INTERNATIONAL PRESS ASSOCIATION. i CHAPTER XVin.—fCoNTTODED.) ‘ “You are very unjust, my lady,” an swered the Frenchman. “Believe me, < am your friend.” She lay back, moaning for some sec onds; then, struck by a new thought, she looked up wearily. “I see how it is! You want money!” "I am not a rich man, madame,” an swered Caussldiere, smiling. "If I give you a hundred pounds will you leave this place, and never let me see your face again?” Caussldiere mused. “One hundred pounds. It is not much.” “Two hundred!” exclaimed the lady, eagerly. “Two hundred is better, but still not much. With two hundred pounds—and fifty—I might even deny myself the pleasure of your charming acquain tance.” Miss Hetherington turned toward her desk, and reached her trembling hand toward her check-book, which lay there ready. “If I give ye two hundred and fifty pounds will you do as I bid ye? Leave this place forever, and speak no word of what has passed to Marjorie An nan?” , “Yes,” said Caussldiere, “I think I can promise that.” Quickly and nervously Miss Hether ington filled up a check. j-iease ao not cross it,” suggested Caussidlere. “I will draw the money at your banker’s in Dumfries.” The lady tore off the check, but still hesitated. “Can I trust ye?” she muttered. "I knew it was siller ye sought, and not the lassie, but-” “You may rely upon my promise that I shall return forthwith to France, where a great political career lies open before me.” “Will you put It in writing?” “It is needless. I have given you my word. Besides, madame, it is better that such arrangements as these should not be written in black and white. Papers may fall into strange hands, as you are aware, and the result might be unfortunate—for you.” She shuddered and groaned as he spoke, and forthwith handed him the check. He glanced at it, folded it up, and put it in his waistcoat pocket. I “As I Informed you before.” he said, '"you have nothing to fear from me. My only wish is to secure your good es teem.” “When will you gang?” demanded Miss Hetherington. “In the course of the next few days. I have some little arrangements, a few bills to settle, and then—en route to France.” He bowed again, and gracefully re tired. Passing downstairs, and out at the front door, he again hummed gaily to himself. As he strolled down the avenue he drew forth the.check and In spected it again. “Two hundred and fifty pounds!” he said, laughing. "How good of her, how liberal, to pay our traveling expenses!” Meantime, Miss Hetherington sat in her gloomy boudoir, looking the picture of misery and despair. Her eyes worked wildly, her lips trembled convulsively. “Oh, Hugh, my brother Hugh,” she cried, wringing her hands; “if ye were living, to take this scoundrel by the throat! Will he keep his word? Maybe I am mad to trust him! I must wait and wait till he's awa’. I’ll send down for the bairn this day! She’s safer here with me!” Then he rose to go. CHAPTER XIX. MMEDIATELY aft er his interview with Miss Hether ington, Caussidiere disappeared from the neighborhood for some days; a fact which caused Marjorie little or no concern, as she had her own suspicion as to the cause of his absence. Her heart was greatly troubled, for she could not shake off the sense of the deception she was practicing on those most Interested in her welfare. While she was waiting and debating, she received^ a visit from the lady of the Castle, who drove down, post-haste, and stalked into the manse full of evi dent determination. Marjorie was sent for at once, and coming down-stairs, found Miss Hetherlngton and Mr. Men teith waiting for her in the study. “It’s all settled, Marjorie,” said the Impulsive lady. “You’re to come home with me to the Castle this very day.” Marjorie started In astonishment, but before she could make any reply, Mr. Menteith Interposed. “You cannot do better, my child, than accept Miss Hetherington’s most gen erous invitation. The day after to morrow, as you are aware, the sale will take place, and this will be no longer your home. Miss Hetherington is good enough to offer you a shelter until such time as we can decide about your future mode of life.” “Just so.” said the lady, decisively. “Pack your things, and come awa’ wi’ me in the carriage.” “I know you are very kind," returned Marjorie, “and maybe you’ll be think ing I’m ungrateful. Mr. Lorraine a) ways said you were my best friend. But I cannot come with you to-day.” "When will you come?” demanded the lady. "Give me time, please,” pleaded Marjorie; “in a day or two. maybe— after the sale. I should like to stay till I can stay no more.” So it was settled, to Mar jorie'f great relief; and Mr. Menteith led the great lady back to her carriage. At sunset that day, as Marjorie left the manse and crossed over to the old churchyard, she was accosted by John Sutherland, who had been waiting at the gate some time in expectation of her appearance. She gave him her hand sadly, and