"Really, madam, I regret to seem hard;" and the polished courtesy of the cold, harsh voice fell with heavy weight upon her strained senses. "Your husband has had more time now than any law allows, human or divine."

"Oh, how gladly he would have paid the debt;" she moaned; "it was his kindness and forbearance to others—kindness that seemed imperative. He could not take the law against his crippled brother, his mother's dying legacy to him. You know all this—you know, too, that if you will only grant a little longer respite he can settle the claim, or the greater part of it. How then can you be so cruel as to drive us out of doors! You who need nothing of this world's goods!"

The man of business stirred a little, crossed his well-clad legs in still greater comfort, and audibly repressed a yawn. Then as if unwillingly forced to say something he did it as ungraciously as possible.

"Again I say I grieve to proceed to harsh measures, but"—then as she was about to interpose he broke out irritably, "God bless my soul, Mrs. Blaine, how can you expect anything else! I am obliged to be accurate in my matters, otherwise there would be no end to imposition from shiftless men who are always going to pay but——never do."

"This, then, is your ultimatum, sir? You will turn me and my children out wanderers from the old home where I was born—where I had hoped to die? Can you do this? Even you, whom the world calls rich and prosperous and——charitable!" As she spoke she bent upon him in fine scorn her brilliant eyes dark and piercing.

"Painful things occur every day, my dear madam, in this transitory life. And once in a while the tables turn. I think I remember a time when I pleaded with perhaps not so much eloquence, but quite as much earnestness, for a boon at the hands of pretty Mildred Deering. I didn't get it, and I have survived, you see. We are apt to magnify our misfortunes;" and a mocking smile told wherein lay the animus that was her undoing.

Then she drew her graceful figure to its full height, and with the contempt of an outraged wife and mother, her words came in tones of concentrated vehemence:

"So! Robert Garrett, this is your vaunted Christianity! You, the immaculate pillar of the church—the friend of the outcast—the chief among philanthropists! Grant your boon? Was there was ever a moment in her sheltered life when Mildred Deering would have consorted with the hypocrite you are? Never! Better a thousand times poverty with nobility and truth in the man she loves. Better an age of privation with Herbert Blaine than a single instant in the presence of such as you. Do your worst! And may God mete out to you and yours the mercy you have shown us!"

Clasping the hand of her little girl who had clung to her mother's skirts, gazing with wide-open, awestruck eyes at the great man, she was gone in a moment.

"Ah!" uttered Robert Garrett in a long-drawn-out syllable, reaching for the evening paper.

There had been another silent witness of this scene in the person of a lad who stood within the door he had entered just as Mrs. Blaine had appeared in the opposite way. He was a rather ill-favored schoolboy, but his thoughts as he came forward with the lanky awkwardness of youth and took a chair in chimney corner, were not of himself or his looks.

"Father," he said after some minutes had passed, the rattle of the newspaper and the measured ticking of the clock being the only disturbing sounds, "Father," he repeated, this time with a falling inflection.

Startled uncomfortably at the unexpected address the father peered frowningly at the boy with a gruff, "What!"

"Do you think it is just the fair and square thing to turn 'em out?"

"What do you know about it, you young meddler. Keep quiet about what does not concern you. You have enough to eat and wear—attend to your own business."

There was no encouragement to go on, so young Robert sat and pondered till his father, chafing under the silent rebuke personified in every line of the son's uncomely face, sent him to his room.

In the other house there was little sleep; and for many succeeding days the devoted Blaines, with heavy hearts, put by their idols one by one, till at last the time-honored oaken doors closed upon them in relentless banishment. It mattered not that amid new scenes prosperity once more opened her sheltering arms and kept the wolf from the door. The new owner of Deering Castle, as the villagers had admiringly christened the grand old place, refused to sell it. Robert Garrett, with the littleness born of a mean, cramped nature, clung to this coveted possession as the one thing to be held, though all else were taken. He had money but knew not how to enjoy it. His household, for the most part, reflected the coarseness of his nature, and as time passed his retribution was meted out in rebellious sons and daughters, who wasted his substance and dragged down his name still further in the mire.

Twenty years had gone by. Herbert Blaine and his bright-eyed wife slept in the city of the dead. With their latest breath they had, one by one, adjured their beloved daughter, the only surviving child since the civil war had laid low their three manly boys, to regain possession of the old homestead. Time, they assured her, would make all things even, and long before they laid down the burden of life, they had seen how the wife's curse beat upon the head of the man who had so oppressed them. They had learned to feel pity for him whom they had once despised. Not so Jessie Blaine. She was a woman now, and had been, for a few brief years, till death robbed her, a happy wife. But never could she forget that dismal twilight hour when her innocent eyes had photographed the hateful, sneering face of her mother's enemy; when her ears had phonographed his mocking words. The scene had haunted her waking and sleeping, for many days; and still after all these years she could and did remember.

She rejoiced when she heard that wild Ben Garrett had broken nearly every law of the decalogue, and was wrecking the peace of all who cared for him. "They richly deserve it all;" she said, when some fresh escapade or misdemeanor would come to light. He had squandered his father's thousands aimlessly, recklessly, and was fast bringing his white hairs in sorrow to the grave. Jessie Forrester only smiled as she read these items from the local press. Riches and honors were hers. There was nothing lacking but the dear old home of her people, and this could not be bought. She climbed to heights undreamed-of in her earlier days, and became a shining light in the world of letters. Her books were read in two continents. Statesmen and distinguished circles sought her till her name became a power in the land. Her influence was widespread. In an eastern city she at last came to revel in her books and manuscripts, or in her sweet, healthful, domestic loves, renouncing all thoughts of revenge, for the time being, and abandoning the hope of recovering the sacred pile where she first saw the light.

One day there came a letter bearing the postmark of her native town. With difficulty deciphering the straggling, tremulous address, she broke the seal and read as follows:—

"Madam:

"A heart-broken father appeals to you in his hour of extremity, to save his son from the gallows. My boy—my wayward, reckless boy, who was once as innocent and pure as yourself, has fallen into the hands of treacherous natives and half-breeds in Arkansas, and they accuse him of murdering a traveller for his money. He is guiltless of this crime—God knows he is; but the weight of evidence is fearful, and I am powerless to refute it. The proceedings have been hurried over and the verdict is against him.

"I am unable to go to him—I bring the case to you. Go, I beg of you, to Washington and plead with the congressman from this, your native district, and the Arkansas representative, who is your kinsman. Urge them to see the President and prevail upon him to sift the evidence. I realize most bitterly that I have no claim upon you, but oh, for God's sake, Madam, do what you can for a distracted father. Hanging! Oh, save him from that—and act quickly, for he has only five days to live. I am crazed with anxiety and sleeplessness.

"Your obedient servant,

"Robert Garrett."

Jessie Forrester's hour had come. The revenge so ardently longed-for since the hour her mother had invoked the curse of heaven upon this man, was here. What though his boy did perish, by an ignominous death. A more worthless cumberer of the earth did not exist. Ah! that cold, sneering voice on the winter's eve so long ago; her mother's tears! As he had sown so should he reap, and her hands would help to gather in the harvest. Through him they had been exiled all these years from the home that was their birthright. The husband of her early womanhood might have been spared if only they could have nursed him back to health under the cool shade of those grand old trees instead of languishing in the hot city. Help this man? This incarnation of cruel selfishness? Not she;—his boy should suffer the extreme penalty of the law. How could she lift a voice to save him! "His boy?" Ah, through her tender mother's heart there darted a pain all unwonted. Her own noble, gifted boy—her all—what if untoward fate should have in store for him some doom of shame—him, her idol and her pride.

She sat buried in thought till suddenly starting up she consulted a time table, then rang hurriedly for her maid. She was ready in thirty minutes, and summoning her young son, was soon enroute for the capital. Arriving at ten o'clock she called a carriage and sped away to new northwest quarter of the city. By midnight she had seen both representatives and thoroughly enlisted their services. She gave no reason for her intercession, nor was it necessary. It was enough that she deemed it a case for intervention. Next morning the two statesmen had an interview with the President, and by the hardest, for the mass of evidence against young Garrett was overwhelming, got a stay of proceedings till the case could be further investigated.

Well-nigh exhausted from the mental and bodily strain, Jessie arrived at her home unfit for anything but rest. Then she answered her enemy's letter. Did she reproach him with his life-long injustice? Did she demand the old home in exchange for the service she had rendered? Or at least the privilege of buying it? She merely wrote;—

"I have been to Washington and secured a reprieve pending further sifting of evidence."

Ben Garrett was saved and the close view of the gallows sobered him at last. He married the daughter of a Texas ranchman and Jessie heard of him no more.

* * * * *

Five years passed away when on a gloomy afternoon in the autumn, Jessie Forrester, now a woman of thirty, and wearing her years and honors well, was sitting at her desk in an elegant sanctum, absorbed in the fate of two lovers whose history she was creating.

Her door opened and a grave, handsome man with a bearded face stood before her.

