Evening Star Newspaper, December 25, 1897, Page 16

\ THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1897-24 PAGES. B Synopsis. | on Dale, the teller of the story, born y after the execution of Charles I, is looked upon as destined to greatness be- | cause a wise woman bas prophesied that | he shall * t the king loves, know what the king hides, and drink of the king’s cup.” Falling in love with Barbara. Gauchter of the parish magistrate, Lord Qvinton, his young affections are diverted by the appearance of a mysterious London beauty, named Cvcaria, who secretly so- jcurns at Hatchstead. On Cy v's return to I sceives a commission in the King’s ¢ He goes to London, ¢ covers that Cydaria is really Nell Gwynn, | and decides to resign his commission b He becomes a favor- ke of Monmouth, and Goes to Dover w where a reception is given the Queen of The queen received with much pomp | ito his sui t the greatest intere | ival ef M. De Per night from Ca et conferenc: held. While waiting secretly in en outer hall for one of the Meetings to break up Simon overhears Monmouth lavishly complimenting Mi E bara. M. De Perrencourt whom the young M. De and seems dete means. On his departure appearance to assure her nd es when needed. ner in his own apartment ment for his ily summoned into d commanded ta the king's cup.” At the first senses leave him. The drink proves to be drugged wine sent to him by 1s Tate and offered to the king by his Darrell. Ta apprehended and diabolical purpose and is sen- is then attached tethe suite of ut that gentleman's re- him, in his apart- rench king’s purpose, sion and then by ing to France. This interrupted by the entrance s himself, who ¢: dis- d commands to s to war of their danger, Without n the king for Ca At a mom: e beat is becalmed in @ dense fog, they jump overboard into the . but before they can push off and leaps into the wers him while Barbara » from the ship. plan ther Chapter XVi—Continved. med, half she shivered a relaxed limb: by the rms. She k of I watch- as it s red her kr his head In her irew out a on king felt in her that she I nembered our looked re my pistol it in my han porting the king head, ked. married with a grim smile. d, and bent again she in wide opened, and I aw the return of Migence. The quick | on the oars, on the Then that fell on me, in hand wit he raised himself on drawing quickly ant, regarding me still. my awa: self up into a sitting posture, a as though he would rise to his d the pistol and pointed it at him. ‘o higher, if you please,” said I. “It’s a matter of danger to walk about in so small a boat, and you came near to up- Setting us before.” He turned his head and saw Barbara, then cazed around on sea. No sail was te be seen and the till screened the boat in impenetrabl tude. The sight Frought to his mind the conviction of what his plight was. Yet no dismay nor fear showed in his face. He sat there, regard- ing me with an earnest curiosity. At last he spoke You were deluding me all the time?” he ed. “Even s head ‘ou did not mean to take my offer?” am a gentleman, I did not.” Iso am accounted a gentle for said I, with an Inclination of . I took you for a prince made no answer, but, looking around again, ubserved: ship must he near. But for this sed fog she would be in sight.” e isn’t,” I said. sked brusquely. there's the pistol for the sword here for you and me,” For a man may contrive to ugh his bearing be a lie t quick. » cried in amazement. ng.” I lew and t i. All thre ked round on th high on th ikelihood ard joyful: would do what I had sald I. “But I think | d to your majesty’s | i ne did not believe. I burst into a Jaugh of grim amusement. These great folk find it hard to understand how some- times their greatness 1s nothing, and the thing 1 to man, but now and th fort. 3s a whim and teaches them | u on for her sport. | . since you are a king,” said T, “you shall have your privilege. You shall pass out before the lady. See, the ship f& very plain now. Soon we shall be plain to the ship. Come, sir. you ge first.”* He looked at me now, puzzled and alarm- ea. “I am unarmed,” he “It is no fight.” I d. Then I nd sit in the d cover your face with ° moaned, v hers but she elf dewn, bury- I turned to fow wilh you d s I tlieve, id, quietly, in a civil manner. A sudden shoct rang In m rs. I would not look away from him, lest he spring on me or fling himself from the boat. But f knew wh . ° sheut came, for ft was chi and the relief of 1 t The ip was the Kir, d his servants had seen their t they would not dare to fire $ orders, and with the risk of kiltiz efore I was easy con- cerning musket shot. But we mu: not come near enough for a voice to be heard frem us, and a pistol to carry to us. “How will you die?” I asked again. His eyes questioned me. I added, “As God lives I will.” And I smiled at him. What Befell My Last Guinen. There is this in great station, that it im- parts to a man a bearing sedate in good ~ times and debonnaire in evil A king | fovnd even in it much bitterness, | my means ill for this o | ly now y be unkinged, as befell him whom in youth we called the royal martyr, but he need not be unmanned. He had tasted of what men count the best, and having turns to greet fortune’s new caprice smiling or unmoved. Thus it falls out that though princes live no better lives than common men, yet for the most part they die more noble deaths; their sunset paints all their sky, and we remember not how they bore their glorious burden, but with what grace they laid it down. "Much is forgiven to kim who dies becoming and on earth as in heaven there is pardon for the parting soul. Are we to reject what we are taught that God receives? I have need enough of forgiveness to espouse the softer argu- ment. No King Louis, surnamed the Great, aving more matter