Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, March 5, 1898, Page 2

EAT THE SIGN OF-<eses- ==THE GOLDEN HORN. § SKK II AISIIIIIIIISI IIIT CHAPTER XIX. A Disappointed Wooer. Tt was a fair spring evening, and Ur- sula, almost quite restored to health, sat in the window of her little sitting room, her eyes on the floor, azd a pained exp on on her sweet face. Opposite to her, bending forward till his elbows rested on his knees, and king to_he ’ least believe terested,” he was “I seek nothing y gently. but ye f. And lL may also say truth, that if 1 did not know that were free I would not trouble you with wooing. While poor Lester—but ate itself separated you, did it not?” U 1 bent her head. She was too near crying to speak. friend no wrong, then, And all I wish to say is, that it is hard that L should have to suffer for a sentiment regret, which, however natural and strong, can do no possible good, either to Frank Lester or to anyone else. Don’t you think, Ursula, there is rea- son in what Is What he said so reasonable, and he spoke with such gentleness, so much deep respect, that he nearly succeeded. If Ursula had been like most girls, he would have succeeded. But Ursula was not like ether gir Rightly or wror she felt that there was only «ne rule for her—where her heart went there her hand would go—not else- where. ‘There was much good sense in what Clovis had been urging, and she could not deny that it would be absurd if every girl who had lost her lover were te take a kind of vow of celibacy. t any rate, there was such repulsion in Ursula’s heart t the idea of being clasped to the of any man but her own true that it was impossible for her to take another mate. When Clovis stop- ped and waited for her to speak, she janced up timidly, and let her 1 instantly before her new loy- 5 ectful but burning gaze. “Try to forgive me, Mr. Clovis,” she said, simply, holding out her hand. “For your sake, since you are good enough to desire it, I almost wish it were otherwise but the simple truth is, I cannot love you, and without love, I eannot marry. 1 know what you would say—that love would come, but that is not enough for me. I do wish it could be otherwise. Believe me, I shall nev- er, never forget all that you have done for n I should be the most ungrate- ful ture in the world if I did. But gratitude is not love, is i “I have spoken too soon,” said Clo- is, ho: . “I have not given you et the past. Some day—” topped him by bursting into 0, no,” she sobbed out; “I can bever forget.” He saw that further words were use- less. And, catching up one of her nds, he pressed a burning k upon it and left he His heart v in admiration, anger and despair as he strode away from the house that shel- tcred Ursula, He loved her. He would not harm her for the world. That was his feeling cone moment. And the ne niinute his passion, his strong, selfish sion, rose up like a beast of prey i mastered him, Then he felt ready ny crime, any danger to her or to , that would make it possible for him to subdue her to his. will. When he reached his own rooms he found Kisch waiting for him. He s the last person Clovis de- sired to see, and it was with difficulty -d himself to be civil to But the Jew was too much ex- to notice it. Where is that girl?’ were almost a tumult of love, that he for him ou know where she is to be ch heaved a sigh of relief, and ed a red silk handkerchief across his forehead. “You don’t know what you did when K t young woman from my id, gloomily. 2Wkward for you if 1 Have you forgotten have been rath had not done so? hed your house from cellar to gar- What would you have said? , L know!” cried the Jew, impa- “As you say, it was lucky that not there the time. But 1 1in—or, rather,” he hastened to add, seeing that Clovis’ face darkened—“or, rather, you must your influence over her, and » her your wife as soon as possi- You say that to me?” ! What is Blanche Annesley to ? sides, I understood Taat all ‘was over and done with. Now you must nuke that girl your wife.” Clovis shook his head. He was zot inclined to discuss the subject with anyone, least of all with the Jew. “Do you know who she is?” Kisch, with a smile so peculiar that it arrested Clovis’ attention at once. ~ ‘She is old Joyce's daughter—” “She is nothing of the kind. She is the legitimate daught the legitimate daughter, nind—of Sir Jvlivs Winter!” “What?” ” and the Jew nodded of a mandarin, hugely enjoying his companion’s surprise. “How do you kuow that?’ asked Clo- quickly. rer mind how I know it. It is h then told him of his interview with Captain Winter, and added that he had since verified his story from the lips of Mr. Lawson. CloviS rose from his chair, and began to pace the room with long, hasty strides. ‘The Jew sat and watched him. “You see how the case stands,” he