"Madam," he said briefly "you once did my brother a great favor. I am here to thank you for it."

His brother? A favor? Ah, she had been doing favors for many in all these years. She did not remember any particular one; it was an every day matter. Every mail brought petitions and she never turned a deaf ear. The doing of favors brought its own reward.

She looked steadily at the stranger, and he felt again in his inmost soul the gaze of those large brown eyes seen once before dilated with childish terror.

"My name is Garrett," he explained, as briefly as before.

Garrett—that hated name. Involuntarily her eyes fell upon the work before her, while a warm flush mantled her cheeks.

"May I sit down for five minutes?"

She again raised her eyes without speaking, and he seated himself, not looking at but beyond her as if her steady gaze unmanned him.

"Madam, my parents are dead. I have come to offer you Deering Castle at your own price. I should not presume to suggest it as a gift. It is yours if you wish it. I have heard so often," and here his voice fell for very shame, "that you wanted it. It was not then mine to dispose of; now there is no barrier; it is yours. I will send my attorney to you."

Rising he lingered a moment with a certain wistfulness suffusing his features, then made his way out ere Jessie could recover sufficiently to bid him stay.

Her faculties were in a tumult. Deering Castle hers—the estate of her fathers—the venerated old home hers at last. It almost took her breath away. A Garrett was offering it. That name hated all her life. But did she hate it now?

There was no more work that day for the author. Nor ever again did her genius shine out in rapturing periods till she drew inspiration from the grand environment of the old homestead. Here Robert Garrett is not an unwelcome guest. Young Herbert is in fact quite devoted to the grave, sedate man with the tender heart. Will his benign influence one day still further cement the new friendship?



The Singer's Christmas

A HOLIDAY STORY

The air of the December day was soft and mild. All the world was in the streets, glad of a respite from the late cold "snap," which had brought out furs and heavy wraps.

Signora Cavada was taking her accustomed drive, chaperoned by a comfortable looking American woman; for this was an American city, and the famous prima donna was winning nightly laurels at the Louisville Opera House.

To-day, the carriage with its high-stepping bays sought a new neighborhood, that the great singer might not be bored with repeated views of the same places. As it bowled along an old man in tattered garments approached, hat in hand, and held it toward the open window for alms. The driver cracked his whip peremptorily above the straggling gray locks of the suppliant, and drove on toward the suburbs.

"Who was that poor old man?" asked the singer in excellent English.

"Oh, only a beggar; the streets are full of them just before Christmas," replied her companion.

"Is he very poor?" persisted the signora. "In my own country we have beggars—they make a business of begging. But that was a grand face. I shall go back again to look for him; tell the driver."

Accustomed to obey the caprices of her mistress, the duenna gave the order and the carriage turned back. There stood the old man as before, but this time he did not approach the equipage.

"Come here," said the signora, holding out a neatly gloved hand.

Fixing his faded eyes, now kindling with something like hope, upon her lovely face, he came nearer, and at her bidding told his story. It was a common one: Ill-health, a vagabond son, his earnings all gone, no work, and finally beggary.

"And have you no one to take care of you? Where do you live?"

"In that old shed, madam," he answered, pointing to a tumbled down cabin once used as a cobbler's shop. "And I have with me my little girl, my grandchild."

"A little girl in that place? Where is she? How do you keep her?"

"Ah, madam, she makes flowers—her mother taught her—and earns a few pennies now and then. She sings, too, madam," he added with pride.

"Sings?" eagerly echoed the signora. "Fetch her here; I want to see her."

"She has gone away to the woods to gather evergreens. To-morrow is Christmas Day."

"Yes, yes, I remember! And how do you celebrate the day?" added the lady.

"In feasting and rejoicing," said the duenna, before the old man could answer.

"And the poor? I have read some very pretty stories about the poor in your cities on Christmas Day."

"Oh, the poor get along well enough," she said, with an accent of indifference or contempt. "They have more than they deserve."

But the singer was again leaning toward the waiting figure outside, seeing which the old man said as if in apology:

"That is why I was asking for help, madam; people are generous at Christmas. But I have known better times; I do not like to beg."

The prima donna was not rich. She supported her own old father and mother, and was educating her brother for a grand tenor. With one of those quick impulses born of heaven, she ordered the driver to descend from his box and throw open the carriage. When the roof parted and the sunshine came flooding down upon her, the singer faced the crowd that had been steadily gathering for ten minutes, eager to see the Signora Cavada, whose voice was the most jealously guarded jewel of her store. For she had been recognized by a chance passer-by.

Suddenly there stole on the air a divine strain that caused a hush as by magic to fall upon the restless groups. Louder, sweeter, stronger, more entrancing it rose, then sunk to the whispering cadence of a sigh. The old man's hands were crossed before him, and tears poured down his withered cheeks. Ere the charmed listeners realized that the voice had ceased, the singer gave the poor supplicant a coin, and waving him toward the crowd, which was increasing every moment, said,—

"Tell them I will sing again."

The old man went from one to another till the worn hat grew so heavy that he had to carry it in his arms. Money for his needs, money for his dear little girl. Then the signora sang again; when about to depart she scribbled an address which she handed the bewildered man, and drove on to her hotel.

What a Christmas was that! And what a feeling of happiness filled her heart! And the duenna said nothing.

A day or two later the beggar and his grandchild appeared at the private entrance of the hotel where the signora was sojourning. The paper he carried in his hand was a passport, and he soon stood in her parlor. He was dressed in a neat new suit, and the child was as sweet as a wild rose.

"Come and kiss me, little one," said the beautiful lady. "I want to hear you sing."

Unappalled by the richness of the apartment, and conscious only the kindness shown her, the child, who was about twelve years old, sang one of the popular street ballads of the day.

"Santa Maria!" exclaimed the signora, who always ejaculated in her own tongue. "But you have a treasure here, my friend! The child is a wonder. This voice must be trained—we will see—we will see."

Touching an electric bell, she summoned a messenger and hastily wrote a line which she gave him. During the boy's absence she questioned the strange pair in whom she felt so absorbing an interest, and gathered what there was to tell of their daily life. Their neighbors were kind, and the women exercised a sort of motherly care over the little girl; but the very best there was to know seemed bad enough, and the singer shuddered as she imagined the dreariness of such poverty as their's.

In answer to the call a young man stood before her.

"Beppo," she said, "your fortune is made; look at that old man." She spoke in Italian, and the face of the artist, for such he was, lit up with enthusiasm, as he marked the striking head and face of the person indicated. "Your model for the Beggar of San Carlo," continued the lady.

Beppo Cellini, at the bidding of his countrywoman, at once made terms with the old man to sit to him for his great Academy picture.

The little girl, whose voice now commands thousands of dollars on the operatic stage, was placed under training at the joint expense of her benefactress and two other artist friends.

The old man, Signor Beppo's model, is at rest now, but he still lives in the "Beggar of San Carlo." And the Signora Cavada, among all the good deeds of her charitable career, has never known a truer thrill of happiness than she experienced on her American Christmas Day.



Turning the Tables

A PRACTICAL STORY

There was great commotion in the kitchen of a large seaside hotel not many miles from Long Branch. A commotion in fact, that struck dismay to the heart of the proprietor, who, upon visiting the store-room near by, was caught and detained, an invisible listener to the uproar.

"I 'clar ter gracious!" screamed the fat, colored cook, "I aint a-gwine ter stan' it no longer! Po' white trash a-layin' up in bed all mornin,' an' den it's eggs! Eggs biled, eggs scrabbled, an' homilies (omelettes) tell yer can't res' nohow! I'se mazin' tired of it all, I tell yer! I'se gwine ter quit—I is!"

"You'se gwine ter quit—you is! I speck! I'm done heerd dat talk eber day dis month," jeered cook number two. "Ef you quits you kin jest bet yer bottom dollar I aint a-gwine to stay. Got more'n I kin do now—I is."

"An' what yer reckon dis chile's goin' ter do den?" pertly chimed in the mulatto kitchen maid. "I'm got all de runnin' roun' ter do, an' yer kin jist bet I don't have no easy time. Quit as quick as yer please—all of yer—I'll go 'long wid de crowd!" and with a toss of her woolly bangs, she dumped a pan of potato peelings out at the door.

"Dry up! dry up!" broke in the head waiter, appearing on the scene in true autocrat fashion. He boasted of "right smart book learnin'," and was a recognised power in the land. "You don't have no trouble at all to what I do. It's run here, there and everywhere, all in a minute, with a dozen blockheads to look after. And it's precious few tips I get here, I promise you! I never see as stingy a lot o' people in all my born days. Say! you there, Jim! fetch that tray along! What are you gapin' at, nigger?"

"Don't you nigger me, you black dude!" retorted the darkey, and as he spoke a smart chambermaid pranced along, flirting back at another waiter, and ran plump against the boy, tray and all. Down went the dishes with a clatter which brought a bevy of waiters and maids on the scene, while the laundress rushed in, all dripping with soapsuds. This so irritated the head waiter that he seized a teacup and threw it at the unlucky tray man. Then followed a fusillade of broken crockery and promiscuous dodging of giggling maids and explosive men-servants.