they stood together talking in the road. “They tell me you are going to stop at the Castle. Is that so, Marjorie?” "I’m not sure; maybe.” “If you go, may I come to see you there? I shan’t be long in Annandale. In a few weeks I am going back to Lon don.” He paused, as if expecting her to make some remark; but she did not speak, and her thoughts seemed far away. “Marjorie,”, he continued, “I wish I could say something to comfort you in your trouble, for, though my heart is full, I can hardly find my tongue. It seems as if all the old life was break ing up under our feet and carrying us far asunder. For the sake of old times we shall be friends still, shall we not?” “Yes, Johnnie, of course,” was the re ply. "You’ve aye been very good to me.” “Because I loved you, Marjorie. Ah, don’t be angry—don’t turn away—for I’m not going to presume again upon our old acquaintance. But now that death has come our Way, and all the future seems clouding, I want to say Just this—that come what may, I shall never change. I’m not asking you to care for me—I’m not begging you this time to give me what you’ve maybe given to another man; but I want you to be sure, whatever happens, that you’ve one faithful friend at least in the world, who would die to serve you, for the sake of what you were to him lang syne.” The words were so gentle, the tone so low and tender, the manner of the man so full of melancholy sympathy and respect that Marjorie was deeply touched. “Oh, Johnnie,” she said, "you know I have always loved you—always trust ed you, as if you were my brother.” “As your brother, then, let it be,” an swered Sutherland sadly. “I don’t care what title it is, so long as it gives me the right to watch over you.” To this Marjorie said nothing. She continued to walk quietly onward, and Sutherland kept by her side. Thus they passed together through the churchyard and came to the spot where Mr. Lorraine was at rest. Here she fell upon her knees and quietly kissed the grave. Had Sutherland been less moved by his own grief, he might have noticed something strange in the girl’s man ner, for she kissed the ground almost passionately, and murmured between her sobs, “Good-by, good-by!" She was recalled to herself by Suth erland’s voice. “Don’t cry, Marjorie,” he said. “Ah, I can’t help it,” she sobbed. “You are all so good to me—far better than I deserve.” They left the churchyard together, and wandered back to the manse gate. When they paused again, Sutherland took her hand and kissed it. "Good-by, Johnnie.” "No, not good-by. I may come and see you again, Marjorie, mayn’t I. be fore I go away?” “Yes,” she returned, “if—if you like." "And, Marjorie, maybe the next time there’ll be folk by, so that we cannot speak. I want you to promise me one thing before we part this night.” "What do you wish?" said Marjorie, shrinking half fearfully away. “Only thH, that as you’ve given me a sister’s lor t, you’ll give me also a sis ter’s trust; I want to think when I’m away In tb i great city that if you were In trouble vou’d send right away to me. Just think always, Marjorie, that I’m your brother, aoJ be sure there Isn’t a thing in this world I wouldn’t do for you.” He paused, but Marjorie did not an swer; she felt she could not Bpeak. The unselfish devotion of the young man touched her more than any of his ardent love-making had done. “Marjorie, will you promise me-’’ “Promise what?” “To send to me if you’re In trouble— to let me be your brother Indeed.” She hesitated for a moment; then she gave him her hand. “Yes, Johnnie, I promise,” she said. “Good-by.” “No; good-night, Marjorie.” “Good-night,” she repeated, as she left his side and entered the manse. About ten o’clock that night, when all the inmates of the manse had re tired to rest, and Marjorie was In her room about to prepare for bed, she was startled by hearing a sharp,shrill whis tle Just beneath her window. She start ed, trembling, sat on the side of her bed and listened. In a few minutes the sotknd was re peated. This time she ran to the win dow, opened It and put out horhead. "Who Is It?” she asked softly. "Is any one there?” "Yes, Marjorie. It Is I, Leon; come down!" Trembling more and more, Marjorie hurriedly closed the window, wrapped a shawl about her head and shoulders, and noiselessly descended the stairs. The next minute she was In the Frenchman’s arms. He clasped her fervently to him. He kissed her again and again as he said; "To-morrow night, Marjorie, you will come to me.” •The girl half shrank away as she said: “So soon—ah, no!” “It Is not too soon for me, little one,” returned the Frenchman, gallantly, "for I love you—ah! so much, Mar jorie, and every hour seems to me a day. Listen, then: You will retire to bed to-morrow nlghjt In the usual way. WheU all the house Is quiet and every one asleep you will wrap yourself up In your traveling cloak and come down. You will find me waiting for you here. Do you understand me, Marjorie?” “Yes, monsieur, I understand, but—” "But what, my love?” "I was thinking of my things. How shall I get them away?” "Parbleu!