Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, August 19, 1899, Page 2

CHAPTER I, (Continued) Unconsciously the conversation drift- ed again to thoughts of love. Again George Malcolm approached the beau- tiful unknown. Again he clasped in his her hands, then bent and kissed them. From such a dream he prayed no wakening might rudely visit him. eee It was midnight in the vaulted cham- ber of the temple. Stop still slum- bered; Kazil still watched. The storm had long passed over; the heavens, un- scured by clouds, shone with myri- ad fires; the radiant moon, showing its dise of silver above the zenith, inun- dated the ruins with a clear, white made an abrupt The cry of the practiced ear suddenly movement and rose. owl—the cry which a alone could distinguish from human lips again heard; but this time not without, but from the rrancan passages below. they,” murmured the child. am I about to learn? The: son n to whom I owe my life is in ble hands. -Notwithstanding pledge, I am afraid, What done with George Malcolm?” pectation he waited, but his anxiety was short. In a very few minutes the movable flag. was again displaced, and Saugor appeared, ing in his arms the Englishman, upped in deepest slumber. K V's face brightened; a flash of yy shone in his black eyes; a sigh es- eaped his lips. Saugor laid Malcolm among the cush- ions. Motioning toward the valet, he asked: “He has not moved since yester- day?” The boy made a negative sign. “It is well,” Saugor replied. And, drawing a flask from his breast, like that used by the beautiful masque in the mysterious palace, he held it successfully to the nostrils of Stop and his young master. Then, returning to Kazil, he said: “In a minute both will awaken.” “And if they question me, what shall I reply?’ “You have seen nothing; you know nothing, except that their slumber has lasted long “T will obey.” “Doubtless. The sons of Bowhanie | obey always and speak never.” At this moment Sir George and Stop made a simultaneous movement. Saugor disapeared through the aper- tu which became once more the sol- id tloor. Four or five seconds later, the mas- ter and valet, in the same moment, opened their eyes. Sir George’s first Jook questioned the walls. He recog- nized the sombre cupola, the wierd bas- reliefs of the temple, and a limitless s he murmured, in a tone of bitter disappointment, “it is too true! All has been a dream!” CHAPTER IU. Rising from his cushions, Sir George approached the opening which led into the ruins, and, mistaking the clear light of the moon for the first rays of the sun, he said: “We have slept long; ight.” You are wrong,” said the Hindoo, “Tt is still night; those are the moon- rays.” “What!” cried the Englishman, “The storm, then, has so quickly disap- peared?” “Since yesterday, master.” “Since yesterday!” repeated the En- glishman, throwing upon Kazil.a ques- tioning look. “What is it that you tell me?” “Twenty-four hours have passed, master, since we entered the ruins. Your sleep has been so profound that I have not dared-disturb you.” “But I have supped?” “Since our arrival here, maser, I have ‘watched you,’ and your eyelids: have mot once unclosed.” Kazil’s accent was so convincing, his face so impassable, ‘that the. young Englishman felt his last doubt vanish as to the unreality of all that had be- fallen him. “Then I have dreamed, indeed,” he said, and recounted to them all his dream. ¥ At its end he turned toward Kazil. “Have you ever known before so sin- ran experience?’ he askéd him, es, master, more than once,” an- ewered the child. “It is quite a com- mon phenomena to Europeans recently arrived in our country.” r! Not being able to argue the question, Sir George accepted the affirmation without challenge. Then, leading the way toward the palanquin, around which the bearers watched with in- finite patience, they took up their thomeward route. For a time Sir George was thought- ful and quiet; but suddenly he called Kazil to him. * “You have told me my father saved your life. How was it?” already it is as emanating | i | ! | “It happened two years ago. I was fishing in the Ganges, when I discov- ered, so luxuriant was the dense foli- age on the bank, that my line was too short to be carried far enough into the stream, and was turning away disap- pointed in the hope of my day’s sport, when I spied a small canoe, such as the fishermen, construct in a few hours, by hollowing with fire the trunk of a tree, tied to a stake on the shore. I determined to make use of the boat— its paddle was lying in the bottom— and