CUITHCR «r-VHn [Sflaca* *®h ‘CHAPTER II—CONTINUED. To pause now, and to enter into an explanation with a servant, would have boon to reject an opportunity which might never return. In such an establishment he was sure of find ing himself before long in the pres ence of some more or lest intelligent person of his own class, of whom he could make suoh inquiries as might enlighten him, and to whom he could pr sent suoh excuses for bis intrusion as might seem most fitting in so diffi cult a oase. He let his sables fall tn'o the bands of the servant and fol lowed the latter along a short pas sage The man introduced him into a spacious hall an& closed the door, leaving him to his own reflections, 'i he place was very wide and high and without windows, but the broad daylight descended abundantly from above through the glazed roof and il luminated every corner. He would have taken the room for a conserva tory, for it contained a forest of trop ical trees and plants and whole gar dens of rare southern flowers. Tall letonlas, date palms, mimosas and rubber trees of many varieties stretched their fantastic spikes and heavy leaves half-way up to the crystal ceiling, giant ferns swept the polished marble floor with their soft embroideries and dark green laces, Indian creepers, full of bright blossoms, made screens and curtains of their interwining foliage; orchids of every hue and of every ex o ic species bloomed in thick banks miong the walls. Flowers less rare, violets and lilies of the valley, closely set and luxuriant, grew in beds edged with moss around the roots of the larger plants and in many open spaces. 'I ne air was very soft and warm, moist and full of heavy odors as the still at mosphere of an island in southern eeas, and the silence was broken only by the light plash of softly falling water. Having advanced a lew steps from the door, the Wanderer stood still and waited, supposing that the owner of the dwelling would be made aware of a visitor's presence and would soon appear. But no one came. Then a g.mtle voice spoke front amid the ver dure, apparently from no groat dis tance. ‘•I am here,” it said. He moved forward amid the ferns, and tall plants until he found himself on the farther side of a thick network of creepers. Then he paused, for he was in the presence of a woman, of h«v wno dwell among the flowers. She was altting before him. motionless and upright in a high.' carved chair, and so placed that the pointed leaves of the palm which rose above her cast sharp, star-shaped shadows over the broad folds of her white dress. One hand, as white, as cold, as heavily perfect as the sculpture of a Praxit eles or a Phidias, rested with drooping fingers on the arm of the chair. The other pressed the pages of a great book which lay open on the lady’s knee. Her face was turned toward the visitor and her eyes exam ined his face calmly anil with no sur prise in them, but r.< . without a look of interest. Their expression was at once so unusual, so disquieting and yet so inexplicably attractive as to fascinate the Wanderer’s gaze. lie did not remember that he had ever seen a pair of eyes of distinctly differ ent colors, the one of a clear, cold gray, the other of a deep, warm brown, 60 dark as to seem almost black, and he would not have believed that nature could so far transgress the canons of her own art and yet pre serve the appearance of beauty. For the lady was beautiful from the dia dem of her red, gold hair to the proud curve of her fresh, young lips: from her broad, pale forehead, prominent and boldly modelled at the angles of the brows, to the stiong mouldings of the well-balanced chin which gave evidence of strength and resolution wherewith to carry out the promise of the high aquiline features and of the wide, sensitive nostrils.” •‘Madam, said be, bending his head courteously and advancing an other step, “I can neither frame ex cuses for having entered your house unbidden, nor hope to obtain indulgence for my intrusion, unless you are willing in the first place to hear my short story. May I expect so much kind ness?” He paused, and the lady looked at him fixedly and curiously. Without taking her eyes from hit face and without speaking, she closed the bouk she had held on her knee and laid it beside her on a low table. The Wan derer did not avoid her gaze, for he had nothing to conceal, nor any sen-e of timidity. He was an intruder upon the privacy of one whom he did not know, but he was ready to explain his presence and to make such amends as courtesy required, if he had given offence. The heavy odors of the flowers filled his nostrils with an unknown, luxurious delight as he stood there gazing into the lady’s eyes. He fan eled that a gentle breath of pertutne t air was blowing softly over his