A1A.— ( CONTINUED.)
“And you protected her? You gave
her money and took her to a place of
safety?" said Trevlyn, anxiously.
“Of course. As I should have done
by any other lady—but more especially
for her. I took her to a hotel, and on
the morrow saw her start on her Jour
ney. I would have gone with her, but
she declined my escort”
"O, I thank you—I thank you so
much! I shall be your friend always
for that. You will tell me where she
Is?”
“No. I cannot.”
“Cannot! ' Does that Imply that you
will not?”
I “It does.”
“Then you know her present place of
sojourn?"
“I do. But she does not desire the
knowledge to become general. I have
pledged my word to her not to reveal
It. Neither Is it best for you to know.”
"You are right. It is not. I might
be unable to hinder myself from seeing
her. And that could do no good. I
" know that, she Is Innocent. That shall
suffice me. Only tell me she Is well,
and agreesIRly situated.”
“She Is both. More, I think she is
at peace. She ia with those who love
her-”
"I thank you for bearing with me.
I shall be happier for knowing she was
not false to me. Whatever might have
caused her to break the engagement,
It was not because she loved another.
Good night, Mr. Castranl.”
He wrung the hand of the Cuban
warmly and departed. u i ;
CHAPTER XX.
T WAS an after
noon In May. Ev
erything without
was smiling and at
rest, but Mrs. Trev
lyn was cross and
out of humor. Per
haps any lady will
say that she had
sufficient reason.
E v e r y t hlng had
gone wrong.- The
cook was sick and the dinner a failure;
her dressmaker bad disappointed her in
not finishing her dress for the great ball
at Mrs. Fits Noodle’s, that evening, and
Annie, her maid, was down with one
of her nervous headaches, and she
would be obliged to send for a hair
dresser.
Louis Castranl was a guest in the
house, by Archer’s invitation—for the
two gentlemen had become friends,
warmly attached to each .other, and
Mrs. Trevlyn could not help fretting
over the unfortunate condition of her
cuisine.
She was looking very cross, as she
sat In the back parlor, adjoining the
tasteful little morning room, where
she spent most of her time, and where
the gentlemen were in the habit of tak
ing their books and newspapers when
they desired it quiet. If she had known
that Mr. Castrani was at that moment
lying on the lounge in the morning
room, the door of which was slightly
ajar, she might have dismissed that un
becoming frown and put her troubles
aside. Mr Trevlyn entered, just as she
had for the twentieth time that day
arrived at the conclusion that she was
the most sorely afflicted woman in the
world, and his first words did not’tend
to give her any consolation. ^
“I am very sorry, Mrs. Trevlyn, that
I am to be deprived of the privilege of
attending ihe ball to-night. It is par
ticularly annoying.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Trevlyn?”
“I am obliged to go to Philadelphia
cn Important business, and must leave
in this evening’s train. I did not know
of the necessity until a few hours ago.”
Mrs. Trevlyn was Just in the state to
be wrought up by trifles.
“Always business,” she exclaimed
pettishly. “I am sick of the word!”
“Business before pleasure, Mrs.
Trevlyn. But, really, this is an impor
tant affair. It is connected with the
house of Renshaw & Selwyn, which
went under last week. The firm were
under obligations to—”
"Don’t talk business to me, Mr. Trev
lyn. I do not understand such things—
neither do I desire to. I only hope it
is business you are going for!”
Mr. Trevlyn looked at her in some
surprise.
"You only hope it Is business?” he
said, Inquiringly. "I do not compre
hend."
f
“I might have said that I hoped it
was not a woman who called you from
your wife."
The moment the words were spoken
she repented their utterance, but the
otfschlef was already done.
“Mrs. Trevlyn, I shall request you to
unsay the insinuation conveyed In
your words. They are unworthy of you
and a shame to me."
“And I shall decline to unsay them.
I dare affirm they are true enough.”
"What do you mean, madam ? I
am, I trust, a man of honor. You are
my wife, and I am true to you. I never
loved but one woman, and she is dead
to me."
The allusion to the old love was ex
tremely unfortunate just at this time,
for Mrs. Trevlyn was just sore enough
to be deeply wounded by it, and angry
enough to throw back taunt for taunt.
