Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, August 21, 1897, Page 2

CHAPTER XXX—(Continued.) “I am sure of it, Monsieur, although I may not have legal evidence to prove it. Listen forther: When my husband died, and the present marquis suc- -ceeded to the title and estates, he, the last mentioned, was ve! poor and -very deeply in debt. Nothing but an infant girl stood between him and a yast funded pro erty that would have enabled him to pay his debts and also support his new rank with great :mag- nificence. When he came down to the Chateau De Glacie-toe.superintend the funeral of his‘brother and to take pos- session >f his estates, he pressed us to remain }:is guests for so long a time as we might find it agréeable to do se. I, theugh. instinctively shtinking from him, yet ling no rational cause for my aye! ,oand, above all, magnet- ized to the spot that held@my dear hus- band's remairis—for he“was laid in the family vault under the chapel attached to the chatedu—consented to remain for a while. Well, Monsieur, three weeks after my child. disappeared, un- der circumstances thatled every one to the conclusion, that ‘she had been drowned—” “Good heaven!” exclaimed the cap- tain. It was lovely summer weather, and ‘she had been permitted to walk out in the grounds, attended by her nurse, my poor Elise. They wandered down toward a beautiful stream of water, mmpon whose banks the shrubberies were very thick. The child rambled about, pulling wild flowers, filling her straw hat with them, and bringing and emptying them in the lap of her nurse, who remained seated under a tree. At last the little one was gone longer than usual. The nurse arose and called her, but she did not answer, ran and looked for her ,but she did not ap- pear. Elise became alarmed, and rushed through and through the shrub- beries, crying aloud upon the name of her nur But no response came ‘from the thick, green bushes. She ran down the stream; the banks of the stream were well protected by thick growths of interwoven bushes—there seemed not a possibility that the child eould have passec. where a man would have found great difficulty in breaking through. And yet, down one little place the bushes were lightly pressed cand broken, as if something had roiled dewn them to the water; shreds of black barege—such as had formed the orphan’s mourniag dress—fiuttered up- on the twigs, as if rent in passing; worse than all, her little straw hat, with its black ribbons, was floating on the water. Poor Elise :was distracted on the spot, and, rushing to the house, spread consternation and _ horror through the family with the news that little Astrea had ‘tumbled into the stream and was drowned!” Here the lady paused and gasped for breath, as if suffering under some overwhelming memory. The deepest ‘sympathy is always dumb. Tue captain eould make no comment. His impulse was to draw her silently to his heart, as he would have drawn his litt}, Daney in her troubles, or his own child, had he pos- sessed one. But he did not dare, even to ke and press her hand; so his sympathy seemed dead as well as dumb. After a little while the lady contin- ued: “I cannot—no, I cannot dwell upon the distress that followed! You can fizure to yourself how all the house- held rushed down to the stream; how the peer little floating hat was picked up from the spot where it had lodged against a ledge of rocks; how all the neighborhood was roused; how the stream was dragged for the body, and no body found; how it-was next, at a great cost of time and labor, drained, and still no body found nd how at Jast. it demonstrated, beyond all manner of doubt, that no body had ever been drowned there; for, you see, the stream was narrow and deep, and the current strong; and below the spot where the child was supposed to have fallen in, the stream was crossed by a high ledge of rocks, against which everything that was carried down by the current lodged. If the child had fallen in. the body must have been “found, either at the bottom of the stream, when it was drained, or else lodged against the ledge of rocks, It’ was found neither at one place or the other; therefore, it had never been in the stream; and all the appearances of the shredded dress and the floating, hat Lad been arranged for the purpose of producing *hé impression that she had been drowned, All these investigations had been made, and all these conclu- sions arrived at without my assist- nd while I was still prostrated f. But as I recovered from the first shock of my great sorrow, and understood tre position of affairs, I set on foot the most diligent inquiry. I soon learned that a fair-haired child had been seen in the possession of some wandering gipsies on the road to Calais. I followed them in person. I traced them to Calais, thence to Dover, thence to London; everywhere, when