h»i' and face out of the motionless pulms Xr-TTA-STK^^tj:* "OLblOffi&W o QLMDId'S; H RQVM SWGER'ar. and the faint gptashing of the hidden fountain was like an exquisite melody In his ears. It was good to be in ■uch a place, to look upon such a woman, to breathe such odors and to hear such tunoful music. A dream like, half-mysterious satisfaction of the senses dulled the keen self knowledge of body and soul for one short moment. In the stormy play of his troubled life there was a brief interlude of peace. He tasted the fruit of the Lotus, his lips were moist ened In the sweet waters of forget fulness. The lady spoke at Inst, and tb • ■pell left him, not broken, as by a sudden shock, but losing its power by quick degrees, until it was wholly gone. ••1 will answer your question by an other.” said the lady. "Let your re ply be the plain truth. It will be better so.” "Ask what you will. I have noth ing to conceal.” "Uo you know who and what I Do you come here out of curiosity u the vain hope of knowing me, having heard of me from others?” "Assuredly not.” A pale flush roso in the man’s pale and noble face. "You have my word,” he said, in the tone of one who is sure of being be lieved, -that I have never, to my knowledge, heard of your existence; that l am ignorant even of your name — forgive my ignorance — and that I entered this house not knowing whose it might be. seeking and following after one for whom I have searched the world, one dearly loved, long lost, long sought.” ••It is enough. Be seated. I am Unorna.” •■Unorna?” repeated the Wanderer, with an unconscious question in his voice, although the name recalled some half forgotten association. ••Unorna—yes. T have another name,” she added, with a shade of bitterness, "but it is hardly mino. Tell me your stor y. You loved—y^u lost—you seek—so much I know. What else?" The Wanderer sighed. •‘Yon have told in those few words the story of nay life—the unfinished story. A wanderer I was born, a wanderer I must ever be. until at last I find her whom I seek. I knew her in a strange land.-far from my birth place, in a city where I was kuown but to a few. anti i loved her. t?he loved me too, act! that against her father’s will. He would not have his daughter wed with one not of her race; for he him self had taken a wife among strangers, and while she was yet ali"e he had re pented of what he had done tint. I would have overcome his reasons and his arguments—she and l could have overcome them together, for he did not hate mo. he bore me no ill-will. \V e were almost friends when I last took his hand. Then the hour of des tiny came upon me. The air of that city was treacherous and deadly. I iiad left her with her father, and my heart was full of many things, and of words both spoken and unuttered. I lingered upon an ancient bridge that spanned the river, and the sun went down. Then the evil fever of the south laid hold upon me and poisoned the blood in my veins, and stole the consciousness from my understanding. Weeks passed away, and memory re turned, with the strength to speak. I learned that she I loved, and her father, were gone, and none knew whither. I rose and left the accursed city, being at that time scarcely able to stand upright on my feot. Find ing no trace of those I sought, I jour neyed to their own country, for 1 kn ;w where her father held his lands. 1 had been ill many weeks and much time had passed, from the day on which I had left her. until I was able to move from my bed. When [ reached the gates of her home, I was told that all had been lateiy sold, and that others now dwelt within the walls. I inquired of these new owners of the land, hut neither they, nor any ol all those whom I questioned, could tell me whither I should direct my search. The father was a 9trange man, loving travel to find change and movement, restless and unsatisfied with the world, rich and fiee to make his own caprice his guide through life; reticent he was. moreover, and thoughtful, not given to speaking out his intentions. Those who administered his affairs in his ab ence were honorable men, bound by his especial injunction not to reveal his ever-v irying plans. Many times in my ceaseless search I met persons who had lately seen him and his daughter snd spoken with them. I was ever on their track, from hemisphere to her^sphere, from continent to continent, from country to country, from ciiy to city, of en believing my 66it close upon them, c.f;en learning suddenly t.hst an ocean 1 y between them nod me. . ns pe "hiding me, purpt seh. - u y, o. wa he un conscious o m , pursuit, being s-r'. by . and by his o. n - I do not know. .