have my sport, and return it unin- jured. “The river, as it runs here the length of the forest of Ramgawth, is of im- mense width. The branches of the trees, whose seed was sown, it is said, by the god Vishnu himself, ten thou- sand years ago, form from one bank to the other a colossal arch, beneath which the sacred river flows. It is su- perb, but terrible; but all this I thought nothing of, as each time that L tkrew my line into the water I drew out a fish, until at the end of two or three hours I grew tired, and my string of fish being full, I concluded to stop. “I was putting my line in order, when I felt a sudden shock, which al- most threw me overboard. I looked tu see against what object the current had forced me, when I saw glisten in the water a brown mass I supposed to be the trunk of a dead tree. My illu- sion was short, for I now saw the sup- posed tree had life. “The water spouted under the large paws, ending in hooked talons, and a hideous head, as long as my arm from the shoulder, gaping from end to end, and filled with sharp and two-edged teeth, lifted itself above the side of my boat, and fixed on me its great, green eyes, with an expression I shall never forget. “It was the most terrible, the most ferocious, the most frightful of the in- habitants of the Ganges. Kk was a crocodile. I am not often afraid, mas- ter, and although I was but a child, I had before faced danger; but I will confess, at this terrible moment, my bravery and my courage deserted me, yet I did not entirely lose my presence of mind. “I was unarmed, and resolved to seek safety in flight. Catching up the paddle, I directed the canoe, with all my strength, toward the shore. The crocodile pursued me. I redoubled my efforts, when a second shock paralyzed my arm. The monster had seized and crushed the paddle in his teeth. I was now helpless, and could only await death in perfect powerlessness. I knelt in the canoe and prayed Vishnu, who is the good god, and enemy of Siva. “Suddenly the monster dived and dis- appeared. I believed myself saved, and I began my thanksgiving to Vish- nu, when, returning to the charge, with one blow of his tail he sent the boat into the air in fragments, and left me struggling in the Ganges. “I swim and dive like a fish, and for a time I eluded his efforts to seize me, uttering piercing cries the while, al- though hopeless of rescue. The croco- dile, disappointed at this new delay, began revolving about me, exhaling a fetid odo: nd striking the water with its gigantic tail. I was growing dizzy and blind, when, through a cloud, as it were, I heard a voice: “Courage, my child!—courage! re. I will rescue you!” The idea that I was not alone gave me new strength. I looked, and saw, on the left shore, a man on horseback, spurring his horse, against his will, in- to the water. The horse was black and covered with white foam. He was afraid, and resisted, rearing backward, until it seemed he must overthrow both himself and his rider. The struggle lasted several seconds, but it was the man who conquered, The beast, directed by a hand of iron, began swimming rapidly toward me. In one hand the rider held a pistol, A dagger was between his teeth. é e crocodile, seeing his new prey ance, forsook me and turned to- d them. I will not describe the splendid fight that followed. It was ended by the horseman, sending a ball into the eye of the monster, when T lost consciousness and sank under the waters, to be rescued by his strong arm. wa “You are saved, poor child!” he mur- mured. ar nothing more and come with me.” “And, holding me before him on his saddle, we once more, in safety, re- gained the shore.” For a moment Kazil was silent, wip- ing a tear from his long lashes. Then he added: =} “Master, the cavalier, who risked his life for a poor, unknown, child, who be- longed neither to his race, caste or re- ligion, is named Sir John Malcolm, It was your father.” “My noble father!’ murmured Sir George. “Ah, he is, indeed, a hero, yet so simple in his heroism that ac- tions, however sublime, great and chi- valric, appear simple when he accom- plishes them.” “You understand now that I love him,” Kazil continued; “and not he alone, but all those who are near and dear to him.” “Kazil, are your parents living?’ asked the Englishman. “No; Iam an orphan, and quite alone in the world.” “Alone? Then, if you wish it,” said Sir George, kindly; “you shall remain always with me.” Kazil hung his head, and did not an- swer. “The idea is distasteful to you?” “No—oh, no!” “what, then?” “To give myself wholly to you,” re- plied the child, “I must be free.” Tam “And you are not?” “No.” “You belong, then, to some one?” Tee.” “To whom?” “I cannot answer. I have sworn to keep the secret. It is the secret of an- other. Ask me nothing; I cannot an- sver you.” “Guard your secret, then, my child,” answered Sir George, “and keep, also, your liberty. You cannot belong to me. So be it. But I regret it bitterly, for I love you.” | An involuntary sigh was Kazil’s mute but.eloquent answer. | A few hours later Kazil, parting the curtains of the palanquin, called out: “Master, we are here. Look! This is Berares!” Ere long the bearers. halted at a/| charming villa outside the city. In an- other moment Sir George was clasped in the welcoming arms of his father and his brother. When they lad grown calmer, Sir John exclaimed: “But what delayed you, George? We expected you yesterday.” George smiled. “A singular incident,” he answered. “Both Stop and I took an uninterrupted nap of twenty-four hours. We were overtaken by the storm, and sought shelter in the ruined Temple of Siva’’ “The ruins of the Temple of Siva?” repeated Sir John, a shudder passing over him as he uttered the words. “Yes, father.” “And you and Stop have slept twen- ty-four hours, you tell me?” “Yes.” “And Kazil?” “He, too, slept, I presume; although he maintains to the contrary. For my part, I have had the most charming ev- idence of my slumber in a dream.” “Ah!” murmured Sir John Malcolm. “A delicious dream,” continued Sir George, “that I would not exchange for the most intoxicating reality, if it might be renewed.” “And, by chance, did a woman take part in it?” “Yes, father—a woman most ador- able!” “Have you forgotten the night you passed in the ruins of the temple on the Mountain Beomah?” “Certainly not.” “You remember your dream?” George could not repress an exclama- tion of astonishment. “I remember it,” he answered. “And how does this memory impress you?” |‘My heart beats with exaltation.” “If one should offer you this dream again?” ‘Who could make me such an offer?” “I, perhaps,” answered the un- known. “Would you accept?” “With joy, intoxication, delirium! It is the dearest of my wishes!” “Well, it remains but with you wheth- er this wish shall b efulfilled.” “When?” “To-night.” “And I—what must I do?” “You belong to the privileged class known in England as gentlemen?” “Yes.” “Give me, then, your word as a, gen- tleman to accept all the conditions which may be imposed.” “Before binding myself with an oath, I have the right and the wish to know these conditions.” “Agreed! First, you must allow your eyes to be tightly bandaged.” “But suppose this is a trap?” “You have nothing to fear. That your life is not at stake is proved by the fact that a moment ago I could have struck you dead at my feet with a blow of a knife from behind.” “It is true,” murmured the young Englishman to himself. “This path fills all an assassin’s wish.” Then, aloud: “I agree to the bandaged eyes.” “You will make no attempt to lift the bandage? and you will seek, nei- ther to-morrow: nor ever, to find the way through which you will be led?” “Agreed:” “You will respect the velvet mask of her who wishes to remain to you un- “Tell me your dream, omitting noth-@known?” ing, passing over nothing.” “But why?” “You shall know later—speak first.” Sir John listened with an attention that never wandered, as, somewhat surprised, George acceded to nis re- quest. When he had finished, he spoke, for the first time since the beginning of the recital. “If I have understood aright,” he said, “this woman was masked?” “Yen,!” “You insisted many times that she should permit you to see her face, but she always refused?” “Yes.” “What is the last memory of your aream—her last action?” “She made me breathe an intoxicat. ing perfume with which her handker- chief was saturated.” “Anh!” cried Sir John, with an accent of triumph. “I was sure of it!” “Of what, father?” asked George, in- finitely puzzled. “That the skillful creature had em- ployed, to put you to sleep anew, one of the most powerful Indian narcotics. You have not dreamed, my boy—your good fortune was not imaginary. The masked woman lives! More than once I have sought to trace her in her role of siren!” “Is it possible?” stammered George. “Possible and positive!” replied. his father. “Then I have not dreamed,” coutin- ued the young man; adding, as to Iimself: “I would like again to see her.” The judge made a sudden movement. “You cannot love her,” he cried, “since you have never seen her face.” ‘Love her? No! Why