Story of Francis Cludde A Romance of Queen Mary's Reign. BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN. CHAPTER VII—Continued. s I did wonder, for the name of the jav and brilliant duchess of Suffolk was well known, even to me, n coun try lad. Her former husband, Charles Brandon, duke of Suffolk, had been not only the one trusted and constant friend of King Henry VIII, but the king's brotherlnlaw, his first wife having been Mary, princess of England and queen dowager of France. fjite In his splendid and proaperoua career the duke had married Katherine, the heir ess of Lord Willoughby de Eresby, and ■he it was who stood before me, still young and handsome. After her hue 's ■■ band's death she had made England ring with her name, first by a love match with a Lincolnshire squire, and ■econdly, by her fearless and outspoken defense of the reformers. I did wonder Indeed how she had come to be wan dering in the streets at daybreak, an object of a chance passer's chivalry and pity. , , "It is simple enough," she said dryly. *1 tm rich, I am a Protestant, and I bave an enemy. When I do not like a i person, I speak »Ut. Do I not, Rich | ard ?" a "You do. Indeed, my dear," he an swered, smiling. "And once I spoke out to Bishop Gardiner. What! Do you know about Stephen Gardiner?” :| For I had started at the name, after which I could scarcely have concealed >f my knowledge If I would. So I an ti owered simply, "Yes; I have seen him.” I was thinking how wonderful this was. These people had been ut ter strangers to me until a day or two before, yet now we were all looking out together from the deck of a Dutch boat •n the low Dutch landscape, united j 1 by one tie, the enmity of the same (man. "He Is a man to be dreaded," the I duchess continued, her eyes resting on , her baby, which lay asleep on my bun dle of rugs, and 1 guessed wliat fear j It was had tamed her pride to flight, f “His power In England Is absolute. We j | learned that It was his purpose to at- ' I rest me and determined to leave Eng land. But our very household was full I of oplee, and though we chose a time ' I when Clarence, our steward, whom we j had long suspected of being Gardiner's . ? chief tool, was away, Philip, his deputy, j I gained a clew to our design and | watched us. We gave hint the slip ' i with difficulty, leaving our luggage, but j he dogged and overtook us, and the | rest you know." I bowed. As I gazed at her my ad- ' miration, I knew, shone In my eyes. I She looked, as she stood on the deck, ! an exile and fugitive, so gay. so bright, 00 indomitable, that In herself she was at once a warranty and an omen of better times. The breeze had height ened her color and loosened here and there a tress of her nuburn hair. No I wonder Master Bertie looked proudly ! on his duchess. Suddenly a thing I had clean forgot-' ten flashed Into my mind, and I thrust ! my hand Into my pocket. The action \ was so abrupt that It attracted their : attention, and when I pulled out a | packet—two packets—there were three ! pairs of eyes upon me. The seal dangled 1 grout one missive. "What have you got there?" the duchess asked briskly, for ; ■he was a woman and curious. "Do : you carry the deeds of your property about with you?” No,” 1 said, not unwilling to make k small sensation. "This touches your j grace." "Hush!" she cried, raising one Im-1 oerlous finger. "Transgressing already?: From this time forth I am Mistress Bertram, remember. But come," she ; went on. eyeing the packet with the j •seal Inquisitively, "how does it touch me 7" I put it silently Into her hands, and •he opened It and read a few lines, her husband peeping over her shoulder. As •he read her brow darkened, her eyes grew hard. Master Bertie's face changed i with hers, and they both peeped sud •enly at me over the edge of the parch ment. suspicion and hostility In their glances. "How came you by this, young Mr?" h* said slowly, after a long pause. "Have we escaped Peter to fall into' the hands of Paul?” "No, no!" I cried hurriedly. 1 saw that 1 had made a greater sensation than 1 had bargained for. I hastened to tell them how I had met with Gar diner's servant at Stony Stratford, and hpw 1 had become possessed of his cre dentials. They laughed, of course. In deed they laughed so loudly that the placid Dutchmen, standing aft with their hands in their breeches pockets, •fared open-mouthed at us. and the kindred cattle on the bank looked mild ly up from the knee deep grass. "Aqd what was the other packet?" the duchess asked presently, "is that It in your hand?" "Yes." I answered, holding It up with •ome reluctance. "It seems to be a letter addressed to Mistress Clarence." “Clarence!” she cried. "Clarence!" resting the hand she was extending. "What! Here Is our friend again, ihen. What Is In It? You have opened It?" "No.” "Tou have not? Then quick, open It!" she exclaimed. "This, too, touches us, I will bet a penny. Del us see at once what It contains. Clarence in deed! Perhaps we may have him on the hip yet, the arch traitor!" But 1 held the pocketbook hack, though my cheeks reddened, ami I knew I must seem foolish. They made certain that this letter was a communi cation to some spy. probably to mar ine# himself under cover of a feminine address. Perhaps it was. but It bore a woman s name, and It was sealed, and. foolish though 1 might be. I would not betray the woman's secret. "No. madam." 