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Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second (‘lass Mail Rates.

eofingmea in 1882 byfinIDLmAND Mm.

— séfitémbEEiaé'z.

 

 

No.147. VOL. VI.

PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y.

PRICE, 5 CENTS

 

 

' The War_of Hearts.

BY CORINNE CUSHMAN,

AUTHOR or “BLACK EYES AND BLUE,” “ BRAVE
BARBARA,” “HUNTED BRIDE,” ETC.

CHAPTER I.
A GHOST AT THE WINDOW.

FIRELIGHT over everything in Farmer Fletch-
er’s sitting room—over the ample hearth of old«
fashioned, blue Dutch tiles—over the red-and—
blue Turkey carpet—over the broad, white, un-
papered walls, with their pictures of George and
Martha Washington, and over the comfortably—
lnw ceiling—over the two front windows, with
their curtains undrawnabeyond them, over the
deep. deep, spotless, shining snow outside, mak—
ing it blush warmly as the brow of beauty

 

 

under the eye of love. Yet, though it flung
its flatterin radiance over everything in the
great, home ike room, there were objects there
upon which the coquettish firelight lingered
with a rosier and more loving touch than upon
others. It seemed, for instance, to wrap itself
about the burnished pewter pitcher—full to the
brim of spiced Cider on whose surface bobbed
sundry roasted app es, seething in warmth
and fragrance—which stood as near as safety
would permit to the glittering brass and iron::
and to caress the white cat and her two flufi'v
kittens who lay on the rug, basking in the lux-
ury of heat.

It lighted up very becomingly the face, fore—
head, black, crispy hair and handsome features
of the schoolmaster, who sat near the round Ina-
hogany table, with claw feet, which stood in the
center of the room, supporting the tall lamp
which “ paled its ineffectual fires ” in the face of
that glowing heap of hickory logs in the fire-

 

place. It shone into the bright, honest eyes of
one of his pupils, a boy of fourteen; it played
hide-and-seek with Mrs. Fletcher’s knitting-
needles, and made two comical fire-balls of Far-
mer Fletcher’s spectacles, as he read the paper.
But most tenderly, most lovingly, this rosy light
lingered on the lovely face and figure of Ruth,
the daughter of the house. She, too, was a pu-
pil of the schoolmastrr, who, in his experience
of “boarding round,” had at length found him-
self, much to his secret delight, at the farm-
house toward which he had fur some time cost
a longing e) e.

It is cold in Massachusetts in December, but
it was not cold in this charming, old-fashioned
sitting—room. -

That dancing firelight kept everybody in a.
glow. At least, it must haVe been that which
Inade Ruth’s cheeks so red, as she bent over In 1'
slate, apparently deeply absorbed in an al: I A
braic problem. Perhaps the teacher Wondeu l

“ LIADEIIOISELLE,” sAIn OTIS. RESPLCCTFULLY, “IS THERE ANYTHle WRONG? CAN I BE OF ANY ASSISTANCE“

 

2 THE WAR OF HEARTS.‘

e

 

:. i m,

 

if she were going to be able to solve it without
his hell? for he kept those black eyes of his fixed
on, her quite as steadily as hers were glued
to the slate. But it was the flrelight, of course,
which made her seem to blush, and not the con-
sciousness of his regard. It was known in
school that the master was quite an artist—he
drew wohderful rtraits on the blackboard at
times, to amu' \ himself during recess—and if he
had been stucying Ruth for. the purpose of mak-
ing a picture he could not have looked at her
more earnestly. An exquisitely-pretty icture
she would have made, with her acefu head
inclined over her slate. the rosy ight dancing
over her gold-brown hair and glittering on the
curved ends of lon , dark lashes—over the deli-
cate, dark brows, t e oung forehead white as
snow, the flushed cheeks, and the dainty,
scarcely-developed fi ure of a girl of sixteen.

Ruth had donned er merino dress with a
lace ruflle and rose-colored bow at the neck, in
honor of their boarder.

Besides this, she had a pink carnation and
geranium-leaf in her hair, a gift from the
schoolmaster, who had received a box of flow-
ers from Boston the day revious—flowers were
costly luxuries at Pentac et in December.

“ Have you decided to go to Boston to spend
the holidays, Mr. Otis?” asked Farmer Fletcher,
13. ' g down his paper.

The youngl man started, and a red streak rose
Ilowl in eit er olive-pale cheek; he had been so
absor d in his study of the speaker’s daughter
—-and in certain dar thoughts that lay restless
but hidden in his breast—that the question came
upon him like a. surprise. Ruth looked up, in-
terested in his answer, and so did her mother
and David, her brother. The all liked the
“schoolmaster,” and had invi him to end
thetime with them from the resent un ' the
day after New Year’s. He answered them
that morning at the breakfast-table, that he bad
business of some importance to transact in Bos-

and did not know but he should be com-
ed to take the holidays for attending to it;
at that inclination tempted him to accept their

'. kind hospitali

t .

“I should like nothin so well as to remain
here, in this delightfful ouse, with your plea-
sant family,”he had said, with great earnest-
nms. “This is my first Winter in the country;
it has the charm of novelty; and I should like to
keep Christmas in the old-fashioned way with
you. But I fear I caimot.”

He looked up now With a start and a flush as
thequestionasto his decision was asked him.

a moment, forcing a laugh at his own nor-

7 acidon, he re :
03I find that I all; obliged to go, Mr. Fletcher;
had a letter today which decided the matter.
waver I have compromised with, my con-
Idence—Ishall remain here, since you have so
kindly urged me, until the day after Christmas.
Thisarnng‘ementwill give me time to accom-
plish wint have to do in Boston.”

“I dare sayyou will be glad to make New
Year's calls on our fashionable city friends; of
which, we rstand, on have such num-
bers ” remarked Ruth, wi 11
mm fill-311nm of her beautify eyes and pout of

rosy -
4 The schoolmaster looked at her an instant, but
hiseyeawerecastdownashe answeredinalow

vows:
“Ishallnotmakeagfile'callonthatday. I

ageingon I abusiness,
“It’s a wonder condescend to teach

school, Mr. Otis!" uth continued, with still
more‘ Wtifafurl ofherrose-leaf lips.
‘ ?

“Chill don’t know. Only, you have such an

air—and theydo sayyour relatives are all as
rwhasCrmsuaandasproudas theCzar ofall

' theRuSias.”

“ Ruth 1” spoke up her mother, re rovingly.

“Oh, I know, mother! You 11 not remind
mount I am unladylike. It's bad enough to
have Mr. Otis laugh at me.” For the teacher
m “fled in a grave, doubtful way which the

could have “her pick of beaux,
ent herself from becoming
mt“, Of whose opinion of herself she
.W 80 uncertain. Sometimes she thought he
“an...” is" man; am “am on
1', er famil 0 y
tel-ed her for his own amume
It was this uncertaintybwlnch e Ruth
thletcher sometimes tiem . $231351: 11112:;
regard, as timid as a. n ove;
at others peck angril at $3181!!! which would
have messed her. schoolmaster was older

imperiou- has. am not like. Ruth
was the hem“;g hex-[grin neighborhood, and lam
f

yet could not
ascinated

net the least per»

 

than the girlofsixteen,andve wise of
his gears; and perhaps he unde these lit-
tle oaks of temper, and did laugh at her. He
answered her now quite seriously:

“My relatives may have unbounded wealth;
but my own store is so small that I must needs
add to it. I will not beg—or, if I am compelled
to, it will be of strangers and not of my own
blood.”

“ But influential friends generally sot young
gentlemen up.in business, and help them on,
urged Ruth. .

'My friends did set me up in business once;
but I made a miserable failure. They were se-
vere on me and I quarreled with them, and
since then I have left them to their bad opinion
of me if you must know the truth, Miss Fletcher.”-

“ hi’ murmured she, “I did not mean to
be inquisitive, or—or, impertincnt, Mr. Otis.
It is none of my business, I know; and I beg
your pardon.”

The soft violet eyes looked pitcously into the
gloomy ones of the teacher, who replied cour-
teously, but who .seemed to have been aroused
to painful reminiscences b the turn the con-
versation had taken. A rk, stern look that
was almost a scowl settled on his handsome
face; he stared into the glowin fire as if he
saw some frightful picture in t ruby c nls
that glimmered, flashed and crumbled under the
burning fore-log. It was now Ruth’s turn to
watch his countenance, and to wonder what was
in his mind and to Wish, with all her assion—
ate, foolish heart that he knew more a out his
past life. The farmer, yawning, bade David

around the cider, after which he and “ nio-
that” went off to bed, with an injunction to
“the children” to follow speedily—a mandate
which David, sleepy with some study and more
coasting, soon obeyed; but, Ruth still sat by the
round—table, her wistful e 'es following the
teacher, who, othious of or existence, now
paced up and down the length of the fire—lighted
room—his head drooped upon his breast, his
whole expression indicating deep and painful
thought. At intervals he would pause by the
uncurtained window and gaze out on the fire-
litten snow, which "looked as if stained with
blood.

Nearlfian hour passed in this wa , when he
approac edthe t ale and seemed a out draw-
ing something from his breast-pocket, but start-
(led onperceiving Ruth, exclaiming, almost haish-

y.

“What! you here still?” . _

The tears had been standing in the r girl's
eyes for a lon time. They now ro ed own
her cheeks at eing addressed so curtly, and
115mg she would have fled from the room' but
the Sight of those glistening drops recalled her
companion toasense of his rudeness and stretch-
ing out his hand he drew her back, kissed her
fit] on the forehead and then pushed her from

‘ , ut with a soft firmness which she could
not choose but obey.

Ruth at the door, paused and turned as if
asking to be recalled; but he had again forgot-
ten her existence, and with a heavy sigh she
went away.

If the sigh which the girl breathed was a sad
one that which broke laborineg from the breast
of the man she left, when he found himself
alone, was more like a moan than e. si 11. The
gasp of the night-wind, shuddering at he case-
ment, was not so dreary. _ - _

Oh, that lonesome, wining1 night-Wind! It
had stolen out of the far rkness and now
moaned at the flre-litten window as if pleading
to be let in. ,

To the conscience of the man who stood there,
trembling and listenin it seemed to be her
Egret. begging and pleasing to be taken to his

Her voice—the writer of the letter which
he now drew from his bosom, and unfolding,

held its delicate chhracters to the 'ght of the ‘

lamp.

For the h fire had b this time smoldered
down to a 1-258 core of hea , whose cheerful glow
in vain strove to combat the shadows which fill.
ed the further limits of the room. Those sleep-
shadows crept closer and closer about him,
from eve side, as he stood by the dimming

th lam , reading and rereading—as one who sees

in out com rehending—the lines traced on the
violet-seen paper: .

“I have found out where on are, Otis, as you
will see by the direction of t s. I am far from well
this winter; indeed I am telling you the truth. I
feel that I cannot ve lens—at least, if you treat-
me as you have been doing. I wish you would come
and see me. Ah, for God’s sake come and see me,
dear Otis. I am so lonely, now mother is dead.
Come and see meme! once. Oh, come, a d let
your poor unhappy little wife again hear you speak,

 

see you smile, or even (town. Yes, “you come

only to curse me, I still my you to come. You

cannot think how dreadfuPit is to be alone as I am.

I lie awake all night thinking of you. I know that
on hate and despise me. I am not wholly to blame.
et, if I had it in my power, I would undo every-

thing—not for m sake, but for yours, dear Otis.

dYesi, if I could go ack one miserable year I would
0 t.

' Otis, Otis, have mercy on me, and come, if only
once, if only for an hour.

“ Your poor little wife, Minnnnn."

And while Ruth Fletcher, the innocent school

'rl, wept herself to sleep on her pillow, because

r. Otis had been so indifferent to her that evo-
ning, the teacher stood alone in the darkening
room surrounded by shadows which chilled his
very blood, while the running night-wind, as it
passed, snatched at the ratt ing window, shak-
ing it, and wailing out: “ Come, come, comei
If only for an hour, for God’s sake, come!"

Oh, the terrible stingr of the adder, Conscience!
You may drowso it for a. day, but it Will start
to life, and pierce your soul with mortal pangs,
in the very midst of joy and fancied scciirit .

That night it struck its fangs into the liar en-
ing heart of Otis Garner. ‘

 

CHAPTER II.

a wanna hosr arm PAID.
ONCE upon a time, in one of the elegant rooms

of a certain young man’s club of Boston, four.

young trentlenion sat at a cardvtable playing
whist. OThe game itself was respectable enough:
the parties playing it belonged to the creme de
la crenw of fashionablo society. The only 591' '

ious misfortune which had, thus far, befallen -

any one of this distinguished quartette was the
very sad misfortune of having too much money
to spend. Not having so much self denial as
money, they constantly made foolish use of the
latter. They were domfi so now. For, on an-
other table within reac , stood several bottles
of champagne, to which they had frequent re-
currence as the game progressed. The effect of
this lavish supply of champagne was to make
them very merry: And if we are to judge by a
conversation which took place amongst them
about eleven o’clock P. M. it made them as fool-
ish as it did “jolly.” In it they agreed to plafr
a last game, and the losing )artners were so -
einnly pledged. on their wor of honor, to toss
up for the lot, and whichever one of the two
lost, was lodged to start from the steps of the
Tremont ouse as the bell struck twelve on the
morrow noon, and walkin slowly toward the
Common, ofler himself to t e first yo woman
he met, and marry her if she sees ted . .

Such_a Wager as this was big y exmting
provoking hilarity as the e progressed; an
when, at the close, Otis rner found himself
not onl a loser of the game, but the owner of
the o d eagle which came down “heads, I
lose,’ .he .buist into a roar of laughter, profem-
ing himself not only willing but eager to keep
his romise. _ _

A that he demanded of his 8.)" friends was
that they should not betray t 6. lark” unt'
after the walk was taken, as he did not wish his
acquaintances to crowd the Ravemellt in front
of the Tremont, nor follow him, while he was

' the wager. 'They Pmm186d tokeep the
secret, and the four separated at two in the
morning in glorious good 81311113,. feeling that
the had on'g-inated an Idea Winch ought to
in e them immo ' '

But when Otis Garner woke up in his luxur-
iouschamber in his uncle s gouge amen 211:: fpll-
owin morning 6W”? 06 in t 9
had dgne the brightest thing that ever was.

His uncle, he was (lute “1’9, W‘Olfld not admire
the idea. Otis was unpleasam y dependent on
this uncle. ’lIis own rents Were dead, and the
few thousands of dol rs they had been able to-
leave him—hi8 father havmg lost nearly all his

fortune in stock speculations shortly before he

died—were sfint long a 0. But his uncle Gar-
c

nor was a dless wi ower and he was the
same as an adopted son to the old ntleman;
so that Otis never troubled hi about his

ros ts. It is not strange that he W39.
£11.?!)ng the heir of his uncle’s 11111110”; for he
was potted and humored like an on] child.

Every one flattered and indul ed steamer.
His beau , hisgallaut ways, is high spirits,

xcused one little extrav ces—eventh

e 086
dissipation—which his friends behaved he  ‘

out w all in good time. -

uncl Garner had an I 
to his heart and his ride 
well-loved and for neve . “0m

Appleton was a superb 1. ~ “‘1
haughty as if of imperial 15306, 11,“, {Mfume

dar l wmg' st le of
 lger‘cousinyOtis.  lived in her

   

 

    

 

I An’ one of ’em fellhimself I
‘ whole ’ouse aroused by the row. Indeed, I tried

as, wasneitherheartlessncr
E3.»
the

THE WAR OF HEARTS. 3

 

uncle's house and was his ward. At seventeen
she had the composure and the stateliness of. a
woman of twenty; while the regal hly on its
swaying stem was not more graceful.

Naturally enou h the elder Garner thought
that a marriage of the two cousins would be the
nicest thing in the world; for thus, Without rob-
bing Honoria, he could leave all his vast fortune
tohisfavorite—his boy; indulging both his af-
fection for Otis and his pride in the great estate,
which could thus be kept intact, _

finite as naturally Honoria did not intend to
f in love with her cousin. The mere fact that
their guardian looked forward to such a thing
set her against it. Her cousin, to her, was her
cousin—and nothing more.

There had been times when he had felthimself
wildly infatuated with her; but these times, so
far had been followed by 1periods of resentment
and coldness during whic he took the oppor-
tunity of falling in love with countless other
girls, worthy and unworthy; '

Thus affairs stood on t at bright October
morning when Otis roused himself from his deep
sluinbers to realize that his head was aching
from too much champagne, and that he ha
made a “confounded fool of himself ” the re—
vious night. The thought of his wager led
him with horror; but he was not the one to back
out from any pledge given to his compamons:—

' if it had been to drown himself in the Charles

river, he would deliberately have drowned him-
1f

se .
He was glad to reflect that it was ten o’clock
and that his uncle had probably left the house.
He was not only dismayed about the wager, but
ashamed of the late hours he had kept. _ As yet
it was seldom that Otis, thggfih gay, idle, an
inclined to dissipation, act y went beyond
the‘prescribed bounds. ' _

Ringing the bell for Stickler, his uncle’s valet,
he ordered a glass of soda-water, and his break-
fast to be brought to his room. _ . _ _

“ M uncle has gone out?” he_ said, mquiring-
1y, as e sat down in his dressmg—gown to the
epicurean breakfast deftly arranged on a small
table by the valet. . . .

“No, Mr. Otis, he is in the hbrarfi, if you
please. And he told me, would I to you he
was waitingto see you, as soon as convemeiit

ease ”

This news quite spoiled the young gentleman’s
appetite, which had been poor enough at ;
he knew only too well that he was to have a
lecture from his kind old relative on his late
hours; so, hastily drinking a cup of strong coffee
to tone up his nerves, he roceeded to inake a
careful tOilet, mindful, in t e midst of his trou-
ble of the w er he was to fulfill at noon.

‘1 How the adickens, Stickler, did m uncle
find out that I was not at Miss Agnew s recep-
tion last ' ht?” he asked, as the man was help

him ‘ th his things.

‘ Oh, indeed, Mr. Otis I’m sorry to say it, an’
I ’ope you’ll excuse me, nt them young gentle-
man as ’elped you ’ome sir, they rung the bell
that 10 and that loud as I couldn’t stop ’em,
thoughnlgopened the door at the first sound—be-
ing on the watch like to let you in quiet, Mr.
Otis—and they yelled up the staircase that fool-
ish, our uncle ran out, thinkin somethink
dreatzful was 11 , an’ they made a 0 air' of their
four Jands an carried you up an’ stood you
against the wall, an’ made a redeklous' bow to
in master an’ says: ‘We’ve brought him ’ome
ally right. bon’t let him fall over, or he’ll break.’
, going down, and the

for to prewent it, Mr. Otis. It’s a burning
shame your uncle should be allowed to know—-

but them ntlemen was too imprudent for
Inythiiik. ’ope you don’t think it my fault,
"r."

.l“No, ind Sticklsr: it certainly was not
Your fault. I remember your faithfulness

when I have worn this coat once or twice more,”
Md Otis tried to laug i but the crimson flush
Of‘lhame rushed over his olive cheek, to know
that his foolish excesses of the previous evenm
had been thus rudel betrayedtothe refined an
Bendtive old man w o loved him so, and whose
must ache at his nephew’s folly.
“It isthe last time that I ever touch cham-
gag'ne,” he said to himself, as he went slowly
Olin the stairs up wlhéch he had been carried in
sue ,. r l .
' It was with b1 brow and downcast eyes

'thathestoodbefore grave old tleman in
MM '9’ W» W 
culpritsoftenedtheunele’sindignation' ;
managedtodcliv‘eraprettysenmnlec—
,anidtdexaetfmmtheu'ringoneasolemn

, ' of reform, whichwas meant,atthe

n,  _ ,

are; \  ‘W

 

Otis Garner was in no enviable frame of mind
when, at a quarter past eleven, he was dismiss-
ed froni the library. He saw how wild. reck-
less aiid ruinous were such frolics as that just
over; he earnestly resolved never to 0 so far
in another, but to limit himself to senSible plea
sures; but all these regrets and resolutions did
not absolve him from the conse uences of the
one just indulged in. He never, or a moment,
admitted to himself the possibility of evading
the wa er. Should he do so he knew that he
would ecome an object of ridicule to his as-
sociates at the Club. No! mad as he had been
to enter into such a compact once bein made,
he would keep it “if it killed him.” is un-
cle’s just anger, Honoria’s contempt and his own
life—long miser , were as nothing wei hed
against his wor given to his comrades. t is
true that he might crawl out through the loop-
hole of a drunken man‘s word being worthless;
but Otis‘ pride was strong and fiery—he was a
gentleman, drunk on champagne, and he must
abide the consequences of his own imprudence.

He walked quickly out of the stately and
splendid old mansion which faced on the Coni-
mon—just bowing to Honoria, who was passing
throu h the hall with her fair, atrician hands
full 0 roses and violets which ‘ e had gathered
from the conservatory, and who never had look-
ed lovelier than now, in her long, white, sweep-
inglmorniii (h'ess, a cluster of scarlet fuschias
in er dark ir and the freshness and brightness
of morning on velvet cheeks and arkling eyes
—and in a few moments had reac ed the steps
of the hotel where, ashe expected, he found his
three frien awaiting him. These had forced
a reckless gayety by renewing their appeals to
the treacherous friendshig of the wine; they
welcomed the victim wit a satirical ra ture,
which goaded him into a still firmer reso ve to
fulfill his part of the compact.

In the midst of their mock congratulations the
bells of the city began to tell twelve.

Otis was conscious that he turned pale.

His friends saw it, too, and irritated him by
their heartless laughter.

White and frowning, with his dark eyes
binning and his lips compressed, he began the
fatal promenade.

His three comrades followed, a few paces in
the rear, to see “fair play," as they expressed
it.

Otis Garner, as he walked slowly and grace-
fully through the crowd, was a man to make
even those of his own sex look after him.
Youn , beautiful, faultless in dress and carri-
age, t e rose-bud and pansy in his button-hole
just giving the finishing touch of living, breath-
ing romance to youth and race, he walked de-
liberately on, scanning the aces of all he met.
Of course, at that hour, on that street, he could
not walk for without meeting women in lenty.
Still, it so chanced, that he had rcceed some
distance before he met one o the other sex
whom be judged to be under twenty.

Suddenly he stopped in his leisurely walk.

His three friends passed him slowly, so as not
to attract too much attention by their and his
madman” ‘ l ' f th 'te di

young gir , coming ram 0 op -
rection, had also stopped on the pavegght the
instant Otis did. She looked about her as if she
had lost sornethin .

“Mademoiselle, ’ said Otis. respectfully, “is
therepanything wrong? Can I be of any assist-
ance‘

The lar , lovely, innocent eyes filled with
tears as e glanced up at him.

_ “ sir, some onehastakcnmy urse. Ihad
it fiv?”minutes ago, I am certainan now; it is,
gone

Her tone was one of perfect despair. The
look of distress deepened over her young face.

“ Sixteen—pretty—and poor,” was the verdict
of the three young gentlemen who sauntered by
at this crisis.

“Allow me to aid you in searching for it,"
said Otis. .

“ h, sir, what good would it do! I have not
dropped it—it has been stolen,”'and the tears
began to fall.

Was there much in it!” asked the loser of
the wager, biting his lips as he met the curious
glances of his confederates.

“ All we had in the world. Oh, what will mo-
ther say? It would not be much to you, sir, I
know—only fifteen dollars~but it took me so
long to earn it—oh, so long! I am a music-
teacher, sir,” she added, innocently, betra ed
into confidence by the sympathy in
the stranger’s face. . ' '

“ You! I thought you a child!” '

“Well, itistrue Iam onlya little over six-
teen. Butlhadtodosomething,after,
died. .I have but one pupil, sir—a little 31p:

 

f 1

anatms was the very first money I ever earned;
Onlythinkofitl” and thelarge tears be to
crizill more rapidly down her peach-b casein

Otis looked very earnestly at her. He. dram
was old-fashioned and poor: but it was of dark
material and fitted her slender figure so well
that not one man in a thousand would have
noticed its ' ness; for the figure itself was
that of a fairy and gave grace to the garment.
Sweet little hands. Dear little feet—in shabby
shoes. From under a straw but fell a cascade
of glittering, rigpling hair that glimmered like
water made gol en in the sunlight. This lovely
hair framed a small, sweet face, very pure and
childlike in its expression; et with a wistful
earnestness very winning. or complexion was
like that of snow—drops and inks. It was iti—
able to see the heavy toms ang on those orig
curved e 'elashes. *

"Than the Fates, it is no worse ” muttered
Otis between his clenched teeth. “ It may ruin
me; but, at least, I can do something toward
making this child happy.”

At this moment his friends re- d him,
smiling mockingly. He glared at them like a
save e.

" ey had better remember this girl is to be
my wife I” he thought; “ I will horsepr Phil-
ips for that insolent look.”

“Will {on accept fifteen dollars from me?"
he asked er, pulling out his pocket-book.

“ Oh, no, sir; I could not do that!"

“ What is our name?”

“Mildred velace.”

“Well, then, Mildred since you will not take
the money, Will you talre me?’ ,

She opened her blue eyes wide. v

“I will tell you the whole truth, Mildred.
I promised those three oun gentlemen who
just passed that I we d sitthefirstgirll
met, after leavinfisthe 'h‘emont House, to marry
me. It was foo h, for I might have met an
ugly girl, or a bad one. You are pretty and
good. So I consider myself ver fortunate.

will tell you who I am. I am ‘ Garner
nephew of c. w. Garner, the richbretired '
merchant. Now, I seriously ask you magi
me. Will you, or will you not, be my ii '
Wife, this very day?”

CHAPTER III.
. son 03' THE CONSEQUENCES.

IF little Mildred had been less of achild her
answer would have been diflerent. She looked
up at this lendid fairy prince who had offered
himself to er. The world—which, a moment
ago, when she was bewailing her lost purse,
looked so dark and cold and hunfl'y to-her—
now littered with ‘ewels and breat edof roses,
and one as fullo magicwondersasthem
tericus C ' -tree to the imagination o a
child. 0h, could it be true? To have this beans

‘ perfect creature, to love and pet her—to
bet ewife of suchan l—tcben‘ch,and
wear diamonds and have ‘ en mbfiznd never
give those tiresome music lessons? thought
took away her breath. The blue eyes to
shine and egand, the rosy little mouth to curl
into a soft, y smile. She looked up into Otis
Garner’s grave eyes trustfully:

“If {£11.11 areinrealearnest, Iwillbe
wife,g_‘ ,sir,"sheanswemdhim,bl '
and smiling.
u Today",

“That must be for you to say, Mr. Garner.
You will come home with me and ask my
mother, will you not!”

“ I must have her consent in order to get the
license, I suppose,” he replied; and than the
haugh scion of one of Boston’s proudest fami-
lies, 0 cred his arm tothelittlecreatureinthe
define dres  .blacllrl strawtlligt, and led liteir,
Wi an air 0 nump , past grinning 0
who had come to a stand not far away.

“Meetme at the Churchof theAscenlionat

five this afternoon,” he sai 1y, 1 back

as he  by'  
arm.

“ t‘s a doooed joke,” murmured oneof

er was out of heal-11$.
“ The the very best—joke I ever heard
By Jove, but Garner has t! 6 will marry

her, assuress you live! 01 manwillcu
himougztfihisinherltanoe andtherewillbethe

pay all aromidhlIt all comes of Otis'

nothingbut
thathewonldblckdcwn. W womust
soothe play out. Five o’clock allthat’s
jollyigsakfllingjoke. Willboonhand,“
course . .

“Ofoourse. Andsulcsn inhath
hewillnotmnrdschsrafter 5y
He’sgotadev-llofafcm r,if‘t
Hemmer-whammy”, 

    

4

THE WAR OF HEARTS.

 

scrape; but what he’ll do afterward remains to
seen. I would not care to be in her shoes.”

“ I’ve a mind to after him and tell him we
release him from e bond,” added the third:
but such a course was approved too late. Gar-
ner had disappeared in t e crowd, nor did they
succeed in seeing him again before five o’clock,
although, growing remorseful, they called at
his residence twice in the course of the after-
noon. .

At the appointed hour these frolic-loving
friends entered the designated church, with
perhaps a dozen others, to show 7hey had con-

ded the story of the “ fun” that was going on.
The altar was decorated with flowers, the or-
ganist was laying Wagner’s Bridal March, and
Just after t ey were seated, there floated up the
aisle on the arm of handsome and haughty Otis
Garner, a fairy figure, clad in clouds of snowy
satin and lace, her exquisite face blooming in
the soft shadow of the wedding vail like some
delicate flower over which has been woven,
While it dreamed, a dew film.

There was no mark of “the lower classes” on
this dainty bride to horrify the fashionable
snobs who looked on, half in mocker , half in
disma . She was fresh and lovely an delicate
in loo s—but whether she could ever be a fit
mate to the man who stood by her side was an—
other question.

The wildest of them grew grave as the solemn
words of the marriage ceremony were spoken;
the three friends, es ecially, felt the sting of re-
gret, realizing keen y the folly of their ways,
and perha 3 mental] resolving that they never
again wo d have a nd in such a scrape.

But the deed was done!

Otis Gamer had kept his tipsy pledge, and
was walking out of the church with the air of a
king, but pale as death; vouchsafing no glance
at his club companions, but proudly supporting
the blanched and trembling youn creature who
clun to his arm, and whom be taken, be-
fore and man as his wife.

The bride’s mother, a plainly-dressed Woman
evidently very much of an invalid, and who had
a sad, entle countenance, walked meekly be-
hind. n reaching the pavement the three. en—
tered a carriage in waiting and were driven
to idly away.

11 less than an hour thereafter Otis entered
his uncle’s house, and sat down to the sumptuous
six o’clock dinner as if nothing had occurred.
He was 0 and silent; but this both Mr. Gar-
ner and cumin. set down to the reproof he had
received in the morning. It flattered and pleas-
ed the uncle to think that the weight of his re-
buke was felt so sincerely; it touched him to see
the young man grave and distrai't ,' and out of
the kindness of his indulgent aflection, he made
an effort to rally him out of his unwanted seri-
ousness.

“You must escort Honoria to the opera to-
ni ht, Otis. It is a gala-night, I believe—Nilsson
in arguerite. You have no other engagements,

I resume?”
3‘ None, uncle Gamer. I will take Honozia if
“I adore

she cares to go. ”

“Ida care to go,” said Honoria.

Nilsson in Marguerite,” with the enthusiasm of
seventeen. /

Otis looked over at his cousin earnestly.

Oh, how beautiful she was! He had been
madly in love with her many times; but never
—-never so infatuated as at this momentl The
contrast between this royal beauty and that of
the uncultivated little creature to whom he had
said good-by for the da , a. little while ago—
leaving her, with a col kiss, weeping in her
mother’s arms-enhanced every charm of the
former. He the ht of the sweet, silly ignor-

, ant little thing wi mingled pity and 's .
Her fawn-like manners, her unconventional
ways, her simple loveliness, were hateful to him
in contrast with Honor-ia’s spaperb style.

To make matters worse onoria was in one
of her coquettish moods. She lanced from un-
der her dark lashes at Otis wi a smile which
fired his soul. _

The maddening thought rushed through his
brain that perha after all, his cousin, who had
taken delight in _owin her indiflerence, had
be to care for him. ow that he had put it
on of his power to ever again make love to her
it seemed to him there was nothing in the wor
"worth doing but that.

v. Honoriawas still in the mood to please her
cousin when she came down, dressed for the
opera. Shehadmsdeherself asbeautifulasan

exquisite toilet and kling irits could make

char. wuaso lowon velvetcheeks
andinherdarkeyes. ermannerwugayand
yet tender.

Whatmancanresistthespellofthiseombina-
fioni y'

stOry about me.

 

Otis felt his heart melt under her lightest l,

glance or word.

wore—Honoria had the great art to make any-
thing she wore seem 8. art of her. Her taste
was infallible. He only ew that he was proud 1
of his fair companion—of her elegant dress and ;
her splendid beauty.

Strange thoughts and dreams coursed through ,‘
his brain as they sat in their box at the opera 1.
that evening.

The thrilling, passionate voice of the ill-fated
Marguerite stirred the inmost depths of his be-
ing. It seemed to him that she was Mildred, I
and that he was the Faust who had broken her ‘
heart; but that he would still—though lashed I
and dniven b all the devils of remorse and de-
spair—still t st her aside and laugh at her ‘
madness, for the sake of winning the love of the
glorious rii'l by his side, the light touch of whose (

erfume glove hastened his pulses and the soft ‘
re of whose lustrous eyes burned down to his
heart’s core.

Once, during the scene in the prison cell, two ‘
tears dropped from Honoria’s diamond eyes,
and fell glittering on the lace and pearl of her
fan. Instantly Otis caught the fan and kissed ,
the briny drops Honoria smiled and light] ‘
blushed—she had never before riven him such l
encouragement. For a moment tis was in rap- '
tures; from these he sunk into dull despair, rc-
memberiiig what had occurred that eventful day,

Honoria Appleton was no flirt; she was inca-
pable of anything so degrading as an actual flir-
tation. _

She was acting, tonight, from a high and holy
purpose. She had been grieved and alarmed at
the condition in which her cousin had come
home the previous night. It was true that such
“sprees” as this were of rare—Veri rare—oc-
currence; but she argued justly, t ey should
never occur at all. She knew the good and
manly qualities of her cousin; slie feared the in‘
fluence of too— ay associates. and she had formed
a. resolution, t t day, to treat him with such
kindness and consideration as would “we her
the power, some time, to persuade him 0 swear
oif from his fashionable club and its excesses.
Whether she should 0 further than that—en-
courage his liking for er—slie had not decided.
Certainly, the very interest she took in his im-
provement made her think of him more ten-

erl

y.

So she smiled on him that night; and was
sweetness and goodness itself to him the next
day, and the next, and the next—knowing no
reason why she should not—and happy in the
fact that he now remained home of evenings so
satisfied with her seciety that he did not crave
the coarser pleasures of the club. Yet his con-
duct puzzle her. One moment he would be
sunk in gloom for which there seemed no ex-
cuse; the next he would bewilder her witha dis—
phby of extrava t gayegy.

ne evening t ey were one together in the
music-room. Several visitors had been in and
gone away. Uncle Garner had retired to his
room; it was late. Honoria had been pla'fing
and singing for Otis for the last half-hour. it
his elbows caning on the piano and his stran e,
flery somber eyes fixed on her face, he had 8-
toned until she grew weary and . The
house was so still that the ticking of the quaint,
old clock on the staircase echoed down into the
quiet room.

Honoria looked up, half-uneasily, at her com-

nion. The were such friends, and

ew each 01; or so well, dwelling as they did
under the same roof, that she was puzzled by
the new expression of his face. He approached
a step nearer to her, took her hands and drew
her to her feet, still holding her hands in a.
gras so fierce that it hurt her. .

‘ “ onoria, could you love a man well enough
to forgive him for doing a dastardly deed?-
well enough to love him still, despite of his suc-
cumbing to a terrible temptation?”

“ I don’t know. What are you talking about?”
she answered him, startled, and partially shrink-
ing from him.

‘Some timd—soon—you will hear a strange
Then. I shall come to you
and ask ‘;{on what to do. It shall depend on
you who or I go hang myself or whetherthere
may still be somethin in life for me to look for—
ward to. Honoria, w tever happens, remem-
ber, I love you—nevar loved, and never will love
an woman but yourself.”

fore she could answer him he flung her
hands awa , and walked out of the room. She
heard his listless stepslowly aseendiugfltllilzstairs.

She was frightened. What terrible could
her cousin have been guilty of? ‘

1 She lay long awake that night, wondering and
cumin.

He did not take an inventory of what she 

 

The next day, like a bomb-shell, into that arise
tocratic house fell the news of the nephew’s ill-
assorted marriage. The whole city had been
ringing with the story for days, but no one had
ventured to speak of it to the haughty old
gentleman. At last, a version of the affair got
into the papers, and this falling under the eye

l of Mr. Garner at his reading-room brought him.

home rather suddenly.

Honoria and Otis were to ether in the back'

drawing-room. He was ho ding the skein of
silk which she was Winding.

Their uncle swept into the room like a winter—
storm, and thrust the paper with the marked
paragraph before the eyes of the guilty young
man.

“ What foundation is there for this story, fir?”

Otis lanced it over; his face paled, but he
raised is eyes bravely to the countenance,
black with wrath and quivering with pain,
which frowned down upon him.

“ It is almost entirely true, uncle.”

H We j”

“ The night I came home in that disgraceful
condition, uncle while under the influence of
champagne, we fellows made awagei', and the
one that lost was to marry the first girl he met,
the next day, starting from the steps of the
Ti'emont, just as it is stated here. I was so un-
fortiénate as to lose—and I had to keep my
wor .

“ nd you married the girl?”

4‘ I 7) .

“ The marriage was le%ally pfrformed?”
"‘Y’es, uncle-at the hurc of the Ascen-

sion.

“ She is poor?"

“ A music-teacher, she told me.”

“ And vulgar?”

“ Not very." ,

“ Leave my house, sir, and never enter it

ail] I"

“ Yes, uncle.”

“You are disinherited—mark that! I here
register a solemn oath that I will not leave you
so much as one dollar. My will shall be re-
written to—morrow. My niece shall take your
place in in heart, and as my heiress."

“ All rig t. God bless you, uncle. I’m sorry
my foll has grieved on and wounded the Gar-
ner ri e. Good-by, onoria.”

O is shook hands with his cousin—who was
white and shiverin , and whose tearful eyes
met his with a look t t maddened him—~turned
and went out.

 

CHAPTER IV.
A menu APPEAL.

“SEE loves mel—her eyes betrayed it!” he
murmured, with a fierce joy, as he hurried
down the steps.

For an hour he walked up one street and
down another, in a most distracted way.
From the first he had anticipated such an end-
ing to this miserable business—yet, when the
expected blow fell, he was stunned. ‘

At the end of an hour he called a carriage
and was driven to the humble home of the
young stranger whose fate was so inextricably
blended with his own.

I say “stranger,” for the acquaintance of
this rashly-wedded pair had progressed but
slowly since they had left the altar before
which they had been pronounced “man and
wife.” A brief call of fifteen minutes each af-
ternoon, during which he always saw his bride
in the presence of her mother, had been the
utmost limit of the bridegroom’s attentions.
He had intimated to Mrs. Lovelace that some
cultivation of each other’s society and friend-
ship would be desirable for both, before they
began to live together. The mother gladly
acquiesced—since, although her desire to secure
a rich husband for her child before she herself
should be taken away from this life had in-
duced her to consent to the sudden marriage,
she had felt the want of delicwy in such a.
proceeding.

She was more than pleased with the refined
consideration of her new son-'in-law; as yet
seeing little reason to complain, since he never
came without bringing rich presents, to herself
and her daughter. New furniture come to re-

place the few shabby articles remaining‘of
their store: delicacies, suited to an invalid’s
appetite; fine dresses for herself; and for her
darling child jewels, laces, fans, perfumery,
 and a. whole outfit of handsome gar- H
meats, bon’nete, wraps, dainty robes. jib" 

 

 

   

 

 

THE WAR OF HEARTS. \ 5~

\

 

bride 'had a new purse, filled with gold and

bank-notes, in place of the poor little aflair she

had lost.

