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I ^ ^ ^ ISSUED SEMI-WEEKL^ t. m. grist's sons, Pnbii?her?. j % Jfamilj JJeicspper: |[or the $romotion of the political, fotial. Agricultural and (Commercial Interests of the jBeople. {TEB9raoLK'^pAT.TFivlcE^ANCI{' ESTABLISHED 1855. YO RK VILLEA- cT, TUESDAY. AUOUST 3 3, 1907. INTO. 657 MUCNTCR ) By ETTA i CHAPTER XXXII. Aunt Deb's Trouble. It stood with one end turned upon a narrow, dark street, not far from Charlestown Bridge?a shabby little cottage, painted a faded yellow, and surrounded by a high wooden wall, fast going to decay. Wedged in between taller buildings, on the sunless side of a city street, the place was not attractive to look at, but it wore an air of retirement and seclusion. Not many days after the flight of Esther Vye from Rookwood, two women, one young and handsome, the other old and ugly, took possession of this dismal little abode, and under its roof set up their household goods. "We could not live longer at Cinderville. Aunt Deb." said Esther Vye. with a heavy sigh. "After all that has happened there, neither of us could endure the place. A city is like the sea?it swallows and conceals everything. Here we shall be lost, here no one will care who or what we are, and above all, here no person can come seeking us." Aunt Deb, who looked older and thin ner than when we saw her last, rockr eJ back and forth In melancholy fashion. "I don't care where I am, Essie, so long as I'm not separated from you. Thank the Lord, you had the. heart to leave your pa and all your grand kin, and come a traveling back to Cinderville, to find your poor old aunt! I thought to goodness I should die of sheer lonesomeness after Jim Hart took you away?I shall always call him Jim, because that's the only name that seems nat'ral to me. Well, you've tried a husband and you've tried a father, and rich relations beside, and you've Just turned back to me. like the dove to the ark; though the Lord knows you're no dove, Essie, and as an ark, I ain't altogether seaworthy." They were resting together in the strange cottage, after the labor of unpacking Aunt Deb's possessions. The younger woman had assumed dominion over the elder. So overjoyed was Aunt Deb to find her niece again, that she seemed no longer to have any will but Esther's. Without a murmur, she had suffered the girl to hurry her away from Cinderville?without a murmur she now sat down in this dark city street?in this stifling little cottage, knowing that it was to be her permanent abode. Esther had told her nothing concerning her flight from Rookwood. She simply declared that it was all the re suit of unbearable homesickness, and with this explanation, Aunt Deb was satisfied. "As for anybody seeking: you here, Essie," went on the old woman, "you needn't fear that. I'm certain you never killed your Canadian husband, though 'twould have served him right if you had?the traitor! I'm glad to see that you're so well weaned from his memory." Esther, with her chin in her hand, and her turbulent eyes on vacancy, shuddered, but answered not a word. "Father Joe," quavered Aunt Deb. "left something, we'll live on that for a spell I wonder Jim h'aln't helped us more," peevishly. "Looks as though he wasn't as rich as he pretends. Be you a-going to let him know your present whereabouts, Essie?" "No; why should I? Henceforth I will take care of myself. I am an unnatural daughter?I never loved my father, as a girl should?I love him less than ever now." Aunt Deb looked strangely uneasy. "And your stepsister?" she faltered; "do you love her, Essie?" "Yes; but we will not talk of her," answered Esther, in a low, distressed tone. . The two soon settled down to a life of nun-like quiet and simplicity. Strangers in a strange city, they rare' ly went beyond the tall, rickety gate. which shut them in from the narrow street. Something strange was working in Aunt Deb. She grew more and more depressed. On her mind lay a burden which, strive as she would, she could not throw off. At first she said nothing about it. but simply sat in the dark, silent cottage, and watched Esther, warily, hungrily. Should she open her heart to the girl. No. she could not?she dared not! But one night, quite unexpectedly, a crisis came. Aunt Deb had been out to prayermeeting in a little Methodist chapel at the corner, of the street. Nine o'clock ^ was striking when she returned to the cottage. By an air-tight stove in the small living room sat Esther, busy with a piece of sewing. She was startled by the odd, haggard look on Aunt Deb's face, as the elder woman put p off her black shawl and bonnet. Aunt Deb had failed greatly since leaving Porgy Rock. Perhaps she missed the wholesome freedom of the sea. "The minister at the chapel tonight," she quavered, "preached a powerful sermon on the necessity of repentance. I could feel the hair a-rising on my h<ad as I listened to him, Esther. A had oonseience is a fearful think. It bites like a serpent and stings like an adder." "True?too true," said Esther, with a heavy sigh; "but your conscience Is clean. Aunt Deb?you have only th? common sins of daily life to repent of." "Little you know about it. child!" cried Aunt Deb, shrilly. "I'm a wicked old woman?I've been desperatel> wicked for long years, and all for Jim Hart's filthy lucre! Lord htlp me! It's no use, Essie?I've got to tell yoti ?I don't want to, but something's adrlving me"? Then, from her stricken hand, the black shawl and bonnet dropped helplessly, suddenly, and Aunt Deb followed them, and lay in a voiceless, motionless heap upon the cottage floor. I Esther, in great alarm, in her strong young arms, lifted the old woman, pui her upon the bed, and ran for the nearest doctor. The man of medicine came, examinee t OF Cftffl ^V. PIERCE I the sufferer, and said, briefly, "Paralysis!" Aunt Deb heard the fatal word, and recovered speech. "There! I've