1 said, confused, awk ward. stammering, yet withholding it with a secret obstinacy. "Pardon me If 1 do not obey you—If I do not let this be opened. It may he what you say. I added, with an effort, "but It may also contain an honest secret, and that a woman's." "What do you say?" cried the duch ess. “Here are scruples!" At that lun husband smiled, and 1 looked In denpai: from hlin to Mistress Anne. Would sh* sympathize with my feelings'.' l foum that she had turned her back on m and was gazing over the able, "lx you really mean,” continued the ditch ess. tapping her foot sharply on deck '“Uat voj are not going to open that you foolish boy?” “I do, with your grace's leave," I an s waved » "Or without my grace's leave: Thn Is what you mean," she retor.e.l pel tlshly a red spot on each cheek. "Whei people will not do what 1 ask. It Is ... ways grace! grace! grace! Km i k .o> then, now." I dared not smile, and I wou.d no look up, lest my heart should tall t. and 1 would give her her way. "You foolish boy!” sue again s.u and ar.K.ed. Then with a toss of hi head she went away, her husband fol lowing her obediently. 1 feared that she was grievously of fended, and 1 got up restlessly and went across the deck to the rail on which Mistress Anne was leaning, meaning to say something which would gain for me her sympathy, perhaps her advice. But the words died on my lips, for as I approached she turned her face abruptly toward me. and It was so white, so haggard, so drawn, that I uttered a cry of alarm. “You are 111!" I exclaimed. "Bet me call the duch ess!" She gripped my sleeve almost fiercely. "Hush!” she muttered. "Do nothing of the kind. I am not well. It is the water. But It will pass off. If you do not notice It. I hate to be noticed," she added, with an angry shrug. I was full of pity for her and re proached myself sorely. "What a selfish brute I have been!” I said. "You have watched by me night after night and nursed me day after day, and I have scarcely thanked you. And now you are 111 yourself. It Is my fault!” She looked at me. a wan smile on her face. "A little, perhaps,” she an swered faintly. "But It Is chiefly the water. 1 shall be better presently. About that letter. Did you not come to speak to me about It?” “Never mind It now,” I said anxious ly. "Will you not He down on the rugs Rwhile? Bet me give you my place," I pleaded. "No, no!" Bhe cried impatiently, and seeing I vexed her by my Importunity I desisted. "The letter." she went on. “You will open It by and by?" "No," I said slowly, considering, to tell the truth, the strength of my reso lution, "I think I shall not.” "You will, you will!" she repeated, wtih a kind of scorn. "The duchess will ask you again, and you will give it to her. Of course you will!" i Her tone was strangely querul | ous, and her eyes continually flashed keen, biting glances at me. But I thought only that I she was 111 and excited, and I fancied It ! was best to humor her. "Well, perhaps 1 I shall,” I said soothingly. "Possibly. • It Is hard to refuse her anything, and ! yet I hope I may not. The girl—It may be a girl's secret." I "Well?" she asked, interrupting me ! abruptly, her voice harsh and unmusl ! cal. "What of her?” She laid her hand | on her bosom us though to still some secret pain. I looked at her, anxious | and wondering, but she had again ! averted her face. "What of her?" she 1 repeated. “Only that—I would not willingly : hurt her!" I bburted out. She did not answer. She stood a mo , ment; then, to my surprise, she turned i away without a word, and merely com i mandlng me by a gesture of the hand | not to follow walked slowly away. I j watched her cross the deck and pass I through the doorway into the deck i house. She did not once turn her face, i and my only fear was that she was ill, j more seriously ill, perhaps, than she t had acknowledged. ! - CHAPTER VIII. As the day went on, therefore, I looked eagerly for Mistress Anne's re 1 turn, but she appeared no more, though : I maintained a close watch on the cab in door. All the afternoon, too, the | duchess kept away from me, and I feared that I had seriously offended her, so that It was with no very pleas ant anticipations that, going Into that part of the deckhouse which served us for a common room, to see If the even ing meal was set, I found only the