Every day, after their fine luncheon, little
Mildred dressed herself in her new finery and
sat down by the window to watch and wait
for her fairy prince.

She was as pretty as possible, with her soft
r. gold—brown hair piled up on her head to make

her appear taller and more like a wife—her
silken dress falling about her fairy figure, her
white neck encircled with pearls or costly-cut
pink corals, and the wedding-ring shining on
the slender finger of the dimpled hand which
rested on the window-sill.

At first Mildred had gone to meet her prince
with the eagerness of a child who expects new
toys; but a change was coming over her man-
ner very rapidly.

Before her strange marriage Mildred had
been simply a child; but womanly feelings‘de-
velop wonderfully under “the light of a dark
veye” shining upon the unopened buds which

, have heretofore lain so closely curled. The

,rose of love was forced into sudden bloom in

her heart. Its sweet perfume stole through

.her being, thrilling her veins with life and joy:

but also, this rose, so sweet, so intoxicating in

» its delicious fragrance, was set about with
cruel thorns.

Dreaming over her peculiar position, day
and night, Mildred was not such a child but
.that she perceived its embarrassments and
dangers; her sole hope, her sole wish—the one
wild cry of her young heart—was, that her
prince might learn to love her as she already
loved him.

Was it possible? Was there even the shadow
of a hope that it might come to pass?

She sat by the window looking for him, and
when he came and she rose to meet him, there
was a smile on her lip, but she was pale as
death. He gave her the customary light kiss
on her forehead, and led her back to her chair.

“You are pale, little Mildred,” he said, after
bowing to the mother.

, “Pale, Mr. Garner?" and then, indeed, she

blushed resy red, all over the sweet brow and

fair throat. “I am very well indeed. But
you are not well, sir. You are pale, I am
sure,” and the little hand with the wedding-
ring on it crept timidly toward his, shrinking
back again,however, before she touched him.

“I have had a shock," he said, laughing
lightly. “I did not suppose it had changed
my complexion, though.”

She looked at him wistfully—would he tell
her? She longed to know what had troubled
him; but she would not venture the liberty of
asking him.

'v ' “My uncle has disinherited me and driven
.me out of his house with orders not to step my
foot in it again. So now, little Mildred, I am
as poor as you are!”

Aflash of light illuminated the child-wife’s
face; her color came and went; her lips part-
ed; her great violet eyes shone on his with

sudden splendor for a moment and then fell,

modestly, before his look.

Surely, now that he was poor and had no
home, he would come to them—to her and her
motherl How gladly she would dispose of the

ijewels and silks he had given her, so as to gain ‘

a little money to make this poor home more
comfortable for him! Yes, she would willing-
ly take up again the tedious music-lessons, for
his sake! How earnestly she would try to
make him forget his troubles! Oh, if she knew
some better way to make money, so that she
could Occasionally surprise him with some of
his accustomed luxuries! Thus the thoughts
of the poor little simple thing leaped forward,
painting their future.

She was aroused from these delicious plans
by the cold, unsteady tones of her mother’s
woice. \

“ Had your sudden marriage anything to do
with your uncle’s action, Mr. Garner?”

“Everything, my dear madam. You see,
he had other views for mo—had another bride,

infact,selected. Itisnatural that he should'

I he  offended."

 

" What do you propose to do?”

“There you have me, madame. I have not
had time to decide upon my future as yet; it
is scarcely an hour since my haughty relative
gave me permission to forget his existence.”

“Perhaps he will repent and recall you.”

“I do not happen to be made of the stuff
that is subject to recalls. When a man kicks
me out of his house, I am not a dog, to be
coaxed back again.”

“ But you must consider his feelings, Mr.
Garner. Supposing you do not make up with
your uncle, however: do you mean to say that
you have absolutely nothing of your own?"

“ I have my hands and my head, but neither
of these are accustomed to making themselves
useful. Still, not to discourage you too much,
Mrs. Lovelace, I will say that I have at least a
thousand dollars’ worth of knick—knacks bought
with money left me by my father; that I will
dispose of these as soon as possible, and give to
you, for your daughter’s use, every penny
which they bring. After that is done, I will
consider further."

“ I do not want your money,” spoke up lit-
tle Mildred, with trembling lips; “ I will not
take it, Mr. Garner; you need it more than I
do. Do you suppose I would touch it?” indig-
nantly. '

He smiled at her affectionately, laying his
hand lightly on her soft, gold-threaded hair for
an instant.

“You must take it, little Mildred,” he said,
half-reprovingly. “ It is my . business and
my right to provide for you. I want to make
you and your mother as comfortable as I can
before I go away.”

“Go away‘I”~—this from Mrs. Lovelace.

“Yes, madame. Boston is not the place for
me to begin making my living, under the cir-
cumstances. I shall do better in some other
place. It hurts a fellow’s pride, you under-
stand, to have the cold shoulder thrust un-
der his nose. I shall leave the city as soon as
I can wind up my small affairs Mildred,
good-by for to-day. I will see you to-morrow
as usual."

Mildred arose from her chair and made him
a stately bow. She did not seem to see the
hand he held out; while so proudly did she
hold her graceful little head, she seemed to
him to have grown inches taller in a moment.
Her soft eyes flashed, her lip curled, her cheek
Was white as winter’s snow. Otis Garner felt,
as he left her presence, as if some queen had
just dismissed him in disgrace.

He”flattered himself that he understood “ the
girls.

Truly, he had flirted with enough of them!
But he did not understand this one—for he mis--
took the cause of her displeasure.

“She’s a mercenary little wretchl” he said,
to himself, as he walked away. “By Venus!
I did not think she would be the first to show
me how I had fallen! Upon my word, her lit-
tle beggarship was quite grand! It’s awonder
she did not tell me not to call again. Perhaps
she will cut the entirely by tomorrow! I must
take her a present. And, by-the-by, I must at-
tend to that little business of raising some
money for her. I can’t leave them peunfless—
she and her mother:

“ I‘m married to a wife, my boys,
And that by J ove’s no joke!
I‘ve ate the white of this world’s egg,
' And now must eat‘the yolk,"
sings Bailey, and he’s about right. Let me
see! Uncle gave me the yacht and the pair of
blacks—they are now his property again; I
won’t raise money on them. But the bay trot-
ter I bought with my own private funds. He
is good for eight hundred at this time of the

year—worth two thousand easily, when you

don’t want to sell. I can’t spare my watch;
but I'have a lot of expensive trash: my dia-
mond sleeve-buttons cost me three hundred—
good for half that, I suppose. My onyx ca-
meos are worth about as much. My sphinx-

—head buttons cost something—why, yes, my

sleeve-buttons alone, cometo think, are a nice
little collection worth a thousand dollars at

forced sale.\ Think of providing for a wife on ’

 

\

the strength of one’s sleeve-buttons!” Otis
laughed so gayly at the idea that a stranger,
passing him, looked back at the happy young
man with wonder and envy. .

It was three days before Otis Garner called.
again on his girl-wife. When he did appear,
it was to say good-by. !

“ I go to New York on the evening train,”
he said.

His face was somber, its healthy olive glow
blanched to a sickly brown; his herds were
abrupt; he was evidently in ahurry. But he
took Mrs. Lovelace aside and gave her a bank-
book, telling her that he had deposited fifteen
hundred dollars to the credit of Mrs. Mildred
Garner, which sum she was to draw upon as
she needed it.

“You have not left yourself penniless?” the
mother had the grace to inquire. She was bit-
terly disappointed at the waly matters were
turning out, much on account of the loss of
wealth and grandeur of station to her darling
daughter, and more because she feared her
rash approval of the hasty marriage was doom-
ed to blight that daughter’s happiness.

“No—I have five hundred dollars in nry
pocket. ” ‘

“Well, you have been very liberal, I am
sure—under the circumstances. We thank
you.”

Otis bowed and turned to Mildred who stood.
in the center of the room, still and white as a
statue.

He had not forgotten her demeanor at his
last visit. Believing her selfish and calculat~
ing, he was glad of it, as an excuse to himself
for treating her as he intended to do. ’He did
not know of the pangs which that proud look
covered—pangs of wounded love, of cruel mor-
tification at his indifference.

Now he took her little cold hand calmly and
proceeded to say the last few words in a voice
destitute of the least emotion. Mildred looked’
up pleadineg into the dark eyes, so beautiful
and so cold to her; her sweet mouth blanched
and trembled—oh, how pretty and how pitiable
she looked!

The young man began to grow uneasy under
those asking eyes. He wished “the dooced,
embarrassing interview” well over.

“ You will write to me, Mr. Garneri”

. “Write! Oh, certainly—that is, I suppose
so—of course, occasionally. But I expect to
2:131, business and not have much time to my-

“ Just a few little lines, now and then, that
I may know how you prosper.”

“ Well, of course. And now, good-by, little
Mildred. Take good care of her, Mrs. Love-
lace, will you!”

Mildred clung to the hand he held out to
her. She gasped out, with dry lips, those lov-
ing, piteous eyes fixed on his: '

“Take me with you, Mr. Garner!”

“I cannot,” he answered, abruptly, aston—
ished and alarmed. “I have nothing on which
to keep a wife; it would be folly—madness!
Remain here with your good mother. She
will take better care of you than I could.”

“ That is true,” said Mildred, slowly. “ And
I could not leave dear, sick mamma, after all.
You are right, Mr. Gar-non.”

Pride was again struggling for masteryovor
love, which had broken all bounds, even of
girlish timidity, when she made that passion~
ate appeal. Her eyes fell, her cold little hand
relaxed its hold; she stood mute.

“ Perhaps some day it will be different,"
Otis said, more tenderly, pitying the frail lit‘
tle creature who drooped before  “If I
ever get rich I will come for you—for yo
are my wife, you know, strange as it seems”?

“Yes, I know.”

“If you get weary of waiting before I have
made that fortune the law gives you release,
you know, Mildred. A. few years of ‘willful
desertion’ on 'my part will free you. Per~
hope that would be the greatest kindnesl I
could do you.” . r '\

No response. ' -

“ Well, farewell, little Mildred.”

“ Good-by,  Genoa”.

6 THE WAR OF HEARTS.

 

 

*— _.

He lifted her hand to his lips, bowed to her
mother, and hurried out, glad to get away
from‘a “scene,” into the open air.

Little Mildred stood where he left her until
the'last echo of his foot on the pavement died
away—then she sunk slowly, slowly down, and
would have fallen had not her mother caught
her in her feeble arms and sunk down with
her, pillowing the pale white-rose cheek in her
lap, and gazing with anguish and remorse at
the closed eyes—closed in merciful unconscious-
ness to the weary truth that this is a hard
world for the poor and unprotected.

 

CHAPTER V.
a CRUEL ms'raxs.

Rum Marceau arose very early on Christ-
mas morning. It was yet a full hour to day-
light. She ran to the Window in her night-
gown, parted the dimity curtains and looked
out, gazing a moment at the glorious “ Star of
the East,” blazing transcendent over the dark
brown of the wooded hills. Old Speckle-back,
in the ham-yard, was crowing lustily, as if
saying, “ Merry—merry—mer-ryr Christmas
to all!”

“A merry Christmas to you, too, old Spec-
kle-back,” whispered Ruth; and then, shiver—

ing—for it was very cold—she lighted her
lamp and hurried to dress herself; after which
she crept ‘ softly down-stairs

She heard Betsey, the servant-girl, stirring
up the fire in the kitchen-stove, but she did not
go there; she slipped into the sitting-room,
drawing toward the great tiled fireplace,
from which came the faint, smothered glim-
mer of the cOVered hickory coals. There was
still heat enough to make the vicinity of the
hearth quite comfortable; she crouched down
by it, poked the ashes away from the buried

fire, so that she could see better, and glanced
' with curiosity at a short row of bulging stock-
ings which hung on a little line below the tall
mantelpiece.

It had been made up between her and the
"schoolmaster that they should play children
‘ and “ hang up their stockings.” David’s blue-

yarn sock was there. also. They had had a

great deal of fun the previous evening dis-

posing these articles to their satisfaction and

' wondering what Santa Claus would bring
' them.

Ruth had no intention of examining the con-

’ tents until the others had arrived to share the

inspection. But she had found no suitable op-
portunity, the night before, of depositing her
‘ gift in the teacher’s stocking without being ob-
served. Therefore she hnd stolen down early
to do so. She saw, by the dim red light, that
’ there were things in her stocking. Had he
placed any of them s—and, oh, what would
they be? Still, she would not look, until the
time agreed upon. With nervous, trembling
fingers she slipped her present into the school—
master’s long silk stocking. It was an ele-
gant, costly stocking. She had thought her
soft white merino one pretty enough, but it
was no match for this. The -ever—lurking fear
that Mr. Otis, poor as he seemed to he, must
despise her and her people and their country
‘ ways returned upon her in full force and she
~ half-withdrew her hand, while a painful strug-
gle went on in her mind. But the powerful
temptation overcame her fears and she fierce-
ly thrust down into the silken toe a little oval
package wrapped in tissue paper. '

Mistaken Ruth! She had done what no girl
~should ever do, unless she is engaged to him—
4given her picture toe. young man. Itis true that

when she had once shown the photograph to
Mr. Otis he had carelessly said that he would
dike a copy of it—that was rail. And now she
had bestowed it on him without further so-
»licitation. Girls cannot be too ehary of such
gifts. Men are too mannish to need such en-
couragement. -
But then, Ruth. was very young, and very
innocent and ignorant. She thought she
might ’properly make a “Christmas gift " of
her picture to her‘teacher; half the girls in
whool had already bestowed these tokens of

friendship upon him. How many of these he
‘had thrown away she did not know or care.
J She felt positive that he would not serve hers
'so. It was a pretty—a very pretty face in

that little oval case! She knew it. Ruth was
, a modest, sensitive girl; but she could not help
I knowing that she was very handsome, and the
photograph had caught her “ happiest expres-
sion ”——as the artist termed it—the coquettish
droop of the long lashes, the slight arching of
the dark brows as if she studied some mischief,
the smile about the pretty mouth, while the
hundred little rings and tendrils of chestnut-
brown hair, curling about the white, intellec-
tual forehead, were almost as lovely in the
picture as in the reality. _

After she had dropped her gift into the silk
stocking Ruth crouched by the fire again,
waiting for the others. A dozen times she
started up to withdraw the photograph, and as
often sunk back without doing it. When she
had finally fully determined to leave it there
she fell into a reverie about the schoolmas-
ter.

He had been very kind to her ever since that
evening when she had noticed him so gloomy
and pre-occupied——kinder than ever before.
He had detained her hand when she said good-
night on Christmas Eve, pressing it tenderly,
and looking at her with such a look! Her
heart beat fast at the memory of it. True, he
was going to Boston on the morrow; but it
was only on business, and he had taken pains

 

have avoided it had it been possible for him to
have done so.

And then, someway, Ruth’s thoughts wan-
dered off to another young man who had also
pressed her hand and looked at her with such
a look, the previous evening, and who had
gone, off early, and in a pet, because she had
treated him coolly in the presence of the school-
master.

Jasper Judson was the eldest son of the far-
mer whose land joined Fletcher’s. The Fletch-
ers were rich and the J udsons were rich, ac-
cording to the limited idea of riches of their
neighbors. Both owned large and well-culti-
vated farms, with stool: and implements in
abundance, and great, comfortable houses,
with lawns in front, summer-houses on the
lawns, and‘carriages and carriage-horses in the
stables. Each had quite a sum of money,
saved in prosperous seasons, in the Boston
banks. Both families aspired to some style
and more cultivation. Jasper was being fitted
by Mr. Otis for college, while Ruth had been
away at an academy for two years, and could
jabber bad French and play the piano better
than the majority of young ladies.

So that the settled idea of the fathers of the
young people that Judson’s son and Fletcher’s
daughter were well matched, and ought to
mate when the right time came, was a very
sensible and pleasant view of matters.

The parties most interested had held the
same views until quite recently—until, in fact,
“the Boston snob” had come to teach the
winter school, and Ruth had concluded to at-
tend it.

Not that Ruth and Jasper were engaged, or
ever had been. He had been contented, so
far, to know that she always preferred him to
any other escort, when they went to evening
church. singing-school, sleighing-parties or
spelling—bees. But, since the advent of Mr.
Otis—handsome, dark, mysterious, self-possess-
ed, contemptuous doubtlese—his feelings had
changed. Rage, sorrow, burning jealousy had
taken the place of expectant content. His
heart had grown sorer and sorer, until it
would no longer bear the least jar given by
careless Ruth more often than was necessary.

He had come over on Christmas Eve, not-
withstanding he had been so angry with Ruth
that he had not spoken to her when they last
met—had come, driven to torment himself
stillmore keenly by bringing his actual eyes
to behold what his mental ones pictured con-
ltantly—the sight, so hateful to him, of the
haughty schoolmaster making himself agree-
able to Ruth—his Ruth.

 

to tell her that he disliked going, and would I

i “What is he, anyhow!” Jasper had and to
' himself, going over. “ Only a country school-
1 teacher! I could buy him out, six times
over!” .

Yet, though only a teacher, as Jasper said,
i the country boy felt the full weight of the
power which ease, knowledge of the world,
cit-gant manners and graceful accomplishments
g. ve to the one he considered his rival. .

It had been agreed upon, before Jasper went
away the previous evening, to have a grand
skating-party on the river Christmas night.
Ruth, sitting there in the slowly-growing
down, her bright eyes fixed on the glimmering
coals, hoped and wished that Mr. Otis would
make one of the party; yet she hardly believed
he would.

Then she contrasted, in her busy mind, 0::-
per and the teacher. Poor Jasper! he a.
very sorrin out of the experiment.

Then, all in a thrill and with her fair face
burning with blushes, the dreaming girl
sprung to her feet, laughing at‘ her own em-
barrassment. Mr. Otis stood on the hearth;
David came softly behind him.

“Merry Christmas to both!” cried the boy;
and there were laughing, and pleasant wishes,
and a gay examination of the contents of the
stockings.

The first thing the .ueacher drew from his
was a ferule.

“ You gave me that, David,” and the boy
! laughed at his own joke.

Then the hand of the owner went deeper and
drew up the little oval package. Ruth bent
over her own stocking that he might not read
the telltale expression of her face; David was
deep in the surprises of his own sock; so nei-
ther noticed the glimmer of a scornful, satiric-
al smile which played an instant over the
teacher’s face, as he unfolded the tissue-paper
and saw its contents.

“Little tool!” was what he thought: “ Little
beauty!" was what he said.

Ruth could not read the thought, but she
heard the words, and the flush on her cheeks
grew deeper, though she affected not to hear,
being so busy with her own treasures. For
Ruth, being an only daughter, was not slighted
by her family.

There were many nice things in her stock-
ing—a purse from father, with ,fifty dollars,
pin-money, in it—a handsome card-case from
David—a set of coral jewelry from mother—-
and last, at the very bottom of all, a tiny box.
On opening this, there in its white-velvet bed
sparkled a diamond ring! She uttered a low
cry: then, looking as if on the verge of laugh-
ter and tears, she gathered up her apron, with
stocking and all in it, and fled up to her own
room without once looking the schoolmaster in
the face. Locking the door, she sat down on
the edge of the bed, her heart fluttering, her
breath panting.

“A ring! Of course he gave it to me!
i There is no one else would think of such a.
; thing—except Jasper !—and if Jasper gave me
1 a ring, it would be some cheap, common thing!
i This is a real diamond, like those he wears in
! his bosom. It could come from no one else.
' And I know what it means! Diamond rings,
. are engagement‘iings. Oh, I hoped so—I
I hoped so, before, and now I am certain of itl
! What a happy, happy, happy girl I am!”

i All in a tremble, blushing, crying, smiling,
I she drew the beautiful jewel from its velvet
cushion and examined it. »

 

!

1 ring. She tried it on “the engagement-finger ”
‘ of her left hand; it fitted as if the dimpled fin-
’ ger had been measured for it.
i The bell rung for breakfast. It seemed to
her as if she could never face him now. Yet

! she must go down, or father and mother would
1 think it strange; she had not yet thanked them
i for their gifts, While she hesitated, some one
5 tried the door and then knocked. ,

“ Who is it?”

“ I,” answered David’s voice. .

“ Do you want anything!” .

“Yes;1wanttotellyouwhathegid. .
1 Ruth opened the door a little way—she did

“Ruth” was engraved on the inside of the ,

   
 

 

 

      

"Inwfitfa’mm—fl—r

#9:».

I!
y.
i

 

 

THE WAR OF HEARTS. ‘ 7

 

 

not want her brother‘s sharp eyes to read her
face.
“He gave the ring to me to put in your
stocking, sis; and he said, ‘Tell her, if she puts
it on her finger and Wears it, I will take it as a.
sign and a promise.’”

“Yes, David. Thank you. You are a good
brother,” whispered the girl. “ Run down to
breakfast now.”

“You come, too; mother’s asking after

ou.”

Ruth ran back and replaced the ring on her
finger—she had returned it to its box, too
timid to show it down stairs. Then she stole
down to the great kitchen where the family
usually partook of its meals in winter time.
She glidedin like a morning sunbeam; then,
as Mr.‘ Otis looked up, smiling at her, she
veiled her emotion in a rush to her mother,
whom she embraced, and thanked for her love—
ly gift. Father, too, had to be hugged and
kissed and thanked; finally, all in a flurry and
confusion, Ruth took her place at table beside
the teacher, her happy eyes vailed shyly by
their long lashes, her sweet voice trembling a
little when she replied to his commonplace re-
marks about the weather, the skating party,
and other home topics.

It chanced, though the teacher staid home
all day, that he and Ruth were not left alone
togetherasingle moment. There were friends
of the family to dinner. The brief day soon
drew toward dark, and Ruth, almost as awed
and frightened as she was happy, felt it a re-
lief that Mr. Otis had no opportunity of speak-
ing to her privately. It was enough that they
had come to a mutual understanding. Her
wearing of his ring was all that was necessary.
Whenever her shy, soft eyes did venture to
meet his own, there was a silent laugh deep
down in those black eyes that she hardly un-
derstood. But his manner was very devoted;
so much so, that the visitors noticed it, rally-
ing her in private over her “conquest,” as
people do on such occasions. And David would
look so knowing that he made her blush more
than once.

At dinner Mr. Otis had promised to go down
on the ice with them that night.

“This evening, when we are together on
the river, he will speak to me, and thank me
for wearing his ring,” thought happy Ruth;
“ I can bear to have it spoken about then.”

“I wish I had not promised to go with
Jasper Judson,” was her thought, all the after-
noon. “ But, I need not keep much with him.
fir. ’O’tis will find a way to take me away from

m.

Evening came and brought J uspor.

He looked rather pale and cold when he
came in, but soon warmed, and was bright and
gay—more 50 than they had seen him for
weeks. He was a fine-looking young follow_.
a little awkward yet—he was only twenty—
but full of spirit and fire. It was easy to see
that he had a will of his own. The flash of his

clear gray eye, the firm line of his handsome
mouth betrayed it; also that he was open-
hearted, generous and brave.

The little party were soon ready to join
the larger one on the ice. Mr. Otis and
David went a little in advance, follow ed by
Jasper and Ruth. Jasper lingered on the way
exasperatingly. His compunion’s eyes fol-
lowed the lessening figure of Mr. Otis; her
thoughts were all with him. .

They had come to a secluded place on their
Wily to the‘ river, when Ruth was suddenly
surprised by finding herself clasped in J asper’s
trembling arms. _

‘wa, dear, darling Ruth,” he murmured,
1717133 to find her averted face; “how can I
6Y6!” think you for your goodness. Ah, that
vile schoolmaster! Why was I ever so jealous
of him, when you lovedme, after all, my little
sweet! When 1 law my ring on your finger
this evening, and David told me he had given
you my mes—” '

“Your ring!” cried Ruth, almost with .,
"ream, wrenching herself from him and stand-
ing erect, panting, pale, under the great golden
items that looked calmly down. ‘

 

“ My ring, of course, until it became yours.
David told you—for he said so,” ltumnered
Jasper, confused and doubting.

Ruth matched the jewel from her finger
and threw it, with her full force, far away
over the sparkling snow; then she burst into a
laugh.

“Pardon me for misleading you, Jasper
Judson. I thought—upon my word l—I thought
David gave me the nasty little glass diamond !”
and she laughed long and merrily.

 

CHAPTER VI.
an ACCIDENT an) an ACCUMTION.

J ASPEB was not deceived by the little white
lie Ruth had told to conceal her mortiflcation
and disappointment.

He saw, in one lightning flash, the mistake
she had made. He knew that those beaming
looks,which he falsely dreamed were owing to
his gift, had been caused by her belief that Mr.
Otis had given her the ring.

For a few moments the two stood in the
road silent. The brilliant starlight falling on
the glittering snow made light enough for Jas-
per to see the blank misery on his companion’s
face had he chosen to look. But, awkward
and coarse as Ruth thought him, in comparison
with another, he was the truer gentleman of
the two. '

Mr. Otis would have looked—and smiled.
Jasper was too considerate, too delicate, even
in that moment of rage and pain, to gaze upon
the embarrassment which he knew was there.

“ Oh, I shall die! I shall die!” was the girl’s
silent cry, as she thought over the‘day and felt
that Mr. Otis must have perceived her mistake.
“I shall die from shame and misery! He was
laughing at me all the time! Oh, how cruel!
How wicked! He might so easily have unde-
ceived me in some delicate way. I hate him.
I hate Jasper. ‘I hate everybody. Oh, I wish
I were dead!”

Jasper, too, was thinking, as he set his teeth
together.

“I hate him—she loves him! Curse his
sneering face! If he comes in my way to-
night it will be the worse for him.”

finally, with choking voice, he said:

“Take my arm, Ruth. Let us not expose
ourselves to the ridicule of others. I will con-
duct you to the ice, and leave you with Mr.
Otis. ”

“ No—no. Not with him; leave me with
David.”

So they went along, silently, until they came
in sight of the gay party thronging the smooth
ice of the river, where, a half-mile above the
mill-pond, it flowed straight, broad and swift,
in summer, and in winter made the finest skatr
ing-ground anywhere in the vicinity. A large
fire of logs and brushwood had been built on
shore, where cold toes could be toasted, and
where a great kettle full of coffee steamed,
ready for any who desired it. The young
people had brought good things in baskets, too;
since, this being Christmas night, they had re-
solved upon the novelty of a picnic on the ice.

As they drew near the two saw the school-
master already surrounded by a bevy of ad-
miring girls. With a scowl upon his usually
pleasant face, Jasper looked at him a. minute,
and then, approaching David, with Ruth still
on his arm, he said:

“Take care of your sister a little while; I
must help the boys place more logs on the fire. ”

“ Shall I strap your skates on for you, Ruth!”
asked the boy.

“No,” she answered him, bitterly. “I never
want you to do anything for me again.”

:‘Now, what’s up, sisl Didn’t I do the er-
rand jolly this morning?”

ghe did not reply, and he looked, in sur-
prise, at her pale face and glistening eyes; not
a glimmer of the truth made its way into his
innocent brain.

She walked quickly toward a group further
away, so as to avoid the teacher’s eyes, but he
had already given her one quick, sidelong look,
unperceived. Sitting on a block of ice, the

I

I

--~.:. ‘7- a." .n=-.m~c»5i.‘.xtxmv‘r! A . .-

 

was working to put on her skates herself, when
Mr. Otis came up.

‘f Allow me, Ruth,"he said, smiling at her
with those inscrutable eyes of his, as be bent,
on one knee, to assist her.

. “ Do you skate! I forget what you told me
about it,” she asked him, trying to streetcars-
lessness—Jier heart was nearly bursting out of
her bosom, but pride enabled her to steady

her voice and to look him in the face as he an- ‘

swered:

“ I usedto be the champion skater at college.
I have not practiced lately, and to-night I am
unprovided with skates.”

“Somebody must lend you a pair. Jasper
Judson is held to be the champion skater of
Pentecket. I should like to see you two try a
race together.”

“ If I can borrow a good pair of skatesf you
shall be obliged, Miss Ruth. Though, as say,
I am out of practice.”

The skates were on by this time, and Ruth,
rising, glided away from him, and OR by her-
self, on a more deserted part of the river. Al
the schoolmaster had no skates he could not
follow her; and Jasper would not, so, for
awhile, she was alone, as she wished to be.

By this time her cheeks, instead of being
pale, were scarlet with the tingling flush of
shame. The one terrible thought, that she had
betrayed her heart to Mr. Otis, made her al-
most desperate. It seemed as if she could
never face him, or Jasper, or the world again.

She glided up and down swiftly, in a vain
attempt to forget about that hated ring; gra-
dually, other young people came about her,
rallying her for liking her own company so
well—and then, who so gay,who so witty, who
so pretty, what girl such a daring skater .3
Ruth Fletcher! She had the other girls jealous
in less than half an hour, for she flirted with
all the fellows impartially.

“He shall see that I’m not heartbroken
yet!” was the thought in her mind as she
laughed and chattered, the loveliest and the
merriest of all those red—checked maidens flit-
ting about in the fantastic light and shadow of
the great bonfire, whose leaping flames lighten-
ed and darkened, casting weird light over the
snowy shores, the smooth-swept ice, and the
ever—flitting, ever-changing figures. '

There were several matches of skill on skates,
before the picnic refreshments were served at
ten o’clock. While the whole party was gath-
ered at one spot partaking of the cakes and
coffee, some talk came up about Jasper Jud-
son’s wonderful feats on the ice. Ruth re-
marked that Mr. Otis had also once held the
championship; whereupon there v was great
anxiety to see the two do their best.

At first, the teacher excused himself for be-
ing out of practice and having no skates; but,
being pressed, yielded, one of his pupils having
tendered him the use of a satisfactory pair, of
club skates, and he consented to the trial.

Having been renowned at college in all
games of strength and skill, Mr. Otis doubt-
less expected an easy victory. ‘

But his rival—in more than the art of ska-
ting—was burning with a desire for some sort
of conquest over this “insufferable city snob,”
as in his heart be regarded him. r

All the evening his anger and his hatred had
been growing; there was no laughter in that

flash of the eye with which he accepted the,

challenge.

All the others remained idle while these
two went through an astonishing number of
skillful exercises, including all possible known
feats of carving the American eagle, writing
their names, etc; and neither had gained a
victory over the other. Finally, a race up the
river was to be run. The course was passable
for at least three miles, though the windings
of the river made it too crooked forthe specta-
tors to keep the skaters in sight, as they shot
off, like arrows from tight-strained bows. Of
course, none but themselves knew in what or-

, der they reached the goal. They came to it

t the lame second of time.
' “We will race back," said Jasper, biting on
his words, “past the ground where the folh

 

2.5L w

mating“

... M

 

 

8 THE . WAR OF HEARTS.

 

are, on down to the ebb tree, a quarter of a
mile this side the'mill-dam. We ought notto go
beyond that, as the ice is thin over the rapid
water, and full of air-holes. What do you
my,»

“ Agreed. One—two—three—ofi! !"

The schoolmaster skated on the long run as
if he were shod with the wind, instead of mor-
tal skates. Shutting his teeth together, curs-
ing him, almost, in his bitter young passion-
swelling heart, Jasper fled after him. He
had come up the stream at an equal pace with
his rival. Yet now it seemed likely to prove
that this effeminate “city snob ” had muscles
better trained than his own—had a reserved
power only beginning to be called on, when he,
the country-bred athlete, was panting and
wearing out.

Every energy of Jasper’s was called to the
rescue, as he saw himself falling hopelessly
behind. Yet, when they came in sight of the
watchful group around the bonfire, he was two
rods behind his companion. The thought that
Ruth was among those spectators to witness
his discomflture, spurred Jasper to still more
desperate exertion; and when they passed the
party—whose cheers and waving handker—
chiefs produced but small impression on their
strained senses—the two were nearly abreast.

But as soon as a sharp turn of the river,
whose banks were fringed with bushes at that
spot, took them out of sight again, Jasper
found himself unable to keep up “ the spurt,”
and again fell behind.

It was fifteen or twenty minutes before the
party saw, coming back as slowly as he had
gone down swiftly, Jasper Judson. His face was
deadly pale, his eyes stared from their sockets;
but no one, at first, noticed this.

“ Where’s Mr. Otis?” “ Who beat?” “ Who’s

the winner?” “Where’s the teacher?” . as-

'led him on every side as he came up.

He looked about in a dumb, dazed sort of

way.

“I’m afraid he’s done for,” he answered,
hoarsely.

“Done for? Did you beat him? Hurrah!”
cried David Fletcher.

“I mean—drowned,” stammered Jasper,
like a man waking out of a sleep. “ He must
have skated into an air-hole. I was——” But
here a low, sharp, heart-piercing scream inter‘
rupted him and made him turn and look at
Ruth.

“When! Where?” cried all the young men
of the party.

“ Great heaven! something must be done!”

“I fear you are too late. But come on!
I’ll show you”—and the men all rushed away
on their swxft skates, leaving the girls con-
founded, terrified, and some of them faint-
ing.

Ruth went‘ofl by herself and sat down on a.
block of ice. She did not speak or move dur-
ing the long half-hour the men were away.
These come back, unwillingly and mourn-
fully.

“ It’s no use,” said he who arrived first.
“ When a man gees into an air-hole on a night
like this, with a swift-running stream to wash
himdown, it’s no use.”

There had been no chance before to hear
from Jasper the first particulars of the acci-
dent; he was asked for them now.

“ I don’t rightly know how it happened,” he
spoke, still as if dazed, pressing his hand to his
forehead. “ We were to skate to the elm that
bends over the river, you know. I was quite
ifurethere were no air-holes this side of the
tree. He get ahead of me, considerable, after
we peeled here, and was out of my sight 3.
minute around that bond, you how, where
the willows grow so thick, and when I came
’round after him he was nowhere in sight. I
thought it strange. Just then I heard a. sort
of mufiled cry. I dashed forward, and nearly
went into the hole myself. When I saw it, I
thought, all in a‘ flash, what ~must have hap-
pened, and I dung myself down, and crawled

anneal-to it as Ieould. IsawIcoulddono-

“womondlmade aduh for e,rail
BquirePeters’fnnce,and\I¢otit heron

E2.

 

the hole, and supported myself by it, but the
stream must have swept him down. So 'I
skated ahead, with my rail, to the next air-
hole, but could see or hear nothing; there was
nothing to do but give him up." ,
The awe-stricken group that listened was
formed about Ruth. She heard every word
that Jasper spoke, but he did not look at her.

There was nothing for the girls to do but go 9

home. The most of the men were going down
to the dam to see if they could find anything
of the body therewthough it was not prob-
able.

David went ofl! with these; Ruth still sat on
her icy seat. The most of the girls had gone
ofl homeward. J usper, after along hesitation,
advanced and offered his arm to the stricken

irl.
g “ You are not fit to go home alone,” he said;
" let me take you.”

She sprung to her feet; her face was white,
but her eyes flashed up into his bending face
one terrible look of accusation.

“ Never speak to me again, Jasper Judson!
You could have saved him if you would, I do
believe. And you knew of that air-hole this
side the elm—it has been there all winter.
You are as good as amurderer. I don’t know
what other folks will call you, but I call you a
murderer]?

 

Q
CHAPTER VII.
SPREADING SNAKES ron GLITTERING WINGS.

ONE of the three friends who had been with
Otis Garner at the club, the night of the fam-
ous wager, was something worse than a young
fellow “sowing his wild oats, ” which was the
worst that could be said of the remainder of
the quartette.

The only one of the four who had not been
spoiled by the indulgence of rich relatives,
“ Brummell ” Pomeroy had never possessed
any good qualities to be perverted. Nature
had spoiled him in the making, having been
nearly out of moral qualities when she com-
pounded his heart and brain. He was an ad-
venturer by profession; it was his business to
make friendships with very young, very rich
men, and to get his living out of them. Not
over twenty-six or eight himself, at the time
of the adventure from the steps of the Tre-
mont, he knew how to command the confidence
and admiration of fellows like Otis Garner. In
the first place, be dressed always to such abso-
lute perfection and with such consummate
taste, that he was their envy and their wonder.
This talent had gained him the sob’mlquet of
Brummell, the initial of his given name being
B.—probably for Benjamin; he never wrote it
in full. Then, he understood all there was to
understand about wines, about cards, about
horses; if his intimates were to believe him—
and they generally did—he was also very wise
about women, and an immense favorite with
them. All these accomplishments being of a.
kind to demand the admiration of his compan-
ions, they did admire him, aud thought it a.
fine thing to be considered confidential friends
of Mr. Pomeroy. '

Without having any personal beauty, except
a tall figure, Brummell had the reputation of
great elegance, and was called a handsome
man. His eyes were small, of no particular
color, and close together. His nose was long,
his forehead low, his mouth wide; but, he had
a well cared—for mustache, waxed after a for-
eign fashion, which partially concealed his dis-
agreeable lips. His hands and feet, though
long, were slender, and looked well in immacu-
late gloves aud boots.

He had been the , most amused of any at the
spirited way in which young Garner had ful-
filled his word of honor as to the wager. Also,
he had most closely observed the innocence
and beauty of the poor girl who had been its
victim. These small, light eyes of his bad
feasted themselves on every particular of the
childish, sweet loveliness of the little bride who
had stood at the altar with his friend. During
the following week he had contrived—how,
Garner himself could not have told, for it was

l

 

1

his intention to keep it a sacred secret from all
-to get the address of the bride’s mother.

Consequently, it followed that—when the
crash came about the unfortunate young man’s
ears, and he was disinherited, and finally left
the city—this intimate friend of his, alone of
all his acquaintances, knew where the little
bride lived pcrdu. Not a word of his knowl-
edge did he breathe to any other.

But, not long after Otis Garner left for New
York, it came to be an almost daily occurrence
for Brummell Pomcroy to walk once or twice
of an afternoon up and down the humble but
respectable court in which the Widow Love-
lace and her daughter dwelt.

He often met his friend’s deserted bride g0<
iug out or coming in; for very shortly after
Otis Garner left Boston, little Mildred resumed
her Wprk of giving music-lessons to the two or
three little girls whose mothers employed the
incompetent young thing because she was
cheap. Mildred could not help noticing one
whose surpassing elegance made him doubly
conspicuous in such a place; but, she did not
associate him with Otis; nor did she ever dream
that these prom enades had any connection with
her humble self. She puzzled herself for a
few days, after encountering him so frequent-
ly, as to what could bring such a gentleman
into that vicinity; concluding, finally, that it
was no affair of hers, and-she would not vex
her thoughts about him —though she did wish
his business, whatever it was, had called him
in some other direction, for she did not like
having to pass and repass him so often.

He always scanned her so closely; it was em-
barrassing. Soon, whenever he caught her
eye, he bowed, or lifted his hat; but so serious
ly, so respectfully, she could take no offende.
She gave him the coldest possible little nod in
return; and [that was as far as their acquaint-
ance progressed for some time.