I inquired, hearing of the fair-haired child, with a gang of swarthy gipsies; but in the wilderness of London I lost them.’ 4 “Tbat is easily understood, Madame; for the kidnappers must have only passed through and gone down imme- diately to Liverpool and taken passage for America,” said the captain. “Yes, Monsieur, and that was the reason why all my future efforts to discover my child, ‘efforts confined to Europe alone, proved failures, so that I never even heard of her again until I saw her portrait in the Boulevards: des-Italienes. I never returned again to the Chateau De Glacié. I could not endure the place. A strange conviction had taken possession of my mind that the Marquise De Glacie had instigat- -ed the theft of my child. I spoke of this conviction to no one; for a long time I secretly watched him; I saw enough to deepen and confirm my con- viction of his guilt, though not enough to prove it upon him. I saw, also, rea- -son to suppose that he—a peer of France—was connected with a band of f desperadoes, composed of both males and females, whose headquarters were in Paris, but whose agencies exist in every large city in the world, and in every grade of society; whose profes- sion it is to prey upon their fellow- creatures, both at home and abroad, both upon land and sea; whose exist- ence is known to the police, yet whose art has hitherto shielded them from punishment.” “Madame, all this is very shocking,” said the half-stunefied captain. Monsieur, it is true. It was through the agency of this fraternity of evil the abductions of my daughter are in both instances accomplished. And new to return to the point from which we started. To prove that no murder has been committed, I have only to call your attention to the similarity of ar- tifice in the first abduction and the last one. In both instances it was an abduction attempted to be disguised as a death—in the case of the infant, an accidental death by drowning; in the case of the bride, a murder by her bridegroom.” “But, Madame, I do not understand how it was that these wretches spared the life of the child, or after- ward of the lady, when it was in their power. Surely, it is but a short step from such a crime as theirs to that of murder?” “Monsieur, I have heard that this fraternity of the fiend stop at blood- shed—that the rules of their order for- bid it exeept in defense of their own lives. I do not know how this is. It is only a rumor. Paris is full of rumors concerning this dreaded, secret, yet all-pervading band. . You sec, how- ever, by what I have told you, that all those seeming signs of assassination were only arranged to deceive. As- tres. has been carried off. But for them to accomplish this, they must have confederates, who drugged the wine of the bridal pair, and, after- on his way to the North, and the old captain, accompaniéd by the fair mar- quise, set out for town where T'ulke Greville remained in prison. We accompany the latter. They wen in an open carriage, for the road lay through .the deepest shades of the forest. The distance was twenty miles on the mainland, and thus it was high noon before they en- tered Lemingham. The prison was a commonplace, square brick building, of moderate size, whose grated windows alone pro- claimed its character. It stood in the principal street of the city, with the court house on the right, the market house on the left, and a large hotel on the opposite side of the street. It was neither term-time nor market day; the court was not in session nor the farmers in town; the streets were nearly deserted. Captain Fuljoy drew up before the jail, sent in his card, and was imme- diately admitted. He left the lady in the carriage, and followed the turnkey to the cell occupied by Fulke Greville. “A gentleman to see you, sir,” said the turnkey, opening the door, usher- ing in the captain and locking him in with the prisoner. ‘aptain Fuljoy found himself in a narrow cell lighted by a grated win- dow opposite the dcor, and furnished with a cot bed, a wooden table and a bench. Fulke Greville was standing at the window, looking out. At the entrance of the captain he turned around, and in an instant was locked in the arms of his uncle. “My best friend!” “My poor boy!” These were the first words, uttered simvitaneously, that passed between them. “This visit, and especially this greet- ing, assures me that you do not be- lieve one word of the mad charge laid against me!’ said Colonel Greville. “Believe it? no!” exclaimed the cap- tain, indignantly. “Burns was no bet- ter tlan a Dogberry, and has innocent- ly ‘written himself down an ass,’ by signing this committal! But let me look at you, my boy! you have been here four days—four days of impris- onmept upon the most insane charge that could be vonceived!” And the captain raised the young man’s head