got my death-warrant, Esther!" she groaned. "It's only a mild shock, but I'm an old woman? It's easy to see that another will soon follow. Now, first of all, I must send for your father, Jim Hart." A message was dispatched to Gilbert Vye, that very hour, but no response came to It. Then Aunt Deb said: "You must go to Rookwood, Esther, and bring htm to me!" "Oh, Aunt Deb," cried Esther, wildly, "don't ask me to do that?anything but that." Go to Rookwood?encounter Victor Shlrlaw again? No, no she could not. "What I do must be done quickly," urged Aunt Deb. "My time is short. I must see Jim?I must?I must! There's something on my mind, and it is to be told to him, and him only." Esther pondered. "I do not understand why he has left our message unanswered; but I will soon know. Dare you stay alone for an hour or so, Aunt Deb." "Yes," groaned the old woman. Straightway Esther donned her outer garments, tied a thick veil over the face, which was far too handsome to pass unobserved in any place, and. closing the wooden gate behind her, walked rapidly off across the bridge to the city proper. She knew where to find Philip Vye's law office. She had learned its location during her stay at Rookwood. By dint of brief inquiries, made exclusively to those of her own sex, she reached the vicinity of Pemberton Square and Court street. Here was a perfect nest of law offices. She searched until she discovered the names of Philip Vye & Son; then she ascended a flight of stairs, opened a door and found herself rvfAa^nno r\f a vminir mnn with a red mustache and an eyeglass, seater alone at a desk reading law papers. The girl flung back her veil, and asked foi Philip Vye. "He is in the Inner office, busy with a client," answered Cyril Vye, staring hard at the wonderfully handsome visitor. Pardon me?you are"? "I am his niece." Cyril bounded up from the desk. "Then you must be the Esther that I have heard of, btTT never seen. Ha! ha! 'Pon my soul, they did not stretch the truth when they called you handsome! Allow me to introduce myself. I am your cousin Cyril!" He extended his hand. She touched it reluctantly. At the same moment the door of the inner room opened, and Philip Vye stepped forth. "Humph!" he said, in a dry, hard voice, quite devoid of welcome. "Niece Esther! You left us very abruptly at Rookwood, did you not? Your secret leaked out after a time. Victor Shirlaw made love to you, and frightened you away, eh? You ought to be labeled 'Dangerous!' " She colored, then grew pale. "I wish to see my father," she said, trying hard to command her voice. "Shall I And him at Rookwood?" The two men exchanged glances. "No," replied Philip Vye, very coldly; "your father left Rookwood in great haste some days ago. He has probably gone back to the we>t." "The west!" echoed Esther, aghast. "Will he not return?" "I think not?I am sure not!" dryly. "Never?" "Never!" Her face fell. So this was the real reason why her message had remained unanswered. "My sister?is she well?" faltered Esther. "Mignon is well and happy," replied Philip Vye, sharply. "She wears the willow with becoming resignation. You know, of course, that, because of you, Capt. Shirlaw jilted your sister. I would invite you again to Rookwood, but your presence there would scarcely be welcome to Mignon now. A woman can forgive everything but the robbery of her lover. I hope your father has provided for your future. You look?pardon me?somewhat shabby. Where are you living? What are you doing? But never mind: you need not tell me. I have assumed the responsibility of one of Gilbert's daughters; some second party must look out for the other. Farewell." And he went back to the inner room. Full of indignation, yet determined t} carry to Aunt Deb some definite clue to her father's whereabouts, Esther turned to Cyril Vye, who had not taken his eyes from her face. "I did not come here seeking either charity or insults," she said, with a flash in her big eyes; "but only to ask where my father can be found." "Many others would like to know that very thing," replied Cyril, airily. "Indeed, I may say that scores of people are burning to find him. Apparently you know about as much concerning your father as does Mignon. Oh. this is unique! Two daughters kept in the same blissful ignorance; two girls, reared apart, but in like fashion. Ta! ta! His favorite address. and the only one to which I can direct you. is Happy valley rumen, ' Colorado," and he laughed offensively. ' Ksther had never met a more disagreeable person. "Happy Valley Ranch," she echoed, I regarding him with ill-concealed aver' slon: "is that the real name of his i western home?" "The real name? Oh, of course! ? i most certainly!" with another strange outbreak of mirth. "I know very little about the west," i said Esther, striving hard to keep . down her indignation. "Will you be . more definite? Will you tell me the . exact location of the place you mention ?" , "Of course?of course!" He seized a t small railway map that chanced to be i lying on his desk. "Look here, my handsome cousin, if I desire to find 1 Happy Valley I would start at the hub of the universe and follow this lint which 1 make with my pencil," vivaciously tracing a route over the paper. "I would go in this direction ai far as the railway terminus, and then by Jove! I would take the stage foi the township of Happy Valley, keeping on the way a sharp lookout for roadagents, particularly for one fellow called in that region. Black Dave, tht king of them all, and a person mucf sought after by the vigilants?ha! ha!' Was Cyril Vye a well-balanced being? She gave him a cold, forbidding i?.. i...