The fat cook interposed a threatening, hissing tea-kettle to stop the war, and the perplexed housekeeper appeared among the belligerents as the overwhelmed proprietor beat a hasty retreat. Stealing unperceived along the corridors, an idea struck him. This state of things was simply dreadful; something must be done. He quickly decided. He despatched his little son to the rooms and all about the premises to request the guests to assemble to an affair of state in the imposing chamber known as the main parlor. His wife was an invalid, and the poor man was beside himself in his perplexity.

With wondering, smiling faces they came—a pleasing array of city boarders—ease and comfort written upon every face.

His audience assembled, the distressed gentleman proceeded to pour forth his grievances. He asked what he should do in such a dilemma. His help had been engaged from the swarms of colored persons who infest the stations and public resorts along the coast. They had given trouble ever since the hotel was opened. They complained and annoyed him first about one thing, then about another, till he was well on to the verge of lunacy.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," he pathetically continued, "if I try to soothe and satisfy, and raise wages and make promises, what guarantee have I that the same thing will not occur to-morrow, and next day, and next week? I engaged them fairly and squarely, and have held strictly to my contract. They are so spoiled and unmanageable that there is no satisfaction in their service. Even now, while I am talking they are no doubt still in an uproar. Why, it is a wholesale mutiny. Something must be done at once. I have come to you for advice. If, as I say, they could be persuaded to remain, I cannot promise you any comfort. If I discharge the whole crew, it will be a day, perhaps two days, before I can supply their places; for I shall have to go to New York for white help. Can you solve the problem?"

For a moment there was silence. Then Miss May Delano, a handsome, wealthy city girl, said, with a challenging glance all around: "I'll wait upon the table for my part, if somebody will get me something to serve!"

This was received with an outburst, and instantly all was chatter and confusion as they caught up the spirit of the thing.

"I'll fill the orders as fast as you can take them," boasted a Wall St. exquisite, who would have unbent his dignity to any degree to please the bewitching heiress.

"I'll help anywhere—wherever I'm needed," exclaimed another city belle.

"And I!" came in chorus. "We'll be chambermaids," said a party who had just donned bathing suits of blue flannel.

"All right! Get to work!" commanded the crowd. "You have on just the dress for the business."

"Well, Mrs. Ingalls," smilingly encouraged a plump matron, "I suppose we might do as good cooking here as we have done at home in times of emergency. Shall we try?"

"I'm agreeable," laughed the lady. "That is, if we can manage the range."

"Oh, leave that to me," said her husband. "I guess I've handled ranges before." Which caused more merriment, since that gentleman's business was in the hardware line.

Fresh came another bevy of rosy faces, whose owners declared that they had been to a cooking school and knew all about it.

"Nothing like practical demonstration," bantered the young men.

"Hurrah!" cried one Hamilton, the pet of the house. "Give me the girl who can don a white apron, roll up her sleeves, and plunge her pretty arms into the flour barrel! That's what I'm looking for!" and he cleverly balanced a chair on his chin, amid a clamor of repartee and good-natured defiance.

"Go in, the whole ship's crew!" fervently urged a family man. "It will be the best fun of the season."

"All right!" promptly agreed the ladies. "We are ready. Now, hurry up and get on your porter's apron in time for the next wagon of trunks. Pray, call us when you are about to shoulder one!" which turned the laugh on the muscular member of the group.

"I think I'd rather be parlor maid," sweetly chimed in a little blonde beauty, with fluffy bangs.

"Suits you to a T," was the gallant response from the younger men.

"And I'll have to stand guard to keep you from flirting," put in an adorer.

"Pot calling the kettle black!" was the saucy fling from a chorus of school-girls who were enjoying their first seaside vacation.

"Now, grandma," exclaimed the parlor maid to a beautiful old lady with silver hair, "you shall have a big chair right in the middle of the dining hall, and be manager-in-chief."

Meanwhile the landlord had been overcome.

"Ladies," he now managed to articulate, and certainly he meant it, "I don't know what to say; I don't know how to thank you. But I know what I'll do; I'll turn away the last one of those quarrelsome blacks; root and branch they shall go. I'm tired of living in bedlam. I shall go down at once and start them; then I'll telegraph to New York and take the first train out. Rest assured I shall be back to your relief as soon as possible."

The proprietor had made himself heard in the confusion, and as he left the parlor hearty cheers followed him, when immediately the groups of talkers broke out again into plans and promises.

"Organize! Organize!" thundered a big man who had been jostled from his morning paper. "There can be no success without system."

"Hear! Hear!" roared the fun-loving fellows. "Down with the crowd to the lower regions! Come on with your constitution and by-laws! Hold fast to law and order! Give us liberty, or death—pumpkin pies and lily-white hands! Hurrah! On to the kitchen!"

With mock circumspection they were forcing couples to pair off; but the level-headed matrons soon arranged matters more to the purpose. The various branches of work were assigned to willing hands that only awaited the signal for action.

Great was the consternation of the mutineers when the "boss" appeared in the dismantled kitchen and ordered them all off the premises. In vain they protested, laying the blame on first one and then another. Their day of grace was ended and no quarter shown. Wilfully and from sheer love of bickering, they had offended all sense of justice and propriety, and in unbroken ranks they must go.

When the fiat had irretrievably gone forth, they showed again the claws and the cloven foot. The "cook-lady" said she "didn't hafter work nohow;" she reckoned she could "git along." The maids and the waiters took the cue and were equally independent. But though paid their wages in full, they were discharged without "a recommend"; and this, in the height of the season, was no small privation.

"Teach them a lesson!" muttered the proprietor with satisfaction. "Serves them right! I'm rather glad of the row."

Cheerily the guests fell to work in their several departments, and if more than one match for life was not made among the young people, it was from no lack of genuine admiration in their new roles. The lads and lassies were happy and rosy and busy at their self-appointed tasks. The white-coated waiters were dubbed "No. 47," "No. 50," and so on, and right nobly they served the well-spread tables, which lacked nothing, not even the boon of contentment, which so helps digestion.

The flushed matrons behind big kitchen aprons, with diamonds locked away in the hotel safe, took turns to perfection. Many guests took their ease, and were mere lookers-on at the frolic; but a right goodly company put their shoulders to the wheel.

When the new corps of "help" were installed, they found the hotel clean and tidy from attic to cellar, and everything in its proper place.

The episode was one to be remembered by the malcontents, who had had a severe lesson; by the host, who had seen a genuinely good side of human nature; and the ladies who had so nobly stepped into the breach, learned during their brief period of servitude to be more patient and considerate to those who serve.



How She Helped Him

STORY OF A WIFE

"Well, tell me about Henry Woodruff. How did that match turn out?"

"Bad enough thus far. He is the same delightful, good-hearted fellow as of old; always ready to do a kind, or courteous act. But this woman will be the ruin of him."

"How? What is the trouble?"

"The trouble is she is spoiled to death! She fancies herself an invalid, lies around, does nothing but read Charlotte Braeme and Bertha M. Clay—has every foolish whim gratified, and, in fact, I don't see how he stands it."

"Did she have any property?"

"Not a cent. It was an out-and-out love match. She has expensive tastes; she is indolent and extravagant. Why, his carriage hire is a big item of itself. She couldn't walk a block, you know."

"Perhaps she really is a sufferer."

"Nonsense; nobody believes it. She had that fall, you recollect at the skating rink. At first her spine was thought to be seriously injured. Woodruff paid out several hundred dollars to have her cured, and the doctors discharged her, well, they said. But it has pleased her to drag around, a load on his hands, ever since. It is thought that he is much crippled financially. I know positively that he has lately mortgaged his interest in the firm. If he can't manage to make, or save five thousand dollars by the end of this year, it is all up with him. And he will never do it at his present rate of living,"

"Why doesn't he tell her? Has she no sense, or feeling at all?"

"None, except for herself; and he is so fond of her that he will indulge her to his very last cent."

"I thought he looked a little down as he passed us this morning."

"Yes, he is beginning to realize that he has gone too far, and, poor fellow, it is tugging at him hard."

Did she hear aright? Was it of her, Eleanor Woodruff, that they were talking? Swiftly she sped out of the dark, heavily-curtained back parlor of the stylish boarding-house, and into her room, a gorgeous alcove apartment on the first floor. She could not mount the stairs on account of her weak spine. Weak spine? She forgot all about it as she paced the floor, angry tears gushing from her large brown eyes. It was shameful—it was wicked—to be so abused. She had never in her whole petted life been found fault with. As to money, what did she know about it? Her father, before his failure and death, had always gratified her. Her husband had never made any difference. These men were friends of his.

Her bitter sobs ceased, and her wounded vanity gradually lost itself in better thoughts. Did all her world think of her like the scathing criticisms of those two chance callers, who thus killed the time of waiting for someone to come down to them? She began to feel glad that she had overheard it. The merest accident had sent her into the back parlor. Was it true? What ought she to do? What could she do? Her dear, kind husband in trouble, and she the cause. Long she sat buried in thought, and when the well-known step sounded at the door her face was radiant with a new resolve.

