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.r 
 


THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFS 
 
 BY MRS. MAY AGNES FLEMING. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE TWO FKIBNDS. 
 
 "And i*6j hanie, hatne, hanie, 
 1 fain wad be— 
 Jbiame, hanie, hiime, 
 „ In my ain countrie." 
 
 ".•-'_.". —Allen Cunningham. 
 
 •rMoRNiNG on the oceani Gradually 
 K>/ie the sun in the red east, sailing slow- 
 ly arnd majestically toward the meridian 
 —a burning jewel of fire set in the deep-, 
 blue sky. Light, fleecy clouds dotted the 
 azure firniament here ahd there, looking 
 as pure and as stainless as snowillkes 
 or the white wings of angels. The 
 balmy «iputh breezie scarcely rippled the 
 surface of the deep, or filled the canvas 
 of the. good ship Mermaid, as she glided 
 gracefully onward, bound for the bright 
 shores of Amiferica. 
 
 The day was intensely hot. The crew 
 fay in groups, idly, about the deck. The 
 captain— a stately-looking man or forty 
 or thereabouts— paced up and down the 
 quarter-deck— now letting his eyes wan- 
 der over his men, or giving them some 
 order; now looking aloft with a sailor's 
 pride in his handsome craft; and now 
 raising his glass tp sweep the horizon, 
 on which no living thing was to be seen 
 save themselves. 
 
 ; I;*eanihg over the tafCrail, stood two 
 young men. The elder appeared to be 
 dbout twenty-five" years of ^e— tall and 
 finely proportioned, with an eye like an 
 eagle and liair that 
 
 "To_ shame might bring. 
 
 The plumage bt the raven's wing 
 
 He stopd leaning over the side, his eyes 
 fixed thoughtfully on the spray flash- 
 ing in the sunlight as the ship cut her 
 way through the rippling waves. His 
 hat was off, and the cool breeze lifted 
 lightly tJie jetty locks off his high, white 
 brow. 
 
 His companion was a youth some three 
 or faui'' 'years 'his Junior, with a frank, 
 haridsOtfte face, and laughing hazel eyes. 
 Hid look of careless ease was very dil- 
 	ereprit from the iproud reserve of his 
 cqtnp&nioii, bilt some secret bond of/ 
 sj^mpath]; tioundi ttio^e two together. . v?* j- 
 
 "Well, Fred," said the younger of the 
 two, continuing their conversation, 
 "since, as you say, you neither have a 
 lady-love in America nor expect a leg- 
 acy there, T confess it puzzles me to 
 know what inducement could have been 
 strong enough to make you quit Paris." 
 
 "Very easily told, my dear fellow; I 
 have started for America at the exprews 
 command of my worthy fatiier." 
 
 "Whew! what a dutiful son you are, 
 Fred. And, pray, what has brought Sir 
 William to that rebellious land?" 
 
 "To assist in subduing the rebellious 
 Yankees, of course!" replied the young 
 man, with a slight sneer on his well-cut 
 Hp ' 
 
 "And he wishes his son and heir to 
 aid him in that laudable design, instead 
 of spending his time making love in 
 Paris?" 
 
 "Yes; he has obtained for me the |X)St 
 of lieutenant in the British army, he 
 says." 
 
 "Which you will, of course, accept?" 
 said the younger of the two, with a pe- 
 culiar smiie, as he lit. a cigar, and blew 
 a whiff of smoke from the corner of his 
 •mouth. 
 
 "Which I most decidedly will not!" 
 I'epiied Fred, coolly. 
 
 "And why, may 1 ask?" 
 
 "Why? What a question for you to 
 ask, Gus! Am I not an American by 
 birth— an American in heart and soul — 
 a thousand times prouder of. the glori- 
 ous land in which I was born than • of 
 iny father's broad acres in merrle Eng- 
 land? Why? I tell you, Gus Elliott, 1 
 will join the ranks of my countrymen, 
 and fight and conquer or die with them 
 in defense of their cause!" 
 
 He stood erect, while his eagle eye 
 flashed, and his dark oheek glowed with 
 the enthusiasm with which he spoke. -. 
 
 Gus stood regarding him with some- 
 thing like admiration struggling through 
 his usual look of careless indifference. 
 
 "WeII,'« he said, after a pause, "I cail 
 that pretty strong language for the son 
 of such a stanch royalist as Sir.W;iltiam 
 Stanley. What do you suppose your hon- 
 ored father will say when he seea his 
 son turn rebel?" 
 
 'Doubtless." said Fred, quietly, 
 
 .r 
 


THE Ht: If At IT OF TIJIC CLU'TH. 
 
 will be In a towering passion, and rather 
 nmazpfl that any one should presume to 
 disobey hlH commands. I have long 
 known it must, sooner «)r later, come to 
 this. When this wai t:rst eommenced 
 bow often has my blood boiled with Im- 
 potent rage, listening to the insults and 
 sneers of him and his tory friends on 
 the 'reVel Yankees,' as they contemptu- 
 ously called them. How I did long, then, 
 to leave England and fly to my native 
 land, to aid her sons in their brave 
 struggles for Independence! I would 
 have done so. but I shrank from the 
 Htorm of passion which I knew must 
 follow it. When my father left Eng- 
 land to join his Britannic Majesty's 
 army in America, I left for Paris, lest 
 he should desire me to follow him. and 
 thus hasten a disclosure of our oppo- 
 site sentiments. Three weeks ago I re- 
 ceived his command to Join him Instant- 
 ly. It seems some rumor of my true 
 sentiments has reached him; and, in- 
 dignant that any one should presume to 
 question the loyalty of a son of his, he 
 desires me to vindicate my allegiance to 
 his gracious Majesty, and wipe off such 
 a stain on his name by Immediately ac- 
 cepting the post he has obtained for 
 me In the army. Any further conceal- 
 jnent is, of course, out of the question, 
 and I thank Heaven It Is so; for It seems 
 to me a craven act In any one to remain 
 an idle spectator while his native land, 
 in her struggles for freedom, calls all 
 her sons to her aid." 
 
 He leaned his 'ead on his hand, and 
 gazed thoughtfully on the bright waves 
 below. 
 
 'For inyrelf," said Gus, who had been 
 deeply Impressed by Fred's earnestness, 
 "I always sympathized with the Col- 
 onies, but it was merely the natural 
 feeling which all must experience when 
 they see a band of brave pien struggling 
 for freedom. As in your case, America 
 is the land of my birth; but. up to the 
 present. 1 have been absent from it so 
 long that I had almost ceased to regard 
 it as such. Now, however, my feelings 
 are changed. Together, Fred, we will 
 fight the battles of our native land; ev- 
 ery arm that will lift Itself In her de- 
 fense Is needed now." 
 
 "Your sentiments do you honor, my 
 dear Gus; but, as you asked me before, 
 what will your friends say?" 
 
 "Oh! I have no friends worth men- 
 tioning," replied Gus, resuming his for- 
 mer Indifferent tone. '1 am an orphan, 
 you know, with a bank-stock sufficient 
 for all my wants, with no relations that 
 I know of except an uncle in America, 
 whom I have not seen these ten years. 
 And I tell you what," he added, with a 
 sudden animation, "he has two con- 
 foundedly pretty daughters— especially 
 younger. I used to be desperately 
 iove with Nell, as a boy." 
 
 "Indeed." said Fred, smiling, "and who 
 is this uncle of yours?— a Tory, no 
 doubt." 
 
 "You had better »)elleve it!" said Gus. 
 "Major Perclval hates the rebels as h*- 
 hates Old Harry. Of course, I'll be dis- 
 owned when he hears what I've done. 
 Every one has his own peculiar hobby: 
 and pride of birth is Major Percival's. 
 If you were only to hear him, Fred. 
 He dates his descent back to the days 
 of Noah, and a good deal further; lor 
 some of his ancestors, I believe, were 
 drowned In the flood. His lady, too, Mrs. 
 Perclval. Is the granddaughter of a lord: 
 so you see the major has some founda- 
 tion for his family pride. He's as rich 
 as Croesus, too." 
 
 "And Miss Nell, I suppose. Is heiress 
 to his wealth?" 
 
 "Not she, faith. Major Perclval has 
 a son and daughter beside; Nell's the 
 youngest. You ought to know Nugent 
 Perclval; he's a glorious fellow, and nn 
 mistake— about your age, too, I should 
 think." 
 
 "I may see them all yet — who knows?" 
 said Fred. "I wish this voyage were over.. 
 I long to see my father and tell him all. 
 and join the patriot army of Washing- 
 ton." 
 
 "You told me you were born In Amer- 
 ica," said Gus, after a pause. "I thought 
 Lady Stanley was an Englishwoman, 
 and had never crossed the Atlantic 
 ocean In her life. 
 
 "The Lady Stanley you knew was not 
 my mother," said Fred, coldly. * 
 
 "She was not! That's something I 
 never heard before,'' exclaimed Gus, in 
 unbounded surprise. 
 
 "It's none the less true on that ae> 
 count," replied Fred, while a slight flush 
 crimsoned his dark cheek. "My mother 
 was an American born; she lived, died, 
 and was bvwled In .that land." 
 
 "Well, now, that's odd." said Gus. 
 puffing meditatively on his cigar. "Come, 
 Fred, make a clean breast of it; I made 
 an open confession to you; and one good 
 turn, you imow, deserves another." 
 
 The young man smiled slightly, and 
 then his face grew serious — almost sad. 
 
 "Very few know my history," he said, 
 with a half sigh, "but Avith you, my dear 
 Gus, I know I may speak freely. Many 
 years ago, when my father was a young 
 man, business or pleasure — I know not 
 which — called him to America. While 
 there he made the acquaintance of a 
 young girl far beneath him in wealth 
 and rank, but his equal in education, 
 and his superior in moral worth. Bewil- 
 dered by her beauty, he forgot their dif- 
 ferent degrees of rank, and the young 
 girl became his wife. His marriage was 
 kept a secret from his proud friends in 
 England, and Sir William knew that 
 there was little fear of their ever diK- 
 covering it, for prudence had not be^n 
 
 vvh€ 
 was 
 G^ 
 ing 
 
 but! 
 bac 
 
 1X1 
 


THE HERMIT OF TUB CLIFFS. 
 
 frngotti-n by love, and he had wooed and 
 won Jitr under an assumed name. My 
 mother never dreamed her husband was 
 aught but one of her own station, and It 
 was my father's aim not to undeceive 
 
 her." 
 
 "It was a confoundedly mean trick!" 
 interrupted Gus, indignantly. 
 
 "When I was about nine years old," 
 continued Fred, unmindful of his words, 
 'my father started for England, as he 
 said, on business. As he was frequently 
 in the habit of doing so, my mother was 
 not surprised; but her husband had by 
 this time outgrown his love for her, and 
 when, five months after, he returned, it 
 was as the husband of another." 
 
 Gus was again about to make a pass- 
 ing remark on Sir William's conduct, 
 but suddenly i becking himself, he sank 
 back in silence. 
 
 "He told her all," went on Fred, with 
 stern briefness; "his rank, his title; told 
 her he was the husband of another, and 
 that she must no longer consider herself 
 his wife. He said he had come for me, 
 to take me with him to England; that 
 I was his son, <end should be educated 
 as became a Stanley. My poor mother 
 shrieked and clung to me, but I was 
 forcibly torn from iier arms. They said 
 she fell to the ground like one dead, 
 and from that hour never spoke again. 
 One week after, she was laid in her 
 grave." 
 
 . F-ed paused, while the veins In his 
 forehead grew dark, and his voice choked 
 with suppressed emotion. 
 
 "But she was avenged," he continued, 
 lifting his head, while his eyes flashed; 
 "she had a brother, absent at the time, 
 but who, on his return, heard the story 
 from the sexton who had buried my 
 mother. His oath of vengeance was 
 fearful, and fearfully kept. Five years 
 passed away. Sir William and Lady 
 Stanley had but one child, a daughter, 
 whom they Idolized. Leila was the gen- 
 tlest and most beautiful creature I ever 
 saw. Words cannot tell you, Gus, how 
 I loved that child. One day, as the nurse 
 was walking with her through the 
 grounds of Stanley Park, a man. dressed 
 in the rough garb of a sailor, sprang 
 from behind the trees, and. In spite of 
 the shrieks and struggles of the at- 
 tendants, bore her off. 
 
 "The nurse, wild with terror, fled back 
 to the house, and, meeting Sir William 
 on the piazza, fell, fainting, at his feet. 
 When she recovered, she related what 
 had happened, and the consternation 
 and horror her recital produced may be 
 better imagined than described. There 
 was no doubt in Sir William's mind as 
 to who had done the deed. The abduc- 
 tor had left a message: 'Tell Sir Will 
 Stanley.' said he, 'that my sister is 
 avenges!' Search was made in every 
 direction, enormous rewards were of- 
 
 fered, the police were put on the track. 
 but all in vain. Not the slightest clue 
 to Leila could be obtained, it was the 
 belief cif every one that the sailor had 
 destroyed the child to escape detection." 
 
 "It is more than probable" said Gus. 
 "Poor Lady Stanli-y! I can now under* 
 stand the cause of the strange melan- 
 choly that used to puzzle me so much." 
 
 "She never smiled from that day," said 
 Fled. "Had the child died she would 
 have grieved, but such grief is as noth- 
 ing. It was the terrible uncertainty as 
 to its fa'.o that weighed on her heart. 
 It was well shf did not survive it long." 
 
 "And Sir William, how did he bear the 
 loss?" inquired Hus. 
 
 "He became a changed r^an from that 
 day. He gr«� stern, mor jse, and harsh 
 to all. I have no doubt he felt it to be 
 a ju.st retribution for his conduct to his 
 first wife, and this reJiection rendered 
 his remorse more bitter. Poor Leila! 
 Dear little angel! Gus, I cannot tell 
 you how I loved that child!" 
 
 He paced excitedly upon and down, 
 and Gus saw there were tears In the 
 deep, dark eyes of his friend. 
 
 "Yes, that's just the way I feel about 
 Nell," said Gus, who really was in a 
 desperate strait for something to say. 
 and the deep sigh that accompanied his 
 words seemed inexpressibly ludicrous. 
 
 In spite of himself, Fred laughed out- 
 right at his melancholy look, much to 
 the disgust of Gus. 
 
 "On my honor, my dear fellow, you 
 are smitten. I shouldn't wonder if you 
 would be rash enough to take a wife 
 next," said Fred. 
 
 "Rash! I think it's the most sensible 
 thing a fellow could do. Don't you ever 
 intend to marry, Fred?" 
 
 "Not I," said the other, carelessly, "as 
 I said before, liberty or death for me. 
 Why, Gus, the tyranny of King George 
 is nothing to that of a wife. Don't you 
 know what the French poet. Mauvause, 
 says: 
 
 'I would arlxise a man to pause 
 
 Before ht- takes a wife. 
 Indeed, I ov n. I see no cause 
 
 He should . ot pause for life.' " 
 
 "He must have been a crusty old 
 bachelor who wrote that," remarked 
 Gus; "as for me, I intend to make fierce 
 love to Nell the moment I land. 'Pon 
 my honor, I'd give a diamond ring to 
 see that flinty heart of yours lying at 
 the feet of some graceful little Yankee — 
 metaphorically speaking, of course. They 
 say, Fred, the American ladies are all 
 pretty!" 
 
 "I doubt it." 
 
 "You're a stoic, a cynic, an unbeliever 
 —an old Diogenes in his tub. You de- 
 .eserve to die an old bachelor. It's my ,**" 
 firm and never-to-be-shaken belief thatx <-' 
 you have been Jilted by some heartlear^C^' 
 
 ^ 
 
 u 
 
 iV* 
 
 i 
 
 A. 
 


THE I'KRMIT OF riiH VLIFFH. 
 
 \. 
 
 M 
 
 coquette, and for spite, now rail at the 
 whole Bex." 
 
 "I cry you mercy!" said Fred, as he 
 JauKhinKly ran his HnRiTs through his 
 luxuriant dark hicks. "I am now, as I 
 ever was, and always shall be, 'heart- 
 whole, and fancy-free. But 1 see," he 
 added, drawing out his watch, "It is the 
 hour 
 
 'When lapdogs give themselves the rousing 
 
 And sleepy lovers Just at twelve awake.' 
 
 So let us go below; the sable goddess of 
 the cabin will presently announce din- 
 ner Is ready." 
 
 And together the two young men 
 strolled Into the cabin. 
 
 • ■ ^ CHAPTER II. \ 
 
 -■''■■! •'■ THE WRECK. 
 
 "Alone, alone, all, all alone. 
 Alone on the wide, wide sea." 
 
 "I SAY, Jack, old fellow, it'll be dooms- 
 day before we reach Boston, at this 
 rate," remarked Gus, some three hours 
 after the conversation related above — 
 as he, together with his friend, stood 
 once more on the deck. 
 
 The pleasant breeze of the morning 
 had passed away, and was succeeded by 
 a dead calm. Not a breath of air rip- 
 pled the surface of the deep; the sails 
 lay flapping Idly against the masts; the 
 crew lay, gasping for breath, over the 
 side of the ship. The sun, with Its fiery, 
 brassy glow, glared in the cloudless sky, 
 loosening the very seams of the ship 
 with the scorching heat, until every- 
 thing looked parched and burning. The 
 vessel lay motionless on the glittering 
 sea, her masts and ropes reflected on 
 the polished surface, as in a mirror. One 
 could almost imagine her to be a painted 
 phip on a painted ocean — so still, so life- 
 less, so sluggish was the calm. 
 
 The old tar addressed gave his trou- 
 sers a hitch, turned an enormous quid 
 of tobacco into the other cheek, and re- 
 plied only by a dissatisfied growl. 
 
 "I'm fairly choking for breath," went 
 on Gus, leaning over the bulwarks in a 
 vain endeavor to catch a mouthful of 
 air; "I wish to heaven a breeze would 
 spring up." 
 
 "Humph!" grunted the old tar, as he 
 dlscharfe-ed an enormous stream of to- 
 bacco juice over the aide, "you'll have 
 your wish before you sleep, youngster, 
 or I'rn nr.?staken." 
 
 "Well, I confess you're a better judge 
 of the weather than I am, if you can see 
 any sign of a breeze," said Gus. "By 
 the look of things at present, I should 
 conclude we might 'ie sweltering here 
 [or a month of Sundays." 
 v'Tve been on the ocean, man and boy, 
 
 for thirty odd years, sir, and oughi 
 to know something of weather signs. If 
 It doesn't blow great guns before the 
 sun sets to-night, then you may call 
 old Jack a good-for-nothing lubl)er — 
 that's all." 
 
 "I vow I hope it may. This dog-trot 
 late of going is enough to provoke a 
 Quaker to kick his grandmother. A 
 stiff breeze will give us new life, and set 
 things all right again." said Gus. 
 
 "Maybe so," said the old salt, rather 
 doubtlngly; "but. If I'm not mistaken, 
 you'll wish yourself safe on land before 
 you see the sun rise again." 
 
 "Faith! 1 wish I was there now." said 
 Gus, with a yawn, "I never was born for 
 a sailor, and never were the children of 
 Israel more tired of their quarters In 
 the desert than I am of this rascally 
 old ark. Look out for your storm. Jack: 
 and If you see it coming just let me 
 know." 
 
 And Gus seated himself on the quarter 
 rail, and leisurely lit a cigar. 
 
 An hour or two passed away in silence. 
 The sun was setting, but the heat was 
 still intense. Fred lay gazing idly Into 
 the ship's wake. Gus puffed away, and 
 thought of Nell; but the heat had ren- 
 dered both too languid to talk. Sud- 
 denly a hand was laid on his arm; and, 
 looking up, Gus beheld old Jack. 
 
 "Look now, sir," said the old man, 
 pointing to the sky. Absorbed in his 
 own reflections, the young man had to- 
 tally forgotten the prediction of the old 
 sailor. As he glanced up at the sky, he 
 involuntarily uttered an exclamation of 
 surprise at the sight which met his eye. 
 
 As far as he could see, in every di- 
 rection, a huge black pall of intense 
 darkness covered the face of the heav- 
 ens. A lurid, crimson line of fire in 
 the w^est showed where the sun had 
 sunk below the horizon, and was re- 
 flected like a thin stream of blood on 
 the sea. Faint puffs of wind, from what 
 quarter of the heavens no man could 
 tell, at intervals sighed through the rig- 
 ging, only to be followed by an ominous 
 calm, more profound than before. The 
 ship lay rolling heavily on the black, 
 glassy billows, rising and falling like a 
 dull, heavy log. A gloom like that of 
 midnight was gathering over sea and 
 sky — the dismal, ominous silence invol- 
 untarily made the boldest catch his 
 breath quick and short, and filled each 
 heart with a nameless awe, as they 
 stood in silent expectation of what was 
 to follow this dead calm of nature, as 
 she paused to take breath before the 
 hurricane of her wrath burst in its full 
 force. 
 