As we know, young Garner left his wife
quite a. little sum of money. besides the rich
presents he had lavished on her. Fifteen hun-
dred dollars, in her eyes, was a small fortune.
She meant—now that he was poor—to spend it
very, very prudently; but, when week after
week went by, and she had no word from him,
except the first two or three brief, coldly-coup.
teous notes he had sent her in the last fortnight,
she began to realize that he did, indeed, mean
to leave her utterly. Bearing his name—

bound to him—her title of wife was to prove '

an idle mockery. In his last brief letter had
been another suggestion that three years of
willful absence on his part would give her the
right to regain her liberty, coupled with for-
mal regrets that his wild freak in marrying
her must keep her so long from the love and
admiration of such other suitors as one so loye-
ly and amiable was sure to have.

Not a breath of affection from his lips; not
I hint that their relations could ever\be, more
intimate; not an idea, that in marrying her he

had already Secured her love—her loudest,

deepest love, not for a day or a year, but for a
lifetime! ,

When Mildred had read it, the soft blush on
her cheek when she opened it had faded to a
cold white.

“ He is bound to get rid of me. Be bitterly
repeats the ‘ wild freak’ which made me his.
Oh, I repent it, too! Oh, I repent the foolish
consent so quickly won! Not on my own
account—no, for I would suffer a. life of
solitude just. to live on the memory of these
sweet half-hours when he came to see me!—
hut on his! He wishes to be free. Ah me!
poor little Mildred! He is ashamed of you—'-
he cannot love you! Perhaps he loves another!
Yes, I am sure of it. What was bat the
paper said about his uncle’s plans for is mar-
riage with a. beautiful ,cousin? Perhaps he
loves this beautiful cousin! Perhaps she
returns his love. If it were not for me, he
would not be driven from his home and from
her presence. She lived in the same house
with him—their uncle had it all nicely ar-
ranged—Io the paper: said. I am the mis~
arable little upstart who has. spoiled all. I
‘iulppod at

   

 

 

 

 

 

the chance’to marry thitYOjIInQ

 

 

 

 

 

  

.._. . . .. ,,.,

THE WAR OF HEARTS. r 9.

 

 

 

gentleman. ‘It is a proper punishment on me
that he is dislnherited and has treated me with
contempt since the hour he kept his word to
his friendsl’ Oh, yes, yes, yes! I acknowledge
all. I wish I could die and get out of the way
—misers.ble little marplot that I am!

“ But, I love him—1 love him—I love him!

“That proud lady-cousin will never worship
his very shadow—the echo of his footstep—as
I worship them!”

Yet Mildred, childish and unworldly as she
was, had pride. She resolved that she would
never touch one dollar of the sum which her
husband had deposited for her use.

“ I will work for poor sick mamma, as I

used to work; his money shall stay where it .

is, and when he comes back, he shall have it—~
every penny of it. They shall see that I am
not the mercenary creature they say I am. I
did think it would be pleasant to be able to
give mamma all she needs; but I loved him, or
I would not have said ‘yes.’ He seemed to me
so beautiful, so superlori I thought Heaven
had answered my prayer to send me a friend
to take care of poor little me, when mamma
was dead and gone.”

So she resumed her lessons to the three or
four small pupils, living even more sparingly
than before, except that she disposed of some
of the costly trifles Otis had given her, and
bought luxuries for her mother, whose health
now that winter had set in, grew worse from
week to week.

And, to feed her starving heart with the
thought that she was Otis Garner's bride, she
would dress herself—late in the afternoon,

» when she had no more errands out of doors—
in some one of the silken robes he had bought
her, clasp his pearls about her slender neck,
fasten up her shining hair with the diamond-
spray, and sit and dream wild dreams about
her fairy prince—wild, sweet, impossible
dreams.

At the same time a passionate desire took
possession of her to see her rival—this beauti-
ful cousin, the flower of the proud old Garner
family. She found out the splendid mansion
of the Gamers; and fall into a habit, when
her last lesson of the day was through with, of
going home by way of that street, no matter
how far out of the way it took her. '

The third time she passed the house the Ger-
ner carriage, with ii: black coachman, in dark-
blue livery, and black horses sumptuous with
gold-decorated harness, stood before it.

She recognized the coat-of-arms on the panel

, of the door, for she had seen it on the quaint
old seal which Otis had once shown her. She
walked quickly on a few rods further—then
turned and came slowly back.

A lid! VII coming down the broad, lion-
guarded steps of the house. Mildred, walking
very slowly by, had a good opportunity for
one long look. A girl, Very nearly as young
as herself, but tall and dark, and oh! so splen-
didly heautifull

Mildred’s great, childish, violet eyes fell,
eager as they were, when the bright glance of
the superb young beauty chanced to encounter
their earnet observation. How likes princess,
“to the manor born,” the heiress glided down
the steps, floated across the pavement, and
entered the luxurious carriage whose door was
held open for her by another literied servantl

How her velvets, and laces, and flowers be-
came her, as the rich feathers of the tropical
bird became itl What a dainty little hand,
with a. pearl-colored glove which fitted like the
5m“: hi5', careleme clasping a costly handker-
f’bie', on the amber satin of the carriage-cush—
lot“! as she gave some directions—in a voice
musical as the breathings of the “ lovely lute”
—to the coachman.

But was there—or was there not—just a
shadow over that brilliant face! as if the girl
POSS‘b‘y thought of some loss or grief? Mildred
asked herself.

"Is she sorry, or is sh
folly. she bl: got his mum?“ um’ by hi.

“Does s love and
she only gained!" mm, flu", or’ m

The restless horses dashed gsny on with
their lovely burden. ’

a— _——-»-N-- «w

 

Mildred could not answer her own questions;
but she went home, a thousand times more
melancholy than before she had seen this peer-
less creature.

“No study, no toil, no endeavor, will ever
make me like her. She is born to grace, and
pride, and high-bred ease; while I am con-
strained, and humble, and poor. No wonder
that he despises mei Oh, my proud, fairy
prince! Your poor little Mildred is but the
lowly violet for you to set your foot upon.
She is your fitting mate. I see it—I feel it.”

Then, out of her very despair, there arose in
Mildred’s soul a mighty resolve to make her-
self a lady and meet companion for him whose
name she bore.

“I will take her for my example,” thought
the poor child. “I will steal a look at her as
often as I dare. I will notice her dress, her
movements, her way of doing this and that. I
will try to be as like her as possible. Yet I
shall be ridiculous when she is incomparable.
Nevertheless, I will try. I love him—and I
will try."

She spoke the last words aloud, as she hur-
ried homeward, and she set her tiny foot on the
pavement with a resolute tap. She had been
so engrossed with her own thoughts that she
had noticed nothing.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Garner,” said a
polite voice.

She stopped, startled and blushing to be
Called by that name.

It was the gentleman she had passed so many
times. 1
He stood, mOSt respectfully soliciting her at-
tention; though the day was cold, he held his
hat in his hand.

“ Will you excuse my speaking to you with-
out an introduction. and on the street?" he be
gun. most beseechingiy and courteously. “ The
fact is, Mrs. Garner, I am deeply anxious to
hear from Mr. Garner. We are intimate—very
intimate—friends, if you will believe me;
brothers, almost; yet he has given us all the
slip. We, who are so fond of _hlm, and so
anxious to prove our friendship, have not even
his present address. Will you be .so good as
to favor me with it?” and returning his hat to
his head, he took out note-book and pencil.

“ Indeed, sir, I am sorry, but I do not know
it myself." v

“Ah, I see, Mrs. Garner; you are very prop-
erly cautious. Of course, you know your hus-
band’s address, but you will not give it to a
stranger. Here is my card—B. Pomeroy. You
must have heard him speak of me. ‘Brum-
mell,’ he calls me—a joke of his.”

“I do not remember his speaking of you.
But then," added Mildred, looking up with an
artless blush and sad smile, “ that is not
strange. Our acquaintance was so short.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Why, my dear, dear
lady, I was one of the four who laid down the
wager; I saw you two meet; I saw you two
married. A wild frolic, perhaps, but it ended
charmingly. We all considered our friend
Garner a lucky fellow! It was a frightful lot-
tery, yet he drew a. splendid prise. We all
envied him when we saw the bride.”

“I scarcely think he was to be envied, Mr.
Pomeroy,” said little Mildred, with a blending
of humility and dignity very sweet and touch-
ing to see, and she athmpted to pass him.

“One moment, please. Yes, I know, I
know—lost the old uncle's money—for a time,
only, I dare say—but gained a prise richly
worth the whole of it."

“ My husband does not seem to think so, sir,”
responded Mildred. “My mother will he look-
ing for me, Mr. Pomeroy. I would like to
oblige you, but I have not heard from Mr.
Garner for some time. He is in New York. I
cannot tell you the street or number of his
residence.”

“ Ten thousand thanks! If I hear from him
soon, I shall take the liberty of letting you
know,” and with another profound how, he
passed on.

. The little twelve-year—old maid whom Mrs.
Lovelace kept to do their roughest work and
to wait upon her in her daughter’s absence,
met Mildred at the door with word that her

    
 
 

 

mother was Wurse. This alarming newa ban-
ished the thick-thronging fancies about the
beautiful cousin and the strange gentleman
from Mildred’s mind for that evening.

But the mother got better, and the old
dreams filled again the mind of the deserted
child-wife.

And one week from the day on which he
had addressed her, at meeting her on the
street, Mr. Brummell Pomeroy called and sent
in his card, by the little maid, to Mrs. Loveu
lace and Mrs. Garner.

“He has news of him I” cried Mildred, and
she met the man of duplicity at the door of
their modest parlor, a glow on her cheek and
fire in her eye and a smile on her lip that made
the artless little wife as beautiful as some
houri.

The false-hearted man of the world knew
that bright look was not called up by pleasure
at seeing him; but he resolved, then and there,
that the time should come when he would have
that power.

 

CHAPTER VIII.
rim HANDWRITING man nun.

Ir was Christmas night~—the first Christmas
after the mad marriage which had sent Otis
Gamer to wander over the earth a ruined and
aimless man—and the great house of the Gar—
ners was ablaze with light from basement to
attic. Yet there was no merry-making going
on in the old mansion. There was not even
one guest to break the silence which reigned
through the illuminated splendor of the draw-
ing-room. The servants had, lighted up the
rooms, according to custom; but not for the

reception of troops of joyous friends and rela- ‘

tives.
Old Mr. Garner was no exception to a com-
mon rule—that as a man grows older and

colder and richer his friends fall away. Not -

but that he had an army of admirers who
would fain be intimate with him; but he kept
these at their distance—admirers, shares: at
times of a sumptuous hospitality, but not
heart-friends. And since the hrigh gs ,
handsome, faulty boy, on whom he had avis -
ed nearly all that was left of his withering af-
fections, had so cruelly disappointed him—and
since he had driven this boy from his heart
and home—the old man had felt little disposed
for empty shows of gayety. Crowds of idle
pleasure-seekers were no longer invited to
dance and chatter and feast under his princely

roof.

Did he forget his young niece, and that life
was not all over with heri—that she might
crave the stimulus of gay society! No. But
Honoria was not a. boy-she did not bear the
Garner name-she never could be to him what
Otis had been. ,

Nevertheless, he remembered her—that she
was his niece and his heiress; and that society
had claims on her. More than once he had of-
fered to give her a grand ball or more modest
German. But Honoria herself had refused.
What was the matter with her, that the young
beauty shrank, almost as much as the old
uncle, from the fashionable dissipations of the
season! v

There were dozens of young scions of the
bluest blood ofBoston who were pining for an
gpportimity to declare in what high esteem
they held her: i.e., her beauty, rank and for-
tune.

Yet she remained indiflerent tothe triumphs
in store for her the moment she might deign
to accept them. a

That perverse quality of human nature
which makes an object deer in proportion as it
is unattainable, had suddenly, in the hour in
which she heard him declare himself married,
given to her cousin Otis a charm and power he
had never before had for her. Not that pure-
minded Honoria was so wicked As to knowing—
ly cherish a love for one lost to her by mar-
riage with mother; on the contrary, she made
every eflort to put him out of her thoughts.

Did you ever attempt, on a sultry summer
day, to brush away a fly that annoys you!
Then, you know, that the more attention you

   
    
  
   
   
   
  
    
  
   
   
 
   
   
    
 
    
  
  
   
   
   
  
  
  
   
   
  
  
  
   
 
 
    
  
 
   
   
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
    
     
 
  
 
   
   
  
   
 

 

./ A;

.«x-

  

 

JO.

THE WAR OF HEARTS.

 

 

give the buzzing insect, the more persistently

will he return to the attack. So it was with»

Honoria’s thoughts of her cousin. When she
knew him her slave and lover, she gave small
heed to thoughts of'him that might hum drow-
sily about her; but now that such thoughts
must be brushed away. behold! they return
and return to trouble and annoy.

In the shock and surprise of' his avowed
marriage, she, for the first time, felt that she
loved him with whom she had so carelessly
triflod. Now that she had lost him she realized
how dear he had grown, through months and
years of companionship. Otis had his faults—
never mind! she could have reformed them.
Otis was not wise, or prudent, or very intel-
lectual, or very good; she had imagined flner
ideals of a man—never mind! she loved him—-
loved his very faults and follies!

Oh, that she had known her own heart
sooner!

In the three long months since, casting that
wild look of farewell into her troubled eyes,
he had gone away, she had found enough to do
to study how to forget him as alover and learn
to serve him as a friend.

She knew to a certainty almost nothing
about Otis since his departure. She had

- heard a rumor that he was in New York; she
had, heard from some source—she could not
trace it—that he had never been near the poor
girl whom he married since the hour they
stood at the altar together—that was all.
Whether this rumor was true—what was the
girl’s name—who she was, where she lived,
how she looked, acted; what she knew—this
was all a blank to Honoria. She had formed
in her mind an idea of what this girl was like.
Bold and unblushing she must be, or she never
would have taken up with such an odor;

, coarse, ignorant, impudent, ungrateful; with
the rude beauty of the factory girl—for some
one, somewhere, had averred that the bride
was handsome. This was the image of her
cousin’s wife which presented itself to Honoria
whenever she thought of her. It was seldom
that any pity for the girl softened the severity
of the proud heiress’ condemnation. Her pity,
her tenderness, were all for the wayward, fro-
Iicsome cousin whose high spirits, and the
temptations of bad company, had led him into
this fatal folly.

It was Christmas night, as we said; the
stately dinner in the great dining-room was
over, and the two, who had partaken very
lightly of its long succession of luxurious
dishes, were now in the brilliant drawing-
room.

Hr. Garner sat by a small table drawn up
In front of the silver-barred grate, where a

fire nestled cosily.

His “lean and slippered ” feet were stretch
ed toward its comfortable warmth; his eyes
were onthe heart of the golden fire, though a
book, half-dropping from his hand, gave pre-
text of occupation.

On Christmas night what can an old man do
but think of by-gone Christmas nights?

Houoria, curled up in a corner of a sofa,
watched him from a distance. Perhaps she
cried a little, for something round and bright
sparkled in the sudden npleaping of a. rosy jet
of lime in the grate, as she lifted her face
and looked longineg at the old man dreaming
hisdreams.

A moment more and she was at his feet.

“ Uncle, dear, dear uncle!”

“ Well, my child?”

" We are solonelyl”

“ Oh! we are?”

“ Yes, uncle, you are lonely too! I can see
it inyour face! Forgive poor Otis, uncle! 0h,
forgive him, and send for him to come home!”

“ With his bride out of the streets?”

“0h, not out ofthe streets, dear uncle—she
“wuss. music-teacher; she maybe good and lov-
able—we do not know, (‘and I do not think it!
toherself) and, at all events. they say he is

' not living with her—never has lived with

her.” . -
The eager, beautiful eyes were upturned to
the old man’s; her soft little hands were clasp:

 

ed over his knee; he looked quietly down into 1

the dark, blooming face, and said, slowly:

Honoria had seen him, and, at the same mo—
ment, the signal of silence which he made;

“Would you have me re-make my will yet ‘ and so, trembling and anxious, had continued

a third time, Honor-in? If Otis is forgiven,
and comes back to this as his home, he must
have the property left to him as at first design-
ed. Reflect! You will no longer have the in-
terest in that property which, as my nephew’s
wife, you would have had. All that is over
and gone, now. Are you willing to give
up your own prospects to Otis—and to Otis’
wife?” ’
“ There is enough for all of us, dear uncle.”
“ I have not built up this fortune as patient-
ly as I have, to break it in pieces over my
grave. It is my pride, my ambition, to keep
it together in one great whole, as it now is.
Therefore I shall not leave it to two, three, or
four—-”
“Leave it all to my cousin, then. I prefer
he shall have it. ” ‘
“Not so, Honoria. The man who will do an
act so utterly unwise and rash as he did, is un-
fit to have the control of such a fortune.
Rather, let me trust it to the small hands of my
girl-niece—with such promises as will prevent

.her from at once giving it all away.”

“Let us not talk of the money, uncle dear;
you have many years of vigorous life yet
before you, in which to take charge of your
own. But, forgive poor Otis, his folly. Send
for him. I know you will .be happier, uncle.
Think! perhaps your harshness is driving him
to yet wilder courses! Despair may make
him desperate. Oh, I fret about him night
and day.”

“ The Bible says, Honoria, ‘Fret not thyself
because of evil-doers,‘ it is good advice; take
it. Remember you are but seventeen, and do
not seek to give advice to your elders. Here,
child, I did not intend to make you cry. But
my mind is made up about Otis, and I shall
not change it without better reason than I
have yet seen for doing so. Come, come! dry
your eyes and go to the piano and sing me
some of the old ballads that you know I like !”

Her uncle seemed a hard and a grim old man
to Honoria just then—though his Christmas
gift of pearls and diamonds had cost many
thousand dollars, and lay glittering in her
hair, her tiny ears. and about her stately neck,
as a testimony to his generosity—but she
wiped her eyes as he bade her, and went to the
piano.

This instrument stood in the music-room at
the end of the long drawing-room, and separa-
ted from it by heavy silk curtains, which slip-
ped back on gilded rings at pleasure. Hon-
oria drew them wide apart so that her uncle
might listen to the music at his ease. As she
did so she started and gave a little scream.

“ What is it?” asked the old man by the fire,
half rising. V

“ Nothing—nothing at all, dear uncle! I
must be growing nervous since even shadows
frighten me,” and with a little laugh she sat
down to the piano.

Her voice trembled on the first verse of her
first song; but she soon mastered it, and it swell-
ed out sweet, plaintive, and soul-thrilling, giv-
ingadepth of feeling to the simple words of the
old ballads, and chaining the heart of the listen-
er to old scenes, old memories, old days, when a
girl fairer than this one, sung these same sweet
songs, while he sat by and listened, and loved,
and would not tell his love because the singer’s
name was too lowly to fitly mate the lofty one
of Garner. The Garner pride, so strong even
in youth, was not less powerful now; the boy
he loved had disgraced himself by a shameful
mesalliance—he would have no more to do
with him. '

Not a breath whispered to the old man the
truth, that this same reckless “ boy” was, at
that moment, lurking behind the curtains of
the music-room, having sought the house with
a faint hope that by this time his folly was
pardoned; but. who, hearing the sharp words
replied to his cousin’s unselfish petition, had
shrunk back into the shadows of the music-
room, resolved not to betray himself to the
stern judge. , ‘

i on her way to the piano, pretending careless-
ness.

Perhaps for a long hour Honoria sung and
played; then, with a weary sigh her uncle
arose, thanked her, rung the bell for his per-
sonal attendant, and still sighing, climbed the
broad, velvetcovered stairs to his own room.

“Now?” cried Honoria, as master and man
went into the room above. rising from the
stool and going toward the intruder, who also
arose and met her half-way.

“ I came from New York to—day, cousin. I
am tired and homesick. I felt that I must
see you again. I am penniloss, too. It is
hard to earn money when you have not been
trained to it. I hoped uncle had repented his
harshness, and would, at least, give me some-
thing to do in the counting-room, but I heard
what he said to you to—night. He is merciless.
Well, be it so. But you, Honoria, you areall
tenderness and generosity! I shall never for-
get yaur plea in my behalf to-night. God
bless you for it!” ,

“ How did you get into the house, Otis?” she
asked, more because she desired to hide her
agitation than because she hadany curiosity to
know. a

“ I went away so suddenly I forgot to leave
my night-key,” he answered, with an attempt
at a laugh. “Do not be afraid of me, how-
ever—I shell never come to rob the house.
0h, Honoria, what alifetime it seems since I
saw you last!”

The flery eyes were burning down into her
soul.
“Yes,” she answered him, drawing away
from him, as he would have put his arms
about her, “it has been a long time. We—I
-—have been lonely without you. The_place
does not seem natural.”

“I have been dying to see you," he whis-
pered. I
“ ere is your wife, Otis?”

Some subtle instinct to defend herself
against any lovemaking on his part prompted
her to ask the question. ' .

“My wife! My God, what a mockery you
make of that word, cousin! Is that girl my
wife? Must that mummer; bind us forever?”

“Do you call mummery the solemn words
spoken at the altar!” ‘

“In my case they were. She never has
been—never will be my wife. In the course
of time she will go through the formality of
getting a divorce from me. You love me,
Honoria, even as I love you. Will you not
promise me to wait until that time comes! I
came here; more to get your promise to that,
than for any other reason. Give me that pro-
mise, and I will go away and make one more
earnest effort to help and raise myself. You
will do that. much for me, will you not, my
sweet—my only love—my true wife that is to
be, some day?” '

She pulled away the hands he held so tight
they were almost crushed in his clasp, looking
him sorrowfully but bravely in the face as she
answered him: r

“No, Otis, I will make no promise to you
while that woman lives. I am your friend—

' your true, Warm, earnest friend. But she is

your wife. Her rights are sacred—43.5 sacred

as are my ideas of what is due to me, Otis.

You must never speak to me in this manner
' J!

“ You will not understand me,” he cried, im-
patiently. “I do not want you to say any-
thing wrong—only to promise for the future.”

mWe must not deceive ourselves, Otis. You
are blind, or trying to make yourself out so.
Once more, I am your friend. Tryto make
me more than that, and I will be nothing but
a stranger to you.” -

She bade him sit down by her side and tell
her his business troubles, She sympathized
with these, and promised to try again to soften
their uncle’s displeasure; she was ln‘nd, angelic

 

in her gentle tendemess—but she would allow

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE WAR OF HEARTS. ii

 

 

no more of those burning, foolish, almost wick-
ed words with which he had begun.

At last the bells tolled midnight; promising
him to meet him on the Common the following
afternoon, she let him softly out of the door
into the street. .

She did not keep this appointment. When
another morning dawned there had been a
stranger visitor at the old Garner mansion
than he who had entered there so quietly and
stolen to the music-room to meet her whom he
loved. This visitor had no latch-key; but he
entered, nevertheless; and when‘he went away
he did not go alone; the soul of the millionaire
went with him, leaving houses and lands and
stocks and gold behind forever.

When the servant entered Mr. Garner’s
mom, on the following morning, he found his
master dead in bed. Whether the disaPPOin“
ment consequent on the conduct of his nephew
had aught to do with hurrying this sad event,
cannot he certainly known.

Surely, the old man made the effects of his
wrath permanent. Every dollar of all his
Property was bequeathed to his niece, Honoria

-APpleton, with this proviso: that she was ne-

ver to share it with her cousin, Otis Garner.
The gift of any portion of the estate, or of any
sum of money, or any jewels or personal pro-
Pel'ty, to this Otis, would render the whole
will void; and in that case the estate should go
to a distant relative—a trange Garner, living
in another part of the country.

So did the implacable old man perpetuate
his anger.

The name, signed firmly to that unjust will,
made it impossible for Honoria to follow the
impulse of her heart, and made her wretched.

 

CHAPTER IX.
POISONID rLowmis.

erm Mildred sat alone in her humble
sitting-room on New Year’s night; her mother,
growing more and more feeble, ~now seldom
left her bedroom, unless for two or three hours
at mid-day.

Mildred sat alone, and she and her splendid
dress made a strange contrast to her surround-
ings. On this night, in her sorrow and her
forlornness, she had indulged in her fancy to
wear the rich raiment her husband had given
her during those few weeks—those bright, un-
real, wonderful, blissful weeks—when he ca e
every day “ to make the acquaintance,” as e .4
said, “of -‘ this sweet stranger, whom he called
his wife.’ "

To—night she had even gone so far as to or-
ray herself in the White satin and lace dress
in which she had been married. There, in the
poor little room, she sat, pale, sad, Iovely, like
Cinderella awaiting her godmother’s coach-and-
four.-

The glistening bridal robe fell richly about
her dainty figure; there were pearls about her
graceful neck, bracelets about her white arms;
but, instead of the bridal veil, she had taken
down her long, bright hair and shaken it out.
in a thousand rippling strands, until she looked
like some nymph of the sea, dressed in the sil-
ver and pearl of its caves, and sitting inure
midst of a golden fountain.

Surely, surely, had the proud old man, now
lying under the snow of the churchyard, once
beheld this delicate young creature, in her in-
nocence and her loveliness, he would not have
actrelentlessly punished his nephew for his rash
ac .

But he never had seen her, and now—it was
too late. She sat there, alone, with pale
cheeks, but bright, wide, expectant eyes, hold-
mg 111 he? mull hands a most exquisite large bou-
quel’ 01 out flowers,.whose perfume filled the
room These flowers had come to her that
190mg,“ 5 messenger had left them with the
little to d-of-all-work; there was no card at-
tafmeda norm my name left; so poor little
Mildred, her heart 113:“ high in her breast,
took it for 8783M t Mr. Gamer had re-
turned *0 W 9nd had sent these lovely
blossomsastlumkbn that he would call upon
her some time that day. ,

All day she had waited. "

 

Restless as some brilliant humming-bird she
had flitted about her mother, or darted to the
window, until the dark came and she was pale
and tired-looking and waiting. At twilight
the thought had come to her to robe herself in
her wedding-dress; and now she sat, pale, im-
patient, clasping the flowers which she dream-
ed came from him. '

Ah, she was not mistaken! He was coming!

A step paused in front of the housc, came up
to the door, the bell rung, the little maid un-
swered the summons—in another moment she
would see him, hear his voice.

Starting to her feet, clasping the roses to
her panting bosom, while her large eyes flashed
and a vivid blush stole over her pale cheeks,

she stood there, in her glistening, glimmering,'

snow-white wedding-dress, like some spirit of
a better world hesitating whether to pause or
take flight—all her soul on her trembling lips
and in her brightening eyes—when the door
opened, and she saw, instead of her husband—-
Brummell Pomeroy.

The shock of the disappointment was too
great for her to conceal it. She turned paler
than her dress and sunk down again into her
chair without speaking one word.

Pomeroy himself, man-of-the-world as he
was, stood still a full minute, dazzled by the
unexpected vision of beauty and joy, for Mil-
dred’s look had been one of rapturous expecta—
tion as he came in. He had never before seen
her in the dress and jewels which her husband
had . given her;' he had expected to meet a
very, very pretty, innocent, shy, embarrassed
girl—but not this radiant creature!

For half a moment, too, he made the mistake
of thinking the smile, the blush, the radiance
were for him! Then he saw the bitter disap-
pointment, the pale reaction—and comprehend-
ed the situation. Biting his lips, he repressed
his annoyance as best he might, and waited.

“ Mr. Pomeroy," said the sweet,4 tremulous
voice at last, “pardon my mistake. I was
looking for—for—some one else.”

“Ay, Mrs. Garner, and some one else will
not be here to-night. Let me prophesy that.”

“ I am sure he will. He is in town—see!
He sent me these flow ers this morning.”

“ My dear Mrs. Garner,” said the gentleman
.—who had been-so kind to the deserted wife,
always bringing her news of Otis whenever he
could gain any—Coming forward and taking
a chair quite close to hers—“ I shall hate my-
self for having to undeceive you. No, 'I will
not do it. Perhaps Otis sent the flowers—Lhe
has been in Boston several days.”

«.“ Mr. Pomeroy, did you send these?” asked
Mildred, and even as she asked the question her
little hands let fall into her lap the roses and
English violets which she had kissed a bun-
dred times that day.

“Mrs. Garner, you must forgive me,{’ he an-
swered, with an air of humility which his club
friends would have been amused at. “ I did
send the flowers, not meaning to take a liberty,
or dreaming that they might mislead you. It
was New Year’s Day, and I only wished to
give you evidence that you had one friend at
least who remembered you, with all the most
earnest good wishes of the day.”

“ It was very—kind of you,” stammered
Mildred, cold and pale.

“I supposed Otis had been here, with gifts
far more costly than my poor flowers. Of
course he has been here?"

“ No—nol Are you sure he has been in
town?” '

“ Positive. I saw him twice; though he did
not know that he was recognized. But he has
gone now. He left on the 4 P. M. train this af-
ternoon.”

“ Gone 1”

The low cry, vibrating with anguish, tum.
ed through the room, but it awakened no
mercy in the selfish man who set before her,
taking pleasure in her deSpair.

Pleasure—for he hoped, by arousing her
pride and indignation—by showing her how
little her husband cared for her—to win he;-
gratitude to himself for his sympathy, his in.
terest, his resentment at her wrongs. A5, by

 

slow degrees, he pushed his friend Otis from
her heart, he hoped to slip in and fill the va-
cant place. Yes, even if the affair never went
beyond a harmless, but deeply interesting flir-
tation, it was the kind of business which ab-
sorbed a large part of the time and talents of
Brummell Pomeroy.

He made his living—a luxurious living, too
—out of his friends; and he found his amuse—
ment in winning away the hearts of his friends’
wives. It was a noble and an honorable ob-
ject to which to devote himself! And he went
through with the business with the same thor-
oughness that distinguished his attention to
dress.

Not for a long time—perhaps never—had he
found a woman with so many attractions for
him as our little Mildred. ,

She was so innocent, so unworldly, and so
beautiful; she was placed - in such romantic
circumstances; and she was so defenseless!
Here was the lamb upon which this wolf of so-
ciety might prey, if it so pleased him.

Nothing pleased him better.

“ Yes, my dear lady, he went away to-day.
He has been in town sub Tom, I suspect. It
was only by chance I discovered him."

“But he might have Come here. I would
not have made any trouble.”

“ Just so. But then—if he had other ob-
jects in view! For instance, the second time I
met him he was walking, by starlight and gas-
light, on the Common, with a lady by his side
-—his cousin, the beautiful Miss Appleton.
They appeared very deeply interested in each
other, indeed.”

“Why do you tell me this, Mr. Pomeroyl
Do you love to be cruel?”

He was moving too fast; the little wife was
sharper than he thought; he put on an air of
injured innocence.

“Love to be cruel? You are severe, Mrs.
Garner. No, I pity you—I take a friendly, a
deep interest in your welfare. It is Otis who
is cruel. It makes me angry with him—and
then, I am too outspoken. Perhaps I am mis-
taken! Perhaps he does not love this superb
cousin about whom he has raved to me for
hours in days gone by. He may quite have
outgrown that juvenile preference. These two,
walking together on the Common at ten o’clock
at night, had plenty of prosaic business to en-
gage them, I have no doubt. ‘

“I dare say you know, Mrs. Garner, that the
uncle is dead?”

“Whose uncle! dead!” murmured Mildred
——her thoughts were on those two walking to-
gether under the stars, and came back slowly
to the meaning of what her companion said.

“Otis Garner‘s uncle. He died, alone, in
his bed, very suddenly, the night before
Christmas. His will settles matters pretty
clearly.”

“Oh, what was it?” she asked, now all ea-
gerness, since Otis’ prospects were concerned.
“Did he forgive my poor Otis? Did he have
mercy, after all?”

“ He left everythingto his niece; and a pro-
vision that she was never to share a. dollar of

it with her cousin Otis, on pain of losing all.

She is prohibited from doing the least thing for
him. The old gentleman well knew that his
niece’s first impulse would be to divide her for-
tune with the man she loves so dearly, but
whom a single inopportune step on his part has
prevented her marrying.”

Mildred‘s fair little head drooped lower and
lower; the golden veil of hair almost hid her
pale face; she twisted her hands together, un—
conscious of how their convulsive movement!
betrayed the struggle going on in her heaving
breast. Finally she looked up at her visitor
with a deep sigh.

“ She may not always be prevented from
marrying him, Mr. Pomeroy. I feel that I
shall not live long-my heart is breaking, I
think—yet, should I be so unfortunate as to
live on against my will, perhaps there may be
opened a way for Otis Gamer to have his de-
sireafterall. Isuppose,in thecourseof two
or three years, as he I can obtain the

aid of the courts to untie this knot which is a

....—,...-n chum—Ht m“,

 

 

i

  

‘Vfitfll, thereisnOdanger

' ‘u  to Mr. Garner—of his little Wife.”

' est service.

3&7,

.32

 WAR OF ‘HEA‘RTS. ;

 

 

 

painful to him. ‘ I must not—I will not—hold
anyman‘anun g prisoner, bound to me
by a gelling chain!” ~

I “ You are right, Mrs: Garner. Ihonor your
womanly pride as highly as I respect you. Be-
lieve me, you have my warmest, sincerest
sympathy! Yes! free yourself from one who

,do'es not a preciate the good fortune whicha
foolish , c bestowed upon him—who does not
care for the loveliest, the purest, the sweetest
woman heaven ever madel it makes my blood
boil in my veins to see the indif— but no.
Otis is my friend, and I ought not to say what
I think of him. ”

“ You forget. Otis loved another before'he
ever saw me. Can you blame him for that,
Mr. Pomeroy?" _

She lifted her lovely face in apiteous ap-

; tears were streaming down her cheeks;
she Would defend the man she loved, even
' while her heart was breaking. _ _ ,
' Brummel ventured to lift one of the little
hands, and to press it in token of silent, sym-
pathy- . ' . ‘
“ You are too good, too generous, for. a
more selfish man to understand you, little Mil-
dred. All I can say is—there are plenty of
men who would willingly give all they'are
worth to be in Garner’s place. The mere sac-
rifice of a fortune would seem a light price to
pay for the bliss of having such a woman as
you are love them. I am' a bachelor, little
‘Mildred—but that is only because I never met
my ideal before—and now, it is too late! But
ram wild to talk thus to you, who are but a
child, too modest, too innocent, to have the
‘ least idea of your own power. Hold yourself
proudly, my little! lady; do not be cast down
by your husband’s neglect. There are men
,' who would risk their lives for a smile of yours.
Make your husband realize your power. But
there! I have said too much. Pardon me. It
' Tisas his friend, as well as yours, that I would
teach you to value yourself. And new, again,
pardon me! Do not think me wanting in del<
ioaoy, but asan old, tried friend of Otis, and
, as one knowing
ad from past opulence, and has to struggle
now to earn his bread—may I ask you if you
has e everything you need! My my
7 tilde my iniiue ' are all at, your «$3221. I
when honbred lo have yen make some de-
mand upon them.” , . ‘ ,
’ ‘ “Youere'very good,” replied the girl-wife”
“ verykind, Mr. Pomeroy. I hegsnto support
myself before I met Mr. Garner, and I can do
-" still. But he gave me all’the money he had
" 01‘s 'he went away—remember that, Mr.
Poinoroyx‘ gave me all—robbed himself! Oh,
' itisn‘ofault ofhis that he cannot love met”,
"(with another'burst of tears, “I have left his
~ lnoney‘inthe‘ bank where he placed a for my

benefit. I will starve rather than uch it!
of my starving. No!
 you again for/your thoughtfulness, Mr.

Pomeroy; but I can take care of myself—as I
have done before-rand surely, surely, I will
not forget that I ‘am Otis Garner’s wife, and as
his‘wife, must act as he would have me not.

, As his We I am too proud to beg arbor-row,”

'iboncluded the little. rincess, rising to her feet

.' ujf to‘ end the in ’ ew. ' _

*‘ Behu Bnnnmen arose to his feet also.

 “I hohorand respect you the more," little ’

‘ ' red; Imay call youso, may I not? consider-
ing how intimate Otis and I are, But I was
fhbzolmfl to make the odor, not knowing how you
 it be'situated. And, now, .Ibid you good,
w  I shall call again; before many days,,
' dian—being the

4,
'\

,jfotheleelfasortof

"Be pressed her hand‘and went away,
" yell the roses thatever growl” he mut-
‘gm, went down the shape, “but the lit-

i‘wit

        
    

a

With what an n:- she

 

 Otis, little as he prises 1.1.8.?»

spunkl'lahall haveto‘make.

. .  M M...
mwflamfilww

how he has suddenly been cut .

' ionship. She was vexing. her soul, too, to

 

_ out as a servant?" '

would hardly have gone away to-mgnt w1tn- l
out coming here, had he known that his dear
Brummell was paying a friendly visit to his.
forsaken beauty.

“I have a mind to improve my acquain-
tance with his other lady-love, also. Miss Ap-
pleton is agreat catch news-superb girl, too!
If one could only settle down to a Benedict’s
life! It is deuced hard to have‘to always live
by one’s wits. To settle down on the certainty
of two millions might pay for the sacrifice. I
shall call on Miss Appleton as soon as the prop-
er time arrives.” '

 

_ CHAPTER X.
~DANGER FROM. AN UNEXPECTED SOURCE.

II was over four months since her uncle’s
death that Henoria Appleton sat, one fair May
morning, with idle, clasped hands and bent
face, dreaming in the great library opposite
the drawing-room. The sun, streaming in
through a lovely window of stained glass, -
threw strange, jewel-like colors over her white
dress and dusky hair.

Honoria wore mourning for her uncle; but
on these warm mornings her dress was of soft,
fleecy white, with only a black ribbon at the
throat. She sat there listless and purposeless.
,With all her luxurious surroundings the girl
was lonely. No father or mother—her'dear
uncle dead-rher cousin away, she knew not
where—there were times when the world seem-
ed desolate to the beautiful heiress. »

She would have given much gold for one
true friend. An elderly maiden- aunt had
come into the princely house, to fulfill the pro-
prieties-and. see- that the housekeeper did her
duty by the servants. But she was not much
of a companion to the spirited young beauty.
Hosts-of admirers would have been only too
glad to console her drooping spirits; but Hono-
ria, though fond of conquest and not entirely
above the pleasures of coquetr , was not quick
to yield her heart or her frlen ship to people.

She sat there idly pondering what she should
do when the summer came—10in the country,
the seaside, or shut herself .up in this great
house, like Marianne in the Moate’d Grange.
There was not so very much enjoyment in go-
ing about with only her primaunt for compan-

know what had become of Otis. Note. word
hadsheheard from him  the weekafter
his uncle’s death. - ~

The maney burned in her‘hsnds—the luxur-
ies she endoyed seemed to her half-stolen. Ah, ‘
why did her uncle make such a cruelwim If
she could only find some way to evade its pitiu
less provisions and share her wealth with poor
Otis! While she sunk deeper and deeper into
reverie, the bell mug, and presently Shackles,
the old servant, of her uncle, and now facto-
tum in the household, knocked at the door,
and being hidden to enter, stated that a young
person had answered the advertisement. Why,
yes. Miss Appleton had forgotten that she had]
advertised for a maid. ,

“Show her in here, Shackles. But only one
at a time, lease. If more come while I am
engaged wit her keep them waiting inrthe ser-
vants’ hall.”

Presently she entered, Shackles closing the
door behind her, a young, girl, plainly and
neatly dressed, wholifted such a pair of violet
eyes to the lady’s face as surprised her.