gaid, when he judged that Clovis was re you forgotten that it would | the police came next day and} said | ti in a fit state to listen to him. “In a few years this girl will be acknowl- edged to be Sir Julius’ daughter. She will inherit all the property. Captain Winter won't fight the case against her, I am sure of that; and, if he de- sired to do so, where is the money to come from ow, I propose that we join forces, J “What have you to do with it? I mean, what interest is it of yours?” “Only this, that if Captain Winter had succeeded to this estate I should have been paid a claim of £23,000 for money advanced and interest. I stand to lose that; but, if, acting on my sug- gestion, and with my help, you marry the girl, I shall expect you to pay me, out of all your wife will inherit, what 1 have actually paid to Winter in hard sh.” And how much is that?” “Oh, a mere flea-bite to the owner of those estates.Only £12,000. I must lose the interest forever!” and Mr. Kisch groaned at the thought. t's no use talking,” said Clovis, after a pause. “Miss Joyce won't have me—in spite of all that I have done for her. I may as well tell you, I asked her only this evening, and—and she refused ine.” “I dare said the Jew, drily. “Clovis, there is only one way out of it.” “What do you mean?’—and again that curious hoarseness made his voice sound strangely. “I mean that if she wor.’t marry you for love. she must marry you for fear.” “For fear?” “For fear of me. I must terrify her, and you must rescue her again; but this time you must demorstrate to her that the only effectual way of escap- ing from me—since she cannot always have you at her elbow—is by marrying you.” “L don’t like the idea, Kisch. It sounds rather hard upon her.” “Why is she so deuced obstinate, then?’ growled the Jew. “Her bad taste, I suppose. But if ou mean all this seriously—” Seriously ! Great heavens! What does he mean by seriously? Isn’t £12,- 000 serious? Isn’t it serious to lose £11,000 interest? What does the man mean?” “If you are serious, let me tell you this—that you may spare yourself the trouble of carrying out your little plan. There is no chance of Miss Joyce mar- rying me.” “Will you try posed?” “I won't consent to the girl being ill- ased, if that is what you mean.” “Who is talking about ill-using? I should say it’s a rare chance for you, if you’ve really taken a fancy to the girl. You can think it over, and let me know later on. Only let me have an opportunity of getting hold of her with- out your appearing to have anything to do with it. Then you can play th champion and the lover at the sa time. Of course, she could not resist you in the long run.” “Perhaps you are right. I will think | it over,” said Clovis; and there the discussion ended. For some time Clovis resisted the in- sidious proposals of the Jew; but, by degrees he began to give way. The im of cheats and cowards: “All is in love and war,” was at hand to j 'y his treachery in h own eyes. His pride, his brutal, unsatisfied pas sion, fought agaiust the promptings of his better nature. He told himself that no real harm could come to Ursula; that, at the worst, she would be only frightened, and inclined to flee to him as her protector; and, in the end, he yielded. Ursula was for a time to be handed over once more to the tender mercies of the Jew. : what I have pro- CHAPTER XX. In Which Blanche Wins a Victory. Almost every afternoon, as she went to rehearsal, Blanche Annesley met an old, tattered, bowed-down man, saun- tering about the end of the side street through which she had to p: to get to the stage door of the theater. Something in his face, or his bear- ing, or in both, interested her. She soon saw that he was not, as she had supposed, a common. beggar. He had seen better days. Next she became aware that it was disoase or trouble. rather th.an old age, that had whitened his hair and bent his shoulders. She would give him a pitying look as she sed, but he took no notice. One thinking that he stood in need ot 1 and was too proud to beg, she thrust a shilling into his hand and passed quickly on. The old man flushed, in spite of the thick mask that years of exposure and neglect had painted on his cheeks. He flushed, and, with an angry look at the giver, made as though he would hurl the coia into the gutter. Then a softer feeling came into his heart. He looked after her again, and she, pausing to look back at the same instant, gave him a quick little encouraging nod and smile, and ran hastily up the steps of the portico. And the old man, still clutching the shilling in his hand, limped up the por- tico after her. ’ When the rehearsal was over, Blanche went to Mysore Lodge, partly to see her mother, but chiefly to get a letter, which she knew must be waiting for her there. Handsome, self-possessed, self-willed, Blanche