“A man of honor!" she ejaculated
scornfully. “Honor, forsooth! Archer
Trevlyn, do you call yourself that?”
“I do: and I defy any man living to
prove the contrary 1" answered Archer,
proudly.
ammo -,
"You defy any man! Do you also defy
any woman? Tell me, If you can,
whose glove this is?” and she pulled
from her bosom the, blood-stained glove
and held It Up before'hiin.
He looked at It, flushed crimson and
trembled perceptibly. She laughed
scornfully.
“Archer Trevlyn, your guilt Is known
to me! It has been known to me ever
since the fatal night bni which Paul
Linmere met his death. I' Was there
that night, by the lonely graveyard. I
saw you kiss her hand! I heard the
dreadful blow, listened to the smoth
ered groan, and saw through the
gloom the guilty murderer as he fled
from the sc^ne of crime!. When the
victim wjis discovered, I went first, be
cause I feared he might havisPleft be
hind something that might fix his
identity—and so he had. This glove I
found lying upon the ground, by the
side of the wretched victim—marked
with the name of the murderer, stained
with the blood of the murdered! I hid
it away. I would have died sooner than
it should have been torn from me, be
cause I was foolish enough to love this
man, whose hand was red with mur
der! Archer Trevlyn, you took the life
of Paul Linmere, and thus removed the
last obstacle that stood between you
and Margaret Harrison!”
Trevlyn's face had grown white as
death while she had been speaking,
but it was more like the white heat of
passion, than like the pallor of detect
ed guilt. His rigid lips were stern and
pale; his dark eyes fairly shot light
nings. He looked at his wi_fe as though
he would read her very soul.
“Alexandrine!” he said, hoarsely,•
“you believed this of me? You deemed
me guilty of the crime of murder, and
yet married me?” u
“Yes, I married you. I was not so
conscientious as your saintly Margaret.
Sho would not marry a man who had
shed blood—even though he had done It
for love of her!”
Trevlyn caught her arm fiercely.
“Madam, do you mean to say this
shameful story ever came to the ears
of Margie Harrison?”
“Yes, she knew it. I told It to her
myself. Kill me if you like,” she add
ed, seeing his fearful face; “it will not
be your first crime!”
He forced himself to be calm.
“When did you make this revelation
to Margaret?”
“The night before she left New York
—the night she was to have gone to
the opera with you. I deemed It my
duty. I did not do It to separate you,
though I am willing to confess I de
sired you to be separated. I knew
that Margaret would sooner die than
marry you, if the knowledge of‘your
crime was possessed by her.” ■ f 1 1
“And she—Margaret—believed me
guilty?”
"Why should she not? Any jury of
twelve impartial men would have com
mitted you on the evidence I could have
brought. You were in love with Miss
Harrison. She was under a solemn
obligation to marry Mr. Linmere—
yet she loved you. Nothing save
his death could release her. You
were then, at night, in a lonely
graveyard where none of your kin
were slumbering. There, at that hour,
the murder was done, and after its
commission, you stole forth silently,
guiltily. By the,aide of the murdered
man was found your glove, stained with
his blood; and a little way from his
dead body a handkerchief bearing the
single initial ‘A.’ Whose name com
mences with that letter? Could any
thing be clearer or more conclusive?"
“And you believe me guilty?”
"I do.”
He took a step toward her. She
never forgot the dreadful look upon his
face
I scorn to make any explanation. I
might, perhaps, clear myself of this
foul accusation, but I will make no ef
fort to do so. But not another day will
I live beneath the same roof with the
woman who believed me guilty of mur
der, and yet sunk herself so low as to
become my wife."
"As you please,” she said, defiantly.
“I should be quite as happy were it so."
He bowed coldly, courteously—went
out, and closed the door behind him.
The sound struck to the heart of his
wife like a knell. She staggered back;
and fell upon a chair.
Had she been mad? She bad wound
ed and maddened him beyond all hope
of pardon—him, whom in spite of ev
erything, she held more precious than
the whole world! She had lost his re
spect—lost forever all chance of win
ning his love. And she had eagerly
cherished the sweet hope that sometime
he might forget the old dream, and
turn to the new reality. But it was
past!
