put his troops through the raking fire
from those two widely separated redoubts.
It proved a weak spot, however.
The allies were formed under three commanders?Gen.
Ingoldsby on the right, to
charge the isolated redoubt at the edge of
the wood on the extreme left; the young
Duke of Cumberland with Anglo-German
troops in the center, and Prince de Waldeck
on the left with the Dutch troops.
The action began at 5 o'clock in the morning,
May 11, 1745, and raged as an artillery
duel for four hours. Then the allied infantry
took it up and made a grand advance
all along the line. The Dutch infantry
in heavy columns, supported by cavalry, I
gallantly faced the terrible artillery fire |
that raked their lines crosswise and length- I
wise. The French had a sixteen pounder
battery on a bluff at the extreme right of !
their position that swept the Dutch lines :
from end to end. No soldiers could lie
made^to endure such cannonading without
some diversion from other sources. And '
at a critical time there was a prospect of j
such diversion, for the Duke of Cumberland 1
at the head of 15,000 British and Hanover- I
ian infantry, and accompanied by twenty
cannon, carried in the left side of the angle | ?
from the redoubt at the wood to the point i
at Fontenoy. The redoubt at the wood ' ?
assaulted by Ingoldsby had not been car- "
ried, owing to the cowardice or inefficiency j '
of the leader of the attacking column. But 1
the duke pressed on into the very center of i *
the French lines, more than 300 paces prist : J
the battery front. Of course he carried
confusion with him. Louis XV and the j
Dauphin were in the camp. If the Dutch j J
could do as well on their side as Cumber- ; 1
land had done on his the French were lost, ; 4
for owing to the situation there was no *
avenue of escape in case of defeat. Despair | "
settled down on the French councils. The 1
favorite troops had given way before Cum- |
berland's blows. |
The steady musketry firo of his columns j
seemed to the French as something i afer- j
nal, and his advancing cannon knockwl to [
pieces whole brigades of the king's choice !
infantry. The French had 110 pieces of j
cannon in their redoubts, but these were j
all needed to do their work there. Four j
guns only had been left in reserve, and an !
officer of the Irish brigade, Col. Lally, sug- :
gested that they be brought into action to !
oppose Cumberland's advance. This idea ;
coming to the ear of the king was adopted, j
and the guns were brought into action in !
front of the victorious allies, whose shouts '
of triumph resounded over the plain. The r
move placed the impetuous Cumberland 1
into a difficult position, lie had cut his c
way through a gap, for the French batter- : ^
ies on both flanks of his column remained j '
intact at:d lircd upon the allies who at 8
Iff- Aaglo-GermanL""- r
fiih,,, j fi
*w ! j
Trenck A ^ A ?
uttn % '1
XriSk B,* ^ \ A i;
\ ;'
MAr OF THE BATTLE GROUND. '
tempted to follow up to the duke's support. 1
His column was exposed to nttack on the '
front and each flank, if the French had the j
vigor and foresight to act up to the cmcr- '
gency. Already orders had been given '
from the French headquarters to prepare '
for retreat, and even the batteries so persistently
holding the Dutch in check along !
the side of the angle had been told to abandon
their ground. The allies under Cum- !
berlaud were astounded and all but paralyzed
by their sudden success. They had
rushes! iuto the center of the French army; '
brigade after brigade of Freuch infantry '
had melted away before them; ccnfusiou (
and inaction were everywhere noticeable in
the French camp, and Cumberland's men j
actually stood still in wonder and uncer- t
tainty. Their surprise and inaction lasted
until the French recovered a lirni grip on j
the situation. The commander of the four j
reserve cannon, which had been ordered to I
the front under Cul. Daily's inspiration,
hurried them forward, crying out, "No re- j t
treat; the king orders that these four pieces | ^
of.cauuonshould gain the victory."
The allied column that had broken |
brough the French was in the form of an !
blong, with three battle fronts. Marshal j
laxe ordered the four cannon to open on j
he longest front and cut gaps for the |
'rench cavalry to dash through. At the j
amo time the infantry brigades that could
e re-formed were to attack on each flank. !
