Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, October 31, 1896, Page 6

===T HBSS IAIN ILE : ONLY DAUGHTER. tAAAALADAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASAAAAAAAAAAAAAASAASAADALADAAAAAAAAAAAADAADAARAAAAAAALAAA AANA CHAPTER XXIX—(Continued.) “Indeed! What was this young man’s name?” “John Gridley.” “Oho! Mr. Gridley, I've got a long outstanding account to settle with you when first we meet!” ‘Do you know him, sir?” “No—no; go on—tell me all that hap- pened.” “Well, sir, this young woman broke her mother's heart, and she died; and then her old father, he got put into prison for debt, and instead of trying to help him what does May Rivers do but im away to join her dissolute sh to heaven she had,” mur- nest. 1 I can tell you, sir. You up and see the house where you like. living nov Winchester gaol t's more than I can tell—ram- yg about the country, I expect.” And thus it is that stories get mangled and twisted till it is impossi- ble to sift the simple truth from the dust of exaggeration and embelish- ment. There was, ay the readr knows, some foundation for what the innkeeper had rid about the Rivers family; but yet nets were so strargely distorted as to t appear that poor, gentle, suf- a nstead of sacrificing her- father, as she had really ad been instrumental, not only in bringing about his ruin, but also in hastening her mother's d se. To give the landlord his due he be- lieved he was mply retailing the truth when he made these statements. Indignantly the young squire turned upon the publican and seized him by the collar the coat. ou miserable ¢ ure!” said he, er cing each word by a shake. “How dare you speak such odious calumnies con 1ing the best and purest rl that ever stepped? Let anoth sation against her pass your lip will not leave a whole bone in your body.” “I thought your know the truth!” “Then why tell untruths? Look you -I know the greater part of your story to be untrue, and suspect the rest to be.” done. honor wanted to ill, it’s very hard, that just be- cause I repeat what everybody has been saying for the last two months, that I should be assaulted in my own parlor 1d my own inn,” said the land- Jord, with an eye to the main chance, arrel with his cus- he could charge nake in his bill. uppose you believe said Ernest with a not wishing to qui tomer, bet thinkin each hard word or Vell, well, I what you say,” sigh “\Vill your honor stop here to-night?” sd the innkeeper. suppose so; let me have dinner.” He ordered refreshments more be- cause he knew it was expected of him than from y desire for the meal; and sad were the hours he passed in the inn of the quiet little village of light of the moon he walked 1 the village when most of its were buried iu ‘slumber, ots which seemed to him to posses strange interest from their connection with May. There w; age itself which had been her home, with the flowers s garden running wild, with the s broken, and with a general arance of devastation and dec here was the old church, and the rd in which lay the coffin con- taining all that was left of the mother of her whom he hoped and believed ere long to call his wife. Altogether the interest Ernest felt in is night walk through Annadale was a very sad one. He saw nothing but objects calcu- jated to produce grief. The ruined and dismantled cottage, the graveyard, with the old church tower frowning sentry over it, and the many spots which he had heard May describe, and which he had hoped to see with her at h ide. But now where was she? He stood alone in the village, actu- ally before the cottage in which she fad dwelt. But her presence was of the past, and he was alone. A feeling of desolation came over him. He had ridden into Annadale happy and joyous, to find a bride but he would leave it gloomy and sorrow- ful without her whom he sought and with no better comfort than the croak- ings of the landlord, with no pleasanter food for his thoughts than the dismal stories he had heard of the malster’s daughter. The best thing for him to do, he de- cided without he ion, was to pro- ceed to Winchester and from Matthew Rivers learn the unvarnished truth. He had sufficient confidence in May to be able to laugh to scorn the stories of the landlord, but still a vague, name- less anxiety preyed upon him. Where was she? If her father were in prison, what protector had she to shield her from the dangers of the world, to guide her steps away from the snares and pitfalls into which the young and innocent are especially like- ly to fall? That he would not rest until he had j tracked and found her he determined. In Annadale no one knew more than that she had fled by night, as one ashamed of herself.. “But what more likely,” thought Ern- est, “that she, in her kind, loving na- ture, was but