from his shoulder and gazed in his face. How changed it was in these few days! how pale, how thin, how hag- gard with suffering! ward, opened the doors to the abduct- ors. Monsieur, now that we are on the true track, believe me, we shall find our lost one.” “Heaven grant it, Madame. This hope gives me more strength than all the doctor's drugs. But—confeder- ates in this house! a house full of old and tried family servants!” “And no strangers, Monsieur?” “Eh! stop! let us see! Aye, to be sure! there is a French femme-de- chambre, who came over with my lit- tle Daney from Paris, and also, a chef-de-cuisine, that I was so foolish as to engage in Washington.” “Monsieur, one or the other is a confederate of ‘the kidnappers! have both detained!” said the lady, eagerly. “Madame! if you think that, I'll be dashed (I was going to say, and I beg your pardon for it), if I do not have them both before me immediately,” said the captain, violently ringing the bell. It was answered by Mandy. “Send the French maid and_ the French cook to me directly,” said the eaptain, “Please, marse, they’ve gone, sir,” said Mandy. “Gone!” eclaimed the captain. “It’s a confirmation,” said the lady. “Yes, sir, they are gone. After Marse Fulke Greville was ’rested, they ‘lowed how they eculdn’t demean their selves by staying in the sarvice of gentlefolks as got themselves mur- dered, or took up for murder, and how they'd rather lose their quarter's wages firs And so they told Miss Hit; and they packed up and tuk theirselves off in the Busy Bee, as she passed the day afore yes’day.” “It is a confirmotion,” said the lady, once more. “But where does the Bu: Bee go?’ “Yo the City of Baltimore—one of our largest seaports.” “Then they have escaped us. So, now, let us turn our attention to the one enterprise of recovering our lost one. My attorney, Mr. Dunbar, has busi: €ss that requires his presence in New York almost imfhediately. He will leave to-morrow, returning with the carriage and horses that brought us down. We will draw up advertise- ments and charge him with the duty ot having them inserted in all the papers. We, Monsieur le Captaine, had better remain for a few days in the neighborhood, and pursue our investi- gatiors here. I can perhaps find fit- ting lodgings in Cornport.” “Madame, yes, it is better that we remain here for the present, not only to pursue our investigations into this mysterious affair upon the spot where it occurred, but also to afford comfort aad support to oue who is suffering at onc: under an unparalleled bereave- ment and an unjust accusation. I re- fer to Fulke Greville, my nephew.” “And my son! You are right, Mon- sieur.” “But, Madame, I hope you will not wound me by thinking of any other ledgizg while you remain in this neigh- berhcod, than that which shelters my own gray head! My house is poor, lady, Compared with your mansions in Italy and Wrance; yet it is, perhaps, more comfortable than any lodgings you can find in Cornport. I am an un- fortunate wretch of an old bachelor, it is true; but then, I have at the head of ny household a lady of advanced years and immaculate reputation. Madame, I beseech you, therefore, to do me the honor of making my house your komme.” “I thank you, Monsieur le Captaine. It only needed that I should know it would be agreeable to yourself to make it very pleasant to me!” “Could Madame le Marquise doubt that?” “And, Monsieur le Captaine, I will leave you to repose for a few hours, while I go and have a consultation with my lawyer,” said the lady, rising and slightly curtsying as she withdrew from the room. ‘The Marquise De Glacie went direct- ly to the library, whence she dis- patched a servant to summon Mr Dunbar. The young lawyer came promptly. CHAPTER XXXI. Early the next morning two depart- The captain slowly shook his head, saying: “I will not do you the injustice to believe that all this misery is caused by your imprisonment, or by the in- famous charge under which you suf- fer, or even by the impending dangers of your approaching trial. My brave Fulke does not grieve thus for him- self.” “No, no! the Lord knoweth that. But —my wife! Oh! sir, are you aware of all?” “Of all that you know and a good deal more besides——” “Ha!” gasped the young man, “has any news been heard of her? Speak! speak! Has her body been recovered? Are the assassins discovered? Oh, speak!” “Sit down, Fulke. Compose your- self, and I will tell you. First—there is hope that she lives!” “He need not have said “sit down.” The shock of the announcement struck him down like lightning. He sank up- on the wooden bench, clasped his hands together, and strained: his eye- balls upon the old man in the mute agony of suspense; for his voice was gone. “Now be a man, a soldier, a Christ- ian, Fulke! and listen to some explan- ations I have to make. And that you may