He came to her large easy-chair with a step somewhat weary, but his kiss was as usual.

"All right, Nellie? Had a good day? Why, you look—let me see—how do you look?" he satd, his kind eyes noting the brightness that shone in hers.

"I look as if I love my big boy very much, don't I?" she responded merrily.

His answer was another kiss, and as he turned toward his dressing closet, her heart ached with unspoken tenderness. Her dinner was brought in. She was not considered strong enough to sit at table. For this service an extra charge was made.

Later, when he opened the evening paper, she sat and watched him. Surely those lines of care were new, now that he was not smiling fondly upon her. Oh, foolish, selfish wife! Rising gently, her long silken tea-gown trailing behind her, she stood beside him, one slender white hand upon his shoulder.

"Well, dear, what now? Another new gown?" he asked, with his old, sweet smile.

She pressed her lips in a slow, reverential fashion, upon the broad white brow, another pang at her heart. Then she spoke:

"Not this time. Harry, dear, let's go to Mrs. Wickham's to board."

"Mrs. Wickham's!" he echoed. "Why, you wouldn't stay in her dull little place a week."

But even as he spoke there flashed through his mind in rapid calculation, "Twenty dollars a week there, forty here; eighty dollars a month saved; nearly a thousand dollars a year."

"Don't you like it here?" were his next words, as he glanced around the luxurious suite.

"Yes," she said, "except there are too many people. It is so noisy."

"Very well, then, we will try it; anything to please my darling," and he drew her close, wrapped in his arms as one might lull a restless child.

The move was made, and Eleanor found that she was not as much fatigued as she had often felt after a day's lounging with a novel. Her husband thought it only a new whim; but as it was not expensive one, he could not remonstrate. When he wanted to take her driving, she playfully told him she was learning to walk—horses made her nervous.

The first step, she thought; now for the next. It came to her almost by magic. In a little rear hall-room sat Margaret Dewees, clicking away at her typewriter. A strong, clear-headed girl who had maintained herself these ten years, and had put by her savings. She was soon to be married to a stalwart young farmer, the lover of her early youth. They had been working and waiting. From the first she took an interest in the young wife, and it was given to her energy and common sense to help a suffering sister. Together they plotted and planned. Eleanor's lassitude gradually passed away under vigorous rubbing and brisk walks.

Margaret's trousseau was a thing to be considered. From Mrs. Woodruff's surplus stock of stylish gowns and garments the country girl's outfit was deftly concocted. The young wife could sew neatly and rapidly. When all was ready the sum of two hundred dollars lay in her writing desk. Her grand piano, too large for the new quarters, was removed from storage to a dealer's, and was sold for three hundred more. She wrote at once to an uncle in a Western city; told him of her little efforts, and asked what she might do with her mite. He was a real estate man and promptly invested it in a lot in the rising town of Duluth.

In exchange for her services as seamstress, Margaret taught Eleanor the use of the typewriter. When she was married she left the instrument, for the summer months, in Eleanor's care. A nominal rent was agreed upon, and this was easy to pay, as Margaret's engagements were transferred to the new operator, while she, herself, attended to chickens and cows, and her six feet of husband.

Eleanor's spirit of enterprise did not stop here. She obtained pupils on the type-writer machine at five dollars each. She shipped a lot of old party dresses, crushed and out of style, to the costumer's on B—— street, and saved the proceeds. Every time her husband handed over her allowance of pin money, she put at least half of it in her "strong box."

It was hard to hide all this activity and cheerfulness from him, but she did. With her woman's enjoyment of a little mystery, and her high resolve to show herself worthy of him, she kept in the old rut as nearly as possible when he was at home. He saw only that she was stronger, and it lightened his labors.

"My little woman does not ride, or read, any more," he said one evening, in the indulgent tone he used towards her.

"Why, yes, I do read. Don't you see my little library there?"

"Yes, but it seems to me I miss something."

He missed the litter of trashy novels he had been wont to see.

"I told you I was learning to walk;" she added, with a smile, "I really do walk somewhere every day."

"That pleases me most of all," he said in his cheery way, "but what will Dr. Bull think. You know he prescribes rest and quiet."

"I don't care one bit; I have long since cut his acquaintance."

* * * * *

The end of the year rolled round. Eleanor watched her husband's face with ever increasing anxiety. One evening he sat buried in thought from which all her endeavors could not rouse him. He did not feel well, he said. All night he tossed and muttered. Calculations and figures were uppermost.

He was up early, as usual, and away. Eleanor hastened her preparations, and carefully counted her little hoard—the earnings of months. Early in the afternoon she came home with the proceeds of her last batch of type-writing, glowing with exercise, and the happiness of contributing at least some hundreds to meet her husband's creditors. He was there, lying on the sofa, pale and hopeless. Forgetting all else, she flung herself beside him with a sob.

"Oh! Harry, my dearest! Tell me what it is that is killing you—I have a right to know."

"It is ruin, Eleanor. I have brought you to poverty—you whom I would have given my very life to make happy."

"You are talking in riddles, Harry," she exclaimed, rallying from her alarm. "Am I not the happiest woman in the world? And don't you see how well and strong I am?"

She coaxed the whole story from his lips. Then with affected lightness, she said: "Is that all? Why, you frightened me terribly; I thought you were ill—had caught some horrible disease or other. See here!"

As she spoke she ran to her desk, took out her treasure, and poured it into his hands in her impulsive fashion.

"Eleanor! What is this?" staring like one dazed, from her radiant face to the notes in his hands.

"This? Why, this is only your silly wife's laziness and selfishness in another form."

Then her story had to be told. Their combined efforts still fell short of the required sum, but she triumphantly produced the deed to the Western land. For a season there were caresses and even tears, of mutual love and thankfulness.

"My precious wife!" he exclaimed, as he clasped her close. "What a treasure in you, if all the money in the world should fail!"

"But your piano!" he said, with regret overreaching his appreciation of her sacrifice.

"Let it go," she merrily replied. "I could not play worth listening to—this you must admit. It was just an expensive, cumbersome toy—that's all."

Next day the balance of the debt was borrowed upon the security of the western deed, and Henry Woodruff was a free man once more. When the five hundred dollars jumped to thousands in a sudden boom, he bought a neat home. Here, Margaret, the valued friend, supplied produce from her farm.

Eleanor was never quite content till Harry had looked up her two maligners, and brought them to the pleasant domain where she presided, and which her painfully awakened energy had helped to buy. In time she told her secret, and thanked them for that ten minutes' gossip. In time, too, sons and daughters came and found a mother prepared by self-denial for the exigencies of life.



The Iron Box

A MYSTERY

Twilight dropped its soft, somber curtain upon a handsome southern home. Sadly out of keeping with the peaceful landscape and cheerful hearthstone, were the feelings of a man who crept close to the window shutter, and peered cautiously within the cosy apartment. And brighter grew the twinkle in his rapacious eyes as the brilliant objects upon which he glared shone in the lamplight.

Upon a table in the center of the room was a mosaic casket, the raised lid disclosing a collection of jewels rarely to be found in the possession of a single individual.

With glowing cheeks and radiant eyes Netta Lee surveyed her treasures; but the glow and sparkle were for the tall figure beside her, however her feminine pride might be gratified at this splendid array. So long as Richard Temple honored her among women with his heart's devotion, there needed not the glitter of gems to complete her happiness.

"Our friends are most kind with their wedding gifts," said the prospective bridegroom, "these are royal!—"

"Yes, and oh, Richard! just see these pearls. Exquisite, aren't they! One hundred years old, and a present from my grandmother."

"What a queer, old-fashioned case," said Mary, a younger sister taking up the flat, square box of red morocco, where nestled in its white satin lining lay the milky brooch and ear-rings.

"So much the more valuable; in this love-of-the-antique age," remarked Bertha Lee. "Netta, who sent these gorgeous corals?"

"Aunt Winifred;—wasn't it good of her?"

"Pooh! No more than she might do for each of us," replied the saucy girl. "Heigho! I wish my fate, if I have one, might appear. Couldn't you innocently suggest to the old lady that I have no jewels for the all-important occasion—a bridesmaid, too?"

"Why not select from these?" said Richard. "There is enough here, and to spare, for all. Let's see—pearl, diamond, amethyst, coral, emerald, turquoise, filagree—I declare it is a veritable jeweler's display."

"You must recollect, though, Richard, I had some of these before."

"Her friends seem to have discovered her weakness," observed Mrs. Lee, entering the room.

"Now, mother, you shall not say that. You forget the carloads of things that have come—nice, useful, domestic articles——"

"Richard, what is it? What is the matter?" suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Lee, looking at him.

In alarm Netta glanced at his face, which she saw was clouded from anxiety, or pain. At once she closed the casket and went to his side in great concern.