For a moment the two women looked at each
other with mutual curiosity veiled behind all
apparent indiflerence. v

“You do not look (it for any, even the light~
Do you really apply for the posi-
tion, of dresdnpmal‘di ,Have you ever been

And for that reason

 

wages for the first month; and Ivmuldytry, oh,
.so willingly, to please you.” .' .
Here was something different from the bold

, Irish or the port French maid. Honoria’s lpne- '
ly heart went out toward this little creature, ° ‘

so pretty, so delicate, and ladylike, so modest
and evidently so very much in earnest—went
out toward her almost as it would have done

to a forsaken baby. \She reflected that it would,

be careless, almost wicked, to leave unaided
this timid girl, whose loveliness might eXpose
her to all sorts of danger. , ,

“ I would as soon think of setting a hum—
ming-bird to work,” she thought; “but I shall
take her all the same. She can, perhaps, do
my hair, or mend; bit of lace nowand then,
just to deceive her with the idea that she is of
some use. What a perfectly lovely little thing
she isi”—then aloud—“ What is your name?”

U  v - I

“ Mills. whati”,

“ Lovelace, please, madam.”

“Not an Irish name, anyway. Well, Mills,
I am willing to give you a trial.”

I “ Oh, thank you!” very gladly and grateful—
5’

“When can you comei”

“This afternoon. May I send my trunks,
Miss Appletonl—and—and—will I have alroom
to myself!”

“ Exacting already,” thought the mistress,

' severely, but she relented when the stranger

said, earnestly: . . I
“ It is only because I am not one of them,
you see, Miss Appleton." ' ,
“No, and that may make trouble. I see
that I cannot take you as my maid—it would
never do.” .

v H 0h!” sighed the’young girl, drooping.

“ But I will do better by you, Mills. ,You :

shall be my companion—sthen‘ you can take’
your meals in the housekeeper“! room, and
need not come in contact with the servants”

“ I must do admething to be useful, though;
you must let me earn my bread. And I will
not take any wages.” ‘ ‘ ’

“ I will see to that.
please." " . ,

So the coupanion canes towhours later,
and she and her two trunkswere duly’imtalled
in small room communth with 

’s droning-room, ‘ ' ' . ‘

She was timid, shrinking, far from preamp-
tuous, yet'inleathanawuktbemistreuasrd
maid were two girls together. The little com—
-panionwsssoreflnedsnd, tandso
wonderfully pretty, that Honor-la lost half her
sense of loneliness. . She made the little thing
hér friend and confidante. She said to herself
that Mills’s coming was oneoflthe most fortu-
nate things that had ever befallen her 'own

‘Oome m  u‘you

proud-elf. Bhe'had sorneonetetalkto nowv
besidethegrimaunt—aomeoneyoung andro- *

mastic like herself. 'l‘heoompaniosfl chief
duty was to listen to thel‘girlish' chatter of her
beautiful mistress. ' She sat heside'Miss Apple
ton when that lady went out for ‘a’ drive.

Honoria insisted in having her elegant cast-off ‘ ‘
dresses made over by her seamstress for the.

little companion. Sometimes, o! a ‘dreamy,

drowsy Juno afternoon, Mills would read.

aloud, in her sweet, pathetic voice, poems of

love and melody which her lady would {elect '

from the great library. Two pairs of beauti-
ful eyes would brighten-and grow imolsttoge-
ther over the sweet singing of the bards, sing-
ing of passion and romance. '4 “

Why had Mildred ventured ‘intoth‘e'home of .

the Gamers? Rm a strange freak for one
so‘timidnsshe. ' ' ' ‘~ '/ '

- It was not jealousy which urged her; nor
was-  the hope of meeting Otis the
the. 1-1, ‘50 young, so ignomntpf" , so
shrinking, never forgot that die‘was’OtisGar-
11sz e.‘ ltwas  '  "of
heriie to make  -‘ r”

re. ~Nof i

e._wv .
A...“ An __....

m

 

in

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y‘r-hnl hing-ants».—

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emu-s o‘e-E-o 4 4 a as auras a

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THE WAR OF HEARTS. 13

..1__,,,, , H  ‘

 

desolate girl’s heart had warmed with grati—
tude toward Mr. Pomeroy, who had rendered
every service in his power at that sad time.

Behaving him to be a true friend she had 111- .

lowed her gratitude to show itself in a kinder

vmanner toward him; and he-~emboldened by
his. claims on her and by her solitude and un-
protected condition, which should have render-
ed her sacred to him—had made such advances
as showed her the real meaning of his atten-
tions and her own danger.

The shock was dreadful. It seemed to her
that she must die, now that her husband’s
friend had dared to offer her his perverted
love. 011, Where could she fly? What Was
She born for? She drove the traitor from her
with words which shamed him while they
aroused his anger, and a fierce determination
that she should yet be humbled, who had so
wounded his vanity and disappointed his pas-
8101].

Mildred soon became aware that she c0uld
not walk abroad without her path being shad-
owed by that man. She grew more and more
afraid of him. She saw that he was bad
enough to plot some foul scheme against her.
Her dread of him even haunted her dreams at
night.

This feeling of insecurity, and the desire—
strong as life—to improve herself upon some
model she lmew Otis admired—had led her to
answer Miss Appleton’s advertisement.

Little did the haughty Honoria dream that
her'meek attendant made a study of her every
movement, the tones of her voice, the style of
her reception of friends and visitors, and all
the thousand little polished arts that go to
make up a fashionable woman; and that she
carefully reformed every habit of her own
which did not accord with the usages of the

, best society.

7‘ l

 

. K.--

It was an afternoon in June. There had
been a delicious shower about one o’clock, leav-
ing the air cool and sweet with the rifled per-
fume of millions of roses. '

“How lovely it must be in the country,” 1‘0-
mal'ked the little companion to the fair lady.

“Yes; it is time we were going to the
country, Milla. We will drive out to Cam-

bridge, anyhow, and-get a glimpse of green ,

fields and waving trees.”

The carriage, an elegant open barouche, from
which they could have an unobstructed View,
was ordered around, and mistress and maid
want out to enjoy the soft air and the 8'P‘
preaching sunset in the suburbs. Not until
they were over the bridge and under the
classic elms of Cambridge did Mildred venture
to hft the thick vail she always were when out,
and to inhale the breath of roses “ new-washed
with dew.” They had a long, delightful drive,
watching the sun sink into a golden fleece of

 clouds, and look out from under, like a laugh.

ing, child playing Bo-peep; and were now driv_
ing back at a pretty rapid rate, so as to reach the
City before dark, when a gentleman, walking
along the pavement near the University build.
ings, held up his finger to the coachman, who
drew up his horses, and the gentlemancame
to the side of the carriage.
“0b, is it you, Mr. Pomeroy?” ‘
, “ None other, MissAppleton. Ten thousand
,pardons for taking the liberty of stopping your
barouche! I only want to ask after Your
health, and to say that I certainly should have
can‘5‘1‘1P011 you this week, but I had an im-
pression that you were gone to Newport,” say-
lnz all this with that easy, elegant air of ms,
and darting an inquiring glance at the vailed
Person “Wag beside Miss Appleton. ~
“ I have enough sea-air in Boston, Ir. Pom-
emy- When I go away it will not be to New-
Port. but to the mountains. I think the mid-
dle,“ July Wm be soon enough.”
would yqu believe it of me, Miss Apple-
ton? I 1“" “Wally walked out here, the af-
ternoon w“ l10 delightful. Having made a
can on my fmnd: the poet-professor, I am
n0“ 0'1 my “tum- II it not a delicious eve.
hing,” ‘ I
l .“Yee Ihave been feasting on lilies and
“'95. ' But: "ray, Mr. Pomeroy, you have

V ‘ "2»)-

,cepted—eagerly, for two reasons.

 

carried your experiment of walking far
enough] If you will accept, you shall have a
seat in my carriage back to the Tremont.”

“Ah, Miss Appleton, what atalent you have
for reading a man’s inmost thoughts! When I
held up my finger to John, here, I said to my-
self, ‘ What a happy ending to a pleasant lit-
tle excursion to be invited by Miss Appleton to
enjoy the heaven of her society for a half-hour
or sol’ I never did despise a silver-lined .car-
riage. You remember what Holmes says:

‘ Little I ask, my wants are few.‘ "

“Oh, yes, responded Honuria, laughing, “I
remember—the poet only wanted a hut—of
brown stone—a few railroad shares—cold
victuals, like vanilla-ice:

‘ One goodsized diamond in a pin,
Some, not so luv-gr, in rings.’ '

By this time the horses were again en route,
and Brummell Pomeroy—who. of all men on
earth, had the finest art of sponging the good
things of this life—lulled luxuriously back
against the satin cushion, and chatted gayly
with his beautiful companion; darting, at the
same time, keen glances at the little person,
who had quickly thrown her thick vail over
her face when she first saw him approach the
carriage, and had quietly slipped over on to
the front seat, before he entered, giving him
the place beside Miss Appleton.

Of course Brummell knew, from her not be-
ing introduced and from her taking the seat
she did, that this was some humble com-
panion of the lady‘s, whom, in her kindness,
she had taken out to ride; but there was some-
thing strangely familiar about the little figure
and its graceful movements, which aroused his
suspicions.

He made himself so extremely agreeable to
Honoria that, before they reached the Tre
mont' House, .she had invited him to take tel
with her—an invitation which he eagerly ao-
The first
reason was that he had some time ago made up
his mind to bend all his powers to securing the
heiress, and had chanced out in Cambridge for
no other reason, but because he happened to see
her carriage on the bridge; the other was that
his curiosity about the little veiled figure in
front of him was growing deeper every mo-
ment. -

By what little slips is it that great secrets
often come outi Mildred, sitting there, mute
and trembling, with her blue vail pinned tight-
ly over her plain hat, had, carelessly, in the
heat of the afternoon, drawn of! her gloves;
and, lifting her hand to settle her vull still
more securely, thoughtlesst betrayed the ring
which glittered on her fourth finger. Brum-
mell knew the ring at a glance. Little Mil-
dred's wedding-ring!

Ha! This was a strange turn of affairs!

The little creature had fled from him—hid-
den herself from his heartless pursuit—but, 0‘
all things, why in the house of her husband’s
cousin—the house of the Gamers? It was a
question which, with all his sagacity, Brum-
mell Pomeroy could not answer.

Hence his eagerness to be asked to tea.

It was very kind of Miss Appleton to give
him an opportunity of solving the mystery, and
he meant to solve it before he left the house.
What if this poor girl, to whom he had be-
trayed his true character, should be the means
of losing him the rich heiress?

He set his teeth at the thought of it.

“I would murder her, sooner than that!” he
thought.

 

CHAPTER XI.
run casrnn sssrsonn.

“ WHAT I: pretty little girl that was with
you in the carriage,” remarked Mr. Pomeroy
to Miss Appleton, over whose brilliant face fell
the soft luster of a. cluster of wax candles,
which candles also illuminated the very charm.
ing and costly Japanese tea-set and' the tempt-
ting tea on the little table set for only two..—
for, fortunately—or so Brummell thought-41:9
maiden aunt had retired with a headache,

 

 

there were no .other visitors, and he was
teta-a-tctc with the object of his affections (l)

“ Did you see her face!" asked Honoria, as
she pinned back in its place the white rose
which had dropped from her bosom. “She is
such a timid little thing, I wonder that you
got a glimpse of her through that blue vail.
Yes, she is pretty, and modest and intelligent,
too. I like her.”

“ I know it is a piece of impertinenco on my
part, but, may I be impertinent, and ask what
position she fllls as a member of your house
hold, Miss Appleton?”

“Ah, I see! You are slighted because you
were not introduced!”

“I confess to a deep interest in pretty girls.”

“ “Tell, my little Milla is enough of a. lady
to be Worthy of introduction to my friends.
But it would not do. She is only ll ‘ compana
ion,’ and the conversative would take offense.”

“ Perhaps you have some special reason for
favoring her—perhaps she has a right to b:
recognized by society,” said Pomeroy, keeping
his sharp eyes llxed on the beautiful face oppo-
site. O

Honoria laughed girlishly, and her clear eyes
met his unreservedly as she answered:

“ What an ideal The only claim she has on
me, is, that I like her. I am lonely in this
great house, and she is young, like myself, and
good company for me. Little Milla applied
for the honor of being my dressing-maid, when
she had never performed any such service. I
thought I might as well break a butterfly to
the wheell But [ took a fancy to her and so I
made her a sort of companion. Sometimes she
reads to me; once she nlendeda piece of lace—
but the hardest part of her onerous duties is to
talk to me and amuse me."

“ Fortunate Milla! I would peril my life for
the more chance of obtaining her place, Miss
Appleton! You are wasting your sweetness on
desert air. Do, do, say that sometimes your
unworthy servant may aspire to take Milla’s
place—may come and amuse you.”

He said this with such an alfectation of deep
earnestness that Honoria. laughed again:

“ You do amuse me," she said.

“And I may come and talk to you some-
times?” .

“Why you do, do you not?"

“ Yes, but oftener. I would like to make it
the serious business of my life to amuse you,”
half-jestingly, and yet throwing so much ten-
derness into his voice that she blushed and
busied herself with the little gold tongs in the
sugar-bowl, as she answered him:

“I hope I shall not care so much for more
amusement when I’m older. I mean to be use-
ful in some way; (‘ Ay, to pay my bills!’
thought Brummell) but I’m such a child, now,
and it really is lonesome in this great house since
—slnce —I lost—my dear uncle,” the tears
springing as ready as the blush—(“ and your
cousin, too, perhaps,” thought the man of the
world who watched her).

Brummell was too wise to push his suit too
rapidly; he knew that young yheiresses are
sometimes as shy as quail in June, and he had
no wish to alarm this one; so he went on with
the first subject.

“ Then you know nothing of the antecedents
of this very interesting and much-to—be—envie.d
companion of yours? You must be cautious,
Miss Appleton, in whom you put confidence.”

“I aux—very cautious,” mmY- “But no
one need fear little Milla. She isinnooence it-
self.”

“ Has she never told yon her history?”

“ Oh, yes, the most of it, I think. Her fa-
ther was a clerk, undue“? 80‘? tomythins bo'
yond that. He was pretty well educated, and
so was her mother. They lived very nicely,
but economically, until he died; of course, the
salary came to a sudden stop. All the ready
money went in funeral expenses; the shock of
his death made her mother ill; Milla, who was
going to school and studying music, had to give
up her lessons at twelve years of age. Since
then she has learned nothing but what she has
taught herself. She plays and sings very
sweetly; but not atall scientifically. in March

. v. .‘..m.__.-:x<..s .. a

 

  

14' .

last her mother died; she could not very wen
support herself and keep their rooms; so the
poor little thing thought the best thing she
coulddo was to give up her three music-schol-
ars, and answer my advertisement for amaid.”

“Thank you. A very pretty little bit of
biography—from suoh lips—a little dull, per—
haps, from any other. These are wonderful
'temcups, Miss Appleton; can you give me
their history?” And—having changed the sub-
ject after convincing himself that his compan—
ion had no idea, thus far, of who this girl was

 

of each other? 'Oh. how mean, and poor, and

——he proceeded to do his best to please, and en- ,‘

tertain, and fascinate the smiling young beau-
ty, the superb mistress of all this wealth whose
evidences lay all about him in the costly ap-
pointments of the lofty room and the exquis-
ite table.

But his thoughts were often distrait. He

humble she felt besid: this dark, proud girl,
who showered gold about her as the rose
showers dew!

“But I cannot give him up to her; I am his
wife: I cannot give him up while I. live,”
moaned poor Mildred, silently. “ There is but
one thing I can do, that is, to die. Yes, I may
be a suicide, yet; I, whom my mother tried to
make aChristiangirl.” Rising, she said “ good-
night” to her mistress, and retreated to her
own little room.

Meantime, Brummell Pomeroy, restless and
guilty, hung about the mansion he had so late-

‘ ly quitted. He felt ,as if he could not go

could not forget that the girl whom he had‘

done his worst to injure, and who had fled
from his persecutions, 'was an inmate of this
house, and might very justly resolve to betray
him, when she found he was a friend of Miss

Appleton. Perhaps this very night she would

tell her story to her kind mistress. He saw no

way.to prevent it. He beat his brains in a
vain attempt to invent some way of communi-
cating with Mildred, but could think of none
that would be safe. He knew very well that
she would keep out of his sight. He dare not
attempt to bribe a servant to take her a note
-—he was too experienced in guile to compro-
mise himself in any such way as that. So that
what should have been a most delightful eve-
ning was spoiled utterly for him. He took an
early leave, immediately after which Honoria
flew up stairs to her own room where Mildred
sat doing a piece of embroidery, to confide to
her companion that she had often heard her
cousin Otis praise Mr. Pomeroy, and that he
was a. most delightful fellow, “and, oh, would
you believe it, Milla, he actually almost made
love to me!”

Milla looked gravely into the beautiful,
flushed face.

“ I hope he never will come any near-
er to it,” she said. ’

“ Why? What is the matter with you?” ask-
ed her young mistress, all the haughtiness of
the Garner blood flashing into her face.

“ I am sorry. It is not my place to receive
impressions or to seek to benefit you by them,
if I do. I spoke too hastily.”

“ No, you did not!” cried Honoria, her sud-
den temper subsiding. “If you had an im-
pression or this flattering gallant, let me hear
it, please, little one. I am not so pleased with
him as you think, though it is fun to listen
to the nice things he has to say l—but I know
cousin Otis admired him. ” ‘

“ I should say—if you will make .me, Miss
Appleton—that the gentleman who rode with
us this afternoon is not a person of any princi-
ple. I should suspect, if he made love to you,
that he was a fortune-hunter. And I should
be afraid, if you married him, that he would
make you unhappy.”

“0h, mercy, child! How serious you are!
You really make my blood run cold! But nev-
er mind, do not fret about me. I am in no
danger of this terrible fate. My heart is al-
ready given away, Milla, would you believe
it? Given away,vand broken, tool Think of
that! Sometime if you and I get to be fast
friends, I will tell you all about it—for it’s
hard to have no one to talk to when one’s
heart aches so, Milla. I could never tell any
one but you. You are so sweet and so beguil-
ing, it will come out, to you, some day.”

- She spoke quickly and gayly, yet the tears
sprung to her eyes. Mildred saw them and her
own heart began to beat wildly. Oh, what
was this that this beautiful girl was going to
tell her? That she, too, loved Otis Garner?—
and that he loved her? Could she boar tohave
this said toher—his wife—who worshiped “ the
least sound of his foot on the stairway ”-the
least word he had ever spoken to her, the least
gift he had ever given her? Could she bear
to live and feel that she was the obstacle be-
tween these two cousins who were so worthy

 

without an interview with Mildred, or con- ,

triving to send her amessage. Taking his pen-

cil and note-book he paused by a street-lamp 1

and wrote anote, which he tore out of his book,
and then resumed his promenade up and down
the street.

The Garner mansion stood apart from its
aristocratic fellows, in a haughty seclusion of
its own, in the center of quite a plot of ground,
so that there were windows on every side
looking down on the north on a sheet of em-
erald velvet grass, and on the south on long,
narrow beds of flowers. Brummell observed
lightsin two of the rooms on the second floor,
on the south side of the house. While he pass-
ed and repassed, some one came to the Win-
dow of the rear room; a shadow fell for a mo-
ment—he recognized it!

“That is Mildred’s bed-room,” he said to
himself.

Again and again he walked up and down;
after a while the lights were out all over the
house, except the one which always burned in
the hall. He heard Shackles locking up, and go-
ing about to see that all the lower windows
were fastened. The window to Mildred’s room
above remained open, for it was a warm night.

The thoughtless girl had left the shutters open,
also. Brummell watched until the policeman
was at the furthest end of his beat, slipped in-
to the yard, and along by the beds of flowers
which were perfuming the night air, and threw
into the window the note he had written, and
which he had wrapped about some pebbles
which he took froo1 the flower-beds. He made
sure that it had fallen inside, then slipped out,
and away, to his hotel, before the watchman
had completed his round. ‘

Mildred was sitting in the dark by the win-
dow, still far too agitated to think of sleeping.
The note fell directly into her lap. She gave
a little smothered cry. Recovering herself
she picked up the intruding object. There was
light enough for her to see thaa it was a half
sheet of note paper wrapped about something
——and her first thoughtas ever was—Otis.

Perhaps Otis had seen her in this house and
took this way of communicating with her.
She never thought of the man who had sat op-
posite her in the carriage that afternoon.
Drawing down the curtain she re-lighted the
gas, and with trembling fingers and hurried

pulses, smoothed out the crushed paper. This
is what it contained:
“Your husband lives in Cambridge. He is pre-.

paring several boys for college, and lives very re-
tired. It was to see him that I went out this aften
noon. He in uired after you. Of course I could
tell him nothing, as I then knew nothing. If you
wish to see him, enoughto risk a trip wit me to ~C.
to-morrow, be at the corner of the block in the at-
ternoon at five o'clock, where I will meet you with
a oarria e. and take on to see him. You need not
be afrai of me, as l ave now a more serious suit
to which I am devoting all my attention."

 

CHAPTER. XII.
STRAIGHT mm was: SNARE.

I All tired, tired, tired of everything!” ex-
claimed Honoria, on the following morning, as
she sauntered idly out of the breakfast-room
and met her companion in the hall, who had
finished her breakfast some time before and
now stood looking up at the lovely face of a
statue of Psyche who held a flaming torch at
the foot of the grand staircase.’ ’

Mildred started, when she was addressed,
like some guilty creature.

'rHE WAR oiysaars.

 

‘ there.

 

She was pale, for

contending fears and desires had deprived her
of sleep, and looked sad; but she said, very
gently:

“What can I do to rest you, Miss Apple-
ton?”

“Come in the music-room here. It is cool,
and the air waited up from the flower—beds is
delicious. Aunt Esther wants me to go shop-
ping with her—but I will not desecrate such a
June morning as this by spending it in shops
—-not I! Yet I am just as tired of this weari-
some world as if it were not summer, and
there were no roses peeping over that sill,
It is I, you see, Milla, who am so tire-
some. I can’t get away from myself!” and,
with a. tragic sigh, the young beauty threw
herself down, in the most indolently graceful
of attitudes, into the arms of a fauteil whose
pale-gold satin cushions set 03 her dusky hair
and brooding, languorous, dusky eyes and
peachy—pale olive complexdon to the best ad-
vantage.

The poor companion looked at her beautiful
mistress with a. strange, wistful expression:

“It is so singular,” she said, “to hear you
call this a wearisome world! I thought it was
only the poor who found it so. ”

Honoria smiled bitterly, as if she knew bet-
661‘ than that.

“I will read you something out of this,
Miss Appleton,” said the companion, picking
up a small volume of blue-and-gold which had
strayed into the music-room. The book open-
ed in her hand of itself to a page bearing two
verses.

The girls made a fair picture in the cool,
shadowed room, the breath of roses blowing in
through summer curtains, and the rare old.
picture of St. Cecilia looking down on them
from over the grand piano. It would be hard
to say which was the prettiest of the two—the
stylish mistress, in her soft, fine morning—dress
of India muslin, her dark hair falling in ugh}
go over her shoulders, and no jewels but rose-
buds at brow and breast, caprice, lsnguor, dis-
satisfaction, and a half—scornful interest in the
words of the poem, revealed inher face; or the
delicate, flower-like young companion, sitting
near the window, a stray beam of sunlight
glinting on her golden hair which shadowed
her neck and cheek as she bent her pure, pen-
sive face over the little volume, while her voice,
soft, low and pathetic, trembled through the
music of the verses. These were Tennyson’a

m BEGGAR-IAID.

 

little poem: ~ V

Bermms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say
Barefooted came the beggar-maid
Before the King Cophetua.
In robe and crown. the king stepped down.
To meet and greet her on the way;
“ It is no wonder " said the lords,
“ She is more beautiful than day."

As shines the moon in clouded skies,
She in her oor attire was seen:
One praised er ankles one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mien. 5
So sweet 3. face, such angel grade,
In all that land had never been;
Cophetuu swore a royal oath:
‘ This beggar-maid shall be my queen!"

“ Such things never happen in real life,” re-
marked the reader, dropping the book listless-
ly in her lap.

Something in her voice attracted Honcria’s
attention, who looked curiously into the mel-

ancholy, drooping face, and then said, with a:

light laugh:

“Smnetimes. I have heard of similar cases!”

Perhaps this brought before her the image of
her reckless cousin ho had married a beggar—
maid, off-hand. She sighed, after her little
burst of laughter, and fell into deep thought.
After a. few minutes she looked up, saying:

“I wish I were pair, Mills.”

“ Oh, don’t say that! You were neverpoor,
of course,. or you would not wish it. If I
were placed where you are I should be the
very happiest creature alive I” and Mills clasp-
ed- her hands while the burning color rushed
into her pale cheeks. /

“And I am the most misemblel” cried Ho-
noria, suddenly, and large tears began to roll
down her face. _ .

l

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V'l'Il—vv

UV

 

THE WAR, OF HEARTS.

it:

 

 

“I don’t know why I should tell this to you,
Milla—onl y that my heart is breaking and I
must speak to some one. Yes, I am really,
really very wretched. And what do you think
makes me so? Oddly enough, it is this very
money that you wish you had! I hate it! It
is making me so much trouble that I wish it
were in the bottom of the sea. Now, Milla,
if I tell you this, you must never breathe
a word to any living so ”

“ I have no one to tell it to, madam.”

“ Did you ever hear anything said about my
uncle’s will?”

“ Not much,” answered the little companion,
with drooping face.

“It was in the papers—all about his leaving
everything to me. I did not know but that
You might have‘seen it. Well, Mills, there
was another person who had a better right to
the Property than I. I was not brought up to
expect any more than a small slice of it. For
the larger portion was to be my cousin’s. You
must understand that, as a young man. he had
a. right to expect more than I, a girl; and uncle
had always openly avowed that Otis was the
principal heir. He used to say, laughing, that
there was but one way for me to share equal-
ly—and that was—to marry—my cousin.”

“ Yes,” panted the listener, whose burning
eyes were fixed eagerly upon the blushing,
conscious face. .

“But I did not love him in those days,” Ho—
noria ran on, dreamily. “ I did not know my
own heart. I coquettcd with my cousin, and
teased him, until one day it came out that he
had done—he had always been a little wild—a
terrible thing.”

“ A terrible thing!” echoed the listener, in a
low voice.

“ He had made a foolish bet at his club, lost
it, and went out on the street, pledged to map
ry the first girl, under twenty, whom he met.
He redeemed his word. He met a beggar-girl,
and he married her. ”

“ He should not have done it,” murmured the
poor companion, “ for the girl’s sake as well as
his own, he should not have done it.”

“ You are right, Milla. But I have no room
in my heart to pity the girl; she should not
have taken up with such an offer. Well, when
it came to the ears of his uncle my cousin was
disinherited—driven out, penniless, .to earn his
bread, who knew no more how to work for
wages than a. child. He left this luxurious
home which you see, and went—m0 one knows
where. Then, when my uncle died suddenly,
last winter, instead of having softened toward
poor Otis, he had not only left everything to
me; but there is a clause in the will which for-
bids me to share anything with my cousin. If
I make him the smallest gift we both of us lose
the estate, which then goes to a distant rela—
tive. Imagine how I am situated! I tell you,
Mills, it is slowly but surelydriving me mm-
tic ——madl I never sit dOWn to our umptuous
dinners—I never ride out in our elegant car-
riages—I never take my ease in these rich
apartments that I do not feel like a thief—yes,
like a thief, Millal—robbing my cousin of What
is really his own. And the thought of his pri-
vations—of what his proud spirit must suffer
~01 the actual want he may be enduring—is
it not enough, is it not enough to keep me
wretched?"

“ Then you love him P” was the singular
reply to this agitated question, and the blue
ey%._ darkening and deepening, were bent
PlFl‘cmgly on the glowing, tear-wet face of her
mistress.

“ Mills! That is too much to say! I dare
P“ “k myself that question—for my cousin
‘5 aJJWI'ied man. He told me last Christmas
“P119 only tune I have seen him since he was
ngen 19% trOIIIhishorne—that he had never
lived with this wife of his—that he did not,
never Would love her—but she lshis wife, and
Belong as she remains so it would be wicked,
wrck for me to say or think what you have
“Eid- . 91? any one, with a heart or a con-
science, would be, unhappy to be placed as I
m- It IS not necessary that I should love mv
cousin to feel his wrongs. Why, child, you are

 

as pale as death! Are you fainting? What is
the matter?”

“It must be the heat—I did not sleep last
night,” gasped Mildred, on whose soul the
words—‘ that he did not, never would love her ’
—had fallen like ice and fire. She made a
desperate effort—oh, never must this proud
Honoria learn her secret now—and forced a
smile to her ashy lips.

“Poor lady!” she whispered, “you are not
so much to be envied, after all! No, no, I do
not wonder that you are not contented. One
so noble, so generous as you, can never be
happy while conscious that she wrongs another;
no, not even when she is the helpless instrument
of another’s revenge.”

This she said, by a great effort, to divert
Miss Appleton’s attention from her own un-
controllable emotion.

Then she arose from the seat she had taken
at her mistress’ feet, got the book of poems
again, and forced herself to read “Locksley
Hall ” in a quivering, palpitating voice, sweet
and sad as the moaning of an .EEolian harp,
setting the passionate heart-cry of the words to
the thrilling music of her pathetic voice.

Honoria listened to the poem, with bright
tears beading her long, black, silken eye-lashes,
and grew a little less bitter in her mood. As
soon as possible Mildred laid the book down
and slipped away to her own room, where she
walked up and down, pressing her hands to her
heart, and repeating, “never did, never could
love me!” over and over. >

When she had risen, after a sleepless night,
that morning, she had still been undecided
whether to trust herself to one so treacherous
asshe knew Brummell Pomeroy to be Fear
of him alternated with a passionate desire to
see the man who st00d in so strange a relation
to her.

Now she was resolved to risk whatever
danger there might be: a wild impulse to stand
face to face with Otis Garner, and ask him to
tell her, truly, if indeed he could never love
her—and if he says so, thought the deserted
wife, “ then—there is water enough in Charles
river to drown me.”

She had traveled already so far on the path
of despair that she was thinking of suicide as
a relief.

That afternoon Mildred came down, dressed
for the street, in a simple blue muslin and plain
straw hat, tied with a blue ribbon, and asked
permission of Miss Appleton to be gone a
couple of hours. Honoria noticed that her
little maid wore neat gray kid gloves and the
cunningest of kid boots.

“ She hasgood taste,” thought the mistress;
“she dresses like a lady, though her toilette is so
inexpensive;" and, “ you look like some sweet
little girl, Mills. Give me a kiss, and take
good care of yourself,” she said, before she let
her go.

“How can you spoil that chit by being so
free with her?” asked the prudent aunt, when
the companion had shut the hall-door behind
her. Honoi'ia never asked herself such a serious
question as that. .

Mildred, pale and trembhng, walked down
to the corner of the next street at precisely
five o’clock. Two minutes latera little phaeton,
all gilt and glitter, drew up. beside the curb.
Mr. Pomeroy, attired in his noted elegant
style, himself drove the two black ponies at-
tached to the dashing little qpen carriage. He
sprung out when he saw Mildred, offering his
hand to assist her in.

“Oh! Mr. Pomeroy, must we go in this?” she
asked, shrinking. . .

“Not good enough for Otis Garner’s wife,
eh?” he replied, laughing-

“ You know what I mean. It is too conspi-
cuous,” and Mildred looked as if about to run
away.

“Not at all. I shall be proud of my fair
companion. - Otis maybe ashamed of you, but
I am not. ”

Mildred flushed with indignation at the lat-
ter part of this speech; but the wild cry of her
heart to see Otis, overcame even her resent-
ment, and her dislike of observation, and she

 

stepped into the phaeton. As she seated her-
self she drew the everlasting blue veil over her
face.

Brummell, taking his place by her side, sud-
denly, and as if by accident, sent the veil sail-
ing of! on the wind.

“Oh, my vaill”

“Never mind it. It’s very unbecoming to
you, little Mildred, and it’s not worth my rim-
ning after.”

So saying, Brummell spoke to his fiery little
ponies, and they were ofi! down the street lik’o
a summer breeze.

Mildred was so distressed at the loss of her
sheltering vail that she could hardly repress
her tears. It seemed to her, too, as if Mr.
Pomeroy took the most frequented streets, and
that he bowed to every second person he met.

That he had a devilish purpose in doing this
she did not suspect; but she felt very awkward
and out of place—very uncomfortable and
ready to cry, as she sat by lis side, while he
bowed, right and left, to his fashionable ac-
quaintanoes.

 

CHAPTER XIII.
“svsar m’s nun aoarnsr urn."

ON the m( ming after that Christmas frolic
on the ice, which had ended so disastrously,
Pentacket experienced the severest mental
shock—followed by the wildest excitement—
which it had ever been the fate of that good
little town to endure.

The first person who chanced to be crossing
the river at about the spot where the school-
master was supposed to have skated into an
air-hole, made a strange discovery. In the
first place it must be explained that the air-
hole was not caused by the air seeking exit
through a thin place in the ice; it had been
cut through ice eighteen inches thick by the
farmers of that vicinity that they might ob-
tain water for their cattle; consequently, a
person could approach to the brink.

The farmer, who came early that morning
to dip water from the, river, and who had not
then even heard of the accident of the pre-
vious night, observed three things which
caused him to look about him in surprise and
apprehension. The first was blood—blood
along a trail of about a rod, ending at the
hole; the second was a bloody pocket-knife,
thrown off into the alder-bushes along the
bank; the third was, on the very edge of the
ice, almost falling into the water, a man’s fur-
trimmed kid glove.

With a prudence which did him credit, the
farmer touched nothing, but Went directly to
two or three of his neighbors; and these,
in turn, sent for the town constable, who took
the knife and the glove in charge, and scooped
up some of the red drops from the ice, that .Dr.
Bolus might experiment with them, and say
whether or not they were drops of human
blood.

Ruth Fletcher had risen from her bed that
morning looking like the ghost of the blooming
girl of yesterday. She was deadly pale, there
were dark circles about her eyes, and the eyes
themselves had a shifting look of terror—and
something different from more terror—pitiful
to see. None of the family had retired until
long after one o‘clock, the sad news of the I
schoolmaster"s probable death having shocked
them too greatly to permit them to think of
rest for some hours. They had all liked Mr.
Otis, and the fact that he had left their own
fireside alive and well such ashort time before,
made the accident seem very distressing to
them.

No one thought it strange that Ruth showed
the effects of the shock so plainly. She had
been a favorite pupil of the teacher’s and he had
been a visitor at her father’s hone. Such of
the neighbors as dropped in to discuss the
event expected to find that Ruth Fletcher took
it pretty hard.

Several of these were in the sitting-room
talking over the affair again and again in its
every slightest known or inferred particular—
while Ruth, with cold hands clenched together ‘

   
 

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sued for the arrest of Jasper Judson for the

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rigs WAR or HEARTS.

 

 

 

 

in her lap, stared into the fire as if she heard
nothing—when a knot of girls, with two or
three young fellows, rushed into the house pell~
mell;

“ Do you know what has happened?” cried
the foremost.

“No,” answered Mrs. Fletcher, while Ruth
turned her head, gazing at them with strange,
wide—open eyes. - .

“They have found blood on the ice, and a
glove. The glove belonged to Mr. OEIHW
know those gloves, Ruth, with the fur band at
the wrist—but who do”you think the knife be—
longs to? Jasper Judson’s initials are cut on
handle, and we’ve all of us seen him with a
knife like this one. Now, what do you think
of that?”

Ruth arose to her feet and faced them. She
was white as snow, and her eyes burned with
a terrible look.

“ It only proves what I told him last night,”
she said, in a high, thrilling voice. “ I told
Jasper Judson that he had murdered him—and
now you all know it as well as I "—after say-
ing which she fell down on the floor uncon-
scious.

When she came out of the dead faint into
which she had fallen it was evident that her
mind was affected; she was ill, and was taken
to her room, where she lay for weeks raving
in the delirium of brain fever.

Before sunset of that day a warrant was is-

murder of Henry Otis; and the sheriff, with
a heavy heart, took his way to the hitherto
happy home of Squire Judson, whose pride,
ambition, hope were all wrapped up in his only
boy. A thunderbolt which should tear his
hearthstone from under his feet could not have
so appalled the squire, as did the call of the

cor who was sorry enough to make his er-

d known. Mrs. Judson ordered the sheriff
out of her house in her anger and indignation.

H For the murder of Henry Otis.” “ The wind-flower and the violet.”

“ His murder? His murder :9 I thought it were struggling through the moss in the brown

‘ was well known and proven that he slipped in- old woods about Pentacket—the snow had
to an air-hole in skating, and that there was no melted from the hills and gleamod only here
one‘at hand to help him.” . I and there in the hollows—the stems of the wil-
l ‘ So it was thonght last night. But things  lows along the river wore a bright gold, and
have come todlght to-day which justify the , little crimson tufts were showing all over the
Citizens In asking for 8- warrnnt for your ar- g maples-the sound of running waters filled the
 ' April nights with music—when Ruth Fletcher
Who accuses me?” i came out of the brain fever which had held her

 

. lawyer of the county to consult with the pris-

 

He was very gentle with her, but he made her
understand that he had no choice but to look
the house over for her son. 3

“ He is gone,” she then said. “He took the E
black team and the light cutter just before ‘
noon and drove off as if he were possessed. I
thought he had gone to take Ruth Fletcher out
riding,” and then the poor mother sunk into a
chair and wept and moaned—it had come over 
her, “ all in a flash,” how Jasper had behaved
all the morning! I

He would not have any breakfast; and had
been seen by his father, sitting on an old sled

As we have said, the sherifl pitied the pa—
rents and his prisoner; perhaps the very at-
tempt to justify his own course, then, urged
him to make the cruelest possible reply.

“Ruth Fletcher was the first to put the
general suspicion into words. She says that
she knew, last night, that you had killed Mr.
Otis out of hate and revenge.”

“ Ruth said that!”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say she did; and I’m
more sorry to think, Jasper, that jealousy of
any man should have led you to such a crime.
There isn’t a gal on earth is worth it," moral-
ized the constable. “ And now, see, what a
box you’ve got yourself into. I’d rather be
tied up and whipped than lay a hand on you,
Jasper; but I must do my duty.”

Not a word of reply did Jasper make; not a
particle of resistance, as the three men sur-
rounded him. He did not even look back at
his moaning mother, who stood in the door
wringing her hands; but stepped into the
sleigh provided for him, and allowed himself
to be driven into town and up to the door of
the jail, which he entered without turning his
head to the left or right, or seeming to feel
any emotion.

The next day when his father sent the best

oner on a. line of defense, Jasper simply repeat-
ed the story he had told when he returned to
go spectators, after his race on the ice with

tis. ~ '

“You need not trouble ’to get up any de-
fense of me,” he said, to the lawyer, indiffer-
ently. “I would as lief be hanged as not. In-
deed, under the circumstances, I think 1 would
rather prefer hanging to living.”