-c That •he wa- “«“dy, nnt k - -•■■■' ■’ tie who from another, wno had rere.vou li ou hearsay from a third. None knew in what place her spirit had parted; none knew by what manner of sick ness she had died. Since then I hare heard others say that ahe ia not dead, that they have heard in their turn (rom othera that ahe yet livee. An hour ago I knew not what to think. To-day I saw her in a crowded church. I heard her volco. though 1 could not reach her In the throng, struggle how l would. 1 followed her In haste, I lost her at one turning. I saw her be fore me at tlie next. At last a figure, clothed as she had been clothed, en tered your house. Whether it was abe 1 know not certainly, but I do know that in the church I saw her. She cannot he within vour dwelling without your knowledge; If she be here—then 1 have found her. my journey is ended, my wanderings have led me home at last If ahe bo not here, if 1 have been mistaken, I en treat you to let me set eyes on that other whom 1 mistook for her, to for give then my mannerless intrusion and to let me go.” Unorna bad listened with half-closed eyes, but with unfaltering attention, watching the speaker's face from be neath her drooping lids, making no effort to read his thoughts, but weigh ing his words and impressing every detail of his story upon her mind. When he had dune there was silenco for a time, broken only by the plash and ripple of the falling water. “She is not here." said Unorna at last. “You shall see for yourself. There is, indeed, in this house a young girl to whom I am deeply attached, who has grown up at iny side, and has always lived under my roof. She is very pale and dark, aud is dressed al ways in black " “Like her I saw.’’ “You shall see her again, i will send for her." Unorna pressed un ivory key in the silver ball which lay beside her. attached to a thick cord of white silk. “Ask Sletchna Axneia to come to me," she said to the ser vant who opened the door in the dis tance, out of sight behind the forest of plants. Amid less unusual surroundings the Wanderer would have rejected with contempt the last remnants of his be lief In the identity of Unoma's com panion with Beatrice. But. being where was, he felt unable to decide between the possible and the impossible, be tween what he might reasonably ex pect and what lay beyond the bounds of reason itself. The air he breathed was so loaded with rich exotic per fumes, the woman before him was so little like other women, her strangely mismatched eyes had for his own such a disquieting attraction, all that he saw and felt and heard was so far re moved from the commonplaces of daily life as to make him feel that he himself was becoming a part of some other person’s, existence, that he was being gradually drawn away from his identity, and was losing the power of thinking his own thoughts He rea soned as the shadows reason in dream land, tho boundaries of common prob ability receded to an immeasurable distance, and he almost ceased to know where reality ended and where imagination took up the sequence of events. Who was this woman who called herself Unorna? He tried to consider the question and to bring his intelli gence to bear upon it. Was she a great lady of Prague, rich.capricious, creating a mysterious existence for herself,merely for her own good pleas ure? Her language, her voice, her evident refinement gave color to the idea, which was in itself attractive to a man who had long ceased to expect novelty in this working-day world He glanced at her face, musing and wondering, inhaling the sweet, intox icating odors of the flowers and listen ing to the tinkling of the hidden foun tain. Her eyes were gazing into his, and again, as if by magic, the curtain of life’s stage was drawn together in misty folds, shutting out the past, the present and the future—in fact, the doubt and the hope—in an interval of perfect peace. He was roused by the sound of a tight footfall upon the marble pave ment. Unorna’s eyes were turned from his. and with something like a movement of surprise he himself looked toward the new comer. A young girl was standing under the shadow of a great letonia at a short distance from him. She was very pale indeed, but not with that death like waxen palor which had chilled him when he had looked upon that other face. There was a faint resem blance in the delicate aquiline features, the dress was black, and the figure of tU' girl before him wa-> as suredly neither much taller nor much shorter than that of the woman he loved and sought. But the likeneRS went no further, and he knew that he had been utterly mistaken. Unorna exchanged a few Indifferent words with Axneia and dismissed her. ••Youhave seen her,” she said, when the young girl was gone. “Wag it she who entered the house just now?” “Yes, I was misled by a mere re semblance. Forgive me for my im portunity—let me thank you most sin cerely for your great