"What is it, dear? Are you ill?"

"Not ill in body, my love; hardly comfortable in mind," was his reply, as he sat down upon the davenport close by. "Sit here beside me, and I will tell you what is troubling me. No, don't go," he added, as the others started to leave the room, "it concerns us all."

"Don't look so alarmed," he said, reassuringly, to his betrothed. "It is only this. News reached Columbus to-day that Baywater's gang is near Villula, and as usual their progress is marked by bloodshed and outrage. The feature that concerns me most is that if I am detailed for duty, it will of necessity postpone our marriage."

Various expressions broke from the ladies, and Netta exclaimed in terror:

"But you will be in danger, Richard. Can no one else go?" and she clung to him as though her frail clasp could keep him in safety at her side.

"I fear not. The state militia must do its duty. You would not have me skulk in the hour of danger. But there really is no danger for me, Netta. The sole trouble is in the change of our plans."

But they remembered too distinctly Baywater's last visit to derive the comfort conveyed in his words.

"And where must you go? What must you do?" tearfully asked Netta.

"I can scarcely tell. We shall be required to watch the premises of the citizens, and to convey all valuables to places of safety. The policy is not to provoke a battle, but to entrap them nearer and nearer the city by holding out baits till they can be apprehended in a body. To do this, we shall be divided into small squads, perhaps only two persons allotted to a station."

It was apparent to the elder lady that the plans had already been arranged, and Temple's duties mapped out.

The man at the window strained his ears to catch the topic which evidently excited profound interest. A word or two reached him, and he saw Temple point to the box of jewels. Then, as the door opened, he heard him say:

"Remember—the first thing to-morrow—Dry Thicket."

Ere the departing visitor could come upon him, the straggler bounded over the fence and hurried away. But he had learned enough.

A sound, real or fancied, caused Richard Temple to glance down the starlit highway, in time to see the fleeing human figure. In newborn apprehension he returned to the parlor door, and was admitted in some wonder by the ladies, who were still discussing the situation.

"Is Lawrence at home?" he asked.

"Yes—why?"

"I think I'll turn in with him to-night, if he will give me half a bed. I fear you are not safe with those jewels in the house."

"Certainly," responded Mrs. Lee with ready hospitality. "You may have a whole bed and room, too, if you like."

"Thanks, madam, I prefer to concentrate forces. Give me the box, and you ladies go to rest. We'll protect you;" he valiantly added, as the young son of the house now appeared.

Richard Temple was not mistaken. A little after midnight the watchers heard a noise as of sawing, or filing. Peering from an upper window they located the sound at the parlor shutter, and soon discerned the figure of a man in a crouching attitude. Swiftly and noiselessly the young men stole down and out by a back door, and were creeping upon the burglar to capture him, when a short, quick bark from the house dog startled the man, who fled precipitately. The pursuers fired, but it was too dark to see beyond a few yards.

The ladies, aroused and alarmed, were soon reassured, but persisted in sharing the remainder of the vigil.

Early next morning, leaving the servants to infer that they were bound upon a berry excursion, the little party set out, Richard bearing the mosaic box, the girls carrying other valuables, and Lawrence armed with a larger wooden box and a pick. Their destination was Dry Thicket, so called from the exceeding dryness of the earth beneath the almost impenetrable trees of native growth. These trees were so closely interlaced by a tough vine peculiar to the soil, that it was necessary to cut one's way, or force it by dint of strength.

In order to accomplish this feat the ladies had donned homespun dresses kept for such excursions, and the gentlemen were suitably provided. Winding through an arable field they descended the narrow path that led into the thicket, and were soon pushing and cutting their way against the stout lattice of vines. When far into the interior they found themselves in a natural arbor free from undergrowth and utterly secluded. A fallen log afforded a seat for the ladies, and the custodians of the box at once proceeded to bury their treasures of gold and plate, silver and jewels. An hour sufficed for the task. When scattering, dry leaves over the fresh earth the party returned to Lee Villa somewhat the worse for wear.

"Until these dangerous invaders shall have left the community, or are arrested, I think we should arm the negro men on the plantation and be prepared for possible surprises," were Richard Temple's parting words, as he took leave for Columbus, twenty miles distant.

Villula was altogether inland, and hence an easy prey to outlaws. The nearest railway station was at Silver Run, two miles away. The first down train brought a hasty letter from Temple, stating that he and Lawrence Lee were detailed to convey four fine horses belonging to Major Lester, to a place of safety, and that the threatened section had been well picketed.

There was at once a general hiding out of valuables, live stock and provisions, the numerous swamps and thickets affording secure harbors all over the section. A reign of terror existed during the next two weeks. The dreaded marauders were at work, and stories were rife of insult to women, and outrages upon men whom they hung by the neck till almost dead unless they revealed the whereabouts of their treasures. Thus far they had baffled the vigilance of the authorities. The country was thinly settled, and the peculiar features of the landscape afforded facilities both for concealment and escape.

One evening the ladies of Lee Villa sat watching the resplendent sunset from the front piazza, when a ragged, barefoot urchin came up the road turning somersaults with surprising agility. He righted himself up at the gate, then entered and sidled rather doubtfully toward the group.

"Here's somethin' fur Miss Lee. Be you her?"

"Yes," said Netta, receiving a dirty note from the boy's dusty fingers. "Where did you get this?"

"He gave it to me—he did," nodding his head down the road, "an' he gimme this, too!" he added triumphantly, holding up a shining coin, as he darted away again at his evolutions.

Netta deciphered the following lines from Richard:

"We are encamped in Dry Thicket with the horses, all safe thus far. Do not attempt to come; you could not find us. Keep a brave heart. We will soon entrap the rascals. (Messenger best I can find).

"Faithfully,

"R.T."

About nine o'clock one morning a party of ten men, headed by the notorious Baywater, rode up the single street of Villula, sending terror to the hearts of unprotected women. Not apprehending an attack in daytime, the two young men were on duty elsewhere, and the negroes were in the cotton fields.

Passing through the town amid a great dust and clatter, they drew rein at the villa. The ladies came to the door in response to the captain's imperious halloo.

"We've come to find out where the Lester horses are, madam—and what's more," he added with a brutal oath, "we intend to know!"

"I have no information to give you," calmly returned Mrs. Lee.

"Perhaps you won't tell us where that box of diamonds is, either," he sneered.

To this there was no reply. The three girls were pallid from apprehension of the next move. Apparently a proposition was made. The leader shook his head. After a brief parley he dismounted, and with five of his men, strode across the lawn to the negro quarters. An old negress sat at the door, smoking her pipe, and knitting a coarse yarn sock. A bright mulatto boy was crossing the back yard with a water bucket.

In vain the outlaws sought to extract from the old woman the whereabouts of her master with the horses and jewels. She was in reality as ignorant as they.

"Come now, Auntie," said the captain in wheedling tones, "tell us and we will make you free. You won't have to work any more."

"Oh, go 'long!" was her contemptuous rejoinder, "I'se free as I want to be."

"Why, you old fool!" he roughly retorted, "you don't know what freedom means. You shall wear a silk dress and ride in a carriage and have a gold chain."

"I speaks gold chain!" echoed the woman tossing her grey head, "you po' white trash can't come it ober dis chile wid yer crick-cracks. Jes you go 'long. I'se got my bacon and greens, an' a good cotton coat. Yer can't fool dis chile wid yer fine talk!"

"Curse the old hag! Let's try the boy. You! Sirrah! Come here."

With ashen cheeks the boy followed them into an outhouse, while the Captain flourished a stout whip.

"Oh! mother," cried Netta, "don't let them whip him! He never was whipped in his life!"

Mrs. Lee advanced a few paces from the back gallery whence they had been watching the proceedings and called, "Charlie!"

The boy sprang towards his mistress, his captors not venturing to be too rash at the outset.

"I want this boy for a moment," explained the lady. In sullen silence they waited.

"Going to buy him up to secrecy," derided the Captain, "but I guess we'll work it out of him when he comes back. We've got him, sure, and can afford to wait."

But Charlie did not come back. Thrusting a bill into his hand his mistress said: "Fly for your life, to Columbus and tell Col. Scale that we must have protection. There is no train. Take the old country road and lose no time!"

Nor did the terrified boy let the grass grow under his steps. Ere the next sun rose he was in Columbus, footsore, but safe.

Again baffled, the desperadoes took horse, and held a consultation.

"If I thought they knew," muttered the Captain, "by —— they would be made to tell. There's no other way—we must search that d—— thicket. You know what Jem heard at the window the other night."

With this they galloped down the road, taking a more circuitous route to Dry Thicket than the little path hidden from view behind Lee Villa. In an agony of foreboding Netta exclaimed: "Oh, mother, we must save them. Let's get ready and go at once. I know every part of Dry Thicket!"