“ You will have to remain here in this cell
until the first of June, anyway, Judson. Court
does not sit until them-the fall term adjourn-
ed not long ago. You will have some time to
decide whether you really want to defend
yourself or not. I will not hurry you. You
will feel differently in a-few days."

But Jasper did not seem to have changed his ‘

 

behind the barn, his face buried in his hands 1 mind at the end of a few days—or weeks. The
and his shoulders drooped; so that the squire {square set of his lips grew more decided;
had come in and said l0 her: “,He was afraid ‘the resolute, almost dogged look in his deep
Ruth had given the boy the mitten he seemed gray eyes never changed; he did not deny; he
so doWn in the mouth.” And then he had did not complain; he did not open his heart to
taken their best span of horses, just before noon- 1 any one—not even to the heart-broken mother
dinner, and without eating a morsel, had driven 5 who came every day to spend an hour with
away at full speed. i him; and she, he knew, in common with the

“If he’s gone, he’s run away, that's all,” said , rest of the world, believed him guilty. Yes,
the sheriff. “I shall have to telegraph all x Mrs. Judson believed her son guilty, because

for three months, more dead than alive, and
looked up feebly in her mother’s face with hol-
low oyes of recognition.

During the muttered delirium which had
held her so long, she had constantly been the
accuser of Jasper Judson. The story of her
love-affairs in broken, wild, incoherent bab-
blings, was told over and over; and pieced to-
gether by those who watched over her sick bed.

“ J usper was angry—angry—because I threw
his ring away!” she had cried, tossing her head -
from side to side, and staring with the bright
eyes of fever from one to another face.

The ring thus referred to by the delirious
girl, was found after some weeks, where she
had flung it away that fatal night, and was
taken as proof positive that she was telling
facts in her ravings.

And so it was that Ruth was, from the very
first moment when she denounced him, the
Worst enemy of the young man who loved her
with all the strength of his powerful nature.

The delicate trailing arbutus was perfuming
the moist forest nooks when Ruth came out of
the long and weary confusion of madness, and
looked once more consciously upon the things
about her in the room where she had lain as
close a prisoner as J usper in his cell.

For several moments her largo eyes, now
sunken in her wasted face, looked quietly at
her mother and around upon the familiar, ob-
jects of her bed-chamber. When her lips
moved her whisper was so faint that Mrs.
Fletcher had to bend her ear close to listen.

“ Why are you here, mother? Have Mr.
Otis and David got back from school yet? Is
anything the matter with me?”

She had yet to endure, weak as she was, the
shock of returning memory — of dre
knowledge. Her mother spoke to her very

3 soothingly, and was telling her that she had
been ill for a little while, when Ruth suddenly

cried, “ Oh!” and began to weep so desperate-
ly that it was feared that the wasted chord of
life would snap outright under the strain of

memory and grief.

 

CHAPTER XIV.
31 run RIVER AT MIDNIGHT.

MnDnED was inexpressibly relieved when
they were finally beyond the precincts of the
crowded city; still it was not much better in
Cambridge, and the hour was just that charm-
lng one before tea when every one was out.

“ Mr. Pomeroy, where is Mr. Garner? 1:;
seems to me as' if we had been up and down

about him to have him arrested wherever he
is." '

But the omcer was mistaken in his very na- 5
turn] inference; Jasper had not run away;

,of his strange conduct the day of his arrest,

' and because of his hearing since.
She forgave him and yearned over him as
a mother will; she said to herself that the boy

just as the sheriff was about leaving, with the 1 had always a quick temper, and that the school-
two aids he had placed at the front and bank  master must have provoked him in some in-
doors, the young man of whom he was in , tolerable manner.
search dashed up to the porch On which he was ‘ January and February dragged slowly along.
standing—with the splendid blacks all asteam ‘ Much search had been made for the murdered
and foaming at the month, they had been ; man’s body down at the mill-dam, where it
driven so hard—flung the reins over their}was thought it would go over and be found
backs, leaped out of the cutter, and touched his 1 below, where the water was too rapid for ice ,
fur cap politely to the visitor. . l to form. ‘
That gallant salute, and the clear way in 3 When it was not discovered there itwas con- ‘
which Jasper’s eyes seemed to inquire of him cluded that it had caught against and been
the reason of his visit, made it very embar- l held under the ice by some snag, or the long :

 

tossing work for the officer, whose face flushed ? ‘
and whose voice trembled, as he clapped hisl
hand on the handsome young fellow’s shoul- i
der, saying: '
“ You are my prisoner.”
1 ‘;’Your prisoner! I should like to know what
or

 

roots of the elm reaching out from the bank.
It would be a hopeless task to cut away a. l
half-mile of two-foot ice; and 50 Public anxiety
and expectation were fain to wait until the
warm spring rains should break up the ice and
bring the ghastly proofs of murder to light.
Of course if the body should be found to bear

Jasper’s tone was as haughty as any that , a knife-wound, the proof wouldbe clear enough
ever issued from the aristocratic lips of theagainst young Judson.
city schoolmaster. 1

every street in Cambridge,” she asked, at last,
as the golden light of the setting sun striking

‘ under the arches of the roadside elms warned

her that it would be late—very late—when they
should reach Miss Appleton’s, on their return,
after her promised interview with her hus-
band.

“ He is to meet us at Mrs. Miller’s; where we
are all three to have ices, and then I am to
drive away for a half-hour, leaving him at
liberty to talk with you. It is now precisely
the hour when we were to arrive—and here we
are at Miller’s. ”

The phaeton drew up before a little place, w
nowned among students for its delicious creams
and water-ices; Pomeroy called a boy to hold
the horses, lifted his companion out—paused,
an instant, to look at her in a. sort of wonder
to behold the change which had come over her
pale, cold face; a change like that over some
exquisite landmape, when some somber cloud
is lifted and the “vest sunshine suddenly “-
lumines iii—and escorted her into the place»
leading her well back to the further and of the

 

    
 

/

Y... > k. 4“

THE WAR OF HEARZS.

 

- you something.

'  “mydouol'xoow‘m ‘ ‘ ~

 

room, and choosing a table which overlooked a
little garden in the rear.

Mildred cast her shining, expectant eyes

about—a few 'people were eating ices, here and
there, but Otis, evidently, had not yet ar-
rived. '

“. It’s curious that Garner should be late—on
such an occasion," remarked Brummell, after
they were seated. “We will wait a. few mo-
ments before ordering our ices,” and he rut-
tled on in a gay style about various light sub-
jects, to which Mildred, growing every mo-
ment more pale and listless, made little or no
response; for, indeed, she heard scarcely any-
thing he said—eyes, ears, heart were absorbed
inthe watch for her dilatory husband. Ten
minutes having passed Brulnmell wound up an
elegant criticism upon the manners of Ameri-
can girls in public places with the sudden ob-
servation:

“.I do believe Otis has played us a trick, af-
ter all! We may as well order what we are
to have; and if he does not put in an appear-
ance by the time we have finished our ices,
why, there will be nothing to choose—we must
get back to the city in good time.”

“ Yesvyes, indeed 1' We must hasten our
return, Mr. Pomeroy. I did not notice how
late it wasgrowing. I do not care for an ice
—indeed, indeed, I prefer to go, now.” Poor
Mildred, so absorbed in watching for Otis, just
began to realize that twilight was deepening
without. ‘

But Pemeroy gany insisted on the ices; and,
not to attract too much attention to herself and
her uneasiness, the girl choked down a few
spoonfuls, while hoping, wildly hoping to the
last, that Otis would keep his appointment.

The disappointment was terrible; but she
dared not let her spirits or strength fail her, as

. they threatened to do—--she must get home first.

She looked so pale and faint that Pomeroy of-
fered her his arm on the way back to the car-
ridge, and she was obliged to accept it. Still
no thought of treachery on her companion’s
part had occurred to her. As he assisted her
into the phaeton some one passed along the

pavement, with a slow step and head sunk on ,

his breast. ’

As she seated herself Mildred caught sight
of_his face, pale‘under the light of twilight
skies.

" Otis!” she cried, with a. voice that was al-
most». scream of joy. .

,He turned quickly, took a step toward the
earnings, stopped, cast a look of contempt at
the pale, beautiful face leaning toward him—
a look of scorn, anger and surprise at his old
friend, Brummell’, who touched his hat grace-
fully, throws half-dollar to the boy who had
heldhis horses, took the reins and drove gal.
lastly away, but not before Garner had re-
sumed his walk without maldng any response
to his sanitation.

“0h, stay! stay!” cried Mildred, clutching
at  reins, wild with despair. "He meant
tobe,tberel He was only a. little ‘latel Let
us go back. We must go back!” , '

‘_‘He would not speak to us if we did, my
little lady. Did you not notice his grand air
of scorn ofsucb people asyou and I? He is
angry to see you with me.’ '

“ Then I must get out, and explain itto him.
I am going to jump, Mr. Pomerey, if itJn'lls
m”

Re slipped a firm arm about her waist,
While he urged his team into a rapid trot.

’ ‘.‘ Little feel, he quiet—,he is far out of sight,
and you would never and him. I want to tell
.' V ' Listen. Your husbaudnever
made ‘3, figpointment to meet you. It was al-

, , an accident our meeting him, as we
did, 3M.W.; I told you a little; story, fair
0m?» WWQXPR to come out riding with me
“1115 PM“ Afternoon. I wanted to
get you in my rower, Not to make love to
yam-ulrssonmkwmdto do; but tohave
it in 111?er to. W. on. if it should be-
coins neomw- . . _, .9: my 

‘ tomes harem comm; mom 4.
. ‘ but
you are pretty enwsh to pique their imricdty’.

\

 

They will, inquire about you and I will ton
them you are the wife whom poor Otis Garner .
married, on a wager, and deserted. They will
wonder why a mu m-ied lady went out with me
~—-took ices at Miller’s with hie—they will
think you gay and careless, to say the least,
for a person placed in a position demanding so
much prudence as yours. You see, what
your husband suspected the instant he saw us
over in Cambridge together. He took it for
granted there was a flirtation going on. Oth-
ers will look at it in the same light.

“ Now I do not desire to use this power
which my little use has given me, except un-
der certain circumstances. I came to visit
Miss Appleton and I found you installed in her
house without her suspecting who you are.
You do not like me. You have no reason to. ‘
You can tell Miss Appleton things which will
damage me in her eyes. ' Now, I have taken a
fancy to that superb young lady. I have done
more than that—I have made up my mind to
marry her. Ilike her and I like her money;
the money which her spiteful old uncle was so
considerate as to take away from the nephew
for marrying you, aadyso good as to give to
the niece. I propose to enter into a contract
with you that we shall let each other alone.
You must promise me not ,to interfere with

my suit—not to betray to Miss Appleton the _

attentions I once p'aid ou—not to disparage
me'to her by, look or hint, but, rather, as far
as you have any influence at all, to cast it in
my favor. You must promise me this; in re-
turn I will promise not to betray you to any
of my friends, to explain our drive to Otis if I
ever see him again, and not to hint to the lady
anything in your disfavor. Refuse, and I will
ruin your character with her and with Gar-
ner. Say anything against me, and I Will tell
her that jealousy is the cause of your detrac-
tion, and explain to her where you were this
afternoon, out riding with the bad man whom
you decry! You, see, you are in my power!
Do you promise me never to say a word against
me, and to do what you can to promote my
suit with Miss Appleton?” _

Mildred pressed her pale lips together in si-
lence. She would enter into no compact with
this sooundnel. Yet, as he said, he had her
good name in his power, and she shuddered asshe_
recalled that blasting look of contempt which
the man she loved—adored, with the pure
adoration of a young girl’s trusting nature——
and to whom she had been united before God’s
stiller, had cast upon here. few moments be-

ore. ,
.Shehad been. imprudent in trusting herself
With this bad man; but one need hardly ex—,
poet a. great deal of worldly wisdom in a little
creature bar ysoventeen; and she had been
led into this _ or only by the strong wish to
see again that husband who had come to her,
like some splendid being out of some superior
world, to win her love only to leave her. To
see him what would shemt do? She had lean-
ed on the broken reed of Brummell Pomeroy’s
honor—and this was the result! I

“ Do you promise?” repeated the man b
her side, in that low, concentrated, almost
hissing tone, which is so eloquent of a ma,-
licious will set to have its own way.

Little Mildred looked at the blue sky, where
the first large star of night was beginning to
burn, and where, along the summer horizon,
the blush of the June sunset yet lingered...
looked about at‘ the shining river, the thousand
lamps of the great city they were approaching,
the bridge,'the masts of the distant shipping——
With a. mute appeal in her large, innocent eyes
that might _ have touched the Very stones of
the street. But there was nothing and no one
to befriend the orphaned and deserted child.

Mlldl'ed had. loomed to love her husband’s
young, Proud, beautiful cousin very tondly.
NO.“ to save herself would she injure Roderic.
And it "WWW minty of the most irretriev-
able character to allow herb) be deceived into
loving and marrying I W Iikethie pus-.-
lite, fop and scoundml who 35.: W
hisplannoher. Sheeould not an] hoi- up.

by such a pledge as he required'ot her,

 

 

She knew that Honoria loved Otis; and-Ibo .
would only have been too glad to see her in»,
terested insome other man-what notin Brom-
mell Pomeroy—mot in that base creature.

The  black ponies flow along through
the soft twilight; Brummell leaned forwardxo
study the face of the silent girl by his side——
leaned forward, with an infernal smile, to see
the effect of his avowed purposes on the pure
mind of the child-woman which, so. for. ht? had.
been unable to corrupt; and -as he 80 leaned
and looked the feet of the horses struck the ‘
long bridge, and to conform with the rules be
had to restrain their speed and break them
down to a. walk. ~ .

Resolved not to promise, desperate, loathing
the necessity for remaining an instant longer
by his side, Mildred suddenly arose to her feet
and sprung out upon the bridge. ,

Brummell drew rein; his face was dark and.
threatening. , .

“ Return, Mrs. Garner, or youlwill be sorry.
You risk agreat deal, for such a. little prudl
as you are, alone on this bridge at this hour.
Are you not afraid?” '

“ Yes—of you.” .

“I am not, at present, your greatest danger,
little simpleton ”

“ God will take care of mo.”

" You think so. Do you know whatlI shall .
dot—drive directly to Miss Appleton’s, tell her
where I saw you last, and what you, are. I-

I

shall not make you out Ii saint, either, my ,

little lady.”

Mildred would not,reply;rit would be useless v

to crave his mercy, unless she promised what
he wanted. She walked as rapidly as her
trembling limbs would allow away from the
carriage and in the direction of Cambridge.

A mad desire to see her husband was upon.
her—~to see him, and forestall the slander: of
this man whom she had made her, enemy—co
see him, and tell him how she only loved him .

more and more as the weary days rolled on, . *

and beg him to take her, all unworthy u Ibo
was, and try what a fond, faithful, idolatrous
little wife she would be to him. . y . ;
Brnmmell cast a. look after her and drove
on; hedidnotoarefora scene in the Met,
andhecouldnotleavehieteem. ~

Mildredhurliedalongthe roadatapace ’

which was, in one sense”: protection to her,
for it proved herto be out for some purpose'
beside loitering. Her dress was so plhin that
she was thought by passers-by to be some
sawing-girl going home after a day’s toil in
the city, and saving her car-fare by w .
Her hat was pulled down to shade m
as much as possible. . »
Soshehastenedonand came back into the
streets over which she had been whirledyin \a
carriage once that afternoon—first of All to.
Miller’s, whose door she passed and rapeseed
until a student, who had noted bier a'otions,
spoke to her andgiho fled like a frightened
dove. Then she wandered about the. Univer-
Sity buildings, for Pomeroy had said that Otis
was preparing a class to enter, and he, might,
perhaps, be in that vicinity. Hour after hour
Mildred wandered aimlessly about. She was
no longer exactly in- her right hind; 101‘ the

excitement, the disappointment, the drmd of I

the afternoon, combined with fear, fatigue,
andthewildcmvingtoflnd Qtigwarefut
rendering her feverish” and belt 4101111008.
More than once she was

lookingintbefaaeof every mnme
see if it might be him. i i . ‘
At ten o’clock the moon came up, rim I. in

her full Juno splendor. silver-lag the not»!!! ( _

towers  arches of the great clima- (of: .001-
loge bulldirigs, and casting black. Ibedawl un-v
der the-old elma. Poor little W 
dimly conscious of sebum.“-
snatches of sweetness more clumped.

I. “I ( u.

‘ ., ,, . ,,  . ,,, ..
1,1..,,,,,:, 13,. ,f ,_ . ,_  . ,. w , ,, _ ..

\

 

 

 

with

,"’

 

    

18

THE WAR OF HEARTS.

 

 

shining under the silver smile of the lustrous
heavens. '

“Oh, how my head aches,” sighed the poor,
forlorn child, “and how parched my mouth
is! I amsotired I cannot get to the water,
or I would bathe my forehead and have a
drink. AndI haven’t found Otis! He does
not care for me! Nobody cares for Mildred
now. Mother is dead. I am married, and
yet I am-‘not a wife. Otis would be very,
very glad if I were dead. I wish I were dead.
Yet, if I die, he will always believe that I was
bad, for that wicked man will tell him so.”

No, foolish Mildred, if you die, Brummell
Pomeroy will be too well rid of you to care to
let it be known to any that he ever spoke to
you or heard your name!

Mildred stumbled on toward the cool, shin-
ing water. Her slippers were wet through
with dew, her dress soiled and draggled with
dust and dew; she took of! her hat and drop—
ped it out of her listless hand as she went
along; her brain was dizzy, her fancies con-
fused; she wanted to die; she wanted to
quench her thirst; she wept because she had
not found her husband; she started and looked

not be disturbed by all the butterflies of Bos-
ton basking in your glory.”

“What are you doing, Otis? Where do you.
stay?”

“Not so many miles from here. I am
coaching some young fellows for the fall ex-
amination. When that is through with I
don’t know what I shall do. But you don‘t
answer me, cousin!”

“ Because I dare not—ought not. Oh, Otis.
I would rather you would never come near me
at all than always to talk to me so when you
have no right.”

“ Is that prudishness, Honoria, or a way to
get rid of me?”

“God knows, if I could take your place and
give you mine, Otis, I would do it only too
gladly. I feel like a thief, eating your bread,
stealing your place! Uncle was cruel to me
as well as to you, Otis,” and she sobbed.

“But you don’t love me?”

“Say I do not, cousin Otis: that will end
it.”

“ Good-by, then, Honoria."

“ Good—by.”

She heard him move away, but she would

| “ Ah! I dare say she made you think so.
i To me—I will say it, now that you have found
her out—she looked like one of the slyest, most
cunning of her class. You are too trusting,
:too generous, Miss Appleton. Do not think
i any more of that little serpent. I am jealous,
‘ you seel Iwant you to think of me.” And
then, without actually declaring himself, or
saying anything so definite as to alarm her or
1 give her a chance to refuse his suit, Brummell
‘ made love to the glowing, blushing, half-
retreating young beauty in a way that, had
not her sad inner thought been fixed so per-
sistently on her absent cousin, would certainly
have had the effect he wished.

It was after ten when Brummell went away.
Late as it was, he had scarcely gone half a
block from the house when the bell was rung
again, and Shackles, who was about to bolt the
door, opened it, to admit his young master,
Otis Garner.

“Ah, Mr. Otis!” he cried, joyfully.

“Hush, Shackles. You are Well, I hope.
Is Miss Appleton still down-stairs?”

“ Yes, sir; in the drawing-room.”

“Well, I am going in to see her. You need

 

not call him back. The struggle in her sob-

about for fear Pomeroy was following her— Inot say anything to any one about my being
and so, weeping, sometimes lifting her wild, [here,” and Otis stepped forward to the open
lovely face to the sky and praying, sometimes Idoor of the drawing-room, followed by the
sinking upon her knees she was so faint and (sorrowful eyes of the old servant, who noted
tired, Mildred struggled toward the river, lthe paleness of the young man’s face, the
reached it, stooped over the lush grasses of ; gloom of his manner, and—fact equally solemn
the bahk, but, before she could taste the wa- to the valet—the last season's cut of his
ter, grew dizzy, tottered and sunk back on the ! clothes.

damp grass in a deep swoon. “ Cousin Otis!”

“Yes, Honorla, but do not alarm the house.
I came to see you. You seem to have plenty
of admirers! I have been hanging about,
waiting for the last of them to go away, for
at least two hours. Do you have good times
nowadays, cousin?"

Tears started in the girl’s dark eyes.

“Do you have good times, cousin Otis? I
know you do not, and it troubles me all the
time. Even if I were not in mourning for
uncle, I could not be really happy, Otis, so
long as I felt that you were banished from
your own house and home.”

“Then you still think of that, sometimes!”

“I think of nothing else—nothing else.”

“If I were not a married man, would you
love me, Honor-in?”

“You have no right to ask.”

“I have a sort of moral right.
plain.
as the law calls her—out riding with a gay
young man of the town. They drove to Cam-
bridge, stopped at Miller’s for ices—were hav-
ing a good time, generally. What was I to
think of thatl—thut she was breaking her
heart for mel- No, indeed. She is evidently

 

CHAPTER XV.
rann'raw WITNESSES. .

WHEN it came time to shut up the house for
the night, and her little companion had not re-
turned, Miss Appleton felt uneasy, almost
alarmed; but concluded that Mildred had
friends with whom she had been persuaded to
pass the night, and so went to bed and to1
sleep without much delay.

When morning failed to bring Mildred, and
afternoon also, she wondered more than a lit-
tle over this unlooked—for desertion. She had
grown very fond of her companion—hired for
wages, it is true, but almost her own age, and
so pretty and refined that she had made friend
and confidante of her—and now missed her
more than she would like to acknowledge.

It seemed like downright ingratitude in
Milla to behave so, for she had been very,
veryrkind to her.

Honoria dressed herself for visiting and
made a call or two on intimate friends; came
home to a dull tea with her aunt, thought how
pleasant Mr. Pomeroy had made that hour the
evening previous, and was called from the tea- . able to take care of herself; I shall not trouble
table to the drawing-room to entertain first? my conscience any longer about her. She will
one, then two or three, and finally a half-dozen 1 do something had before long; then, if she
young gentlemen who dropped in to pay their ,does not seek a legal separation from me, I
respects, and sun themselves in the beauty of  shall from her. I wanted you to know this: I
the young heiress. The last to come and the wanted you to promise to wait for me. So I
last to go was Mr. Pomeroy. He had bowed ' came here once more to tell you. I I feel hap—
himself into Honoria’s presence with morelpier now thatI am certain that girl cares no
trepidation than he often felt; for he was in ' more for me than I for her. But I have been
doubt as to whether Mildred hadreturned here, deucedly jealous, walking up and flown under
and told her story of his infamous conduct; I your Win iuws all the evening, seeing, through
but as soon as be perceived, from Honoria’s 5 the parted curtains, all these moths singemg
friendly manner, that he was still unbetrayed, ' their wings in your radiance. _It did seem
he recovered all his assurance and made him— 1. hard for them all to have more rights in the
self the envy and the despair of the “younger 1 house than I. Honoria, supposing 1 come to
fry,” who one by one retreated, leaving him, you at the end of a year or two, free'to marry
at last, alone in the company of the bewilch- you, what can be done about this money
ing young beauty. He remained to the last business? If you love me as I love you, you
on purpose to learn what he could about Mil- i will be willing to give up everything to this
dred; and it was not many minutes before he relative, whoever he is, and share my poverty
had led Honoria on to confide to him the I with me. Do you love me as much as that,
strange conduct of the girl in going away’ sweet! Answer me. ” .
without warning and failing to return. “Otis, I shall never answer such questions

“Do you think any accident, or anything as these so long as you are bound as you are
wrong, hashappenedto her, Mr. Pomeroy? I to another. You ought not to ask them—I
should be miserable if I thought so; and have bught not to answer them.” I
he police looking for her, immediately.” “ But it is so hard to live and hope on w1th-.

“Do not trouble yourself about that girl one, out any encouragement. I don’t want you to
moment,” Brummell said. “They are all the! do or say anything wrong, my sweet. I only

Let me ex-

 

 

same—deceitful and ungrateful." want to be sure that you love me enough to
“But' Milla was not like others!
was 7) ‘

Shel wait for me. If I was certain of that I should

Day before yesterday I saw my wife— I

bing, panting breast was terrible; but she
could not, would not allow this man whom she
loved to make love to her, under the circum—
stances. She knew that he had forged the
chain which bound him in an hour of reckless
sport; but his will could not break it as easily

as it assumed it. v

This brief visit from her cousin made an im-
pression on Honoria which did not wear away
in one day, or two, or many days. It filled
her with a sadness which kept down her
naturally gay spirits; but if it had no other
good effect, it had this—it kept her from yield—

!ing to the influence of Brummell Pomeroy’s

} persistent attentions.

1 July came, and with it such weather as

i drove the lingering young lady to the moun-

ltains. Before she went from home, she ad-

? vertised for M. L. to come or send an order
for the tnmks she had left at Miss Appleton’s;
then, there being no response to this call,
Honoria sought in the trunks themselves some

- clue to Mildred's identity and whereabouts.
‘ Thinking it only right to look after the proper-
ty of the missing girl herself, she thought to
I make a memorandum of their contents, so that
‘ if anything were lost during her absence she

would know of it. One sultry morning,

ltherefore, Honoria, with a goodly bunch of
keys, entered the bedroom of her vanished

'companion; but she had no needto try those

in: her hand, for the girl’s own keys layin a
little sewing-basket on a table.

i You anticipate what the young lady found
in those telltale trunks! The wedding-dress,
the wedding-vail, the costly string of pearls,
the withering bouquet of white roses and

, white violets—the certificate of marriage,

tbearing the names of Mildred Lovelace and
Otis Garner—a photograph of her cousin, Otis

.-—-the bank-book, still blank of any entries—

’all the dainty, expensive bijo'uterte which the

extravagant young fellow lavished on his fairy
bride before the blow fell ,which cut off his
‘ power to indulge in such gifts—all were here,
lying in the perfect neatness and order which
had characterized the little companion, mutely
telling the girl’s eloquent story to the proud
beauty who hung over the trunks, with pale
face and shining eyes and excited expression.

‘ So! she was Otis’ child—wife! She, the hum-
ble girl he had picked up out of the street and.
married! She, the one of whom her haughty

' Garner cousin was ashamed! Whom he had

' married in jest, and then basely deserted!

 

fidential hours together, rose before Honorin-
, The pure, exquisite face, the large soft 6783
that seemed to mirror heaven, the glorlmfs»
. glimmering, shimmering golden veil of him"
the sweet mouth, tremulous with sensibilitlfi
the slender, pliant figure round and delicath
‘ the look of purity and goodness—in short. M11.
! la’s own sweet self arose in her memory, and
the generous, ardent girl said to herself, With
1 flashing eyes:

The .
' image of Mildred, as she had been in their con' 

 

nah.--

 

 

5.q©|m“-fl_- .—

 

THE WAR OF HEARTS.

19

 

;

“ If Otis had been the Grand Duke himself
that girl was good enough for him. A Cin-
derella—a darling little Cinderella—and her
prince abandoned her! Oh, if I had known
while she was here I would have sworn to be
her sister! I would have seen to it that she
had justice done to her! Why did she come
here? Why! in the hopes of meeting him, of
course! Poor child! I would give everything
to know what has become of her. -

“What was that Otis said about her being
out driving with a gay fellow the afternoon
she left me? I cannot believe little Milla is bad. I
will not believe it. Haven’t I lived with her,
talked with her, watched herl—not even a
shadow of guilt ever passed over that white
soul. Otis is mistaken. I shall tell him so
when I see him. Ah! when will that be?
Poor cousin! I love him—but I love Milla,
too, and he must be made to love her! Yes,
from this moment, I give you up, Otis Gar—
ner.”

She arose from her knees beside the trunk,
looking before her with those bright, piercing
eyes as if she saw her cousin standing there;
pressed her hand tightly over her heart, set her
lips firmly together over the sigh that should
not escape them, and so stood for two or three
minutes. In that brief time died all the feeble
hopes she might half-c onsciously have cherish-
ed, that this unloved, unworthy wife might
die, or might do ill, and aim regain her cousin.
She no longer wished for this. As for herself,
she shelélfillive an old maid—as for Mills. she
should g t her battles for her, if the oppor-
tunity ever came.

At this juncture her eyes lighted on a little
diary lying modestly in a corner of one of the
trunks. Honoria would resent the idea that
curiosity had anything to do with her peeping
into it—it was only the desire to right the
young wife, which caused her to glance over
page after page on which little Mildred had
breathed out her heart in words of pure adora-
tion which taught Honoria that she, as yet, had
only. sipped at the wine-cup of love—had never
felt its true madness thrilling her veins.

“ How she loves him!” gasped the dark
beauty, almost breathless. “Ah, cousin, I do
not love you like that! And this fond wife is
capable of flirting with other men? More than
ever I doubt it. If I could find Otis i would
give him this diary to read.” And Honoria,
replacing it, relocked the tell—tale trunks and
went to direct her maid in the important ope-
:ztion of packing her own for her summer

111‘.

The next day she was off; the day after

Bmmmell Pomeroy followed in the same di-
rection. He was a. man of perseverance when
he had an object to gain which would further
his own interests; certainly, this beautiful bru-
nette, with her archness, her youth, her un-
trammeled possession of a vast property, was
an object worthy of his most patient efiort.
. Honoria did not enjoy her summer’s pleasur-
mg—though her way was strewn with con-
quests and the elegant Brummell had placed
himself at her service—so much as she might
have done had she not been over-anxious about
the fate of her cousin and poor, lost Milla.

Yet had she known about these, as she wish-
ed, she would not have enjoyed herself even in
that limited degree which'she did.

 

CHAPTER XVI.
m smean AT run oars.
anacxsr is a lovely little village in sum-
mer. It is in the north-Western portion of
Massachusetts in full view of the mountains,
and not far from a romantic little lake, while

‘ its own noisy, rapid little river runs through

charming nooks, and foams down man a roc

fan, The air of Pentacket is clear an 00:13:
when it is very sultry in some other places
its news are fine, its inhabitants know how ti;
win a living out of the advantages of their
situation, and, in hot weather, the village is
crowded with summer boarders. There is one
large, roomy, airy hotel, with verandas and.
green blinds, and a band of music and a ball--

 

room, which does a rushing business in July
and August; but a great many quiet people
prefer the seclusion of private dwellings, and
full half the families of Pentacket take board—
ers in the summer season.

The Fletchers did not live immediately in
the village; but their house—being fine and
large, with well-kept grounds, and their or-
chards and vegetable gardens and poultry
yards and meadows perambulated by hand-
some cows, giving flne promise of abundant
good cheer—was regularly besieged, each sum-
mer, by applicants for board. But, as Farmer
Fletcher and his wife thought they had enough
of this world‘s goods, and prized their ease
and privacy more than the dollars to be made
in such ventures, they seldom yielded to the
besiegers. Once or twice they had been in-
duced, out of pure kindness of heart, to take
in some invalid, whom they felt assured they
could benefit; but the spring of Ruth’s serious
illness Mrs. Fletcher had warned her husband
to give no encouragement to any stranger dur-
ing that summer.

“ It will keep my hands full waiting on
Ruth. ’Twill be months before she will be fit
to do for herself; and then, too, husband, this
affair about the schoolmaster makes me feel as
if I couldn’t endure to look a stranger in the
face, or to have to talk to ’em. We are all
concerned in it, you see, as ’twas Ruth’s ad-
miring the teacher urged poor Jasper to do
what he did. If he was my own son I couldn’t
feel much worse. First place, I liked the boy
and looked to his being my son some day; and
then, I can’t shake off a sense of responsibility,
seeing as Ruth's so mixed in it. Poor Ruth! I
don’t see what under the sun she took it into
her head to care for the master for! He was-
n’t our sort—and Jasper was. You see, I kind
of blame my own child—and she at death’s
door for her folly, tool—and it’s a miserable
business all around! A miserable business! I
should think Jasper’s mother would die out-
right, for it’s almost killing me. Oh, dear:
oh, dear! There don’t seem to be any way out
of it!”

No! There certainly was no way out of the
dreadful trouble of that summer! Jasper Jud-
son was pining away the long days in jail
awaiting the trial to come 011’ late in June;
her own daughter was struggling slowly, very
slowly up from that bed of fever and delirium
on which she had been so long stretched—and
Mrs. Fletcher. more grave and sad than even
in that season long ago when she had buried
another little girl, leaving only Ruth, went
about her house with a heavy heart.

Thus it happened that she would not listen
to the dulcet persuasion of a very beautiful
and stylish Boston girl, who, with her maiden
aunt—the aunt was suffering with a cough left
by a winter attack of pneumonia—had come
there the first 'of June and begged to be ac-
commodated, professing herself willing to pay
any price for rooms and board, as the aunt
disliked hotels, disliked villages, and craved a
quiet country place where she could. recover
at leisure.

The girl was a beautiful creature, aid had
such a sweet, coaxing way with her, that M
Fletcher found it hard to refuse her, softening
her refusal with the statement of her daugh-
ter‘s illness. She heard, afterwardl that the
ladies had concluded to take rooms at the hotel,
when the younger one—a great beauty and
heiress—was the observed of all observers.

Two or three days after the first application
came another. A livery hack drove slowly
through the winding drives of the lawn and
stopped before the steps of the porch which
ran across the front of the old stone house. It
had showered during the day; and the air was
sweet with the scent of roses and new-mown
bay. The slender pillars of the porch seemed
hardly able to bear up the weight of rose-
vines which clung to them, heavy with great,
drooping clusters of pink andwhite and red.

The meadows across the road were dotted
with haycocks thrown up hastily to escape the
damaging eflects of the summer rain. Birds
were darting aboutas if intoxicated by the joy

4'

 

of the hour, or by too many draughts of dew
from flower and tree. A few golden clouds
floated peacefully above the distant hills. For
the firs; time—since, on that terrible day fol-
lowing Christmas, she had been carried up
them in a fainting lit—Ruth had come down-
stairs. She was sitting in an easy-chair out
on the porch, dressed in a loose white wrapper,
with a white Zephyr shawl thrown about her
head and shoulders. ~

No longer the rosy, dimpled lovely school-
girl; but a grave, sorrowful invalid, her face
pale and thin, her figure a mere shadow of its
past rounded outlines; her eyes preternaturally
large and bright, setin her wasted face; and
her beautiful hair, that had once rippled far
below her waist, long ago cut from her fevered
head and now growing out in little curling
rings about her white forehead and. neck, giv-
ing her a childish look that contradicted the
sad expression on her features.

The poor girl had been brought down in her
father's arms and placed in the chair that she
might enjoy the beauty of the sky and the
freshness of the air. Her mother sat near her,
watching every feeble movement with a mo-
ther’s fond devotion, certain, now that Ruth
had actually left her sick-room, that she would.
get well. The child had asked for some roses,
and had pinned one in her white dress at the
bosom, and held the others in her lap idly
playing with them. -

It was this pretty and yet sad picture which.
met the eyes of the lady who descended from
the livery-hack, and came, rather timidly, up

the steps and spoke to Mrs. Fletcher.

“Dear madam,” she began immediately, in
a low voice, so pathetic that the very sound of
it touched the matron’s heart and won her
good will, “I want you to take me and keep
me this summer. I am able to pay you for all
the trouble I shall be to you. Do not say
‘no ‘—p!ease don’t say ‘ no ’-—for I am ill, and
a widow, and alone. ”

“ I am ill, a widow, and alone!” Could
words have greater pleading in them than
these? They went to the hearts of both mo-
ther and daughter, who gazed on, nevertheless,
a full minute without speaking. A widow!
this little childish, fairy creature, who did not
seem to have seen eighteen summers. They
could hardly believe it. But on her delicate,
wan, lovely face was impressed the truth of
the stranger’s story. The mourning garments
which so ill befitted the girlish figure, might
have been falsely assumed. But not the look
of still sorrow in those great solemn violet eyes
—-not the worn pallor of the young brow, nor
the lines about the sweet mouth. V

There was something strangely ap sling in
face, voice and figure. Tears—w ‘ch come
easily now—rose in Ruth’s eyes as she looked
at the lovely little stranger about whom there
seemed to be but one bright thing to relieve
her sable garments and pale face. Her beau-
tiful gold hair was this one bright thing. That
had the peculiar softness and light which
seldom outlasts childhood. .

Its bright, wavy masses gleamed under the
black bonnet, breaking out in rebellious ten-
drils and rings. Ruth reached out her thin
hand and touched her mother, signaling her to
grant the lady’s petition; Mrs. Fletcher was
already surrendering in her thoughts, and now
that Ruth approved, at once gave way to her
inclination to be gracious.

“We have refused every one,so far," she
began. “My daughter has been ill since
Christmas—this is her first visit down-stairs—
and I have had my hands full with her. But
Ruth says I am to take you—she must fancy
you, I imagineI—pnd I don’t careto go against
her will yet awhile. She’s a spoiled child,
ma’am, by reason of her sickness; and I must
let her have her own way, you see," smiling.
“What is your name!”

“Mrs. Lovelace, madame. I will tell youa
little about myself now, so that you may know
who you are to be so kind to. My father was
clerk in Mr. H—’s store in Boston; shortly
after he died I was married—very young, only
sixteen, madame—and my husband died in

 a ‘5

f
/

 

 

 

 

little over a year—between five and six
months ago. Meantime, I had 10:13 my mother
—you see I have had trouble. It has made
me ill, and the doctors sent me to Pentacket to
recuperate. I do not like to be at a hotel—I
will not stay in some gossiping boarding-house
—I heard of you, and I came to you.”

“I hope, my dear, you have come to the
right place," responded Mrs. Fletcher, in a
motherly tone, for she felt very much drawn
to the pale little thing who had had so much
trouble. “ Will you stop now?"

“Yes, if you will let me. The man can
bring my trunk up to-m'ght. I left it at the
hotel for fear you would not take me. I will
pay him for bringing me here and ask him to
return with my baggage.”

This bit of business being transacted, the
lady returned to the porch, and sinln‘ng down
in a. chair opposite Ruth, her great, solemn
eyes seemed to search the girl’s face

“You, too, have been very ill?” she said.

“Yes, I have had along, long, tedious time.”

“Perhaps you, too, have lost a dear friend 1”

Ruth’s eyes fell before the clear, solemn
gaze, and a faint blush rose in her colorless
cheeks.

“I have lost a very dear friend,” she felt
compelled to answer. “ Still, he was not a fa—
ther or a husband. I had no right to take it
so seriously. I think it was the shock that
made me ill, Mrs. Lovelace. He died sudden-
ly—was drowned—or—or———some say, was——
murdered. ” ‘

Mrs. Fletcher had gone in to see about put-

20 7 THE WAR OF haunts.

 

‘have been foolish, too, and I have suffered. I
thought a man could be won to love me who
never did. I loved him with a wild idolatry;
he was my king, my angel, my heaven; he was

‘my husband, too; but he seemed me in life,
and now, perhaps, scorns me in death. Men

‘ are cruel and wicked to us poor girls. - But it
is all over with me now, and I am only
eighteen.” '

“It is all over with me, too, and I am but
just seventeen.”