* ?? i a ?,? m. I IUUK, UUl put UUl IICI iiaiiu tut viiv tie map marked with his pencil. "Permit me to keep this," she said "Certainly, with all the pleasure ir life, cousin. Can I oblige you in any other way? Have you no message tc send to our poor jilted Mignon? No^ Then adieu. It's a pity I have not time to cultivate your acquaintance further." With his mocking voice ringing most unpleasantly In her ears Esther went away down the stair. She hastened back to the Charlestown cottage, and repeated to Aunt Deb every word ol her conversation with the two Vyes. "My father will never visit the east again," she said; "we shall never see him again, Aunt Deb." An extraordinary agitation seized the paralytic. She rocked herself plteously back and forth In the chair to which she was now confined. "Oh, why didn't I know it before?" she groaned. "Why did he go without a word to me? Lord help us! But this is trouble, indeed!" Then, meeting Esther's large, questioning eyes, she broke into weak sobs. "It's for your sake, Essie?for your sake! I can't explain now, but you'll know some time. Sit down this very minute and write to Jim at his Happy Valley Ranch, and tell him I've got to see him at once on a matter of life and death. Tell him he had no business to go off in that way. Why didn't he come to bid me good-by? Then he would have heard the whole story, for I'd made up my mind to keep It no longer. The very day before Father Joe was drowned off Porgy Island, he and I had some talk about this very matter, and we agreed 'twould be best to let Jim know the whole truth. And now he's got to come back from Colorado and hear it?It can't be writ, t won't put it on paper. He's got 10 come, and soon, too, or he'll find me I under the sod." Esther, uncomprehending but obedient, wrote according to Aunt Deb's dictation. The letter was directed to Gilbert Vye at Happy Valley. Day after day the two women waited vainly for a reply. Aunt Deb was in a fever of Impatience. "He thinks it's an old woman's whim," she cried. "He's too busy to heed it. Somebody must go to him." Her withered, half-helpless body slipped from the chair and sank at Esther's feet. She clasped the girl ab!Jectly about the knees. [ "It is you who must go, Esther! For your own sake, for mine, for the love of God?say you will!" Esther drew back, overwhelmed, horrified. "I! Oh, Aunt Deb, I know nothing of Colorado or Happy Valley. It's so far away, too. I cannot?I cannot!" But Aunt Deb only clung the closer, and grew the wilder In her pleading. "We have Father Joe's money, xou [shall take plenty to spend for the journey. Essie. You must?you must! You will kill me If you say no! Jim must be brought to me before I die. Who but you can do it? I'll not rise from this floor till you say you will!" Unspeakably dismayed at the thing required of her, Esther argued, refused, but without success. Aunt Deb would neither disclose the secret of her pressing haste to see Gilbert Vye, nor abate her passionate prayers and entreaties. In despair the girl said at last: "When do you wish me to go?" "Tomorrow." "Alone?" "Yes. No one will harm you. In these days women go everywhere unattended. Moreover you have the whole route marked out by your cousin on that railway map. Come back as soon as you can, and fetch Jimonly fetch Jim!" Esther's heart sank like lead. How could she attempt the long, strange journey? Was it the whim of a sick old woman, or did some need, vital and urgent, really exist for this?to her? stupendous undertaking? She raised Aunt Deb from the floor at last. "Very well," she said, drearily. "1 will go, since you urge me so much: but what will you do while I am away?" "I will stay here and wait for you to come with Jim. You will be al Happy Valley and home again in three weeks." "And suppose my father should re fuse to return with me?" "He will not. I shall send him a message that will compel him tc come." Esther stood up. tall, splendid, but unutterably dejected, in the small, dingy room. "Something has been worrying you Aunt Deb." she sighed, "ever since we left Clndervllle; something Is breaking your strength, sapping your life, making you miserable, and if a journey tf Colorado will relieve you, I am willing to undertake it, though I have a presentiment"?pressing her hands wildly ti her temples?"that it will not enc well." "We can't help that!" shivered Aunl Deb: "the Lord will take care of that At any rate, Jim must come, and stanc face to face with me again and heai what 1 have to say." "Reluctantly, and with a heavy heart, Esther made her preparation; for this strange journey, which was forced upon her so much against hei will. A hired nurse was found to tak< care of Aunt Deb during the girl's ab> sence. "Make haste, Esther!?make haste t< bring Jim!" urged the old woman with querulous persistency. Any fea: for Esther's personal safety she seeni' ed not to entertain. And so, one autumn day, Estherlef Aunt Deb in the Charlestown cottage and alone, unprotected, set forth t< seek Gilbert Vye In the far, wild land where, alas! he was known only as Black Dave, the king of the road agents. CHAPTER XXXIII. "Under the Light of the Moon." Elinor Vye was buried in the familj > vault at Mount Auburn. It was a prt vate funeral, and Ltspenard did not see Mignon till all was over. Then he has? toned to the old mansion across the , river, and was admitted to a darkened ? drawing-room, still smelling of funerr al flowers, and there she met him, with her pallid, Psyche-like beauty, shroud, ed In blackest crape, and the horror of : death yet haunting her great, velvety i eyes. Hot lightning seemed blinding ' Lispenard's sight. He could scarcely command his voice to speak. r "What can I do for you, Miss Vye?" he said. She appeared to gaze over and beyond him into empty, cheerless space, i "Nothing," she answered. r "My God! how ill you look!" he > burst out, wildly, and then checked ' himself and added, in another tone: ? "Has no one attempted to find your sister?" "Yes, but without success. Oh, Mr. : Lispenard," wringing her small hands, suddenly, "how could Aunt Elinor die I and leave me here alone?" I