duchess and Master Bertie prepared to sit down to It. I suppose that some thing of my feelings was expressed In | my face, for while I was yet half way between door and table my lady gave ' way to a peal of merriment. "Come, sit down and do not be afraid!" she cried pleasantly, her gray i eyes still full of laughter. “I vow the : lad thinks I shall eat him. Nay, when all Is said and done, I like you the bet ter, Sir Knight Errant, for your scruples. I see that you are determined ! to act up to your name. But that re 1 minds me,” she added In a more serl ious vein. "We have been frank with you. You must be equally frank with us. What are we to call you, pray?" I looked down at my plate and felt ’ my face grow scarlet. The wound which the discovery of my father's treachery had dealt me had begun to heal, in the action, the movement, the adventure or the last fortnight, I had well night lost sight of the blot on my escutcheon, of the shame which had driven me from hbme. But the ques tlon, "What are we to call you?" re . vlved the smart, and revived It with an added pang. It had been very well. In i theory, to proudly discard my old j name. It was painful In practice to be unable to answer the duchess: "I am la Cludde of Coton, nephew of Sir An thony, formerly esquire of the body to ! King Henry. I am no unworthy follow : er and associate even for you,” and to have Instead to reply: “I have no . name. 1 am nobody. I have all to I make und win." Yet this was my 111 I fortune. j Her woman's eye saw my trouble as I hesitated, confused and doubting what 1 should reply. "Come,” she said good naluredly, trying to reassure me. "You are of gentle birth. Of that we i feel sure." I shook my head. “Nay, I am of no : birth, madam," I answered hurriedly. "I have no name, or at any rate, no name that I ean be proud of. Call me ' -call me. If It please you, Francis ' Carey." “It Is a good name.” quoth Master Bertie, pausing with his knife suspend i Pd In the air. "A right good Protestant ! name!" "Hut I have no claim to It,” I re joined, more and more hurt. "I have ; Hl1 In make. I am a new- man. Yet do ! not fear!” I added quickly us I saw what 1 took to be a cloud of doubt cross by lady's face. "I will follow ‘ you no less faithfully for that!" "Well," said the duchess, a smile again transforming her open features, i "1 will answer for that. Muster Carey. ! Iieeds are better than names, and as " tor being a new man, what with Pagets ‘ and Cavendishes and Spencers, we have s naught but new men nowadays. So “ ' h*er up!" she continued kindly. "And we will poke no questions at you, though I doubt whether you do not • possess more birth and breeding than you would have us think. And if, when - we return to England, as I trust we may before we are old men and women, I we can advance your cause, then let us have your secret. No one can say that J1 Katherine Willoughby ever forgot her - friend." Or forgave her enentv overqutekly " quoth her nusband naively. II She tapped his knuckles with the " ••'.cl: of her knife for that, and under eovor of this small diversion I had time ■ to regain my composure. But the mat 1 ter left me sore at heart and more than a little homesick. And I sought leave to retire early. "You are right!" said the duchess, rising graciously. "Tonight, after be ing out in the air, you will sleep sound ly, and tomorrow you will be a new man," with a faint smile. "Believe me, I am not ungrateful. Master Francis, and I will diligently seek occasion to repay both your gallant defense of the ether day and your future service." She gave me her hand to kiss, and I bent over It. "Now,” she continued, "do homage to my baby, and then I shall consider that you are really one of us and pledged to our cause." I kissed the tiny fist held out to me, a soft pink thing looking like some dainty seashell. Master Bertie cordially grasped my hand. And so under the oil lamp In the neat cabin of that old Dutch boat, somewhere on the Waal between tlorcum and Nlmuegen, we plighted our troth to one another, and in a sense I became one of them. I went to my berth cheered and en couraged by their kindness. But the Interview, satisfactory as it was, had set up no little excitement In my brain, and It was long before I slept. When I did, I had a strange dream. I dreamed that I was sitting In the hall at Coton, and that Petronilla was standing on the dais looking fixedly at me with gentle, sorrowful eyps. I wanted to go to her, but I could not move. Every dreamer knows the sensation. I tried to call to her, ,o ask her what was the matter, and why she so looked at me. But I could utter no sound. And still she continued to fix me with the same, sad, reproachful eyes, In which I read a warning, yet could not ask its mean ing. I struggled so hard that at last the spell was in a degree broken. Follow ing the direction of