)n the extreme French left lay the Irish |
rigade, six infantry regiments, known as
Hare's, Bulkeley's, Dillon's, Roth's, Derrick's
and Ially's. These men had not
eeti at the frjnt thus fnr during the batle,
and had cursed their luck in conseuence,
but their enthusiasm, or "panting
rdor," as the phrase is, was about to be
liven a loose rein. They were placed at
be head of a column to attack the Duke
>f Cumberland's right flank. Being composed
of young men, all fresh and burning !
rith hatred of their old hereditary foe, the ,
Snglisb, their selection to bear the brunt |
if the attack was at once a compliment, I
rod a challenge to them to show proof of
heir mettle. When the word came to go
3oL Lally said to his men, "March against
ho enemies of France and yourselves
vithdut firing until you have the points
>f yourbftyonets upon their bellies."
The Irishmen went forward all animated
vith the spirit of Lally, and coolly relerving
their fire. Before them lay a slope i
tscending toward the allied lines, and !
iwcpt by a galling fire from thousands of ;
nusketa and two cannon. Up the steep j
-hey went without pulling a trigger, ft) be j
net by some of the crack troops of the
British army, among them the famous j
Coldstream guards. Tlie nrigaue wore
joarlet uniforms, and advancing in good
order called out in English, "Steady, boys!
Forward! Charge!" so that the foemen
:ieird the rally and saw what was to come.
At. the opposing lines came together a
British officer advanced to the front and
dugled out Capt. Anthouy McDonough
tor combat. A sword duel was fought on
die spot, the soldiers on both sides nearest
:he scene pausing to witness the light j
McDonough finally disabled his foe and
enthimto.the rear as a prisoner, while
lis comrades sent up a tremendous shout
>ver the victory as an omen of good luck.
Following this incident the British let
icose their volleys of bullets, and for a few
moments cut down the intrepid Irishmen
like grain before the scythe. The commander,
Col. Clare, was hit twice. Col.
Dillon was killed at the head of his regiment,
and scores of officers and hundreds
of men fell under this fire. Yet there was
scarcely a check to the impetuous movement
of Erin's gallant sons. With their
famous Celtic slogan, "Remember Limerick
and Saxon perfidy," they rushed to
dose quarters, thrusting their bayonets
into the faces of their antagonists before
firing a shot.
Even in frout of that blazing column the
oayonet, like the honest stick in a scrimnoge,
had more churm3 for the Irish lads
-han the uncertain muzzle and flint. They
oould feel with their countryman who sang
of his encounter with a Claude Duval:
Ills pistol it flashed,
But his head I mashed,
Ob! shillelah, you never missed Are.
An unfortunate circumstance happened
it the outset that would huve chilled the
lrdor of less determined warriors. A brigade
of Frenchmen, mistaking the Irish in
;heir scarlet colors for the eueiny, charged
THE DUEL.
;bem and futally wounded many before the
Tiistake was discovered. Even this did not
:auso more than a temporary wavering,
md the brigade soon saw their opponents
lying from the field. Of the twenty cannon
>vith the Duke of Cumberland the brigade
nade trophies of fifteen. They also took
,wo colors. The colors and two guns were
aptured from the Coldstream guards by
:ol. Bulkeley's regiment.
So quick was the change of scene after
;be Irish got to work that a contemporary
ipoke of Cumberland's column as "en:hanted
legions which were visible and inrisible
at ple:isure." It was an affair of
leven or eight miuutes. The French war
ninister, who was on the spot with his king,
laid, "In ten minutes the battle was won."
The brigade lost 73 officers and 400 men
tilled and wounded. Clare's regiment had
ts lieutenant colonel and 5 captains
tilled, its major nnd 8 captains and
[ lieutenant wounded. Dillon's regiuent
lost its colonel, lieutenant colonel
md 3 captains killed, 3 captains and 6
ieutenants wounded. Roth's regiment
lad 3 captains killed, and its colonel and
I captains wounded. Berwick's regiment
ost 3 captains killed, 2 captains and 5
ieutenants wounded. In Daily's regiment
! lieutenants were killed and the colonel,
iaiifonant colonnl iinil iiuiinr. 3 cantains
ind 4 lieuteuants were wouuded. Fitzames'
Irish cavalry regiment, acting with
,ho horse, also lost heavily. Twenty-flve
ifficers of this regiment were among the
tilled and wounded.
Following the battle, which was a de:isive
victory for the French campaign,
jouis XV thanked the several Irish corps
n person. Honors and gratuities were
howered upon the surviving officers, and
vhen George IV of England heard the deails
and realized that his son had been defeated
by Irish gallantry he exclaimed,
'Cursed be the laws which deprive me of
iuch subjects."