He made no attempt to comfort her ?uttered none of the phrases that are considered proper for such occasions. That girl, standing before him in her ( sombre dress, with the yellow hair rippling about her white, grieved brows, and eyes full of loss and desolation, struck him dumb. He bowed himself out, but turned back and uttered these words, in an unsteady voice: "I wish to be near you. It is possible that you may need me. Remember, I shall not leave the Dale for the present." " Then he was gone. An hour or two after, as Mignon sat in her own room, desolate and com' fortless, a rap fell on the door, and the housekeeper, for long years a favorite at Rookwood, entered in shawl and bonnet 1 "Your uncle has discharged me without warning, Miss Mignon," she 1 said; "there's a strange woman com Ing within an hour to take my piace. You will see a great overturning here, now that your aunt Is gone?poor, blessed martyr! Good-by Miss Mlgnon! I hope no harm will befall you." And she departed. Scarcely had her footsteps died away, when another rap startled Mlgnon, and this time Elinor Vye's waitingwoman, followed by the cook and two ir'' ".s, entered. "We've all got to go, miss," said the cook, "with a week's extra wages for being sent off In this fashion. Your uncle has no further use for us, he says. Good-by, miss?we wish you well!" And these four vanished in the track of the housekeeper. A foreboding of evil fell suddenly on Mlgnon. What did this hasty discharge of all the female servants of the house mean? She flew to the library, where she knew she would find Philip Vye. He was writing letters at a table, but he arose with an Impatient air to meet her. "I can guess what you wish to say, my dear," he began, before she could frame a sentence, "but It was quite impossible for me to get on amicably with Elinor's servants, and so, very properly, I have sent them all packing and engaged a new lot. You are not to trouble yourself about such matters, my love?at Rookwood the reins of government are always In my hands." She had meant to protest In some dignified way, but his cool, authoritative tone silenced her. "I must remind you, my dear child," continued Philip Vye, airily, "that your position In the house Is now somewhat changed. Your father seems to have abandoned all thought of you, and vir11.. + tfnu ntrar trv mo tft POfl - lUUIIJ IUI1ICU JUU u*v? vv M.v ? , trol and support. Since no more supplies are likely to come from him, you must consider yourself dependent upon me, and be prepared to submit to my authority In all things. Your Aunt Elinor was somewhat given to spoiling you, but I"?with an unpleasant smile?"have no weakness of that sort." Before him she stood up, slender and white In her mourning dress, the sump1 tuous crown of yellow hair the only bright thing about her. "I shall not be dependent upon you, ' Uncle Philip" she answered, with spirit. "I am young and strong?I have a good education?I can earn my own 1 living. And I feel sure that papa has not forsaken me. In due time he will explain all that seems mysterious In ' his conduct now." "My dear Mlgnon, do not harbor such false hopes. You are a pampered, helpless creature?you know no more about earning your own living 1 than a child unborn. As for your father. rest assured that he will never dare 1 to communicate with you again. "Dare!?dare!" angrily: "what does ! that mean, Uncle Philip?" He smiled, in an exasperating way. "I decline to enter Into explanations. Let me give you a word of advice, 1 Mignon?submit to tne irremeaiaoic; ' Then he opened the door and calmly motioned her out. ' The new housekeeper arrived with' in the hour?a gaunt, gray creature, as deaf as a post. Two stolid house maids attended her. Somehow their ! strange, indifferent faces, so suddenly ' substituted for the kind, familiar ones ' of the old servants, struck a chill to ' Mignon's * art. This radical change ' in the hout,e meant evil to herself. She shut herself Into the now dreary r and desolate drawing-room and tried ' to think. She must leave Rookwood, and go forth alone into the world to t earn her own bread. But how? She . could dance, paint, sing, play?she 1 knew, In a snperficial way. a variety of r things, but could she turn such knowledge to practical account? Barely r seventeen, forsaken by father and lov? er, without money, or experience, or ? friends?for Mignon was wise enough r to understand that the fair-weather i acquaintances of a single season could not be reckoned as friends?what was she to do? What could she do? It i was small wonder that her heart sank , within her. r A shadow suddenly darkened the window, sue gianceu up una ? *= uncle Philip standing outside drawing t on his gloves. "Good-by, my dear." he said, nod) ding carelessly to his niece. "I am , called away on important business, s It is possible that I may be obliged to - go abroad for a few weeks. Take care of yourself till I return." Then, in airy unconcern, he kissed his finger tips to her, and walked jauntily off across the terrace. Her first feeling was one of relief. f At least, he was leaving her free to make and execute any plan for Independent action. Plainly he felt no res- i ponsibllity toward her?why should she not assume the same Indifference toward him? She sat pondering the situation till the dinner bell rang. In this nine- i teenth century one Is expected to dine even though troubles multiply, like Pelion plies upon Ossa. Mlgnon arose with a weary sigh. As she entered i the warm, lighted dining room, she Im mediately saw that the sumptuous table was spread for two persons, and that a man was lounging In a crimson- i draped window at the far end of the room In an attitude of waiting. He i turned as the door opened. She had not seen him since Elinor Vye's funer- i al?had not even thought of him, and l she now experienced an unpleasant I shock. i "It seems that