gone to Winchester to wait upon her father, and soften the hardships of gaol life by her pretty, smiling face? At any rate I will go and learn the truth.” He little though how much May had sacrificed; he little dreamed what news would greet him in the old cathedral town, for he had never doubted May’s love from the first moment she had, with faltering ents and blushing cheek, acknowledged he had won her oung affections j;and he never imag- ined that, loving him, she yet might be dnduced to give her hand te ancther. Early in the morning Ernest Hart- rey left Annadale for Winchester, ac- companied by Caleb, who followed his master about like a dog, and preferred the pain and jolting of a hard saddle to remaining quietly behind till Ernest returned. The young squire did not slacken his pace till he entered the old city, with its quaint buildings and massive ca- thedral; and then, only pausing to leave his horse in safety, he hastened on foot to the prison. There again disappointment awaited him. The warder was sullen and despond- ent, till a timely present of half-a- crown drew from him the information that Matthew Rivers had been liber- ated, but was too ill to converse with any one. “Had his daughter been to see him? Well, there was a young woman, with a red face and rather lame. Oh, no! she came after the young man who was in for horse stealing. There was a young woman, now he came to think of it, who came up in the pouring rain to see Matthew Rivers. The doctor, he saw her; perhaps Mr. Hartrey Tad better see him, too.” Ernest thought he had; and, accord- ingly, in a short time he was seated opposite to the kind-hearted physician, who had been so friendly to poor little May. But, as the reader already knows, it was little pleasant news he had to tell Ernest Hartrey. He told him how May was married to John Gridley and the young squire heard no more. “The hound—the mean-spirited creat- ure! When first we meet there will be a long account to settle between us!” he cried, dashing his fist heavily down upon the table. “Don't kill him!’ said the doctor, smiling; “but anything short of that he richly deserves.” But John Gridley had flown. His servants had neither seen nor heard anything of him since that night of the storm, wben he galloped off in such mad te. At Winchester Ernest Hartrey lost all clue to May; for both she and John Gridley had disappeared, leaving be- hind them no trace of the direction they had takea. Slowly and soreowfully he turned his horse’s head toward Portsmouth and rode sadly home. All his bright dreams were at an end; his expectations of happiness with a bride in the malster’s daughter had faded away and he saw only a dismal future before him. The second night after his arrival ‘n England he passed in a hotel in Ports- mouth, and the next morning rode slowly to his father’s house. Hartrey Park was then the same to all appearance as it had been a twelve- month since. There were the ald trees, and there, at the end of the avenue, was the ugly old room house, in which many generations of the Hartreys kad been born and had died. “Is my father at home?” asked Ern- est of the servant who opened the door to him, forgetting the alteration his beard made in ‘his countenance. our her! Your— Why, can it be? Yes—it is! It's Master Ernest come back among us again! Lor’! to think of it!” “My father, James. is he at home?” repeated Lrnest, shaking hands with the old servant, who had lived at Hart- rey Park from time immemorial, and was generally supposed to be a realiza- tion of that fabulous creature, “the oldest inhabitant.” “No, sir; Sir Harold, he went off in a cha! and pair a hour ago, with an- other gentleman.” “Where have they gone?” “Well, Master I:rnest, I did hear Sir Harold tell the man to drive to Black- rock.” “To Blackrock? father?” “A gentleman, but I couldn’t catch his name rightly. Grabley—Grindstone —no; but it was something like it.” “Was it Gridley?’ asked Ernest eagerly. “You've hit it, Master Ernest! John Gridley it was.” “Hurrah!” cried Ernest. Caleb, we're on the track again! ward!” Regardless of the old servant's won- der Ernest, followed by the faithful black, dashed away, bound for Black- rock. Who was with my “Hurrah, For- CHAPTER XXX. How John Gridley Was Made to Change His Tone, and What Re- sulted Therefrom. Though Miss Agatha Henwood’s house was replete with every comfort and convenience, the furniture was for the most part old and solid. Cum- brous and. quaintly-carved cabinets stood in the recesses; substantial, high- backed, crimson-cushioned chairs stood round about the rooms, which were lighted for the most part by latticed windows, in the upper portion of which gleamed the armorial bearings of many generations of Henwood, in stained glass. It was in