Hurriedly donning the homespun dresses, the mother and daughters set out, leaving a maid in the house, and the old cabin "Granny" still smoking serenely over her knitting. They were soon on the spot where the jewels had been buried. The shock of the moment may be better conceived than described, when they saw an open pit, a pile of freshly-turned earth, and no trace of their carefully-concealed treasures! The blood receded from every face. Gone—all gone! The exquisite bridal presents—the diamonds from her betrothed, the ancient pearls, Aunt Winifred's family jewels, the heirlooms of plate—all vanished as utterly as if they had never been.

In sheer feebleness the stunned party sank down upon the prostrate log. They now observed the charred remains of a camp fire, and shreds of grey blanket adhering to the tenacious Tie-Vine.

"What shall we do?" broke from Netta in despair. The loss of her superb ornaments for the time took the place of every other sentiment. Even the safety of her loved ones was forgotten.

"Well," said Mary, recovering herself, "it is no use grieving. We had better be looking for Lawrence and Richard. You know those villains hung Colonel Harris by the neck till he was nearly dead, because he would not tell where his money was."

"Hush, Mary," said her mother, "don't suggest such horrible things."

But their search was unavailing. That night was one of agonizing suspense. Next day the noon train brought Charlie with a note from Colonel Scale, saying that Lawrence would return home as soon as orders could reach him.

The story of the missing jewels was freely discussed, and friends came in numbers to condole with the bride-elect, and rehearse similar depredations that had come to their ears.

At last flashed the news that the State Militia had surrounded the daring invaders, by a well-executed maneuver, and had disarmed them. The leader fought desperately and was mortally wounded. The prisoners were forced to reveal the place where their ill-gotten gains were stored, and the owners were publicly summoned to identify their property. But the Lee jewels were not found, and the gang obstinately disclaimed all knowledge of them.

Suspense in regard to them was, however, soon to be relieved. Two more days of waiting, and the close of a lovely afternoon was made memorable by the return of the wanderers to Lee Villa. A torrent of questions and incidents so assailed them that they could not intelligibly answer the one, or comment on the other.

"And, oh! Richard," faltered Netta, "they have stolen our box—all my beautiful presents!"

"And the spoons," chimed in Mary, loyal to the family heirlooms.

"You'd better say the money," said Bertha with conviction. "I would rather have lost anything else than all that gold and silver."

"Only give us a chance," said her brother appealingly, "and we will relieve your anxiety on this point."

"You have it! You have it!" cried the girls excitedly crowding upon him.

"No," said Richard laughing heartily, while the brother endeavored to extricate himself. "He hasn't it but if I can have a hearing I will tell you of its fate. We hoped you would not miss it. Nor would you," he added, looking archly at Netta, "if you had obeyed my injunction not to try to find us."

All anxiety, his auditors were profoundly attentive while Richard narrated the adventures that had befallen them in the thicket. They were hotly pursued and closely surrounded several times, so determined were the raiders upon capturing the horses, but friendly arbors screened them from view, and the sagacious animals were as quiet as their preservers. On the night of their arrival at the thicket with the horses, Richard suggested that it might be wise to remove the box, since in case the ladies were surprised they might be forced to disclose the secret. Accordingly he and his companion dismounted, secured the horses, and penetrated on foot to the place. What was their amazement to see the smouldering light of a fire and a man stretched upon the ground in a deep sleep. A grey blanket served him for a pillow. Ere they could reach him he stirred uneasily, started up, seized his blanket, and sprang away among the trees. But they were too quick for him, especially as the clinging vine impeded his progress. They captured him, and he confessed that he was one of Baywater's scouts, and that he had spent two days in the thicket searching for the box of jewels he had seen through the window of the villa.

The young men secured their prisoner, whom one guarded at the pistol's point, while the other pushed on, buried the box in another place, and then they conveyed the ruffian to Columbus.

"Three nights ago," concluded Richard, "we were so closely cornered that there was no help but in flight. We rode continuously till our horses were safe on the Lester plantation, but my Bonnie Bess is done for, I fear," and he glanced compassionately at the reeking animal, his own especial property.

Poor Bess! Ere another twenty-four hours had gone by, her sorrowful master was called away from the villa to see her die of lockjaw. He had ridden her to her death in the performance of his duty.

After his interesting recital the ladies refused to wait till morning to regain the buried treasures. They would go at once, and a number of friends who had gathered to welcome the returned wanderers, and congratulate their prowess, volunteered to accompany the party. So they started, quite a procession, relying upon the lately frequented path to save their garments from rents.

The new spot chosen for the little pit was only a few yards from the original place, and seemed sunken for several feet in all directions—a significant fact as it proved.

This time Charlie wielded the pick, and with such exaggerated force that the earth was loosened for quite a space around the box. Some excitement attended the rescue of the precious casket from fancied peril, and the dense bower resounded with an animated discussion of late events.

Warned by the lengthening shadows they turned to depart when a bystander suddenly peering forward, said: "Look there, Lee. What is that? There, close to the tree. Temple, do you see?"

"The root of a tree, I think," replied Lawrence, stooping down to examine a dark object that jutted out of the newly opened pit.

Clearing the earth away with his hands he discovered, not a root, but what seemed to be the corner of an iron box. Richard, who was beside him, fell to work, and a further exploration revealed a band of some metal, probably brass. Intense curiosity now prevailed.

"Charlie, go to the house and bring some torches," said his master. Then to Richard: "We must get at the bottom of this. The ladies had better go—it is nearly night."

But the ladies would do nothing of the kind. Here was something that promised to be a mystery indeed. They remained till an iron, brass-bound box, not large but heavy, had been disinterred and with difficulty lifted to the surface. With still more difficulty it was conveyed to the villa, where the expectant group waited for a smith to come and open it.

When the rusty lock was made to unclasp, the top was raised, and there, in numerous rouleaux, was gold coin to the amount of thousands of dollars. Excitement was now but a faint term for the sensation.

The young men were congratulated upon their find till their hands were sore from pressure, and the ladies were embraced in proportion by enthusiastic friends.

How came it there? Who had buried it and when? There was a legend in those parts that four wealthy Spaniards had been pursued and butchered by the Indians in the early days, and that they had, while fleeing away, buried the gold in an Alabama wild. Another tradition was, that during the siege of New Orleans, some French settlers had run the blockade and penetrated far into the country with vast wealth that was never traced afterwards. Some of the older citizens had also heard of a miserly ancestor of the Lawrences (Mrs. Lee had been a Lawrence) who lived a hermit life in the villa when it was only a log cabin; who denied himself the simplest comforts, and who died in want; but he had been seen by the curious counting his gold at night.

Whatever the mystery it was never solved. The facts as known were widely published, but no rival claimant ever appeared.

The wedding was a brilliant social affair. The Lee family were recognized leaders, and their ancestral home was noted for its elegant appointments and generous hospitality.

"And where will you and Dick live, Netta?" asked a Columbus belle.

"We think of building in the thicket."

"What! Bury yourself in Dry Thicket? That horrible place?"

"Soyez tranquille, ma chere," playfully answered the young bride. "Dry Thicket has proved too great a blessing to us to be dreaded. However, come and see us one day and judge for yourself."

And when, as the "one days" had lengthened into many, enticed by the rumors she heard, the girl, now a married woman, did go, she found a magnificent residence, with lovely terraced lawns, shell-road drives, and luxuries unknown in city homes. All on the site of the despised Dry Thicket. White cottages dotted the landscape, and there was no trace of the gloomy thicket save one natural bower overhung with trees and interlaced by vines. Within its cool recesses was a rustic chair, and sheltered by a miniature Gothic temple, stood the brightly-burnished iron box which chance had made the foundation of so much happiness and prosperity.



The Girl Farmers

A PRACTICAL STORY

"I see no way out of this, girls, but for you to go to work and support yourselves with your accomplishments. At least I suppose you've got some. Your schooling cost a fortune, and maybe it was well enough, for now there's a chance for you to make it count."

And thus delivering himself, gruff Uncle Abner took a fresh chew of tobacco, and let his eyes wander aimlessly among those dead-and-gone relatives hanging on the walls. Anywhere indeed but at the two rosy, eager faces before him; for the sisters, Margaret and Elizabeth, sat watching and listening to this, the first hint of difficulty in the easy-going of their pampered lives.

Margaret spoke. "What is the amount of the mortgage, Uncle?"

"Tut, tut," he grunted, with a show of impatience, "you can't understand; girls aint expected to know about business; they h'aint any heads for it. You'd better just shut up the place and come over to my house till you can look around you a bit."

"You are very kind, uncle, but we will consider that after you have answered my question," continued Margaret with quiet insistence. "How are we to understand unless we are told? And why keep us in ignorance? We have a right to know just how our father's affairs were left, and I, for my part, intend to know;—" and the earnest young voice stopped short of the sob that caught and held it quivering.

There was silence while the tall clock ticked a few moments away. The large grey eyes had no release in their steady depths. Thus driven Uncle Abner proceeded to explain that it was when their brother James got into that trouble over his wife's property. Their father had been obliged to borrow, and he (Uncle Abner), accommodated him, taking as security a mortage on the farm.