you and I are to dine , tete-a-tete today, cousin," said Cyril < Vye. "My father was obliged to leave < us In haste, you know." She seemed turning to marble. i "And do you remain here in his ab- I sence?" "Yes," answered Cyril Vye, with a I sinister smile. "I remain!" Philip Vye gone, strange servants In < the house, and this man In full control I o.' every thing! I The angry blood flew into Mlgnon's i pale cheek. s "Enough!" she said. "You will dine 1 alone today. Even Rookwood Is not < large enough to hold you and me, Cyril Vye!" He tried to step betwixt her and the door. "Walt a minute, Mignon," he hissed. "My time has come at last! I have you now at my mercy!" She looked at him with withering ( rlloHn In "Do you really think that, sir? And, like the coward which you are, you wish to take advantage of misfortune? Surely, I needed but this to make my position at Rookwood intolerable. Stand aside and let me pass!" He had found his match in this blazing, yet colorless, "young creature. His weak guilty eyes fell before hers. He moved slowly, sulkily, as she bade him. "You are my father's ward," he fumed. "You shall not leave Rookwood without his permission. In his absence I must take charge of you." "Cyril Vye," she answered, "you have reckoned without your host." Then, with head held high, she passed out and flew straight to her own chamber. The short, chilly day was dying In cloud and sleet. Fortunately she had a little rqoney In her purse. "I will at once throw myself on the friendship of the Berkelys," was her sudden determination. Trains for town stopped constantly at the Dale station, which was but a short walk from the Rookwood gates. She had no farewells to make. She packed together the most valuable of her possessions, put on a long cloak, a close bonnet and a thick veil, and then started to go downstairs. Alas; the door of her chamber would not open. She shook It?In vain! It was fast. Some one without had turned the , key upon her while she was busy within. Mlgnon was a prisoner. An outcry, she knew, would be useless, and to whom could she appeal for help? Even the poor protection of Philip Vye was now withdrawn from her. Cyril and the strange servants alone held possession of the house. He had made no idle boast In declaring that he had her at his mercy. She sat down in her dark, lonely chamber as if stupefied. The night was now falling. The wind soughed across the curtained windows, the sleet rapped sharply on the pane. She .sat there staring with wild, dilated eyes into the blank gloom. Once, twice she heard Cyril Vye's stealthy step creeping along the corridor outside. He j paused at her door?he seemed to lis- ( ten, then he moved on a few paces, only , to return to the same spot. She could , hear his smothered breathing through , the keyhole. An agony of fear and indignation seized Mlgnon. This man ( was her jailer?at any moment he ( might open the door. In the darkness ( her hand moved spasmodically toward her dressing-table and grasped a long sharp pair of scissors, long enough, sharp enough, to reach to her own heart. "If he dares to cross the threshold," ( she said to herself, resolutely, "he will ( find me dead in this chair." Surely the old colonial house of Rookwood, full of the ghosts of departed generations, had never held a sadder or more desperate being than was Mlgnon this night! One hour and then another went by. She heard no longer the stealthy step at the door. Her jailer had slipped away for a space. She listened. Somewhere near at hand a clock struck eleven. At the same moment a pale, watery gleam of light crept through the curtain and fell at Mlgnon's feet. , She arose from her chair, stole softly to the window and looked out. Her chamber was high up In the wall. Below It sloped the roof of a piazza, now slippery as glass with new fallen sleet. The storm was passing away and the moon, breaking through torn clouds, touched this perilous surface and made It glisten like a sheet of silver. Noiselessly Mignon pushed back the fastening of the window, and raised the sash. Then she mounted the sill, and, with a prayer trembling on her white lips, stepped down upon that slanting, icy roof beneath. In this disgraceful way must the fairest daughter of all the Vyes depart from the home of her ancestors! One moment she clung, shuddering, to the casement; the next, she shot forward, and fell full fifteen feet to the ground below. She lay for a space, stunned and motionless. Had the noise of her fall reached any ear inside the house? If so, pursuit would be instantaneous. Goaded by a sense of her great danger, she lifted herself at last. Bruised and shaken she certainly was, but not oth erwlse Injured, and the free winds of heaven were blowing upon her, the free sky bent over her homeless young head. She staggered to her feet, and fled, blindly, breathlessly, down the garden walk straight to the river. The leafless trees, creaking under their weight of sleet, sounded all about her like pursuing footsteps. She reached the bank of the stream. Thank God! there was Philip Vye's skiff, moored to a willow tree! She sprang into it, loosed the rope, took up a pair of oars that lay in the bottom of the little craft and pushed out into the river. The current was strong. In her In- h experienced hands the skiff swung round giddily. As she strove to right it the half-shrouded moon burst sud- t denly out of the clouds overhead, and t! poured Its full splendor down upon the h river, the boat and the fugitive. Mig- a non's heart gave a great bound. Back F on her memory rushed the gypsy's e prophecy, made long months before, in c the green shadows of a June wood. n "When you cross water by night re- c member what the Romany said to you tl ?you are lost if you take to the wa- d ter under the light of the moon!" p A thrill of terror shot along the a firFs tense nerves. Here was the wa- c