kindness.” He rose as he spoke. “Do not go,” said Unorna, looking at him earnestly. He stood still, silent as though his attitude should ex plain itself, and yet expecting that | she would say something further. He ' felt that her eyes were upon him, and he raised his own to meet the look | frankly, os was his wont. For the first time he had entered her presence he felt that there was more than a mere disquieting attraction in her steady gaze; there was a strong, re sistless fascination, from which he had no power t.n withdraw himself. • h li*i< -v UU»« Un U-» j UC i )» •• > from his brain and left It vacant, at the waters of a lock subside when tho gates are opened, leaving omplineis in its place. Unorna'seyes turned from him. and she raised her hand a moment. Inttlng it fall again upon her knee. Instantly the strong man was restored to him self; his weakness vanished, his sight was clear, his Intelligence was awaxo. Instantly tho certainty flashed upon him that Unorna possessed the power of imposing hypnotic sleep and had exerc.sed that gift upon him. unex pectedly and against his will. He would have more willinrly supposed i that he hud been the victim of a mo mentary physical faintness, for the idea of having been thus subjected to tho influence of a woman, and of a womun whom he hardly knew was re pugnant to him. and had in it some thing humiliating to his pride, or at least to bis vanity. But he could not escape the conviction forced upon him by the circumstances. ! "Do not go, for I may yet help you," said Unorna, quietly. "Let us talk of this matter and consult wbat is best to be done. Will you accept a i woman’s help?" I "Readily. But 1 ean net accept her will as mine, nor resign my conscious ness into her keeping ” i "Not for the sake of seeing her whom you say you love?" The Wanderer was silent, being yet 1 undetermined how to act and still un steadied by what he had experienced. But he was able to reason, and he asked of his judgment what he should do, wondering what manner of woman Unorna might prove to be, and whether she were anything more than one of thoso who live ana even enrich themselves by tho exercise of the unusual faculties or powers nature has given them. He had seen many of that class, and he considered most of them to be but half fanatics, half charlatans, worshipping in themselves ns something almost divine that which was but a physical ^ower, or weak ness, beyond their own limited com prehension. Though a whole shock of wise and thoughtful men had al ready produced remarkable results and elicited astonnding facts by sift ing the truth through a fine web of closely logical experiment, it did not follow that either Unorna, or any other self-convinced, self-taught operator could do more than grope blindly toward the light, guided by intuition alone, among the Varied and misleading phenomena of hypnotism. The thought of accepting the help of one who was probably, like most of her kind, a deceiver of herself, and therefore and thereby of others, was an affront to the dignity of his distress, a desecration of his love’s suncity, a frivulous invasion of love’s holiest ground. But on the Other hand he was stimulated to catch Rt the veriest shadows of possibility by the certainty that he was at last within the same city with her he loved, and he knew that hypnotic sub jects are sometimes able to determine the abode of persons whom do one else can find. To-morrow it might be too late. Even before to-day’s sun had set Beatrice might be once more taken from him, snatched away to the ends of the earth by her father’s ever changing caprice. To lose a moment now might be to lose all. He was tempted to yield, to resign I ms will Into Unorna’s hands, and hla sight to her leading, to let her bid him sleep and see the truth. But then, with a sudden reaction of his individuality, he realized that he had another course, surer, simpler, more dignified. Beatrice was in Prague. It was ’.ittle probable that she was permanently established in the city, and in all likelihood she and her father were lodged in one of the two or three great hotels. To be driven from one to the other of these would be but an affair of minutes. Failing information from this source, there yet remained the registers of the Aus trian police, whose vigilance Uke9 note of every stranger’s name and dwelling-place. ■*I thank you,” hd said. “If all my Inquiries fail, and you will let me visit you once more to-day, I will then ask your help.” “You are right,” Unorna answered. Lor* and Charity. Dashaway—“I sent a lot of old oiothes to a girl the other day. She is very charitable, and is going to ■end them to the heathen.” Calvertos—“You must be in love with the heathes.’’ Dashaway—No; 1 am in love with the girl.”