 At this moment the clear, commanding 
 voice of Captain Harden was heard giv- 
 ing orders to his men to reef the sails. 
 
 "We'll have a rousing gale to-night," 
 said he, a few moments afterward, "or 
 


r/i/i' liEHMl'l (tF THE CUt'FH. 
 
 and ouKlii 
 i<!r HiKHB. ir 
 ^ before th«- 
 )u may call 
 ngr lubber 
 
 'bJs dog-trot 
 
 • provoke a 
 
 Imother. a 
 
 Ufe, and set 
 
 GU8. 
 
 «alt. rather 
 
 't miBtaken, 
 
 land before 
 
 now." Baid 
 vas born foi 
 
 children of 
 quarters In 
 lis rascallv 
 torm. Jack; 
 ust let me 
 
 the quarter 
 
 f In silence. 
 e heat was 
 K Idly Into 
 
 away, and 
 t had ren- 
 alk. Sud- 
 
 arm; and. 
 lek. 
 
 old man. 
 Ijed In his 
 in had to- 
 
 of the old 
 he sky, he 
 imation of 
 et his eye. 
 
 every di- 
 of intense 
 the heav- 
 of fire in 
 
 sun had 
 was re- 
 blood on 
 rom what 
 lan could 
 ti the rig- 
 i ominous 
 ore. The 
 he black. 
 ng like a 
 a that of 
 
 sea and 
 ce invol- 
 atch his 
 lied each 
 
 as they 
 'hat was 
 Lture, as 
 fore the 
 I its full 
 
 manding: 
 ard g:iv- 
 i sails, 
 -night," 
 ard. "or 
 
 111) muHtaken. 1 knew this dead calm 
 
 • lidn't come for nothing. Ha! here it is! 
 Down, men, down, and hold fast for 
 your lives! The squall Is upon us!" 
 
 Even as he s^oke the bluck pall that 
 hung over the sky seemed visibly lifted 
 up, and a ghaHtly, whitish light lit up 
 the heaving sea. A vivid flash of light- 
 ning blazed in the sky, followed by a 
 crash of thunder that seemed to rend 
 the very heavens in twain, accompan- 
 ied by a flood ot rain and a terrific gale 
 .if wind— and the hurricane bur upon 
 ihem with tremendous force. For a mo- 
 ment the good ship tottered and quiv- 
 led in every timber, as If trembling be- 
 fore her gigantic foe; then plunging 
 suddenly downward like a maddened 
 steed, she flew before the hurricane with 
 the speed of the wind. On, on, on, with 
 the spray dashing over the decks, and 
 drenching to the skin the affrighted 
 ( rew, she sped like a flash. The 
 lightning blazed as though the whole 
 heavens were one /ast sheet of 
 Mame; the thunder crashed peal upon 
 ijeal, as though the earth were rending 
 asunder; the rain fell in vast floods of 
 water; the wind shrieked and howled 
 like a demon with Impotent fury, and 
 the bark plunged madly on, quivering, 
 
 • reaklng, groaning and straining in ev- 
 ry timber. The huge billows rose black 
 
 and terrific, yawning as though to en- 
 gulf them, the white foam gleaming dis- 
 mal and ghastly In the spectral dark- 
 ness, now and then shown In their ap- 
 palling hugeness by the blinding glare 
 of, the lightning. The whole scene was 
 inexpressibly grand and terrific — the 
 most cowardly soul lost all sense of fear 
 in the awful sublimity, the unspeakable 
 grandeur of the elemental uproar. 
 
 Fortunately, the hurricane was not one 
 of long duration. Ere an hour had 
 passed the violence of the squall had 
 greatly abated, but not before it had 
 nearly dismantled the ship. 
 
 Fred Stanley stood clinging to a rope, 
 gazing at the troubled sea and sky with 
 a feeling of unspeakable awe that swal- 
 lowed up every other feeling. His hat 
 had blown off; his long, dark locks 
 streamed wildly in the gale— his eyes 
 were fixed, as if fascinated, on the gi- 
 gantic billows, rising like huge moun- 
 tains as if to. over whelm them. 
 
 His meditations were suddenly cut 
 short by a hand being laid on his shoul- 
 der. With a start, he looked up, and 
 beheld by the light of the binnacle-lamp 
 the pale features of Gus Elliott. 
 
 "A wild night, my friend," said the 
 youth; and although he spoke loudly, his 
 voice sounded almost like a whisper 
 amid the roar of wind and sea. 
 
 "A fearful storm, truly," v/as the re- 
 ply, as il*red's eyes strove to pierce 
 through the thick darkness. 
 "Would to heaven it were morning! 
 
 This intense darkness is appalling. Could 
 we see our danger I would not care, hut 
 In this fearful gloom the imagination pic- 
 tures a thousand horrors, far worse than 
 the nj( St dreadful reality." 
 
 "It can be scarcely midnight yet," said 
 Gus; "I see the clouds are breaking away 
 In that d'.rei(i<.n. It will be light enough 
 presently." 
 
 "Well, messmate, have my words c(»me 
 true?" said a voice at Gus' elbow, and. 
 turning, both beheld old Jack. 
 
 "That they have," replied Gus; "and 
 though I must ghe you credit for being 
 a true prophet, upon my honor I wish to 
 hear no more such predictions while £ 
 am on board the Mermaid." 
 
 "That won't be long, sir, or I'm mis- 
 taken." replied Jack, gloomily. 
 
 "What! Croaking again '^ I thought 
 all danger was past." said the youth. 
 
 Jack shook his liead despondlngly. 
 
 "Come, niy honest son of Neptune, out 
 with it. What's in the wind, now'.'" 
 
 At this moment one of the crew shout- 
 ed, in a voice of horror: 
 
 "The ship has sprung a leak! There's 
 five feet of water In the hold." 
 
 "All hands to the pumps!" called the 
 calm, trumpet-like tones of the captain. 
 
 The eyes of Gus and the old sailor met. 
 
 "I knew how it would be," said the 
 old tar, shaking his head mournfully, "I 
 had a presentiment last night that not 
 a soul on board the Mermaid would live 
 to see the sun rise again." 
 
 As he spoke he hurried forward; but 
 not until Gus had fairly started back 
 at sight of the ghastly look on his face, 
 as it was revealed by the dim light of 
 the binnacle-lamp. The youth turned 
 uneasily away, and encountered the 
 dark, earnest eyes of his friend. 
 
 "Pooh! nonsnse! what an old prophet 
 of evil that is," said Gus, striving to 
 shake off the feeling for which he could 
 not account; "a raven could not croak 
 more dismally than he." 
 
 "And yet I fear he is right," said 
 Fred. "We are far from being out of 
 danger. How this old dismantled hulk 
 la plunging and staggering. Hark! what 
 is that?" 
 
 It was the voice of one of the men 
 who had been sent below, and who now 
 came to announce that the water was 
 rapidly rising. 
 
 The crew redoubled their efforts. Fred 
 and Gus sprang to their aid and worked 
 for their lives. But all was in vain; in 
 apite of all their exertions, the hold was 
 filling fast. 
 
 Suddenly a voice full of horror was 
 heard shouting: 
 
 "The ship is sinking!" 
 
 In an instant every arm dropped as if 
 palsied, and every face blanched to the 
 hue of death, and the silence of the «♦** 
 grave reigned. Then the spell was brokrX ,-•► 
 
 %-t' 
 
 /' 
 
 ,^V' 
 
 


TUK tltUiMlT OF Tim CLIFfH. 
 
 en, and with a wild ery they K>rang to- 
 ;\VQrd tlie tiuats. , 
 
 "Are you mad, men?" chout«»d Captain 
 • Harden, a« the crew rui^hed i>ttll-niell to 
 the Bide of the vesBel, 
 
 Hut hl8 wordH were in vain; the fright- 
 ened wretches heard not, heeded not. 
 Maddened by their seiflBh fears, they 
 sprang into the boatH, pushing one an- 
 other fiercely aalde in their cowardly 
 haRte. 
 
 "Thope crowded boatB will never live 
 In this Burf!" exclaimed Fred, in a vol(;e 
 that Intenfle excitement had almost sunk 
 to a whisper. 
 
 Even as he spoke, the nearest boat 
 was lifted on the giant crest of a mon- 
 ster wave. For a moment it paused on 
 Its fearful height, quivering like a reed; 
 "the next, a wild shriek arose from the 
 doomed crew and every soul was strug- 
 gling in the hissing seas. The next mo- 
 ment to their inexpressible horror the 
 other boat shared the same fate! One 
 wild, agonized shriek of mortal horror 
 arose high above the storm, and then 
 all grew still. Engulfed beneath the 
 hissing billows, they had sunk to rise 
 no more. 
 
 Of all the numerous crew of the good 
 Fhip Mermaid, those three stood alone 
 now. Above, frowned the angry sky, 
 black and ominous; beneath, raged the 
 angrier ocean— the tops of the white bil- 
 lows gleaming like snow against the 
 murky background. Around, was spread 
 the dense, dark pall of night— an aim <st 
 itppenetrable wall of thick blackness. 
 Boats and crew were alike gone. Alone 
 they stood on the wide sea, In a sinking 
 ship, with death staring them In every 
 direction in the face. 
 
 ' The ominous woi'ds of the old sailor 
 rushed to the mind of Gus: "Not a soul 
 on board the mermaid would live to see 
 the sun rise again!" 
 
 How true his words seemed likely to 
 prove! 
 
 ' "We will soon follow them," said Gus, 
 turning to the captain. 
 
 "God Uvoth!" was the solemn answer. 
 'He holdeth the ocean in the hollow of 
 His hand. Trust in Him!" 
 
 CHAPTER III. : ; 
 
 SAVED. 
 
 "Rise! for the day is breaking, 
 . Though the dull night be long! 
 
 Rise! God is not forsaking 
 Thy heart— be strong— be strong." 
 
 — C. H. J. 
 
 ; For a few moments the survivors of 
 the wreck stood silent. With death star- 
 ing them in the tace, men are not in- 
 clined to be loquaqious. Each one, in- 
 iwardly commended his soul to his 
 'Maker, and strove .to nerve himself to 
 .niieet his doom fearlessly. 
 
 "And can we not even make an effort 
 to save our Uvea?" said Fred, at last. 
 "Must we die without one attempt to 
 escape the doom which threatens us?" 
 
 "While there is life there is hope," said 
 the captain. "Ha!" he exclaimed, as 
 If suddenly struck by a new thought, 
 "here arc plenty of loose spars and 
 ropes; why not make a raft?" 
 
 "This old hulk will go to the bottom 
 before It Is half constructed," said Gus. 
 
 "It is worth a trial, however," said 
 his friend, springing up with new hope. 
 "Let us not lose time. Every second is 
 precious." 
 
 Men working for their lives need lit- 
 tle urging. In less than an hour a sufll- 
 cient number of spars were lashed to- 
 gether to make a tolerably safe raft; 
 
 Captain Harden went below to dis- 
 cover how much longer they might stay 
 on the wreck in safety. 
 
 Turning to his friend, Gus said, as he 
 touched the raft with hlG foot: 
 
 "A desperate venture, Fred, to titjst 
 our lives on these few crazy planks, on 
 the wide Atlantic. I fear, my dear 
 friend, the patriot army of Washington 
 will be deprived of two recruits this 
 time." 
 
 "Desperate, certainly," said Fred, 
 thoughtfully, "yet I feel a sort of pre- 
 sentiment that our end Is not so near." 
 
 "Would I could think so, too," said 
 Gus, striving to discover some sign of 
 hope in the threatening scene around. 
 "I cannot but recall the ominous words 
 of that old sailor. They are continually 
 recurring to my mind." 
 
 "To the raft! To the raft, for our 
 lives!" shouted Captain Harden, as he 
 rushed on deck, "the ship is sinking!" 
 
 Even as he spoke, she began plunging 
 to and fro like a frightened steed. 
 
 In a moment they had flung their raft 
 over the side, and had leaped from the 
 deck. 
 
 They were not a moment too soon. 
 The doomed ship, after a few mad strug- 
 gles, began rapidly to settle In the water. 
 The waves seemed lashed into fury, and 
 the giant crest of each huge billow 
 swept the dismantled deck. Suddenly 
 she was whirled round and round by 
 some impetuous force, then, rising al- 
 most perpendicularly, she plunged down, 
 ??tern foremost. In the enormous whirl- 
 pool thus formed, they almost imag- 
 ined they could see the bottom, so great 
 was it.s force, that although they were 
 at some distance, they held their breath 
 for a moment in involuntary terror as 
 they were rapidly swept toward the hiss- 
 ing vortex. But the waves again closed 
 over her, and every sign of life van- 
 ished from the horizon. 
 
 "There perished as noble a bark as 
 ever braved the blue Atlantic!" said 
 Captain Harden, dashing the spray 
 from his eyes. 
 
 .\ 
 


THK HtJHMir OF THt) VLlt't'H. 
 
 ^•7 
 
 There wan no ifply. for hln cdnipan- 
 loiis were loHt In thought. How Intic- 
 i.ifHBlbly dreary and dcHolate was all 
 iiound.' Alone on the wide ocean, on a 
 frail raft, that thieiittMied earh inoin«'nt 
 til go to pteceH under them l»y the vlo- 
 l.-nee of the waves. The cold alpray, 
 IrenehlnR them to the Bkin, l)enunihed 
 th.-m with cold: a dull lethargy was 
 < reejilng over them when Captain Har- 
 den, who noticed with alarm how frail 
 I lie raft was, Huddenly aald: 
 
 Let UB try to make this raft of ours 
 1 little tighter. It threatetm now to go 
 lo nieces every moment. Work will 
 k..ep US warm, too; this cold spray Is 
 . iiuUKl'. to freeze a man." 
 
 The exertion produced the desired ef- 
 i,( t and they soon had the pleasure of 
 tliiding thfir lloat much more secure 
 ihan before. How long the hours seemed 
 ihat must Intervene until morning! As 
 ilie night slowly wore on, the storm 
 steined to die away, the waves subsid- 
 ■d and the wind sank to a light breeze. 
 Tlie clouds of night sullenly rolled away 
 hefore the white wand of morning. Far 
 in the east, the sky and sea were blush- 
 ing scarlet before the coming of the 
 sun. Up he rose in fiery radiance, glow- 
 ing and golden, in a canopy of purple, 
 ( rimson and blue. Not a cloud obscured 
 the clear blue vault of heaven, thai, a 
 few hours before had shot forth forked 
 lightning and deafening peals of thun- 
 der. Their frail raft rose and fell gaily 
 I'n the sparkling waves, that the night 
 i.K^fore had loomed up so dark and fright- 
 lul. Calm and peaceful the blue sea 
 looked, as though hundreds of brave 
 hearts, that fearful night, had not per* 
 ished forever beneath. 
 
 •'What a change a few hours has 
 made!" said Fred, as the light, cool 
 breeze lifted gently the dark hair off his 
 feverish brow; "iast night, all was wild 
 and dark, and tempestuous; this morn- 
 ing, everything breathes peace and 
 iieautv. Sunrise on the ocean! was there 
 ever anything more glorious?" 
 
 "A sailor's luck, Mr. Stanley," said 
 rnptain Harden, shaking the spray from 
 his hair: "a short time ago we were 
 shivering with the cold, and in two hours 
 hence we will be sweltering in the rays 
 of a sun hot enough to roast an Afri- 
 can.'' 
 
 "Do you think there is any chance of 
 our being picked up before night, cap- 
 tain?" inquired Gus. 
 
 "Can't say. sir. I trust so, however. 
 There are always ships cruising about 
 in these latitudes." 
 
 The day wore on: and, as the sun ap- 
 proached the meridian, the heat grew 
 almost intolerable. Without shelter to 
 ward off the burning rays of an almost 
 tropical sun. they sank down overpov*'- 
 f^red and utterly exhausted. Thirst, too. 
 began to torment them, and the con- 
 
 friends to 
 bodily lnt<i 
 
 Hclousness that they wer^' without means 
 to allay It added to their suffering. T<io 
 languid even to conveitie. they sat in 
 dreary silence, their eyes Hxed on the 
 boundless exi)anHe of sky and oc-ean. 
 
 Slowly the sun began to sink in tlie 
 west, and the conviction timt they must 
 pass another night where they were. 
 added anything but comfort to their sit- 
 uation 
 
 Wiien the glorious suiiight of the fol- 
 lowing morning fell on them. It f«)und 
 them parched with thirst, and lying ut- 
 terly exhausted on the mlseiable fWmt, 
 Fred and Caotaln Harden still bore up; 
 but the fiery flush on tlie cheek ot (Iuh. 
 and the wild light In his eye, showed 
 the fever that was burning witliin. 
 
 Ah the morning passed, and noon ai»- 
 jtroached. he grew delirious. He reved 
 wildly, and more than once It rtjquired 
 the united strength of his 
 prevent him from plunging 
 the deep. 
 
 "Would to Heaven aid would come!" 
 said Captain Harden, with deep anx- 
 iety, as his eye fell on the delirious 
 youth. "Poor boy! I do not wonder he 
 has sunk beneath this tritti. He is little 
 inured to the hardships and privations 
 of a sailor's life." 
 
 "Wha; is that?" said Fred, who had 
 an eye like a hawk; "there is a vessel 
 healing down directly toward us. Look! 
 Look!" 
 
 "By heev( n, yes!" exclaimed the cap- 
 tain; "let us display our flag. Ha! they 
 see us I There goes their signal!" 
 
 "Saved. Gus! Saved, my dear fellow!" 
 exclaimed Fred, seizing his hand, hot 
 and burning, in both his. 
 
 "Saved! Saved! I knew we would be! 
 Hurrah!" he shouted, with wild inco- 
 herence, as he endeavored to spring to 
 his feet— but, weak and exhausted, he 
 fell back in the arms of his friend. 
 
 The vessel proved to be an Americf vi 
 privateer. In half an hour the friend.^ 
 were on board, where every kindness 
 that could be required was generously 
 bestowed upon them; and poor Gus was 
 resigned to the care of an experienced 
 surgeon— who, to the great joy of Fred, 
 affirmed that in a few days he would be 
 out of danger. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE BtTRNINO SHIP. 
 
 "Great God! the sights that I have seen 
 When far upon the main. 
 I'd rather that my death had been 
 Than see those sights again." 
 
 — Landon. 
 
 "Yoi'Rs was a narrow escape, Mr.i 
 Stanley." said Captain Dale, the com-., 
 mander of the privateer, as, about a. 
 week after their deliverance, Fred mad? 
 his appearance on deck. ,« 
 
 Gus was there, too, looking rather r 
 
 r'i- 
 


8 
 
 THE ^EJiMTT OF TUB VLIFt'S. 
 
 pale, but perfectly restored both to 
 health and spirrts. ': , ^t. -u 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Fred; "and, thotrgh 
 I have beeh as near death in t»any 
 shapes before, I never felt it so horrible 
 as when, wild with thirst, I stood ex- 
 pecting it on thAt frail raft on the broad 
 
 "And your friend," said the captain, 
 smiling "was in still worse condition 
 when we providentially came across 
 
 ■ "figad!" exclaimed Gus. "it came near 
 doing for me. I'll never undertake to 
 sail across the Atlantic on a raft agam, 
 if I can help it; at least, not without a 
 beaker of fresh water on board/' 
 
 "What is your destination now, cap- 
 tain?" inquired Fied. 
 
 "Boston; but I mean to capture, it 
 possible, a few Britishers first, to makei 
 time pass pleasantly." , „ ^„ . 
 
 "Boston? We're in luck, Fred, ' obn 
 served Gus. "So," he added to the cap- 
 tain "you sometimes have a skirmish 
 v/ith the British, do you?" . , ^ 
 
 "Yes," replied Dale; "it's only last 
 wt'ek I sent a sloop-of-war to Davy 
 Jones; and, with the help of the Lord, 
 ah«^ that long Tom there, I trust speed- 
 ily to send some more of their brethren 
 to look after them." 
 