do so with the more ease, I tell you in advance that my little Daney lives,” said the captain, seating him- self beside the young man, and com- mencing his strange narrative, from the moment of receiving the visit of Mr. Dunbar to his interview with the marquise; their land journey to Corn- port; their arrival at the island; their sudden shock on hearing of the disap- pearance of the bride and the arrest of the bridegroom; the story told by the marquise; the hopes entertained of the safety of the bride; the measures taken fior her recovery; and, finally, the presence of Madame De Glacie in the carriage below. Colonel Greville had not listened to the narrative in calmness, stillness or silence. His passionate love was not like the disinterested affection of the mother or the guardian. The thought of his wife’s abduction was more terri- ble to him than the certainty of her death. He had interrupted the narrat- or many times with groans, exclama- tions, or gestures of desperation. Now, at the close of the story, he was strid- ing up and down the narrow limits of his cell, with the fierce, quick pantings and the sharp short turns of a tiger pacing his den. “The lady waits below. Will you see her?” inquired the captain, arresting the young man’s desperate strides. “See her? yes, no, just as you please! Oh, Heaven, where is she now? Is she safe from insult or offense? Can she defend herself? It is better that she were dead! Oh, sir, do you call this well?—do you call this good news, when you tell me that she is not dead, but in the hands of lawless men? Great Heaven! I had rather she had been dead, even though I myself should be doomed to die as her destroyer! Oh! Daney! Daney! not dead! not safe in death! but in more than dead- ly peril in the hands of evil men!” shrieked the distracted husband, tear- ing the hair from his head. “Fulke Greville, she is in the hands of God. No harm such as that you fear can happen to her! A woman, pure in thought, word and deed, as she is, is fenced around with an invisible guard of angels! Any man offering her the insult you dread would fall dead at her feet! I do not mean that her life may not perish; but I say that her purity is safe! I wonder that you do not feel that this must be true! I know it invmy interior consciousness. Down on your knees, profane boy, and pray Heaven to forgive the blasphemy of your doubts!” The earnest, fervent, inspired words of the old man fell like a spell of pow- er upon the stormy passions of the younger one, calming him, with deep reverence be it spoken, as the word of Christ calmed the raging sea. He came and sat down again upon the wooden bench, saying— “You told me the mother of my love was waiting; we must not keep her her at once?” is “Why, that is as it should pe; yes,” to the door to open it. “The deyil (I was going to say)—they have locked me in! agreeable!” he exclaimed, trying in yain to open the door, “Knock loudly, the turnkey is prob- ably at the other end of the passage,” said Colonel Greville. The ‘captain knocked, kicked and shook the door and called aloud; but all in vain. No notice whatever was taken of the uproar. “What the fiend (I was going to say) do they mean? Will they detain me here as a prisoner, and be—, hem!” “The turnkey has left the upper pas- sage, sir. He has probably gone down to his dinner; it is noon, you see,” said Colonel Greville. “Hem! and how long, pray, does it take his worship to dine?” “They have an hour, I think.” “And I am to stay locked in here all that time?’ “Unless you can make them hear, yes, sir.” “Hallo! help! help! help! Some one ahoy!” shrieked the captain, beating, kicking and shaking the door. The most imperturable silence swal- lowed up the noise. “Oh, Fulke! but this is horrible, my boy! to'be shut up in a place and not to be able to get out!” gasped the dis- mayed captain, out of breath with his exertions, and suffocating, also under the sense of imprisonment. “Be patient, sir; they will be here presently.” “Patient! I could be patient in pain, but not in prison—Hallo! help! ahoy, down there! are you all asleep, dead or drunk? Ahoy, I say! hallo! help! here! I’m smothering!’ roared the captain. The horrible hubbub must have reached somebody’s ears at last. There was a rapid running about of feet—a hurried calling of voices—a rushing sound, and then the door was suddenly unlocked, and the terrified face of the turnkey appeared at it, inquiring, in a frightened voice— “What has happened?” “What has happened? May the demon fly away with me (I was going to say)’ you have locked me in here for an hour!” cried the exasperated old man. “But we always lock the cell doors when we leave them,” said the turn- key, in explanation. “The deuce you do! Oh, Fulke! this is dreadful! ff it suffocates me to be locked in for an hour, even when I know I can be let out the moment I can make myself heard, what must it be to you, when——Oh, my dear boy!” “Sir, I cannot feel for myself! Ev- ery selfish feeling is absorbed in one immense trouble—anxiety for Daney! But you forget that her mother is wait-/ 8 ing.’ “[’ll go and fetch her! And mind, Mr. Turnkey! stand on guard at the outside of the door, if you must; but don’t turn the key on the lady!” said the captain, as he left the cell and hur- ried down to the prison gates. In five minutes he reappeared, lead- ing the marquise. Fulke Greville rose and stood re- spectfully to receive his distinguished visitor. The lady threw aside her long black veil, revealing a sweet, pale, fad- ed face, softly shadowed by dimmed golden ringlets. “Madame, I have the honor to pre- sent to you your son-in-law, Colonel Fulke Greville. Colonel Greville, Mad- ame la Marquise De Glacie!” said the old gentleman, who never forgot the stately courtesy of the old-fashioned school of manners, or failed in cere- mony, even in the prison cell. Fulke Greville was in the act of bow- ing lowly before the lady, when she put out her hands, and taking both his, looked into his troubled face with in- finite tenderness, saying: “We who meet in mutual sorrow must not meet as strangers. It is your mother who speaks to you, my son!” “May I be worthy to be called so, dearest lady,” replied Fulke Greville, lifting her hands to his lips. “But you are much more than wor- thy—being his nephew!” replied the marquise, turning upon the old man a look full of confidence and affection! “Ah! if it were not for Mary in Heaven and my own eighty years!” murmured the tender-hearted old tar, as he seated himself on the side of the cot bedstead. So much of human absurdity min- gles with men’s holiest emotions. “And oh! to reflect that, in addition to the sorrow of your bereavement, you suffer the shame of this false, mad accusation!” said the lady tender- ly, as she placed herself upon the wooden bench and motioned her son- in-law to take a seat by her side. “Yes! that is just what he calls it, Madame! a ‘mad accusation!” as- sented the captain, gruffly. “Then you, even before you knew me, never believed it?’ said Colonel Greville, turning to the lady. “Believed it? No! Did any one real- ly believe?” “That is not possible, Madame! Even Burns, the magistrate that sent me to prison, could not have credited the charge. But you see, as you said your- self, Madame—moral conviction is not legal evidence—and the magistrate was obliged to act according to the evi- dence before him and not with the convictions within him!” grumbled the old man. “And so a jury may be compelled to act! who knows?’ remarked Fulke Greville. “When does the court meet, Mon- sieur?” inquired the marquise. “Not for two months, Madame.” “Ah! long before that time we shall have recovered our child!” exclaimed the mother. Then, turning to Colonel Greville, she asked: “Monsieur le Captaine has told you the facts upon which I found these hopes?” “Yes, dear Madame.” “We must now, then, talk not of a defense that will scarcely be needed; but of the means of releasing you from confinement. Monsieur le Captaine,” she said, addressing the old sailor, “should we go together to the magis- trate, and should I, the mother of the missing girl, make the same represent- ations to him that I have made to you, would he not believe me, and release my son upon bail?’ 1 'The old man dropped his head upen his hand in painful thought for a few moments, and then replied: “I do not know. Old Burns is 9 per- fect incarnation of unjust justice, replied the captain, rising and going This is rather dis- to. bring | pose to ben certainly the effort, Madame, and just as. as the Major returns from Creekhead, where he went directly after the inter- view with me.” 3 || He “Ah! when will that be? It is terri- ble for my son to remain here.” “He said this evening, possibly, or else to-morrow, certainly.” “This evening, possibly! Then, Mon- sieur, let us not lose the chance of see- ing him this evening. If he should lis- ten to us favorably, the order for our son's release may be forwarded imme- diately, so that he need not spend an- other day in prison!” “As you please, Madame. We cam take Burnstop on our way home.” “Then we have certainly no time to spare! Fulke Greville, my son, we leave you only to serve you!” said the lady, rising and folding her mantle around her. The captain rapped on the door to summon the turnkey, who was om guard on the outside. He found no difficulty in getting out this time. The captain and the marquise took an af- fectionate leave of the prisoner and de- parted on their mission. CHAPTER XXXII. They ordered the coachman not to spare the horses, which were now re-. freshed by food and rest and quite ready for the road again. They drove rapidly through