one of the oldest and quaintest of the Blackrock apartments, where tapestry yet hung from the walls, and where the fittings were those of two centuries since, that Miss Henwood sat talking with a tall, hand- some woman, who had a weary, rest- less look on her face. Their conversation was apparently of the deepest interest, and Miss Hen- wood, whose countenance rarely be- trayed any of the feelings which might be passing through her mind, looked absolutely excited. As they talked there came a gentle knock at the door, and a footman en- tered. “Sir Harold, ma’am wishes to see ‘ou. “Sir Harold! It is very strange.” “There is a man with him. The one who has called before, and whom you told us not to admit again.” “John Gridley!” exclaimed Miss Henwood, with as much pleasure in her tone of voice as if he had been her dearest friend. “Admit them at once,” As soon as the servant had with- drawn, Aunt Agatha turned to her visitor, “Now, my dear, could anything be more fortunate? You are as much concerned as I in this matter. Are you afraid to remain in the room?” She hesitated and seemed hardly to know what answer to make. “Conceal yourself behind this tap- estry, then,” said Miss Henwood. “You will hear everything without being seen; and then, if I want you, I will bring you forth.” “He will kill me if he seés me,” she said, shuddering as she spoke. “Nonsense! He will not attempt violence. Hush! here they come.” Miss Henwood had barely time to conceal her visitor when Sir Harold Hartrey and John Gridley entered the apartment. “I am glad to see you, brother,” said Miss Henwood, giving utterance to one of those social falsehoods which we all of us so often speak.” “My business is not one of compli- ment,” said the baronet stiffly. “I know Sir Harold Hartrey too well to suppose him capable of such a thing.” “A truce to this. business.” “Indeed!” rejoined Aunt Agatha, ele- vating her eyebrows. “As you have chosen to bring with you a person whom my servants hive received or- ders to shut my door against, I con- clude he has some connection with the busines: “He has indeed! “You need trouble ther. I know your errand.” “Then, madam,” interposed John Gridley, “I hope you are prepared Hey I am here upon “I am prepared to resist you,” said Miss Henwood, sternly; and as she stood there, calm and resolute, facing the two men, she did not look like one over whom an easy victory could be obtained. “Agatha, this ‘s folly. You cannot surely mean that you intend to fight against the laws of your country.” “The laws of human kindness are more to me than those of parliament,” she answered, stoutly. “The English law may tell me to surrender a beau- tiful young girl to the arms of a cruel, passionate man, who has entrapped her into a hasty marriage; but the law of conscience tells me that if I do so, I shall commit a sin; and I prefer to act up to the womanly instinct of my heart, and protect the poor girl from her enemies.” “I am her husband,” said John Grid- ley, striving to speak calmly. “She married me of her own free will.” “Do not think to deceive me in that paltry manner. Nay, it is useless speaking; for I have a knowledge of the whole history; and sooner than surrender May to your tender mercies, I would furnish her with means to leave the country.” “You may hide her where you will, but I swear to you that if you send her to the uttermost parts of the earth, I will seek her out.” “In this case her opinion will not be consulted. We are empowered to use force, if need be.” “Keep quiet,” whispered the baronet. Such speeches will only set her still more against you. Leave all to me, and I will arrange it satisfactorily.” John Gridley answered with a smile of triumph. “Miss Henwood,” said Sir Harold, “I stand before you neither as a baro- net nor as a brother, but as a magis- trate. I am vested with the power of the law, and in the name of the law I command you to give up to the keeping of her lawful husband, one May Grid- ley, whom you choose to keep con- cealed in your house.” “And if I refuse.” “Means will be resorted to compel you.” “Then resort to them, for I do re- fuse.” “Surely, Agatha, you will not be so insane; you cannot know what you are saying.” “Miss Henwood must see the folly of acting contrary to the law,” put in John Gridley, in his blandest tones. “Miss Henwood sees no folly in act- ing as her conscience dictates. May Rivers——” “May Gridley, if you please. The lady is my wife.” “Shall remain beneath my roof,” con- tinued the old lady, heedless of the interruption, “for as long a time as she may think fit. Let her but express a wish to leave, and I will not detain her a moment.” “Good-” said Miss Henwood, with a look of withering scorn. “One poor, feeble old woman cannot offer much resistance to two