—there must be no luggage/ You must leave it all behind, and bring nothing but your own sweet self." “But,” continued Marjorie, "I must have some clothes to change.” “Most certainly; you shall have Just as many as you wish, my little love. But we will leave the old attire, as we leave the old life, behind us. I am not a poor man, Marjorie, and when you are my wife, all mine will be all yours also. You shall have as much money as you please to buy what you will. Only bring me your own sweet self, Marjorie—that will be enough.” With such flattery as this the French man dazzled her senses until long past midnight; then, after she had made many efforts to get away, he allowed her to return to the house. During that night Marjorie slept very little; the next day she was pale and distraught. She wandered about the house in melancholy fashion; she went up to the churchyard several times and sat for hours beside her fos ter-father’s grave. She even cast re gretful looks towards Annandale Cas tle, and her eyes were constantly Ailed with tears. At length It was all over. The day was spent; the whole household had re tired, and Marjorie sat in her room alone. Her head was ringing, her eyes burning, and her whole body trembling with mingled fear and grief—grief for the loss of those whom she must leave behind—fear for that unknown future into which she was about to plunge. She sat for a minute or so on the bed trying to collect her thoughts; then she wrote a few hurried lines, which she sealed and left on her dressing-table. After that was done, she looked over her things, and collected together one or two trifles—little mementos of the past, which had been given to her by those she held most dear, and which were doubly precious to her, now that she was going away. She lingered so long and so lovingly over those treas ures that she forgot to note how rap idly the time was flying on. Suddenly she heard a shrill whistle, and she knew that she was lingering over-long. Hurriedly concealing her one or two souvenirs, she wrapped her self in her cloak, put on her hat and a very thick veil, descended the stairs, and found the Frenchman, who was waiting Impatiently outside the gate. Whither they went Marjorie scarcely knew, for in the excitement of the scene her senses almost left her. She was conscious only of being hurried along the dark road; then of being seated in a carriage by the French man’s side. (TO BB CONTINUED.) Thomas Cooper, the Chartist. The autobiography of Thomas Coop er, the English chartist, is, as Carlyle would say, “altogether human and worthy,” and one of the most fasci nating records of a strange and often stormy career that can be read in any language. With a vividness that even Carlyle might envy, it describes the hard struggle Of Cooper's early years— how his poor widowed mother was tempted to sell her boy to the village sweep for money with which to pay the rent' of their little cottage; how he got a smattering of the three R’s, and at 15 was apprenticed to a;shoe maker; how he learned by hook and crook to read four languages, and ac quired, besides, as much history, math ematics and science as made him a prbdigy even in the eyes of educated men; how he became a schoolmaster, then a journalist, and at last, in 1840, flung himself heart and soul Into the Chartist agitation. U cost him tVfo years in Stafford gaol. Through the kind offices of Charles Kingsley he was provided with writing materials. Mix ing them “with brains,” he speedily produced a number of short poems and stories, a “History of Mind,” and, most important of all, a vigorous and imagi native poem in the Spenserian stanza, “The Purgatory of Suicides,” which has gone through several editions. It is just about four years since Thomas Cooper died, at the age of 87. He had outlived his fame, as he had outlived his Chartism. Indeed, we might say of him what an American critic said of Beecher, that, had he died sooner he would have lived longer.” Woul»n and State Sap*rli»“ tendeuc JiiekRnii'jotn Hrartlly In the Svlieme—A Contrail of Eiluvutors, Na tional In Scope, a Moot Dailtdile Oln J*«t- .. - Propooed C«n*r»oa of Edaratoro. A Lincoln correspondent of the Omaha Bee writes that recent news paper articles relative to the proposed congress to teachers, to be held at Omaha during the exposition next year have attracted much attention among the teachers and people inter ested in educational work in that city, and the ideas meet with general approval. Chancellor McLean, of the Univer sity of Nebraska, speaking on the sub ject, said: "I am in favor of the prop osition to have an educational con gress at the Trans-Mississippi expo sition. I believe such a congress is assured.if for no other reason than that the bureau of education of the