in his head than the heme I thought to bafile, and, to say truth, more ladies in his heart than Bar- bara Quinton, was not minded to die for the one or the other. But had you been there (which heaven for your sake forbid, I have passed many a pleasanter night) you would have sworn that death or life weighed not a straw in the balance with him, and that he had no thought of the destiny God had marked for him and the realm that called him master. So lofty and serene he was when he perceived my reso- lution and saw my pistol at his head. On my faith the victory was mine, but he robbed me of my triumph, and he, sub- mitting, seemed to put terms on me who held him at my mercy. It is all a trick, By THE TOKEN OF added again, “At least we shan’t be mar- ried, you and I, in Calais.” She started a little, flushed a little, and answered gravely: “We cwe heaven thanks for a great es- cape, Simon.” it was true, and the knowledge of its truth had served us to the attempt s0 marvelously crowned with success. Great was the escape from such a marriage, made for such purposes as King Louis had plan- ned. Yet some feeling shot through me, and I gave ‘it voice in saying. “Nay, but we might have escaped after the marriage also.” Barbara made no reply. for it was none to say. “The cliffs grow very plain.” But that wouldn’t have served our turn,” I added with a laugh. “You would have ccme out of the business saddled with a sore incumbrance.” “Shall you go to Dover?” asked Barbara, seeming to pay no heed to all that I hal been saying. “Where God pleases peevish ly. Tll row straight to land. n the sea.” “No place is safe?” I answered. But then, repent- rliness, I added, ‘And none so rerilous that you need fear, Mistress Bar- ” I answered rather “Her head's to the land, and The land is safer den't fear while you’re with me, Simon,” said she. ‘ou won't leave me till we find my father.” “Surely not,” said I. “Is it your pleasure te seek him? . THIS RING.” ‘y get it in childhood, as n no harm by my comparisons) the $ ch > or the thief's to pick. Ye y. I wish I had it. “In truth,” with a smile that had not a trace of ness, “I have chosen e time, though they say that I choose well. Well, God rules the world.” “By deputy, sir,” said I. nd deputies don't do his will always? Come, Mr. le, for this hour you hold the po: 1 fill it well, W this for my sake,” and he handed across to me a dag- fer with a handle richly wrought and studded with precious stone: I bowed low, yet I kept my finger on the trigger. tan, I give you my word, though not in said rebuked, set my! Alas, for a sad he, and I, in its place. moment,” he cried. ‘I must bid farewell to Mi: ‘s Barbara. Yet (this he added, turning to her) life is long, madam, and has in it many changes. I pray you may never need friends, but should you there is one ready so long as Louis is King of France. Call on him by the token of his ring and count him your humblest_ser- vant.” With this he stripped his finger of a fine brilliant, and sinking on_ his knee in the boat, took her hand very delicately, and having set the ring on her finger, kissed her hand, sighed lightly yet gai- lantly, and rose with his eyes set on the ship. “Row me to her,” he commanded me, shortly, but not uncivilly, and I, who held his Hfe in my hands, sat down obediently and bent to my oars. In faith, I wish 1 had that air, it’s worth a fortune to a man. Soon we came to the side of the ship. Over it looked the face of Colbert, amazed that I had stolen his king, and the face of Thomas Lie, indignant that I had made free with his boat. By them were two or three of the crew, agape with wonder. King Louis paid no respect to their feel- ings, and stayed their exclamations with a gesture of his hand. He turned to me, saying in low tones and with a smile: “You must make your own terms with my brother, sir. It has been hard fighting between us, and I am in no mood for gen- erosity.”” “I did not know what to answer him, but I stammered: “I ask nothing but that your majesty should remember me as an honest man.” “And a brave gentleman,” he added, gravely, with a slight inclination of his head. Then he turned to Barbara and took her hand again, bowing low and saying: “Madame, I had meant you much good in my heart, and my state forced me to mean you some evil. I pray you remember the one and forget the other.” He kissed her hand again with a fine grace. It was a fair-sounding apology for a thing beyond defense. I admired while I smiled. But Barbara did not smile. She looked up at his face, then dropped on her knees in the boat and caught his hand, kissing it tw and trying to speak to him. He stood looking down on her, then he said softly: “Yet I have forgiven your friend,” and gently drew his hand away. I stood up baring my head. He faced round on me, and said abruptly: “This affair is be- tw you and me, sir.’ - obedient to a command I did not said I. four pardon. Cover your head. I pot value outward signs of respect where the will is wanting. Fare you well.” At a sign from him Colbert stretched ou a hand. Not a question, not a word, scarce a show of wonder came from ary, nee do fear or respect for any man could so bind their tongues. The king waved them away. Lie alone hesitated, but Colbert caught him by the arm and drew him off to the helm save henest Lie, whose eyes stood out 2 lis head and whose tongue was still only because it could not speak. The king leap- ed lightly on the deck of his ship. “You'll be paid for the boat,” I heard him say to Lie. “Make all sail for Calais.” Non spoke to him, none questioned him. He saw no need for explanation and ac- ecrded no enlightenment. I marveled that ‘The course was given and the ship forged ahead. The king stood in the stern. Now he raised his hat from his head and bowed lew to Mistress