men. It would be a glorious way to win a wife—an exploit to boast of, surely. Tell it in Ports- mouth, that Sir Harold Hartrey, and a low companion of his, forced their way into the chamber of a sick girl, and dragged her away from the place where she was well cared for against her will, to reside with a man she hates, and with good cause. I tell you, as long as my feeble arm can avail, you shall not even see the girl!” She drew herself up and looked de- fiantly at the two men, who, unable to intimidate her by words, hardly knew what steps to take to accomplish their purpose. “Come, Agatha,” said Sir Harold, in milder tones; “you are too ready to jump at conclusions. We have no de- sire to use force.” “Gratifying assurance, indeed, Sir Harold. You and I have never been on the best of terms; still I did not think it probable that you would con- template violence.” “What shall we do?” asked John Gridley, aside; but Aunt Agatha over- heard him. “Do? I will tell you. Leave this house immediately, thoroughly ashamed of the part you have played. Leave it convinced that no good can possibly come of attempting to force a young girl’s inclinations. Your wife, John Gridley, she may be in name, but dd not flatter yourself that she will otherwise be more than the ver- iest stranger to you.” “She shall. She is mine by the laws of heaven and earth; and no one shall keep her from me.” “We will see about that. As I told you, unless you choose to unite your strength to overcome an old woman, you shall not even see het.” “It is folly to talk thus. We are armed with the power of the law.” “Then do your worst. She whom you seek is in the house. Force your way to her if you dare—lay a finger on her at your peril! See, I alone am here to defend her. Exert your power —you dare not. I see it in your looks!” “Agatha, I came here myself, with Mr. Gridley, to spare you unnecessary pain—to tell you that you were acting illegally—and to urge you to abandon your Quixotic notion of shielding this girl from her lawful protector. What other motive could I have had?” “A much stronger one. Do you think such shallow subterfuges will deceive me? You should know me better than that, after all these years.” “I do not understand you, madam!” “Then I will explain. You are a cold, hard, cruel, selfish man, with no thoughts but for your own aggran- disement. You would prevent your son’s marrying one whom he loved, in order that you might tack a few more acres on to your estate. You think more of fifty thousand pounds than Ernest’s happiness; and you would rather be a connection of Lord Por- chester’s than the father of a joyous son.” “It is absurd to talk thus. The young person with whom my son was unfor- tunate enough to contract an acquaint- ance is now married, and consequently I can be actuated by no such feel- ings.” know better; if you believe your own words you deceive yourself. You would see her victimized—made the slave of that passionate man, who first thought to buy a wife, and now to seize one by force—in order. that all possibility of a union between her and your son might be at an end!” John Gridley twisted his hands to- gether in impotent rage. “You would so mix up truth with falsehood,” continued Miss Henwood, “that you would succeed in poisoning his mind against the girl who loved and loves him truly; whose affection has never wavered, and who hates that man who stands, white-faced and trembling by your side, with as much hate as he deserves for his cowardly, unmanly conduct.” John Gridley winced at the words. “I speak as I feel-” strongly contin- ued Aunt Agatha. “That man is no more fitted to be her husband than he is to occupy the position of an honor- able gentleman. Sir Harold, if you have a spark of chivalry left in your nature, you will feel heartily ashamed of your share in this matter, and will atone for it by immediately removing your friend from my premises. As a relative, I shall be pleased to see you, if you deign to honor me with a visit; but on this subject do not let a word pass your lips.” But Sir Harold, Baronet, felt slight- ly uncomfortable. He hardly knew how it came to pass; but still it was evident he was g2tting the worst of it. John Gridley, beneath, a tolerably placid exterior, was raging with the fire of fierce passion. “If,” resumed the baronet, “you are keeping the girl concealed here, in the belief that she may one day become my son’s wife, you are laboring under a strange delusion. It is an impossi- bility.” “You judge others by yourself, Sir Harold, and imagine that every one has some other reason besides the ap- parent one for their acts. It is solely for May’s sake that I protect her; she would be miserable anywhere but here;; so beneath my roof she remains. I have answered your demand—now