Trans Mlsslsslppl exposition will at once take hold of the matter of organising It. Their resolutions upon the subject are excellent I would not limit the congress to transmlssisslppi states. These Btates, in common with adja cent states In the great midlands, have a common and genuinely Ameri can school system. Over and above the common Interests and purposes of these states this purely American educational system will afford oppor tunities for the discussion of problems that will be far-reaching In their im portance. A great provincial meeting of this sort has Its place in addition to tne national assembly. The estab lishment of associations of secondary schools and colleges within th® bounds of the great divisions of the country recognised In the United States census, show the need for more general and democratic conferences such as the one proposed at the Trans Mlslssippt exposition. I think it likely this congress will become a model for others. I am confident that the school men of the region will co-operate and that distinguished educators from elsewhere will be glad to come to us. I am sure the University of Nebraska will do Its part and that other Al leges and sister state universities will tall into line." State Superintendent Jackson was quite enthusiastic over the plan. He said: “I believe that no better move ment could be made for the advance ment of education In the trans-Mls Blsstppl territory than by planning for a trans-Mlsslssippl congress of teach ers. I base my opinion of this on the results of the work of the congresses at the World's Columbian exposition, from which wider benefits have re sulted than from any similar con gresses yet held, because of their Con nection with that great exposition, and because of the wider and fuller representation of the countries of the world. Omaha Is so near the geograph ical center of the United States that It should offer great inducements to edu cators from all of the states'to at tend. I ean see no way in which it will conflict with the National Educa tional association, and I am not sure but tho trans-Mlsslssippl territory might well afford to make this a per manent organization that should, hold meetings annuallly at a time r that would least conflict with the interests of the National Educational associa tion. The results of such an associa tion of educators would be most bene ficial and lasting. I am confident that the teachers of Nebraska will be strongly in favor of such a movement and I aim sure this department will do everything In its power to assist i In this great enterprise. I expect to attend the meeting that has been called at Omaha, that will be held for the purpose of discussing this matter.** Romance In IUkI Lift. York dispatch: If events progress < smoothly, William Bell, an old sol dier of this place, will soon be the hero'of quite a romance. Twelve odd years ago Mr. Bell lived at Quincy. 111., and was engaged to be carried to a young woman of that place. He left for Australia and failed to come back at tho scheduled time. The pros pective bride, after waiting for a num ber of years, was married to another man. The other day Mr. Bell was granted a pension and several years* back pay besides, and he took a trip to his old home. He met the woman he was once going to marry, who Is now a widow. Her husband was kill ed a few years ago In a railroad wreck and she was awarded $10,1)00 damages by the company. She Is well-to-do and as Mr. Bell feels rich In tho possession of bis pension money, the two will renew the .matrimonial agreement they entered Into years ago and pool their fortunes.' < ... r i William* Hound Over. Wilburn L. Williams, the man who Is in jail in York for eloping with Mil dred Carnahan, appeared before Judge Wildman, and through his attorney, George B. France, had the prelimin ary trial continued until the 18th. Williams was placed under a bond of $500, but was not able to give it, and 4 was recommitted to the county jail. Cuttle Feeding. This year, says a Central City dis patch, promises to be a record breaker as more sheep and cattle are being fed than ever before in the history of the county. A large portion of the corn Is yet to be husked and from present indications is" liable not to be husked before spring. Several inches ot snow is now. on the ground. Stock Exehnnee Aniwers. The South Omaha Stock yards ex change has died with the clerk of the circuit court an answer to the suit in stituted a short time ago by the gov ernment to bring about the dlasote- . tion of the exchange on the ground that it is existing in violation of the anti-trust law of 1890. The •aaswer was drawn up by Attorney Warren * Switiler and T. J. Mahoney, who are . acting as counsel for tne members of ' the exchange. Its entire gist' is a de nial of the main issue raised by the government^ that the exchange is n monopoly, and that it puts restraint upon interstate commerce. , m