The laws referred to were the penal and
inti-Catholic measures adopted for Ireland
ifter William of Orange made conquest of
he Catholic districts in lti'Jl. These measires
were held to be in direct violation of
he treaty at Limerick, hence the battle
:ry of the exiles on the field of Foutenoy,
'Remember Limerick and Saxon perfidy."
Yet it w;is not with the spirits of cold
jlooded renegades that these Irishmen
ought ugaiust the English army, in which
heir ancestors had won renown, nnd
vhere their own race and blood were pitted
igainst them. After Cumberland had been
Iriven from the field of Foutenoy aud the
irigade was allowed to rest some of the
pen were seen to be in tears. When
jressed to give a reason for the sadness on
he heels of such a happy victory they retlicd
that while they had done their duty
>y France, and would do so again, it was
lard to fight against their own countrynen,
some of whom might be friends, and
iven relatives. To dispel their sadness the
>and was ordered to play up "Patrick's
Day," when the men responded with a
ovial shout, "Hurrah for old Ireland!"
GEOUGE L. Kilmeil
Father of Thirty-flve Children.
When Dessimists descant on low birth
ates and unsatisfactory increase of popuation
they should have their attention
ailed to a Canadian instance. The Rev.
Ibbe Plinguet, cure of Isle du Puds, in
.lower Canada, who has just died, was the
on of a French Canadian farmer, who had
10 less than thirty-five children. This
ecord it would be hard to beat outside of
lolygamous countries. Mr. Plinguet's
irst wife brought him twenty-seven and
lis second brought him eight. One of the
irst family reached the age of ninety-four,
,nd the abbe, who was the eldest of the
ecoml family, was eighty-oue. Only one
if the whole number now survives, an olli:ial
of the Montreal court house. He is the
oungest of ail?No. 35?and has reached
he age of seventy two.
They Want the White Mountains.
A very curious ease is t he claim made
L>y the heirs of one Oilman Ilook to
die ownership of the White mountains
tnd a tract known as "Ilean's Purchase."*
general Benjamin F. Hutler is their attorney,
and their title is straight enough, but
apse of time may prove fatal to their
:lnim. George III granted the tract to
James Willey, and he conveyed it to
Charles W. Bean, he to Alpheus Bean, he
,0 11 llclfll 1V I'jV.'HIS, 2111(1 1JU lu uuiiiaii
Hook, Dec. 17, 1835. The destruction of
.he court house in Coos, N. H., by fire
jroke the chain of title and t lie heirs have
jeen many years in getting it complete.
But General Butler says it is good, and
ireseut holders of the laud are in a quanlary.
Alum Colors Hydrangeas.
It is a new thing to have hydrangeas of
hat pale blue tint which is so beautiful
nd so seldom seen. The process is exceedugly
simple, and is invariably successful,
bit alum in the water that you use to
ater the plants. Use the alum every day,
specially after the buds appear, and when
he plant blossoms there will be the rare
lue flowers.?New York Advertiser i
TWO LOVERS.
of
Father and mother were dead, and lfcEddie
and I?poor little 10-year-old Ed- w
die?were orphans, all alone in the 80
world. , kc
To be sure we had an aunt, my father's
sister, living in New York, and an un- 83
cle, mother's only brother, far away in ki
England; but Aunt Somerville was rich
and very proud. During papa's lifetime ^
she had not cared to be intimate with us, IP
I was not going to seek her after hie m
death. She had not even attended the Jc
funeral, but had written a cold, informal ^
letter instead, in which she asked no w
questions as to how we two were to be ?
provided for, but washed her hands of
all responsibility in the politest manner 81
" " ? " ?- tijj j n _
possible. AS to uncie r^uwaru vrray
(after whom Eddie had been named) I
had never seen him, but mother had al- a
ways spoken of him with so much tenderness
and affection that I felt sure he ^
was good and land, and would gladly
have appealed to him for protection and fil
advice, in the first loneliness of my be- K
reavement, if I could only have discovered
where to write to him.