gov” “If Ernest were only now here—” “Ernest is here,” said a voice at the door. All three turned, and there, pale and jaded, bronzed and bearded, stood Er- nest Hartrey. His father gave him but a cold wel- come—his aunt a warm one. No sooner did his eyes rest upon John Gridley, however, than he marched up to him and looked him full in the face. reve you ever seen me before?” he asi “Ne—ever!” stammered the other. “Tis false; I should know you among a thousand—thief, and would- be assassin that you are.” Ernest, as he spoke, laid his hand upon the shoulder of the other, and grasped him with a grasp of iron. “Ernest, surely, you forget your- self,” said his father, angrily. “Sir Harold,” said Gridley, pleading- ly, “save me from your son. Tell him he is mistaken.” “Speak, Ernest; say of what you ac- cuse that pitiful creature.” “Ay, I will speak,” said the young man, hoarsely, as he pressed his hand heavier and still heavier upon the other's arm. “I will speak, but not yet. You villain! What have you to urge in your defense?” “You are mistaken, sir; I have never seen you before to-day,” said John Gridley, uow that he had recovered somewhat of his ordinary composure. At the same time that he spoke, he strove, though in vain, to free himself from the detaining grasp. Both Sir Harold and Miss Henwood stood amazed. They knew not what the scene meant. “You miserable scoundrel-’ cried Ernest Hartrey, “you thought to have come off victorious, but you are beaten at last! My life was pre- served, though no thanks to you! The thousand pounds of which you robbed me is nothing, but you have stolen from me that which was far more precious; you have robued me of her for whom i have endured and suffered much. We ave well met here! You shall answer for your conduct!” “TI will not fight,” said Gridley. “Fight! Do you suppose ‘I would condescend to that with you?” With a violent push Ernest sent the wretched man reeling across the room. He sank upon a low chair, and, with- out moving, remained glaring vindic- tively at the young squire, who, with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils, stood before him. ; Then putting his hand into the breast of his coat he drew forth a pistol; but ere he could pull the trigger Ernest had darted upon him and wrenched it from his grasp. Baffled in his murderous intentions he covered his face with his hands. Not in regret or repentance did he hide his face. He had plunged too deeply into crime to feel sorrow for anything but the frustration of his deep-laid schemes. He sat there taxing his fertile brain for the means of es- cape from his dilemma. “What does this violence mean?” asked Sir Harold. “It means, father, that the man who appears to enjoy the honor of your friendship has twice attempted my life.” “Tt is untrue—false, false, every word of it!’ sried Gridley vehemently, ris- ing to his feet. “Bring proof of what | you say! Beware how you accuse an innocent man!” - “Innocent! Say that word again and I will take the law into my own hands and you shall meet your fate here in this very room.” “What! Would you kill me?” “I? No. I would not rob the hang- man! You know the evidence I have against you—you know the crimes which you have committed. Yet you shall go free on one condition.” “What is it?” “You must leave the country to night never to return.” Sneakingly he began to edge toward the door. “Not so fast,” said Ernest detaining him. “I have a few words to say to you before you go.” “Rut,” interposed Sir Marold, “why let the villain escape? Jf he is guilty—” “If he is guilty? Look at him! Does he look like one wrongfully accused? Is his bearing that of an innocent man?” Crestfallen, ghastly pale and tremb- Mng in every limb, he was the vevy picture of guilt. “Let the law takes its course,” said Sir Harold. “I um a _ magistrate, and—” father, let him go. It shali never be said that Iruest Hartrey harmed the husband of one for whom he loved. How could I face May if I had procured the condemnation of her husband, unworthy though he be of hei Then turning to Gridley, who stood the picture of abject de , he said, “Thank heaven, you wretched creature, that you are protected by one whose ruin and disgrace you would have brought about had you had your own wicked vy ! Think of her as your guardian angel; and if your lips can ‘ame a {| ar let it be for the welfare of her you have so cruelly wronged. Go!” But this time it was ™ Henwood who barred the ex overed criminal. “Not yet,” id she, standing before the door. “You have it in your power to make some reparation for the wrong you have done. Do you kuew to what J allude?’ “No,” he stammered. All his confidence were gone. As before Agatha it of the and assur: aid, his brain, in working. He had been by the suddenness of his accu: pearance, and he had tacitly acknowl- “John Gridley, answer me the truth, | or it may be the worse for you. Is May Rivers your wife?” hee she is. Ah!” he added, turning savagely and shaking his fist at Ern- est, ‘you loved her, did you? You thought to make her your wife; but if my other plans have failed, one has succeeded! I have my revenge! She is my wife—my wife! Do you mark me: Where are all your bright lover's dreams now? She can never be yours —never! If my fortunes are marred, there is no happiness for you! If I am driven from the country, it makes me none the less the husband of her you love! What good can it do you that I am driven to foreign lands? I shall live, and while I live you cannot wed her! Some day, perhaps, in years to come, you will hear’ that 1 am dead; but then her hair will be white, her face wrinkled, her hands withered and there will be a bonny bride to lead to the altar! Ha! ha! I have that consolation Dejected, Ernest hid his face in his hands, for he knew the man spoke the truth, and that he had reason for his fiendish exultation. It was very bitter to him to hear these words, to know that John Grid- ley had filched from him the prize he had set his heart upon gaining. It was not even as if May had given her affections to him. Had that been the case his pride would have helped him to conquer his sorrow; but know- ing, as he did, that not a whit of her love for him had abated, it was hard to bear with his rival’s speech. Sir Harold watched his son with some anxiety; and Miss Henwood, still standing before the door, tixed her eyes upon John Gridley with a piercing glance, as she said, “Were you ever married before?” “Never,” he answered, after a scarce- ly perceptible hesitation. “May Rivers was your first wife?” Yes," “Who was it, then, who passed for your wife when—” “I decline to answer any questions,” interrupted Gridley, with something of the old bravado in his manner. “I am not in the witness box and will not be cross-examined.” Miss Henwood looked meaningly at he: nephew, and in that glance Ernest saw something which revived hope within his breast. In a second he was again at John Gridley’s side, with his strong hand firnily twisted in the other's necker- chief. “But I say you shall,answer. Yes, even if I have to wrench the words from you!” Then, in a whisper to his aunt, “For pity’s sake do not raise false hopes within me. Have you any reasons for asking these questions?” “Many,” she answered in the same low tone, ‘See here.” She produced a smail piece of parch- ment. It was a certificate of marrlage be- tween John Gridley and Lucy Rush. “Read that!” exclaimed Ernest, hold- ing the certificate before John Grid- ley’s eyes. “Can you deny its authen- ticity? No, your cheek blanches, your eyes fall—you are convicted. Scoun- drel, double-dyed villain, your mar- riage with May Rivers was no mar- riage. You thought you had entrapped her, but you were mistaken. She is not your wife—the ceremony was a mockery. I can almost pardon your yillainy for the joy it gives me. Your triumph is at an end!” “Not so.” “She is not your wife.” “JI say she is. The person named in this certificate is dead.” “Prove it.” “You prove that she is alive. I con- fess she was my wife; but what then?” “I do not believe she is dead.” “J shall take no trouble to convince you. It is a matter of perfect indiffer- ence to me.” Sir Harold had played an inactive part throughout the scene, for his mind had been a prey to conflicting feelings. It was the great desire of his heart that his son should wed Lord Porches- ter’s daughter ;and an alliance with May being impossible he hoped that his wish might be gratified; but now, when it seemed that May was not the wife of John Gridley, although the dis- covery upset his plans, he could not choose but be carried away by his son’s enthusiasm and excitement; and his feeling of anger against the low, cunning creature whose part he had at first been disposed to take, led him to wish that the’ proof of Gridley’s first wife being still alive might be forth- coming. He pressed nearer to his son. “Ernest,” said he, and he lait his hand tenderly on his shoulder, “if I have been harsh with you it is only be- cause I thought it my duty. Prove the illegality of this marriage with this low-born fellow and I will welcome May Rivers as your future wife.” Ernest pressed his father’s hand gratefully. Miss Henwood had heard those few relenting wirds anda smile af triumph lit up her face. “I both can and will prove it,” she said. “How?” asked John Gridley uneasily. “How can you do so?” “By raising this tapestry,” she an- swered, and suiting the action to the werds, she quickly drew the hangings aside, and there, pale, tremb- ling and affrighted stood John Grid- ley’s