her eyes, I looked down at myself and saw fastened to the breast of my doublet the knot of bluo velvet which she. had made for my sword hilt, and which I had ever since carried In my bosom. More, I saw, with a singular feeling of anger and sorrow, that a hand which came over my shoulder was tugging hard at the ribbon In the attempt to remove It. This gave me horrible concern, yet at the moment I could not move nor do anything to prevent it. At last, making a stupendous effort, I awoke, my last experience, dreaming, being of the strange hand working at my breast. My first waking idea was the same, so that I threw out my arms and cried aloud and sat up. "Ugh!” 1 exclaimed, trembling in the in tensity of my relief as I looked about and welcomed the now familiar sur roundings. "It was only a dream. It was-” I stopped abruptly, my eyes falling on a form lurking in the doorway. I could sc" it only dimly by the light of a hanging lamp, which smoked and burned redly overhead. Yet I could see it. It was real, substantial—a walk ing figure. Nevertheless a faint touch of superstitious terror still-clung to me. "Speak, please!” I asked. "Who is it?" "It is only I,” answered a soft voice, well known to me—Mistress Anne's. "I came In to see how you were,” she continued, advancing a little, "and whether you were sleeping. I am afraid I awoke you. But you seemed.” she added, “to be having such painful dreams that perhaps It was as well I did." I was fumbling In my breast while she spoke, and certainly, whether In my sleep I had undone the fastenings or had loosened them Intentionally be fore I lay down—though I could not remember doing so—my doublet and shirt were open at the breast. The vel vet knot was safe,however, In that tiny Inner pocket beside the letter, and I breathed again. "I am very glad you did awake me!” I replied, looking gratefully at her. “I was having a hor rible dream. But how good It was of you to think of me. when you are not well yourself, too.” “Oh. I am better,” she murmured!, her eyes, which glistened In the light, fixed steadily on me. "Much better. Now go to sleep again, and happier dreams to you. After tonight,” she added pleasantly, ”1 shall no longer consider you an Invalid nor lntrdue upon you.” And she was gone before I could re iterate my thanks. The door fell to. and I was alone, full of kindly feelings toward her and of thankfulness that my horrible vision had no foundation. "Thank heaven!” I murmured more than once as I lay down. "It was only a dream.” Next day we reached Nimuegen. where we staid a sort time. Leaving that place In the afternoon, 24 hours' Journeying, partly by river, partly If I remember rightly, by canal, brought us to the neighborhood of Arnheim on the Rhine. It was the first of March but the opening month belled fts repu tation. There was a brightness, a soft ness In the air and a consequent feel ing as of spring which would better have befitted the middle of April \n day we remained on deck enjoying the kindliness of nature, which was es pecially grateful to me. In whom the sap of health was begnnlng to spring again, and we were still there when one of those gorgeous sunsets which are peculiar to that country began to fling Its hues Rcross our path. We turned a Jutting promontory, the boat began to fall off, and the captain caine up, his errand to tell us that our Jour ney was done. (Continued Next Week.) Gypsy Song. In the drizzling mist, with th« snow high piled. In the winter night. In the forest wild. 1 heard the wolves with their ravenous howl, I heard the screaming note of the owl; Wllle wau wau wau! WTlle wo wo wo: Wlto hu! I shot, one. day, a cat in the ditch— The dear black cat of Anna, the wttch; Upon me. at night, seven were-wolvea came down. Seven women they were, from out of tho lows. Wllle wau wau wau! Wllle wo wo wo! Wlto hu! I knew them all; aye, I knew them straight; First. Anna, then Ursula, Hhre and Kate, And Barbara, Hazy, and Bet as well: And forming a ring, they began to yell: Wllle wau wau wau! WiHe wo wo wo! Wlto hu! Then called I their names with angry threat: "What wouldst thou, Anna? What wouldst thou. Bet?" At hearing my voice, themselves they shook. And howling and yelling, to flight they took. Wllle wau wau waul Wllle wo wo wo! Who hu! —Johann Goetha After five years work, Australia's great transcontinental. rabbit-proof fence has been completed. Its length is 2.036 miles, and the cost of Its erec tion has been nearly £250.000. It Is furnished at Intervals of five or six miles with systems of traps, in which hundreds of rabbits are captured and destroyed dally. Inside the barrier there appears as yet no trace of thetr presence. The product of the British shipyards amounts to 20 or S5 per cent of the woild's output. A consciousness of love and affection makes plain the path when* a..*, treads. I CW«T.i«z,By W.H.IIEWT