Papa had left us the pretty cottage we
lived in, and after the funeral was over 113
and everything was settled 1 found wo ai
had nearly $100 in money besides. And I 83
was engaged to Alfred Carson, had been
engaged to him for more than a year, n'
and Alfred was prospering well and was ai
the kind of a man who was sure to get
rich some day, so there was no fear for *
Eddie or me. %
This thought for the sure and safe pro- ^
vision of the child's wants reconciled me ^
to the idea of my intended marriage as ei
nothing else could have done. There r
I shonld have been nothing needed to rec- 11
oncile me to an engagement I had made a
| of my own free will and wish, but there n
' was, certainly was.
| I had formed an engagement when 1 Q
, was little more than 16?too young and ^
| giddy to know my own heart rightly. a
! Alfred had been visiting some neighbors 11
; of ours and had fallen in love with me. P
lie was handsome and had that air of a
superiority to us young country folks b
which a lniowledgo of a city and city
! life somehow gives. Of course he was k
my first sweetheart. n
His preference, very plainly shown, 0
flattered me extremely; my girl friends ei
envied me?I admired him; his high h
ways and fashionable clothes and expe- e:
rienced, world wise air and manner?in E
short, I believed myself deeply in love; a
! and when, with my consent. He spoke to
! papa, and papa found him in every way n
! a desirable match for me, we were for- &
i mally betrothed, with the understandI
ing, however, that we should not be ^
! married until I should reach the age w
! of 18. ?
In the mean time Frank Snowden? 11
dear old Frank, who had been my fa- n
vorite chum and playfellow and cham- Ti
pion when I was a little child?came ^
! home from Europe, where he had been a
sent to be educated and where he had e
remained for seven years. "Old Frank"
I called him always, because he was so w
much older than myself, I being but 10 ^
i when he went away, while he wae 17, ^
I and now, while I was just turned 17, he P
! was near 25. I thought myself the hap- ?
piest girl in the world when Frank came 8
home.
For a time, that is?for a time. Al- tl
fred was in the city; he wrote to me c
quite frequently, but he had not paid b
me a visit for nearly three months. u
Somehow 1 did not seem to miss him, or
to care for his long absence, or to think ^
about the matter at all.
Frank and 1 went together every- ^
where. No one said anything to him v
about my engagement?it was not generally
known, indeed; and besides we a
were such old friends; almost like brother
and sister, probably no one thought c
anything of our intimacy. I intended v
to tell him myself. Each time we met
I resolved to tell him, but something al- ?
ways kept back the words. I felt 0
ashamed, afraid, grieved about it, but
I all the same I kept the knowledge from a
| him. It was not fair to such an old and 8
| valued friend, I knew; it was not quite 0
| fair to Alfred either, perhaps, though I ^
1 cared less about that, and still, while ^
] every day I resolved to give him my con- Cl
' ~ ' ? t ? i a :?A v.: U
: naence, every uay a uewueu mm aucn,
I until at last something happened that .
j brought out the truth in spite of me.
It was on a certain summer afternoon
I that I had walked down to the postoffice
i to mail some letters for papa, and be- ^
thought me to ask whether there were 0
any for me. Just as I made the inquiry, ^'
who should come up but Frank, and &
having imprisoned both my hands in his a
j own, took the missive the postmaster
i held out and handed it to me. It was 0
I from Alfred, and as Frank's eyes in vol- n
j untarily caught sight of the masculine 7
; handwriting a look of surprise and re- ^
| sentment crossed his face. He released ^
! my hands, and talking along by my '
! side bent upon me a sternly questioning r'
glance, beneath which my eyes fell
guiltily and I felt my cheeks burn red. b
I "I wasn't aware that you corresponded n
with gentlemen," he 6aid presently, in b
an icy tone. Q
I couldn't answer. I hadn't a word to
6ay. My heart Bwelled up in my throat
and almost choked mo. In that one mo- n
ment I realized the mischief my half un- 11
intentional deceit had done; in Frank's e
angry, jealous eyes and cold, indignant D
, tone I saw and heard the truth that he v
| loved me; and the swelling joy of my *
own heart at the discovery?even in the
midst of my shame and fear?told me D
| another and still more startling truth? d
that I loved him.