. “Not all over with you, child. You will

i love, and marry, and be happy.” -

[ “Never!” whispered Ruth, with such sad-

‘ness in her voice that the stranger tumed‘
away her face to wipe the tears which gather- 5

led to hear so despairing a word from one_so

. young. '

“ When does the trial of this young man

i take place?” the lady asked, presently.

! “ In two weeks, or a little over. And I

‘have got to go into court and give my testi-

. mony. It was I who first accused him. Oh, I
have prayed and prayed never to get well! I

i would sooner die than say the things against
my old friend and schoolfellow 1 shall have to

rsay then. But I am getting stronger every

‘ day, and they will take me there and compel

l me to say words against Jasper that may be

1 the means of his death. Mrs. Lovelace, if J as-
per dies, and by my mouth, I shall die, too. I
feel it.” .

Just then Mrs. Fletcher came to escort Mrs.
Lovelace to her room, while the father lifted
I his daughter tenderly and bore her back to the

ting a room in order for the stranger, and to ,l bed, where she lay pale, listless and exhausted,
tell Hannah to set the tea-table for one more, i tear after tear slowly oozmg from between her
so that Ruth and the lady were alone together. I Closed eyelids. I

Ruth was surprised at herself, when she came: I“ the menu time, in Her own room, the
to a pause, to think she had told so much to a stranger had flung herself down on her knees
stranger, when she had been utterly unable to i before a Window: and, With‘hel' Chin 011 the Sill
discuss the subject with her own family and If and her eyes fixed on the distant mountains
friends, It seemed as if the solemn eyes drew ! and sunset sky, remained in such a reverie that

the whole truth right out of her:

A little shudder ran from the lady’s head" to
her feet when Ruth pronounced—in an awed,
ghastly whisper—that word, murdered. It
might have been caused by'the summer wind

. blowing into her face a dash of raindrops from

the roses; anyway, she shivered, and when she
raised her handkerchief to wipe away the per,-
fumed drops, it was some time before she low-

/ ered it.

“I read of such—an occurrence—last win—
ter, in the papers. Pentackdt, I am sure, was
the name of the village. The—the—victim
was a school-teacher, was he not?” ,

“ Yes, madame. I and my brother attended
his school.”

“Was he—a married maul”

“ Oh, no! Certainly not."

“Not? And the young man, who is to be
tried—for the murder—was—jealous of him,
the man who drove me here said.”

“ I am afraid he was,” answered Ruth, trem-
bling and pale.

“ The schoolmaster paid particular attention
-—to you?” '

“I thought so, Mrs. Lovelace. Indeed, in-
deed, I was quite sure of it at the time. But

now, it may not have been anything serious—'

I see that! I admired him, and 1—1 was said

to be the prettiest girl in school, and he paid ,

me compliments and attentions until my head
was turned. But he may have been only
laughing at me, all the time. I think so now.”

Great tears were dropping down Ruth’s pale
cheeks; the lady pressed her hand against her
own heart, and asked:

“Then you were not engaged to this Mr.
Otis, after all? He did not ask you to marry
him?” '

“ No—no. I expected him to; and I scorned
poor Jasper, whom I had llked since he was a
little boy, and threw his ring ofl.’ into the snow,
and did everything to anger and madden him.
I was a vain, foolish girl. But oh, I have
paid for my folly. I have suffered—I have
suffered!” '

“Poor child,”'murmured the little pale lady,
drawing her chair over baside Ruth. “ Poor
foolish child!" caressing the thin hand. 4:

Hannah had to speak three times at her door
before she could call the wandering spirit back
‘ to the realization that the weary body needed
refreshment. _ _
Mildred Lovelace—as she chose to still call
herself—had come to the Fletchers’ knowing
l whom she would meet there, and urged by a l
‘ terrible jealousy and curiosity to see the girl

 

 

'lors adjoining, and was gazed at with awe-
! struck admiration by the waiters and chamber-
! maid-a class who always do love tosee money

thrown away. The landlord rejoiced in his

i best patron all the more when he founduthe '

tribe that followed, all ready to lavish What
means they had to keep up a brave appearance
before the rich beauty. '
He cared no more for any of them than the
candle cares for the moths who circle about,
‘ except that they served occasionally to make
less (lull a tiresome day.

Brummel must nave bled some of his rich
young friends in Boston pretty freely, for he
had an abundance of spending money, kept a
pair of horses and a light buggy in the hotel
stables, and was altogether brilliant, with his
canes and his gloves and cravats, such as even
the most aspiring of his younger fellows could
not hope to attain.

Brummell, too, had flattered himself into
the aunt’s good graces, so that she was con-
tinually intoning his praises, in the hearing of
her niece. Altogether, it would have been far
from surprising if Honoria had been utterly
subdued by his fascinations and his devotion,
all of which had laid steady siege to her heart
for over a year.

It is undeniable, too, that she had given him
some encouragement; yet, always after she
had shown this weakness, she shed a few tears
of regret in the privacy of her own room, and
resolved that she would never, never do so
again. Why she regretted it she could not
have told herself; partly it was that her young
imagination still clung to her cousin in spite of
heroic efforts to tear it away; and partly it
was that her virgin soul, if it had not the wis-
dom of experience, did have that of innocence,
and shrunk, it knew not why, from the profes-
sions of one so black at heart as Brummel
Pomeroy. This Prince of Darkness appeared
like an angel of light, yet her pure spirit felt
a difference that it did not try to analyze.

Brummell was angry and impatient at his
slow progress; but the thought of the young
coquette’s millions—a1} her own,‘ and sure to
be all her husband’s, when she got one—aus-
tained him and urged him to persevere.

So, here he was at Pentacket, “astonishing

l the natives,” and aiding Miss Appleton finely in

leth whom her husband had been trifling ! her efl’orts to find the little mountain ’village

i when he met his sudden fate; as well as to be l amusing.

: in the vicinity at the time of Jasper Judson’s 
trial.

 

CHAPTER XVII.
rm: LADY ON THE PORCH.

Ir was singular that Honoria Appleton
should have come to Pentacket at such a time 1;
l-—singular that she should hear the approach- ‘
' ing trial for murder spoken of at table and in
drawing-room, day after day, and yet have no
suspicion that she was in any way interested
in it.

Yet her arrival in the village at this critical
period was a mere accident, depending on the
impaired health of her aunt, who had been or-
dered to the mountains by her physicians in
the hopes’bf getting rid of a lingering cough.

That Honoria should be blind and deaf and
dumb on the subject of the murder, was not so
strange, either.

Otis was not an uncommon name in Massa-
chusetts; there were plenty of Otises in Bos-
ton; and that the last name of this murdered
man should be the same as her cousin’s given
i name did not awaken in her mind one sus-
l picion of the truth.

I It was impossible for such a belle and heir-
ess as this to be many days in any place with-
5 out her train being increased by several of her
more persistent admirers. ,
Brummel Pomeroy was the first to arrive at 3
the hotel in Pentacket in which the aunt and ;
. her lovely niece had finally decided to take a l
“ suite of rooms. Being early in the season, the I
I young lady could indulge her extravagance by
Iengaging one-third of the house for her ac-
l commodation, if she wished; but she contented ,

 

Drives, picnics and mountain ex-
cursions were the order of the day. Brummell
congratulated himself on having the beauty so
much to himself, taking courage to believe that
before they left Pentacket, the little hand,

“All queenly with its weight of rings,“

would be pledged to him.

Yet before he had been enjoying this felicity
of faith ten days, he made a discovery which
disturbed him more than he would have cared
to acknowledge. ‘

He was out driving alone one afternoon, for
Miss Appleton had a headache, or was writing
letters, or had some excuse to refuse his invi.
tation. Among the other accomplishments
which made him the “ Admirable Crichton” of
the young bloods of Boston, was his knowledge
of horses. . He always rode and drove those
fiery animals for which his admirers paid, but
of whom they were afraid. He had hired, on
coming to Pentacket, the superb blooded ani-
mals owned by hapless Jasper Judson, and WHO}!
were suffering for want of exercise because the
father had not the heart to use these pets or
his son. Brllmmell’s control of them was
usually perfect, but, on this occasion, having

: driven over to a neighboring village. he was
' late in returning, and was overtaken by a sud.

den summer tempest.
The frightful cannonade of the thunder, the
flash of the lightning in their very eyes, the

rush of the wind, and the wild swaying of the .

roadside trees, excited the horses more and
more, until a sudden crackling of thunder-
bolts over their heads and a blaze in their
faces, made themso wild that their driver lost
control of them, and they .dashed furiously
along the country road, running from one side

[herself with two large bedrooms and two par- 1 of it to the other, and soon dumping Mr.

  

 

 

 

E.
l
1
i.

   

v, , \ . lsv‘, , \

THE WAR OF HEARTS.

1‘ .9- Krv..,\'.j' yin-rmwzyrfiywunmr-x _ ‘ .A  , a ' , ta...  "g, _ Rwy-Y. iv

 

 

~21

 

 

Brummell Pomeroy unceremoniously into the
mud and dust. He clung to the reins, through
sJL‘like’a hero, being dragged some distance

along the way, when a farmer, who had kept ’

out 'too late in the eflort to save his hay, dashed
out of a fence-corner to his assistance, and, at
serious fisk,_ stopped the frightened pair. A
few gentle, reassuring words then quieted the
trembling horses, and the farmer swung open
the carriage gate to his place, and led them in,
taking them to the stable, ,and leaving Brum-
mall to find the shelter of the house-porch.
Pomeroy, somewhat stunned, but not injured
much, staggered forward to the piazza", anxi-
ous to get out from under the avenue of elms,
which led up to the roomy and comfortable-
looking dwelling, for he had u. guilty con-

4 balance, and 'was afraid of the lightning.

Some one was sitting there who did not up
to be afraid of it. A slight, youthful

,flgure, clothed in deep mourning, leaned back

in an arm-chair, and a pale, beautiful face was
turned to the stormy sky, its large, sud eyes
fixed on the driving clouds with such an in—
tensity of self-absorption that their owner
was unaware of the approach of the in—\
trader.

.Brummell came near uttering an oath of sun

' \

prise.

“ That little devil! What is she doing here?"
was his wondering thought. “ She will be
sure to make me trouble,” was his next reflec-
tion. '

As she had not yet perceived him, he re-

treated from the steps he was about to ascend,

and followed the drive around, and went on to
the stables, where he found the farmer caring
for the dripping horses.

“ You are very kind,” he began. “I thank

I 70,“ a. thousand times. But I think I will go

 and let John, at the hotel, see to the
team. It» is breaking up now—the worst of
the storm must be over, and I am so drenched

that I ha'd'best get back and have a change of

nu”
“ Wife will fix you up with some clothes of

1mine, if you choose to go in the house. They

may not be of the same out as yourd”—his

eyes twinkling at the and condition of the

city fcp’s elegant suit—“ but,they will be dry.”
“ Much obliged, I am sure, but I had better

Mn on. By the way, do you take summer

visitors into. your famil , sir?”

’,"‘Not often. Don’t ks to do it, as a. usual

fixing. ‘ Sometimes wife takes invalid: out of

kindness—got one now, a pretty, quiet little
,, .Mmldasamouse,andsweetasa
rink-wily inst eighteen, and a. widow. Sad,
ain’t it?” . I

“A widow?” echoed Brummell, beginning
to hum a , v
. “Yes. sir. widow. My a..th has taken
a great fancy to her.” '

“Did she have references?” meat)“, man-
of-the—wprld, between two bars of a light tune
he was humming. ' ~ » ,

“Didn’t ask for any. Her‘ face was refer-
ence' enough.” I ‘ I .

“ Ah, you country people never learn to be
sumbiently suspicious. You know, I dare say,

I that it is a favorite move on the part of these

ildventuress'es to pass themselves oi! as widows.
m that this little lady may not be all right_
.I-‘only speak on general principles. You know
:what Weller says—‘ Look out fur vidders.’ By

" 'fi'e' way,’y'onr little village is not quite as sin-

-lelsu Paradise, after all. You are to have a
mnrdertrialnsxtweek, Ihear.” .
-' W said this with no purpose except

,  appearance of sociability with
 1  6‘ ,"after dropping in his mind the

' the'bnelic 

 {KW suspicion against the young
“WV-fixated not the reth idea of who
L ~W’ been, nor knew that
,  shy special interest

in‘t vlunbjectgeéa ' , .
" I m  ' l‘and‘ terrible
‘  g- , " 
«.1! ‘ ' 1, 
.“M‘TLr-h'm'r   ‘Wwdir.  ashe
 * ~ nanome'mea

., "geranium at  many. “1"Ecéms‘tc3‘me I

 

stick to that!

 

have heard something about jealousy heipg th'u
'motive of the murder.” -.

“If you'were not standing there in wet
clothes I’d tell you all about it,” said Mr. Flet-
cher, with a sigh—the load on his heart was
heavy to bear, and he was yielding to the na-
tural impulse to get rid of a part of it by bom-
municating it to some one else—how often the
human heart would break did it not bend it-
self to relieve the pressure!-

“ Oh, go on, if you please. I’ve got to mend
this strap here; thank you, I have a string in
my pocket.” Brummell would not have in-
gered, at the risk of taking cold, had not his
curiosity been arousad by the sight of Mildred
Garner sitting on the porch of this man’s house.

- So he listened to the whole story of the min»
der—told from Mr. Fletcher’s point of_view-—
and heard how the Speaker’s own daughter
was concerned in it, and what a terrible affair
it was, and likely to destroy the happiness of
two families. Brummell could not but take

some interest in it; and, at the end, he inquired

what the effect of the tragedy had been on the
murdered man’s relatives.

“That just adds to the singularity of the
whole affair,” replied Mr. Fletcher; “the fact

that not one of his kith or kin have comefor- ,
‘ ward to inquire after his fate.

Nor was there
anything in his room—papers, or what not——
to tell us who to write about it, or what.
steps to take to let his relatives know. The
lawyers have written to two or three Otises of
Boston—Lior he allowed to be from Boston, and
to belong to a good family there, that he was
too proud to live on, seeing they had not used'
him fair—but nonevof ’em seem to know about
him It’s my private opinion there’s some mys
tery about it—fact is ”— g in a low
voice, “I often think he isn’t dead, after all.
I'd give every dollar I’ve got in the world to
prove it, but it’s only an idea of mine. Folks
say, ‘Why, there’s the bleedy knife, and all;
and it he ain’t dead, what’s become of him?’ I
can’t answer them. ‘I only wish I could. Often
it appears to me as if he wasn’t dead, ‘and the
rat was a terrible dream. Jasper Judson’s
got a' quick temper, and he did not strange
next day, but he’s a good boy at heart, 1’11
I’d rather have seen my daugh-
ter married to Martha to this mysterious
schoolmaster, handsome and learned and gen-
tlemanly as he was. He was always a sad,
gloomy man; and he had but one value-trunk.
full of clothes with him, and yet he wore dia-
mond sleeve-buttons!”

These incongruous facts evidently had made
a strong impression on the famier.

“Diamond sleeve-buttons, and a family who
had wronged him, and his name was Otis?”
mu Brummell Pomeroy.

His companion louked at him in surprise at
the voice in which he spoke—the gentleman’s
face was white, and he shivered;

“ You are taking your death of cold, sir.”

“ I am afraid I am. And you.really think
that pretty young thing I saw on the porch is
the wide she pretends to be?”

“I do,” was the emphatic response; “that
little lady could no more tell a lie than the
angels. That's What ,we all think.” I ‘ '

“ You are probably right; though my expe-
rience makes me suspicious. I must’ attend
this trial next week; you have aroused a deep
interest in me—and then, it will help tp pass
the time. Much obliged ‘for your kindness,
Mr. —?" . .

“,F'letcher.’ I wish you would at least put
on a dry coat of mine.” . '

’ “I’ll be home in ten minutes with this team,
Mr. Fletcher—it’s only a , mile to the hotel.
When I’m there, I’ll run about until I min a
slow-x Thank you, and good-afternoon,” and

.Brummeu drew far down over his face his.
‘broad-briuuned _ summer hat, and was careful

to'lieephi‘tf'hesd tin-nod aw‘ayas helped by:

the house’onhip way to the road,

ms mmman‘frou‘mw Ag ‘
Rm Fun-rem remainod‘tn ‘s very.an-

 

- after she sunk

’ridiugonthe'sh

' ings: '

'cal state. ’Had her ‘mind been at ease, the
physician said, her youth and" health would
have carried her trium hantlyon, over all the
exhaustion of her long ness; but nothing could
be worse for her than the oxeitehmnt,‘intense
and terrible, of the swiftly-approaching trial.
It was the fear, both of the doctor and her
parents, {that if this did not kill ‘her Outright,
it would be the means of making her insane,
so'great was the nervcus excitement so danger--
one in her weakened condition.

All reference to the trial was forbidden in
the family, and she was kept more or less
under the influence of nervlnea but sho.would
coax her brother David into 'her'room or out
under the trees of the lawn, and would talk to
him by the hour about it, and he would not,

dare to forbid it, because he plainly saw, boy v

though he was, that it was a relief to her
strained nerves.

- Ruth took great comfort also in the com-
pany of little Mrs. Lovelace. Mrs. Fletcher

congratulated herself every day that she had not -

refused to take in the sweet little lady whose
society was such a solace to her unhappy
child. ' ’ > 

It would have been a strange sight to any
one acquainted with the history of both, to see
these two girls together, Mildred leading Ruth.
to go over, for the hundredth time, every day
and hour of her acquaintance with this school-

master, Whose advent in that quiet village had. .

led to such disasters. ,

How like a thunderbolt from heaven would,
it have been to Ruth herself, 'hadshe been told
that this beautiful stranger, who listened with
such eagerness to her too-willing story of her
brief heart-aflair with the teacher, was’ the
wife of that man! v- ..

Wan, wide—eyed, smileless, the pale widow
listened to these reminiscences from the lips
Slime as pale, as wan, as heartbroken saber-

. And now we must goback adieu-n, in
brief, what‘had happened to poor ‘mldred
to earth,'undcrthc’cold
light of the pitiless moon,“ the‘
of the “silent river.” - -" "" ;" ‘ ,
A market-gunmcrwucnhis wn'ytchhsten
with acoverodwagcnloadod with'lomdoftho
produce of his little farm. 'l‘wicc's‘weck he-
wasaecustomfitotakethisnight-fidocl four-’

teen milessoas tours-ire at thccity‘

adjoining as early as four o’clock. On this o'c-
casicn Mr. Ezekiel Brads bsd'with him‘his son,
a ‘stmpping tywth of hound-twenty, ‘who
aided him in e cultivation of vegetables and
smallfruit, sndtheccreot half cam
Thisson was named Mel, M'm his fa»
thcr; he was long, light-calmipwkwd and.
smart, and earned allthc Whom and
more ' ’ " ' ‘ ' ‘
We Zekel'thcyou getting tired of
n, K which covered" the
board seat on the truck-wagon, jumped out-
abehold on ‘what trifles, nomination“,
great events are often  the
road-side at the far edge of the Mink) which
Mildred had' wandered, and told‘ hil'tpthcr he
rould “stretch his legs”—-uif they Were not
'ong enough alreadyl—by taking or unis-cut
alon the river path which would bring him
out, alf‘a mile furtheranwthe road again
by the time the father arrived at that" point. 1
Thus it chanced that instriding along in his
small edition-of _men-leagnc boots, looking at'
the lovely golden ripples , on the river, and
humming “M‘with a thoughtot some
dairy-maid arising at his moonlit‘samund- j

. ; .o'rh'e raglanng - \
he stumbled over thefiittls w'lyingprone
in the dewy grass. swim up,
staredamommtatthemo“flor

i

 

makes,
 securohis pheamwgothcnonthmets ..

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THE WAR 'OF HEARTS.

 

 

aroused Mildred, and she was struggling to “ No home?” 4 '

situp whenthetwo men camebacktoher. “No, sir. I am an orphan, and peor. I
“What onsirth’s the row?” asked the elder, was living with one .of the first ladies of the

of the bawildered girl, who pushed her golden ,city as a companion; ’but a bad man has slan-

hair from her forehead, and looked up at them dared me to her, and I am afraid to go back to

in adazed manner. her. I know something very bad about him,
“Anybody been awhurting you, miss?” per- and he wants to this rich young lady,

severed the farmer. ‘and he is afraid that I will tell her the bad

“I don’t know, sir. Where am I!”  he did. Oh, sir, if you will take me
, “ Yeou ain’t exactly where a gal of your age ‘home with you, where I shall be hidden and
laughter be‘ at this time o’ night—out in a field ,safe, I will do enough to burn my keeping, I
by the Charles River." know.”

“Oh, sir, I remembernow. ,I was so tired and “ Yew? What can a little lady like you do
thirsty, and I tried to get to the water, but I in a rough farmer’s house? Make butter—
fainted away." milk cows—scrub floors, I reckon? hay?” and

“ Yeou ain’t been adoing nothin’ wrong, my he laughed at his own wit.

331, I hope?” observed the farmer, not unkind- “No, sir. But I can do some  Have
ly, but alittle suspiciously. you any small children-any girls? I can

Mildred raised her eyes to the pure, glorious teach them almost anything they care to study.
heavens, and two tears brightened in them, as I can give them music~lessons. And I can
she said, solemnly: . sew. Just try me, sir, and you will see that

“ No, no; as God is my witness, no! It is I can cam my keeping about your house.”
not I, sir, who have done wrong. I have got- “ Dad, yeou jest take her," spoke up Zeke},
'ten into this trouble by breaking away from decidedly. -
those who have tried toinjure me. Oh, sir,
what can a poor orphan girl, so young, and
without friends, do, when men are so cruel and‘
wicked?” /

“ It’s hard lines for her, I’ll allow,” answer-
ed the farmer, while Zekel felt, somehow,
almost ready to _do what he called “blub-
her.” , ,

“Where do yeou belong, young lady?” con-
tinued Mr. Brads, senior.

“ In Boston, sir.”

“All ' ‘ Come, I'll take yeou home.

“I'm goin’ that way, myself; if on can put up
witha market-wagon, miss ekel, why don‘t
you spring an’ kinder help her along? Don’t
'ersee,she’s aboutusedupl Shall Itakeyer

mini ’Twill be quite the satest way for

see what mother says about it,” and so it was
settled.
Zekel had picked up Mildred’s hat out of the

they made their way through the crowds of
teams already crowding the market.

“ If you’re so bashful, miss, you can sit way
back in the wagon, after I’ve took out them
baskets o’ greens an’ berries,” and Mildred was
glad, to shrink further out of sight.
after an hour of business, during which be
disposed of his truck, Mr. Brads brought her a
large cupful of coffee and a. roll.

Then, not long after the early summer sun<
rise, they left the city and made their way out
into the country road. Mildred was feverish

lymtozet them?” I ‘ _ , now, instead of being chilly, as shelled been;
“ Y 0‘1,” mid Mama: rlsmg: With the cool morning air felt delicious to her burn-
the :70 man’s 119111 ing cheeks and lips; the world sparkled with

Father andson took her by the arms and led
hex-gently alongto the wagon, where the pa-
tientvhoueswere awaiting their arrival.

"Yeou can walk, Zekel," said the father, as
 little stranger to a seat on
figVMHP-Mfl . ‘ ,

*~ But intmdsrseemedsodisti‘essedatoomi
  tithing as that, that Zeke! finally

even' Cambridge was left behind and they got
out into the midst of fields and farms, a sense
of safety and repose came over her tired
heart. ‘ _ ‘

They arrived at the old stone farm-house in
time for a Late but excellent breakfast to which
the two men did justice. Mrs. Brads received
the new-comer with chillin reserve; she did
not fancy having a city gir to “wait upon,”
and she was certain sure —-as she told Mr.
Brads privately—that there ’was something
wrongabout “ that chit,” However, she would
not turn her OE that day,—she.wasn‘t so un-
christian as that: Result, having tried our Mil,-
dred one day, she tried her seven, and having
had a week, shebegan to wonder how she had
ever got along without her. '

The little thing was “wdnderful‘ handy.”
She could do no hard work—had never seen a

side, matte urge:- insisted on the .
in'g  overcoate-whieh he always took With
him, em in Janeen these night-ridee—placed
over her, damp muslin dress. ,
 helwily—loaded wagon rattled slowly
 silent streets of Cambridge, along
the  and maimed over the bridge straight
on toward the sleeping city, now buried in
the,  repose of the twenty four hours.
r Mildred, 3003331173?“ with 00,“  fatigue she gave Sabrina lessons on her new guitar
.. "Vie awareness! the .ev-mns, W53 "an taught herall kinds of fancy needlework;
W “rm 31 5 so“ 0‘ We“ m ’an —more pleasing stilltothe mother’s vanity
mt“; 00359" W approaqh ‘70 the City} the ‘ —she gave “an air” to Sabrina’s dresses and
Wild “0 1131‘ 911d 331d: hats and taught her to put up her hair as the
. “,« .811 In. the 3m and the numb"; “"1 I ‘ ladies of Boston wore it. Then she had such a
will“? 3'0“ hm More 1.89 in“ “‘3 m‘ ‘ sweet voice, nothing rested Mrs. Brads so after
m” ~ 2 ‘ . ‘ a. hard day’s work like sitting out on the stoop
. Then yesterday’s mortal test and W I while Mildred sung bvely airs to the accom-
imysd stain on Mildred- panlment of that new guitar. AndMildred
HOW! ‘ All" Word “jloqufmt 0: 00mm” ' trimmed Mrs. Brads’ bonnet up in the most
M. PM“ ‘0' “PW WWW did.“ ‘ stylish manner, without going to a cent’s ex-
 W he" 31” could “015 fem 3° 3P” , pense, and embroidered a cover to the parlor
Wm’l T0110? 9W“ who“. ; arm-chair that was wearing out. Why, as
We? the Ehrgm gherfi ‘ Mrsfllieradgmesaid, “the tmorsel that chidl: at}:
it seem certain em ve straig V *and t glass” 0 hash milk a y 3‘-
‘0 15“ .APPMm' wm‘ 30”” {315° “017 01 her i drank, wa’n’t nothin’ at all to the comfort she
character which would make that lady repel l was mud tho house. and m, Safmys
m mates...“ this: rims "'53:" we“ “1°” “News. mm
P . . ’ . . so summer wore , -
www.mdukmofmflgmwafl dressage-she pihed in spirit in that rude
 '9’”  , mam { household, yethad manyhours toherself when
.mtedto getnwarfrom tn than people. she could take her embroidery and steal down
.31?“ “Wing” to the spring in the orchard or out to the bay-
8'3'  in ‘1 stackintheme'edow,rorup in thegreen, mur-l
" muringwoedaandsitanddreamtheonelong,
endless dream of love a‘ndOtisGarner.

 

a
2

have noth ‘  ’

“Wall, she can go home with us, and we’ll ,

field, and she pulled this down over her face as ‘

Here, ?

dew, the birdswere in ecstasies of song, and. as'

cow milked and had no idea, about butter; but .

 

 

Then came the golden autumn and the hazy
Indian Summer. And with every Week that
passed the fairy Mildred grew more love y.
Sad at heat as she was, this could not prevent
country 'air and country creanr and autumn

, fruit from brightening her violet eyes and
making her delicate cheeks glow with a peachy ,
1 bloom.

The longing to make one more desperate
eflort to see Otis was becoming uncontrollable
when an incident happened whichhastened her
departure from the kind shelter which had
opened to her at the hour of need: Zeke}

plucked up courage to declare his love and to

beg her to marry him. So blind to his infatu-

ation had she been that his avowal was a com- ‘

plate surprise; and out of gratitude to the
family who had taken her on trust she had to

soften her refusal by the explanation that she ,

was already married.
“ Snufl and sneezers!” groaned Zeke], look-
ing at her in mingled despair and astonish-

ment, “who would ’a’ thunk it? A little mite.

of a. critter like yeou, married!"
“ I am, Zekel; but please don’t tell any—
body.”
“Well it’s a bargain. If yeou won’t say
nothin' abeout my poppin’ to yeou, I won’t
say nothin’ beout your being married. But I
do swow yeou orter ’a’ told on it sooner—be-
fore you broke my heart, boo, hoo," and the
long-legged young fellow actually wept.

“ But I never thought of—of—this, Zeke .”

“ Never mind, naow. I don’t blame yeou
much. Let’s keep it to ourselves, Miss Mil-
dred,” and so they settled it. '

Next market-day Mildred rode to mm with
the farmer; he insisted on it that she had earn-
ed ,wages in his family and paid her ten dollars
beforethey parted. With that, and what she
had in her purse the June day when she left Miss
Appleton’s, Mildred took the apartment in
which her mother had died, certain that her
enemies must have ceased to look there for her
long before this. ~ ' ‘ S

Here she lived, seldom venturing on the
street, through November and a part of De-
cember, doing needlework 'for a fancy store,
and half-st herself; but never sending to
Miss Appleton’s ‘for her trunks or bank—lubok;
clothing herself in a cheap dark  ‘and
waclen shawl. It was about the middle of, De-
cember that she was‘ looking over, one evening
—for want of something better to do—the’ old
newspaper which came wrapped 'about her
bundle ofwork; and on the inside page of
which her eye‘ was caught by the name, Otis.
The article containing the name mat a per-
sonal character, stating that Mr. Otis; a" Bos-
tonian and Harvard graduate, had been’ en-
gaged to teach the District School No. 8._ It
spoke very highly of him as an accomplished
young gentleman who would be sure to prove a
great favorite. Even before she finished read-
ing it there came over Mildred a. feeling of cer-
tainty that this was her husband. Either
pride, orthe desire to conceal himselffrom

, her, or some other motive, had induced him to

drop the family name. It was all as eléar to
heras day;and before she laid her head on

‘ her pillow that night she had penned to this
, Henry Otis, School District No. 8, Pentacket,
‘ the brief letter of love and entreaty, which we
‘ have seen the schoolmaster-“reading, l‘ly the red
, firelight of Farmer Fletcher’s sitting-room, a.

 

l

few days before the Christmas and its tragedy.

~————.

CHAPTER XIX..,
woome m maxim.

: Noanswercame tothettimidbnt " -
ateappeal. Dayafterday poor 

or,
her husband had come. . "

Atthattimeshetookoouragetowiites'

note toniu'Appletom'ithout ht shall-II,

askingthat hertmnks mayhesmttofibax-

 

 

 

  

  

 

 

 

._‘>,.:.. ",_,_,'.

THE WAR OF. HEARTS.

2’; w

, ~ it. who“ ‘,‘e.:~.¢.‘~.~.{m, ,~ - f H, ,q h-v, -, .1 1,, ma. .

'23

 

 

one ofthe beautiful dresses andthepeerls and
o , and would dross herself and curl
her lovely glittering gold hair, and sit wait-
ing, bus in; her fingers with her embroidery
 th hopes.

 d notcOme. Weeks dragged
along. One‘ of the Pentacket papers again
came wrapped about her work. She knew it

, andecannod it eagerly. 0h misery! oh horror of

horronl' there in its ' crumpled columns was a.
long account of the tragedy on the ice on
Christmas night.

Long, long did the poor girl droop in her
chair over the fatal record, insensible to all the
sorrow that it brought;

And after that there was a long, weary

‘ blank of weeks and months, during which she
_ moved about, worked, ate and slept and lived

—but what a. pale, ghostly mockery of life!
No mother to comfort her—no friend to speak
: pitying word. This was the time when she
first used her bank-book to draw out enough
money to provide herself with the mourning
which she thought proper to puton. She sept,
8150, under her name of Lovela’ce, a subscription
to the paper in Pentacket, and in this, fromtlme
1:0 time, she read itemsabout the murder, and so
knew when the trial was to come 06. All this
time she had no positive proof that the mur-
dered schoolmaster was Otis Garner; yet she
Was as certain of it as if she had been with the
skat‘ - that fatal night.

Ansltgraprggyfeeling, for which she could not
account, moved her, as the time of the trial
approached, to go to Pentacket, so as to be
there when it came oil.

The name of ,Ruth Fletcher had not escaped
the, newspapers, and Mildred felt an intense,

, jealous desire to see the girl with whom her

husband h'ad'besn so  Thus, on reach-
ing the village, the'flrst move was to inquire
out the residence of theFletchers, after which'
she went there determined to ask them ‘to
takeher into their family for the summer.

‘After meeting Ruth, tender-heartedlittle
Mildred could only pity her; pity her even
while wildly jealous of her because she had
Once been Otis’ favorite. She soon won the
confidence of the country maiden, who con-'
fessed to her all that had ever pas'sed‘be—
tween herself and Mr. Otis. ‘

“1 Wright he loved me, because he was.

always so polite and gallant and'said so many,
pleasant things to may, Ruth had told her,
Withflushing cheeks and downcast eyes. 5‘ But

held her hand hour after hour—toward night
dropped into a troubled sleep, the effect of an
opiate,'and‘ Mildred softly releasing her hand
went down-stairs and out on the lawn for a
breath of fresh air. The sun was setting as
she went out; its level rays of gold struck
under the elms and lighted up her and face
with their own glory. .

She, too, was terribly unnerved by what
was coming, and she walked about under the
trees for a long time, and finally wandered
down to the gate, where ’she stood, gazing at
the faint bars of pink and orange which lay
along the twilit horizon, when, as suddenly as
if he had risen out of the earth in front of her,
some one confronted her on the other side of
the gate.

“Mr. Pomeroy!” ‘

“At your service, Mrs. Lovelace-that is
your name now, is it not? Please do not run
“Way,” grasping one of her bands which was
resting on the gate, and holding it by main
force. “ I want to speak to you about this at2
fair which absorbs the attention of the village.
You came here about that, did you not? The
murdered man was my friend and your hus—
band, was he not?”

“ Why do you ask? Why do you speak to
me, who despise you?”

“I saw and recognized you on the porch

the day I tOOk refuge here from the thunder- ’

storm. The moment I saw you, it somehow
flashed over me what you were here for._ It is
too bad—quitea dreadfulshockl Poor Otis! the
most gallant and gay of all the'club—what an
end for a fellow like him! Are you certain
about it, little Mildred!” -

“ I am 'absblutely certain, Mr. Pomeroy. I
have seen the handwriting of this Mr. Otis, and
his cane, and I knew both. Will you let go
of my hand?” ' _

“Certainly. But I beg of you to remain a
moment longer.
thing—I do, indeed! Otis was a fine fellow.

I am sorry for you, too. 1m to ask your 1

forgiveness for all my bad conduct to you,'to
say that I sincerely repent of it—that I have
reformed all my bad habits, and that I intend
leading the right kind of a life hereafter. Can

you be generous enough to forgive, me?” A
,“ Did you follow me from Boston to ask that
question?” l, v i ‘
"“No.. I swear. to you, Mildred,I had not
the least idea of where you were or what had
become of you, until I saw you sitting on that
” ‘ ‘ _ ' ’

WW, I do not think he has cared for me—it porch.

Was just his way'to be flattering and attentive.
And the rings-you see, I took it for granted
that he had given it to me, and allowed him to
866 tint I thought so, and that ,I was pleased;

.Andthen to find out thatJasper had given it!

Itwas dreadful—not only that I was so asap.
pointed, but so mortifiedi I was humiliated
and angry, andI poured out my» wrath on poor
Jasper, who was not to blame, and flung his
ring away in the most contemptuous manner;
N0 Wonder one so proud and quick-tempered
38 Jasper should have been maddened by my
conduct! ' 0h, Min Lovelace, I am the onelto
blame for everything! At first I was wild with
finger at Jasper because he had done that ter~
111316, thing. But now, I am‘ only sorry for
him- . I feel that the fault and the sin are
mum- . If I could put myself in Josper’s place,
3nd receive the punishment, I would gladly do

Bptnow, just think! I must sppearagainst
him—utter words which perhaps will be the

‘ '  to convict him.”

“mill. poor Ruth, the shadow of her

on.“ mm ' .would pour out her heart to
Wii ore the  came,ofl,the
5.“. ' ° “0 feeling except one of'conlpas-
21;?- tor' “'9 , broken-hearted school-

Court  as” ‘ ' ‘
cage 0‘ m Sm the 25st of June, and the

her.  for

'”. ‘iomemouaeaaunsr
1 WIWMWEQMwY 1'9”

x

 

but the word of a man who has done what you
have done is hardly credible.” , I

‘fI came to Pentacket with a party
mends'who are stopping at the hotel. I did.
not dream of your being here,-nor or this sad
calamity 'which brought you, until I saw‘you
last week. Since you are here, I felt con-
strained to come and assur you of my
patby and ask your pardon or the ”

“ if you are sincere, I grant it. But I do
not want you to speak to me again” i -

“ That is a strange quality of forgiveness,
Mildred. You mi ht better withhold a. boon
so ungracious. ildred, you have seen the
worst side of my character; but there is a bet-
ter side to it. You Were so lovely, so beyond
all other girls fair and winning, so charming
inyour loneliness, deserted by one who ought
to have thanked Heaven for such a treasure,
that I fell desperately in lovelwith you, de-
spite of the fact that it was wicked to do so.
Let that go. Forgive it—forget it. I love
you still. I cannot believe that you mourn
very deeply for one who. wedded you on a
wager, and who was avstrangeri to you, and
kept himself a stranger. You never had any

opportunity to love Otis Garner—he never

gave you any. ' But you are loving and de.
pendent by nature. The wealth of your affec—
tion will‘be a rich gift to some man. Give it
to me, You are free now to choose for your-i
self and to marry your choice Come, Jaime
atone for my pelt ain- Iot mobs your

fond. devoted. lover. Promos me. that  '

1- J

I feel dreadfully about this '

“ i wish'Iro'ould believe you, Mr. Pomeroy,‘

01‘ sent on‘after them, after being
hotel. The rimming was-oft and delicious, the

which was now hanglnt

 

all this trouble is over, you  be my little
we if ‘ I ' . .

He had pushed open the gats'andwss stand-
ing beside her, looking at her earnestly snd're-
spectrully, not attempting to touch her. 1 A
flash of scorn md‘almoatmirth Never the
lovely face. into which he ’ " ‘  p" ,

“Mr. Pomeroy, has Miss Appleton "refuted
you?” . ' f ' 

’ “ Twenty times. She knew that [was after
her money. But Now you, little Mildred." I
am willing to work forged I weile not do
that for Miss Appleton, splendid «she is.’ I
am trying to reform from all my sins—for-
tune-hunting, flirting, and all the'rest. What
could work such‘a change in me, but true love,
little one? Tell me that I may hope to restore
myself to your fairer—that you will sometime
marry the man whose memory of yourhvirtu
caused him to repent of his bad life." ' I j

“I will marry you as soon as you convince

me that you have experienced a change of '

heart, Mr. Hypocrite Pomeroy,”
Mills, with all the ‘contempt she could com-
press into as few words. “I do not under-
stand your game, but I do know you Well
enough to understand that you must have
some sinister motive in playing the angelito
me. I could sooner behave that Satan had
‘reformed ’ than you, air!” and with a gesture
of scorn she turned and went rapidly toward
the house. ‘ ' j
“ Venomous little serpent 1’} I will tread‘ypu
under my heel before I allow ‘you testing me!
You will never be satisfied, you little Puritan,

,

until you have ruined my prospects.’ 'I must .

find a way to make you harmless,” and, burn-
ing with rage, Brummell made his way back
to the village, conscious that he had failedto
propitiate Mildred, who might now, any day,
meet Miss AppletOn and betray 'to her the
parthewasplayin'gtosecureefortuns.‘ 1’

 

ran LADY’S emon'rm anon mulls.