seemed the last girl in the world to do a foolish thing for love; and this was just what she had done. Eugene Clovis had made love to her with such success that her heart, ber | yery being, had become his. Then his fancy turned from her and lighted on Ursula. She saw that she had lost her hold on his heart, and guessed that some girl must have supplanted her; but who it could be she had no means of knowing. Unable to bear the light, rallying manner that Clovis had assumed to- ward her for the purpose of carrying off his faithlessness, Blanche had left home and gone upon the siage. But absence did not work her cure. She pined after her old lover, and at length she resolved upon writing Clovis such a letter as must elicit from him some declaration of his intentions. She had told him to send his answer to Mysore Lodge, to the care of her mother, and she was now going there to get it. On the way her thoughts were full of the letter she was expecting. What was she to do if Clovis told her that he wished to have nothing more to do with her? Life would no longer be worth anything to her. What did it all come to? What had she to live for? Dark thoughts of suicide surged through her mind. At one moment she would shrink from them with horror— the next she would gloat upon them with a strange enjoyment that was more than half pain. Her mother received her with some surprise, and immediately began a long, tearful account of her wretched- ness, of her husband’s neglect of her, of the visit the police had paid them, and of the fact that since that time IXisch had hardly been seen at the house, but had directed that all let- ters were to be sent to him at an ad- dress in Holloway. Blanche scarcely listened to her. She had got her letter, and was busy read- ing it. It was as she had feared. Clovis pretended to treat the whole matter as a joke, ard assured her that he had no mind to stand in the way of any more fortunate rival. He said he had long since given up all pretensions to her hand, and he had ro doubt that in a few weeks he would be forgotten —as no doubt he deserved to be. This light way of treating what was to the poor girl almost a matter of life or death, enraged Blanche more than anything else he could have done. She kept her strong, white teeth firmly clenched, and let her eyes wander over the neglected lawn and the budding trees without seeing them. Yes, she said to herself, she would let him see that this was no jesting matter! Perhaps, when she was deaa, he would be sorry that he had treated her in that heartless way. It would be in all the papers. She did not like to think of that. But there was no other way of reaching him—of making him suffer a thousandth part of what she suffering now. Why should she “I don’t believe, Blanche, you have been listening to one word I have been saying to you.” Her mother’s grieved tones penetrat- ed to the girl's brain and roused her. At any rate, her mother had done no harm—Poor mother! She was suffer- ing cruelly for the one fault of her life! “My thoughts were wandering a bit, mother,” she said, in a voice of unusu- al gentleness, “but something has been vexing me, What was it you were say- ing?” “Is it that letter from Clovis that has been troubling you, my child? Don’t bother your head about him! He's a bad lot! And besides” (drying her eyes on the corner of her apron), “I don’t believe it’s a bit of use. I think he’s in love with someone else, now.” “What's that you say?” asked the girl, quickly, flushing up to her fore- head. “Oh, it’s nothing for you to grieve over. But I thought, from his taking her away so sudden, and his manner to her when she fainted—the tender- like way he looked at her, and the way he took her hand when he helped her to rise—that he was in love with her. Perhaps I was wrong.” “What on earth are you speaking about, mother?’ “Why, haven’t I been telling you, though I promised I wouldn't speak of it to a soul, and Kisch would kill me if he knew—” The poor woman looked round as if in terror. “He is not here, mother,” said Blanche, coolly; and if he was, he daren’t harm you while I am by. Now, tell me about this young woman, for I’m determined to know, and you may as well make a clean breast of it soon- er or later. Who was this girl, and how did she come here?” 'Then, bit by bit, Blanche drew from her mother the story of Ursula’s im- prisonment in the house and of her re- lease. “And it’s not at an end yet,” moaned the poor woman. “How do you mean, it’s not at az end?” “I know your father is plotting against her again. He slept here the | other night, and you know he talks in his sleep. And I have put this and that together. I told him from the first that no good would come of it. but he only langed at me. What they can want, persecuting a poor girl like that for, I can’t think.” “Poor girl, indeed! I think you have feeling for everyone but me, mother!” The old woman stared. She could not understand her daughter, for she had no idea how the demon of jealousy was tormenting her, and whispering to her that if this girl were out of the her lover might come back to her. “Why should you interfere?’ the de- | mon whispered to her. ‘Most likely she is one of their creatures who has betrayed them, and they want to se- ie cure themselves against further treachery. Leave her alone. It’s no} business of yours.” Yét she could not banish from her | mind the effect of what her mother had said; and the old woman’s hints and looks were even more significant } than her open speech. ‘That this girl, Ursula Joyce, was in danger, in great danger, from her step- father, she had no manner of doubt. She knew Kisch, and knew that he was ruthless and cruel. The girl had made an enemy of him, and her moth- er had hinted that her life would not be safe if she were to fall into his hands | a second time. Could she prevent this? And if she could, would she, stretch ont her hand and save her? i She trembled to think what might be the consequence if she did not. But, how could she? She did not even know her address. Should she send her a warning through Clovis? No! She could not bring herself to write to that man again. For some time she sat there, and the struggle between good and evil went on in her heart. Toa girl of gentle up- bringing and of good principles there would have been no struggle. It would have seemed the plainest duty to warn Ursula of the fact that Kisch was still plotting harm to her. But Blanche haa | not been gently brought up, and she} and I don’t want to know her, but 1 |'as:.she repeated what had beem said to had few principles of amy kind. She had been aceustomed to think for her- | self and please herself, and no one else, all her life long. To her, the temptation to shut her ears to her mother’s forebodings and hints, and allow things to take their eourse, was almost irresistible. She was going to die. She had all but made up her mind to that. What was it to her that the girl who had taken her lover from her should come to harm? Suddenly the hard, despairing wo- man burst into tears. They were not tears of sorrow as much as tears of rage—rage against her faithless lover, against the girl he had preferred to her, against the whole world. Yet, lit- tle by little, they softened her. Some- how she slid down upon the floor, and, kneeling on the boards, sent up a heartfelt cry to Heaven. The prayer she poured out was an- swered. Her mind became clearer. Her heart turned. She saw that if she really did believe that danger threat- ened this stranger, and she held her peace, she would be morally an ac- complice in the evil designed against her. If the girl were murdered—and her mother’s half-veiled hints pointed at nothing less—she would be her mur- derer! She shuddered to think how near she had been to the brink of a crime like that! A fei miutes later she reappeared in the kitchen, where her mother was sit- ting, red-eyed but outwardly com- posed, and went to a cupboard, from which she fetched an old blotter and a penny bottle of ink. Clearing a corner of the kitchen ta- ble with a sweep of her shapely arm, the girl sat down and wrote with great energy for five minutes. Then, with- out reading what she had written, she put the sheet of note-paper into an en- velone and sealed it. “Where does this girl live—this Miss Joyce?’ she asked, dipping her pen again in the ink. “You are never going to write to her?” cried Mrs. Kisch, with alarm in her eyes. “You aren’t going to tell her what I have been telling you? You wouldn’t betray me?” “Nonsense! I’m saying nothing to hurt you, you may be sure. Where dces she live?” “I don’t know,” said the old woman, and in this she told the truth. Blanche saw that she either could not or would not tell the address; and she stood for some time in perplexity. Then she took a generous resolve. She would go to her false lover, to Clovis himself, and warn him of the danger that threatened her rival. : She lost no time in carrying out her intention. It was with a stare of wonder that Clovis looked up and saw who it was that entered his room late on the fol- lowing morning. At first he dreaded a scene; but Blanche soon let him know that he had nothing to fear on that score. “There’s a young lady I hear you are interested in—a Miss Joyce,” she be- gan. Clovis started slightly, but she did not notice it. “It was she my step- tather kept shut up in the big room on the second floor, you know. Mother says you took her away. I want you to go and tell her—” “She is not in London,” said Clovis, quickly. “Has she gone home to her friends?” “Yes.” “Then I'm to