Barbara. I turned to see how she took the salutation; but her fac> was dewncast, resting on her hands. I stood «Md lifted my hat; then I sat down to the oars. I saw King Louis’ set, courtly smile, and as our ways parted asunder, his to France where he ruled, mine to Englan4, where I prayed nothing but a hiding place, we sent into one another’s eyes a long look, as of men who have measured strength, and part, each in his own pride, each in respect of the powers of his enemy. In truth it was something to have played & winning hand with the most Christian king. With regret I watched him go; though I | could not serve him in his affairs of love, I would gladly have fought for him in ‘is wars. We were alone now on the sea; dawn was breaking and the sky cleared till the cliffs were dimly visible behind us. I pulled the beat round and set her head for home. Barbara sat in the stern, pale and still, exhausted by the efforts and emotion of the night. The great peril and her great salvation left her numb rather than thank- ful; and in truth, if she looked into the future, her joy must be dashed with sore apprehension M. de Perrencourt was gone, the Duke of Monmouth remained; till she cculd reach her father I was her only help, and I dared not show my face in Dover. But these thoughts were for myself, not tor her, and, seeking to cheer her, I leaned forward and said: “Courage, Mistress Barbara® And 1 “As speedily as we can, > murmured “He's in London. won't dare to touch me when I'm with him.” “To London, then!’ I said. “Can you © out the coas “There’s a little bay just ahead where the cliff breaks and I see Dover Castle away cn my left hand.” “We'll make for the ba: then seek means to get to London.’ as I spoke a sudden thought struck I laid down my oars and sought my Barbara was not looking at me, but I, “and ie ‘n a dreamy fashion toward where the castle rose on its cliff. I opened the purse. It held a single guinea. The rest of my store lay with my saddlebags in t s ship. My head had been too of full to think of them. There is none life's small matters that so irks a man to © ss that he has no money for neces- sury charges, and it is most sore when a lady looks to him for hers. I, who had praised myself for forgetting how to blush, went red as a cock’s comb and felt ‘it to cry with mortification. A guinea would feed us on the road to London if we fared pie nly, but Barbara could not go on her eet. Her eyes must have come back to my sul- len, do t face, for in a moment she cried: “What's the matter, Simon?” Perhaps she carried money. Well, then, L must ask for it. I held cut my guinea in my hand. “It's all I have,” said I. has the rest.” She gave a little cry of dismay. “I hadn't thought of money,” she cried. “I must beg of you.” “Ah, but, Simon, I have none. I gave my purse to the waiting woman to carry, so chee mine is also in the French king's ship.” Here was humiliation; our fine schemes stood blocked for the want of so vulgar a thing as money. Such fate waits often on fine schemes, but surely never more per- versely. Yet, I know not why, I was glad that she had none. I was a guinea the bet- ter of her. The amount was not large, but it served to keep me still her providence. That, I fear, is what man in his vanity loves to be in woman's eyes; he struts and plumes himself in the pride of it. I had a guinea, and Barbara had nothing. I had sooner it were so than that she had a hundred. But to her came no such subtle consola- tion. To lack money was a new horror, untried, undreamt of; the thing had come to her all her days in such measure as she needed it; its want had never thwarted her desires or confined her purpose. To lack “King Louis “I Soon Closed My Eyes.” the price of post horses seemed to her as strange as to go fasting for want of bread. “What shall we do?” she cried, in dis- may greater than all the perils of the night had summoned to her heart. We had about us wealth enough; Louis’ dagger was in my belt, his ring on her finger. Yet of what value were they, since there was nobody to buy them? To offer such wares in return for a carriage would seem strange and draw suspicion. I doubted whether even in Dover I should find a Jew with whom to pledge my dagger, and to Dover in broad day I dared not go. I took up my oars and set again to row- ing. The shore was but a mile or two away. The sun shone now, and the light was full; the little bay seemed to smile at me as I turned my head, but all smiles are short for a man who has but a guinea in his purse. “What shall we do?” asked Barbara again. “Is there nobody to whom you can go, Simon?” There seemed nobody; Buckingham I dared not trust; he was in Monmouth’s in- terest; Darrell had called himself my friend, but he was the servant of Lord Ar- lngton, ard my lord the secretary was not aman to trust. My messenger would guide my enemies and my charge be put in danger. “Is there nobody, Simon?” she implored. There was one—one that would aid me with merry willingness, and, had she means at the moment, with lavish hands. The thought had sprung to my mind as Barbara spoke, If I could come safely and secretly to a certain e in a certain alley in the town of Doves\I could have money for the sake of an olu!acquaintance, and what had once been something more, between her and me. But-would- Barbara take largess from that hand? I am a coward with women; “ignorance js fear’s mother, and, on my life, I do nét know how they will take this thing or that—with scorn or tears or shame, or Wwhat{ or again, with some surprising turn of softness and (if I may make bold to say it) a pliability of mind to which few of us men lay claim and none give honor. But tie last mood was not Barbara's, an¥ as I/looked at her I dared not tell het where lay my only hope of help in Dover. I put my wits to work how I could win the aid for her and keep the hand a secret; Such deception would sit lightly on my conscience, “Iam thinking,” I replied “whether there is “any ore, and how might reach him if there is. “Surely there’s some one who would serve you and whom you could trust?” she urged. “Would you trust trust?” I asked. “In truth, yes.’” “And would you take the service if I would?” 