should I love her? But there is about her a fascinz- tion which allures me.” ‘Happily, you will never see her n.” ‘Who knows?” thought George Mal- coln. “It is not to this mysterious siren you must give your heart,” continued the old man. “A pure and lovely child is to claim it; and when you know Agnes Bartell—whom, I hope, will become your wife—you will dream no more of the enchantments of this Circe of Hin- dostan. You will understand that your happiness and destiny are near this young girl’s, whose soul is as exquisite as her body.” “Agnes Bartell!” repeated George. “When, father, am I to meet her?” “Very soon—in a few days, at the latest. a few weeks. Her sister, Hera, is your brother, Edward’s fiancee. They are both orphans, and my wards.” “And you believe that I shall love Agnes?” “Not to love her would be to own yourself blind and deaf. The chanms of her face and the sweet music of her yoice would conquer her heart, were it armed with indifference and. colder than marble.” “Ah, well, so much the better!” cried George. “I have never truly loved, and am most anxious to make free gift of my heart.” But not of this heart’s claimant was the young man thinking, as, the even- ing of the second day following his ar- rival, he sauntered out alone beyond the limits of the garden surrounding the villa. Through a thickly-shaded path he slowly strolled, wondering if his father had guessed rightly, and if his dream, after all, had been reality, and all un- conscious that, a few steps behind him, followed a tall, white shadow, whose feet made no sound upon the gravel of the path. Suddenly he shuddered—a hand rest- ed upon his shoulder. He turned to find himself facing a gigantic phantom —an apparition enveloped from head to foot in a long, white veil, three open- ings in which indicated alone the posi- tion of the eyes and mouth. John Malcolm had obtained a prom- ise from his son that he would never go out without carrying in his hand a Hindoo pogiard and two small pocket pistols. He now sized one of the lat- ter, crying out: “Take care—I am armed!” * “Your wesepon is useless,” answered a voice, in bad English. “You haye nothing to fear from me.” “Why, then, do you stop me?” “Because I wish to put to you some questions. You are the son of the civil- jan who lives at the bungalow from which you have just come?” “Yes.” “You have been in Benares but three “You are called George Malcolm?” “Yes.” + The man was silent a moment; then he asked: +s a “What! still the mask?” he cried, in disappointment. “Always.” “It is very hard, but if it is an abso- lute requirement, I swear to respect it.” “There remains yet another condi- tion—that no one in the world, neither your father, your brother nor your ser- vant, shall know of this adventure.” “T engage that they shall not.” “Tf,” continued the unknown, “your absence during the night is discovered, you will invent some pretext to explain it?” “I promise all.” “You swear it, on the honor of a gen- tlernan?” “I swear it.” “It is well “Already “You hesitate “No, I do not hesitate; but my fatk- er, knowing I have gone out, will be uneasy if I do not return.” “Go, then. Say a good-night to your father. Pretend to retire to your room, and rejoin me here.” “I will be with you in fifteen min- utes.” “Go, then. I wait.” A half-hour later the two men, hay- ing walked for twenty minutes in ab- solute silence, stopped beside two horses tethered together. “The hour has come,” said the guide. “Bend your head.” George obeyed. He felt a silk hand- kerchief bound about his eyes, con- demning him to momentary hut abso- lute blindness. “Your horse can run with the swift- ness of the wind or the shooting star. Lift your left hand and take the rein. I will show you the stirup.” “I am in saddle,” called George, springing, unassisted, to his horse with the easy skill of an accomplished rider. The man mounted the second steed, and, making a guttural exclamation, the noble beasts darted forward, or, rather, seemed to fly, for their gallop, devouring .space, scarcely permitted their hoofs to touch the ground. Sir George could determine neither time nor distance when the horses stopped. “Alight!” said his guide. “Give me your hand. I will lead you.” Obeying, he felt a sand soft as a vel- yet carpet beneath his feet; the deli- cious odor exhaled from flowers at night filled the atmosphere. He heard the sweet, monotonous murmur of fall- ing waters. Evidently, he was in the midst of sumptuous gardens, belonging to some palace. Silently they crossed several apart- ments, and