I If we had been in any private place 1 6
I think I should almost?upon the impulse | v
of the moment and under the influence I
I of my penitence and love?have gone i1
I upon my knees to him to ask his pardon,
but we were in the main street of the I
| village. c
When we had turned iuto a quiet, j 8
shady lane he said, not quite so harshly 1 v
as before: i
"Will you tell mo who sent you that , t
letter?" j &
I've often thought since how curious ! P
it was that I never once, in my innocent ! a
I ?-.1 -1!l.{n i.n/lAnVifarl rirrlif t,i ! f
SUUJj U19|JUICU UXO UUUVUUbVU AigMv w ,
question me or dreamed of further de- 1 6
j ceivin^Jiim. 'fhere had been no word ;
j of love between us, and I was the n
i promised wife of another; but I stood 1<
like a criminal before his lawful judge, | h
and prepared to give an account of my- j f<
1 self to the only man whom my heart h
acknowledged as her master. c
' "The letter is from Mr. Alfred Car- "
son," 1 said almost inaudibly. "A?a? j
gentleman?to whom I" i b
I had intended to say bravely, "to 3'
whom I am engaged," but catching a ?
I glimpse of his stern, pale face my cour- e
ago failed, and I substituted, "to whom J a
I?write occasionally." b
"In-deed!" with a concentrated bitter- !
ness, "to whom you write occasionally." ^
His angry eyes fairly blazed with scorn 1
as ho repeated my words. "And pray tl
by what right do you write to him? I v
love you. You know that, I pre- I
sume?' n
He paused impatiently, and I mur- n
mured breathlessly, "Yes!" I did know
it?now, and couldn't havo helped own- ?
ing it to savo my soul! j o
"Yes, and you love me! You know j ?
that, too, don't you?" Again he paused, p
and again I murmured "Yes" in spite of ?
invself. b
"And, knowing this, how dare you
write occasionally' to him or any other
man? Do you think I shall permit my I
future wife"? Again ho paused, looked J t<
at mo a moment, glanced quickly up h
and down tho lonely lane, and caught si
mo in his arms. "Forgive?forgive me!" n
he murmured, as I wept and sobbed on j ^
his bosom. "You made mo so angry? E
so jealous, pet, and I never knew what
it was to bo jealous before. What a a]
brute I was taget into such a passion! v
You do love me, don't you? There, don't ei
cry any more?read the fellow's letter e'
and then answer it and tell him you're I
engaged to bo married to me, and that'll ai
end the busines!" I h
A strange love mailing?a lordly sort "
wooing. Bnt I found no fault with h
I never dreamed of gainsaying a
ord lie said, except where it was neces- I
ry for me to set him right; that I did s<
raestly, though with a heavy heart. w
"1 wish 1 could tell him so," I said
dly, disengaging myself from his em- fi
ace and standing sorrowfully before tl
m. "But that's impossible. I have r<
;en a foolish, miserably thoughtless t<
rl and have brought suffering upon ; n
yself and him, and, worst of all, on
)u. You'll hate me when you know t<
ie truth, Frank. Long before you n
ime back I was engaged to Mr. Carson
seriously?and with papa's consent, tl
id?and?we're to be married?in about V
x months" b
My voice broke down, and I hid my- a
ce in my hands. He never answered
word.
Presently the silence became unen- k
irable, and I looked up. A
"Speak to me, Frank!" I cried, terri- k
id and heart stricken. "If it is only to
iproach me, speak to me!" h
"Do you mean this?" he asked slowly.
I could only sob and weep for answer, h
"You have been playing false to the o
ian you are to marry and making a jest v
ad a fool of me?of me, who trusted v
ad loved your fa
He paused for an answer, but 1 made zi
one. His tone grew deeper and more s
ogry. b
"I am glad to know the truth at last
Kaon dw/ilwd' vnn nrn not t.hft t
irl I thought you?not at all the sort of a
'Oman I should wish to marry. Mr. t
arson need fear no rival in me?I don't a
avy his prospects. And as this interiew
is not of the pleasantest, and 1
light if I remained longer forget that I v
m talking to a young lady?good afteroon."
t
And raising his hat, with a slight,
nick bow, he turned and disappeared ^
own the lane, while I sank down g
mong the long grass and weeds, weep- \
ig bitterly and feeling as if all the hap- j
iness and brightness of life were over, a
nd all its care and pain and misery jnst ?
egun. '
I felt qnite sure of it two months ?