 "Sail ho!" called tlie shrill tones of 
 the lookout at this moment; 
 
 "Where away?" demanded Captain 
 Dale, as he seized a glass, and sprang 
 into the rigging. 
 ' "Due east, sir." 
 
 •'•"And an Englishman, by Jupiter!" ex- 
 claimed the captain, as he again leaped 
 on the deck. "There's something wrong 
 on board of her, too," he continued, "for 
 the crew are running wildly about the 
 deck, sometimes rushing in a oody be- 
 low, and again reappearing. Can the 
 crew have mutinied?" 
 
 Again he gazed long and steadfastly 
 tit the vessel. 
 
 "Heavens!" he exclaimed, "the ship's 
 on fire." 
 r"By Jove, so it is," said Fred; and, even 
 as he spoke, a sudden jet of flame shot 
 up the hatchway of the ship. 
 
 "And there goes a signal of distress," 
 shouted Gus, as a white pennant sud- 
 denly streamed out in the breeze from 
 the masthead. 
 
 "See how the poor wretches are crowd- 
 ing together," exclaimed the captain; 
 "we must not let them perish before our 
 eyes. Who will volunteer to go to the 
 rescue?" 
 
 As if by one impulse, men and officers 
 all sprang forward to offer -their ser- 
 vices. ^■■ 
 . "No, no," said Captain Dale, gpod- 
 hnmoredly, "I cannot let you all go. 
 Ikefe, Mr. Stewart," addressing his first 
 lieutenant, "you will take conima.nd of 
 one boat, and— ah! Mr. Stanley, I see 
 
 by your eager look how ahxibtid^ you 
 are t«) lend assistance. Well, ybu can 
 take -charge of the other bpat; and," he 
 added, lowering his voice, "look out for 
 the magazine. Now, be off, . t^nd God 
 speed you." 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir," came cheerily from a 
 score of lips, as the hardy seamen bem 
 to their oars. 
 
 "Give way, my lads!" cried Fred, as 
 he sprang into the stem-sheets and 
 waved his cap in the a4r. 
 
 The men bent to their oars with a, will, 
 and the boat. cut like a sea-gull through 
 the waters. Fred still stood with his 
 eyes fixed on the burning ship— his hand- 
 some face all aglow with excitement. 
 
 The scene was inexpressibly grand and 
 terrific. The flanries were now bursting 
 out from every part of the ship; while 
 a dark, dense cloud of sulphurous smoke 
 clouded the blue sky above. The fiery 
 monster ra*/ up the shrouds and rigging, 
 twining its derce tongue around , the 
 masts; while occasionally the siiilen 
 booming of a gun would float over the 
 waters, as her armament, heated by the 
 flames, went off. The affrighted crew 
 were huddled together — by their frantic 
 gestures and wild signs striving to 
 urge the boats still faster on, as they 
 beheld the flames rapidly approaching 
 the spot where they stood. 
 
 "Give way, my men! give way! Will 
 you see them perish miserably before 
 your eyes?" shouted Fred, his dark eyes 
 blazing with excitement as he beheld 
 the fiery-tongued monster almost within 
 a few feet of the unhappy wretches, 
 whose shrieks of terror came piercingly 
 to their ears. 
 
 The sailors bent their brawny arms, to 
 the task, until, in less than ten minutes 
 more, they were within a few yardS; of 
 the burning ship. 
 
 "Leap into the water and we will p|ck 
 you up!" shouted Fred^ fearing lei^f,; If 
 they approached too near, the boftts 
 might swamp from the numbers crowd- 
 ing in. . 
 
 Without a moment's hesitatioQ,. ,^he 
 command was obeyed; and the crews of 
 both boats were soon busily enri pipy ed In 
 rescuing. , V ,' 
 
 "Is that all?" asked Fre<^, as,- the last 
 were picked up. , .. ' ..-, 
 
 "No, sir; it's not all!" said a fcoy— a 
 mere lad of fourteen — springing from his 
 seat, "There's a lady aboard yet; 8|he 
 is in the cabin and we, fprgot her." .' .■ 
 
 "Great heaven ! " exdainied Fred ; 
 quickly turning to his ay/n men, he Siaid: 
 
 "My brave lads» I cannot leave a wo- 
 man to perish in that biirnJng, ship. I 
 am going on board to rescue her. "ton 
 will, in the me^an tlnae, keep at some dis- 
 tance . off, arid when t appear on deck, 
 return for me. .Shpuld you not e,ee me 
 again'! (he paused, fox- .a^riioaient) ",you 
 win return to ,thejp|rivat;eer a^^ t«iH JOip- 
 


THE HBMMIT- OF TffE CUFFS, 
 
 as. the last 
 
 tain Dale I have striven to do my duty. 
 That will do Stand off, and wait for 
 me."' 
 
 He caught a rope that hung over the 
 vess I's side, and sprang to the burn- 
 ing deck. 
 
 To his inexpressible joy he saw that 
 the flames had liot yet reached the 
 eabin. He dashed down ihe stairs, and 
 paused for a moment to blance around. 
 
 The walls were a dark, polished oak, 
 the floor covered with a rleh Turkey car- 
 pet, whose brilliant, hues were bright as 
 the gorgeous plumage of a humming- 
 bird. The chairs and lounges, profusely 
 scattered around, were of dark, carved 
 wood— old and quainc in appearance, 
 and cushioned with dark blue velvet. A 
 guitar lay in a corner, and carelessly 
 scattered by it were seveial sheets of 
 music. A bookcase, filled with a choice 
 selection of books, stood in one corner, 
 -CHid, lying half open on the table, as if 
 ft had Just been dropped, was a small, 
 elegantly, bound volume of Milton, By 
 it lay a tiny gold locket, ccataining a 
 miniature. Not doubting that this be- 
 longed to the occupant of the cabin, 
 Fred snatched it up, thinking she might 
 value it, and turned to look for its 
 owner. 
 
 The door of an adjoining stateroom 
 was half open. It was no time for idle 
 ceremony. Without a moment's hesi- 
 tation he dashed It open and entered. 
 
 A young girl, transcendently lovely, 
 was kneeling in the middle of the floor. 
 Her snowy robes fell In spotless folds 
 ground her exquisite form; the long, 
 silken tresses fell like a shower of rip- 
 pling isunbeams over her pearly shoiil- 
 c*ers. Tlje small white hands wei-e 
 clbsped over the stainless bosom, that 
 rose and fell with her soft breathing. 
 J^very trace of color had faded from that 
 fkir face, leaving cheek and brow Aa 
 white as monumental marble. The large 
 bine eyes, calm and cloudless as moun- 
 tain lakes, looked irom beneath the 
 £:olden lashes, calm and serene. 
 
 Stepping before her, he . said, hur- 
 riedly: 
 
 "Madam, everything Is in flames 
 ar&untS you! Come with me, or you will 
 bejci^t ' 
 
 ,At the sound of his voice she sprang 
 to her feet, and, with a wild cry of 
 ^•Saved! Saved!" she threw up both 
 snowy amis, and would have fallen 
 fainting to the floor, had he not caught 
 her in his embrace. 
 
 thatching a quilt from the bed, he 
 wrapped It tound her slight form and 
 rushed from the cabin. To his unspeak- 
 i^bie horror, as he sprang with one bound 
 x^ the stairway, he found the whole 
 d(»<dlc hiad niow become one vast sheet of 
 naiDe. There ,5va^ no,, time fo lose.. 
 SpflQaing like, a WQunded panther,, he 
 cleared f||e ' debk wtth two bounds, and] 
 leai>M clean over tfie iiicie into the i^A.] 
 
 A wild cheer arose from the crew of 
 the boat at the sight. Propelled by 
 , strong arms and willing hearts, in a 
 mo/nent It was by his side and in an- 
 other he stood among them, with his 
 still insensible burden in hlia arms.-* 
 
 "Pull, men! Pull, for the love of Goid!" 
 he shouted, waving his hand in thit^ iair. 
 "You work for your lives." 
 
 Like straws the strong oars bent In the 
 brawny hands of the rowers, and like «in 
 arrow sped from a bow, the boat shot 
 out from the burning ship. 
 
 One moment more, and it. would have 
 been too late. With a roar that seemed 
 to rend heaven and earth, thie magazine 
 exploded, and the ill-fjEited ship v/as 
 blown to atoms. Like a shower of riail, 
 the burning spars and timbers fell all 
 around them. BUt they were almost 
 miraculously saved; the boat escaped 
 uninjured, and in ten minutes was en- 
 tirely out of danger. 
 
 Every one drew a deep breath, and 
 from the most callous and hardened 
 heart present went up a prayer., of 
 thanksgiving for their unexpected deliv- 
 erance from deaths 
 
 Fred seated himself, and,""throwlng off 
 the liuilt in which he bad wrapped, the 
 yourg girl, began to chafe her cold 
 ha.itis and temples. 
 
 "Had this young lady no friends on 
 board, that she was thus forgotten?'/, he 
 asked, turning to one of the crew of the 
 FiUglishman. 
 
 "No, sir; not when the vessel caught 
 flre. She was retur^iing from England 
 with her uncle, and one stormy night, 
 about a week ago, he was washed, over- 
 board and lost. She never came. up. to 
 the deck after that, and in the hurry and 
 fright, when the ship was found to; be 
 on flre, We forgot all about her." 
 
 "Is she an American?" asked Fred, 
 looking, with a feeling for which he 
 could not account, on the fair face and 
 graceful form lying so still and lifeless 
 In his arms. 
 
 "Don't know, I'm sure," replied the 
 man. 
 
 All Fred's efforts to restore her to con- 
 sciousness were' In vain. She lay. In her 
 snowy drapery, so still, that he almost 
 feared life was extinct. A snow-wreath 
 was not more white than the cplorless 
 face, off which the bright hair. fell over 
 the young man's arm, on which the bead 
 reclined. The tiny hands imprisoned in 
 his were cold and lifeless as marble* 
 
 With a feeling of intense joy, Fred 
 sprang once more upon the deck of the ^ 
 privateer, and resigned th^ fainting girl 
 to the hands of the surgeon, and then 
 hastened to exchange his wet clothes 
 for dry ones. Gus, who had arrived in 
 the Other boat a few momenti» foefoire, 
 li8te:ned with envy and amazement to Ills 
 fi4end'fii:stbry; ■ •/' ^y-'"''- -, .■- ■•--^-v ;/:.;':n?- ,'- " 
 "Well; luck Uf everything-r" he seacr.f' 
 
 r- 
 
 i- f 
 


10 
 
 THE HERMIT Of' TUK VUFfli. 
 
 I 
 
 
 claimed, with a sigh, when his friend 
 had concluded; "if every ship In the 
 British navy were to take fire I don't be- 
 lieve I'd have the good fortune to save a 
 single young lady from a scorching, 
 while you're not well out, when you re- 
 turn with an angel in your arms, wring- 
 ing, wet, and never look any more elated 
 by It than if you were a man of stone. 
 Oh, Fortune! Fortune! thou fickle god- 
 dess, if you would only throw such 
 chances in my way as Is th iwn in the 
 path of this stony-hearted cnl*, believe 
 me, I would be far from proving so un- 
 grateful." 
 
 "A very good speech for an extempore 
 one." observed Fred, as he coolly lighted 
 a cigar. "And, by the way, here is the 
 doctor: I must ask him how his fair 
 patient is." 
 
 "Hech! mon, dinna fash yerael' aboot 
 her, the young leddy Is doin' verra weel," 
 observed Sawney; "an*, fegs, ye ne'er 
 seen sic'n beautiful roses in a' yer life 
 as cam In her cheek when I tauld her 
 aboot the canny chlel that plucked her, 
 as It were, a brand fra> the burnin*. 
 Hoot! Mr. Stanley, ne'er try to look sae 
 dignified, d'ye think I dlnna see the smile 
 In yer black e'e? If ye're no proud o' 
 savin' the life o' sic a handsome leddy, 
 ye dinna deserve to hear the message 
 she has sent ye." 
 
 "A message for me!" exclaimed Fred, 
 with an impetuosity that brought a sud- 
 den crimson to his dark cheek. 
 
 "Aye, mon! a message to ye, dell a less. 
 And what for wudna she? Did ye no 
 save her life?" 
 
 "But the message! the message!" ex- 
 claimed Fred, impatiently. 
 
 "Ool Ay! the message! Jist sae! 'Tell 
 him,' says she, an', soul o' me! she look- 
 it sae bonnle wi' her blue e'e and her 
 kowden locks as she said it, that I'd 
 gi'en a hunder' pounds to hae been ye 
 at the time." 
 
 "But the message! the message! the 
 message!" cried Fred, losing all patience. 
 
 "And she looked handsome, did she?" 
 inquired Gus. as he noticed the impa- 
 tience of his friend. 
 
 "Hech! ye may say that, laddie. De'il 
 a bonnier lass ivir I clapt my ain twa 
 een on. An' a doot if she winna load him 
 wi' compliments when he ca's to see her, 
 judgin' frae the message. I'm malr nor 
 half sartln that"— 
 
 "But," shouted F.rid, In his irritation 
 seizing the doctor by the shoulder and 
 wheeling him round like a top. "what 
 was the message, you old son of Galen?" 
 
 "Hech, sirs! Laird protect us! who 
 ivir heerd malr nor that?" gasped the 
 little doctor, panting for breath, which 
 his extempore walte had nearly shaken 
 out of his body, "splnnin' a respectable 
 auld body lek me roun' as if I was a tap. 
 •"Twad na be every laddie jyvad dae sic 
 
 a dirty trick. Hech! I'm fairly oot o' 
 ))reath." 
 
 "It's excessively aggrravating, no 
 doubt," said Gus, soothingly; "but you 
 must pardon my unhappy young friend 
 here; he is a little flighty at times, but 
 perfectly harmless"— 
 
 Fred groaned. . ;. 
 
 "But when very impatient," continued 
 Gus, secretly enjoying his friend's de- 
 spair, he Is rather violent. Therefore, 
 my dear doctor, you had better tell him 
 the young lady's message — when, I have 
 no doubt, these alarming symptoms will 
 vanish." 
 
 "Oo ay!. Just so!" said the doctor, re- 
 treating a few paces from Fred, and 
 eyeing him as one might a half -tamed 
 tiger, "she said that ony time this after- 
 noon that wad be convenient she wad be 
 maist happy to see ye in the kebbin be- 
 low. That's a'." 
 
 And the little doctor went off mutter- 
 ing, "Gude purtect us! wha wad think 
 sic a douce young laddie as that was nae 
 richt aboot the upper warks? Weel. 
 weel. Laird save us!" 
 
 "An interview!" exclaimed Gus, with 
 delight; "by Jove! Fred, you. are in luck. 
 I can foresee it all — private intervlewr-r 
 lady all blushes and gratitude — gentler 
 man all admiration and compliments- 
 see each other every day while on board 
 —grow as thick as pickpockets — moon* 
 light interview — gentleman grows tender 
 —lady refers him to papa-^papa Informs 
 him she's not his daughter at all, but a 
 princess In disguise, with large estates 
 in a land yet undiscovered — matrimony 
 —champagne, ice-creams, wax lights, 
 roses, pretty girls' kisses — bride, aii am 
 gel without wings — bridegroom in the 
 seventh heaven — whew! there's the 
 whole thing in a nutshell. A novel con^ 
 densed." ■ .. w 
 
 Fred bit the end of his cigar to cpn-f 
 real a smile. . ,:! 
 
 "I'd give a trifle to know her name,"i 
 continued Gus; "It's a wonder none of 
 the crew of the vessel knew it. • Heigho! 
 I suppose I must restrain my lmpatienc<e 
 until after the interview she has prontT 
 ised you." 
 
 Fred, though appearing outwa,rdly 
-i 
 different, felt little less anxiety for the 
 Interview than his friend. ,{ 
 
 Having made himself very unnecessa'^ 
 rlly handsome by a moat careful toilet, 
 he desired the little doctor to Inform the 
 lady he was ready to wait upon her. 
 
 "Walk doon! walk doon, laddie." tuUd 
 Galen, presently reappearing; ' "and for 
 the love o' heaven!" he added, suddenly, 
 remembering Fred's conduct In the 
 morning, "dlnna be ony way ylplent. 
 Laird save me! what wad the pulr lassie 
 do If ye took ane o' : thaim tantrums, in. 
 her presence?" • ,, ,,. 
 
 Fred, having pledged his word to con • 
 duct himself, \'hile before the iady,. with. 
 


THE BBRMIT OF THE CLIFFS. 
 
 Jl 
 
 Mrly oot a' 
 
 due decorum, the doctor bowed htm into 
 the cabin, whichk the captain had gener- 
 ously given up fo his fair captive, and, 
 having announced him ad being "the lad- 
 die that had ta'en her oot o' the burnln' 
 ship/' made his best salute and retired. 
 The lady, who was seated by the table, 
 arose as Fred entered, and, advancing 
 toward him, extended her hand^ The 
 youth imagined she looked even fairer 
 now than when he had first seen her. 
 The brlight, golden tresses were pushed 
 oft her fa-h* brow and gathered into a 
 burnished knot behind, thus displaying 
 the exquisite symmetry of the superb 
 little head. She was «tlll pale from the 
 effects of her recent fright; but Fred 
 thought he had never beheld a fairer 
 face in all his life. 
 
 "My preserver! how can I ever thank 
 you for saving me from such a fearful 
 death?" said the softest, sweetest voice 
 in the world. And, raising the hand she 
 held in hers, She bent her graceful head 
 and pressed it to her lips. 
 
 The act, simple and natural as it was, 
 brought a sudden flush to Fred's face. 
 
 "1 need no thanks, fairest lady, for 
 performing a common act of humanity," 
 he said, bowing, "He would, indeed, be 
 a monster who would not endeavor to 
 rescue a fellow-creature from death." 
 
 "Oh! It was fearful!" exclaimed the 
 lady, "to stay there alOne, expecting mo- 
 mentary death. It seemed to me impos- 
 sible I could be saved, with everything 
 In flames^ around me!" 
 
 She shuddered it the remembrance, 
 and her face grew a shade paler, 
 
 "It seems wonderful to me how you 
 could have been forgotten by all," said 
 Fred. 
 
 "So it seemed to me at first, but not 
 now. I never went on deck after the 
 death of my dear uncle" — she paused and 
 her eyes filled with tears — "he was lost 
 in a dreadful storm, a week before you 
 r'»scued me, Alas! this seems doomed to 
 e a luckless voyage," 
 "I fear you will not l{k3 your quar- 
 ters here," said Fred, glancing around 
 the harrow and poorly furnished cabin, 
 "it is hardly in a fit condition for the 
 reception of a lady." 
 
 "Oh, if that were all," she said, with a 
 half sigh, "but I am afraid it will be 
 such a long time before I can reach 
 home." 
 
 "I. too, have 1 nged for the end of this 
 voyage," said Fred, "but now thie time 
 will appear all too short." 
 
 She looked up suddenly, to find the 
 deep, dark eyes of the speaker fixed upon 
 her with a look of profound admiration. 
 For a moment the golden lashes dropped 
 over the blue eyes, and a vivid crimson, 
 whether of anger or embarrassment, he 
 knew not, mantled her pale cheeks. 
 
 Her manner during the remainder of 
 the interview was so cold and con- 
 
 strained that, he felt sure he had offend- 
 ed, and, with a feeling, of vexathun, he 
 arose and took his leave, 
 
 Fred's dreams that, night were haunt- 
 ed by a pair of blue eyes that one mo- 
 ment smiled upon him— the next were 
 turned coldly away. Once again, in fan- 
 cy, he was rescuing their owner from 
 the flames and bearing her off in tri- 
 umph in. his arms, when he awoke to the 
 dull reality that he was clasping, most 
 affectionately, the pillow! 
 
 As he dressed before going on deck he 
 suddenly remembered he had neglected 
 to ask the young lady her name. Was 
 there ever such stupidity ? Then it oc- 
 curred to him that he had a locket be- 
 longing to her, and, opening it, he dis- 
 covered that it contained the miniature 
 of the fair unknown herself. 
 
 Now, Mr. Stanley, though by no means 
 given in general to retaining other peo- 
 ple's property, immediately experienced 
 a most felonious desire to keep the lock- 
 et. Accordingly, placing it as near his 
 heart as was convenient, he hastily add- 
 ed a few finishing touches to his cos- 
 tume and went on deck. 
 
