WHEN MA WAS NEAR. t har* on© bit of four •Wont nothin* 'tall, whon ma was near; j Tho cloud* could bank up In tho *ky, Or ’loro tho wind In whlio streaks fly, §*&■ But somehow ‘nut her I didn’t keer A snap for them -whon ma wa* near -• ; 5 dnMinnthnt oncak nt night to nkeor , Ua llttlr folkn-when ma wai near Jr* falrlv flow, and wouldn't may pj ’Hound there one bit. but run nod away: An' didn't aoom to bo one bit quaer es'- They couldn't holp It. when ina tru near. * It wasn't bad to bo sick, whore You felt tho Jov that nt a vr.u near, cue The throbs o’ pain couldn't stay much |;i. Under the roollnr of her touch. jpH Hut see mud to stand In mortal fear Of everything, when ma was near —Edward N. Wood F ' -- A Passive Crime. IlY ••TIIK DUCIIKSS." CHAPTER V—Continued. "Fighting, I think,” says Mr. Wilding, who is a plain spnkon man at times,and given to olootrlfying tho judgos in court on curtain oocuBlons. ' "They are arranging a duel, unless I am greatly mistaken.” ••l*ut it must ')o prevontod!" says Maud, wildly. "Something must be «lono!” Doing up to Penruddock aho lays her hand upon his arm. "Let me •peak. Dick!” she says, in trembling accents. The word—his Christian name—has unconsciously osoapod her; hut ho has hoard it, and proud fe’;. ly. gladly, takes the little hand upon his arm between both his own, as though this unexpected mention of his numo had made her his—had been an informal confession of hor lovo. "Jhere is no nood that you should •quarrel,” sho goes on with lowered •eyes and pallid lips, "llo Is right; ho has but spoken the truth. I am lowly born, as all the world knows; though, sir," confronting Suuinaroz, and gazing full at him with terrible grief and reproach in her glaneo, "it > has yot to bo proved how you came to uso that word ‘basely.”' "My conduct to you has boon un pni'donnnlo, madam," Buys .Sauma oz, bowing and drawing back, with sot ltps and a stern expression. "I ask youy forgiveness. To your friend, Mr. I’onruddook, I shall give every satisfaction necessary—the •very strongest satisfaction." con cludes he with a grim smile; after srhtch ho bows again,and withdraws. Miss Nevillo bursts into tears, and aobs bitterly for a few minutes. "*? Penruddook with his arm round her, •upports her head against his breast lor somo time unrebuked. Present ly. how.-ver, she ohocks her omotlon, and drawing away from him, wipes the tears from her eyos, sighing heavily, "You have got your work out out lor you, you know," suggested Mr. Wilding, in a low tone to Dick, who had forgotten everything but Maud’s grief. "1 am quite aware of that," mut ters Dick. •!lf you are going to cross to tho other sido, you will have but very little time to arrango matters before atarting." ••There Is little to arrange," says Penruddook, absently. "My cousin •Ucorge falls In for ovorything if I •oome to grlof in tho onoounter." Then ho goes up to Maud, who Is ••till silently crying, and takes her .hand again. ••loll rao tho truth now,” ho says. “At this lust moment, it would be a wolacc. a comfort to rao. That time —a few minutes since, when you •called me ‘Dick’—your tone, your „ whole manner thrilled mo; It almost V'A -caused me to believe that I was not ■quite indifferent to you. Was that presumption, madness on my partP ^ JSpeuk. durlinsr!" He bends his head, and she whls |/ mars somethin >• in a voice half ■ s broken. It must have been some * "word of encouragement, as Penrud ■) •dock’s visage brightens, and his ■whole manner changes. ••And If I returnP” he begins, eag •riy ••Oh. you must—you will return!” ' . .alio says painfully. “If I do you will marry me?” She shakes her head. Even at ft /this solemn moment her groat re ; eolve is not to be broken. /I" “My dear Penruddook, this is out | of all bearing,” says Mr. Wilding, i> who has been engaged in an en ' crossing examination of a bit of old Chelsea, but now feels it his duty to ^ come to the rescue and deliver Miss / > Neville from her embarrassment. “Let us discuss what you have got ; , to da” ‘•That is simple,” says Penruddook, with a frown. “If luok stands to end, 1 shall shoot him through the CiearU ” ••No, no!” says Maud, faintly, put •ting up her hand in quick protest. “To kill him. that would be murder! Do not have his death upon your conscience.” £ ’ “Wo ild you shrink from me be - cause of that?" asked he wistfully. \? ■ - it would be so terrible," she > (alters. KV_ “Yet, remember, it would be in SKjrour cause." “For that very reason"—earnestly —••I should feel it all the more. » And later on when you had grown wool, it would be to yourself an ever v , lasting regret, and 1 should be the J-v Author of it. Oh, let him live!” •“Woll.I dare say I shall,"says Pen • rfudkock. in a cunojs tone; “for this .reason—that I suppose he will kill ono. ” ••He splits hairs, and sixpenny bits. And a’l sorts of thin things, at any number of paoes that you like to V name,” says Mr. Wilding pleasantly. Miss Neville shudders, anl turns a ■)/ shade paler even than she has been Ahrough all. “After all. there is not so much in V. ftl fe that one should regret it to any | Intense degree s says Dick, who