She went up to her chamber, and
locking the door, threw herself,
dressed as she was, on the bed. How
long must this continue? How long
would he remain away? . His business
would not, probably, keep him more
than a few days, and then, surely, he
would return. And she would throw
herself at his feet, acknowledge her
fault and plead—yes, beg for his for
giveness. Anything, only to have peace
between them once more!
She could not write to him, for he
had not left his address. The next
morning, she went down to the store,
but they knew nothing of his destina
tion, or his probable time of absence.
So all she could do was to return home
and wait
A week passed—tend'days—and still
he did not return, and no tidings of
him had reached his agonized wife.
CHAPTER XXI. .J
OUIS CASTRANI
received one day an
urgent summons to
Boston. It was the
very day following
that on which he
had been an unwill
ing listener to the
difficulty between
Mr. and Mrs. Trev
lyn. He knew from
f , , , w h o m the sum
mons came. Once before he had been
suddenly called in like manner.
A wretched woman she was now—
but once the belle and beauty of the
fair Cuban town where Castrani’s
childhood and youth had been spent.
She^Jbkd been a beautiful orphan,
adopted by" his parents,, and brought
up almost as his sister.
She welcomed him brokenly, her eye's
lighting up with the pleasure of see
ing him—and then the light faded
away, leaving her even more ghastly
than before. A
| ‘“They teif n|e I am dying.” she said,
hoarsely. *'Do you think so?”
He smoothed back the hair on the
forehead—damp already with the dews
of death. His look assured her better
than the words he could not bring him
self to speak.
“My poor Arabel.” ?
“Arabel! Who calls me Arabel?” she
asked, dreamily. “I have not heard
that name since he spoke it! What a
sweet voice he had! O, so sweet!—but
falser than Satan! O, Louis, Louis! if
we could go back to the old days
among the orange groves, before I
sinned—when we were innocent little
children!”
“It is all over now, Arabel. You were
tempted; but God is good to forgive if
repentance is sincere.”
“O, I have repented! I have, indeed!
And I have prayed as well as I knew
how. But my crimes are so fearful!
You are sure that Christ is very mer
ciful?”
; "very mercuui, AraDei.
She clasped her hands, and her pale
nps moved In prayer, though there
was no audible word.
“Let me hold your hand, Louis. It
gives me strength. And you were al
ways a friend, so true and steadfast.
How happy we were in those dear old
days—you, and Inez and I! Ah, Inez—
Inez! She died in her sweet innocence,
loving and beloved—died by violence;
but she never lived to suffer from the
falsity of those she loved! Well, she
is in paradise—God rest her!” I
The dark eyes of Castrani grew
moist. There arose before him a picture
of the fair young girl he had loved—
the gentle-eyed Inez—the confiding
young thing he was to have married,
had not the hand of a cruel jealousy cut
short her brief existence. Arabel saw
his emotion, and pressed his hand iu
hers, so cold and icy.
“You have suffered also, Louis, but
not as I have suffered—O, no! O, the
days before he came—he, the destroyer!
What a handsome face he had, and how
he flattered' me! Flattered my foolish
pride, until, deserting home and
friendB, I fled with him across the
seas! To Paris—beautiful, frivilous.
crime-imbued Paris. I am so faint and
tired, Louis! Give me a drink from the
wineglass.”
He put it to her lips; she swallowed
greedily, and resumed:
“I have written out my history fully.
Why, I hardly know, for there are. none
but you, Louis, who will feel an inter
est in the poor outcast. But something
has impelled me to write it, and when I
am dead you will find it there in that
desk, sealed and directed to yourself.
Maybe you will never open it, tor if my
strength does not desert me, I shall tell
you all that you will care to know, with
my own lips. I want to watch your
face as I go on, and see if you condemn
me. You are sure God 1b more merci
ful, than man?”
“In His word it is written, Arabel.*
The Whole Teaching of Ufe»
The whole teaching of his life, In
deed, is to leave us free and to make
Us reasonable, and the supreme lesson
of his life is voluntary brotherhood,
fraternity. If you will do something
for another. If you will help him or
serve him, you will at once begin to
lcve him. I know there are some casu
ists who distinguish here, and say that
you may love such an one, and that, in
fact, you must love every one; but that
you are not expected to like every one.