2 “Am I so rich that I can choose?’ she said, piteously. “I have your promise to it?” “Yes,” she answered, with no hesitation, nay, with a readiness that made me ashamed of my stratagem. Yet, as Bar- bara said, beggars cannot be choosers, even in their stratagems, and if need were, I must hold her to her word. Now we were at the land, and the keel of our boat grated on the shingle. We disem- barked under the‘ shadow of the cliffs at the eastern end of the bay. All was soli- tude save for a little house standing some way back from the sea, half way up the cliff, on a level platform cut in the face of the rock. It seemed a fisherman's cottage. Thence might come breakfast, and for so much our guinea would hold good. There wes a recess in the cliffs, and here I bade Barbara sit and rest herself, sheltered from view cn either side, while 1 went forward to try my luck at the cottage. She seemed reluctant to be left, but obeyed me, stand- ing and watching ‘while I took my way, which I chose cautiously, keeping myself as much within the shadow as might be. I had sooner not have ventured this much expcsure, but it is ill to face starvation for safety’s sake. The cottage lay but a few hundred yards off, and soon I approached it. It was hard on 6 o'clock now, and I looked to find the irmates up and stirring. I wondered also whether Monmouth were gone to await Barbara and myself at the Merry Mariners in Deal. Alas, we were too near the tryst- ing place. Or had he heard by now that the bird had flown from his lure and been caged by that K. de Perrencourt who had treated him so cavalierly? I could not tell. Here was the cottage, but I stood still sud- denly, amazed and cautious, For there in the peaceful morning, in the sun’s kindly light, lay across the threshold the body of a man; his eyes, wide open, red at the sky, but seemed to see nothing of what they gazed at; his brown coat was stained to a dark rusty hue on the breast, where a gash in the stuff showed the passage of 2 sword. His hand clasped a long knife, and ris face was known to me. I had seen it to her, x any one whom I. daily at my up! ig and lying down. The body was that o h Wall, in the flesh my s ant, in spirit the slave of Phineas Tate, whose teaching had brought him to s pass. The sight b enduring caution. despatched, sorely chase of this man. V that he had yielded up doing that he lay like and n ed in me swift horror The two dukes had De nst their will, in sit to their hands life, and by their rion? It might well be that he had sought refuge in this cottage, and, having gown » death, not ecmfort, had byen ilang forth a corpse. 1 piticd him, although pe had been party to a plot which had well-nigh caused my own death, and taken no account of my honor, yet I was sorry fon, him. He had been akcut me; I grigved for him as for the ce on my hearth, Well, now warned me; it, w! lifted my hat a. rcund to the s was 1 stol a window th frame, scm x feet from the grot crevehed beneath it, for I now hear in the cottage. , 2 ¢ : “I wisn the dug hadn't fought,” said one voice, “But he flew at me like a tiger, and I had much adi to Sop nim. I was com- 1 to run him through Poyet he might have served me alive,” seid another. “your grace is right. For although we e these foul schemes, the men had the t of the matter in them.” ve They were no papists, at least, the second voice. > “But the king will be pleased “Oh, a curse on the king, although he's what he is to me! Haven't you hear When I returned to the castle from my s h on the other side of the town, seek- ing you or Buckingham—by the way,where is he “Th she w said in his bed, I warrant, sir. ieee dog! Well, then they “told me gone with Louis. I rode on to tell you, for, said I, the king may hunt his conspirators himself now. But who went em?” Cae i ee will wonder if I say that Si- mon Dale was the man.” “The scoundrel! It was he! He has de- luded us most handsomely. He was in Louis’ pay, and Louis has a use for him! L'li slit the knave's throat if I get at him “1 cry your grace’s leave to be the f man at him. “In truth, I’m much obliged to you, my Lord Carford,” said 1 to myself under the window. : en? “There's no use in going to Deal,” cried Monmouth. “Oh, I wish I had the fellow here! She’s gone, Carford; God's curse on it, she’s gone, the preitiest wench at court! Louis has captured her. 'Fore heaven, if only I were a king!” “Heaven has its own times, sir,” said Carford insidiously. But the duke, suffer- ing from disappointed desire, was not to be led to affairs of state. “She’s gone,” he answered again. “By God, sooner than lose her, I'd have married he ‘This speech made me start. She was near him; what if she had been as near him as I and had heard those words. A pang shot through me, and, of its own accord, my hand moved to my sword hilt. She is beneath your grace’s station. The spouse of your grace may one day be—" Carford interrupted himself with a laugh and added, “what God wills. “So may Anne Hyde,” exclaimed the duke, “But 1 forget. You yourselt had marked her.” “I am your grace’s humble servant al- ways,” answered Carford smoothly. Monmouth laughed. Carford had his pay, no doubt, and I trust it was large, for he heard quietly a laugh that called him what King Louis had graciously proposed to make of me. I am glad when men who live by dirty ways are made to eat dirt. “And my father,” said the duke, “is hap- py. She