ter, there the mooVi. Should she turn l? t>ack? Could any danger before her fl fqual that which she had left behind? d As her slack hands rested hesitantly tl in the oars, the boat began to drift b 3own the current. ri This recalled her to herself. With t; in effort she rowed up stream a little, d tbe gypsy's words ringing In her ears: si "You are lost If you take to the wa- b ter under the light of the moon!" a She cast one glance over her should- si ?r to Rookwood, another before her to h the opposite bank of the fateful river, II then Mignon went on, leaped from the g ikifY to Abel Llspenard's stone jetty, st ind as she made no effort to secure the a joat, it recoiled from the bank and h Jrlfted Idly away down the stream. ei (To be Continued). a d ^tiscfllanmis Reading. ? ft HOG HUNTING. Brest Sport That Used to Obtain in ^ Arkansas. According to a man who has lived In p Arkansas for thirty-five years, the ^ Tonot ovol H n cr hiinta avpr PTDPrlpnced ivere in the days when hog's ran wild d n the woodlands of the state, says the ai ir \labama Gazette. Even a domestic log is a. fighting animal and today d :hey will retrograde to wild animals if p illowed freedom of the woods, but the ,)( ,'erocity of the domestic swine is mild w :ompared to the ferocity of their an- 01 :estors of the wood. The main things necessary to the ^ lunt of the wild hogs was a pack of b :iained dogs, a fleet-footed horse that 3 :ould clear logs and stumps with a c graceful leap and u rifle or a shotgun. Fox hunting In England has formed the basis for artistic pictures and 0 ftories of both fact and fiction, but hog 0 nintlng In Arkansas was a faster and nore dangerous game, it is declared g ly those who know both. b Owing to the density of the forests the hogs were hunted In broad day- ^ Ight. The animals roamed the woods a it night, but during the day they b' dept in the boggy places. The dogs 11 ivhich were trained for the hunt chased q ihead of the horsemen. The peculiar. ,a relps of the dogs notified the hunters 01 when the animals had been sighted, ind the trained horses at once dashed C into a gallop. In those days the woods were filled ^ irVlth fallen trees. Sometimes the canebrakes completely hid the obstruction ind horse and rider were dashed with- tl nit warning to the ground. In order a to run faster the hogs would break for o ipen plots in the timber and then si horses and dogs would begin the final fl lash for the prey. The dogs were trained for the sole rl purpose of hunting hogs and they knew p the traits of their game. The dogs ri never attacked singly, but in pairs. ? When they caught up with a hog they t< ivould run along by his side and both Jogs at the same moment would grasp \ in ear. Sometimes one dog would lose b hold and this meant instant death to a the other dog. With one powerful Jerk 0 nf the head the hog would toss the dog In the air and then rend him to pieces s* is he fell to earth. During a hunt \ when a herd of hogs were being pur- fl sued some of the less skilful dogs al ways lost their lives. t< The hogs when finally driven to bay fi made one final stand. They huddled n Into a circle, all tails together. In ev- tl ery direction there was a hog's snout ti pointing. At this critical stage of the c hunt the dogs would circle round and h round and the hunters without dis- fi mounting would fire on the animals, o Large parties of hunters were known to kill as many as a hundred hogs In n a day. e These wild hogs, it appears, were 11 wild from instinct. Efforts to tame n the pigs, which were sometimes cap- 9 tured alive, proved about as futile as h the absolute domesticating of a Ben- d gal tiger. These young hogs could c be penned up, fed and more or less petted, but It was only a question of r time until some morning the farmer s would awake to find the pen .broken v and the hogs escaped to the wilderness o of the woods. v In the forests where the oaks were s abundant there would ift some years be bumper crops of acorns. The wild hog preferred the acorn to any other t: food. The animals that fattened on I< these nuts possessed a flavor of meat v v-hlch Is foreign to the corn and slop- b fed hogs of the domestic variety t^- t! day. These hogs. It Is claimed, were a not killed wantonly, but were used for ? food. In those parts of Arkansas h niioro tho ti'ilH animals were Dlentiful h the smokehouses of the farmers bulged with Juicy hams. " A man who lives in Little Rock and n who Is the owner of a large cotton c plantation, was a hog hunter thirty d years ago. He almost lost his life y once by jumping from his horse and t! attempting to kill a large hog by cut- c ting its throat while the dogs held on ti to the ears. h As h Jumped from his horse, the charger frightened at something and e instead of standing by as usual, ran n off through the woods. The hunter c slashed the neck of the hog, but did P not drive deep enough to cut the jug- c ular vein. I The wound only maddened the al- v ready Infuriated animal, which turned t to rend the hunter. The faithful dogs. ? however, managed to hang on to the I ears of the hog. Although this man " followed the chase frequently after that experience, he never dismounted t from his horse to try another hand-to- t hand battle with the wild hog. s When the chimneys of the royal e mint at Berlin are cleaned about $1,000 p worth of gold Is taken from the soot, n >tir Fifty-five vessels are constantly i employed In laying and repairing the r submarine cables of the world. 5 DIVINERS OF DREAMS. lave No Rank at Prophets, but Hold to Certain Theories. Now the modern diviners of dreams ake little or no rank as prophets, but hey claim that there are no dreams, owever trivial as to contents, that re without significance, writr! Dr. 