then the unknown released Malcolm’s hand from his stréng clasp. “When you shall have counted twen- ty,” he said, “remove your bandage.” Come!” This instant?” CHAPTER Iv. George Malcolm minutely followed the directions. When he had mentally pronounced each number from one to twenty, he untied the silken bandage, and looked about him with a euriosity by no means unnatural. He found himself in a room very sim- lar in shape, size and furnishing to the poudoir which had been previously de- scribed. The rays of light, which fell through a dome of cut glass of opaline tints, spread through the apartment a dreamy, twilight atmosphere. Heavy portieres of Chinese satins, embroid- ered with fabulous birds and impossi- ble flowers, concealed any opening. George Malcolm seated himself, or, rather, let himself fall, upon the large, circular divan. His head was on fire his heart beat to suffocation, He waited in feverish impatience, each second lengthening itself into an hour. But long to him as the waiting ap- peared, in reality it was short. One of the portieres slid back upon the crystal rings which held ity and a radiant vision appeared before the young man’s charmed and dazzled eyes. It was the mysterious woman whose intoxicating memory had haunted the young Englishman since the night he had taken refuge in the ruined temple. A tunic of muslin shot with silver, re- vealed the beauty of her form. Her hair, unbound, floated about her like a veil, and rippled even to her feet. Her great eyes sparkled through the mask. George sprung up at her entrance, and knelt to kiss her hands, stammer- ing in ecstasy: “And this is not a dream! You ex- ist, madame? You have wished again to see me?” “Yes; I have wished again to see you,” answered the unknown—“again to see you, George Malcolm, because 1 love you!” ~- Several hours after, the son of the chief found himself again alone, when the Hindoo (called by his mistress Saugor) rejoined him, attached about his eyes the handkerchief, took him by the nand, led him out of the house, and conducted him to his horse. ‘ As before, the two steeds annihilated space. It was almost daybreak when, relieved for the second time from his temporary and voluntary blindness, young Malcolm found himself, his fee= upon the solid ground, and his father’s bungalow but a few hundred feet, dis- tant! Some sixteen years previous to the opening of our story, the post of Civil- ian Chief Justice of the Presidency of Benares had been offered to Sir John Malcolm by the East India Company. Knowing the royal magnificence with which the company endows its officers, and wishing to amass a fortune for his sons, he had accepted the post, placed his boys at college and departed alone for the East. Ten years after, Edward, then a boy of nineteen, had joined him. Not until the end of six years did Sir John ac- cede to his eldest son’s wish to come to him. The last letter George had re- ceived from his father ran thus: “The moment has come, my son, to yield to your request, and to grant you what in each of your letters you so earnestly plead. I consent that you re- join me here, and even desire that you take passage at the earliest possible moment in one of the packets of the company. For long years, my boy, I have given my life to a sacred and mysterious end. I have undertaken an immense and dangerous work—a work which I alone understand, and which I alone can bring to a happy conclusion. I see the goal—at least so I believe and hope—but innumerable perils surround me. I may at any hour fall dead— struck by an unseen hand; and dead, all that I have done, all that I hope to do, is lost and destroyed. This must not be. Your brother, Edward, is too young to fill, if need be, my place. I wish to make of you another self, and if I perish, I leave to you as a heritage of honor the continuance of my gigan- tie task, and so after us the old name of Malcolm will not die, for we shall have done that which will make it re- membered. We shall, perhaps, have saved English sovereignty in India, In face of this half-revelation, you will understand the eager impatience with which I awaif you; for each step that I take onward increases the dangers which threaten me. Come, then, my son—come quickly!” Then followed directions for the jour- and the promise of an escort, with the child-guide, who should await him in Calcutta. The morning following his adventure George entered his father’ 1 “I have come, sir, to talk of your let- ter,” he began. “I wish the key to this enigma, the answer to the problem. I aim