is gone. Querubaille stays; why, he’s so cnamored that he has charged Nell to return to London today or at the latest by tomorrow, lest the French lady’s vir- tue should be offended.” At this both laughed, Monmouth at his father, Carford at his king. “What's that?” cried the duke an instant later. > Now, what disturbed him was no other than a most imprudent exclamation wrung from me by what I heard; it must have reached them fyintly,, yet it was enough. I heard their swords Ffattle and their spurs jingle as they sprang,jto their feet. I slip- ped hastily behind the cottage. But by gocd luck at thig instant came other steps. As the duke a1 Carford ran to the door the owner of the. cottage (as I judged him to be) walked up, and, Carford cried: “Ah, the fisherman! Come, sir, we'll make him show ;ps the nearest way. Have you fed the horses, fellow?” “They have been fed, my lord, and are ready,” was the, answer. = I did not hear, more,speech, but only, to my relief, the tj pet feet as the three went off ‘together. I)stole cautiously out and watched them heading for the top of the cliff. Jonah ,Wall; lay still where he was, and when the retreating party were cut of sight I did, not hesitate to search his body for money.; I had supplied his purse, but now his purse was emptier than mine. Then I stepped into the cottage, seeking not money, but food. Fortune was kinder here and rewarded me with a pasty, half eaten, and a jug of ale. By the side of these lay, left by the duke in his wonted profusion, a guinea. The devil has whim- sical ways; I protest that the temptation I suffered here was among the strongest of my life. 1 could repay the fellow some day; two guineas would be more than twice as much as one by far. Yet I left tle pleas- ant golden thing there, carrying off only the pasty and the ale; as for the jug, a man must not stand on hice scruples, and Monmouth’s guinea would more than pay for all. I made my way quickly back to Barbara with the poor spoils of my expedition. I rounded the bluff of cliff that protected her hiding place. Again I stood amazed, asking if fortune had more tricks in her bag for me. The recess was empty. But a moment, later I was reassured; a voice called to me, and I saw her some thirty yards away, down on the sea beach. -I set down pasty and jug and ttrned to watch. Then I per- ceived what went on; white feet were visi- ble in the shallow water, twinkling in and out as the tide rolled out and back. “I had best employ myself in making breakfast ready,” said I, turning my back. But she called out to me again, saying how delightful was the cool water. and saw her gay and merry. Her hat was in her hand now, and her hair blew free in the breeze. She had given herself up to the joy of the moment. I rejoiced in a feeling which I could not share. The rebound from the strain of the night left me sad and ap- prehensive. I sat down and rested my head on my hands, waiting till she came back. When she came she would not take the food I offered her, but stood a moment looking at me with puzzled eyes before she seated herself near. , . “You're sad,” she said, almost as though in accusation. “Could I be otherwise, Mistress Bar- bara?” I asked. ‘We're in some danger, and what's worse, we've hardly a penny.’ “But we've escaped the greatest peril,” she reminded me. “True, for the moment.” “We—you won't be married tonight,” she laughed, with rising color, and turning away as though a tuft of rank grass by her had caught her attention, and for some hidden reason much deserved it. “By God's help we've come out of that snare,” said I, gravely. She said nothing for a moment or two. Then she turned to me again, asking: “If your friend furnishes money, can we reach London in two day: “I'm sorry,” I answered, “but the journey will need nearer three, unless we travel at the king’s pace or the Duke of Mon- mouth’s.”” “You needn't come all the way with me. Set me safe on the road and go where your business calls you.” For what crime is this punishment?” I asked, with a smile. “No, I'm serious. I’m not seeking a com- pliment from you. I see that you're sad. You have been very kind to me, Simon. You risked life and liberty to save me.” “Well, who could do le: Besides, I had given my promise to my lord, your father.” She made no reply, and I, desiring to warn her against every danger, related what had passed at the cottage, omitting only Monmouth’s loud-mouthed _ threats against myself. At last, moved by some impulse of curiosity rather than anything higher, I repeated how the duke had said that, sooner than lose her altogether, he would have married her, and how my Lord arford had been still his humble servant in this project as in any other. She flushed again as she heard me and plucked the tuft of grass. “Indeed,” I said, “I believe his grace spoke no more than the truth. I've never seen a man more in lov “And you know well what it is to be in love, don’t you?” “Very well,” I answered calmly, although I thought that the taunt might have been r “Therefore it may well be that some day I shall kiss the hand of your grace the duchess.” “You think I desire it?” s “T think that mo: I don’t desire ii sprang up and mped_ her foot on the ground, erying again, “Simon, I do not desire it. I would You don’t believe it is made ked permi until it of the S ¢h anger, her cheek sparkling. 1 wish you hadn't saved me,” she said in a fury. sh 3 2 gone forward to Calai pusly. Sir, insolent.” She flung the re- roof at me like a sione from a catapult. ut then she repeated, “L wouldn't be his w Well, then, you wouldn't, ting down the j ir 2 we P the or Dover tll nighttal “To must be all da cried in visible consternation. ou must be all day here, but you n't be with me. I'll go down to the h. I shall be within hail, if need arise, and you ¢ here ai 5: Th . Simon,” sh answered with a most sudden and wonderful meekne Without more I took my way to the shore @hd lay down on the sun-warmed hingle. Being very weak and without sleep now for thirt ix hours, I soon closed ke the pistol ready by my jept peacefully and without a The sun was high in heaven when, with a yawn and a stretching of my limbs, I awoke. 