have my journey for nothing?” “Stop, Blanche. Don’t run away like that. What do you want to see Miss Joyce for?” “If she has left London, there can be no danger,” she said, as if speaking to herself. And she resolved that, as she had nothing in the nature of proof of her step-father’s bad intentions, she would say nothing about it to Clovis. “CO you give me Miss Joyce’s ad- dre: she asked, after some minutes of desultory conversation. “What do you want it for? Do you know her?” “Never mind. I want to write. to her. “I can’t very well give you the ad- dress, as she wants to keep very still and quiet for the present. But I shall be seeing her this evening, and I shall be happy to give her your note, if you like.” Blanche thanked him, and turned the conversation into another channel, without either accepting or refusing his offer. There was something in Clovis’ behavior that puzzled her. It was watchful and secretive, not like the manner of an henest man when, he speaks of the lady he loves. “When is your train?’ she said, ab- | ruptly. “My train?’ : “Eugene, I have caught you!” said Blanche, solemnly. “You told me that Miss Joyce was in the country and that you would see her this evening; and yet, when I speak of your train, it jis plain from your face that there was no idea of travelling anywhere by train in your head.” “You are wonderfully sharp, dear Miss Kisch,” sneered Clovis. “Sharp enough for you, my fine fel- low! Now, look here. I don’t stir out of this room till I have Miss Joyce's address!” “Then you'll have to stay here the rest of your life.” And you don’t fool me with a false address. You'll have to show me a let- ter of hers, with the address written at the top and the date. That would sat- isfy me that you are telling the truth, But you must prove it to me in some way before I leave this room.” “You'll find. tea and sugar in that cupboard,” said Clovis; “if you should my }want anything stronger—” “Don't insult me, sir. If you are go- ‘ing out, I must go, too. But I warn you that if I do, it will be to pay a call.” “What -is it to me what calls you ay 2” “Not much, perhaps. I am going to call on a Mr. Hurrell. He is a friend of mine; and I think he would be in- terested in what I have said in my | letter to Miss Joyce.” Clovis was silent for a few seconds. ‘Then he shrugged his shoulders. “) see no sense in “troubling strangers with our little disputes,” he said, light- ly, as he opened a desk. He had some trouble in satisfying Miss Annesley, whe had now all her wits about her, that he was giving her Ursula’s true address; but at length he succeeded,, and then he asked her if she meant to call on the lady. “I told you that I only meant to | write to her,” said Blanche, with some asperity, “I don’t know Miss Joyce, think it is my duty to warn her.” “Against your humble seryant,. I pre- |, sume?” j Blanche’s. eyes flashed: fire.. “Against my step-father; but I’m | not at all sure that if I were to go home and write my letter over again, I would not put something about you in it as well.” “Don't do that,” he said, smiling, as he wrote the address on the enyelove. “Shall I post it for you?” “No, Eugene,” she answered, look- ing him in the face. “I don’t trust you now.” “I don’t suppose you do,’”’ he said, coolly. “There’s a pillar-box at the corner,” said Blanche. “I saw it as I came along. If you look out of the window, you will see me put in the letter as I pass. That will be as good as posting it for ne, won't it?” “Yon are admirably sharp, my dear Blanche. But, as it happens, you are entirely mistaken. It is nothing to me whether you write a dozen letters to Miss Joyce, or whether you write none at all.” Blanche smiled and left him. And he, looking from his window, saw her drop the letter—the letter that might, and prebably would, be the ruin ef his plans—into the pillar-box. CHAPTER XXI, Three Telegrams, “It is still early in the day—there may be time yet,” said Clovis to him- self, as he stood, with his watch in his hand, watching Blanche slip her warn- ing letter into the pillar-box. He had never been a very eager par- ticipator in this new scheme of the Jew's. It seemed to him that they had and if there had been any other plan that offered him a reasonable hope of gratifying his passion for Ursula, he would have preferred it. But this attack, from a totally un- expected quarter; this danger that the whole plot would be defeated, roused all his fighting instincts. He set his teeth, and resolved that it should not be a creature like Blanche Annesley that would stop him, Seizing his hat, he rushed out into the street, and as he passed the pillar- box he glanced at the indicator, ‘There had been a collection shortly before Blanche left him; there would not be another for two hours. The letter could hardly be