takes It rather badly that she ob jects to his killing Saumarcz. “My dear boy, there you err,” says Wilding, briskly. “Thore is a great deal In life. If you go the proper way to find It, and if you don’t expect too much; that is the great secret. Lifo is a first-class thing in my opinion-nothing like it. I never, you know, fight duels myself—nothing would induce me; but If you must, my denr Pcnrud dock, atm low and cover him well with your eye. I’ll gee you through it, and stick to you, my dear boy, whutevnr happens." ••Thanks, old man; I knew quite well that you would not desert me," says Dick gratefully. “Can nothing bo done?’’ says Maud, clasping hor hands. “Oh, Mr. Wilding, do try; surely some thing may be effected if you will only try!" “Of course I shall try," says Wild ing promptly. “I'll stand to him all through- 1 have promised that. By Jove! I wouldn’t adviBe that fellow to do anything unfair when I am on the field! And If.1"—Impressively— “anything unfortunate should occur, “Oh. Mr. Wilding, how I hate you!" Interrupts Miss Neville, with a sudden burst of wrathful tears. “If no one else will holp me.” cries •he, going hurriedly toward the door, "I shall try at least, what a weak woman can do!" She opens the door, closes it be hind her firmly, and runs up-stairs to her own apartments. wiAi ir.u vi. An Kntreaty. It is an hoar later, and in his li brary Gilbert Suumaroz is sitting with folded arms, on which Mh face lies hidden. The table is strewn with papers. A crumpled, faded llowor and a little, six-buttoned black kid glovo are on tho desk close bosido him; how procured, he alone knows, Certainly they wore never given to him by their right ful ownor. Tho lamps are low ered, until a half gloom, that is almost darkness, envelops tho apartment Ghastly shadows creep hero and there, unchecked, unnoticed by tho raau who sits so silently in the armchair beneath the center lamp. He is lost in thought, in vain regrets, that belong to the present and the near past, but have no connection with tho morrow, that may bring death in its train. But not to him. No fear of being "done to death" In open light need harass him. He is too expert a shot, has too often earned his reputation as a skilled duelist, to feel nervous at the prospect of anenoounter with an amateur—a raw schoolboy In the art of dueling, as ho rightly terms Pen ruddook. He has killed his man be fore this; and having made up his mind to kill this present rival as he would a dog, has dismissed the sub ject from his thoughts. Other considerations crowd upon him — other remembrances, swoet and bitter; and so absorbed is he in his inward muslngs, that he does not hoar the door open, nor the sound of tho light feet that advanc aorosso the floor, until tho owner of them is almost at his side. He raises his head then, and looking up, starts to his foot with an exclamation that is caused by a surprise which for the moment completely overpowers him. It is Maud Neville who stands before him, pale as "the snowy illy pressed with heavy rain.” *»»* eyes are targe, nan trlgntened and full of grief. Beneath them dark circles show themselves. No faintest tinge of color adorns her cheeks. Her hair, under her swans* down hood, has loosened, and strays across hor low, smooth forehead at its own good will. She is pale, nerv ous. thoroughly unhinged, yet never perhaps has sho looked so lovely. "You here alone!" he stammers moving from her rather than toward her. ••Yes, here," returns she in a low tone, tremulous with emotion. "Es ther waits for me outside. I have so far forgotten my own dignity and self-respect as to oome hero to you at midnight, compelled by a sudden ne cessity. The more reason, sir,” with an upward glance of mingled entreaty and pride, "that you should re spect both!" ••Speak!" returns he coldly. She throws back her hood and cloak as though half stifled, find stands bofore him in all the bravery of her satin ball dress, on which the pearls gleam with a soft, subdued light. "I have come to ask you to forego this duel—to give it up.” she says, faintly, discouraged by his manner, yet not wholly dismayed. "1 entreat you to hear me, to listen to what I have to say, not to turn a deaf ear to my prayer." ••Yet to my prayer not an hour since you were deaf," retorts he, quietly. She is silent "You would ask me to spare your lover—that boy, Penruddock." says he, with a mocking smile, "and so proclaim myself a coward, as he called me? Impossible! Why. he struck me across the face with his open hand—here!" He raises his hand to the cheek that still bears the mark of the blow, but has paled as the remembranoe of the deadly insult returns to him. His eyes blaze with wrath. Involun tarily he clinches his hand. To the girl watching him there seems in deed but small hope of mercy. She draws nearer, and by a sudden im pulse lays her hand upon his. "At least, do not kill him." she says, despair in hor tone, an awful loolc in her great gleaming eyes. ••Do not murder him! He is young, and • youth la precious. You will have mercy on him, will you not?" 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