 And when he had reached it a sight 
 met his eyes that transfixed him with 
 amazement. For there, promenading the 
 deck and leaning most affectionately on 
 the arm of Gus, was the fair unknown. 
 The morning breeze had brought a deep 
 rose hue to the pearly cheeks; her eyes 
 were bright with pleasure, and smiles 
 were chasing the dimples over her fair, 
 sunshine face. And there was Gus, bend- 
 ing over her in a way for which Fred 
 could have shot him without remorse 
 and calling up her smiles and blushes at 
 his own magnetic will. 
 
 No Wonder Fred was amazed, angry, 
 mortified. He had saved her life almost 
 at the risk of his own, and because he 
 had uttered a few gallant words she had 
 'grown as distantly reserved and digni- 
 fied as a queen on her throne. And here 
 was Gus Elliott, whom she had never 
 seen before, now her elected champion, 
 and, to judge by appearances, something 
 more than a friend. 
 
 As they passed, both looked up and 
 recognized him, she by a formal bow 
 and Gus by a smile of triumph. With 
 the air of an insulted prince, Fred turned 
 aside and strolled in an opposite direc- 
 tion, with the firm conviction that ^ere 
 was nothing in the world but ingrrati- 
 tude. 
 
 While he still stood absorbed in 
 gloomy thought he was suddenly aroused 
 by a hearty slap on the shoulder. He 
 looked up haughtily and Gus , met the 
 full light of his fiery eye, 
 
 "Fred!" he exclaimed, without heeding 
 
 his evident anger, "you're the luckiest 
 
 dog in creation! Guess .whom you've 
 
 saved?" 
 
 "Whom?" was the eager inquiry, r 
 
 L^ 
 


12 
 
 TUB HERMIT Of THE GLIFFti. 
 
 
 "My cousin Edith, the eldest daughter 
 of my uncle. Major Perclval!" 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THBS HOME OF BDITH. 
 
 "Where is the heart that hath not bowed 
 A slave, eternal love, to thee7 
 Look on the cold, the gay, the proud— 
 And is there one among them free?" 
 
 — Landon. 
 
 Tt was a dark, unpleasant night— 
 nearly a fortnight after the adventure 
 of the burning ship. The privateer was 
 still cruising about In quest of "Brit- 
 Ishers," whom the captain was particu- 
 larly anxious to "send to thunder!"— as 
 he himself elegantly expressed it. Dur- 
 ing this time Fred's acquaintance with 
 Miss Perclval hardly progressed as rap- 
 idly as Gus had propht led it would. 
 There was a sort of embarrassment, a 
 coldness, a reserve. In her manner to- 
 ward him that offended his sensitive 
 pride, and their intercourse now gener- 
 ally consisted of a bow, when they met, 
 and a formal "good day." Though she 
 spent the greater part of each day with 
 Gus on deck, she seemed to shrink from 
 meeting Fred, and Fred, seeing this, 
 studiously avoided her. Yet sometimes, 
 suddenly raising his head, he would find 
 those soft blue ayes wandering wist- 
 fully ever to where he stood, yet always 
 dropping before his, while her rising 
 color and averted head betokened emo- 
 tions she would fain have concealed. 
 
 Wrapped in his cloak, with his hat 
 .drawn down over his brows, Fred paced 
 up and down the deck in no very amia- 
 ble frame of mind. It was a dense, 
 gloomy night. The storm clouds' were 
 drifting, dark and threatening, over the 
 leaden sky: a chill, raw wind was blow- 
 ing piercingly cold — sighing, dirge-like, 
 through the rigging, while the creaking 
 of the cordage seemed to chant back a 
 sort of dismal refrain; a thick rain was 
 falling, making everything wet and un- 
 comfortable. It was indeed suicidal 
 weather, but perfectly congenial to the 
 thoughts passing through the mind of 
 the tall, cloaked figure pacing so rest- 
 lessly to and fro. 
 
 At times sounds of song and peals of 
 laughter would come floating up from 
 the cabin, where old Doctor Kirk, Cap- 
 tain Harden, Gus and Miss Perclval were 
 assembled. These sounds were to Fred's 
 feelings like "vinegar upon nitre," and 
 his lip curled scornfully and bitterly 
 whenever he passed. Suddenly the men- 
 tion of his own name arrested his steps. 
 Some secret power held him, as it were, 
 forcibly to the spot, to listen. 
 
 "Where's Stanley?" Inquired Captain 
 Harden. 
 
 'Keeping sentry on deck, no doubt," 
 ^.^swered Gus, "according to his usual 
 
 custom. I'll wager a guinea that quick, 
 excited tread we heard a moment ago 
 was Fred walking up and dov/n." 
 
 "Malster Stanley's a queer sort o' lad," 
 observed the doctor. "I ne'er cam across 
 ane .sae proud in a' my days. T'lther 
 day he was stannin' lookin', sae dooei 
 and sulky, by himsel', that I didna think 
 hem well, and I recommended a doze o' 
 peells. Well, instead o' thankin' me, as 
 a body ought, he glowered at me a min- 
 ute, as if he thought me mad. and 
 walked off wi' himsel' without sayin' a 
 word. Hech. sirs! dell a more thanks I 
 got!" 
 
 Gus couldn't help laughing, but he ob- 
 served : 
 
 "Oh, you must excuse him, doctor! 
 Fred has some queer notions; but in 
 general he's a capital fellow — brave as a 
 lion, but proud as Lucifer." 
 
 "What Is your opinion. Miss Perclval, 
 of the gentleman now under discussion?" 
 Inquired Captain Harden. 
 
 Oh. what would not Fred have given 
 to hear the reply! Miss Percival's low. 
 musical voice had hitherto possessed an 
 unspeakable charm for him; but now he 
 would not have objected had it been as 
 loud as the boatswsfin's, so that he might 
 have heard the answer; but, though he 
 strained every nerve to listen, he could 
 not catch her words. 
 
 "That's just like Edith,*' observed Gus. 
 "Hasn't 'formed an opinion,' indeed! As 
 if any young lady could meet such a 
 good-looking fellow as Fred without 
 forming an opinion about him. He re- 
 minds me wonderfully of the old woman 
 in the song." And Gus drawled, in a 
 sing-song tone: 
 
 "There was an old woman— and what do 
 
 you think? 
 She lived upon nothing but victuals and . 
 
 drink- 
 Victuals and drink was the whole of her 
 
 diet— 
 And yet this old woman could never be 
 
 quiet." 
 
 If Gus had seen the fiery flash of 
 Fred's eye. at that moment he might 
 have hesitated a little about the com- 
 parison. 
 
 "I dinna see how Maister Stanley's 
 like that auld wumman." said the doc- 
 tor, solemnly. 
 
 "Why. my dear doctor, it's as clear as 
 mud," said Gus. "Fred, like the old lady 
 in the rhyme, 'never is quiet.* It's a per- 
 fect martyrdom to a serious person like 
 myself to be with one as restless as an 
 uneasy conscience, and as fiery as one 
 of your own Scotch Douglases." 
 
 Fred had not waited to hear this ex- 
 planation; but, wrapping himself more 
 closely in his cloak, resumed his solitary 
 march up and down — the loud mirth and 
 laughter from the cabin, amid which at 
 times he could recognise the silvery 
 


TBE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFS. 
 
 13 
 
 but he ob- 
 
 volce of Edith— giving added bitterness 
 to his thoughts. Poor Fred! Like the 
 country swain in love, he felt "hot and 
 dry-like, with a pain In his side like;" 
 and, like every other young gentleman 
 when he first falls in love, tormenting 
 himself with a thousand imaginary evils 
 — until, as Gus phrased it, there was "no 
 standing him." 
 
 Upon their arrival in Boston Fred 
 would have started immediately to see 
 his father, but Gus, who was to accom- 
 pany Edith home, urged him to go with 
 them. And Edith pleaded, too — more 
 with her eager, blushing face and elo- 
 quent eyes than with words. 
 
 "Do, Mr. Stanley," she urged, laying 
 her little white hand on his own — "do 
 come I Papa will be so anxious to see one 
 who has saved his daughter's life." 
 
 Every nerve thrilled at that magnetic 
 touch; but still he stood irresolute. 
 
 "Please, Mr. Stanley," continued that 
 low, musical voice — to his ear the sweet- 
 est he had ever heard, and the starry 
 eyes were raised to the face above her. 
 
 Fred looked down, to encounter those 
 pleading, blue eyes raised so earnestly 
 to his, and just as you would have done, 
 my dear sir, had you been in his place, 
 he surrendered. 
 
 The residence of Major Percival was. 
 several miles from the city, and after 
 spending one night at a hotel the trio 
 started next morning. 
 
 The drive to Percival Hall was always 
 remembered by Fr?d among the happiest 
 moments of his life. The cold reserve 
 which Edith had always maintained on 
 shipboard had entirely vanished. An al- 
 most childish glee at being once more 
 at home had taken its place, and she 
 chatted and laughed with a freedom and 
 vivacity that completely finished poor 
 Fred. 
 
 A sudden turn in the road brought 
 them, at length, in sight of Percival Hall. 
 An avenue of stately horse-chestnuts led 
 up to the hall itself — an imposing look- 
 ing structure of red brick. Behind the 
 house was an extensive orchard, and, 
 nearer still, a pretty flower garden. 
 
 "There's papa — there's papa!" ex- 
 claimed Edith, springing up and clap- 
 ping her hands, and before Fred, who 
 had risen, could assist her, she had 
 leaped out, and flown into the arms of 
 an elderly gentleman, who came hum- 
 ming carelessly down the steps in front 
 of the mansion. 
 
 While the major, with many an ex- 
 clamation of surprise and delight, em- 
 braced his daughter. Fred scrutinized 
 him from head to foot. 
 
 In stature he was of about middle size, 
 stout and squarely built, with prominent 
 features and high cheek bones. There 
 was an air of sternness and command 
 about him, while the firmly closed mouth 
 betrayed unusual obstinacy in following 
 
 his own opinions. The high, broad fore- 
 head and massive head displayed a lofty 
 Intellect; and there was a piercing keen- 
 ness in the gaze of his sharp, gray eyes 
 that gave an observer the uncomfortable 
 sensation that he was reading his In- 
 most thoughts. 
 
 He now advanced toward the young 
 man, who had alighted, and, holding out 
 his hand to Fred said, with grateful 
 courtesy: 
 
 "My daughter tells me, sir, that you 
 have saved her life. I am not in the 
 habit of making fine speeches, but be- 
 lieve me, sir, the heartfelt gratitude of 
 an old man will ever follow you." 
 
 Fred bowed in silence. 
 
 "And don't you know this young gen- 
 tleman, papa?" said Edith, with an arch 
 glance toward Gus. 
 
 "I have not that hon— eh?" he added, 
 suddenly— "can it be? Bless my soul! 
 Gus Elliott, is this yourself?" and the 
 major seized ^hls hand with a grip of 
 iron. 
 
 "Well, sir," replied Gus. with a gri- 
 mace, "if ever I had any doubts on the 
 subject, the aching of my fingers at 
 present has convinced me I am myself, 
 and no mistake." 
 
 "Well, well, well!" exclaimed the ma- 
 jor, surveying him from head to foot 
 with sharp eyes, "how you have shot up 
 since I saw you last! And you're Gus 
 Elliott. V7ell. who'd have thought it? 
 Edith! Ah! she has gone, I see. Walk 
 up. gentlemen — walk up. Mrs. Percival 
 will be delighted to see you." 
 
 So saying. Major Percival ran up the 
 steps, followed by the two young men. 
 The long hall was flanked by doors on 
 either side, and, opening one of these, 
 he ushered the twain into the family 
 sitting-room. Here they found Edith 
 clasped in the arms of a handsome mid- 
 dle-aged lady, while a young girl stood 
 by her side, alternately laughing and 
 crying. 
 
 "My wife and daughter Ellen, M". 
 Stanley. I suppose," he added, smiling- 
 ly, to his wife. "Edith has told you all 
 about the achievements of this promis- 
 ing young gentleman. There, there — 
 don't overwhelm him with thanks. I see 
 by his countenance he doesn't like it! 
 Come. Nell — why don't you thank your 
 sister's deliverer?" 
 
 "Mamma won't give me a chance," re- 
 plied Nell — a lively, dark-eyed girl, with 
 pretty, restless features. "She has mo- 
 nopolized Mr. Stanley all to herself." 
 
 "Well, there; I'U resign him to you, 
 saucebox," said Mrs. Percival, smiling, 
 "though I imagine Mr. Stanley will soon 
 tire of your everlasting chattering." 
 
 "Here is some one else you have not 
 
 seen yet, Nell," said her sister, glancing 
 
 I at Gus, who now advanced. 
 
 I "Why, can it— no. It— yes, it— why, ? 
 
 ,<3eclare it's Gus!" exclaimed Nell, as i*d. 
 


M 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFS. 
 
 1 
 
 darted forward and without ceremony 
 flung her arms around his neck. 
 
 "Dear me! Ellen, that's shockingly 
 improper conduct!" said the highly scan- 
 daliaed Mrs. Percival. 
 
 "Oh, ain't it nice!" exclaimed Nell, as 
 she came dancing back, with cheeks and 
 eyes all aglow. "We'll have such good 
 times, now you and 'Dlth have come 
 back!" 
 
 "Where is Nugent mamma?" inquired 
 Edith. 
 
 "He went away with Ralph De Lisle, 
 about a week ago, my clear," replied her 
 mother. "We expect them both home 
 again In a few days." 
 
 The name seemed to act like a galvanic 
 shock on Edith, who gave a sudden start 
 and flushed to the temples. 
 
 "And, oh, Edith!" exclaimed her vol- 
 uble sister, "you ought to see Ralph 
 since you left him to wear the willow. 
 Poor fellow! he was such a victim to 
 "green find yellow melancholy" for a 
 week after that I couldn'f bear to look 
 at him. My! won't he be glad to hear 
 you've come back — and so will I. too. for 
 I do long for a wedding dreadfully." 
 
 "Ellen!" said her mother, reprovingly. 
 
 "Oh, well, mamma, there's nobody here 
 that doesn't know all about it," said the 
 chatterbox. "But. dear me! Mr. Stan- 
 ley, ain't you well?— you look like a 
 ghost!" 
 
 Edith, who had been gazing steadfast- 
 ly out of the window, now turned sud- 
 denly round, and Fred started at seeing 
 the .deadly paleness of her face. 
 
 "Ring the bell, Edith, for a glass of 
 water," said Nell. "Why, I declare you're 
 as bad yourself," she added, suddenly 
 confronting her. "Just look, mamma, 
 how pale they both are! I'm afraid it's 
 catching. Do I look pale?" And the se- 
 rious expression of Nell, as she glanced 
 at her own blooming face in the glass, 
 was truly laughable. 
 
 But the color that had faded from the 
 face of both speedily returned. The eyes 
 of Fred and Edith met, and before that 
 penetrating glance hers fell, while a 
 vivid crimson mantled cheek and brow. 
 
 During the remainder of the evening 
 the name of Ralph De Lisle was fre- 
 quently mentioned by all save Edith, 
 who seemed to shrink painfully from the 
 subject. From what he heard, Fred 
 judged De Lisle was a suitor for the 
 hand of Edith— and what was more, a 
 favored one. 
 
 When Fred retired that night it was 
 with no very pleasant feelings. Who and 
 what was this De Lisle? He asked him- 
 self the question repeatedly, without 
 mueh hope of obtaining an answer. His 
 resolution was to see Gus alone, and, if 
 possible, obtain from him a discovery 
 without exciting suspicion as to the state 
 ^-isf his own feelings. If, as he feared, he 
 
 ^JB Indeed beloved by her, then he him- 
 
 self would immediately depart and see 
 her no more. ' ' 
 
 The next day an opportunity occurred. 
 Fred and Gus found themselves sepa- 
 rated from the others and straying arm 
 in arm through the garden. 
 
 "Who is this Ralph De Lisle, about 
 whom they all appear to be so anxious?" 
 inquired Fred, with affected carelessness, 
 unconscious that he was rooting up the 
 violets with his cane. 
 
 "A suitor of Edith's, I believe," replied 
 Gus, indifferently. 
 
 "Ah! and a favored one, if I may 
 judge." 
 
 "Hum! I should think so — they're to 
 be married in a few weeks." 
 
 There was no response from his com- 
 panion, and Gus went on: 
 
 "The father of this De Lisle was a 
 Frenchman, and the intimate friend of 
 Major Percival. When dying he commit- 
 ted his son to his care, with a request 
 that Edith and Ralph, who had always 
 been firm friends, should be united, if 
 thpy were willing, when his son attained 
 his majority. Major Percival promised 
 him that his request shovild be fulfllled. 
 {ind his word with him is law unalter- 
 able. The young couple love each other, 
 it seems, so their 'course of true love' 
 runs smoothly enough. Edith wished to 
 visit some friends of hers in England be- 
 fore she became Mrs. De Lisle, and she 
 was returning home when you rescued 
 her from the burning ship." 
 
 "Better, far better, I had left her to 
 perish there!" was the bitter thought 
 that passed through Fred's mind. 
 
 "De Lisle is an immense favorite with 
 the major," continued Gus; "some say 
 he appears fonder of him even than of 
 his own son. He is the leader of a gang 
 of Tories, and a Tory himself to the core 
 of his heart. But here comes Nell — 
 breezy and airy as ever." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Stanley!" she exclaimed, as 
 she came flying to him, "we are going 
 to have a sailing party to-morrow, and 
 you must be sure -to come. So, if you 
 have any engagement for that day, you 
 may just break it at once." 
 
 "I regret it is impossible for me to 
 comply," said Fred, gravely. "I must 
 depart to-morrow." 
 
 "Depart for where?" demanded Gus, 
 surprised at this sudden announcement. 
 
 "To see my father. I should have gone 
 before, could I have broken the spell 
 that bound me here!" and he bowed to 
 Nell. 
 
 "Oh, nonsense, Mr. Stanley!" exclaimed 
 that young lady. "You sha'n't go, and 
 that's the end of it. Tour father can 
 wait a day or two very well. Sister, 
 come here and persuade Mr. Stanley to 
 stay. He's going away," he says. 
 
 "Going away!" echoed Edith, growing 
 pale as she spoke. 
 
 "But we positively won't allow it, un- 
 


TBE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFS. 
 
 16 
 
 til after to-morrow, at leftst— shall we. 
 sister? Coax him. like a good girl, while 
 i have a race with Carlo—he's pulling the 
 dress off my back. You're such a good 
 hand to persuade people, you know. I 
 remember, when De Lisle used to be 
 leaving, how you would coax him to 
 stay. Come. Carlo!" 
 
 Again Edith started at the abrupt 
 mention of that name, and the subdued 
 light that had filled Fred's eye as he 
 watched her changing face gave place to 
 a look of cold determination. Gus urged 
 him presslngly to remain, and Edith's 
 eyes were raised pleadingly to his face 
 as she faltered out a similar request. But 
 their entreaties were In vain. Fred de- 
 clined politely but firmly, and entered 
 the house to announce his determina- 
 tion to Major Percival and his lady. 
 Here, as he expected, he was again over- 
 whelmed with entreaties to remain; but 
 having resisted those of Edith, he found 
 little dlfllculty in remaining firm in his 
 determination. 
 
 "At least, then you will soon visit us 
 again?" urged Mrs. Percival, when she 
 found all her entreaties of no avail. 
 
 To rid himself of their importunities, 
 Fred promised, and early the next 
 morning he was off. 
 
 The family were all assembled on the 
 front piazza, to say good-by— all but 
 Edith. 
 
 "Where's Edith?" inquired the major, 
 as he, too, missed her. 
 
 "She had a bad headache this morn- 
 ing, and couldn't leave her room," replied 
 Nell, to whom the question was ad- 
 dressed. "It's strange, too! I never 
 knew her to have the headache before." 
 
 She glanced demurely at Fred, who 
 was shaking hands with hec father, and 
 there was a world of meaning in her 
 bright eyes. 
 
 "Well, good-by. Miss Ellen," he said, 
 approaching her, "until we meet again. 
 Remember me to your sister." 
 
 He bowed, sprang in the carriage and 
 drove off, quite unconscious that from 
 her chamber window the eyes of Edith 
 were watching him until he disappeared. 
 
 ' •* CHAPTER VI. ■ ' > 
 
 '.i ■■: . ■'■ ^ ■ 
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 "Fathers have flinty hearts, no prayers 
 Can move them " 
 
 —Shakespeare. 
 
 It was drawing toward the close of a 
 pleasant summer day. The sun was Just 
 sinking behind the western hilltops, when 
 a carriage rattled along the dusty streets 
 and stopped before a plain but commo- 
 dious looking dwelling. 
 