This, however, seems to be a distinction
without a difference. If you do not
like a person you do not love him,
and if you do not love him you loathe
him. The curious thing in doing kind
ness Is that it-, makes you love people
even in this sublimated tense of liking.
When you love another you have made
him your brother; and by the same
means you can be a brother to all men.
Pnlplt tint Right. •
In a very handsome little church, not ;
200 miles from Indianapolis, the read
ing platform is adorned by a remarka- I
bly beautiful pulpit, llanked by equally ,
decorative chairs. The artistic oaken i
pulpit, hand carved in passion flow- ;
ers and lilies, and bordered with
trefoil, is almost the “graven image"
in the eyes of the association of
church women who earned and pur
chased the pulpit furnishings when the ,
edifice was built. Recently a new min- i
later came into charge of the congre
gation. He was a little fellow, and '
one day casually remarked to one of bis
feminine church members: "Mrs.
Badger, that pulpit is entirely too high
for me; think it had better be cut down
a trifle.” “Cut down?" the horrified
woman exclaimed. "Cut that pulpit '
down? No, Indeed; it would ruin it; 1
It would be much easier to get a taller 1
.wmm ' 1
THE GOOD OLD DAYS.
Two Old Gentlemen Get Together end
Swap Stories.
"Oh, yes, I played In those day3.
Baseball was baseball then,” and the
old gentleman sighed over what he re
garded as the decadence of the great
national game, says the Detroit Free
Press. "Now they get nine men to
gether and make a machine of them.
The whole thing is nothing more nor
less than an animated mechanism.
Then we had a live ball and 1 used to
swing a hickory bat pretty nearly as
long as a rake handle. You can imag
ine what came off when I made a hit.
The crowd would hear something like
the shriek of a shell and then the um
pire would toss out a new ball while
I chased two or three runs in ahead of
me. Now, just t^o illustrate," aqd the
retired veteran of tie diamond began
making a diagram while his hearers
grouped about him. "Here's where we
played at New Castle, Pa., with the
9ld Neshannocks. Charley Bennett
was catching. Here runs the Ohio
river, way up in the rear of the
grounds, which lay open to the hign
bluff which marks the bank. Now,
Bennett was doing some mighty bat
ting and a fellow from a college nine
was giving him a tight race. Each one
of them rolled a ball over the bluff
and I began to fear for my laurels.
But the third time up I saw one com
ing that Just suited. I settled well on
my feet, concentrated all my strength
for one supreme effort, swung old
hickory, and when the ball quit going
it struck water half way across the
river. Why, they stopped the game to
try and take measurements, while pro
fessional managers were offering me
all kinds of money. I was the hero of
the hour, the king of batters, the—
hello, there, Judkin; delighted to see
you. It’s more than twenty years-*’
“Yes, the last time we met was at the
game you Just described.”
The old gentleman turned a little
white about the mouth but rallied with
infinite generalship. "Yes, of course,
you were there, and it was a day of
miracles, for you went down to the
river and caught a ten-pound bass that
was served that night at the hotel.”
What fisherman could resist such a
temptation with the beautiful lie all
framed for him?
Judkin flushed and inflated with
pride. The two Jolly rogues went out
together. Before ,the evening was
over that ball had been knocked nearly
a quarter of a mile into the country
beyond the river and that bas was fif
teen, pounds strong.
■ Extraordinary Drink*.
Of the many extraordinary drinks
regularly consumed the hlood of live
horses may be considered the most so.
Marco Polo and Carplni were the first
to tell the world of the practice of the
Tartars and Mongols opening the vein
in their horses’ necks, taking a drink
and closing the wound again. As far
as can be seen this has been the prac
tice from time immemorial. There is
a wine habitually consumed in China
which is made from the flesh of lambs
reduced to paste with milk or bruised
Into pulp with rice and then fermented.
It is extremely strong and nutritious
and powerfully stimulating to the
physical organism. The Laplanders
drink a great deal of smoked snow
water and one of the national drinks
of the Tonquinese is arrack flavored
with chickens’ blood. The list would
scarcely be complete without the men
tion of absinthe, which may be called
the national spirituous drink of
France. It is a horrible compound of
alcohol, anise, coriander, fennel, worm
wood, indigo and sulphate of copper.