ON themorning of the 224 are, 

awoke feeling” 13: MP1)! .‘

particular tugs“ ' t. .
At breakfast she, proposedapicnidto . 

tain lake,_tenmileaa_way, .wliiehlo;r
mond loathe,  ofvtlhehilis, I
mentioned" girsehemrlm .A,.®-eu
mmgpemm meadow 
M'Iuessthenhalfanhourafter ,_
a‘gay’littleparty waaon the waytothe ‘
tain. MissAippletourode in his'open b’
with Maromeroy; the others all went in a
large country wagon. The luncheon waste be
preparedatlthe

E

blueskylilled'with‘ana‘h'yfleetof
sailing on through the 

Something like love  in
Brummell’s cold, finiapziflnf, sordid heart as
hegazed on the lovelygir byhis side.,'.He

hadbegun hislove-making toherout'of‘tho
meanest of m ‘ves;yet now he W 3°“

'.3

oet'all‘ilnhissuit.m mm, . _
he mllful,‘ ipifl “Y. W
delicious young bemtyhad never in her lite
been more  rains-ode hmchhog
auoverhangingtroe away

‘ downherbockby
long ribbons—the broom, andthejoltbigof
wagon over the "Rb mountain mad
brought the rlchbloomtOherolivo-pala
andshakenoutahundredlittlowhigs '
hairaboutnsckaudhmw. ". ‘.
‘Bnm men mid a naturaling
moaning things to Nehemiah! V
who received them ohm IPA)“
hath. .. ,
chanting without wingtipomma‘ ,

‘ Ml ’

ne'w-s  me

EEEEs

3..
Ms

E

w  .5»-..J .

taunt-4

  

 

when they reached the beach, fifteen minutes
later than the more lumbering wagon, and
were received with arch glances and sly con-
gratulations by the others. Honoria parried
these shafts half—disdainfully, half~carelessly.
Two hours were spent in rambling, rowing on
the Lake, fishing, gathering wild flowers, and
then all came together to enjoy the luncheon
which Honoria had ordered at her own expense
and which had come out in a little one-horse
vehicle, with two waiters to arrange and dis-
pose of it, and which proved to be an elegant
collation, from the cold chicken and champagne
to the meringues and ices. Brummell was so
teased and annoyed by Honoria’s coquetry,
that he drank more champage than was good
for him; but he did not show it, and the young
lady did not hesitate to accept his offer to row
her across the half-mile wide lake to a roman-
tic point which she had expressed a wish to ex-
plore.

They went off in a little boat by themselves,
and the others thought more than ever that the
two were engaged. If Honoria had thought of
this she would not have gone, but being in a gay
mood she thought little of anything serious.

Brummell—who, among his numerous ac-
complishments, had been crack oarsman at
college—soon took her across the crystal sheet;
they landed on a strip of pebbly beach, so
cured the boat and climbed a high rock, cover-
ed with moss and shadowed by evergreens,
which hung over the water. Beside the hem-
locks which stretched high above them, there
was a cluster of bushy evergreens but a few
feet high just behind them, as they sat on the
rock and waved their handkerchiefs to the
party on the opposite shore, who could just
make out and return the signal. V

Neither of them had the slightest suspicion
that some one was on the other side of the
thicket, who could hear every word they

poke.

Yet such was the fact.

A young fellow, shabbin dressed, with the
reckless, devil-may-care air which some artists
take pains to assume, had been sitting there for
some time making a. sketch in the portfolio
which he held on his knee, of the luminous wa-
ter, with the shadow of the mountains over a.
part of it. He had observed the doings of the
distant picnic party with an indifferent eye;
but when voices had floated up to him from
near at hand, and he had cautiously thrust his
head over the edge of the rock to see if he were
to be intruded upon, he had'been fascinated by
the picture of that beautiful, high-bred girl
who sat in the stern of the little boat, dressed
in white, with a scarlet shawl or scarf at her
feet.

The start, the half-repressed exclamation, the
long, eager gaze, proved the power of the lovely
stranger’s charms to hold the artist’s attention.
When the voyagers landed, and he found that
they were coming up on the rock, he withdrew
tothe further side of the thicket, pulled his hat
well over his eyes and resumed his sketching.

Brummell spread his ilk handkerchief be-
tween the roots of a. hemlock and seated
Honoria upon it.

“But we must not stay here over five min-
utes, Mr. Pomeroy. We were to start for home
at three, and it’s half-past two now. ”

“ Very well; five minutes are enough, Hono-
ria, for me to tell you again, for the twentieth
time, how I love, adore you. Sit still; you
must listen to me. I love you. I swear it! I
cannot hear this suspense—it is destroying me.”

“You do not look badly destroyed,” with a
little laugh. “ You had a. famous appetite at
luncheon time. Come, we must go.” '

“Not, just yet. Listen. ‘ You have laughed
at me enough. I am serious, and it maddens
me to have you take it so lightly. I swear to
you that you are the only woman .I ever did,
will, or can love. I have been your devoted
follower for more than a year. There are
plenty of girls in Boston who would not have
to be asked twice for me. You can afford to
trifle with me, Isuppose. But I am getting
too much in earnest. Answer me, soberly,
once for all—will you be my wife?”

‘ Otis?”

 

THE WAR OF HEARTS.

“ Why should I answer you soberly,” said 
the girl, mockingly, “when you are far from _
being strictly sober, yourself?” ‘

“ You cannot deny that you have encouraged 3
me.”

“ You remember ‘ The Lady’s Yes i”—

“ ‘ Yes ’ I answered you, last night;
‘ o,‘ this mornin , sir, I say.
Colors seen by can elight
Will not look the same by day.

“ Yet the sin iscn us both;
Time to dance is not to woo'
Wooing light makes fickle trot
Scorn of me reeoils on you."
So you see 'I am no wise bound to give you a se-
rious answer.”

“ When will you give me a serious answer?”

“Neverl”

“You are a flirt, Miss Appleton. ”

“ You are a fortune-hunter, Mr. Pomeroy.”

Brummell stole a covert look at his compan-
ion. Had that little imp of a Mildred already
informed her of what she knew about himself?
Impossible. There had been no time—no op-
portunity. Had Honoria grown wise enough
to read his character for herself? She sat
there, perfectly cool and fearless, with just the
least flush of excitement on her cheeks. There
was an expression of contempt curling her red-
rose—leaf lips which he had never before seen
them wear. Could it be that all his gorgeous
dreams of a lovely young wife and the mas-
tery of two millions were to fade into blank
nothingnessl The fear—but far more, per-
haps, the champagne-«rendered him reckless
for one usually so prudent.

“I know what is the matter with you,” he
said, sneeringly. “Pure and modest as you
claimto be, you are still allowing yourself to
loveaman who has been a. married man for
more than a year and a- half! Don’t you
know, you little prude, that this indulgence of
an unlawful affection is—" .

“ Beware I” cried Honoria, in a proud, chill-
ng tone, and would have sprung to her feet
had he not held her down by placing his hand
heavily on her shoulder. g

“Remain quiet a. minute longer. I won’t
harm you, sweet Honoria. I must give you a
piece of news which I have for some time
withheld from you, disliking to pain the girl I
loved. I shall no longer be so tender of your
feelings. This cousin of yours, of Whom you
cherish such fond memories, has been dead for
six months.” _

“Dead! Otis, my cousin, dead!”

“ Do not stare at me with such wide, incredu-
lous eyes. He is dead, but not buried.”

“ How?”

“Murdered.”

Honorla gavea low scream of surprise and ,
anguish.

The dilapidated artist on the other side of

the screen dropped his water-color brush into ‘
the moss and pushed his hat back from his j
forehead, bending, now, closely to listen. 1

“Oh, do not tell me that' Otis is dead! Do i
not tell me he is murdered. 0h, Mr. Pome- I
my, you are saying this to be revenged on me ;
-—-it is not true.”

“Miss Appleton, do you remember the fact 3
that a murder was committed in this little ‘
puritanical Pentacket last winter, and that a
young fellow, named Jasper Judson, is being
tried, this very day, for the deed? You must
have heard the afl’air talked over at the
hotel.” I

“ Yes—yes.” ,

“Did it strike you at all forcibly that the ‘
name of this murdered schoolmaster was i

u

 

~ No answer could the girl make, except to
look in his cruel face with mute, suffering
e es.

y“This Henry Otis was Otis Garner in the \
character of a New England schoolmaster. I 1
suppose he was trying to earn his bread by
the sweat of his brow—or to hide from his
silly little wife. It seems he got up a desper-
ate flirtation with the prettiest of his scholars
to while away his time and keep his hand in. |

 

  

the ice last Christmas night, and the teacher
never reappeared. .This Judson reported that
his rival had skated into an air-hole and been
drowned; but a bloody knife, a trail of blood
on the ice, and other evidence, caused the ar-
rest of young Judson for murder—dud his trial
began this morning.”

Honoria, listening to this story, leaned back
against the trunk of the hemlock, pale and
faint. '

“Oh, take me back,” she murnmred. “To
think I should have been here, gay and happy,
while this was going on!” '

Brummell looked down into her dim eyes
with a. smile.

“I will never take you back until you swear
to marry me.”

“Then I will find my own way, sir.” But
the shock of the dreadfulnews she had just
heard had taken all her strength, and her voice
trembled and her limbs shook.

“No, mademoiselle; we will remain where
we are, until our party is alarmed and comes
for us. Then I will give them some trifling
explanation of our long absence, and you will
be sorry you treated with scorn one who prized
you so highly.”

“ Villain l” breathed a voice intense with
passion and anger.

But it was not the voice of the helpless girl
—oh, no!

Up from bel‘nd the piny thicket arose a tall
figure in shabby clothes, wearing a broad-
b ‘mmed straw hat and a pair of blue specta-

rc es. 'Before the astonished Brurnmell could

squal r himself for the encounter, the lithe
stranger had seized him by the waist, and,
with the fiery strength ‘of rage and indigna-
tion, hurled him over the edge of the rock into
the deep water at its base.

“Thank you, oh, thank you, sir,” said Ho-
noria’s sweet, tremulous tones. “You are a
brave man.”

"‘It- is a man’s business to defend a lady.”

“But oh, sir, is it‘ well to let him really
drown?”

“ He deserves it i” .

“I know he does. Oh, how I despise him!
Yet I should be very unhappy to be the means
of the death of any fellow—creature—wouldn’t
you, sir?” '

“Then you ask meto risk my life to save
his?”

“No indeed. No, I would not have you run
the least risk. Your life must be worth a.
dozen of his—he is only a leech on society at
the best.”

“I will rescue him, nevertheless, to please

you. Also that he may live to realize his own
meanness and be ashamed of it.”
So saying, the stranger ran lightly down to
the beach, pulled at his coat, kicked ofl his
dilapidated slippers—he had no boots, poor
fellow i—and plunged in, hat on head and blue
spectacles on nose.

In two minutes he was struggling with the
drowning dandy, soon coming to shore with
the arms of the other about his neck, nearly
choking him.

“Stay here, and dry yourself, and repent at.
leisure,” said the rescuer, tossing Brnmmell
into some brushwood, where he lay choking
and coughing for some time. “Lady, shall I
row you over to your friends?”

Honoria came down, pale and ill, and he as-
sisted her into the boat, wrapped the scarlet
shawl about her; and with vigorous strokes
drove the light vessel over the lovely water at
marvelous speed. Not a word did he speak,

( until he touched the opposite bank. Friends

came running forward to ask what had hap-
pened.

“The young lady’s escort tumbled oif'the
rock into the lake. He would have been
drowned had I not gone to his rescue. I left.
him to recuperate and brought the lady over,
as the excitement had made her ill. I will
now return, and if the gentleman is sufficiently
revived he can row back; if not, I will bring
him over.” All this rapidly, after which he

The girl had another lover whom she refused pushed 03 without answering one of the dozen
on Otis’ account; the two men ran a race on' questions addressed to him.

3‘,
,.

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

K. .

THE WAR OF HEARTS.

25

 

‘1‘.

“How prudently he has contrived to avoid
scandal and protect me,” thought Honoria,
with warm gratitude. “I wish I knew who he
wasl”

Shewas still pale and agitated, and they
made her a cup of coffee by the camp-fire and
had another ready for Mr. Pomeroy when he
came rowing slowly and feeny back. He was
,ill and irritable, and would say nothing about
the accident. As soon as he had refreshed him-
!self with the hot coffee he was ready to
go home; but hardly able to manage a fiery
pair of horses; so he rode meekly in the big
wagon, while another of her admirers drove
his team and sat by Miss Appleton in the
buggy.

Brummell followed Honoria about like a
dog, after tea, to get an opportunity of speak-
ing with her. She was coldly polite to him in
company, to avoid gossip, but would not listen
to him privately; however, he got beside her
in the hall long enough to say:

“Honor-la, dear Honoria, I was drunk or I
never should have done what I did. Excuse
it, and I will never disgrace myself by too
much champagne again.”

But she made not the slightest reply to him
and hurried on to her own parlor

Meantime the first day of Jasper Judson’s
trial had come to a close.

 

CHAPTER XXI.
A SLEEP-WALKING WITNESS.
Mnmwmnn, although these strange] a at the
hotel had gone off on a picnic on that cfentful
day, not a citizen of Pentacket left thezvillage
except on direst necessity. All were as deep-

» 1? concerned in the trial as if their own oroth-

er were brought up into the prisoner’s box on
an accusation thus dreadful; for Jasper had
been born and bred in that vicinity, and was—
01‘ had beam—a universal favorite. Many—
the mostf—believed him guilty; but pitied him
even Whlle behaving it, considering the deed
to have been done, without premeditation, in a
sudden frenzy of jealousy,
, The Village was overrun with vehicles com-
ing from all over the country, bringing eager
spectators to the court-house, which overflow-
ed with its un wonted crowd, leaving hundreds
to accommodate themselves as they could on
the “green” which faced it, where only dis-
tant echoes could reach them of what was
transpiring inside of the building. Men clung
to, the window-sills, like swarming bees, in the
hope of catching a glimpse of the prisoner’s
face—that young, handsome face, bleached of
all its healthy sunburn by six months of con-
ement in a cell.

ever conscious innocence sat enthroned on
3 hunmn countenance you would say it sat on
Jasper Judson’s brow and shone in the flash
0 hiSdArk-gray eyes. From the first he had
shown contempt for the accusation, the ac-
cusers and the consequences. Hislawyer, who

in vain tried to persuade him to some line
of defame, was astonished at the perfect indif-
ference with which his.young client faced the
overwhelming danger.

“I believe he would as lief be hanged as
110%" he had said many times to the anxious
father.

It was true.’ Jasper had given the Whole
wealth of his young heart into Ruth Fletcher’s
k0091118- From the moment when she had

. the costly diamond—to purchase which
be M Sold 3 favorite horse—with a gesture of
m! “Va-{hem her, he had not cared what
mmth mo of His sun had set while it was
mm_h:§;8ém'l‘hey might end all by killing

n .
first hour 0110“. at suffer more than in that

‘The first day Oflthe trial the time was con-

' med by the Wfion of minor Witnesses,

as to the finding of the knife and
. _ - glove the
candlng of the she race, and so forth-
Ru was not obliged to appear incourt that
day; but Spent the day at home in a state of
frightful ewhlgfint. '
m'mred, as w a her mother. did all the
could to quiet theclrlld, and when the long:

I r . - 1

anew-o .2- "my ’1 . 

 

weary day drew to a close, and Ruth was in
bed, but unable to sleep, Mildred remained
with her, talking softly to her, or singing sweet
hymns in a low voice to quiet her, as if she,
herself, were not also suffering anguish which
none knew or dreamed of, enduring the pangs
of her husband’s death over and over again, as
at first.

Finally, about midnight, Ruth fell into a
calm slumber. Her breathing was gentle and
natural, her pulse less rapid, and she smiled in
her dreams. Mildred, quite exhausted, retired,
with a light step, to her own room, while the
faithful mother, robing herself in aloose dress-
ing-gown, lay down on the lounge in her daugh-
ter’s room, ready to rise at the slightest sum-
mons.

Mrs. Fletcher, however, slept deeply until

the rays of the rising sun striking through the
parted curtains aroused her to the conscious-
ness that she had lain since midnight without
once having been disturbed by u call from
Ruth.
I Turning her head quickly to see if her daugh-
ter were still asleep, she saw Ruth lying peace-
fully, hcr eyes wide open and gazing dreamily,
with a soft, glorious smile, through the open
window, at the distant hills and the golden sun-
rise.

The breath of morning was fluttering the
muslin curtains, and crowds of roses were
peeping in the maidcn’s chamber; while the
birds outside were making the trees tremble
with a thrill of music. Ruth lay, her poor lit-
tle wasted hands folded meekly on her bosom,
smiling at the beauty and the sweetness of the
world, renewed each morning, and at thoughts
of her own which had come to take the place
of the wild, dark, troubled host which had held
her yesterday. ,

Mrs. Fletcher looked at her young daughter
al‘m05t with awe. Could it be that Ruth had
forgotten that this was the prelude to a dread-
ful day, when she would have to go into a
court-room and give testimony against the son
of their neighbor? Or, was the girl’s mind
wandering?

Hastily rising, she crossed the floor and kiss-
ed the pale forehead of the mai den, and spoke
to her, more to reassure herself that Ruth was
in her right mind than anything else.

“Mother, what a beautiful morning it is,”
said Ruth, in her old, pleasant voice, looking up
into her face with a smile full of hope and joy.

Mrs. Fletcher wondered, but asked no dis-
turbing questions.

All the morning Ruth maintained this new-
ly-found serenity. Yes, even after she was
dressed and assisted into the easy carriage,
with her mother and Mildred beside her, and
on her way to that terrible, long-dreaded court-
room.

Ay, even into the room itself, where the
cruel, curious eyes of hundreds feasted on her
pale, solemn young face. V

Only once it failed her, and that was when,
in glancing about her, at her novel surround-
ings, she encountered the blazing, scornful,
fiery eyes which shone out of Jasper J udson’s
changed face. As she met that look of proud
disdain she falters for a moment; at the same
time Jasper’s expression softened 'mto surprise
and sorrow as he saw the fearful havoc which
grief had made in that wasted figure and wan
face. ,

Ruth had not been ,sent for, on account of
her feeble state, until they were ready to call
her as a. witness; so she was not kept waiting,
but placed at once at the witness-stand.

Had there been no graver consideration at.
stake it would have been a frightful trial to a
girl’s feelings to have her love-affairs exposed
to the merciless questioning of the lawyers;
but Ruth seemed to be upheld by some mighty
power within herself which ambled her to an-
swer calmly questions which, under ordinary
circumstances, would have been torturing.
All the story of the ring was drawn from her
—-every word which passed between, Jasper
and herself that fatal evening; while the coun-
sel for the State, in seeking to find adequate
reason for the motive of the inferred murder,

I

 

probed her heart to and the state of her feel-
ings for'tbe schoolmaster.

Mrs. Fletcher andMildred sat near at hand
ready to receive the witness when the lawyers
should be done with her.

Imagine Mildred’s surprise when, in glanc-
ing timidly about the court-room, she saw on
one of the benches allotted to spectators Ho-
noria Appleton, her vail thrown back and her
bright eyes fixed on the witness, her whole
expression and attitude exhibiting absorbing
interest.

“ It must be that she knows who this school-
master was,” thought Mildred. “I wonder
how she came here! How strangel '

“I wonder if she will speak to me! I shall
not be sorry to meet her now,” thought Mil-
dred, turning frequent glances toward Miss Ap~
pleton.

When the examination was over Ruth ask-
ed permission to state some facts with regard to
the glove and knife which had played so import-
ant a. part in the testimony. This was readily
given her. ' She then, still under oath, de-
clared that she had placed the knife and glove
in their positions, and that the human blood
by which the knife was stained and which had
fallen on the ice was her owul

Immense sensation.

This immense sensation was followed by a
smile of incredulity.

Ruth began to tremble, to flush and pale,
and to show embarrassment for the first time.
But she steadied her voice and went on:

“I’m telling you the solemn truth, as God
is my judge. I will explain how it all hap-
pened. The night—that night of Mr. Otis’
disappearance—the first thing I thought of
when Jasper Judson came back to us, there on
the ice, with news that Mr. Otis had gone
down under the ice, was that Jasper was in
some way responsible for the accident. It
seemed to me that he could not have been so
far behind his companion that he could not
have saved him. I was wild at the thought of
Mr. Otis’ death, and I arose and accused Jas-
per, to his face, of being the means of his
death. In my excitement and despair I really
thought so. I came home, and while the
others talked over the affair, I sat silent, brood!
ing over it, and accusing Jasper in my mind.
I went to bed when the others did, and after
awhile I fell into a sleep, but not a. natural
sleep. You can ask my father and mother on
this point; they will prove to you that I have
sometimes—not often—walked in my sleep. I
did sothat night. I suppose I took my dreads
ful, revengeful thoughts against Jasper into
my sleep. I got up and dressed myself and
took J asper’s knife—I had borrowed the knife
of him, before I left the house, to fix my
skates—make a new slit in the strap, it was-
and instead of returning it, I carelessly slip-
ped it into my own pocket. I also took one of
Mr. Otis’ gloves, which I found on the hall
floor, as I came down, and with these, I went
noiselessly out of the house, and ran for the
ice. When I got there I deliberately made a
wound in my left arm, and allowed the blood
to trickle out on the ice; I also stained the
blade with it; I then placed the glove close to
the brink of the hole in the ice, and the kn-ife
I threw where it was found. If you ask why
I did this strange thing, I cannot further ex-
plain it. I can show you the scar of the
wound in my arm, and mother can testify that
she foundit after I was taken so ill, and dress.
ed and cared for it without ever knowing how
it came. '

The prosecution then asked her “Why, if
she had done this thing, she had on the follow.
ing day accused Jasper Judson, and cried out
against him as the murderer 1" She answered
that all knowledge of what she had done that
night had left her mind, and had never return<
ed to it until last night. .

That, last night, being very much troubled
at the thought of having to testify against her
life—long friend, Jasper, she had fallen asleep,
and in her dreams the whole matter had been
made plain to her—that when she awoke she
looked for the scar on her arm, and found it.

 

26

THE WAR OF. HEARTS.

 

 

L

and felt a positive certainty of the truth of 'should ever know, seeing that he was dead, lwalting outside; so that Jasper was completely

whatshe had stated; theta great peace had
fallen on her, and she had been comforted and

supported since, not only by the consciousness I

that he most positive proofs against the ac-

were removed by her own hand, but
also, that in'her dream it had been revealed to
her that Henry Otis was not dead, but alive
and wall, and within a hundred miles of Pen-
tacket.

The air of perfect faith in what she was say-
ing which' Ruth wore, the glow of joy on her
wan young face, made a deep impression on
many who heard her words; but lawyers take
no stock in “ the stuff dreams are made of,” and
cold, incredulous smiles from them chilled the
effect which the earnest words of the girl had
made on others.

It became whispered about the court-room
that Ruth Fletcher had arisen from her long
illness not quite right in her mind; and looks
of pity and curiosity were fastened upon her.
Altogether, that which she had testified, with
the simple faith that it would at oncc set J ud-
son free, went ruther against him than for
him, so it was accepted only as the excited
imagination of a diseased brain.

!and would never—”

I “ But he is not dead,” almost shrieked Ruth,
“Isaw him last night, and I tell you, he is
‘alivel Mother! mother! take me home.
Take me away from these fine ladies, whom he
loves The very sight of them is death to
'me!

 

CHAPTER XXII.
nosns IN PRISON.

Tin: trial ran a rapid course, for on the third
{day it was ended. N o proof that Jasper J uds
‘son had committed murder could be adduced,
1 except such circumstantial evidence as the
lreader has heard. This, throwing out Ruth’s
ltestimony—which the judge, in his charge to
l the jury ordered them to do, saying that the
l girl was probably partially demented—was
! very strong against the prisoner; anyhow, the
l jury seemed to have made up its mind before
i the first day of the trial was over, that he was
Iguilty; and on the third day, after only half
Fan hour’s deliberation, it returned with a ver-
: diet of “ manslaughter,” as the judge had
lcharged them that the killing of the teacher

She was cross-examined very slightly, it; gunder the “emotional insanity ” caused by a.
being taken for granted that the testimony ofa ISUddeD Paroxysm Of jealousy, could be cOn~

person in Miss Fletcher’s condition of mind
must be worthless.

There were a number among the audience,
however, who implicitly believed what she had
said. Among these was Honoria Appleton,
who had come to this public place from no
morbid curiosity, but in an agony of grief and
suspense, and quite certain that her cousin was
the victim of Whose death the prisoner stood
accused. Something of the pale anguish of
her face went away when Ruth stated that she
had, in her dream, received the assurance that

Otis was yet alive. She felt the truth of the
girl’s story about the placing of the knife and
glove in her sleep, and a great hope sprung up
in her breast that Otis might, after all, be
alive. '

After this she had time to wonder how it
was that Mildred appeared on the scene; and
when, the cross-examination over, and Ruth’s
mother’s testimony—which corroborated her
daughter’s as to the wound on Ruth’s arm—
having been taken, the Fletchers and Mildred
left the court—room, Honoria hastened from

her place, and met them just outside the
door. ‘

“ Millai Milla! stay a moment. How came
you here?”

“I read of this in the papers, Miss Apple-
ton, and I knew, in a moment, that this Henry
Otis was our Otis. Could I help coming?”

. Mildred, in the agitation ofthe moment, had
forgotten that Miss Appleton was not supposed
to be aware of her identity.

“You did right to come, Mills, of course.
You could not stay away. I know who you
are, dear Mills, and how you loved him—for
you left your diary with me, you know, and
I had to look in it for some clue to the owner of
so much property as had been abandoned on
my hands. Yes, dearest, who has a sad right
to be here, if not Otis’ wife!”

“ Did you say his wife?” interrupted Ruth,
hastily.

“ Yes. Miss Fletcher, this lady is Otis’ wife,
and I am his cousin. His true name was Henry
Otis Garner. He had trouble with his uncle,
and dropped the family name, I suppose, when
he went out to earn his own—”

[Miss Appleton came to a full stop in her ex-
planation, for Ruth, with a low moan, had
thrown herself on her mother’s breast and sunk
into a swoon.

They carried her into the hotel across the
way, where she was, after an alarming time,
revived. ' '

Honoria and Mildred had gone with the
mother, and remained until Ruth recovered.

“ Why did you not.tell me you were his
wife?” was her first question, as her dim eyes
turned repromhfuny to Mildred.

“; did not think you strong enough to bear

the shock; nor that it would be necessary you ,

 

! strued into manslaughter, rather than willful
murder.

So Jasper Judson was remanded to the coun-
ty jail until the following week when he was
to be removed to the State’s prison, there to
endure an imprisonment of ten years—the
judge, moved by pity for the heart-broken
parents and the youth of the prisoner, making
the term as brief as he dared, considering the
character of the crime.

The excitement in Pentacket was by no
means over with the trial.

Ruth Fletcher’s statements were credited by
many Who knew her, and visiting her house
saw no evidences of unsound mind.

It was a tid-bit for gossip, too, that the
schoolmaster, though never mentioning the
fact, had been a married man. This had leak-
ed out through some bystanders who had over-
heard the conversation at the court-house
door.

This fact greatly increased the sympathy for
Jasper Judson. Guilty or not, it was consid-
ered too bad that Mr. Otis should have al-
lowed his jealousy to arise against him when
he was a married man. Ecor Jasper began to
loom before their eyes in the light of a martyr.
There was talk of a petition to have the case
retried.

There was also a keen curiosity to see the
wife of the missing teacher. Rumors of her
marvelous beauty, and of the fabulous Wealth
and powsr of the Garner family to which the
schoolmaster belonged, deepened the interest
in the romance of real life. Miss Appleton,
who had been before the great lion of the
place, was now the object of deepest interest.

She herself, with her beauty, style, fashion
and wealth, was a living witness to the splen-
dors that waited on the Garters.

ways known that Mr. Otis was some prince in
disguise; his air of elegance, his haughty re-
serve, his diamond sleeve buttons, had betrayed
that. But the heartfelt sympathy was for
Jasper and his parents.

The second day after his sentence, at about

visitor waited outside for permission to en’
ter his room._ This was not a novel occurrence
-—sincc dozens of people had already tried the
patience of the jailer, either asking permission
to visit the prisoner, or sending in little gifts
of choice cookery, books, or flowers.

His room was not a very unpleasant place,
being lighted thoroughly by two good-sized
windows, its walls hung with engravings,
placed there by his mother, and his little table
covered with books and bouquets; but it was a
prison, and there were iron bars over those
windows which destroyed the charm of the
free sunlight.

 

Everybody declared that he, or she, had al- ,

five in the afternoon, Jasper was told that a ‘

The jailer did not say who it was that was I

‘Iurprised, as he raised his heavy eyes, to see
standing before him, wan and white as a spirit,
‘her wasted hands clasping a great bunch of
roses, mignonette and heliotrope, her great
g brown eyes fixed piteously upon him as if he-
?seeching him not to strike her to the floor,
Ruth Fletcher.

“Jasper!” she began, when he gazed sternly
upon her without a word of welcome, “Jasper,
I have come to beg you to forgive me for ruin-
ing your life in every way, as I have done."

Still his stern eyes looked on her coldly, and
his compressed lips did not open either to wel-
come her or utter the word of pardon.

Slowly, slowly, never taking her piteous
eyes from his countenance, she sunk on her
knees, her trembling hands letting fall in a
shower over her white dress the perfumed
blossoms as she stretched them out to him.

“ Jasper,” she beseeched, with a sad humili-
ty, overflown by a strange current of irrepres-
sible passion, “ do forgive me! See, I humble
myself at your very feet. If I could undo
what I have done I would think nothing of
_ being laid away in my grave after it. I alone
am to blame for all this terrible state of af-
fairs. I am the sole author of all the trouble.
If I had not been vain I should not have
thought that the teacher loved me; if I had
not been false, I should not have scorned 3 on,
whom I prized before, and turned to him. Mr.
Otis never loved me—never cared for me—
Jasper, did you know he was a married man
before ever we saw him?"

“ I heard, yesterday, that such was the
story ”——his voice was chilling, his stern eyes
seemed to smile a little at the idea of her mor-
tification when she heard of this.

“ When I look back, I can seethat he never
made love to me. It was only his gallant,
. flattering city manners which made me believe
i mysulf the favored one. Oh, Jasper, do you
not pity me for my share of this trouble?
Think of the humiliation I must suffer when I
think of my foolish conduct, and what he
must have thought of me. It half kills me to
recall it. But it is not for myself I have any
pity. My punishment i can bear. It is your
[ suffering that is gnawing at my heart. I have
1 blighted your life, crushed, disgraced you. I
l have thrown you into prison. I am the means
i of your long, cruel sentence. But you shall
I not endure that! You are innocentainnocent
, I will yet prove it to them. More than that,
5 Mr. Otis is alive. I see him in my dreams
3 every night. They say I am insane; but you

do not think so, do you, Jasper?"

 

“ No,” said he, “ you are not insane. I, too,
feel that that man is alive. Why, look at it!
, They have never found his remains! Could

l they walk out of the river of themselves! Men
are fools, after all.”
; “Yes, Jasper, he is alive, and I will find
him.” ,
! Something like a halo shone about her wan
face. .
Jasper looked at her, kneeling there to him.
4 Her lovely dimples. her rosy bloom, her gold-
threaded chestnut curls were gone.

Her young form was wasted to a shadow,
v her sweet mouth was pale, her eyes shone out.
of (lurk hollows in her white face, but never,
in the days of his glad boy pas:ion, had Ruth
, been so lovely to him as then, kneeling to him
1 in his prison room.

He could not forgive her—no, no, he could
never forgive her! but he loved her with a
lwild, terrible love that battled fiercely with
‘ his anger and jealousy. When he heard her
i say— ‘He is alive and I will find him,” the old
pangs of jealousy tore at his heart-strings and
he answered her: - I

“No, do not look for him. I would rather

‘ pine in prison than have you meet that man.
, again. Let him go.”
For a moment Ruth wondered
! smile came about her lips. ‘
“You think I would come under his influ-
‘ence again, Jasper—that ‘all the old vanity
1and folly would revive? No; you are mis- .
taken. My love was almost dead before I.-

l

; then and ‘

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

z

heard that little lady avow herself his wife; at
that news it gasped and drew its last breath.
It would be as impossible for me, now, to love
this Otis Garner as for a fiend to enter the
gates of heaven ”

“Ruth, get up from of! your knees. I do
not like you to kneel to me, and that floor is
no place for one in your health.”

“ Tell me first, Jasper, that you forgive me.”

“ You ask a great deal, Ruth. Will you not
give me time to think over your petition? It
is not so easy to forgive, all in a moment.”

“I care not for a cold, calculating forgive-
ness. If it came from your heart, one second
would be time enough.”

“ It was—it is. Ruth, I forgave you the
moment my eyes rested on you in the court-
room, and I saw how you had suflered.”

“ 0h, Jasper, is this true?"

“Yes, I forgave you, even when I thought
that your illness was caused by grief for an-
other and not for me.”

“ Jasper, you are noble, generous—the same
boy you always have been.”

She picked up a few of the sweetest flowers,
arose from her knees, and approached him to
give him the blossoms.

As he took them be grasped the little hand
that held them, and looked hard into her face.

“Will you think of me summer evenings,
Ruth, when the breath of roses is sweet all
about you, and I am languishing in prison?”

She burst into tears, sobbing pitifully.

5‘ You shall not go to that place, Jasper.
You shall not! Or, if they are so cruel as to
take you, I shall ask father and mother to go
and live near that prison, and I will visit you
every day, and bring you roses winter and
summer.”

“Then I shall be quite willing to go, Ruth.”

“ I shall live there near you, and bring you
flowers, and write you letters, and prove to
you how patient and faithful I can be. I Will
never desert yon: I will show you that I am
no longer a vain and silly school-girl. Then,
Perhaps —J88pel', perhaps — when those ten
long, cruel years are passed, and you find me
waiting at your prison door, you will be will—
mg to—to place confidence in me again, and to
let me—love you—as you once loved me.”

She hid her tear-dimmed eyes in the roses,
then looked timidly into'his face, and smiled
and gushed,

ill ou—ever—let -
per,” 3 , me love you, Jas

_“ I will think about it,” he answered, slowly,
Without even a smile. “Remember, I shall
have “'1 years in which to make up my
mindi" but there was a glow deep down in his
eyes which reasured Ruth and made her feel
that she should be strong to wait and hope.

 

CHAPTER XXIIL
” DREAMING, sun KNEW rr wss A DREAM.”

Ar Honoria’s urgent request Mildred had
gone home with her to her rooms in the hotel,
feeling that perhaps she would not be Welcome
now at the Fletchers, and seeing no reason why
she should not confide everything to Miss Ap-
pleton, now that that young lady knew who
she was. ,

If these two girls had been friends, when
Mildred had sought the heiress in the humble

Sum of a companion, they were all the warm.
elf friends now that their relations were under—

stood.

Honoriu immediately began to call Mildred

“Win "—“for,” as she argued, “ you are

my , cousin by marriage, you know "—and
the“ “‘9 young wife would blush, and look in
wonder at the regal young creature who could
‘0 We“ control her own feelings, and act so
generously '0 a poor little friendless thing who
“5‘, “WW! the place Mildred had.

. You ‘know I am not really his wife,” she
would "7- “ The marriage ceremony was
Performed: but it was only a mockery to him,
“6 “he 118‘ never lived with me, I can have
"he mm“ “9 dissolved at my pleasure; and,

‘00“!!! 30mm. 1 shall dissolve itthis autumn
coming.”

H

   

 

 

THE WAR OF HEARTS."

For Mildred could be generous, too. She
could not forget the smothered passion, the
hidden yet ever-reVealed fire, with which Ho—
noria had talked of her absent cousin, of the.
injustice which had been done him, and the
pain it was to her to be the owner of his money
and house, while he wandered homeless.

Strangely enough both girls took it for
granted that Otis was alive. They as fully
believed Ruth’s assertion that she had seen him
alive and well, in a vision, as if she had seen
him in her waking senses. Mildred had taken
off her hateful mourning, and bloomed out in
the dresses Otis had given her.

As for Brummell Pomeroy, seeing Mrs. Gar-
ner quite at home with Miss Appleton, at the
hotel, he had thought it time to betake himself
to “fresh fields and pastures new,” and was
quickly away to Newport, where there was a
young blood of his acquaintance ready to be
fieeced. The first time his name was men-
tioned between them Mildred related her ex-
perience of his character and the circumstances
which had driven her from Miss Appleton so
unceremoniously. As this black picture of the
elegant mau-of—fashiou agreed with the new
ideas Honoria had formed of him, the giv is
agreed to drop him from their books, from
their talk and from their thoughts.

The Monday after the week of the trial Miss
Appleton established her aunt in a quiet pri»
vate family, paid her hotel bills and departed
for Boston with Mildred, the latter having fi :1;
paid a good-by visit to the Fletchers, where she
was surprised at the warmth of feeling which
Ruth betrayed.

“ Your husband will come back very soon,
and you will be happy yet,” were the last
words Ruth said to her.

Ruth Fletcher was forced, afterward. to
doubt this assurance which she had given so
earnestly.

Nothing was heard of Otis Garner.

The day came when Jasper J udson—a year
ago the gayest, most spirited and most envied
young man in Pentacket—the one who always
Md Spending-money for frolics—who drove
the finest horses—who owned the handsomest
buggy—who had the most dashing manners
and the most “splendid ” eyes, was taken,
hand-cuffed from the jail to the cars and under
the care of the sherifl was conveyed from the
scenes of his youth to the cold gloom of the
penitentiary. There were not many dry eyes
among the girls of Peutacket that day.

The young men of the place formed them-
selves into an escort and followed the sheriff
and his prisoner to the station.

Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher brought their daugh-
ter, at her demand, and she was on the plat-
form when Jasper was brought there.

“If I cannot make my promise true to pro-
duce Otis Garner alive, then father and mother
have promised to take me to live near you,
Jasper,” she said, as she held his hand and
looked up wistfully into his eyes. ‘

Jasper’s young friends, and old ones, too, all '

assured him that a movement was to be made
for a new trial; all cheered him with assur-
ances of their belief in his innocence and of his
speedy release; but the fact remained that he
stood there disgraced, handcuffed, on his way
to prison; and the smoldering fire in his
haughty glands told how deeply he resented
the position in which he had been placed.

The cars stopped at Pentacket station, and
he went to endure his doom.

In a few days the excitement died away in
the little village. Girls laughed and blushed
find made themselves pretty to please their ad-
mirer; young men went about their morning
work and their evening enjoyments scarcely
calling li0_ mind that their former comrade was
{mung prison fare and fretting his heart out
in a prison-cell.

Peqple .began to thinls that Ruth Fletcher
had either Purposely fab ed in her testimony,
:lll‘tba-t 5h; had beena n ale “touched” when

e gave er account of we? also walking 3;.
Pedlmon, and her promise thatpthe supposed
murdered man should soon reappear.