delivered in the sub- urb in which Ursula was staying until late at night—perhaps not until the next morning. There would still be time to act. He set off at a swift pace for the nearest telegraph office, and there he dispatched the following message, ad- dressed to Kisch, at his house at Hol- loway: “Warning will be received by Miss to-night. Better see her at once and nge matters for prompt removal. Will do my part, never fear.” This telegram, which looked perfect- ly innocent to a stranger, was flashed over the wires; and Cloy turned away from the telegraph office with the certainty that Kisch would act within the hour, for it was part of Clovis’ system to leave nothing to chance, and he had the message re- peated to Mysore Lodge, and to his confederate’s office in the city. He j knew for a certainty that Clovis would ; be at one of these three addresses at that time of day. Not more than an hour and a half after the dispatch ef the telegram, Ur- sula was sitting at the window sewing, wher a shadow fell upon her work. She turned, instinctively, and looked | right into the eyes of Isaac Kisch. He nad walked impudently up to the left- hand division of the little bow-win- | dow, and was coolly staring at her, a cruel smile upon his lips. It was nearly a minute before the | girl could move. She sat there dumb | and motionless with terror. The blood j left her face; her very lips were white; she could sca y think cohe- rently. She was fz ated, stupefied. Kisch stood there, enjoy the effect ! he had produced, which augured well | for the success of his schemes; for, if the mere sight of him terrified her like this, what, thought he, would she not consent to do for the bribe of being re- | lieved of his presence? | It was in vain that Ursula tried to summon up courage to move from her | seat and ring the bell. She had be- lieved herselt secure, and here sie ; was, face to e with her enemy! She | could only stare like a bewitched crea- | ture, and struggle against the feeling | of deadly faintness that threatened to overpower her. It could not have been more than a minute that Kisch remained there watching her, but to the ter struck girl it seemed an hour. | At last he moved toward the door of the house. The danger was ccming nearer; but the mesmeric influence of | the old man’s eyes was removed, and Ursula found that she could move and | speak. But before she could rise from her seat, or think what was best to be done, the jangle of the door-bell sound- ed through the tiny passage. She ; shuddered to think how frail the bar- | rier was that separated her from her | foe. “Don’t let that man into the house, Emma, whatever you do!” she cried | out to the little maid-servant, who was going to open the door. “Then I'd best not answer the bell,’ said the girl. But a second and a third” time the bell sounded; and Emma, who was not without a Londonet’s | sharpness, and did not know what fear | was, thrust Ursula back into the sit- ting-room, and closed the door upon | her. Then she went to the house door | 1 | and threw it open. “What d’yer mean, a-ringin’ the ’ouse down?’ she demanded. “Think we ain’t got no years? Like yer impu-, dence!” | “Yell the young lady I saw at the window that | will not trouble her just at present, as I have an engagement,” said Kisch, totally ignoring Emma’s protests, and speaking in the even, rasping voice that Ursula, listening at the door, knew and shuddered to hear. “Yell her, however, that, now I have found her, she and I must have a little talk, and I'll call again to-night, or it may be, to-morrow morning, with a friend of mine. She can’t stay here much longer.” ! With these words, the Jew turned and went down the narrow pathway ' that led to the street, leaving Ursula, { sick with terror, listening to the girl, | er, She did not believe that the Jew had any authority over her whatever. Her good sense had told her, since her con~ valescence, that the threat of prose- cuting her on the charge of stealing, the diamonds was an empty one. She knew there was nothing that could be called proof against her. And yet, the mere knowledge that Kisch had dis~ covered her retreat brought with it an agony of dread. She believed that he | Would attempt any villainy to secureg) his own ends. The mere thought that he might reappear at the wizdow at any time made her ill. The idea crossed her mind that she might appeal to the police for protec- tion; but she did not in the least know how to set about it. She feared that the police would only Iaugh at her. How could she prove that the man in- tended to harm her now, certain as she felt of the fact? How could she, after so long a delay, charge him with hav- ing kidnapped and imprisoned her? People would it was a trumped-up charge, otherw she would have gone to the police