1 heard, as I opened my ey little rustling as of somebody moving, and my hand flew to the butt of my pistol. Bui when I looked round I saw Barbara only. She was sitting a little way behind me, looking out over the sea. Feeling my gaze she looked round. “I grew afraid, left all alone, in a timid voice. “Alas, i snored when I should have been on guard!" I exclaimed. “You didn’t snore,” she cried. I—I mean not in the last few moments. I had only just come near you. I’m afraid I spoke un- kindly to you. “I hadn't ¢ tel said I, set- How shali gO to we mus‘ here with you?” she she said en a thought to it,” I has- ed to assure her. You were indifferent to what I said,” she cried. i rose to my feet and made her a bow of mock ceremony. My rest had put me in heart again, and I was in a mood to be merry. Nay, madam said I, “you know that I am your devoted servant, and that all I have in the world is heid at your disposal.” She looked sideways at me, then at the sea again. “By heavens, it’s true,” I cried. “All I have is yours. See!’ I took out my prec- ious guinea and bending on my knee, with uncovered head, presented it to Mistress Barbara. . She turned her eyes down to it and sat re- garding it for a moment. “It's all I have, but it’s yours,” said I, most humbly. Mine?” ‘Most heartily.”” She lifted it from my palm with finger and thumb very daintily, and before I knew what she was doing, or could have moved to hinder her, if I had the mind, She raised her arm over her head, and with all her strength flung the guinea into the spark- ling waves. “Heaven help us!" I cried. “It was mine. That’s what I chose to do with it,” said Barbara. (To be continued.) The Piper at Dargai. From the London Times. Mr. A. C, Andos writes from Sydenham: “The episode described by your correspon- dent on the Indian frontier gives us really a remarkable instance of how history repeats itself. * * * The parallel case oc- curred nigh on ninety years ago. In ‘The Life and Eploits of His Grace the Duke of Wellington,’ an incident in the battle of Vimeira is thus described: ‘An incident oc- curred in this battle, so highly character- istic of Highland courage that we cannot refrain from quoting it. It is very common for the wounded to cheer their more fortun- ate comrades as they pass on to the at- tack. A man named Stewart, the piper of the Tist Regiment, was wounded in the thigh very severely at a very early period of the action, and refused to be removed. He sat upon a bank playing martial airs during the remainder of the battle. He was heard to address his comrades thus: ‘Weel, my bra’ lads, I can gang na longer wi’ ye a fightin’, but deil burn my saul if ye want music.” For this the Highland Society justly voted him a handsome set of pipes, with a flattering inscription engraved upon them.’ + ———_-e-__. ‘Inte on ’Unting, by ’Arry. From Punch, So I looked | CHRISTMAS IN DIXIE! Turkey and Possum, Hot and Brown, Side by Side. EVERYBODY HAPPY AS THE DAY Uncle Tamson Gets His Share and Poor Are Not Forgot. A WHIRL OF JOY Christmas day in the south opens with all the children of the household astir b¥ 4 o'clock in the morning. From then on until midnight it is a day of festivitie every minute enjoyed to the utmost by young and old. The stockings are hung Ghristmas eve night in the dining room. If the family of children is not large the stockings hang from nails driven in the woodwork of the fireplace. Up to ten years of age the chil- dren hang up stockings or substitutes for them. Some of the older ones may have heard stories that there is no such thing as Santa Claus, but they wisely say noth- ing and hang up the stocking so as to come in for the candies, fruits, nuts, ete., with which old Santa Claus fills the stock- ings. Mother, father and the chf dren sit around the cracking fire of oak and pine wood on Christmas night. As the flames leap up the y, father tells stories to the little ones of Santa Claus and his reindeer team; how they come out of the far north to visit and make happy the children of the southland. Mother bu Ss herself at preparing to put the smaller ones to bed. They remonstrate when the night gowns are brought in, and ask how Santa Claus is to come down the chimney if the big fire burns all night. Father tells them that the fire will be out in plenty of time, and mother advises them to go to bed and to sleep. Santa Claus at Work. At last the little ones are to bed, and mother and father sit around the fire talk- ing about the pleasures in store for the children. From an adjoining bed room a small Voice pipes out “Papa.” He inquires What 1s wanted, and is told: “Willie won't go to sleep.” He is going to stay awake and tch for Santa Claus.” Father that’s ty. In a half hour no tal ard in the rooms and the hou quiet. her and mother alone remain awake. y don't close th eyes until Santa us has filled ev eking and lef; things that he nnet get in the time-hon- ed receptacles, These include toys and rks of all kinds. The name of each child is put on the toys. Willi Ww were has a card bearing hi ide of the tever else r brought him. The same method i; lowed with the others. The stocking: or small toys, candies, fruits, nuts, ete. 4 o'clock the next morning one of the children is awake. He shouts to all the others to come on, and makes for the din ing room. The get to the dining room about the same time and hurriedly invesui- | gote their own stockings and their special jsifts. All the time exclamations of delight re emanating from all parts of the room. ach is busy ascertaining what he or s | | has received, and mune! a piece of candy or an apple. begin to what thi have received. 