It is strong, nasty and a moral and
physical poison.
Two Kind* of Courteay.
He was immaculate as to externals,
and he was coming down Fifth avenue.
She was a charming bit of feminin
ity as New York can offer—which is
saying a great deal. Delicate, dainty,
trim.
He was smoking a cigarette that,
judging by the smoke of it, had come
from Russia. When they met he took
his hat off lazily. Talking to her in a
tone of condescension, he puffed the
blue smoke out constantly, the cigar
ette never leaving his lips.
He was standing on the corner of
Bleecker street, where the Italians
live. He had on the coarsest clothes,
bis face was grimy. In his mouth
was a dirty clay pipe.
An old woman, shabby and shaky,
:aine up and asked him how to get to
Oanal street.
The minute the man became aware
the old lady was addressing him he
whipped the pipe out of his mouth.
As long as he spoke to her he held
the clay behind him, his hand closed
iver it.—New York Journal.
An Aff*d Cnn»rf.
Mrs. L. A. McGrath, of South Wood
itock, Vt., is the owner of a singing
:anary 21 years old, which has sung
ill its life and now, though so infirm
rom age that it cannot reach its perch
>r sit on it when placed there, it sits
>n the, floor of the cage and pours out
he clear, sweet strains of song from
norning until night.
Harr'* a Remarkable Man.
A horse dealer in West Woodstock,
Vt., has owned 425 horses.during his
ife and has never told a lie about a
lorse. One man who dealt with him
vas so impressed with this remarka- I
tie fact that he recently gave him a
latcbet.
About the Average Age of It.
Mr. O. S. Gray, of Hampden, Geauga
lounty, Ohio, has a cake of Maple
ugar made in the spring of 1856—just
orty years ago. It is as sweet and
;ood as ever.
Not At a Jim Dandy.
A young man in Uhode Island writes
us that he is goiny to take in the threat
west this summer and that this town
is on his list, providing we think it safe
for him to show up here m a plug hat,
red necktie and russet shoes. If that
is the riff he intends to don when he
visits us, he’d better not come. This is
a growing town—a healthy town—a
town which is bound to boom and be
come a second Chicago, but it is no
place for Jim Dandies—not yet. Fifty
years hence a man can put on link cuff
buttons and yaller kid gloves and stalk
| up and down and swing a goldheaded
cane, but such a thing now—well!
Pass our town by, young man. Don’t
come within fifty miles of it!
Coe's Coagli Balsam
It the oldest and best. It will break op a Cold quick,
or than anything elio. It Is always reliable. Try It,
Educational.
Attention of the reader is called to
the announcement of Notre Dame uni
versity in another column of this pa
per. This noted institution of learn
ing enters upon its fifth-third year
with the next session, commencing
Sept. 8, 180(1. Parents and guardians
contemplating sending their boys and
young men away from home to school
would do well to write for particulars
to tho University of Norte Dame Indi
ana, before making arrangements for
their ,education elsewhere. Nowhere
in this broad land are there to be
found better facilities for cultivating
the mind and heart than are offered at
Notre Dame Universitv.
The Elopement.
She panted a moment . i-JS
"The die is east)” she murmured.
“There ia no retreat ” -
Hastily gathering the most necessa
ry part of her wardrobe into twenty
seven trunks, she dropped them softly
from the window. .
Then she descended by the rope lad
der and fell into the arms of her lover,
who in the gloom of the shrubbery bad
patiently awaited her.—Detroit Trib
une.
1; She was a good woman. He 9
! > loved her. She was his wife. 1 |
;, The pie was good; his wife j ’
11 made it; he ate it. But trie ' !
j i pie disagreed with him, apd'1' [
i [ he disagreed with his wife., ,j
[ i How he takes a pill after pie J
| and is happy. So is his wife. ;
| > The pill he takes is Ayer’s.
; [ Moral: Avoid dyspepsia j >>•
!» by using < \
Columbias
The Bicycle of experience*
A hundred dollars’ worth of
tainty.
The “bicycle of doubt” price saves
you little and costs you much*
Hooot Catalogue, Free at
Agenda—by mall for two 2«cnt dam;
Pope Mfg. Co., Hartford, Conn.
There is no dividing line*
PLUG
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