'eterson In Harper's Monthly. They mploy neither the symbolic nor the Ipher systems of Interpretation, but a lethod quite their own, v. ':lch may be ailed analytic-synthetic. To them he subconscious Ego, out of which the ream comes. Is an infinitely vaster crsonality than the conscious Ego, nd keen analysis of the compressed onglomerate of a dream is discovery, : a revelation of wishes, desires, conicts, tendencies, characteristics, hiden far down in the Inmost depths of le dreamer's individuality. These roken fragments of unrelated expelences, woven by the dreamer's fan?sy into a sort of dramatic unity, rift, like the Ice-floe, on that invisible ea of personality. Separately, piece y piece, the fragments are studied nd their old motives, relations and asDclatlons traced out. Each fragment i in itself a condensation of someoutved experience. As the paleontolo1st reconstructs his hypothetical monter from its only remains, a scale or footprint, so the dream-diviner makes is synthesis from the vestige uncovred in the strata of dreams. He exmines the apparent material of the ream, but he must also follow closely II clues to the latent material undering it. A curious and interesting ict established by the dream-analysts i that a large proportion of dreams jpresent the fulfillment of a wish or eslre. This is particularly true of hildren, whose dreams are of theslmlest nature. Any one may convince Imself of this by a little inquiry, here are thirst dreams and hunger reams, wealth dreams, fame dreams nd so on through the whole cata>gue of man's desires. The sick ream of health, the unhappy of hapIness, the childless of children, the rnniless of golden ducats, and in his Inter attic in the tlty the poet dreams t summer in the country. The dis Dvery of the desire at tne Dasis ui reams is not always easy, for it may e hidden from the dreamer himself, nd this is a riddle that the new orales enjoy solving. When one dreams lat he sees an enemy lying dead be>re him, the fundamental wish is lear. But when dreams of the death f a friend or relative, a parent or sls>r, he is horrified by the diviner's sugestlon that here, too, a desire lies idden, albeit probably some old, longirgotten infantile wish such as chllren often express in irritation. Such t least is an explanation which has een authoritatively offered, though ie writer feels that it is more than uestlonable. Common as a wish is s an impetus to dreams, it is not a onstant or invariable factor. ANT REPLACE LOST VOLUMES. luch Valuable Literature Has Been Deetoyed. Many of the greatest ireasures of tie world's literature have totally disppeared. Even so late as 1862 a copy f "Canterbury Tales," valued, it is aid, at 12,500, was used to light the re in a London church. The last six books of Spenser's "Faele Queene" were lost by one of the oet's servants. During the French evolution an exceedingly valuable opy of "The Golden Legend" was used ? light a librarian's fire. Many of the valuable letters of Lady lary Wortley Montagu were destroyed y her relatives lest Lady Mary's literry honors might be gained at the cost f disgrace to the family name. In 1802 a servant of Warburton used everal dramas of Chapman, Green and fassinger to clean shoes and light res. After the death of Plerese there was ound In his apartments a Huge cnesi lied with letters from the most emient scholars of the time. The colleclon was of Immense literary and historical value. His niece, instead of omplying with repeated requests to ave them published, used them for uel In order to diminish the expense f firewood. In the great fire of London In 1666 oany manuscripts of the Elizabethan ra were lost. Fire In the Cottonlan brary, at Ashburnham House, Westilnster. In 1731, destroyed 228 out of f.8 manuscript volumes, all of which ad fallen to private hands after the issolution of the monasteries half a entury before. The burning of the Strasburg libray during the Franco-Prussian war detroyed many valuable works, among rhich may be mentioned the records f the legal proceedings in the controersy between Guttenburg and his asociates as to whether or not he inented the art of printing. In 1388 Gaurino, a learned Italian, ravelled through Greece in search of >st manuscripts. His labors were regarded by the acquisition of a valuale collection. On his return to his naive land a storm overtook the vessel nd the captain ordered the entire caro to be thrown overboard. Such was is anguish at the loss that It Is said Is hair turned white In a single night. A similar fate befell, in 1698, a .ealthy burgomaster of Middleberg, amed Hudde. Prompted by literary urloslty he betook himself to China isgulsed as a Mandarin. For thirty ears he travelled through the Celeslal empire, devoting his fortune to the ollection of manuscripts. Returning o Europe he was shipwrecked and all is treasures were lost. The great Plnelllan library, consld* * *" 1 *? *1 ? ~ " ??? Ka In woof q nrl rea ai me nine u?c ui me dost valuable In the world, was purhased in 1660, after the death of its iossessor, by a London bookseller, who bartered three vessels to convey It lo ,ondon. He was pursued by Corsairs, k-ho captured one vesrel, and finding: hat It carried a cargo of books and iianuscrlpts, destroyed all by casting bom Into the sea, the others escaped ininjured. The Jewish Talmud has come down o us only through the heroic efforts of he Jews themselves and the Intrepid ervice of John Reuchlin. Its reading vas condemned by various edicts of mperors and kings; its circulation was irohlblted by popes and theologians, rwelve thousand volumes of this monimental work were burned at Cremola in 1560 and a similar fate befell i.OOO copies of the Koran by order of Cardinal Ximlnes, on the taking of Granada by Ferdinand and Isabella Sappho composed nine books of poetry. Only two odes and a few fragments remain. Of the seventy-five (or as some say, ninety-two) plays of Euripides only eighteen have survived. Only seven of the 100 works of Sophocles are extant. The