8 festivities are on. ten minutes or more the oldest boys in the yard with a shovel full of tire , and the popping of firecrackers b Even the girls take part. There is no more sleep for father and mother or for the servants in the house in the back yard. Uncle Tamson and the Boys. Old Uncle Tamson mumbies from his bed in the servants’ house: “I declar’ dat dem air de noisiest chillun I eber saw.” He is scon with them, however, and they make him do all kinds of things. He brings fresh fire for them and makes remarks about the pretty fireworks. At the same | time, he is kept busy dodging firecrackers. He adds to the fun by making it appear that he is awfully “feered uy dem crack- ers.” Daylight brings a temporary cessation of the noise, which has included the beating of drums and blowing of horns, added to by similar noises from neighboring yards, where the same scenes are being enacted. Father and mother rise about daylight, as it is impossible to sleep longer, and the children bring all the presents and eatables to show them. By daylight also Aunt Mandy, the old colored cook, is in the kitchen, and Uncle ‘Tamson has built roaring fires in the din- ing room, father's room and the parlor. The blazes threw fantastic shadows over the walls. This is before daylight has pen- etrated the rooms. Uncle Tamson watches the shadows and tells stories of hobgob- lins and Christmas days “befo’ de war.” He does not ha a full audience of the children, as some are busy in the yard testing their n toys. Only those who have run in to rm their hands are audi- tors, but Unele Tamson doesn’t care about the size of his audience. While mother and Aunt Mandy are pre- paring the breakfast, father goes to work to make a bowl of eggnog. That is the Christmas drink in the south. Uncle Tam- son watches this with intense interest, and smacks his red lips when the whisky is poured into the mixture of eggs and sugar. Just before breakfast all the grown people, the number l eing frequently augmented by the arrival of neighbors or kinspeople, have a glass. The litde ones are given a smaller quantity. Visited in Moderation. Throughout the day the eggnog bowl is kept replenished and is visited in modera- tion. Uncle Tamson is always on hand when these visits are made and gets more than his share, the result being that by 11 o'clock in the morning he is in the best hu- mor possible. He forgets his old age, and, at the request of the head of the house, shows what he can do in “cutting the pig- ecn wing” or dancing the “Georgia buck.” Breakfast is always good. sts of two or three kinds of meats, and the hottest and lightest of biscuits. Aunt Mandy has done her best in getting it ready. The children eat little, as their appetites have been destroyed by the can- dies and other things they have eaten. Dinner is the great and glorious meal of the day. Mother does little else but re- main in the kitchen all day seeing that everything is properly prepared. The mea] is served about 2 o'clock, a little colored girl assisting Aunt Mandy and the mistress of the house. The centerpiece is, of course, the finest turkey which can be procured. Flanking this on one side is a small roast pig, and en the other is a fat ‘possum, surrounded on every side by the yellow sweet potatoes which have been cooked with it. These are the principal dishes. Naturally, there are salads, cakes, pies, vegetables, etc., but Un- cle Tamson, who comes in to “punch” the fire, looks at nothing but the three big @ishes of meats. His eyes glisten and his mouth works convulsively. He thinks it will be a long time “’fo’ de white folks git dun” and give him a chance. “I declar’s ter goodness,” murmurs Uncle Tamson to himself, “hit’s a puffeck shame ter cook all dem good tings at one time. Now, dar’s dat ‘possum. I jess could eat on dat fer an hour. Hit’s de same way "beut dat turkey an’ dat shoat. Mars John mus’ tink a man’s stummick holds er barrel. I jess know I neber will git ‘round to dem pies when Miss Sallie fix my plate.” Dinner is usually partaken of by several invited guests, in addition to the family. When it is over the mistress of the house. calls in Uncle Tamson and says: “Uncle Tamson, you know that poor old Uncle Dan Williams is sick at his home, and that his children are not well. I think I will get you to take some things down there to him. I believe I will send him all the ‘possum, as well as some of the other things. I do not suppose that you want any of the ’possum.” Not Good for His Digestion. Uncle Tamson looks crestfallen. “Well, missus,” ho says, “I’m feered dat "possum moughtn’t be good for Uncle Dan’s diges- tun. Hit’s too rich. "Spose you send him Jess a small piece and make up de balance in sum uv dem udder t'ings.” Uncle Tamson’s advice is taken, and, be finishes his own dinner, during which heavy inroads are made on the ‘pos- sum. he takes what is prepared to Uncle Dan. He never mentions how he kept the possum for humself, but he chuckles softly at intervals, ‘ , Supper is made up of cold foods from dinner, with the addition of jellies, pi serves and a variety of wines to drink with the cake. Altogether the day is one of feasting geod cheer. The pocr folks in the neigh- borhood are remembered, and also have cause for thanksgiving. The day closes with pl the and sand ¢: mes by children, together with a display of fireworks suited to night time. The father assists the children in discharging the more dang times there is relativ us pieces of fireworks. Some- a Christmas tree, to which Ss and friends a During the d town organize a * attire themselves in the most costumes and false fac nd a: mble at & certain point, each boy provided with a horse. They forn ession and parade through th prin s of the town, lending themsely and making the day hundred differ town watch the their houses ner of tricks The people of the ches disguised rid The iast thing Uncle Tamson sings b fore he goes to bed is: ad “Christmas comes b t once a year, uss have his sheer.” >. IT WAS EASY TO MAK Aun’ ebery nigger n MONEY, How Things BR. ymed in Memphis Jas¢ After the War. aphis Con-mercial Appeal, nothing ¢ nphis just id Squire Haynes to listeners the other day, “It was after few tly after the that I ame to Memphis to look around for a place to locate. 