"It was for five thousand dollars," he concluded, "and of course if he had lived—," he paused, and walking to the window, his hands plunged deep into his homespun pockets, gazed uncomfortably upon the broad stretch of field and pasture so dear to the orphan nieces he was unwittingly torturing.

The Milfords were a proud race. Proud in the sturdy yeoman spirit of honest independence. Margaret was not long in making up her mind.

"You are right, uncle," she said with marked deliberation. "Libbie and I have indeed had every advantage that the best schools afford. We ought to go to work and we will. But—" and her wistful gaze swept their beloved possessions indoor and out—"it shall be here; not anywhere else."

"What upon earth are you driving at?" spluttered Uncle Abner, while Elizabeth smiled acquiescence in the decision of the beloved older sister whose word had been law since their pinafore days. Whatever the outlook she would stand by her. "I'd like to know what you can do here!" went on their sage adviser, muttering audibly something about the "infernal nonsense of women folks."

"I mean it, uncle. I never was further from talking nonsense. We will work here, on the old farm, and save our home from strangers, if you will only be patient and give us time. I can take charge of the hands and the crops. Elizabeth will manage the house and garden. In fact I find myself longing every minute to begin. It will be something to occupy us and divert us from gloomy thoughts;" and she glanced at the somber garments that told of recent bereavement.

"But you can't stay here without a protector," objected her uncle, getting downright wrathful as he felt inwardly conscious that he would be obliged to yield. He had seen his niece Margaret have her own way more than once. Still he must fight for it.

"You just take my advice and do what I said at first. Let somebody take the place and work off the debt—in a way, you understand. You can look about for a music class, and Lizzie here can get a position in the public schools. Of course you know you are welcome at my house as long as you need—"

"Now, listen, uncle, do," broke in Margaret, catching his arm with clasped hands, as a persuasive cadence crept into her resolute tones. "I know I can learn to do what other women are doing all over the land. Not so many Southern women, I grant you; we are a spoiled lot as ever lived, and are foolishly ashamed to work. But we are no better than our sisters of the north and west, and I, for one, do not care a whit what people may think about it. As to being afraid to stay here, that would be silly. Why, I am not so very many years from thirty and Elizabeth is every bit of twenty-three. Quite old maids, you see;—bachelor maids, if you please. The neighborhood is thickly settled; Rock and Don are the best watch dogs ever seen, and the men in the cabins with their families are faithful, you know. The village is in sight, and the big farm bell can be heard a mile away. Nobody will molest us. I assure you we shall not be afraid; and last of all, I can handle a pistol as well as a man, if need be; and Libby is a terror with a hat pin! Now do be good and let us try it."

The brave girl had her way, no matter if Davis did want to add the four hundred acres of the Milford farm to his own fine estate.

The first year was not a bed of roses for the inexperienced young farmers, but they were not daunted. A music class and a dozen pupils in belles-lettres helped out the income, and there was no inconsiderable revenue from the sale of milk, butter, eggs, fruit and vegetables.

They had "the orchard, the meadow, and deep-tangled wildwood," full of sacred memories. They fairly gloried in their dairy, the poultry yard, and garden. They were up at daylight, and with the help of a small boy from the cabins, gathered the marketing which Margaret, in her high cart, took to the hotels at the thriving village of the railroad junction.

Richard Davis undertook the live-stock raising for the sisters on the shares. This was a great help, though Uncle Abner, who had been bulldozed into complacency, he said, hinted on occasions that the "young fellow would be sharing himself with one of 'em before long." However, the energetic maidens gave no heed, save to the grand purpose of their lives.

They learned to "gar old clo'es amaist as weel as new." Carpets were darned and scoured and turned; the time-honored furniture was patched and polished; and their fair hands did not shrink from putting on a fresh coat of paint, or paper, now and then. Under severe pressure of temptation they parted with several pieces of old mahogany during the craze for antiques, at prices almost fabulous. This they invested in some shares of bank stock.

The second year's profits footed up enough to make a payment to Uncle Abner, and then their joy knew no bounds. In vain their anxious friends urged them to sell out and live in a small cottage. Their sympathy was thrown away.

"Every blade of grass is dear to me," persisted Margaret. "Perhaps I have more sentiment than sense, but this should be my life work. And when free from debt, think how easy to see the end of every year from the beginning. Meanwhile everything is getting more simple for us. At first, we had to be content with just the old rut, for we knew nothing else. Now we study the best methods. We take a farmer's journal, which has proved a noble education. The continual improvements in machinery and necessary implements are of inestimable value. The best costs a little more at first, but in the end it pays."

"I always detested farming," exclaimed an old schoolmate who had married a rich banker.

"Come and see us," said Margaret, with her hopeful smile. "Let us show you our work."

She came, partly from curiosity, and together the friends went over the premises. First, the kitchen garden where grew in hills or rows vegetables after the most approved latter-day culture; next, the glowing garden of flowers whose gorgeous bloom found ready sale; then the poultry yard, pig-sties, bee-hives and stables, Margaret all the while discoursing upon remedies for this or that drawback, and how to manage the diverse brands and breeds, till her dainty friend held up her hands in honest wonder.

"How on earth and where did you learn all this?" she found voice to ask.

"From the journals, I read about farming and gardening, about housekeeping, and raising all those barn-yard creatures. We are thinking of adding a small family of canaries to our stock; they are much sought after and readily sell. Oh, I could not get on at all without my papers. They are everything to me. Why, just listen to what I know about corn," she went on, with a proud light in her handsome eyes. "Kentucky was once a leading state in raising corn, and she will be again," and here followed facts and statistics singularly incongruous from rosy lips to the listening ears of the city girl. "There is nothing, Amelia, that pays like doing a thing well. For instance, our own Kentucky is not famous for well-kept farms, but I could not afford to have my fences down, my fields choked with weeds, and my stock depredating elsewhere."

"But how do you manage your servants? They are the great bugbear nowadays."

"By making them respect me and by paying good wages. They should not be expected to give their time and strength at starvation prices. I do have trouble sometimes. In fact I think, first and last, I have done everything but plow. But in the main I get along. The farm is prospering, and a few years hence I mean to have it called a model, not a mortgaged farm."

"It is all right, of course, my dear, if you like it," said her city friend, with somewhat unwilling admiration, "but I should think you would get dreadfully tanned and coarse."

"Do I look so?" asked the country girl, with a happy little challenging laugh. "I was certainly never in better health."

And the visitor had to admit that there was no lack of womanly beauty in the rich coloring of the young farmer's rounded cheeks, albeit a few tiny freckles bridged the straight nose.

"But think how utterly you are lost to society! What a sacrifice for a Milford!" lamented the rich man's wife, to whom life's hard lessons had not come. "I can never forget the gorgeous entertainment at this old house when we were first home from school. Such flowers! Such music! Such a supper! And, oh, the lovely gowns! I declare, Maggie, you were a beauty that night, and Libbie never looked prettier. It seems a crying shame!"

"Not converted yet?" playfully asked the other, though the quick tears sprang to her eyes at the sudden stab of memory.

"Remember, dear," she added gently, "we could not have gone out even if we had not decided to give up all idle pleasures. But we are not hermits, I assure you. Our old friends are most kind. Perhaps one day we may live again those happy times."

"But surely you will marry. A girl like you could never be an old maid."

At which sally Margaret laughed outright, adding gaily that there would be time enough and to spare for matrimony.

"I am too busy now to even think of it. By and by I shall have the finest of bees and fancy poultry. Already my grape arbor is thriving. I sell quantities of fruit and berries. But my stronghold is farm literature; I devour it at night, while Libbie reads society bits in the village weekly, or cons the city daily. Poor Lib! It goes right hard with her to draggle her skirts in the dewy strawberry beds; but she feels consoled when I fetch up the till! What misers we be, hoarding our strong box!"

So these heroic girls are going on, the respected of all observers. Their example has encouraged others to throw off the shackles of "Southern caste" and be independent of unwilling relatives more favored by fortune. The mortgage is not yet entirely lifted, but it will be. The bluegrass pastures of the fine old estate have been given over to the grazing of blooded horses and cattle, at so much per head, thereby counting in a greatly increased revenue.

Margaret's latest venture is a fine young thoroughbred, which the knowing ones predict will prove a gold mine. So mote it be.

Uncle Abner is patient and helpful. He has long ago felt like hiding "his diminished head," and is proud of his young nieces. They have saved the old homestead where three generations of the family were born. Alone they have struggled, protected by the God of the orphan, whose glorious sunshine and rain so abundantly bless their labors!



Proving a Heart

A LOVE STORY

"Hold fast! don't be frightened! I can save you if you will only be strong!" were the exclamations that burst hurriedly from young Dr. Gardner's lips as, with horror-struck face he sprang from his window-seat and bounded downstairs.

And well might he hasten, for she who awaited his succor, hung perilously between heaven and earth, expecting every moment to be dashed to the ground.

For some minutes previous to his excited words, Weldon Gardner's gaze had been riveted in awful fascination upon an immense balloon that was fast descending toward the high roofs that clustered on all sides about his comfortable rooms on —— St., New York.