iter, when, after a brief and sudden ill- ^
ess, poor dear papa died. "Don't put
ff your marriage, child," had been his n
am est and often expressed wish, and
e had even written Alfred to the same *
(feet before he died, and "keep little F
Iddie always with you," he whispered *
lmost with his parting breath. So that J
rhen Alfred's letter came?kinder and ^
lore affectionate than usual (he had e
een rather a negligent correspondent of i
ite), in which he rcgreted his inability ^
a attend the funeral, but spoke of papa's
rishes as to our marriage, and anounced
his intention of coming down
1 a fortnight to make all necessary ar- 0
angements, it was with a feeling of sor- 0
awful relief that I reflected: "I shall ?
e able to obey papa's wishes at least; e
nd Eddie's happiness will be secured, i
yen though I have destroyed my own." t
I had seen Frank ouly once since that a
rretched afternoon, and that was at my ?
ither's funeral. A gentle hand had c
iken mine, and a strong arm had suported
me tenderly as I stood, almost ?
onvulsed with grief, beside the open t
rave. In my misery I forgot our es- f
rangement, and as he led me back to \
ae carriage and took a seat beside me I t
ried out impulsively, "Oh, Frank, my ?
eart is broken!" and leaned my head '
pon his shoulder and wept and mourned 1
laere as if I was a child once more and 1
e the old time champion and comforter. *
i a '
He went with me home ana remained
ill all the rest had gone. Then when
re were alone he said to me:
"I leave this place to-morrow, Lilian,
nd I wanted to be sure, before going,
bat you are not in any want or diffiulty.
You are very young to be left
rithout protection or advice, and if
here is anything that I can do to serve
ou I should be glad to do it, for?for
Id friendship's sake."
I raised my eyes to his face and as 1
iw how it had changed?being older,
raver, paler and more worn, and thought
f how it was I?I who loved him, who
ad caused his suffering?suddenly the
ear features swam before me and I
ould no longer see him for the mist of
ly repentant tears.
"If you could forgive me for the wrong
did to you," I cried.
But he stopped me: 1
"We will not even speak of that It l
3 over. Let me forget it if 1 can?think 1
f me today as your old friend?a most (
rue one?and believe that I wish to ,
srve you if I can. May 1 know what ?
re your plans for the futurer t
"I have none," I answered in a burst
f misery. "Poor papa had plans for t
le and left expressed wishes for me, <
rhich it is of course my duty to obey, 1
f only for Eddie's sake." I rose and j .
ook Alfred's letter from my desk. "Mr.
^arson's letter will explain if you will .
ead it," I said. "It is nothing private." (
He shrank at first as if from poison, <
>ut changed his mind and took it from
ay hand. "You don't keep it in your ' 1
osom or next your heart." he remarked j (
uietly. | J
"No!" 1 cried, almost involuntarily, j
I don't keep even the writer there, I .
auch less his letters!" Then, as 1 felt j (
ay face crimson under his searching t
yes, I added, "So much the worse for i i
ae, since he is to bo my husband," at j (
viq tnmpfl viia pvps awav and read 1 4
be letter. !
"He says nothing about Eddie," he re- ,
narked, returning it. "What will you i
!o with him?" j
"Do with him?" I looked up, quite
tartled; "keep him with me always?it
t-as papa's dying wish."
"But your?your husband may ob- '
ect."
"Then he will never be my husband," ,
answered, hotly. "Eddie is a delicate j
hild; he would pine and sicken among :
trangers; I will not marry any man !
;ho wishes to take him from me!"
He was silent for a time, considering; | 1
hen he said, "I don't see that I can j 1
erve you in any way at present, nor ! 1
erhaps ever; but I will leave you my j
ddress in the city. If ever you need a
riend send to me?not otherwise. Now, ; |
ood-by." j ,
Ho held out his hands. I gave him \
line, and we stood for one moment c
joking into each other's eyes. Ho was ' t
;aving me, the man 1 loved perhaps 1
jrever. A thought flashed through my i 1
eart?I would not lose him I I put the
ard ho had given mo into my bosom. t
I shall need it some day," I said. t
Ho caught mo in his arms. "Good- J t
y," ho said; "never send for me unless j
ou really need me; I could not bear to t
?e you that man's wife! Not that I
nvy him, for you don't love him; you c
re treating him worso than me! Good- j J
y forever!"