the in- tervening wooded yalley, and late in the afternoon began to ascend the low range of hills that skirted the creek, and upon the summit of which was sit-! uated the farm of Burnstop. The sun was setting when their car- riage drew up before the house. It was a long, low edifice of gray stone, built upon the top of the hill, and deeply shaded with great forest trees. A grass-grown, elm-shaded old ave- nue led from the front gate straight up to the front door, which was sheltered by a rustic porch of timber with the bark on, overgrown with vines. The lady and the captain alighted be- fore this door, which was, as usual at country houses in old Maryland, wide open, giving a vista straight through the hall to the back door, which was also open, affording a view of a green lawn, planted here and there with flowering shrubs. “I don’t see any one about! And there are no bells in the house and no Knocker on this door. Very different, this, from your Italian plazzo and French chateau, Madame?” “No, Monsieur; some of our houses are thus neglected,” replied the lady, courteously. The old man applied his own hard knuckles to the old oaken door avith such effect that a negro boy made his appearance from the back premises to answer the appeal. This was a re- markable specimen of the very stupid, not to say, idiotic, country negro. “Has your master returned home?’ demanded the captain. “Y-e-s, s-i-r,” drawled the boy. “Go and tell him that Captain Fuljoy is here, and wishes to see him immedi- ately.” ”Y-es, s-ir,” answered the boy, with- out stirring from the spot. “Well, why the d—I—(I was going to say) don’t you go along? Hurry, hur- ry, my sleepy fellow!” “Y-e-s, s-i-r,” repeated the boy, root- ed to the floor. “Why, you little black imp, what do you mean by standing there and look- ing me in the face, and saying, ‘Yes, sir,” and not going? Fly away with you! Vanish! Tell Major Burns that Captain Fuljoy is waiting to see him! Run!” $ “I darn’t, sir!” wailed the lad. “Darn’t? Why darn’t you? Are you crazy? I believe you are! Go direct- “Deed I darn’t, sir; Miss ’Nellopy won't let me; no more won't Miss Etty!” “What’s the reason? Why won't they let you? What the mischief does it mean?” “I darn’t ’sturbe marster, sir—he’s a-dyin,!” whimpered the child. “Dying!” echoed the captain, start- ing back like one who has received a blow, while Madame De Glacie came to his side, and looked with wondering eyes from him to the boy. “Dying! Did you say dying?’ re- peated the captain, stooping and look- ing the boy in the face. , “Y-e-s, i-r,” sobbed the child, burst- ing into tears at the sound of his own words. “Madame, take this chair and rest yourself, while I go and find out the truth of this. It is of no earthly use to question this poor simpleton. I know where the major’s room is, and will seek him there,” said the captain, reparations tant. B is i faster tham his preparations ae , and so, before he could get ‘to go he found himself compelled to give ng 5 his journey. He retired to bed oe. 7 Decame so extremely ill im the nig) i that we had to send for a doetor. He Teft the patient at noon, but Teenie’ a to be back again hee ewening. ht that yow were he. seein is the matare of the malady?” ‘ inquired the captain. & “Cholera,” sobbed the housekeeper. “There, I knew it. He always would cat soft crabs, and he had just a well eat fried spiders’. and they are sea- spiders, and nothing else! Let any one look through a microscope at a spider, and see if they could tell it from @ crab! or through an inverted telescope >, and see if’ they could tell it ier! I would as soon eat & baked tarantula! But I hope it is not serious with him as phate think, Miss Penelope. Cam f see him?” “You can ees him, sir; it will do him no harm to see you; he is past being hurt; he is sinking’ fast,” said the housekeeper, leading the way to the chamber door, opening. it and admis- ting the visite The room was in semi-darkness, the sun having some time set, and the lamps being not yet lighted. i ‘Phe poor little major lay extended upen his bed in the collapsed stage of his mortal malady—his frame shrunk- en, his face blue and his: breath short- ‘ At the side of the bed knelt poor Htty, her black hair in wild disorder, her face buried in the quilt, stifling her sobs as best she could.. “I am very sorry to see you in this | state, old friend,” said the captain, ap- proaching the bedside. “Eh? What? you, an old sailor, and sorry to see an old, weather-beaten craft approaching port?’ said the ma- jor, in a faint voice; and with a feeble attempt to smile. 