Something was wrong. He could readily detect this in the unsteady wavering of the gaily-striped air-ship. And so, too, thought the crowd that he now saw had gathered in the street below.

Evidently the aeronaut had lost control of his craft. Lower still it tottered, and now were visible several arms outstretched in the vain appeal for aid.

Not a sound escaped the spell-bound multitude in the streets, for in a moment more the fate of the doomed adventurers must be decided. Suddenly two human forms dropped from the loosened basket and struck with a fearful thud against the elevated railway, then rebounded to the street below a mass of mangled flesh. Death was instantaneous. With one impulse the throng surged about the bodies; but Dr. Gardner's eyes were still fixed upon the balloon, for as if relieved by the rapid lightening of its burden it gave a spirited sweep upward, then passed over his own roof.

Hastening to his back windows, which overlooked a paved court, he threw himself into a chair, and strained his gaze in search of the wrecked pleasure-craft, to which one other figure clung with the might of desperation.

One large tree, spared by the pruning axe of the city architect, shaded the court; and into the wide-spreading boughs of this tree, did the powerless balloon now descend, its ropes becoming hopelessly entangled. Clinging fast to whatever offered support, a young girl with dark, terror-stricken eyes, met his look of horror, as with the reassuring words already quoted, Weldon Gardner rushed down to the rescue.

Even as he gained the spot, shouting to the men in service to bring a ladder, a number of persons had penetrated to the court, and were now collected around the tree, uttering excited comments upon the disaster.

With all possible speed the young physician reached the sufferer, but unconsciousness had already closed her eyes to all danger. Bearing the light form from the entangling meshes, the doctor ascended to his consulting-room, and deposited his burden upon a couch. Summoning his housekeeper, he dismissed the gaping followers, and proceeded to examine the death-like form he had preserved from mutilation.

The patient seemed to be about eighteen years old, and bore unmistakable evidences of the lady in her attire.

Mercifully forebearing to restore her senses till after his skillfull examination, the doctor could discover no broken limbs, and nothing now remained but to enable her to speak for herself as to her condition. After a persistent use of restoratives, the anxious attendants were rewarded by seeing the color flutter back into the pallid cheeks, and the long eyelashes quiver with returning life.

Her first words were: "Lucien! Maggie! we are lost!" Then a strong shudder convulsed her slight frame, and with a startled cry she attempted to spring up.

"Be careful," gently remonstrated the doctor, laying a detaining hand upon her. "Tell me—are you hurt anywhere?"

"I don't know—I think not—oh! who are you? Where am I? Where are the others? Were they killed? Oh! it was too horrible!" and the agitated speaker burst into a passion of tears so violent as to alarm her watchers.

Leaving her to the housekeeper, Dr. Gardner quickly prepared and administered a soothing potion. Then, enjoining absolute quiet, he drew the blinds, and proceeded downstairs to learn of the ill-fated companions of his patient. The crowd still lingered about the spot, although the bodies had been removed to await a claimant. Nothing was known except that the balloon had ascended that morning from one of the city squares, and that, as frequently happened, a party of young people had gone up to get a bird's eye view of the metropolis. Who they were did not yet appear.

Several hours passed, and still the rescued girl slept the dreamless sleep induced by the nervous shock and the narcotic draught of the doctor. Patiently the housekeeper sat and watched.

As twilight fell, she gave a sigh and opened her large eyes in surprise upon the strange face beside her. Taking advantage of the opportune moment, Mrs. Buford removed the pongee walking suit from the drowsy girl, and then gently enfolding her in a soft white wrapper, the kind matron assisted her to the bed which had been prepared, the girl submitting with a bewildered look of questioning wonder, and finally sinking back gratefully into slumber.

And here Weldon Gardner came before retiring for the night.

Softly touching the delicate wrist in its dainty frill, he noted the somewhat fitful pulsations of the disturbed life-centers. Bending above the tell-tale heart-beats, his practiced ear assured him that ere long the deep repose of his charge would effectually restore her to health.

How like chiseled marble she looked, lying there in her absolute helplessness beneath his stranger gaze! How pure the white brow, with its clustering rings of glossy hair! How exquisitely fine the white hand to which the dimples of babyhood yet clung! How classic the contour of her face, into which already the warm hue of health was creeping! A heavy sigh escaped him as he noted each perfection of outline. Who was this lovely stranger? And what could she be to him?

"Why was I ever such a dupe?" he said in his heart. "Fettered—fettered for life!"

But suddenly realizing that except in his professional capacity he had no right thus to intrude upon her slumbers, the young physician turned from the enchanting picture.

"How is she now, sir?" respectfully inquired the housekeeper.

"Fairly well," he replied cheerfully; "I do not think she is hurt, except a few bruises, which we must look after. She was thrown pretty hard against that tree. To-morrow she will be able to give an account of herself. We can do nothing toward finding her friends before that time. Call, if she should become restless," and the young man retired to his own apartment, there to ponder deeply, as he had never before pondered in his life.

Some days later the following letter was posted by Weldon Gardner:

NEW YORK, September 20, 1879.

"My Dear Aunt:—

"Your kind letter reminds me that never, in all these years of boyhood grown ripe, has duty come to me in as repulsive a form as now, I tell you, shocked as you may feel when you read the words, that I would rather put a bullet through my head than meet Evelyn Howard at this time! Why couldn't she stay in England? And what cursed folly induced my parents to thus bind me for life to one I had never seen? True, I submitted. But you know with what an appeal my dying mother besought my compliance, and what could I do? I cared for no one else. How was I to foresee that the tie would ever be so intensely galling?

"I know all that you would say about honor, manhood, and all the category of virtues. I know them all. Nor am I willing to act the scoundrel just yet. But I must have time; I can not marry that girl now. Nor will I consent to meet her yet. Let her think I am out of town, sick, busy, dead; anything, till I can screw my courage to the sticking point.

"About the balloon tragedy—yes, you heard correctly of my figuring in the matter. The girl is Miss Lina Dent, of Brooklyn, and I am happy to report that she is entirely recovered, though deeply afflicted at the fearful death of her friends. It seems that they had, in a spirit of fun, gone up in the balloon, feeling confident that their adventure was, to say the least, of somewhat doubtful propriety. They did not think of danger. The cowardly desertion of the aeronaut, as soon as he could leap to a roof in safety, precipitated their fall.

"The young victims, Lucien and Maggie Taylor, were too much frightened to hold to their frail support. Their tragic fate has plunged an excellent household into mourning. Bitterly my new acquaintance lamented her folly in consenting to the excursion; but how can a man in his senses add to her condemnation when she looks through such eyes, and speaks with such lips? Not I, I assure you.

"Miss Dent is visiting a relative in Brooklyn, and in my character of physician, I have been kindly received. The strangest part of it all is the odd way that girl looked at me when she knew enough to look rationally at anybody; and her obstinate persistence in leaving my house before she was fit to go. And it was all I could do to induce her to see me again. But her cousin was quite cordial, and now I may claim to have established an easy footing at the house. But about Evelyn Howard—don't, my dear aunt, if you have a spark of mercy, require me to see her now."

* * * * *

A month passed by, and October, in glorious tints of autumnal beauty, shed its light over the city. In a handsome drawing-room on Brooklyn Heights sat Weldon Gardner and Lina Dent. The young girl wore a soft white dress, and her figure was replete with roseate health and beauty.

The young physician was pleading strongly and earnestly, gazing into the eloquent eyes before him as if his very life hung upon their favor.

"But I know so little of you, Dr. Gardner," was her remonstrance in answer to his ardent suit, "true you have earned my life-long gratitude—"

"Don't mention that, if you have any regard for me," he interrupted, in a sort of disdain.

"Yes," she urged, "I must mention it. To you I owe my life, and perhaps, my reason. Of course I know you in all points of family, position, and professional success; but your own true self—how can I know that you will secure my happiness? Is there nothing you can tell me of yourself which will reassure me?"

And the bright, honest look of her eyes robbed her plain words all possible sting.

"First, tell me that you love me," he argued, "let me know that it would be sweet to you to place your happiness in my keeping. At least you can do this. You know if you love me."

She listened with averted look.

"And if I confess that I love you," she said at length, in a low voice; "if I do this, would it not be mockery to learn, when too late, that I had made a mistake?"

"But, in heaven's name, Lina, what can you mean? Why do you doubt me? What is there to tell? I could have no secrets—"

Then there rushed to his memory with a force that sent the blood to his brow and almost took his breath, the conviction that he had a secret from her—that he was deceiving her—that it was unmanly to seek her love with a lie on his lips. For a brief season his engagement had been forgotten, or ignored. He had hugged to his breast with unreasoning apathy the theory that the present was enough to consider—that the future must care for itself—that once his promised wife, Lina Dent should be his if all the world conspired against it. But now came the hated thought that Evelyn Howard stood between him and the precious one who had been his day-star since the night when he had nursed her back to life.