 A young man. tall and handsome, 
 sprang out, and, turning to the sen nt, 
 whom the wheels had brought out e- 
 manded : 
 
 "Does Sir William Stanley live here?" 
 
 "Yes. sir," was the reply. 
 
 "Is he at home now?" inquired the 
 young man. 
 
 "Ye.s. sir." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 "Yes. sir." 
 
 "Then show me to his room. I wish to 
 see him Immediately." 
 
 "But, sir, really," stammered the man. 
 "Sir William dislikes to be Intruded 
 upon. If you will give me your name, I 
 will announce you." 
 
 "My good fellow. I'll not put you to so 
 much trouble. Just show me to his room 
 and I'll take the consequences." 
 
 Hurried away by the impatient and 
 commanding manner of the young man, 
 the domestic, sorely against his will, was 
 forced to obey. Preceding the impudent 
 stranger (as he considered him), to the 
 library, he opened the door and ushered 
 him into the "presence," and Immediate- 
 ly beat a precipitate retreat. 
 
 A tall, stately man, of middle age and 
 military bearing, sat writing at a desk. 
 There was a striking resemblance be- 
 tween the two— the same tall, command- 
 ing figure — the same haughty, aristo- 
 cratic air, the same fiery, dark eye. But 
 the winning smile that sometimes gave 
 such a look of inexpressible sweetness to 
 the face of the younger, never appeared 
 on the thin, firmly compressed lips of 
 the other. 
 
 The noise made by the openlng-of the 
 door aroused him. He looked up quickly 
 with an air of anger at the Interruption, 
 but as his eye fell on the young man's 
 face, he sprang from his seat and caught 
 him impetuously by the hand. 
 
 "Fred! by all that's lucky!" he ex- 
 claimed. In a tone of delight, "when did 
 you arrive? I was Just wishing this mo- 
 ment that you were here." 
 
 "I only reached here a day or two 
 ago," replied Fred, returning his cordial 
 grasp. 
 
 "And how are our friends in Paris?" 
 inquired Sir William. 
 
 "They are well, sir. I had several let- 
 ters for you from them, but it was my 
 fate to be shipwrecked, and they were, 
 unfortunately, lost." 
 
 "Shipwrecked?" said the father, in- 
 quiringly. 
 
 "Yes. sir," replied Fred, as he related 
 their adventures on sea, omitting, how- 
 ever, that part concerning Edith. 
 
 "So, Gus Elliott accompanied you, did 
 he?" inquired Sir William, when he had 
 concluded. "Where is he now?" 
 
 "At his uncle's. Major PercivarB," re- 
 plied Fred, beginning to trace the pat- 
 tern of the carpet with the end of his 
 riding whip. 
 
 "Ah! indeed? I know his son, young 
 Percival. Fine fellow, too— fine fellow! 
 And there's a friend of his, too — De 
 Lisle, I think they call him," contlnueA> 
 
 .-* 
 
 ,^r.^ 
 
 /• 
 


16 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE GUFFS. 
 
 , 1] 
 
 'i| 
 
 I 
 
 Sir William, without noticing his son s 
 sudden start, "an example for half the 
 young men In this rebclllouH land. You 
 saw, of course, the appointment I've pro- 
 cured for you In the army." 
 
 "T did, sir," said Fred, preparing him- 
 self for the storm that was coming. 
 
 "Well. I must say." said Sir William, 
 surveying him with a look of calm sur- 
 prlfe. not to say displeasure, "that for 
 such good news you seem wonderfully 
 little elated. Why. sir, at your age I 
 would have been wild with delight at 
 
 such an offer." ^ . . ^\.,. \ 
 
 Fred still sat silent, and his father, af- 
 ter regarding him for a moment with a 
 look of Increasing astonishment, went 
 
 on: ... 
 
 "There are sundry reports In circula- 
 tion not at all to your credit, J'rederlc, 
 and though I have always refused to be- 
 lieve them, yet they have given me a 
 great deal of mortification. It is now 
 \ your power to prove these reports 
 false, and enable me to hear my son's 
 name once more without blushing for 
 him. You will go Immediately, and re- 
 port yourself fl.t headquarters." 
 
 The last sentence was spoken with an 
 air of stern command terribly galling to 
 Fred, even though coming from the lips 
 of a father. His calm, truth-beaming eye 
 met that of his father unflinchingly, as 
 he rpse to his feet and stood confronting 
 
 him. 
 ' "Pardon me. sir," he said, repectfully, 
 but firmly; "I cannot go." 
 
 "Gannot?" repeated Sir William, start- 
 ing back in mingled anger and amaze- 
 ment. "Good heaven! is it possible these 
 reports were really true— can it be that 
 my son is a coward?" 
 
 "I am no coward, sir!" replied Fred, 
 proudly, an indignant flush passing over 
 his face. 
 
 "Then, sir, you are A traitor— a rebel!" 
 exclaimed Sir William, fiercely, as he 
 involuntarily half drew his sword. 
 
 "Neither, sir!" replied Fred, with per- 
 fect calmness. 
 
 "Then, in the name of heaven, what 
 are you?" cried his father, passionately, 
 goadM beyond all bounds by the young 
 man's cool, though respectful demeianor. 
 
 Ft'ed stood erect, while his eye lit nip 
 and encountered, fearlessly, the angry 
 orbs glaring upon him. 
 
 "Sir!" he said, proudly, "I am an 
 American by birth and by feeling. I 
 cannbt take Up arms,^ even at the com- 
 mand of a father, against my country- 
 men!" 
 
 iSir WilMam grew absolutely livid with 
 passion. '" . 
 
 "tJngratfefUl, undutiftil wretch!" he ex- 
 clafnied, in a, voice tha;t sounded hoarse 
 and unnatural with rage; "do you dat-e 
 to reply to yt>ur father thus? I cctm- 
 m'a:hd yftu. sir, on your peril, nefver to 
 'ipealc Siich words again. I tell you,^ 
 
 mad-headed, disobedient youth, that you 
 will— you shall— you must obey me!" 
 
 Fred stood silent, with his Hrms fold- 
 ed and a look of unmlstakablo determi- 
 nation in his eye. 
 
 "Have you heard me?" exclaimed his 
 father, striding toward and glaring upon 
 him with fiery eyes. "I say you shall 
 obey me!" 
 
 "I hear you, sir," replied Fred, calm- 
 ly, meeting his gaze with an unflinching 
 
 eye. .v ■■.:■•■••■ 
 
 "And you shall heed me, too. Oo im- 
 mediately. Instantly, and report yourself, 
 and by your bravery strive to atone for 
 your hot-headed presumption. D'ye hear 
 me, sir?" , i-> '^a v :>^:'i^ t ■•, - 
 
 "Yes, sir." .-\.: ^^■;.••". .:!^. --:>■, -v. 
 
 "And you will obey?" -^ 'v.-,. 
 
 "Most decidedly no. sir!" 
 
 "You will not?" exclaimed Sir William, 
 with a glance that might have annihi- 
 lated him. it was so intensely, scorch- 
 ingly angry. 'W^r*- ' ' 
 
 "No, Sir!" 
 
 "Base, degenerate scoundrel! Do you 
 not dread a father's curse?" 
 
 "Not when my conscience tells me I 
 have done no wrong, to deserve it." 
 
 "Conscience!" repeated his father with 
 a bitter, sneer; "methinks that is an ar- 
 ticle you are but little acquainted with. 
 Pray. Sir Parson, have you ever heard 
 the command. 'Honor thy father?' " 
 
 "Yes, and I have heard another, 'Hus- 
 bands, love and cherish your wives!' 
 Which in your estimation, sir, has the 
 greater force?" 
 
 He spoke, almost without knowing it, 
 in a tone of such concentrated bitterness 
 that his father quailed before him. 
 
 "I am not in the humor for fooling.'' he 
 said, angrily. "Will you or will you not 
 obey me?" 
 
 "You have my answer already." 'f<-.:.v 
 
 "And you still persist in disobeyltisr 
 me?" 
 
 "I must, sir, in this matter," 
 
 "And may I ask, inost patriotic young 
 man. what you intend doing?" inquired 
 Sir William, with a sneer of withering 
 sarcasm. •'-' 
 
 "I intend joining the American army,'',' 
 said Fred, calmly. •'•: 
 
 "You do!" exclaimed his father, with 
 flashing eyes. "Do you really mean to 
 say you are going to take sides against 
 me — your father, sir?" ' 
 
 Sir William bit his lip and began to 
 pace rapidly up and doWn. He saw he 
 had injured his own interest by getting 
 into a passion; his son Wad not one to toe 
 intimidated. Gentle language, he f^lt, 
 would have produced a. much greater ina-' 
 pression, and all unused as his lips were 
 to it, he determined to try Its efficacy. 
 It was not that h(f» really loved his son 
 so much, 'although he did ■feel more, af- 
 fection for him than for any one else^ 
 but it was not in his selfish nature td 
 


THE HEUMIT GF THE OLIFFH. 
 
 17 
 
 aisobeyirig 
 
 in army/ 
 
 love any one much. The opinion of the 
 world was what he feared; he felt It 
 would be a terrible humiliation to be 
 pointed at hereafter as a man whose son 
 was a rebel!" 
 
 Full of this idea, he advanced toward 
 Fred, who stood watching his varying 
 countenance, and reading, with his 
 searching eyes, his very inmost thoughts. 
 
 "Frederic " he said, in a subdued tone, 
 "I feel I h. e been wrong in speaking as 
 I have done, but consider the provoca- 
 tion. You are my only child— the last 
 descendant of an ancient house; without 
 you to perpetuate it our family will be- 
 come extinct. You are my only hope, 
 Frederic; you will not desert me in my 
 old age?" 
 
 What was begun in policy ended in real 
 pathos. His«anger and reproaches had 
 fallen unheeded, but his last words went 
 to the heart of Fred. 
 
 "Father," he said, "I cannot alter my 
 determination. Therefore, cease to urge 
 me to do what duty forbids." 
 
 "Duty, Frederic! Do not pervert the 
 word. Your duty is by the side of your 
 father. Where else should a son be? This 
 cant about 'freeing your country' is all 
 very well for those hare-brained raga- 
 muffins who follow the rebel Washing- 
 ton, but does not become you. Remain 
 with me, and you will be heir to one of 
 the noblest estates in old England. Per- 
 sist in this mad scheme, and I shall be 
 compelled to disinherit you." 
 
 He commenced to speak calmly, but as 
 he proceeded; his anger overmastered 
 every other feeling, and he assumed his 
 former threatening tone of command to- 
 ward the close. 
 
 "That last argument, father, was the 
 mbst ineffectual one you could have 
 used," said his son, quietly. "Wealth I 
 have never coveted." 
 
 "Don't dare to call tne father!" said 
 the now thoroughly Incensed parent. 
 "You are henceforth no son of mine. I 
 cast you off; I disown you, and if you are 
 cz^ught fighting for the rebels, I will have 
 you huftg as a traitor. Mark my words 
 —it is no idle threat. And now, sir, be- 
 gone Instantly! Never darken these 
 doors again! Away, thou ingrate!" 
 
 He paused, choked with rage. Fred's 
 fajce was deadly pale; the words sounded 
 terribly unnatural and fearful, coming 
 from a parent's lips. 
 
 ''Father! you do not — you cannot 
 mean"— 
 
 "Away, sir!" repeated Sir William, 
 waving his hand. "I have spoken no 
 hasty words, to be repented of after- 
 ward! I never threaten what I do not 
 intettd to perform, and if ever you are 
 taken prisoner, I repeat it, you shall 
 hang as high as Hftma»! Yes, sir, I will 
 keef» my word, though. King G«orfe him- 
 self pleaded for you, and if none other 
 could be found, I would be yt)tir execu- 
 
 tioner myself! You have heard me! Be- 
 gone!" 
 
 I..ittle did either dream how soon that 
 threat was to be fulfilled. 
 
 He held the door open, and signed for 
 him to go. Without a word, Fred took 
 his hat and quitted the house. 
 
 ; . ... CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE HP5RMIT OF THB ClLIPFd. 
 
 "It WHH a lonely spot Id which he dwelt; 
 Man Mhunned his roof, few cared to ask 
 Us shelter. 
 Not that the old man bore an evil name. 
 But that his house wiis lonely." 
 
 -Old Play. 
 
 Thrke days later Fred sat in the par- 
 lor of an unpretending looking hotel, 
 carelessly glancing .over a new^papet", 
 when a waiter entered and finnounped 
 that "a gemman was 'qulrin* for hin» 
 downstairs." 
 
 "For me?" repeated Fred. "Who can 
 it be?" 
 
 "Dunno, sah," replied the darky, fan- 
 cying the question was addressed to him- 
 self; "I 'spect"— . 
 
 "Show him up," said Fred, cutting 
 short the darky's exclamation. 
 
 In a few moments a tall, handsome fel- 
 low, with a good-humored look and a 
 frank, off-hand air. entered. Advancing 
 to Fred, he held out his hand, with a 
 smile: 
 
 "Mr. Stanley, I believe," he said, 
 courteously. 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Fred, bowing; "but 
 I regret to say lam quite ignorant of the 
 name of'* — 
 
 "Ah! beg pardon!" interrupted the 
 newcomer. "My name is Nugent Percl- 
 val. I wish I could thank you suffi- 
 ciently for the inestimable service you 
 have rendered us all in saving my sis- 
 ter's life." 
 
 Fred strov-"> to affect a genteel Indiffer- 
 ence, though he felt the blood rushing , to 
 his face. 
 
 "Pray do not mention it," he replied- 
 "I am only too happy to have had the 
 opportunity, of saving her. I trust she 
 is well?" . -: 
 
 "Yes, Edith is quite well, an€ joins 
 most urgently with the rest of the fam- 
 ily In inviting you to return with me 
 home. Do not refuse. Mr. Stanley," he 
 continued, seeing the almost haughty ex- 
 pression of Fred's face; "you have no 
 idea how disappointed they will all be. 
 Gus would have accompanied me here, 
 but my sister Nell positively refused to 
 let him go — for fear, as she'expressed it, 
 he might get shipwrecked again." 
 
 Fred smiled and walked Irresolutely to 
 the window. Edith urged him to return: 
 his heart leaped at the words, but a 
 moment's thought convinced iiini that 
 Percival had merely used the words al8 
 


18 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE GUFFS. 
 
 a matter of form. Still, he felt an In- 
 ward wish to Ko. Something made him 
 fancy FMIth was not wholly Indifferent 
 to him, and he lonRcd to hear her say 
 HO with htr own lips. But, then, her af- 
 rtanced Do Lisle? What If he were there? 
 Well, even wo It would be a comfprt to 
 see what manner of man his rival was. 
 Still, then there was an undefined hope 
 that he was not at Perclvnl Hall. 
 
 "1 hardly know," he said, hesitating, 
 "whether to Intrude a second time or not. 
 There may be strangers"— He paused. 
 
 "Only the family." said Perclval, In hla 
 frank way. "So If meeting strangers Is 
 your only objection, you aee you can no 
 longer refuse. Come, Stanley (excuse 
 my famlilarlty), you must rome back 
 wHh me. I have been threatened with 
 all manner of calamities by Nell (who, 
 by the way, pronounces you 'a love of a 
 man') If T did not bring you." 
 
 There was something Fred could not 
 resist in the courteous, winning manner 
 of young Perclval. He resembled Edith, 
 too, fai- more than did her sister, and 
 this, perhaps, was the secret cause that 
 drew Fred toward him. 
 
 "Well, since a lady commands It, I 
 must obey." he said, gayly, as he ran 
 bis fingers through his dark elf-locks. 
 "When do you start?" 
 
 "My orders are to wait lor you, sir." 
 replied Perclval. and I shall most assur- 
 edly do so, not having courage to brave 
 the storm I should meet with did I ven- 
 ture to return without you. Therefore, 
 until you are ready, I remain your ver;' 
 bumble servant." 
 
 "Then you are not likely to be de- 
 tained," said Fred, "as I am like the sol- 
 dier's wife— ready to march on a mo- 
 ment's warning." 
 
 "Very good!" said Perclval: "what say 
 you to starting to-morrow?" 
 
 "T have no objection," replied Ffed. "I 
 am only spending a day or two here, to 
 kill time." 
 
 The matter being thus arranged. Per- 
 clval. after conversing for a short time 
 on ordinary topics, took his leave. The 
 next morning found them en route. 
 : There was. we must confess it. an un- 
 usual throbbing at Fred's heart when he 
 again encountered Edith. She was look- 
 ing better— more cheerful than he had 
 ever seen her, he fancied — and the cold 
 reserve with which she had formerly 
 treated him. seemed entirely forgotten in 
 the unfeigned pleasure with which she 
 welcomed him back. Fred fancied, or, 
 rather, hoped, this might be caused by 
 the prolonged absence of De Lisle (who 
 had not yet made his appearance), and 
 noticing the eager, happy look with 
 which she met him. his heart leaped 
 with the wild hope that perhaps she 
 loved him, after all. 
 
 The greeting of the rest of the family 
 was most cordial, especially that of Nell. 
 
 That young lady declared "she hadn t 
 had a bit of fun since he left; she never 
 was at a loss for something to laugh at 
 when he was present; it was so funny 
 to see him sitting so stiff and dlgnlfled. 
 looking more like a banished prince than 
 an every-day Christian," 
 
 A week passed rapidly away at Petcl- 
 val Hall. Rides, drives and walks fol- 
 lowed each other. In all of which Fred 
 unaccountably found himself the com- 
 panion of Edith. Gus. who was general- 
 ly at his wits' end by the caprices of 
 Nell, found enough to do In taking care 
 of that eccentric young damsel. And 
 Perclval usually started off by himself, 
 leaving the well-satisfied couples behind 
 him to their own devices. There was a 
 dangerous fascination for Fred In these 
 Interviews. Sometimes, "feeling half 
 ashamed of loitering here In idleness, 
 when duty called elsewhere, he would 
 resolve to depart immediately; but days 
 passed on. and he found it impossible 
 to tear himself away. He strove to stifle 
 the twinges of conscience by specious ar- 
 guments: but reflection would not be 
 stlfl'?d, do as he would. 
 
 "W^ll. Stanley, have my sisters intro- 
 duced you to all the celebrities of the 
 place?" asked Perclval, one warm, sunny 
 afternoon, as the whole party, after a 
 longer ramble than usual, strolled to- 
 ward the house. 
 
 "No," said Nell; "we haven't visited 
 the hermit yet!" 
 
 "And why have you not brought him 
 there. Puss?" Inquired her brother. 
 
 "Because the hermit was absent, off 
 on one of his crazy rambles." replied 
 Nell. "He only returned this morning. 
 Old Mat, the gardener, told me." 
 
 "Then suppose we go in a party and 
 pay the old gentleman a visit?" said 
 Perclval. 
 
 "Pray." inquired Fred, "who is the her- 
 mit?" 
 
 "Oh! a most singular and eccenttic old 
 man," replied Perclval; "one alike feared 
 and shunned and beloved by the vil- 
 lagers. He resides a few miles from 
 here, near the seashore, and is a lunatic, 
 but perfectly harmless. There Is a ran'ge 
 of rocks in that direction, which has 
 been known from time immemorial by 
 the name of 'The Cliffs,' and from his 
 fondness for strolling about there he has 
 received the singular and somewhat ro- 
 mantic name of the Hermit of the Cliffs. 
 He first made his appearance here a few 
 years ago. and from his skill in herbs 
 and medicine, became a favorite. He 
 has built a sort of cabin up among the 
 cliffs, and here he has since resided, 
 spending his time in cultivating a little 
 garden or wandering among the rocks. 
 His name is unknown, but he is, no 
 doubt, some unfortunate whom, the cares 
 of the world have made an Idiot." 
 
 "I feel rather curious to see this sin- 
 


"she hadn t 
 ft; 8he never 
 : to lau^h nt 
 'as BO funny 
 md dignified, 
 1 prince than 
 
 ay at Petcl- 
 d walks fol- 
 
 whlch Fred 
 ?lf the coin- 
 was Keneral- 
 
 caprlcea of 
 
 taking: care 
 amsel. And 
 
 by himself, 
 uplea behind 
 rhere was a 
 'red In these 
 eeling half 
 in idleness. 
 e, he wouM 
 y; but days 
 t Impossible 
 rove to stifle 
 specious ar- 
 )uld not be 
 
 isters intro- 
 •ities of the 
 varm, sunny 
 rty, after a 
 strolled to- 
 
 en't visited 
 
 rought hlni 
 
 rother. 
 
 absent, off 
 
 BS," replied 
 
 s morning. 
 
 me." 
 
 party and 
 
 islt?" said 
 
 I is the her- 
 
 centric old 
 ilike feared 
 y the vll- 
 Tilles from 
 3 a lunatic, 
 
 is a ran:ge 
 which has 
 ^morial by 
 from his 
 lere he has 
 lewhat ro- 
 
 the Cliffs. 
 here a few 
 1 in herbs 
 orite. He 
 imong the 
 e resided, 
 ng a little 
 the rocks. 
 
 he is, no 
 
 the cares 
 iot." 
 ■ this sln- 
 
 TUE HERMIT OF TUB GJAFFS. 
 