After ho was gone 1 cried a little t
rhile, but less bitterly than before. I
'hero was a gleam of hope in my heart c
iat comforted me. That evening I deoted
to dear little Eddie; next morning j
wrote a long, long letter?the longest
nd most serious I had ever written in a
ly life?to Alfred Carson. K
1 waueu ior me auswei wim levensu t
npatience; I went clown to the post- n
Sice every afternoon. One afternoon
31 was returning, dispirited and 6ad, | s
:oin a fruitless quest I 6aw hiin standing ?
1 our garden waiting for mo. lie had 1
rought me in person a reply. j
o
One month later saw a change indeed. C
rented the cottage?it made me too sad
) stay there without papa?for $30 a
lonth; and with that sum in my posseson,
together with what remained of \
ly hundred dollars, came over to New
'ork and took two nico little rooms for ^
ddie and I to keep house in. f
Then I took Frank's card of address, v
nd wrote upon it my own and the |
'ords, "1 need you," and put it in an
nvelope and sent it to him. That very
vening he came.
Ho was evidently very much surprised c
ad puzzled. "What does this mean?"
e said, almost before ho greeted me. i
wnat are vou uumg uiwwui nu;
ave you sen. for me?"
I answered very quietly and demurely,
managed to appear calm and self poejssed,
though my heart beat as if it
rould choke me.
"I have sent for you because I need a
iend. Frank. I want you to put me in
le way of getting something to do. 11m
mt of our cottage is not enough for us
> live upon, though it helps, and?my
larriage is broken off."
He sat down beside me instantly and
x)k my hand?an expression of . indigent
scorn was on his face.
"Poor child!" said he; "and was this
le fellow for whom you threw me over?
Wouldn't take charge of the poor little
oy, I suppose?the mean, contemptible
joundrel!"
T l/vtVaH nn hifl fuTA in ?nmrl??. !
"Whatever are you saying!* I cried,
inghing. "You are not talking about
[r. Canon, surely; he has behaved most
indly."
"Kindly! What do you mean? Hasnt
e broken his engagement?"
"Certainly not!" with emphasis. "But
e has generously released me?at my
wn earnest entreaty?from a promise
rhich I ought never to have made, and
rhich it would have broken my heart to
eep. He wasn't at all unwilling to set
ie free," I went on while Frank's arm
tole around me, "when I explained to
iim that 1 had never really loved him."
"Did you happen to mention to him
hat you did love somebody else?" Frank
sked demurely, while he drew me closer
o his breast and my head sank on his
houlder.
"Yes," I whispdSd.
"And did he ask you who his rival
ras?" he queried
"No," I said; "I don't believe he cared
o know."
"1 care," whispered Frank, bending
ver me. "There was a time when I
hought you such a vain, thoughtless
irl that I persuaded myself your heart
ras not worth having, but yon have done
oat what was right oy both your lovers,
nd shown yourself both brave and sin*
ere. Snch a girl deserves a good man's
rust, and however indifferent Mr. Car*
on may be to your regard, I know how
o prize it Tell me, my darling, who
3 it that you do love?" _
"You, Frank!" I whispered, and hid
ay blushes in his arms.
Poor papa's wishes were fulfilled to
he letter, for my marriage was not poet* ,
? ^ .Ac ii ?T i l
loueu aner ou, tuiu x nopii ^aiuic
rith me. We have both lived very hapiily
under dear "Old Prank's" protect*
ng love and care, and though 1 have
een his wife for many yean, 1 have
ever had cause to regret the choice I
nade between my two lovers.?New
fork News.
The Vevtilutlou of Collar*.
When the housekeeper has bought, built
r hired her house, after due consideration
f the family needs and tastes, and after
areful examination of the locaiity and
onstruction of the chosen home, her earllst
attention should be directed to the eelar,
as that part of the home, which is
aost often neglected and where order
,ud convenience combined, adds no small
imount to the comfort and healthfulness
if all parts of the house.
The arrangement of the cellar takes time
tnd attention rather than any great outay
of money. The windows should first
>e seen to. A stuffy, unventilated cellar,
ull of dead air, is an abomination. The
vindows should be so hung that they can
>e removed from the inside, and during
ill but the extreme winter montha should
>e taken out, And even then in mild days
hey should be opened in the middle of
.be day. The outside of the windows
iliould be protected by galvanized wire
vindow netting, costing 2)4 cents the
iquare foot. A heavier, coarser meshed
quality can be used instead, if that
itrengtb is desired. This quality costs six
?nts the square foot.