same number Is all that remains of seventy tragedies written by Aeschylus. Only forty-three out of 2,000 dramas written during the time of Aristophanes have come down to us. Only a few fragments exist to prove the wonderful wit and wisdom of Menander. Only thirty of Llvy's 140 books sur vive; oniy iwo 01 varrus vuiumn, only one of the thirty books of Tasso's great history and none of the "Annales" of Attlcus remain. The dissolution of the monasteries in the reign of Henry VIII. saw the destruction of more than 100 libraries, the contents of which were either burned, sent abroad to foreign bookbinders or sold as waste paper. So that when Sir Thomas Bodley took up his residence at Oxford, toward the end of the reign of Elizabeth, he tells us that he found the libraries "In every part wasted and ruined." The Invasion and subsequent persecution of Ireland resulted in the almost total annihilation of her ancient literature; so that few nations, if any, can bo compared to her in the extent of manuscript loss. Perhaps the largest and most valuable of literary treasures the world has lost was the Alexandrian library. This collection, the most remarkable of the ancient world, is said to have contained in its most flourishing period 400,000, or, according to others, 700,000 manuscripts. Its royal founder collected from all nations their choicest compositions. We are told that one of his successors went so far as to refuse to supply the Athenians with wheat until they had given him the original manuscripts of Eschylus, Sophocles and Euripides. When Julius Caesar laid siege to the city the greater portion of this library was destroyed by Are. It was later replaced by the collection presented to Queen Cleopatra by Mark Anthony. But it was not destined to endure . lcng. When the Emperor Theodosius the Great, In 391 A. d., oraerea meaestructlon of all heathen temples within the Roman empire, the Christiana, led by the Archbishop Theophllus, did not spare that of Jupiter, In which were kept the literary treasures. From this general destruction about 4,000 manuscripts escaped, only to be burned In 640 by the Saracens under the Caliph Omar.?Rosary Magazine. WA8 MARS TALKING TO US? Query to Which the Negative Answer Will Be General. Strange things are happening, says a jvrlter In the Metropolitan Magazine. For some time past toward midnight the receivers of the wireless stations have registered, and for a long period at a time, the signal three dots, which Is persistently repeated. It has been proved, after investigation, that from no earthly station has such a message been sent at such a time. What then. Is this mysterious call? These three dots singularly recall three points of light which were observed on the planet Mars In 1901. Midnight! Tap-tap-tap! Tap-taptap! Tap-tap-tap! Three sharp little knocks, short and hurried, sound Insistently In the vast silence of the Marconi station. The sleeping employes are awakened with a start, and, frightened and vaguely anxious, they look at each other. "Did you hear it? It Is beginning again. What Is it, and who on earth can be sending It?" "Don't you know your Morse alphabet? Three short dashes mean S. Will that receiver never stop sounding S . . . S . . . S when no one knows why It is repeating It? It gets on one's nerves?listen!" Tap-tap-tap! Tap-tap-tap! "Yes, - * - - _ _ T7. It in true, but wnat can we qui night this happens at midnight. As long as S Is being telegraphed, the receiver will register It. When they have had enough of It they will stop." But in the loneliness of their stations so lost and solitary at the end of the promonotory, the employes at the wireless telegraph station feel, In the oppressive silence of the deserted night, those painful shivers which the black wing of mystery sends creeping up the back as it flies near. For several days past these three taps have been obstinately repeated. Inquiries have been made at all the stations In the whole world. No one has sent forth such a message. Some one Is telegraphing, but not from this world. It must be, then, that the message comes from somewhere beyond. What Is this obstinate voice that calls to us In the darkness across the cold immensity of sidereal space? Three dots? Walt a moment?why In 1892 and again In 1901 the observers of the heavens were talking about three dots. During those two years, through the most powerful telescopes, a triangle made of three luminous dots was distinguishable on the planet Mars, small to our sight, but in reality Immense, a triangle whose sides measured several hundred kilometres In length. These luminous spots stood out in dazzling whiteness against the blood-red background of Mars. Of the Blood. Not In a thousand years will blood forget blood, even In this great nation of ours. The column na_ been winding all morning through open country. Now it was approaching close woodland and high grass. The captain of the company, acting as advance guard, knew that trouble was probable lying ahead. He called to him his pet sergeant?the man he had been saving through all the day for the time when a "best" I man was needed. "Sergt. O'Hara," he said. "I want you to pick out from the company any six men you choose and go ahead as a point. You can have anybody you want. Only choose the beet you know. I think we will be fired on from those low hills." Sergt. O'Hara's eyes searched the company. "Sullivan!" he called. "McCarthy! O'Donnell! Morlarty! McGkinls!" He hesitated. His glance wandered uneasily up and down the line. Big, honest Swedes, burley Teutons, lank Yankees, there were plenty. But where?oh. yes. there on the left of the line?that bright-eyed, pug-nosed, red-headed little beggar nodding and imploring attention with his twisted up face. The sergeant's brow cleared. "Lynch!" he called, with a sigh of relief. "This Is thlmm, sorr," he added, turning to the captain.