 19 
 
 'Liet us 
 
 gular porsonage." said Fred, 
 visit him by all means." 
 
 "Is It not too far. brother?" said Edith, 
 anxlouily. "The sun will have set be- 
 fore we return." 
 
 "What odds?" interrupted the Impetu- 
 ous Nell. "We can return by moon- 
 light, which will be twice as pleasant." 
 And Nell hummed: - - 
 
 "Moonlight hours were made for love." 
 
 "Let us start, then." said Gus, "If we 
 are to visit the wizard. There Is no time 
 
 to lose." ,. ; * 
 
 For a while the party walked on to- 
 gether, chatting gayly; but the usual 
 phenomenon took place before they had 
 proceeded far. Gus and Nell saw some- 
 thing very interesting on ahead that 
 caused them to quicken their steps, while 
 Fred and Edith found It quite conven- 
 ient to walk slowly. There was a 
 scarcely repressed smile hovering about 
 Voung Perclval's lips. as. undev the plea 
 of acting as guide, he walked on by him- 
 self in advance of the rest. 
 
 Two hours' slow walking brought them 
 to the cliffs, a high, steep, craggy range 
 of rocks. As a matter of course, each 
 party sought the cottage .of the hermit 
 by a different path. Fred and his fair 
 companion, absorbed in conversation, 
 had nearly forgotten the object of their 
 visit when, turning an abrupt angle In 
 the path, he raised his head, shook back 
 his dark locks, and his eye fell on the 
 most singular looking personage he had 
 ever beheld. 
 
 It was an old man of grave and ma- 
 jestic aspect, who stood leaning on a 
 staff. His long, white hair and beard 
 flowed over his robes and gave to his 
 pale but benign countenance a venerable 
 look that immediately commanded re- 
 spect A small skull-cap of black velvet 
 was on his head, forming a strong con- 
 trast to the hoary whiteness of his aged 
 locks. His dress was most singular, con- 
 sisting of a long, flowing robe of some 
 dark stuff, that swept the ground as he 
 walked, and was confined at the waist 
 by a girdle of black velvet. Altogether, 
 his appearance was so odd. so singular, 
 that Fred stood staring at him, trans- 
 fixed with astonishment. The hermit 
 himself stood gazing upon them for a 
 moment; then, raising his cap. he said, 
 in a grave, impressive voice, laying his 
 hand on his heart: 
 
 "Peace be between us, my children." 
 
 "Amen, father!" responded Edith, who 
 was familiar with the singular appear- 
 ance and address of the hermit, while 
 Fred still stood lost in wonder. 
 
 "Why hast thou visited me this even- 
 ing, my daughter?" said the old man, 
 turning to Edith. 
 
 "My friend"— and she glanced toward 
 
 Fred— "has hsard no muoh of the Hermit 
 of the Cliffs that he was anxlouH to visit 
 you. Therefore I took the liberty of 
 bringing him." 
 
 The old man turned slowly and fixed 
 his mild, dark eye on the face of the 
 young man. 
 
 "What Is thy name, my son?" he In- 
 quired. 
 
 "I am called Frederic Stanley, good 
 father." said Prod, raising his hat and 
 bowing with deep reverence. 
 
 The eyes of the hermit were fixed on 
 him long and steadily, as If striving to 
 read his Inmost thoughts. As if still un- 
 certain, he approache<l. and, pushing 
 back the thick curls that fell darkly over 
 the young man's brow, gazed earnestly 
 Into the calm, dark eyea that fearlessly 
 met his own. Edith looked up In Fred'a 
 face with a smile. 
 
 "Yes." said the hermit at last, speak- 
 ing more to himself than to the listeners, 
 "he has his father's proud beartng and 
 haughty eyes. The same Impetuous 
 bravery, but a nobler and more gener- 
 ous heart." 
 
 "Do you know my father?" inquired 
 the young man. In surprise. 
 
 "Yes. better, perhaps, than he does 
 himself. I know him for a rash, self- 
 willed, obstinate, hard-hearted man." 
 
 "Sir. he Is my father!" said Fred, 
 flushing angrily. 
 
 The penetrating eye of the hermit was 
 fixed steadily on his face. 
 
 "And can you defend him. he said, "af- 
 ter parting from him as you did last?" 
 
 Fred stood aghast. The meeting be- 
 tween the father and son had been 
 stJ'lctly private, and yet this mysterious 
 being seemed to know all that had oc- 
 curred. 
 
 "How came you to know of our last 
 meeting?" he demanded. Imperiously. 
 
 "Perhaps I know more than you are 
 aware of. my son." said the hermit, 
 while something like a faint smile 
 passed over his face. 
 
 "Pshaw!" exclaimed Fred. Impetuous- 
 ly, "you have merely made a clever 
 guess. Since you know we are both 
 fiery-tempered, it required no great skill 
 to predict that we might differ." 
 
 "Shall I convince you, most noble 
 doubter, that I know of what I speak?'' 
 said the hermit, quietly. 
 
 "If you can," replied Fred, with an in- 
 credulous smile. 
 
 "Then name the way." 
 
 "Tell me of the past." said Fred, 
 glancing meaningly at Edith. 
 
 "Be It so. We will begin with your 
 age. You will be t\yenty-flve years old 
 the third of next November." 
 
 Fred bowed, with a look of surprise. 
 
 "Your mother died alone and In sor- 
 row: the hands of strangers placed her 
 in the grave." 
 
 Fred grew deadly pale and drew back. 
 


I l*' 
 
 Ik) 
 
 TIIK HKKxil'i' nt' Tilt: CUKf'B. 
 
 "You havp porforntied gome Kreat serv- 
 Wc for the lady by your Hide." continued 
 the hermit, quietly. "And at present lin- 
 irer with her h«>re. nt'KlertluR the duty 
 for which your father haw disowned 
 
 ^""EnouKh. sir." Interrupted Fred, 
 haughtily. "Be you man or demon. I will 
 llBtcn to no ImpututlonH on my conduct. 
 How you have obtained thiB Information 
 concerning me I know not; neither do I 
 care. Come. MIph Perclval. let us go; 
 the evening air Is too damp for you, anJ 
 I see our friends are on their way home. 
 I wish you good evening, Sir Sage." And, 
 ralFing his hat, Fred turned coldly away. 
 
 "Stay one moment," said the hermit, 
 laying his hand on the young man's 
 arm and speaking with such deep sol- 
 emnity that It awed him in spite of him- 
 self. "Stay, rash youth, and be warned. 
 Beware of false friends. There is dan- 
 ger at hand; you will soon meet one who 
 can work you much evil. I am your 
 friend, though you may not believe It 
 Go, and be warned! Despise not the 
 words of one to whom age has brought 
 wisdom. Farewell, my children, and 
 Heaven bless you!" 
 
 He bowed, and. turning slowly round, 
 disappeared among the rocks. 
 
 "Let us go," said Edith, who clung, 
 pale and trembling, to Frod'?< arm; "his 
 words frighten me." 
 
 "Fear not. fairest Edith; those oml- 
 notis words were not meant for you." 
 said Fred, gently, as he wrapped her 
 shawl close around her and hurried down 
 the rocks. 
 
 "It may be wrong— It may be supersti- 
 tious," said Edith, "but I feel the stran- 
 gest presentiment of coming danger 
 stealing over me. Something terrible 
 and undefined, from which I shrink in 
 fear and horror." 
 
 "I thought your nerves were too strong 
 to be thus shaken by the idle raving of 
 a moonstruck man," said Fred, gravely. 
 
 "I am not nervous," said Edith, earn- 
 estly. "It is a feeling for which I can- 
 not account. Strange, is it not, that the 
 old man could tell you of the past so 
 truly?" 
 
 "It is, indeed!" said Fred, thoughtful- 
 ly. "I cannot account for it." 
 
 During the remainder of the Journey 
 home both were silent and thoughtful. 
 It might be fancy, but Fred thought 
 there was something more confiding than 
 usual in the way Edith clung to his 
 arm. The moonlight fell softly around 
 ere they reached Perclval Hall, subduing 
 with its lights and shadows the irregu- 
 lar outline of the building. As they 
 walked slowly up the avenue in front, 
 Nell came flying down the steps all in a 
 flutter of surprise 
 
 "Edith! Edith!" she cried, as she 
 caught Right of her sister, "guess who'« 
 come'" 
 
 "Who?" said Edith. 
 
 "Why. nobody less than Ralph Dc 
 Lisle!" 
 
 What meant Edith's convulsive start.' 
 She lift»'d her eyes to i\.^ Jark, handsom<- 
 face above her, and Fred was struck by 
 her deadly paleness. Their eyes met, and 
 that one glan<e told what tlH'lr lips had 
 never spoken. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 THE RIVALS. 
 
 "It Is a dreadful ijuestlon. wh«'n we love, 
 To ask is lovf returned." 
 
 -The Hunchh.nck 
 
 "Come along, Edith; here is a friend of 
 yours!" called the cheerful voice of 
 young Perclval. as they entered the hall. 
 
 Still leaning on the arm of Fred— for 
 she trembled with Inward omotlon-- 
 Edith entered the parlor. A gentleman 
 arose, and advanced toward her with 
 extended hand. 
 
 Fred ran his eye over his rival from 
 head to foot. He was tall, considerably 
 above middle height, elegant In person 
 and easy In address. His features, taken 
 separately, were decidedly handsome: 
 but there was a sinister look In the ever- 
 restless glances of his keen, black eyes. 
 His complexion was dark — almost swar- 
 thy—with hair, mustache and whiskers 
 of shining. Jetty blackness. There was 
 an expression about the well-cut mouth 
 Fred could not tolerate, and the fore- 
 head, though high, was narrow and re- 
 treating. He was dressed In the height 
 of fashion, and everything about him. 
 even to the carefully modulated tones of 
 his voice, bespoke the perfect gentleman 
 
 "Mr. Stanley— Mr. De Lisle,' said 
 Edith, making a faint attempt at an in- 
 troduction. 
 
 ^ Fred bowed coldly and haughtily, and 
 fiis salute was with equal haughtiness 
 acknowledged. There was something so 
 contemptuous In the supercilious air 
 with which De Lisle regarded him, that 
 Fred's eyes flashed and his cheek crim- 
 soned with anger. 
 
 "This Is an unexpected pleasure, eh. 
 Edith?" said her father. "You did not 
 expect to see your intended so soon, did 
 you?" 
 
 Edith suddenly discovered there was 
 an interesting view from the window, 
 and couldn't possibly hear her father's 
 words. 
 
 "I say, Ralph," said Nell, leaning over 
 his chair with a short laugh, "you had 
 better look out for Edith! Mr. Stanley's 
 better looking than you are, and" — 
 
 The rest of the sentence was lost in 
 a whisper. 
 
 An angry flush passed over De LIsle's 
 face, as he bit his lip till it grew blood- 
 less. Fred sat talking to Mrs. Perclval 
 with great empressement, though he 
 


THE HERMIT OF THE VUFFH. 
 
 n Ralph I)e 
 
 ht-flvd every word of NpIIIo'h remark, nnd 
 h«> awaited the reiiponiie with deep Inter- 
 
 t'Ht. 
 
 Oh. there !■ no danger! I am not 
 jifrnld of him." replied De Lisle, with a 
 -IK »M' of IntenHe tontempt. 
 
 "Don't be too certain." said Nell. 
 
 Don't you remember the proverb. 'Noth- 
 iiiK Is certain In this uncertain world?' 
 Well. It'n an true aa preanhInK; so you 
 h.ul better look out. If 'Dlth gives you 
 the sack some fine morning, don't say I 
 iiuin't give you fair warning." 
 
 "I have a better opinion of your hIb- 
 ttMM taste, my pretty Black Eyes. If I 
 am to be a discarded lover, I trust It will 
 tint be for an unknown adventurer and 
 ivbel." said De Hale. In the samt> sneer- 
 ing tone. 
 
 It may be Imagined with what feelings 
 Fred listened to this dialogue. His nery 
 spirit was roused beyond endurance by 
 the last Insult, nnd, forgetting his posi- 
 tion as guest, he was about to make some 
 (ieroe retort, when Gus strolled leisurely 
 in and asked Nell what she was talking 
 about. 
 
 "Repeating poetry, ain't we. Ralph?" 
 said Nell, with an arch glance. 
 
 "That's a good child. Hay some more," 
 said Gus. lounging on a couch. 
 
 Nell, always prepared for an emergen- 
 cy, stood with clasped hands In the mid- 
 dle of the floor and repeated solemnly: 
 
 "My mother she tells me 
 Nature has given the lips— 
 Lips to apeak with, my daughter, my own. 
 And so thou must use them for speaking 
 alone. 
 
 But why are they red. then? 
 White lips would answer for speaking as 
 well ; 
 
 And why has she said, then— 
 Onlv for speaking? Oh! who can tell 
 A poor little Innocent girl like me. 
 I-'or what but to speak with can my mouth 
 be?' 
 
 "Phall I tell you?" said Gus, taking a 
 step toward her: but. gliding through his 
 nands as If she had been a sunbeam, she 
 vanished through the open doors. 
 
 "Shall we take a stroll in the gar- 
 den?" said Perclval, advancing toward 
 him. "The night is too fine to be spent 
 within doors," 
 
 Fred, glad to escape from the stream 
 of small talk with which Mrs. Perclval 
 was overwhelming him. arose, and, pass- 
 ing his arm through that of his friend, 
 quitted the house. 
 
 'I heard the remarks of that thought- 
 lesf! sister of mine." remarked Perclval, 
 in a tone of slight embarrassment, "and, 
 feeling you must be annoyed, took the 
 liberty of inviting you out. I trust you 
 have too mur'r good sense to feel hurt at 
 anything Nell may say." 
 
 "Did you hear what he said?" de- 
 manded Fred, almost fiercely. 
 
 "I did. and I felt as much annoyed by 
 
 It myself as you could poMlbly b«. It 
 was too bad of De Llsle~too bad, poal- 
 tively. Rut we must make allowances 
 for these lovers, Mr. Htanley," he said, 
 pmlling. "Jealousy will make the best -n 
 thetn slightly impertinent. He was vex^/J 
 with Kdlth, too. Her welcome, as you 
 doubtless perceived, was a cold one." 
 
 "That he should dart> to call me an ad- 
 venturer!" exclaimed Fred, with flashing 
 eyes. "I, who have descended from 'me 
 of the proudest fanjllles In England! And 
 that I should be obliged to Bit tamely 
 tlown and bear with the Insult!" 
 
 He ground his teeih and clenched hlil 
 li;inds with Huppressed passion. 
 
 "Oh, never mind, my dear fellow!" said 
 Perclval. soothingly. "Ralph Is a hot- 
 headed youth, and when angry Is not 
 very choice In the words he uses. I beg 
 you'll think no more a,bout it. Nell's re- 
 innrks were very tantalizing to a lover, 
 you must allow. I shall caution her 
 iiRalnst speaking so again." 
 
 "I tell you, Perclval!" exclaimed Fred, 
 vehemently. "Were he not your father's 
 guest, as I am. I would call him out and 
 make hlni retract his words or shoot him 
 like a dog. 'Rebel and adventurer!' " he 
 repeated, still more flrvcely. "Is It from 
 .1 hound like that mustached puppy I 
 I'lust bear such an insult?" 
 
 "My dear Stanley," said Perclval, lay- 
 ing his hand on the young man's shoul- 
 der, "I beg there may be no quarreling 
 on this subject. Consider my Bister's 
 name will be involved, and as you are a 
 man of honor, you will submit to this 
 taunt rather than that the breath of 
 slander should be affixed to her." 
 
 "For your sister's sake I would do any- 
 thing—submit to anything!" exclaimed 
 Fred, Impetuously. Then, seeing the 
 other's look of surprise, he added, almost 
 fiercely: "Do you think I am blind— do 
 you think I have the heart of a stone? do 
 you think It possible that I could be con- 
 tinually in your sister's society and not 
 become interested in her? I tell you, 
 Nugent Perclval. I love your sister, 
 though she be betrothed to the man I , 
 hate, Ralph De Lisle." 
 
 There was something appalling in the 
 unsubdued fierceness with which he 
 spoke. His eyes seemed actually to emit 
 flashes of fire, and his steps resounded. 
 aa he paced up and down, as though he 
 was shod with Iron. There was a cloud 
 on the handsome features of Nugent Per- 
 clval. as he again placed his hand on his 
 .«ihoulder and said: 
 
 "My dear Stanley, my dear fellow, I 
 nm sorry for you. I never dreamed that 
 this was the case. I would to Heaven 
 Edith's choice had fallen upon you first, 
 instead of De Lisle. But It is too late 
 now. And for the sake of peace— for the 
 happiness of all— I beg you will endeavor 
 to avoid a quarrel with him while he re- 
 mains here. He is a perfect flend when 
 


I 
 
 22 
 
 TBB HERMIT OP THE GUFFB. 
 
 rousedf and I greatly fear the happiness 
 of our whole household will be destroyed 
 should anything pceur." 
 , VPorglV* me, my dear Percivalf I have 
 h«en mad. Tormorrbw I will depart. I 
 have loitered here too long, neglecting 
 the duty which caUs me away. De 
 Lisle's taunt shall be borne this time, 
 but should we meet again,"— he paused, 
 but his eyes finished the sentence. 
 
 "Oh, come, Stanley: you mustn't think 
 of going to-morrow/' interposed Percl- 
 val. "Do you not know to-morrow' is 
 Nellie's seventeenth birthday, and she is 
 to celebrate it by a paity in the evening? 
 Come, my good friend, be reasonable! 
 You cannot depart to-morrow. The 
 thing is impossible!" Fred knit his brow 
 and paced moodily up and down. "Be- 
 side, if you leave us so suddenly," con- 
 tinued Perclval, in his frank, cheerful 
 way, "I will think that my words have 
 driven you off. That would he a poor 
 requital for saving my sister's life." 
 
 "For that I need no thanks," said 
 Fred, huskily. Then, .seeing the anxious 
 expression on Percival's face, he said, 
 nftore composedly: "My dear friend, I 
 will remain, as you request, but I cer- 
 tainly must depart on the day following. 
 Duty to my country imperatively calls 
 me away." 
 
 "Ah! Edith told me something of 
 this!" said Perclval, while a flush tinged 
 his cheek. "Stanley, I envy you." 
 
 "Envy me!" exclaimed Fred, bttterly. 
 
 •^Yes, for I have no doubt a brilliant 
 career is in store for you. For me, it is 
 out of the question." 
 
 "And why, may I ask?" 
 
 "Oh! the reason is simple enough. I 
 will not accept a commission in the Eng- 
 lish army, and there would be the deuce 
 to pay did I enlist in any other. I have 
 not courage to face my father's anger, 
 BO I choose to remain neutral. Rather 
 cowardly, is it not?" 
 
 He laughed carelessly as he spoke, but 
 there was a bitterness in his tone that 
 .did not escape Fred. 
 
 "There's De Lisle now," he continued. 
 "He's a red-hot Tory, and is considered 
 both by my father and yours as the beau 
 ideal of what a young man in these 
 troublous times should be. There's some- 
 thing almost fiendish in the hate with 
 which he pursues the 'rebel Yankees.* I 
 always considered mercy a necessary vir- 
 tue in a soldier, but he looks upon it as 
 quite superfluous, not to say childish. 
 He is the leader of a gang of savage- 
 looking cutthroats, more like Spanish 
 bandits, to my mind, than Christian sol- 
 diers. With these he goes hovering 
 about, never bringing about any particu- 
 lar result, but harassing the enemy and 
 cutting off straggling parties. Heigho!" 
 h^ aidaed, suddenly changing his tone, 
 *4>e does soraet)tlng after all, and that is 
 more than I can say." 
 