The hatchways of city bouses are troublesome
in cold weather. Both the rear and
front hatchways admit a great deal of wind
luring the winter, in spite of the wooden
covers that are fitted to them, and make
the kitchen and dining room floors drafty
md cold. This can be remedied by coverng
the iron grating over each hatchway
vith several folds of old carpeting or
,'urniture sacking, and then fitting the
:over down tightly. The hatchway on the
.unnysideof the house must be frequently
jpened for air. The cellar ceiling and walls
' ,J ' - inMfAmuako^ fa?A
IUUU1U LK3 tuuiuu^ui; rr unt rt iwuvu, www
jeavy coats being enough.?Agnes B.
3rmsbee in Harper's Bazar.
Scrap Screen*.
The art of reproducing and engraving
pictures has in our day reached such a
joint of perfection that our weeklies and
nonthlies offer us almost more than we
can care for. And the only way to obtain
iny lasting pleasure or instruction from
,hese charming works of art is to devise
lome method by which we may preserve
.hem for our study in hours of leisure.
The scrapbook is the first thought, and
chese are invaluable for pictures of a small
>r medium size, but there are others for
vhich a screen or portfolio is well adapted.
An original and artistic pictorial screen
s made thus:
Select interesting and well executed engravings,
if possible, those that come in a
series, or that illustrate some special story
>r poem.
A recent number of one of our popular
nagazines portrayed a number of ideal
children's faces, and for the small sum of
;wenty-flve cents one could secure a per
rect gallery of loveliness.
Buy at wholesale a large quantity of
)lain white cardboard cut into squares or
iblongs of a uniform size. On each of
;hese paste with care a number of small
jictures that are cut out close to the mar
gin, and when all are thus arranged frame
each cardboard with a narrow band of
)lain pine or cherry or any other wood
;bat you may fancy.
These may be arranged in a number of
vays in a room devoted to reading or
ounging, or in a day nursery for the older
children. If there are modern low bookshelves,
let the framed cardboards run all
ilong the top, or the wall above a low
nantel may be entirely filled in with them,
unning a narrow strip of the same wood
tcross the top and down the sides to inclose
the whole in one large frame.?E. A.
Matthews in Housewife.
Iu an Kngllxh Hedrootn.
Bedrooms are not usually nearly so comortably
furnished in England as are ours.
!t is quite unusual to have a fire in one's
jedroom, and the rocking chair, that comortable
solace of every American woman's
ife, is couspicuous by its absence. It is
lot customary either to have gas in the
ledrooms. There is au idea that it is unwholesome,
aud candles are still almost
iniversally used, except on the parlor and
lining room floors. I have sometimes
bought that the poor lightiug of the bed
md dressing rooms of the English homes,
uul much to do in contributing to the
loivdy and unstylish dressing of the wornin,
the majority of whom always have
heir skirts a little bit crooked, or the pet*
icoat showing unevenly ou one side or the
ither.
In furnishing a bedroom the dressing
able?used instead of our bureaus?is
dways put against a window so as to
atch all the light possible. This looks
>dd both in the room and from the outside
if the house. You see the unpainted backs
if looking glasses at the upper windows of
he handsomest houses, aud even in Marb
lorough house?the palace of the Prince
if Wales.?Ladies' Home Journal.
I Woman Preacher'* Oueer De*lgiiatioil.
The Rev. Anna H. F'-uw, who has made
national reputation as a speaker, is a
raduate of the Theological school of Boson
university, where, it may be se^town
ot in malice, she was generally known as
that Miss Shaw with the hat," owing to
ome peculiarities of headgear. The Methdist
church refused to ordain her, though
t has many women as lay preachers, and
he applied accordingly to the Protestant
lethodists, who received her, but have
lever since ordained a second woman.?
/hics?0 Tribune
High Monument*.
The Washington monument in Washngton
heads the list of lofty objects. It
i 555 feet high. The Victoria tower in
iOtidon, 340 feet, comes next, and the Barholdi
Statue of Liberty ranks third at 305
eet. There are several pyramids, however,
vhich are loftier than the Victoria tower,
hat of Cheops being 430 feet high.? St.
iouis Ulobe-Democrat.
He Dill What He Could.
Sheepskin?Shall you send your son to
o liege?
JIunlup? No, I cannot alTord it; but I've
ought him a cape overcoat.?Puck.