2 The captain did not reply. His first kind impulse was to say, “It has not come to that yet!” but then he knew that it had come to that;: and to de- ceive a dying man about his state was cruel, even if in such a case deception were possible. So the captain re- mained silent. “Iam glad you have:come, neighbor —very glad! You will attend to af- fairs hereafter—after I am in port. _ ‘These distracted Women don’t seem to know what they are about,” said the dying man, speaking with difficulty. “Do -as-you like with me; order me about, old‘friend; (I came to you on an- other matter, but let that pass; you are in no condition: to: attend to it,”) murmured the old man, sotto voce. The sufferer did not seem to catch { the last, low-breathed: words. He con- tinued: { made my will some time ago. I have left my old servants free; and my old house to Etty; but the house-rent will not support her, poor child.” __ } “Leave Etty to me;.I will take care j of Ktty,” said the captain, who, in the i largeness of his heart, would have adopted all the orphans of a devastat- ing war, if necessary. “Good old neighbor, I thank you, but that must not be. Etty has a relation, who has greater claims upon her; @ grandmother who has neglected her for a long time, but who has at last remembered and written to her. The as! letter was written a week ago—fortun- a ately, as it turns out, we knew where to send her.” The dying man paused to recover his breath, and then contin. # P ued, though in a feeble tone: “When I am put to bed finally—Miss ‘ Penelope must take Etty to New York and deliver her up to her: grandmother. ‘ Then—if you desire it—as you can’t i have Etty—you may—if you wish— adopt Miss Penelope, who will be ' without a home.” ‘The captain was quite startled by this: proposition, for if there was. one thing in the world he was afraid of, it ¥ was the hatchet face of this sharp lit- tle woman; and this feeling was suc- ceeded by one of pure compassion for the homeless creature; so his answer partook of his. first fright and his. sub- sequent benevolent courtesy: “Eh! what! adept Miss Penn?—Lora bless my soul, alive! Oh, to be sure! certainly! with the greatest pleasure!” “No, I thank you, captain! And I am very much obliged to you, major; but I won’t be separated from the child! I have: been with her ever sinee her mother died,.and I won't leave her now; whoever takes. Etty will have to take me, too. If the venerable Mrs. What’s-her-name, for I never can re- placing an old-fashioned, home-made, |: member: it, wants. her grandchild, she chip-bottomed arm-chair for the visit- | will have-to.put up with me, too,” in- or’s accommodation. of a front room on the right hand. CHAPTER XXXII. The door was opened by a little bit of a dried-up and withered old woman, with a very dark skin and very black hair and eyes. She was Miss Penelope Pinchett, the housekeeper and nurse of the old baeh- elor. She came out silently, closing the door after her, and putting her hand- kerchief to her eyes. “What is this that Bobbin tells me, Miss Penelope? Is the major really ill?’ inquired the captain. “Oh, is it you, Captain Fuljoy? I thought it was the doctor, first,” said the little old lady, taking her handker- chief from her face and looking with red eyes up to the visitor. . “You see that it is I. I hope the ma- jor is not*seriously ill?* “Oh, captain, I am so glad you have come. I would have sent for you, only I thought you were not able to-leave home. I hope you are better, sir.” “I am better; but the major? I hope he is not seriously 1?" “Oh, sir, he is saying there is not a hope in the world,” said Miss Pene- lope, taking the old man’s arm and leading him awsy to the window at the front of the passage, where they sat down upon two chairs. “What is the matter with him? Whe id he return from Creekhead? Bas lady sat sown _ oe a while |, the captain went slowly and softly up | will! Be quiet, Miss Penn; don’t ex- stairs, and rapped lightly at the door | cite yourself; but only remember that " | terrupted the housekeeper. “I dare say she will! I dare say she | when you get tired of your city heme, }my country house is: always open,” said the captain, very much relieved. The limbs ef the dying man grew | icier, his face grayer, his pulse slower, | his breathing shorter. The captain’s sorrow and anxiety be- came poignant and imsupportable. It was terrible to him to see a fellow- creature go out of the world unattend- | ed by the prayers of the church; so he ventured to whisper: “Would you not like to see a clergy- man, Major Burns?” “Why? No clergyman ean attend me on this journey. My sonl must go alone to its Makerl” replied the dying man, * oun mining luas been sent for; 1 ex- pect him every minute,” whispered Miss Penelope. And the words were searcely uttered when there came a rap at the door, a the Rev. Mr. Allen was anno} ‘The captain and the ereetly withdrew, leaving-the penis ale his pa 5 -On tl ¢ stairs the captain paused ; said to the housekeeper: = “fT have a lady waiting Madame De Glacie” Dyspepties have find eating six apples a, meal ae