 "But why," demanded Fred, "do you 
 not declai'e your real sentiments to your 
 father, and follow the dictates of your 
 own conscience? It seems to me (pardon 
 my plain speakingX that there is some- 
 thing unmanly in acting this way." 
 
 Perclval turned away his head for a 
 moment, and when he again spoke his 
 voice was low and husky. 
 
 "I would do so, Stanley; Heaven knows 
 it is from no unworthy motive that T 
 shrink from it, but my mother. It would 
 kill her." 
 
 "My dear Percival>" said Fred, grasp- 
 ing his hand, "say no more; I honor you 
 for your sentiments. You will pardon 
 my words, I feel assured." 
 
 "That is already done," replied Percl- 
 val, smiling, "and now, since we have 
 both talked ourselves into a proper de- 
 gree of coolness, suppose we return to 
 the house." 
 
 E^ith was seated at the piano, singing, 
 when they entered, with De Lisle stand- 
 ing by her side to turn over the leaves. 
 As may be supposed, this sight did not 
 tend to add to Fred's composure; but 
 with the determination of avoiding all 
 outward sign of annoyance, he seated 
 himself by the window, and listened 
 quietly to the sweet voice of the singer, 
 as she warbled the words of an old 
 Scotch ballad. 
 
 Later in the evening, when Edith bow- 
 ed her good night to him, he encountered 
 the eyes of De Lisle flxed upon him, 
 with a look of such undying hate, that 
 he absolutely started. The next moment 
 he recovered his presence of mind, and 
 regarding him for a moment with a coU' 
 temptuous smile, fair more stinging than 
 any words could have been, he passed 
 from the room. 
 
 Alone in the solitude of his own cham- 
 ber he strove to think calmly over th« 
 events of the day. Calmly! It was hard 
 Indeed to do so with such a fire burning 
 in his heart and brain. The memory 
 of the hermit's strange prediction kept 
 constantly recurring to his mind, but 
 though he thought until his head grew 
 giddy, he could not imagine who that 
 strange being was. Then as the other 
 events of the evening passed one by one 
 before him, he came in due course of 
 time to the insulting words of De Lisle, 
 and once again his eye flashed, and his 
 chesk burned, as he trod fiercely up and 
 down the room. 
 
 And Edith! Did she love him? That 
 expressive glance, as they entered the 
 house, had seemed to say so! If so, 
 would she still fulfil her engagement 
 with De Lisle? He dwelt upon this prob- 
 lem until his brain was in a whirl, and 
 when he at last threw himself on the 
 bed, it was with the intention of seeking 
 a Solution from herself the foiiowing 
 day. " 
 
 As every member of the family, bow- 
 


Tflt: VEKiin OF tifH VUFi'tf. 
 
 'anrily, how- 
 
 ever, was busy all day in preparing for 
 the festivities of the evening, no oppor- 
 tunities occurred for him to see Edith 
 alone. Accordingly, accepting Percival's 
 invitation, he went out with him to take 
 a stroll, only returning in time to dress 
 for the evening. 
 
 When Fred entered the drawing-room, 
 he found it crowded to excess. Owing 
 to the warmth of the weather, the doors 
 and windows were all left open, and the 
 cool night-breeze came drifting In. laden 
 with the perfume of flowers, the glare 
 of the lighted rooms contrasting pleas- 
 antly with the calm, full moonlight. 
 Edith, robed In snowy white, was there, 
 looking lovelier than ever. She stood by 
 the open window, partly in the shadow, 
 her head leaning on her hand, a sad, 
 dreamy look on her fair face. As Fred 
 approached, she raised her cloudless 
 blue eyes to his face, and he started to 
 see her look exactly as she did the day 
 he rescued her from the burning ship. 
 The rose-tint on her cheek deepened to 
 crimson beneath his gaze, and with an 
 Inclination of her head, she glided away, 
 and disappeared amid the crowd. 
 
 While he stood looking after her, Nell 
 approached, leaning on the arm of De 
 Lisle. Nell looked absolutely beautiful, 
 there was such a d<iep. living glow on 
 her cheeks, and such a bright, streaming 
 light in her eyes. Dt Lisle, most ele- 
 gantly dressed, was also looking kllllngly 
 handsome, and had evidently prepared 
 himself to make a deeper impression 
 than ever upon Edith. 
 
 "O Mr. Stanley!" exclaimed Nell, 
 "what have you done with Edith? She 
 was here a moment ago, with you." 
 There was a wicked emphasis on the 
 pronoun. "Where is she now? I want 
 her dreadfully." 
 
 At sight of De Lisle, Fred's face grew 
 cold, almost haughty. 
 
 "i am sorry I cannot inform you," 
 he answered stiffly, "Miss Perclval did 
 not remain here a momci.t." 
 
 "Dear me! I hope she did not leave 
 you on our account," said the wicked 
 Nell, noticing with delight that De Lisle 
 was pale with anger and jealousy. 
 "Come, Ralph, we must look for her. 
 Perhaps you'll join us, Mr. Stanley." 
 
 "Excuse me!" said Fred, bowing cold- 
 ly, as he turned on his heel and left 
 them. 
 
 Nell clapped her hands with delight. 
 
 "What a creature!" she exclaimed, "as 
 stiff and haughty as papa himself. Did 
 you ever see such an iron face as he 
 puts on when angry, and the freezing 
 tone in which that 'axcuse me' was 
 said." 
 
 And Nell Imitated his tone so exactly, 
 that anybody but De Lisle would have 
 laughed. 
 
 "Conceited; Insufferalale puppy!" mut- 
 
 tered the young man between his clench'- 
 ed teeth. 
 
 As Fred strolled into the dancing room, 
 he saw Edith and Gus standing at the 
 head of one of the quadrilles, and laugh' 
 Ing and chatting gayly during the rests. 
 Feeling in no humor for dancing htmself, 
 he wandered Into the music-room, where 
 he could catch glimpses of the gay danc- 
 ers, and listen to the merry strains of 
 the music. 
 
 There was a deep bay window in the 
 music-room, screened by heavy curtains. 
 In this recess there was a lounge. Fred 
 threw himself on it, and drc«- the cur- 
 tains to screen himself from the ob- 
 servation of any stragglers who might 
 enter. 
 
 Suddenly the sound of a familiar voice 
 met his ear. Raising himself on his el- 
 bow, he glanced from his hiding-place; 
 and beheld the well - known features of 
 De Lisle apparently absorbed in earnest 
 conversation with another man. 
 
 His companion, from soioe strange, 
 unaccountable cause, immediately rivet*- 
 ed the attention of Fred, as no other 
 stranger had ever done before. Not that 
 there was anything remarkable about 
 him. He was a man of middle age, 
 robust and sinewy, but not stout, and 
 dressed in the plain garb of a civilian at 
 the day. His features were bronzed by 
 the sun, and seamed with more wrinkles 
 than his age might seem to warrant. 
 His hair was grizzled, and »?treaked alter- 
 nately with black and gray. His eyes, 
 small, sharp, bright and piercing, were 
 set in two deep caverns, overhung by 
 thick, busy eyebrows, and were ever 
 wandering around, with a quick, restless 
 look that seemed to take everything In 
 at once. 
 
 It was impossible for Fred to leavei 
 the room without being observed, conse- 
 quently he was forced to remain. 
 
 "I tell your' exclaimed De Lisle, "he 
 has supplanted me, any fool can see that 
 tl)e girl is In love with him. Even that 
 confounded little wlll-o'-the-wisp, her 
 sister, can jibe and mock me about it. 
 I tell you, Paul, the Infernal upstart 
 shall repent It in dust and ashes. No' 
 man can cross my path and live." 
 
 "Why do you not tell Major Perclval 
 he Is a rebel?" said his companion, "such 
 a stanch royalist would not harbor 
 rebels, surely." 
 
 "Yes, he would," said De Lisle, vehe- 
 mently, "the very demons themselves 
 seem to conspire against me." 
 
 "Oh, welK you cannot always expect 
 them to stand your friends." said the' 
 man Paul, with something like a sneer;- 
 "they have been true to you a grood 
 long while. But were I you, I would' 
 tell the major, anyway." 
 
 "Tell the major! have I not done so?' 
 and w*hat was his answer? 'Mr. Stanley 
 has saved my daughter's life and Is nrtw^ 
 


34 
 
 TEE SBRMIT 0¥ THE CLIFFS. 
 
 my.gue^t; and. therefore, no one shall 
 presunie to |n»ult him while he i« In 
 this house.' I menti^^ned his growing in- 
 timacy with Edith, and giving me one) 
 of Ws stern Joolcs,. he. replied, ,'.Mr. Stah- 
 iey is a gentleman, and as such, it will 
 b0. enough itor him to know her hand is 
 already engaged.' So that was all the 
 jMitiSfactlon I gpt from him. Perdition 
 seize them all!" And he gnashed his 
 teeth with impotent rage. r ■ ,, 
 
 "Take it coolly, my dear captain, 
 said his companion, quietly; "no one ever 
 ^qe^ business by getting into a passion, j 
 You hate this fellow, that's plain enough; 
 and now, what: do you propose to da?" ( 
 I "Listen!" said De Lisle, in a tone of 
 concentrated hatred, "and tell me if it \ 
 is pot a glorious plan. Hal liere comes, 
 a cri>wd of fools from the drawingrroom. 
 Come elsewhere and I will tell you." 
 And passing bis arm through that of 
 his companion, .the twain quitted the 
 music-room. - . 
 
 When they were gone, Fred arose on 
 his feet. What his feelings were while 
 listening to the above dialogue may be 
 imagined. A profound contempt for De 
 Lisle mastered every other feeling. He 
 had seen Intuitively from the first that 
 i^e was not a man to hf, trusted, but he 
 had never believed him capable of such 
 villainy. And this was the man Edith 
 ^Percival was., to mj,arry. The thought 
 was maddening! Fred trod up and down 
 like a caged tiger, unconscious that the 
 eyes of. many were regarding him with 
 wonder. Becoming aware at last of this, 
 he seized, his hat, and wandered out to 
 the garden. ,The calm, holy stillness of 
 the night soothed his excited feelings. 
 The cool, pitying breeze. fanned his fever- 
 ish brow as he shook back the dark 
 locks that fell heavily over his temples. 
 Th^ mo<jnlight lay sleeping on the earth, 
 the trees waved and mourned softly to- 
 gether; and, at times, the shrill cry 
 ^f the whip-poor-will and katydid would 
 conme floating to his ear, mingling with 
 the gay strains of music that reached 
 htn>, softened and subdued by the dis- 
 tance. All breathed of peaee and repose, 
 aad. unc^nsoiously the calm of the scene 
 stole- into his heart, subduing its tuniul- 
 iuous throbbings, 
 
 e^ Scarcely, knawing whither he went, he 
 atrolled toward a little arbor at the foot 
 of the garden, a favorite retreat of 
 ]^fth. He expected to find it untenant- 
 ed,- but to his surprise he beheld the 
 4sllght figure of a young girl, robed in 
 white, kneeling on the ground, her face 
 hidden in her hands, her long, golden 
 hnir falling in a bright &hower over her 
 shoulders. One might almost fancy her 
 90Tne pitying angel weeping over a fallen 
 gwul as she knelt there in the clesr 
 kioonlight. in her snowy dress, as still 
 and niotl<m,Ies8. as , thowgh t«rped to 
 marble.-' ■ic-f^'- ■-■'•'•v-::- 
 
 "Edith!" said the voice of him she. was 
 then thinking of, whose very tone seem- 
 ed able to recall her from death, to life. 
 
 With a suppressed, cry she started 
 to her feet^ and seemed, for a moment, 
 about to fly; but something in the eye 
 of Fred restrained her, and she stood 
 silent, her bosom rising and falling with 
 powerful emotion. ■ 
 
 "Edith," he said, taking her hand, 
 which she did not attempt to withdraw, 
 "why are you here alone, exposed to 
 the damp night air?" • 
 
 "Because I would be alpne: because 1 
 am weary of all this empty gayety; be- 
 cause I am wretched. Tl^at Is," she 
 added, coloring painfully, and check- 
 ing herself. "I — I am"— She paused, 
 abruptly. . , 
 
 "Edith," he began, hurriedly; "I have 
 something to say to you — something you 
 must hear." 
 
 The words were intended to be spoken 
 in a tone of entreaty, but it partook 
 largely of command. 
 
 "Oh! let me return, Mr. Stanley," said 
 Edith, evidently much agritated; "we will 
 be missed." 
 
 "Edith, you must hear me now!" he 
 exclaimed, vehemently, a« she attempted 
 to withdraw her hand. "I cannot suffer 
 this opportunity to pass unimproved, and 
 you must listen to me. Edith, I love 
 you — since the first moment I saw you I 
 have loved you, and even though you 
 be the betrothed of another, I cannot 
 but love you still. You are the first to 
 whom these lips ever made such an 
 avowal, and though you may think me 
 bold and presumptuous, I can no longer 
 remain silent. Tell me, dearest, have I 
 loved in vain? If so, we will never meet 
 more. Edith! Edith! dearer than life, 
 answer me!" 
 
 There was no reply. With her face 
 hidden in her hands, she was sobbing 
 convulsively, 
 
 "I am answered," said Fred, huskily. 
 "Edith, farewell! May you be as happy 
 with the husband of your choice as' I 
 would have striven to render you." 
 
 He turned to go. Edith raised Wer 
 head, and saw in the wan moonlight the 
 deadly paleness of his face. 
 
 "Mr. Stanley^Frederlc!" she said, 
 faintly. 
 
 tn a moment he was again by her side, 
 looking down into the fair face, veiled 
 by the long, golden hair." 
 I "Dearest Edith," he said, eagerly, "may 
 I hope"— 
 
 i "No! no! hope for nothing!" she iriter- 
 : rupted, "but I feared you ^ere offended. 
 , Mr. Stanley, you do not jrnow how 
 j utterly, miserable I am!" ' 
 I "And why, fairest lady?" he said, al- 
 most coldly; "since ymi lovfe Mr. pe 
 'Liifile. methinks ybu Should be hajapy.^V 
 I "I do not love htm— I donot 6are lor 
 


THE BBRUIT OF TBB OLIFFB. 
 
 35 
 
 hjtn!" >she said, earnestly; "It is not 
 that." ! ' " ' ' ■ 
 
 . "And what, then,, is it?" Conftde in 
 me, dearest. Is It even as I have been 
 rash enau^h to hope? Dearest Bdith, 
 
 ■ *lo . you Indeed Iqve me?"_ 
 
 ■ : *'I do!" she aald. faintly, as her head 
 dropped on his shoulder. "But why do 
 I say so?" she exclaimed, starting: up — 
 "I, who am to be the wife of another!" 
 
 "Edith! Edith! will you marry a man 
 you do not love?" 
 
 "I must!" she replied, dejectedly; "T 
 dare not refuse — my father has set hia 
 heart on this union. O B'rederie! would 
 we had never met!" 
 
 "It would, indeed, have been better, 
 Edith. Blit would it not be wiser to 
 brave the anger of a parent than to be 
 made miserable for life by marrying 
 
 •one you dislike?" 
 
 "Oh! I" know not what to do!" said 
 Edithi wringing her hands. 
 
 "Let me advise you, dearest Edith," 
 said Predj earnestly. "Refuse, firmly, to 
 marry De Lisle; your father will not 
 compel you to do so, Believ me, it is 
 from no selfish motive I uvy,i you tc do 
 this. You and I, dear Edith, are doomed 
 to part. But it would be a crime— a per- 
 jury, .to go before God's holy altar and 
 vow to love, honor, and obey a man you 
 detest." 
 
 , "But my father? O, Mr. Stanley, you 
 do not know how terrible his wrath is!" 
 said Edltb, wildly. 
 
 "Better to brave his wrath, Edith, than 
 Bender yourself forever wretched. De 
 Liisle is ot worthy of you; ?et me advise 
 you as a brother, to rejeoc him!" 
 
 Edith dropped her head, and for a 
 moment seemed lost in thought. Then 
 raising it, she said, firmly: 
 
 "With heaven's blessing, Frederic, I 
 .,wilt do so. I feel it would be wrong to 
 marry him; but his anger and my fath- 
 er's will be fearful. And you!' — she 
 addied, looking anxiously up into the face 
 bending over her. 
 
 ' ■ "I shall leave to-morrow," he replied, 
 speaking calmly, by an effort, "happy 
 in- knowing I am beloved, though we 
 niay never meet again." 
 
 She looked down with a shudder. 
 
 "rt'is so cold," she said, absently, "let 
 us' return. 
 
 He drew her a.rm within bis, and 
 turned slowly toward the house. When 
 they disappeared . the figure of a man 
 arose from where it had been prouehing 
 behirnd some lo^ tushes, hearing every 
 worcj..^ «J ■ "^ , . ■ . 
 
 • It Tfra«.Ji>e Lie^lel.and as the rnQonllKht 
 fell upon it, his face, were th^ took of ^ 
 ,a .•dscnoii*.^,;,-:^-, . : .:,:rr- ;.■■'■ '■■'••.■ .■:,■-••.. 
 
 ' • GH AFTER IX. 
 
 DOOMBD. ', . 
 
 ■ - ■ ■ ' * ' ' I 
 
 "Go, some of you, crV a reprieve." 
 
 —Beggar's Opera. - 
 
 NiQHT had settled ovor the earth, fiarlt, 
 chilly and starless. A thick, drlzallhg 
 rain was falling, while the storm-clouds 
 chased one- another over the sky. 
 
 In a narrow, gloomy cell, cold and flre- 
 less, sat Fred Stanley. It was a poor 
 place for such an occupant-runfurnished 
 save by a wooden bench and a rude cot 
 on which lay a mattress, covered by .'a 
 (roarse blanket, so filthy that he shrank 
 from it in disgust. *•,.'. 
 
 When Fred quitted the residence of 
 Major Percival he joined the American 
 army, where his bravery soon won for 
 him promotion. 
 
 Being caught hovering around the 
 English outposts with a number of his 
 men, he was imprisoned, tried by court 
 martial, and condemned to- be shot as a 
 traitor and a spy. It was not death that 
 could subdue the proud spirit of Fred 
 Stanley, but, oh! fearful to think of, his 
 father had been his Judge; it was his 
 lips that had pronounced his death-war- 
 rant. 
 
 ?Ie sat on the rude bench, his arms 
 folded across his breast, his lips com- 
 pressed, his neglected locks fallen dark- 
 ly over his face. It Was his last night 
 on earth. Ere the sun rose again he 
 Avonld be in eternity. 
 
 He thought of Edith, and wondered 
 vaguely if she would grieve to leairn his 
 fate; then of her stern father, compell- 
 ing her to be the wife of De Lisle— un- 
 til, almost maddened, he sp>rang to his 
 feet, and paced up and down, with 
 clenched hands and flashing eyes. 
 
 It Avas hard to die, too, so young, with 
 such a glorious career opening before 
 him, to leave the beautiful \yorld that 
 had never seemed half so fair to him 
 before. He thought of his father's hit- 
 ter words at their stormy interview, 
 with ^ vague feeling of wonder that they 
 had come true so soortj And then fol- 
 lowed a feeling of utter desalatlon-^^he 
 was deserted by all. Without, a friend -qn 
 earth, doomed to die an ignominious 
 death in the flower of his youth. He 
 strove to pray, but his brain was like a 
 seething cauldron, through which mad- 
 dening thoughts leaped in wild chaos. 
 Even "God have mercy" seemed glued 
 to his lips. ' ; : 
 
 Suddenly the grating npiise of the key 
 turning in the rjisty lock arrested i^is 
 attention. The jailer entered, bearlns 
 a lantern, foljowed by a tall fl$iire 
 wmpped in a clpak.^. Setting down the 
 light tlie man departed, and Fred was 
 alone with ,t||e "tftranger. ."'":"J.. 
 
 ..l*Stanley, , my. dear fiellow!" h^ eit- 
 


I 
 
 96 
 
 THE H^RSttT OF THB OLlFFh. 
 
 r-ieHmed, in a choking voice, as the cloak 
 fell off, disclosing the pale fea;tures of 
 Nugent P"^rcival. 
 
 "PeK;lvfel, is it you? This is indeed 
 kind!" said Fred, grasping his hand. 
 
 'I only learned about an hour ago of 
 this," said Percival, "and came here im- 
 mediately. I had considerable dlfflculty 
 in persuading them to allow me to see 
 you. They seem particularly afraid lest 
 vou should escape." 
 
 "Escape?" repeated Fred, bitterly, 
 •thev need not alarm themselves. There 
 la nothing further from my thoughts at 
 present." 
 