—Ssturd-'v Night. CHAPTER III. T.V h Imd been d«» ceived in sunpos ■ • [1 ing illut be roust inevitably find the \ names of those he ^ sought upon tue , ordinary registers which chronicle the arrival and departure of trav elers. He lust no time, he spared no effort, driving from place to place as fast as two pturdy Hungarian horses could take him, hurrying from on# office to an other, and again and again searching endless pages and columns which peemed full of all the names of earth, bat in which ho never found the one of all others which he longed to rend. The Wanderer stood in deep thought under the shadow of the ancient '’owder Tower. Haste had no further | object now, since be had made every inquiry within his power, and it was a relief to feel the pavement beneath 1 his feet, and to breathe the misty, frozen air after having been so long in the closeness of his carriage. He hesitated as to what he should do, un willing to return to Unorna and ac knowledge himself vanquished, yet Boding it hard to resist his desire t>o try every means, no matter how little reasonable, how evidently useless, how puerile and revolting to his sounder sense. The street behind led toward Unorna’s house. Had he found himself in a more remote quar ter he might have come to another and wiser conclusion. Being so near to the house of which he was thinking he yielded to the temptation. He left the street almost immediately, passing ; under a low, arched way that opened on the rigkt-hand side, and a moment later he was within tho walls of the Teyn Kirche. The vast building was less gloomy than it bad been in the morning. It was not yet the hour of vespers. The funeral torches had been extinguished, as well as most of the lights upon the high altar; there were not a dozen persons in the church. The Wan derer went to the monument of Brahe and sat down in the corner of the blackened pew. His hands trembled a little as he clasped them upon bis knees and his head sank slowly toward his breast. He thought of all that might have been if he had risked everything that morning. He could have used his strength to force a way for himself through the pres«, he could have thrust the multitude to the right and left, and he could have reached her side. Perhaps he had been weak, in dolent, timid, and he accused himself of his own failure. But then, again, he seemed to see about him the closely packed crowd, the sea of faces, the thick, black mass of humanity, and he knew the tremendous power that lay in the inert, passive resistance of a vast gathering such as had been present. Had it been anywhere else, in a street, in a theatre, anywhere ex cept in a church, all would have been well. He was aware that some one was standing very near to him. He looked up and saw a very short, gray-headed man engaged in a minute examination of the dark red marble face on tho astronomer’s tomb. The man’s bald head, encircled at the base by a fringe of short, gray hair, was half buried between his high, broad shoulders, in an immense collar of fur, but the shape of the skull was so singular as to distinguish its possessor, when hat less, from all other men. No one who knew the man could mistake his head, when even the least portion of it could be seen. The wanderer recog nized him at once. As though he were conscious of be ing watched, the little man turned 6harply. The wanderer rose to his feet. ••Keyork Arabian !” he exclaimed, extending his band. ••Still wandering?” asked the little man, with a slightly sarcastic intona tion. He spoke in a deep, caressii.g bass, not loud, but rich in quality. •‘You must have wandered, too, since we last met, ” replied the taller man.” ••I never wander,” said Keyork. “When a man knows what he wants, knows where it is to be found, and goes thither to take it, he is not wan dering. Moreover, I have no thought of removing myself or my goods from Prague. I live here. It is a city for old men. It is saturnine.” “Is that an advantage?” inquired the Wanderer. "To my mind. wouia say to my son, if I had one—my thanks to a blind but intelligent destiny for pre serving me from such a calamity!