It mmed highly improbable that if Otis

Garner had been, at the time of the trial, with-

 

27

in one hundred miles of Penteoket he would
not have heard of the trial and either written
or come himself to free an innocent man from
so terrible a charge. Yet he had not appear-
ed, nor did any amount of advertising bring
any tidings of him.

At first Ruth was wonderfully sustained by
her own faith in the vision she had seen.
But as days and weeks dragged alowly' away
her confidence began to fail.

She wandered silently about the large house,
the lawn, the orchard, by the brook, more like
a ghost than a living girl. Her parents did
not know what to do. She constantly be-
sought them to break up their home, and take
her to live near Jasper. Twice in the first
month she gave David money to pay a visit to
Jasper and take him flowers and messages
from her. It was a hard thing for Mr. and
Mrs. Fletcher to break up their old home, and
to try to make a new one in the city; but to
save the life and the reason of their dear and
only daughter they would do all in their pow-
er; so they finally promised her that when the

fall crops were harvested they would do as she V

wished.

Then Ruth lived only on this prospect of the
future. '

She counted the long, hot, weary days, and.
when one was gone she would think: “ I am
so much nearer to him whom I wronged, and
who is suffering for me.”

Time had dragged on until the last day of
August.

It had been a month of drougth and heat——
of glare and dust and steady brilliancy of
burning skies over the parched earth;

“ Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat,
Nor any cloud would cross the vault,
But day increased from heat to heat,
0n stony drought and steaming salt."

Parched as everything was, this last day of
summer, out-of-doors, the lonely house was'
still more dreary to Ruth than the hot stub-
ble-fields and the wasted brook. After the
noon dinner she tied on her broad-brimmed
school hat and set out for one of her long', aim-
less rambles. She followed the little stream,
which in spring had been a glad and noisy tor-
rent, where it crept, shallow and slow, bo-
tween two wheat-fields whose stubble shone
like gold under the burning sun, until it came
into the maple-grove, where it lingered and
gathered strength on its bed of green mosses
and glistening pebbles, dallying with the long
games, and kissing the blue wood—violets.

Ruth had still but little strength, and when
she had gone into the grove, where it was just
a trifle cooler than under the cloudless azure
sky, she was exhausted, and threw herself
down on the bank, where the grass was short
and dry, to rest, and watch the ripple and the
slender silver stream. Unconsciously she fell
into a. quiet slumber. Then, as on that night
before she gave her testimony in court it
seemed to her that Mr. Otis came to her, bent
over her, touched her hand, and said to her:
“ See, Ruth, 1 am not dead after all!”

“ Dreaming, she knew it was a dream;
She felt he was and was not there.
She woke: the babble of the stream ,

Fell,"
and gradually she became conscious that some
one was bending over her—that some one did.
hold her, little thin hand—and that a voice,
whose lightest cadence once thrilled to the
deepest depths of her foolish heart, was saying,
half gayly, half tenderly:

5

“Wake up, little Ruth, wake up, and give. ‘

me welcome 1”

She sat up quickly; her large, startled eyes,
shining out of their dark hollows in her wasted
face, rested on the one she had so long looked
for.

“Thank Godl” she murmured, solemnly,
meeting the grave black eyes that looked at her
with some curiosity. '

“What for, pretty Ruth? Because the scope.
gracehasreturned togiveanaccountof him.

7)
in are“ e W
t w matter with you, Ruth, '
Youaresochangethadtdlookhard atyou

 

 

 

-23

JI‘HE WAR OF HEARTS.

 

 

I Q ‘ y
a good five minutes before I was certain it was little wife. She came here, in deep mourning, the conductor 01‘ bra-keman until we had atop—
‘ I to attend the trial.

you. Have you been ill?”

“ Yes, Mr. Otis, ever since we lost you.”

She spoke very solemnly; there were none of
the old blushes, smiles, or little coquetries of

look and speech. . ,

“Did my running away have anything to
do with it?” he continued. after an instant’s
hesitation.

“ Then you did run away, Mr. Otis?” l

“ Certainly; what did'you think had become
of mel”

“ Everybody thought you were dead—some
that you were drowned—more that you were
murdered and thrown under the ice in the
river. Did you not know that Jasper Judson ‘
had been arrested for your murder—that he
lay in jail six months awaiting his trial—that
he was tried last J une,_and convicted—and that
he is now enduring his sentence in State’s
prison?" ‘

“ Poor Jasper! As God is my judge, Ruth,
I never thought of or suspected such serious
consequences from my freak to disappear, and ,
so get rid of some troubles that Were depress-
ing my spirits at that time. It was very
thoughtless, very wicked of me. I see it all
now. I did hear something about it, the very
day the trial opened. I was at the lake, on a
sketching tour, when some persons from the
hotel came there on a picnic, and I overheard
two of them—acquaintances of mine—talking
over the matter. I was shocked, and intended
immediately to present myself at Pentacket.
But now, hear on what trifles hang the fate of
mortals. The fellow who was with the young
lady, on the opposite side of the lake from the
rest of the party, proposed, out of revenge
for her rejection of his suit, to keep her there
until their absence created a scandal. I over-
heard his threat, and being disguised by blue
glasses, and so forth, so that I could not fear
recognition, I sprung out and tumbled him into
the lake. Then I had to rescue him, or be
guilty of murder. All drenched as I was, I
had to row the young lady across the lake to
her friends, and return. Somehow, I took
cold. I have done similar feats before with-
.out taking cold; but I was tired, hungry, and
not just in a state for such risks. I went to
the cabin where I had been living all summer
-—a deserted log-house in the forest of which I
had taken possession, as I was not able to pay
board, and where I cooked my own food and
washed my own shirts—made up a fire on the
hearth, drew a cup of tea, drank it, and went
to my bed of hemlock boughs, half uncon-
sciousfrom the elf cts of a severe chill. Dear
Ruth, will you be 'eve me, that I lay sick in
that but for over six weeks, some days not able

«to help myself to a drink of water, on others,
just making out to crawl to the spring on my
hands and knees, and to make a little fire and
some tea or coffee, and toast some of the ship’s
biscuits, of which I had a keg full. I used to
think that my skeleton would be found there
some day, and furnish the mountain with its
own mystery. It happened that no one came
near in all that time, though I frequently
heard the guns of sportsmen not far away.
Fortunately, my splendid constitution carried
me through. I say, ‘fortunately,’ not because
my poor life is worth anything to anybody;
but because my return to civilization will be
the means of restoring an innocent man to his
freedom and good name. I was too delirious,
some of the time, to realize anything about
what I heard of my supposod murder; then,
when I would come to my senses, I would be
quite desperate thinking of what depended on
my getting well. /I thank God, too, Ruth, as
earnestlyas you did. It was a thoughtless,
reckless trick of mine, running away as I
did."

“Yes it was, Otis Garner; it has made more
sorrow and trouble than you can dream of.
You see what it has done to me; and it nearly
killed your wife, also, and made sorrow and
trouble for your cousin.”

“ My wife?”

“Yes' we know all about on now Mr.‘ . '
’ y ’ {on the platform and was not overhauled by] Thatevenmz Jasper letthis parent! “Wt

Garner. and we love your sweet, beautiful

She has returned to Bos-
ton, now. "

“Did you know how I came to marry
her?”

“ No—nothing about that.”

“I will tell you sometime; you are too agi-
tated now. You tremble like a leaf. Come,
let me help you to the house.

Pentacket, brooding in the hot sunshine,
with all business as nearly suspended as possi-
ble, was destined to awake from siesta that
afternoon with a shock that made her forget
the heat, and gave her a new topic of conver-
sation.

quavering and hearts to beating high.

“Otis Garner is at the house of Mr. Fletcher,
alive and well!”

Not well, exactly; but well enough to come

. to the porch and show himself to the excited

crowds that gathered there within an hour of
the time when he led Ruth home from her
forest ramble.

It was not enough for these good people,
who had been put to so much trouble on his
account, to see the schoolmaster standing be-
fore them; they called for an explanation 0”

Like the rush of a tempest the news '
flew from house to house, setting voices to‘

pad at the next village. There I slid'ofl and.
entered a passenger car in the regular manner,
paid in fare to Boston, and rode till we’stop-
ped in he city. No one had recognized me.
I strolled, in the gray winter morning, down
to the docks and took cheap passage in a
sailing-vessel for Key West.
‘ so useful to the captain that he refunded my
money before we reached Florida.

“Not to be tiresome, I found a way to live
economically in the South, and remained there
until nearly the first of June, never meeting
any of my friends, because, if I saw one, I
took myself away betimes. Then I grew
homesick and returned North, arriving in
Boston in June, and going to call on a favorite
cousin at my old home, found the house shut
and she gone for the summer, I did not learn
where. I was pretty poor by this time; and I
', furnished a portfolio and started out on a
l sketching tour, having once had a great taste
1 for painting.

5 “Not a word did I hear of the drama enact-
: ing in Pcntacket, until a few weeks ago, and
then I was taken ill alone in a mountain but
where I could not communicate with you. As
soon as, I could crawl, I started to undo, as far

 

 

his sudden disappearance; and if he had 3 as POSSible, the miSChief my adventures had
haughtin refused to give it, there is no cer— ! wrought t0 Others—and here I am, thankful
tainty but that the proud Bostonian would i that it is not too late t0~tbat it is no Worse.”

‘ have been treated to a coat of car and His voice trembled as he concluded, and he
‘feathers. looked so sorry and so sad, and his garments
1 But Otis felt quite humble in view of all the were 30 “11' “adbal‘ey and his fine: Patricmn ‘83“
harm he had done, and was willing to explain “1'83 90 P319, that, in a moment, by the magic

himself.

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
IN THE HARVEST MOONLIGHT.

Orrs was pale with excitement as he stood
before the crowd.

“ You must do me the justice, friends, to
believe that I never had the faintest idea of
the disastrous results of such a freak, when I
‘ suddenly, in a single moment of time—on that

L Christmas night, when I passed Judson in the !

,‘race, and found myself, on turning a bend of
the river, completely out of sight—resolved to
i lose myself and never again be found by any
I of my acquaintances.
, matter which I have a perfect right to keep to
I myself, as it relates entirely to my family af-
‘ fairs. I was not - happily situated; school-
!teaching was a new business to me, and irk-
{some; I had in my pocket my last quarter’s
salary; and a new trouble, which I had not
‘ before dreamed of, had arisen that very even-
‘ ing, to make me still more discontented with
“ my situation here. Unwittingly—not having
seen proper to state, on my coming here, that
‘ I was a. married man—I had made trouble he

mired and liked. I thought the easiest way
‘out of everything was just to disappear. I
‘believed it would make no difference to any

I “ WhyI made this resolution is a private 1

‘ tween two young people, both of whom I ad— 1

of his quivering lips, the tide turned, and the
people forgave and pitied him, testifying to
their sympathy by one rousing cheer for him,
and three and a tiger for Jasper J udson—after
which they dispersed to wear out their excite-
, ment by degrees.
In three days from that a mighty delegation
of almost the whole county awaited, at the
. station, the arrival of the falsely-condemned,
‘ who had been set at liberty as quickly as pos-
sible.
The appearance of Jasper Judson on the
tplatform, as he descended from a train, and
stood, rather grave and pale, before them, was
I the signal for such a burst of welcomes, cheers
’ and congratulations as nearlyoverwhelmed him.
Then some of his young friends took him on
: their shoulders and carried him the whole long
mile and a quarter to the home where his poor
' mother, weeping with joy, steed on the steps
3 to receive him. '
But first, in passing the Fletcher homestead,
gthey had tarried at the gate, and called out
Ruth. She came forth, dremed in white,
lweeping and smiling, bringing him a great
! handful of her choicest flowers; but Jasper re-
‘fused them, turning white with anger, when
l he saw who walked by Ruth’s side.
Then Otis, seeing this little misunderstand-
, ing arising, stepped quickly up, wrung Jas-
per’s hand, and whispered in his ear: .
* “She would not have me now, if I were

'one if it were taken for granted that I was free, and asked here thousand times. She has
‘ drowned in the ice-hole. I meant it to be so 870W“ Wise and knows better W110 is worthy
‘ apprehended. I was quite willing my rela- Of her- She has confessed [70 me that

tives should believe me dead, and I did not ‘ She 10“! 7°“ 101‘ the dangers yOF have P855663
think any one in Pentacket would care par— and ROW 37011 um“ love her, that 3119 dld Pity
ticularly. With these thoughts crowding into them“ JESPBr_ Judson, I thank God in my
my brain, I turned and made 9, sudden dart heart every mmute that matters are no worse
for the shore, and crept behind the clump of than they are!” .

’ bushes just as Judson turned the bend. I si- ' Then Jasper “TetChEd 011* 1115 hand and took
' lently freed myself from my borrowed skates, like flowers ha would ha“ 1‘ Bfused: and 311th
‘ watching my rival’s movements as 1 did so. liftedflp her sweet: 01931 eyes and 100k“ Into
When he started back for help, I ran across his “71,131! a look 12h!“ betrtfoyed her hem; and
'fields, keeping out of sight of the skating— she Bald: Wlthaiovtul smale:

‘party, by skirting fences and dodging from “Imld you, Jasper, that you would come
1 bush to tree, and tree to bush. I made for the bBCk ‘0 “5 bofore lo 1 You see my Vision
‘railroad station on the edge of the village. was a Prophet“! 01161 601319 13?"? laughed it
When I reached it there was no one about ex- “ me and dubbed me a little lunafilc; but I knew
cept the station-master, whom I could see, ‘ What had been revealed to me in my sleep was
‘ through the window, toasting his' feet by the . 1mm” / '

‘. stove. I crept behind a pile of empty dry. 1 But the merry °T°Wd would not let them

I made myself '

.l goods boxes. I knew atrain for Boston would , talk longer, bearing Jasper forward m “h”

soon be due. When it came along and stop- ' mower Whom 91°F knew was Waiting  319d;
ped, Icontrivedto get on the rear platform den he? “armed 9?“ Wlth the 318m °t
of the last car without being seen. I remained her boy.

 

 

 
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘41“ is, .. ~.

THE WAR OF HEARTS.  ‘ 2.9

 

nine o’clock, and took a path across the fields—
running through dew-scented second crops of
clover and rustling com—toward the house of
farmer Fletcher.

As he came out on the lawn he saw Ruth,
with a light scarf wound about her head and
shoulders, walking up and down the porch.

Ina. moment he was by her side, her cold
little hand clasped in his warm, strong one.

“ Ruth, where is Mr. Otis?”

“ Gone. ”

“Gone?”

“ Yes; he took the seven o'clock train for
Boston. I think there is some one there whom
he is in a hurry to see. He only awaited your
arrival, to be here to welcome you, and to be
sure that all was right. He left his love for
you; and says that you shall hear from him
soon by letter. ”

“Ruth, let me see your face by this fair
moonlight. You have suffered, my darling, I
know.”

“ But it is all over now, Jasper. I would
suffer it all over again to have you speak so
kindly to me. Do you really mean that you
feel toward me as you used before this trouble

began?”
“Not quite that way, Ruth. I can never

be the thoughtless, happy boy I was then.
But my love, my little dear, has only become
the stronger and firmer. I know what it
means now to give all my hopes of happiness
into the hands of another; and I yield them to
you, Ruth, more solemnly, more sacredly,
than I would once have done. I believe that
you, too, are more certain of yourself; and
that we have less to fear from each other’s
lightness and changeableness than we once had.
So, sweetest, I believe that we may yet be very
happy together. ”

“You are very generous, Jasper, to the
foolish girl who once betrayed your trust; but
you have your reward: there is not a man in
the world who could make me think he was
your equal.”

And, as they walked up and down in the
full glory of the harvest moon, these young
hearts built up an ideal happiness on a far
firmer foundation than that of their boy and
girl dreams.

One foolish girl-heart had broken away from
the chains of fancy which had bound it to Otis
Garner, and had moored itself in the quiet ha-
ven of its childhood’s home. The proud, dark
beauty of the haughty scion of the Garner tree
had no longer any charm, in Ruth’s eyes, com-
parable to that she found in the frank, honest,
handsome face of her young lover.

CHAPTER XXV.
nosns in OCTOBEIL

A com, dull, sickening fear had for many
days and nights been growing upon Honoria
Appleton. She looked with wonder on little
Mildred, to think she could keep up her spark-
ling spirits in the face. of the fact that Weeks
had elapsed since Judson had gone to State’s
prison, and yet no tidings had come to any one
to prove the existence of her cousin.

Many times Honoria longed to warn the
wife not to hope so fondly—not to put such
confidence in the vision of a sickly girl; but
Mildred was so busy With her beaks, 'music and
painting; so almost sublime in the stern reso—
lution which she kept to herself—that when
Otis did come, She would go, and would free
him from his bonds and leave him at liberty to
be happy with his splendid cousin—that she
dreaded to disturb her With the praying misery
of her own fears.

The two girls were keeping house in the old
family mansion; in a very private way, keep-
ing the front shutters closed that they might
not be intruded upon by chance acquaintances,
the most of the heiress’ aristocratic friends still
staying in the mountains or at the seaside.
Mildred wanted to so away, feeling a great
deucacy about being found in that house when
Otis should arrive. , ,

But Honoria would not listen to her, asking
what she would do, left all alone, with only

 

lawn“, in that great mansion. So Mildred

 

yielded, according to her nature, and remain-
ed, while Honoria did not say to her that she
felt there would never be any reason for her
going away.

One hot and dusky August day the fair
young mistress of the mansion had exhibited a
deep melancholy all day, which had the effect
to depress the hopeful spirits of her friend.

Finally, not daring to put her despondency
into plainer expression, Honoria came down to
tea dressed all in black.

Mildred looked at her in surprise which deep-
ened to consternation, then glanced down at
her own white robe and the pink carnations in
her bosom, while the tears sprung to her eyes.

Neither of the girls did more than pretend
to drink their too. As they Were leaving the
room the little wife wound one white arm
about her companiou’s waist.

“ You think he is dead,” she Whispered.

“Yes. But it may be because I am not
quite well. My head aches; and so I look at
things with gloomy eyes."

“Shall I go and put on my black dress,
too?”

“Not to—night. I prefer to see you as you
are. So long as you have hope I shall not quite
despair.”

They turned into the music-room. There
were a few Wax candles lighted here, whose
silvery luster hardly intruded upon the flood
of glorious moonlight which fell in crystal ca-
taracts through two tall windows opening to
the south, deluging the lovely room with ma
diance.

Mildred sat down to the piano, touched the
keys with a fairy touch, and began to sing to
herself in low, soft tones moumful songs of
sorrow and passion. A broad stream cf moon—
light lay Over her slender, exquisite little fig-
ure, and lighted up her fair, pure face till it
was like the face of an angel. Honoria could
not bear even this sweet company, wandering
off into the great drawing-room, faintly light-
ed by a single moonlight globe, and the mys-
tic light which fell through one window to the
south.

Here she paced up and down, t e long train
of her black dress trailing after her, not one
jewel lighting up the dusk of her streaming
hair, which she had let down because its weight
was too oppressive to her aching head.

Suddenly she paused, clasping her hands,
and falling back a step with a gesture that
would have become a queen of tragedy, but
with her wholly unpremeditated. The door-
bell had sounded, and for some reason, which
she did not herself comprehend, the summons
was full of meaning—like the cry of a. friend
in danger. She stood still and listened.

The old servitor was speaking with some
one at the door; then the door closed, and. as
nothing now was heard, she was about to re-
sume her walk when the door from the [ml]
softly opened and some one stepped into the
room.

“ Honor-la. is it you?"

“Otis! Oh, thank God, you have come at
lastl”

Their voices were vibrant With deep emotion,
but not loud, and the sweet singer in the music-
room adjoining—the folding—doors Open be.
tween the two rooms—heard nothing, and
went on with her low, sad, heart-touching sing-
ing.

Otis held out his arms and his cousin rushed
into them. He kissed her and she returned his

155.

“I could not stay away longer, cousin; the
call of my heart was too powerful. It is
wrong to be here—it is against the voice of
pride and the sense of duty—but I had to come,
or die. There, now, I have frightened you,
sweet 1”

“You have,” answered Honoria, tearing her-
self from his arms. “It does frighten me to
hear you say such things. I was so glad to
see you, alive, whom we mourned as dead,
that I remembered only that you were my
dear cousin—my own cousin, ever dear, ever
an objeCt of the deepest interest to me, but my
cousin only. Otis, dear, where have you beeni

 

Why did you allow us to sufler so much in the
fear that you were dead?"
“ ‘ Allow us?’ Who is ‘us,’ may I ask?’
“Hushl speak and move very softly, and I
will show you,” leading him toward the fold~

ing-doors, and signing him to look into the

music-room. .

He did look along, long time, very silently.
Honoria could not guess what thoughts were
passing through his brain.

The picture in the music-room was one upon
which the most indifferent person might gaze.
if only f0, its beauty. The silver-falling moon-v
light, mingled with the soft glow of the wax
candles, illuminated the place with a mystic
light that made more lovely its beautiful
mlurnments, and wrapped in a magic spell the
fair creature at the piano.

Absorbed in her own thoughts, pouring out
her own soul in thrilling whispers to the re-
sponsive instrument, Mildred sat in that white
moonlight like a fairy inside the ring of a fall-
ing fountain. Her soft, translucent white
dross fell about her perfect little figure; her
white arms were bare, her wonderful gold hair
glittered about her shoulders and fair throat.
There Were carnations in this hair and on the.
soft bosom, trembling to the music of the rose-
swcet lips. »

Mildred did not look the child she had been
when the man who now silently gazed at her
saw her last. As pure, as innocent, was that
dreamy, beautiful face, but it were a. look of
dignity, of quiet endurance, of pathetic wo-
manhood which had come to it through many
trials.

Nothing lovelier was ever seen on earth than
Mildred sitting there in the moonlight, breath-
ing out her loving soul in sweetest melodies.
llonoria gazed on her, too, with as fascinated
a look as her cousin.

Finally Otis turned and searched the dark
beauty of the face beside him, as if comparing
it with that ethereal loveliness of the other
young creature at the piano.

“I am not so beautiful as she is,” whispered
Honoria. “Look at her! pure as an
lovely as a lily in its first bloom. That trea-
sure is yours, Otis! Thank heaven .for it!
Otis, look at her—she is your wife-«she loves
you—adores you. Do not cast away the pearl
of all your tribe!”

So saying his peerless cousinvanished from
his side. He looked around for her, but she
was gone.

Yes, brave, noble Honorio, speaking in the
interests of honor and of her friend—crushing
her own heart to do it—hod fled to the sacred
solitude of her own room.

There, throwing herself on the floor, inth
tender moonlight, long did she wrestle with
her own passionate nature; until, utterly
wearied out with the long struggle and with
the darting pangs that tore her head as well as
heart, she at last sobbed herself tomlcep, with-
out even a pillow under her aching head. But
she awoke the conqueror. Gone was the rack-
ing pain in her temples—gone the more terri-
ble pain in her heart. Long since had she
given up her cousin to this other woman who
loved him so and who had the right to love
him. But his sudden appearance, his passion-
ate words, had brought back her old feelings
and she had the battle all to fight over again.

Once more she was at peace. As the rose
from her hard couch she perceived that there
had been a light rain in the latter part of the
night; the air coming in at her window was
sweet and refreshing; she dressed herself calm-
ly, without the help of her maid—for it was
still very early—and then sat and. read her
prayer-book and considered what she could do
to make others happy ;. until he: maid camel
and was surprised to find her up.

Then the summons to breakfast came, and
she went downhpalc, but becoming.

Alas, the house was desolate.

Otis had gone away about an hour after she
left him, the servant who had let him out of
the door said; and Mrs. Garner had gone 01,
early this morning,.snd had not yet m
ed. ‘

..e\_

 

30' H ’

r

THE WAR OF HEARTS.

 

 

“This is intolerable,” thought Honoria.
“She has gone and left me alone in this great
house. Go up to Mrs. Garner’s room,” she
ordered the servant, “ and see if there isa note
on her table for me.”

The servant returned with a note. She
hastily opened it, and read:

"DEAR FMENnt—Otls asked me to live with him;
but I dill not believe that his heart was in his
words. 1 do not think it delicate for me to remain
in your house, under the circumstances. With ten
thousand thanks for your love and noble kindness,
I bid you good-by for the resent. I am gomg
back to Pentacket. I think .Irs. Fletcher Will be
glad to see me, and I am sure I can do a little
something to pay for my board. Fondly, fiur
> ' ILLA.”

So HonOria was forsaken; nor could Otis
come freely to see her, for it was in the will
that he should never so much as take a meal in
the house.

Mildred had left him her bank-book with
word that she should never draw the money;
and he, with all his pride, was driven by dire
necessity to make use of it himself.

SO long as this money lasted Otis gave him-
self atreat of idleneSs. But “ time hung heavy
on his hands.” Honoria always received him
gravely, as if she thought it was not just right
for him to seek her society; and thus he was
driven, more and more, to think of that lovely,
pure face he had seen bending over the piano,
while the echo of that passionate, sweet voice
lingered in his memory.

In the mean time Mildred found a warm
welcome in Pentacket. The Fletchers were
delighted to have her with them; while her
tasteful accomplishments were in constant
requisition, for there was to be, on the first of
October, in that old homestead, one of the
grandest weddings ever celebrated in that part
of the country.

Ruth, now that her mind was at ease, had
recovered her health and appetite, and was
daily getting back more fully the dimples and
the roses which had once made her so very,
very pretty. She was the happiest girl in the
State; but not more happy than her lover, who
was being repaid in a double measure of joy
for all he had wrongfully suffered. l

Little Mildred was consulted at every step
of the preparations, and always appeared
cheerful and interested. if she shed tears she
shed them in solitude.

About three weeks before the wedding she
received by mail a bulky package. Opening
itin some consternation she was astonished to
find that it contained a deed of gift of half the
Garner estate—amounting to a round million
——to Mrs. Mildred Garner from Honoria Ap-
pleton. She had no idea of accepting this mu-
nificent gift, but was too busy to decide what
to do about it just then, laying it away in a
locked box, and really thinking very little
about the preposterous thing.

The first of October soon came round—a gor-
geous day, that shone down like a benediction
on the roomy old house, every corner of which
had been 'put in order, since many guests were

expected during the day, and to remain over V

night, besides the many invited to the evening

g festivities.

The best room had been reserved for Miss
Appleton, who had accepted her invitation.
Mrs. Fletcher was a little flurried at the idea
of so grand a. guest, but Mildred laughed at
her, and declared she would take all the care
of the lady, and, since the house was crowded,
share her room with her.

The house was sweet with flowers and
quaintly handsome with its old-fashioned
adornments. Guests poured iii—Miss Apple-

, ton among them—and merry laughter, music

and feasting soon brought the starry evening,
when all the respectable people in Pentacket
flocked to the wedding.

Ruth made a sweet, girlish, pretty bride.
Herion white-silk robe, her veil, her orange-
flowers, er smiles and blushes, were charming;
but she had a rival in the popular interest;
for no living being in that mass of friends had
ever seen so lovely and syl h-like a creature as

the fair g’lrl who'stood b the bride, dressed

 

also in white and wearing a necklace of costly
pearls about her white neck, and white roses in
her gold hair.

There was a faint, soft flush on Mildred’s
cheek, and a glory in her great violet eyes
which Honoria, intently watching her, could
not entirely understand.

She would have understood it had she seen
the love-letter which nestled near Mildred’s
fast-beating heart—the first love - letter the
child had ever received—and which told her
that her fairy-prince was coming to claim his
bride, at last.

Not a rose in the rose-gardens of Persia
could have rivaled Mildred’s cheeks when, just
after the wedding ceremony between Ruth and
Jasper, Otis Garner walked into the room and
came up and gracefully congratulated them;
then turned and kissed his fair little wife be-
fore them all, and, taking her on his arm, led
her out to supper.

Honoria was not married for three years af-
ter that, though she had suitors by the dozen;
but she did, at length. meet a true and noble
gentleman, well worthy of her—far more
worthy of her than Otis Garner could ever
have been, though Otis, after all his foibles,
makes a tender and fond husband to his little
wife.

It was a shop way of cheating old uncle
Garner out of dis vengeance which Honoria
had taken wl she divided her fortune, not
with Otis, but lith his wife; and she had the
pleasure of s .ng her cousin restored to his
rights withm- )reaking the word—though she
did the spirit of that ill -tempered will.

THE END.

Half-Dime Singer’s Library

1 WEeA, EMMA! and 59 other Songs.

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Naval Cadet‘s Wooing. y Corinne Lushman.
14 \Vhy I lilarried Hint; or, The Woman in
Gray. By Sara Claxton.
15 A Fair Face; or, Out in the World. By
V Bartley T. Campbell.
16 Trust Her Not; or,A True Knight. By
Margaret Leicvster.
1 7 A Loyal Lover ' or, The Last of the Grims-
‘ eths. By ArabelaSouthworth.
18 is Idol‘ 01', The Ill-Starred Marriage. By
Mrs. Mary eed Crowell.

19 The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus
Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine.

20 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, The
Lost Heir. By Agile Bonus.

21' Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Mar-
r Him? By Henrietta Thackeray.

22 T e Bride of an Actor; or. Driven from

‘ Home. By the author of “ Alone in the World,”
“ Clifton, ’ etc.

23 Leap Year; or, Why She Proposed. By Sara
Claxton.

24 Her Face Was Her Fortune. By Elea-
nor Blaine.

25 Only a Schoolmistress; or, Her Untold
Secret. By Arabella Southworth.

26 Without a Heart; or, Walking on the
Brink. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham.

27 Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange
Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray.

28 S bil Chase; or, The Gambler’s Wife. By

. Ann S. Stephens.
\ 29 For Her Dear Sake; or, Saved From Him-

self. By Sara Claxton.

30 The Bouquet Girl; or, A Million of Money.
By Agile Penne.

31 A Mad Marriage' or The Iron Will. B
Mary A. Denison. ’ 7 

32 Mariana, the Prima Donna- or, Roses
and Lihes. By Arabella Southwort .

8.3 The Three Sisters; or. The Mystery of
.Lord Chalfont. By Alice Fleming.

34 A Marriage of Convenience; or, Was
Re 9. Count? 1317 Sara Claxton.

35 All Against Her; or, The Winthrop Pride.
By Clara Augusta.

36 Sir Archer’s Bride; or, The Queen oins

. Heart. By Arabella Southworth.

37 The Country Cousin; or, All is not Gold
that Glitters. By Rose Kennedy.

3'8 His Own Again; or, Trust Her Not. By.

Arabella Southworth.
39 Flirtation; or, A Youn Girl's Good Name.
By Jacob Abarbanell, (1? pk Royal.)
40 Pledged to Marry; or, In Love’s Bonds.
, By Sara Claxton.
41 Blind Devotion' or Love A ainst the
World. By Alice Fléming. g
42 Beatrice, the Beautifiil- or, His Second
Love. By Arabella Southworth. _
43 The Baronet’s Secret; or, The Rival Half-
‘ Sisters. By Sara Claxton.
44 The On] Dau hter; or, Brother against
ver. y Alice leming.
45 Her Hidden Foe; or, Love At All Odds.
By Arabella Southworth.

46 The Little Heiress; or, Under a Cloud.
A. Denison. v

. y Mrs. Mag .
47 Because S 6 Loved Him; or, How Will
' It End? By Alice Fleming. I
48 In Spite of Herself; or, Jeannette‘s Reps-
retlon. I By S. R. Sherwood.

49 His Heart’s Mistress; or Love at First
. I Sight. By Arabella Southwort .

50 The Cuban Heiress' or, e Prisoner of
’ La Vintresse. By Mrs. Mary fienison,

 

51 Two. You... Girls; or, The Bride of an
Ear]. By Alice Fleming. ‘

52 The “Hinged Messenger; or, Risking All
for a Heart. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

53 Agnes Hope, the Aetress' or. The Ro-
mance of a Ruby Ring. By illiam Mason
Turner, M. D

54 one Wotnan’s Heart; or, Saved from the
Street. By George S. Kaime.

55 She Did Not Love Him; or, Stooping to
Conquer. By Arabella Southworth.

56 Love-Mad ; or Betrothed. Married Divorced
and . By m. Mason Turner, .D.

57 A Brave Girl; or, Sunshine at Last. By
Alice Fleming.

58 The Ehon Flask; or. The Mysterious
Guardian. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell.

59 A ‘Vidow’s \Viles; or, A Bitter Vengeance.
By Rachel Bernhardt.

60 Cecil’s Deceit; or. The Diamond Legacy.
By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton.

61 A \Vickcd Heart; or, The False and the
True. By Sara Claxton.

62 The lilaniac Bride; or, The Dead Secret
of Hollow Ash Hall. By Margaret Blount.

63 The Creole Sisters; or The Mysteryof the
Perrys. By Mrs. Anna E. orter.

64 ‘Vhat Jealousy Did; or, The Heir of
Worsley Grange. By Alice Fleming.

65 The ‘Vii'e’s Secret; or, ’Twixt Cup and
Lip. By Col. Juan Lewis.

66 A Brother’s Sin; or, Flora‘s Forgiveness.
By Rachel Bernhardt. _

67 Forbidden Bans; or, Alma‘s Disguised
Prince. By Arabella Southworth.

68 Weavers and \Veit; or. “Love That Hath
Us In His Net.” By Miss M. E. Braddon.

69 Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette. By
Alexandre Dumas. ‘

70 The T‘VO Orphans. By D'Enery.

71 Mg Young Wife. By My Young Wife’s

usband.

'12 The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas.
73 Rose Michel; or, The Trials of a Factory
Girl. By Maud Hilton.
74 Cecil Castleinaine’s Gage' or, The Story
of a Broidered Shield. By uida.
75 Tlgie Black Lady of Dana. By J. S. Le
anu.

76 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson.

77 Christian Oakle ’8 Mistake. By the
author of “ John H ' ax, Gentleman,” etc.

’18 My Young Husband; or, AConiusion in
the Family. By Myself. I -

79 A ueen Amongst Women. Bé the
ant or of " The Cost of Her Love ” " ilded
Sin,” “Dora. Theme," “From Groom to Sun-
light,” etc.

80 Her Lord and Mister.
Marryat. ‘

81 Lucy Temple, Sister of Charlotte.

82 A Long Time Ago. By Meta Orred.

83 Playing for High Stakes. By Annie

homes.

84 The Laurel Bush. By the author of
“John Halifax, Gentleman."

85 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet.

86 J anet’s Repentance. By George Eliot.

87 The Romance ofa Poor Young Man.
By Octave Feuillet.

88 A Terrible Deed; or, All for Gold. By
Emma Garrison Jones.

89 A Gilded Sin. By the author of “Dora.
Thorn,” etc.

90 The Author’s Daughter.
Hewitt.

91 The J ilt. By Charles Reade. _

92 Eileen Alanna- or, the Dawning oi the Day.
By Dennis O‘Sullhmn.

93 Love2s ‘fiv’ictory. By B‘ L. Farjeon.

94 The Qni- t Heart. By Mrs. Oliphant.

95 Lettiee A nold. By Mrs. Marsh.

96 Haunted Hearts' or, The Broken Be-
trothal. B) Rachel Bemhardt.’

97 Hugh Melon. By Katharine King.

98 Alice Learmont; ByMissMulock.

By Florence

By Mary

99 Marjorie Bruce’s Lovers. 85' M"! _
Patrick.

100 Through l-‘ire and Water. By Fred~
erick Tel t. r

101 Hannah. .By Miss Mulock.

102 Peg Woflington. By Charles Beadb.

103 A Desperate Deed. By Erskine Boyd.

 

104 Shadows on the Snowy. By B. L. Far-
Jeon. .

105 The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By
W. M. Thackeray. , i

106 From Dreams to Waking. By E.
Lynn Linton.

107 Poor Zephi By F. W. Robinson.

108 The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos
BartOn. By George Eliot. \

109 Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. By

B. L. Earjeon.
110 The “laundering Heir. By Charles

Reade.
11 1 The Brother’s Bet; or Within Six
Weeks.’ By Emilie Flygare Car en.
112 A Hero. By Miss Mulock. .
113 Paul and Virrrinia. From the French 01'
Bernardin De St. Bierre. _
114 ’Ttvas In Trafalgar’s Buy. By Wal-
ter Besant & James Rice.

115 The Maid of Killeena. By William.
Black. \

1 1 6 Hetty. By Henry Kingsley.
117 The \Vayside Cross; 91', The Raid of
Gomez. By Captain E. A. Milman.

11? The Vicar of Wakefield.
Goldsmith.

119 Maud llIohan. By Annie Thomas.

120 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss Jane»
Porter. I

121 The King
jeon.

122 Love], the “fidower. By W. M. Thack-
eray.

123 An Island Pearl. By B. L. Farjeon.

124 Cousin Phillis. .

125 Leila; or, The Siege of Grenada. By Ed-
ward Bulwer (Lord Lytton). ‘

BY

126 \Vhen the Shi Comes Home.
Walter Besant and ames Rice.

127 One of the Family. By James Payn.
128 The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore.

129 Motherless; or, The Farmer’s Sweetheart.
By Colonel Prentiss lngraham.

130 Homeles; or, .Two Orphan Girls in New
York. By Albert W. Aiken.

131 Sister against Sister; or The Rivalry of .
Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed rowell.’ .

132 Sold for Gold; or, Almost Lost. By Mrs.
M. V. Victor. ‘1 '

1 Lord Roth’s S n or. Betrothed at the

33 Cradle. By Mrs. Georgiana. Dickens.

134 Did He Love Her ’9 By Bartley '1‘. Camp-
bell.

By Oliver

of No-Land. By 13.5... Far- ‘

1 35 Sinned Against; or, Almost in His Power.
By Lillian Lovejoy. * ‘
136 Was She His Wife? By Mrs. Mary Reed

Crowell.
137 fiekVillage on the Clifi‘. By Miss

c eray. . , .

138 Poor Valeria! or. The Broken Troth.
By Margaret Blount. _ v ‘

139 Margaret Graham. By G. P. R. James.

140 Without MercY- By BartleyT.CampbeH.

141 Honor Bound; or,Sealedto Secrecy. By
Lillian LoveIlOY- ‘

142 Fleeing fl'om Love. By Mrs. Harriet
Irving. ‘

or, A Wicked Woman‘s Work.
Rett W nwood. ‘

l 43 Abducted;
By i

A Stran e Marria e or John Foster’s
144 Heiress. §y Lillian Lovgejogn ’ , _
145 Two Girl’s Lives. Elm-.1“?! Reed

Crowall. -

6 A Des crate Venture o
14 Own Sakle. By Arabella Sou worth. .

147 The War of Hearts. By Corinne Cush.
man

1 48 Which Was tge Woman '3 or, Strangely
' ' Clamn.
I MISJudged. By y sepfgmber
149 An Ambition! Girl ’ or. SheWould Be
An

_ B nces elenDave .
Awe” ym Septem 19th- I

4 mo issue every week!

I i. . .

Tm: WAVlmLIY lanai“ is for sale by safflower

dealers, five cents per copy. or sent ‘byqllll on re-
ceipt of six cents each. V I

BEADLE AND ADAMS. 

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