wife. “Lucey!” he cried, starting back and plessing his hands to his forehead in despair. “Speak for Miss Henwood. For a minute the tall girl stood si- lent and motionless; then, with a sy yourself, Lucy,” said gliding tion, she crossed the roc and threw herself at her husband's feet. “Oh, John, John, do not be an wth me. It is my love has made me do it. I could net bear to be forey separated from jou. Let us go gether. I care not of what crimes you may have been guilty—you are ll to me the same John Gridley who won ay maiden love!” But John Gridley answered never a word. He moved away a few steps looked at he: f he could have slain her where she knelt. “Ti he your wife asked Ernest. Gridley maintained an obstinate lence, but edged nearer and nearer to the table which stood in the center of the room. No one perceived his object in ing—no one remembered t 1 that table was the doubl tol which Ernest had wrenched from his gr: He stcod where his hand could easily reach it. “Are you cruel and harsh v the poor girl who loved 1 the misfortune to be h vi you done mischief enough? ruined me, I uined me! You ask to tly with me. I am going a long, very long journey; but you shall ac- company me, whether you will or not, gt” traitress! (To be Continued.) » do- ?” he asked, in a e, turning toward . and had “Have The Maiden’s Chest. The girls are taking up a new fad. Perhaps it is a distant cousin of the old-time German custom. In the Fa- therland, when a girl baby is born, the parents at once begin to save money for her dewry, and the mother stows away in a chest pieces of linen and other articles for household use, of which a German housewife must have such an abundance. Our American women are gen content with the bzby'’s presenti w fore, or, at most, with its immediate future, and do not begin so early ints little life to arrange its troussea Fhe girls theuselv a now taking Que matter in hand, and it is qu I thing for a young girl with a fi even an attendant or attentive sw to gather materials for her “chest, she calls it. If she can have one of the old-fash- joned chests, such as our grandnio' ers used for bedding, so much the bet- ter. If not, an ordinary trunk will do. She lets all her relatives and intima friends know that she has and that is considered an invitat te contribute to its contents. Costly arti- cles are not expected, but into it may go towels, napkins, or any of the fancy bits of embroidery that girls are al- ways doing, pretty but inexpensive handkerchiefs from bargain sales anything that will be useful to the fut- ure housekeeper. The engagement cups may go in, too, and even the spoons, if the girl be willing. ‘The chest is not a burden to the friends of its proprietor, for its treas- ures are not of the costly sort; and then, as the contents are not examined until just before the wedding, there is a mystery about it that adds to the fun of the thing. A Boston girl who has heard of the custom—in fact, has contributed to the chests of one or two of her friends— declares that, although she is a man- hater, and never intends to be married, but looks on single life as blissful and the married state as purgatory, she is going to have an “old maid's chest,” Her friends have taken up the jo! and all sorts of cute and curious art cles are going into it. When it is’ opened, after she really “turns the first corner’ of old maidhood, some startling and wonderful developments may be expected.—Excharge. Dangers of a Scratch. Searcely a day passes but many per sons do not, in some way or other, get a scratch, a small cut or a bruise that may break the skin. In most instances not the slightest attention is paid tc this beyond the temporary annoyance of the pain and the possible irritation when the hands are put into water or some subsequent blow in the same spot brings an exclamation on account of the hurt. This, while a common practice, is by no means a wise one The air is full of floating disease germs. especially the air of cities and towns. and any injury of this sort, be it ever so slight, might furnish excell-at breed- ing ground for some deadly “bacteria It is a good plan alwess tod:eep a bot. tle of prepared carbolio acid and gly- cerine, and frequently touch all bruises and sore spots with it. This is one of the most convenient and effective germicides imaginable. It is belie that many cases of fever and otfer ailments can be contracted by a float- ing germ coming in contact with the abraded skin. Once snugly lodged in this most congenial dwelling place, the germ multiplies with amazing rapidity. and soon overruns the entire system. ‘Therefore, whenever there is a bruise or scratch or any injury of this sor‘ germicidal applications should be a once resorted to.—Detroit Free Press re ( 4