—I would bay to him: -Spend thy youth among the flowers in the land where they aie brightest and sweetest: pass thy manhood in all lands where man strives with man. thought for thought, blow for blow; choo-e for thine old age that spot in which, all things be ing old, thou mayest for the longest time consider thyself young in com parison with thy surroundings. Moreover, the imperishable can pre serve the perishable.” “It was not your habit to talk of death when we were together.” “I have found it interesting of late years. The subject is connected with one of my inventions. Did you ever embalm a body? No? I could tell you something singular about the newest process.” ••What is the connection?” “I am embalming myself, body and mind. It is but an experiment, and unless it succeeds it must be the last. Embalming, as it is now understood, means substituting one thing for an other. Very good. 1 am trying to purge from my mind its old circulat ing medium; the new thoughts must all be selected from a class which ad mits of no deoay. Nothing could be simpler.” "It S':t*in' to mo that nothing could be more vague.” "You wit j not formerly so slow to understand me,” said the strange lit tle man with some impatience. "Do you know a lady of Prague who calls herself Unorna?" the V\ an derer asked, paying no attention to his friend’s last r< mark. "I do.. What <>f her?’’ Keyork Arabian glanced keenly at his com panion. "What is she? she has an odd name.” "As for her name, it is easily ac counted for. She wus born on the 29th day of February, tho year of her birth being bisextile. Unor means Febru ary; Unorna, derivative adjective,-be longing to February.’ Some one guv* her the name to commemorate the circumstance.” "Her parents, I suppose.” "Most probably—whoever they may have been.” “And what is she?” the W’anderei asked. [TO BE CONTINUED.] Th« Kslrsat on Rollvar. In the National Tribune, Comrade Barron, of Co. A. 32d 111., writing of the expedition from Bolivar, Tenn., to Grand Junction, Sept. 20 to 22, 1862. by the First Brigade of Gen. Hurlbut’s Division, under command of Lauman, is mistuked in saying the expedition took placo in 1863. He is, however, correct in stating that some ot the 2d 111. Cav. furnished Gen. Lauman with tho information that the enemy were in force near (L and Junction, where upon the brigade hurriedly counter marched back to Bolivar, and it was none too quick about it either. If the expedition was intended to pre vent Von Dorn joining forces wi h Gen . Price, it was a stupid maneuver, as Van Dorn and Price were very nearly together at that time, and within a few days afterward fought together at the battle of the Hatchio, where they were beaten and compelled to retreat in an unseemly hurry, more precipitate than the counter-march of tho First Brigade. Comrade Palmer, of tho 53d 111., is correct as to the narrow escape from capture of the First Brigade on the occ&Bion referred 4o. But for tho timely informatioB furnished by cavalry it certainly would have been completely "gobbled up.” —David H. Porter. Co. E, 2d 111. Cav. Fiddled Through the War. Nearly everybody in Cambria and Indiana counties. Pennsylvania, is ac quainted with Thompson Carney, tha veteran violinist, who for the past forty years has furnished music for country dances in Western Pennsyl vania. At the breaking out of the late civil war Thompson Carney en listed with the old Cambria Guards. Before leaving Ebensburg with his company, C. T. Roberts presented him with a violin and box, knowing that Mr. Carney would not feel at home even in the army without a violin. lie received it with thanks, and promised to bring tlie violin home with him at the close of the war. Thirty years have expired since then, but on a recent evening, Thompson, with the identical violin under his arm, stepped into Mr. Rob erts’ store and said: "How d’ye do, Mr. Roberts?” Duringthe war Thump son lost his violin several times, hut always managed to find it. At the close of the war the violin was missing and ho failed to find it until recently, when the old sutler sent it to him, having found it in the south. - Penn sylvania Grit. Making a Husband Remember. A young wife in Brooklyn recently gave her husband a sealed letter, beg ging him not to open it until he got to bis place of business. When ha did so he read: "I am forced to tell you something that 1 know will -uble you, but it is my duty to do so. I am determined you shall know, let the result be what it may. I have known for a week that it was coming, but kept it to my self until to-day. when it has reached a crisis, and I cannot keep it any longer. You must not censure me too harshly, for you must reap the re sults as well as myself. I do hope it won't crush you.” By this time the cold perspiration stood on his forehead with the fear of some terrible, unknown calamity. He turned the page, his hair slowly rising, and read: "The coal is all used up! Please call and ask for some to be sent this afternoon. I thought by this method you would not forget it” He didn't.—N. Y. Weekly. The Gla"* f tb« G' .iiun Array. Until .e lately Capt. Pluskow, ol the F: Regiment of the Guards, had been msidered the biggest man in the German Army. lie measured <>\ er 80 inches in height. But a short time since a young Rinelander joined the First Regiment of Foot Guards as a "one-year-volun etr” who attains the colossa height of over seven fe -t four and a half inches. Sinco 18.‘