eager to know all. Speak quickly, then. I listen.” “Ah, dear boy! you must still wait,” said Sir John. “Wait!” George repeated, found astonishment. “Yes.. Since writing you, I have made a great step onward. My work has progressed in an unexpected and unhoped-for manner. The decisive se- eret which I seek, and which twenty times has eluded me, will not this time, I think, escape me. And this secret in my hands, George, is, you see, the eer- tainty of success and triumph. I reach the end! I touch the goal!” While Sir John spoke thus, a strange exaltation made his voice tremble, and a sort of inner light spread over his face. “With you, my child,” he continued, “I will share the glory. But I wish to r-ake the last effort alone!” “You mean,” answered the son, “L am not to share the danger, I see, father. But I wish no glory if I may incur no peril.” The chief justice Iaid his hand wpon the younger man’s blonde head. “Be assured, dear child,” he said. “When I ery ‘Eureka! the end will not be yet, and I promise you danger enough to fill with envy the Knights of the Round Table. Are you content?” “Yes, in a measure; provided I must not wait too Iong.” I will not exhaust your patience. In a month from to-day you shall know all. “Come what may, whether success or failure crown your efforts?” “Come what may. I swear to confide all to you!” “I accept your promise. In one month I will come to you and say: ‘Here I am! I Listen!”” in pro- CHAPTER V. It had been agreed between George Malcolm and his mysterious guide that each evening at 10 o'clock he should walk through the garden of the bunga- low. If the hoot of an ow! should be heard three times im the foliage which formed an arch over the path where first he had met Saugor, it was a sig- nal, and signified that the mask ex- pected him, that he must at ence leave the bungalow and rejoin the Hindoo, who, with the two horses, awaited him in the same spot. During fifteen days, eight times the signal had been given, and eight times, with the fiercest ardor, he had hasten- ed to the appointment. Yet Maleolm was not in love. As Sir Jobn had said, one cannot love a wo- man whose face is hidden! Yet she ex- ercised over him an irresistible attrac- tion, a magnetic fascination, His thought was ever with her. At the memory of the perfumed odor of her hair he signed. A terrible mel- ancholy assailed him when the thought passed through his mind that perhaps one day the signal so passionately looked for would not sound. Sometimes he recalled his father’s words concerning Agnes Burtell, and, as his nature was honest and loyal, he would murmur: “I do wrong. Soon’ my father will present to me, as my fiancee, this love- ly and pure child, and, in place of pre- paring myself to offer her a heart worthy to receive her, I make myself the slave of an unknown woman, whom caprice has thrust into my arms. Is it not all wrong, and do I not de- ceive in advance her who will bear my name?” ‘Thus he reasoned, but when, at the stroke of ten, he heard net the signal, and the silence of the night was un- broken by the hoot of the owl, he re- entered the bungalosy, sad and disap- pointed. % Faas said, when, entering the room one morning, George ft his father and brother with radiant : He was not tong in learning the good news. The next day Sir John’s wards, Agnes and Hera Burtell, would arrive at the bungalow as his guests. “Ah!” murmured George, “already?” “Yes,” answered Sir John. “To-mor- row Edward will again see his be- trothed and you shall know your fu- ture wife. But you appear indifferent and cold.” George forced a constrained smile. “I am enchanted,” he replied. I have never seen Miss Burtell. She must be charming, since you find her so; but still, you understand, that if my heart beats at the prospect of meet- Ing this beautiful child, it is with curi- osity, rather than with deeper emo- tion.” “You are right,” answered Sir John. “My blood flows too warmly for my old veins. I fancy you in love already. It is, however, but a question of time. To-day you are indifferent. To-mor- row my predictions will be fulfilled.” Alone, George shuddered at the thought of this arrival, which to his father and brother gave such delight. He now exaggerated the links which bound him to the unknown, only reas- suring himself with the remembrance that he was at least of an age to dis- pose of his own heart and hand, and that his father, in seeking to influence him, was not only unwise, but exercis- ing an abuse of his authority, In short, he took the immutable reso- lution to