the moment she was free. Besides, she had no witness besides Mr. Clovis, and him she had offended. He had not been near her since the doy she had refused him, “What are you afraid of, mum?" said the hard-headed Emma, looking at Ursula with 's in which pity was plainly blended with contempt. “He ean’t you. If he comes here to- night, s: ou won't see him, and if he anne send for the police.” ight, Emma. I ¥et if you knew fear I am ve this man “Look here, write to yer friends?” “My friends! Ah, Emma! I have not a single friend—not one to whom I can appeal in the wide world!” “Go along!” exclaimed the child of civilization, in a dialect which defies the resources of typographer. “You aven’t got no friends! Everyone has got friends, more or less.” “You are right. There is one,” said Ursula. And she hesitated. “What will he think of me? Will he think that I have changed my min Will he think that I am glad of an use to send for him? No, for Frank is a gentleman—and if he does, I don’t care.” She was in that state when the arm of a man to lean upon is a 2ecessity for 2 woman; and somehow she shut out of her mind, by a kind of instinct, all idea of calling for help to the man she had just refused to marry. This was partly due to the fact that he had kept away from her since the night when she toid him that she could not marry him, and partly by an unde fined feeling that was not exactly dis- trust, but something approaching to ii. Though she did not really suspect him, her ear had noted the false ring in the young man’s tone, the false note in ev- erything he said. “I will write to Frank,” she said, aloud. Emma put the writing materials be- fore her, and, saying she would be back for the letter in a quarter.of an hour, left ler. The letter was written and confided to Emma for the post. The girl saia she would post it if Ursula would lie down and get some rest; and, though she knew she could not sleep, she was glad to do as she was bid. Emma wert out to post the letter, and as she turned away from the post- oflice, she met Eugene Clovis face to face. He had been. so anxious to know how things were going that he could not keep away from the neighborhood; and yet he found that it was impossi- ble to face Ursula that day. He imag- ined that she would read in his eyes that he was betraying her. He had tried to meet Kis and had cd him. Now he forrd himself confront- ed by Ursula’s maid. He wished he hadn't seen her; but retreat s out of the question, especially as the girl evidently v hed to speak to him. “How is your mistress?” he asked, as unconeernedly as he could. “She's none too well, as who would be, with that old himage a-comin’ and startlin ‘er? Between you and me ana the lam-post, she no more heart than a chicken.” “What old man do you mean?” “T don’t know. An old party as the youn g lady seems mortal feard on. An ugly old feller, too, but I’ve seen wuss than him by a long chalk. She was that afraid of him, though, that she’s been writing to some of her friends to come and cheer her up & bit.” “Indeed,” said Clovis, with a smile, thinking that she had been writing to himself. “Don't you mistake, sir,” said the housemaid, pertly, with her nose in the air. “Iumma, did you look at the address on the letter you posted just now? I know you did.” The girl giggled, and did not deny it. “Tell me who that letter was ad- dressed to, and I will give you half a crown.” She shook her head. “Half a sovereign, then. Come, Em- ma. What harm is there in knowing his name?” They were now walking on side by side. Emma giggled again, highly de- lighted at finding herself a person of so much importance. Again she shook her head. “What a fool I am!” cried Clovis. “Of course it was me she wasewriting to. I might have guessed that. So I have saved half a sovereign, and you are half a sovereign poorer, my girl. You should have taken me at once, I will go and see Miss Joyce now.” “No, you don’t, sir; for she’s lyin’ down, and ain't to be disturbed for no one.” (Clovis was secretly very pleased to have the excuse for not calling.) “And, if you want to know, it was not you she was writin’ to. Think yer the ony man she has to look to? Not like- “Tell me his name, Emma,” said Clovis, at the same time slipping a half-sovereign into her palm. He was very pale, but Emma was too much excited to notice it. To her it was only a good joke. She had no doubt that it was jealousy that made the gentleman se anxious to know the name of Miss Jcyce’s correspondent, and she saw 10 harm in gratifying it. . She whis- pered the words, “Mr. Lester,” and was startled at the effect they pro- duced in Mr. Clovis’ face. But the sin- ister expression, the look of hate, van- ished as soon as it appeared, and Bro ma thought ne more of it. + (To be Continued.) 1 do—” mum. W’y don’t yer a a