1 had been living in Paris, nn., and had a family, importance was attached to the question of a location. The first day I was there I met a man by the name of te was reared in my county, who invite to come to his house. >, pro! so considerable . who r If he had not don ably I would not have this story to tell; for this led up to his borrowing $1,000 from me that, as things turned out, I would have lost that night. 1 t that night with my window open, and somebody got in and stole my pocket boox. “But to get back to my story. The rext day Bates paid me back my money, and I began to look around for some way to make up my expenses while looking for a to locate. I passed by a store on the corner of 3d an ams, Kept by a Jew merchant, wher) nine cotton lying on the 1 wen na after getting tb merchant to come down from 50 to 44 cents a p I bought the cotton, and the next morning it was brought upon the bluff, weighed and paid for. his was on Saturda The next morn- ing I met a cotton buyer by t ame of ‘rick on the street, who asked me if I had not bought nine bales the day before. 1 told him L had. Nothing would do but that I should sell it to him. He ¢ d me 30 gents a pound for it, but I told him I never traded on Sunday, but come around in the morning i 1 would see if We could strike a trad In those days we got our n ts about twic: week on litt sof yout the s hand, which sliverad by ph company. When Monday morning came we rece one of t up 5 cents, of § reports; cotton had gone and I sold out, making a mar- cents a pound, or a total of $05 rehase I had been hing about aised on a farm and sing cotton, though ised it and ginned it. In fact, I aly two classes, good and bad cotton. y mu venture, th the thought I would else, so T went up rhaps I could buy al cheaper than in al I found se. I found, how- ntity of old Ten- success look I eround for somethin: to Jackson. cotton there a g¢ Memphis. On m t such was not the a consid see Mone thinking cents on 1 bough $1,500 worth without knowing an ut how it was selling in Memphis went back. On my return I sold my money at a profit of $170 above all expense ngs were booming in these days,” concluded the squire. —_—_+ e+ __ His Final Call, From the Minneapolis Tribune. There is a certain young man in this city belonging to’ the four hundred who does not call on a certain young lady of set any more, and the great hired-girl ques- tion is at the bottom of the trouble. The an and three companions, in their efforts to add to their fund of worldly knowledge, attended one of the dances where the domestic help are wont to con- gregate on Saturday nights, and they had a very delightful time. The young man in question paid marked attention to a petite young lady, but pleaded a previous e sSagement when the time to escort th young ladies home arrived. The other even- ing, in glancing over his list of engage- ments, he discovered that it was about time to return a party call due a young lady, and started out to fulfill his engage- ment. He arrived at the house and rang the bell. The door was opened by the maid, who looked at the young man for a min- ute, and then said. “Good gracious, you must not come to the front door to see me; the help must re- ceive their company at the back door.” It was the petite young lady of the ser- vants’ ball, and the young man fell off the steps in his hurry to leave, and this is the reason why a certain young man cally no more on a certain young lady. —___§_-o2____ His Awful Fate. From Puck. Visitor (in dime museam)— Human Ostrich who was on ex last week?" Lecturer- the candy ‘Where is the hibition here “The poor fellow ate some of that his little son got off from h school Christmas tree, and The story is told of a young married wo- man, who asked another young married woman how she managed to get along so amicably with her husband. The answer = “I feed the brute—his stomach with food and his mind with Even a man will have to admit that this ig wo- _— = a about two-thirds of the art making the average man happy. The other third consists of = ae bod, in A ing. such condition that he will enjoy his and his mind in such condition that he will be susceptible to flattery. It isn’t much use to put tempti food before a man who hasn't an appetite. It doesn’t pay to lavish smiles on a man whose nerves are racked — overworked. ¢ average man pays very little attention to his health, and won’t take medicine of his own eccord until he is flat on his back. A-shrewd wife will keep an eye on her hus- band’s welfare in this respect, and when she sees that he is bilious or suffering from indigestion, or is generally out of sorts, will see that he resorts to that most wonderful of all invigorators, Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery. It is the best of all ay ite - sl mers, blood - makers and fiesh-builders. It corrects all disorders of the digestion and makes the liver active and the blood pure. It tones the nerves and cures all cases of nervous exhaustion and pipers It cures 98 per cent. of =| cases of consumption, bronchial, throat an kindred ailments. Medicine dealers sell it.