resist the parental will, and not to allow himself to be drawn into a marriage of convenience. “I am free,” he said to himself. “1 will remain free. Miss Agnes Burtell can marry whom she pleases. I will yield to her the world to choose, but I will answer that her husband does not call himself George Malcolm.” ‘This irrevocable decision taken, he felt immense relief. “To-morrow will be time to begin the battle, he thought; and so put it from im, But at ten o’clock he waited in the garden with more impatience than his wont, for the expected signal. The hour began to strike. He listened, un- til it seemed to him his heart ceased to beat; but to the last stroke of the tiny hanimer, silence alone succeeded. Still he waited. But no interruption came to the unbroken calm of the night. Bitt ppointed, a prey for the first time to jealousy, lest the unknown ould sacrifice him to some new ca- price, he returned to the house an@ threw himself upon his bed. He tossed feverishly through the night, not once closing his eyes, until at daylight, ab- solutely exhausted, he fell into a trou- bled slumber. He was awakened by joyful exclamations uttered beneath q indow. Sir John’s wards had ar- rived. Shortly after, one of the ser- vants of the bungalow entered the room. “Sir John Malcolm,” he said, “begs that your honor will descend to the drawing room.” “Say to my father that I will be with him in a few moments,” answered George. When, in obedience to this request, he appeared on the threshold of the salon, Sir John, slipping his hand through his arm, led him toward tne young girls confersing with his broth- er, and said, in a joyful voice, which keen emotion rendered somewhat tren ulous: “Agnes, Hera, my dear children, Iet me present to you, one of whom you have so often heard me speak, my eld- est son, George Malcolm.” George bowed before the young girls, who, according to English fashion, ex- tended their hands with gracious fa- miliarity. Raising his eyes, he felt, for the first time in his life, a sudden, bewildering fascination. They were neither, per- hp as,possessed of the marvelous per- fections described in the pages of ro- mance; Dut there was about them a wonderful grace and charm—a some- thing such as we see or recognize in the unfolding flower. Agnes, the eldest, was eighteen. Her figure a little above the medium in height and: exquisitely proportioned; her thick and wavy chestnut hair formed a perfect contrast with the dark blue eyes and the peach-tint on her cheek. Her face, lighted with in- telligence, expressed at once frankness and firmness. Hera, not so tall as her sister, was yet wonderfully seductive, Her hair was light, her eyes black; but her face, although denoting more sweetness, possessed less firmness. George, standing motionless, a stat- ue of admiration, before Agnes, eould not withdraw his gaze. The young girl involuntarily smiled and blushed; the smile he detected, but the blush es- caped him, and, fearing ridicule, by a violent effort, he regained control and became his usual self, a brillant and thoroughbred man of the world, enter- ing readily into the eonversation that followed, and which was sustained by the young girls with an intelligence and cleverness which evidenced not only bright minds, but careful and ~ thorough education. In George Malcolm had taken place a sudden and complete metamorphosis, The provoking and entrancing image of the unknown in the velvet mask, which had held place, if not in his heart, at least in his imagination, had vanished as a dream from the moment when his glance had rested, enthralled, upon Agnes Burtell’s classie beauty. He remembered the unknown no long- er, and he whispered to himself as he regarded her,. whom his father’s will made his fiancee: “Ah! here is my futnre, my happi- ness! At her feet I will pass my life, and will put my very soul into the little hands of this child!” In the afternoon, the girls having gone to their rooms to rest until the dinner hour, George found alone with his father and brother. “Well, my boy,” asked Sir John, “what do you think of my wards?” “That they are angels,” he answered, His father smiled. “What enthusiasm!” he exclaimed. “Yes, enthusiasm, perhaps,” said George; “but in all my life none has been better merited or more sincere.” “You believe, then, in all I have said? 1 have exaggerated nothing?” “No; you have failed in revealing all the truth.” “Then no constraint will be needful oh Dawes you to make Agnes your ee .. (Tobe Continued) , % + ad Fifteen days haa elapsed, an we have “But -