 "Would to Heaven, my dear friend, I 
 could aid you!" exclaimed Percival, in a 
 voice husky from deep emotion. "This 
 affair is terrible, monstrous, unnatural. 
 Thev tell me Sir William sat as judge?" 
 
 •He did," replied Fred, with stern 
 fierceness, "and most coolly and deliber- 
 ately condemned me to death. He told 
 me before he would do so, but; 1 little 
 dreamed how soon his words were to 
 come true. The only thing he seemed to 
 hesitate in was, whether his rebel son 
 should die by the rope or the musket. 
 Some of my former friends (the words 
 were pronounced with a withering sneer) 
 persuaded him to let me suffer by the 
 latter, as the more honorable. Have I 
 not reason to be grateful for such con- 
 descension?" 
 
 He laughed mockingly. It sounded bo 
 wild, so strange, so unnatural, that Per- 
 cival shuddered. 
 
 "It is terrible!" he said, in a low voice. 
 "Has he the heart of a man, to condemn 
 his own son to death? It cannot be, it 
 must not be. Fr^d, he will relent— you 
 will be pardoned; you need not fear 
 ■ death." 
 
 Fred started, raised his head, and, 
 flinging back his dark hair, exclaimed 
 tiercely: 
 
 'Fear, did you say? I do not fear 
 death! I can walk to the muzzles of 
 their muskets without my heart beating 
 one throb faster. Fear!" His lip curled 
 scornfully 
 
 "But you do not wish to die such a 
 disgraceful death. It would be an honor 
 to fall hghting for one's country; but 
 this, the doom of a traitor! Who could 
 think of such a fate calmly? It might 
 well make the bravest heart quail." 
 
 "Poor comfort, my dear Percival!" 
 said Fred, one of those rare smiles, that 
 his face seldom wore of late, lighting up 
 his handsome countenance. "Surprising 
 as it may seem, your words do not tend 
 to cheer me in the least." 
 
 "Fred, you shall not perish now, if I 
 have to intercede for your pardon on 
 my knees!" exclaimed Percival, hurried 
 a\^•ay by his impetuous feelings. "I will 
 go to Sir William and plead for your 
 life!" 
 
 "Percival. if you wish me to regard 
 
 ydu as my friend, never utter such words 
 again!" said Fred, sternly. "Do you 
 think I would accept the poor boon of 
 life on such degradinig terms? No, my 
 deaf friend. I thank you for ypur zeal 
 in my behalf; but think no more of par- 
 don for me. My hours are numbered. I 
 shall never live to see the sUn rise 
 again." 
 
 Percival strove to speak; but a chok- 
 ing sensation rose in his throat, and 
 kept him silent. Fred paced up and 
 down, after his custom when excited. 
 At last, stopping suddenly before Perci- 
 val, who sat with his face shaded by 
 his hand, he dashed his heavy locks 
 back from his temples, and said, in a 
 voice quick and excited: ' 
 
 "There Is one thing you can do foi- 
 me— it is the last favor I will ask oi» 
 earth from any one. Tell your sister- 
 tell Edith, I loved her to the last, and 
 ask her to think of me sometimes wh< n 
 1 am dead. Tell her to think of what 
 we spoke of last. She will understand 
 what I mean, and will then believe no 
 selfish motive prompted me; for by that 
 time I shall be beyond feeling any earth- 
 ly pain." 
 
 "Time's VD, sir," said the jailer, sharp- 
 ly, shoving his head through tlie half- 
 opened doov, 
 
 "Good-by, then, my dear Percival." 
 said Fred, grasping his hand — "we part 
 for the last time! God bless you!" 
 
 A convulsive pressure of his hand was 
 the only reply, as Percival turned asidt- 
 his head to hide the emotion he could 
 not suppress. Not trusting his voice to 
 speak, he pulled his hat down over his 
 eyes and quitted the cell, followed by the 
 turnkey. 
 
 Striding through the streets as though 
 shod with the famous seven-league 
 boots, Nugent Percival stopped not until 
 he reached the hotel where he and his 
 father resided during their temporary, 
 stay from home. 
 
 Major Percival was seated in stately 
 dignity, looking over a formidable pile 
 of letters and accounts. He started back 
 in surprise and consternation as his son*, 
 pale, wild and excited, burst into the 
 room and stood before him. 
 
 "Father!" he exclaimed, impetuously. 
 —"Fred Stanley saved your daughter's 
 life. It is now in your power to return; 
 the obligation by saving his." 
 
 "Save his life! What do you mean, 
 sir?" demanded his father, amazed and, 
 angry at this abrupt address. , 
 
 "I mean that Fred Stanley is in prisoa; 
 condemned to be shot to-morrow, and 
 it is in your power to save him!" ex- 
 claimed his son with still increasing ex- 
 citement. 
 
 "Shot to-morrow!" exclaimed Major. 
 Percival. "Good heavens! What has he 
 ►done?" 
 
 "He joined the American cause, as you 
 
 pa* 
 lej 
 
 in{ 
 
 foi 
 
 it 
 i*ei 
 
 th€ 
 
 soi 
 
 cr£ 
 
 xni 
 


nW5 BMRMTT OF TSE OllFFB. 
 
 27 
 
 use, as you 
 
 know, and has b<en arrested and con- 
 demned as a spy," was the reply. 
 
 "Sorry to hear It— sorry to hear It!" 
 said the major, shaking his head. "Stan- 
 ley wj^s a, fine fellow, but I can do noth- 
 ing for him. He deserves his fate!" 
 
 "And is this your gratitude to him 
 for saving Edith's life?" said Percival, 
 with flasrhinK eyes. 
 
 "But what can I do, sir? I told you 
 it was not in my power to help him," 
 i-oplied his father, iii rising anger. 
 
 "You can help hirn, sir. Are you not 
 the intimate friend of his father?" 
 
 "Well, and if I am?" 
 
 "Then go to him and plead for his 
 son's life." 
 
 "Plead for his son's life! Are you 
 crazy. Nugent? Doubtless all the in- 
 iluence Sir William possessed has been 
 tried for, his pardon before this." 
 
 "I tell you, father, it is Sir William 
 him-s^l* who has condemned Fred to 
 death!", exclaimed Percival, vehemently. 
 
 "What!" gasped Major Percival, start- 
 ing, back in horror— "condemned his own 
 pon? Impossible!" 
 
 "He has done so, horrible as it seems. 
 Father, you will go to him and plead for 
 a reprieve?" 
 
 "In. such a case 1 certainly will. I'll 
 go Instantly! Who ever heard of such 
 a thing? It absolutely makes one's blood 
 run cold! He must pardon him!" 
 
 Sir William Stanley sat by the open 
 window of his room, his head leaning on 
 his hand, his brows knit as though in 
 pain. .The raw wind and chill rain beat 
 unheeded on his bare head — a few hours 
 seemed to have turned him into an old 
 man. 
 
 He was thinking of his son, alone in 
 his cold, gloomy cell — the last heir of 
 his proud house condemned to die a 
 traitor's ignominious death on the mor- 
 row! It was his own lips that had pro- 
 nounced his doom, and though his sor- 
 row and anguish were intense, those 
 words should never be recalled, 
 . Sir William was neither hgird-hearted 
 nor unnatural. That his son was a spy, 
 and as such deserved death, was his 
 conviction. He would not have con- 
 demned him unjustly; but having once 
 found him guilty nothing could save 
 him. Duty was the ruling principle of 
 Sir William Stanley's life. It amounted 
 almost to a monomania with him. Once 
 convinced of what he considered his 
 duty, no human consideration could in- 
 duce him to swerve from it. 
 
 .Therefore, he sat by the window, a 
 hoioaved, broken-hearted old man, be- 
 reaved by h,is own act. His affection for 
 Frederic had never been very strong, 
 but be was his son, after all; and now 
 that he was about to lose hina, he had 
 n^ver seemed BO dear before, A thou- 
 
 fjand renjcmbranoes of himi, that he had 
 
 long forgotten, again ru0h«d to his mind. 
 He remembered him a wild, imp«ti»ouB. 
 handsome boy, ever rash, sometimes 
 wayward^ often fiery and head«trong, 
 l/Ut always generous. Then,, too, with 
 him would perish the last scion of his 
 ancient family— the disgrace of his 
 shameful death would ever cling to him- 
 self; and Sir William bowed his face 
 in his hands and groaned aloud. 
 
 Suddenly, a servant entered, and an- . 
 nounced that Major Percival was below 
 and desired to see him. 
 _ Sir William was in no humor to see 
 visitors, but he could not refuse his old 
 friend; so. composing his face until it 
 assumed an expression of rigid firmness, 
 he bade the servant show him up. 
 
 When the major "ntered the room, Sir 
 Willipm advanc ..o meet him with ex- 
 tended hand, his fact- looking as if it 
 were made of cast iron, so stern and 
 •hard was it. 
 
 "To what am I indebted for the honor 
 of this visit, major?" was his very un- 
 usual mode of addressing his friend, 
 
 "To a very unhappy circumstance, Sir 
 William!" was the reply. "I allude to 
 that affair of your son's." 
 Sir William's brow grew dark. 
 "Proceed!" he said, stiffly. 
 "I hear that you have condemned him 
 to be shot as a spy!" said the major, 
 nettled at the baronet's tone;. "it is Im- 
 possible, sir, you can have done so mon- 
 strous an act." 
 
 "Not at all impossible, Major Perci- 
 val!" said Sir William, coldly. "I have 
 condemned him to death." 
 
 "But you cannot mean to execute such 
 a sentence. Good heavens, sir, you will 
 not become the murderer of. your own 
 son!" exclaimed Major Percival, in a 
 tone of horror. 
 
 "Major Percival, the young man is 
 guilty' His is a double crime— he is a 
 spy and a traitor. Sir, he deserves 
 death!" said Sir W^illiam, with stately 
 dignity. 
 "He is none the less your son!" 
 "Were he my father, sir, he should 
 die!" 
 
 "Sir William Stanley, have you^ the 
 heart of a fiend? Will you be barbarous, 
 inhuman enough to conden^n your only 
 son to a disgraceful death? Zounds! sir! 
 the very brutes of the forest would not 
 be guilty of such a deed!" 
 "Sir, I trust I know my duty!" 
 "Duty!" exclaimed the passionate old 
 man, "I tell you. Sir William Stanley, 
 that sort of cant is ridiculous! Duty, 
 forsooth! As if it were a. man's duty to 
 commit a civil murder — for it is murder, 
 say what yoii will— because you fancy 
 him a spj{. I tell you, sir, if you slay 
 you own son, his blood will cry out from 
 the earth for vengeance on his mur- 
 derer!" 
 Major Percival sprang froni hfs seat, 
 


28 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFS. 
 
 II 
 
 I ail 
 
 f 
 
 and stood gesticulating, flushed, excited, 
 flery. »iefore Sir William. The baronet's 
 face seemed to be made of marble, for, 
 though he rose to his feet, it was as 
 oalm and Immovable as iron. There was 
 something In that stem, still look that 
 awed and subdued the fiery wrath of his 
 more excitable companion. 
 
 "Major Percival," he said, and his 
 voice sounded strangely impressive in 
 its deep calmness, "I have listened to 
 your words, and I forgive your Insults, 
 though, should they be repeated, my ser- 
 vants shall show you out. And now, sii:, 
 hear me: as well might you talk to this 
 table, with the hope of winning it to 
 answer you, as to plead for forgiveness 
 for him. To-morrow, by dawn, he dies, 
 and no power under heaven can save his 
 life. You have my answer, sir." 
 
 He paused. His cold, impressive voice 
 had stilled the excited feelings of the 
 major. He felt his words were 111- 
 chosen, and, with the determination of 
 being more careful, he resolved to try 
 again. 
 
 "Sir William," he began, "we are old 
 friends, and I feel you will pardon words 
 uttered in the heat of anger. I feel an 
 interest, nay, an affection for your son; 
 he saved my daughter's life at the risk 
 of his own, and it is but natural I should 
 plead for him." 
 
 A stiff bow and cold silence were his 
 sole reply. 
 
 "Once again, then," continued the 
 major, "I implore you to . retract this 
 sentence. Think of the long, cheerless 
 old age before you, without the strong 
 arm of a son to lean upon, without a 
 relatiVB on earth to close your eyes. For 
 his dead mother's sake, sir, spare your 
 son's life!" 
 
 A sudden start followed the abrupt 
 words, and a spasm of Intense agony 
 passed over the face of the baronet. The 
 major noticed it, and continued: 
 
 "You will pardon him, I am sure; your 
 heart is not made of iron. For your own 
 sake, my old friend, grant me this boon." 
 
 "Enough, sir!" Interrupted the bar- 
 onet, around whose mouth a look of im- 
 movable sternness had settled; "I will 
 hear no more; you plead in vain. I know 
 my duty, Major Percival. Frederic Stan- 
 ley has been tried, and found guilty; and 
 ere the sun rises to-morrow he shall 
 die!" 
 
 There was an almost passionate sol- 
 enmity in his tone. He looked as some 
 Spartan hero of old might have d"one 
 when about to sacrifice what was dear- 
 est to him on earth. 
 
 "Then, Sir William Stanley," said Ma- 
 jor Percival. growing absolutely white 
 with anger, "our friendship is forever at 
 an end." 
 
 "As you please, sir," replied the bar- 
 onet, with a stiff bow. 
 
 "Now*, mark my words, unfeeling 
 
 man!" said the major, with a solemnity 
 almost equal to his own, "If you slay 
 your own son you will repent it in dust 
 and ashes. A miserable old age will be 
 yours — shunned by men, and accursed 
 by God4<' 
 
 "Go'" said the baronet, white and 
 choked with rage, as he held the door 
 open and pointed out. 
 
 And, without a word, Major Percival 
 took his hat and left the house. 
 
 The chill, gray dawn of the morning 
 looked with its pale, wan face on many 
 scenes. 
 
 It beheld Edith Percival, after a rest- 
 less night, kneeling with clasped hands 
 by the window, praying for strength, 
 and thinking of one now dearer than life 
 Itself. It saw Sir William Stanley, cow- 
 ering in his room, white and ghastly, 
 with an awful look of fixed, settled de- 
 spair in his stony eyes, shrinking in 
 horror as the moments flew hy, bring- 
 ing the dreaded hour nearer and nearer. 
 It looked through the little grating, with 
 its sad, pitiful eyes, into the lonely cell 
 in which Fred Stanley was confined. He 
 lay on the rude cot in a deep sleep — .so 
 still, so dreamless, that but for the deep, 
 regular breathing, one might mistake it 
 for death. His long, luxuriant locks fell 
 darkly over his white brow, saddening 
 the still, marble-like face. His was 
 the profound slumber that follows strong 
 excitement of any kind, and he looked so 
 calm, so tranquil, that even the 
 jailer shrank from awakening him, with 
 a feeling akin to pity for his youth and 
 sad fate. 
 
 But the noise of the creaking door 
 aroused him. Starting up, he looked 
 around him with a bewildered air. The 
 narrow cell, that grated window, the 
 hard-looking jailer, too soon brought 
 memory back. He had slept for the last 
 time. For a moment his face flushed 
 deep crimson, then the blood retreated 
 to his heart, leaving him paler than be- 
 fore. 
 
 "Why do you wait?" he demanded, 
 turning to the jailer; "I am ready." 
 
 He rose to his feet as he spoke. Sev- 
 eral men entered the cell; but he scarce- 
 ly noticed them, as, murmuring a silent 
 prayer for mercy, he proceeded to the 
 courtyard. 
 
 Several soldiers with fixed muskets 
 stood ready. At a little distance was Sir 
 William Stanley; and no one, to look at 
 his pale, but rigidly calm face, could 
 dream of the Intense anguish he en- 
 dured. 
 
 A man advanced with a handkerchief, 
 but, waving him back with an air of 
 oalm command, Fred said: 
 
 "Stand aside! I will not have my eyes 
 bound." 
 
 "It matters not!" said Sir William, 
 seeing the man hesitated. Then, turning 
 


THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFS. 
 
 39 
 
 to the soldiere, he said: "When I give 
 the word you will"— 
 
 He paused. With all his firm self- 
 rommand, he could not finish the sen- 
 tonc-e. 
 
 "Kneel!" he said, turning sternly to 
 Fred, but his face was like that of a 
 forKse. 
 
 "Now," he added, turning to the oth- 
 ers, and raising his arm, "fi"— 
 
 "Hold!" cried a voice, so deep, so sep- 
 ulchral, that every one started; and the 
 n^xt moment the Hermit of the Cliffs 
 stood before them. 
 
 lave my eyes 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MAJOR PERCIVAL IN A "STATE OF MIND." 
 
 Ah me! for aught that I could ever read, 
 Could ever hear by tale or history. 
 The course of true love never did run 
 smooth." 
 
 —Shakespeare. 
 
 There was a moment's profound sl- 
 Ifnce. and the group standing In the 
 rourtyard. in the gray dawn of the 
 morning, might have formed a- subject 
 for a painter. 
 
 The soldiers. In a row, with gleaming 
 muskets, presented, now motionless In 
 i^urprise. Fred, still kneeling In momen- 
 tary expectation of death— Sir William 
 Stanley, transfixed with amazement, 
 staring at the newcomer— and the her- 
 mit himself looking exactly the same as 
 when Fred and Edith had met him on 
 the cliffs. 
 
 "Who are you, sirrah?" demanded Sir 
 William, who was the first to recover 
 his presence of mind. 
 
 "No friend of yours. Sir William Stan- 
 ley," replied the deep tones of the her- 
 mit. 
 
 "And how dare you venture here, man 
 or madman, or whatever you may be?** 
 cried the baronet, fiercely. "Away with 
 you, or you shall repent this intrusion." 
 
 "Not at thy command will I go," re- 
 plied the hermit, loftily. "No man on 
 earth can make me do otherwise than 
 as I please." 
 
 "Then, by all the fiends In flames, I 
 will make you do otherwise," shouted 
 the enraged baronet. "Here, some of 
 you arrest this hoary dotard, until we 
 teach him that our commands are not 
 to be disobeyed with Impunity." 
 
 "Back!" cried the hermit, waving his 
 hand majestically. "Touch me not at 
 your peril." 
 
 "Who is this old fool?" asked Sir Will- 
 iam, angrily. 
 
 "One you have reason to fear, proud 
 man," replied the calm voice of the her- 
 mit. 
 
 "Now, by heaven! this is too much!" 
 exclaimed the baronet, fiercely. "What! 
 have you all turned cowards, that no 
 one dares raise a finger against this gray 
 
 lunatic? Be off, old man; I do not 
 v'lsh to harm you. Do you hear?" 
 
 "On one condition, only, will I go," re- 
 plied the hermit, folding his arms, and 
 gazing steadily into the eyes of the an- 
 gry baronet. 
 
 "Must I, then, make conditions with 
 you?" said Sir William, sarcastically. 
 "Pray, name it, most venerable father!" 
 
 "That you allow yonder kneeling 
 youth to go forth free," was the calm 
 reply. 
 
 For a moment Sir William's face grew 
 absolutely black with rage. He stood 
 quivering, speechless with suppressed 
 passion. 
 
 "Nay, Sir William," said the old man, 
 in a tone of conscious power. "There 
 is no need to look so enraged. I can 
 make you do It." 
 
 He walked over, as he spoke, to where 
 the baronet stood, and whispered a few 
 words In his ear. The effect was ap- 
 palling. Sir William staggered back, 
 with ghastly face and straining eyeballs, 
 then, with one wlid cry: "Oh, great 
 Heaven!" the strong man fell stricken to 
 the ground. 
 
 All were bewildered, amazed, terrified! 
 Several rushed forward to raise the 
 prostrate man, while the others sur- 
 rounded Fred who had risen to his feet, 
 under the vague impression that he was 
 in some way about to escape. The her- 
 mit, as he passed him, whispered: "Fear 
 not, you are safe!" And a moment after 
 he was gone. 
 
 Fred was reconducted back to prison 
 like one in a dream. What strange, mys- 
 terious power did this singular old man 
 possess? He knew all the events of 
 Fred's past life, seemingly, as well as 
 he did himself; and in a few words had 
 produced an effect upon Sir William 
 Stanley such as no human being had 
 ever done before. He could not account 
 for it. 
 
 It seemed to Fred that that day would 
 never come to an end. He paced up and 
 down his narrow precincts until he was 
 tired, and then threw himself on the 
 wooden bench, forced to resign himself 
 to the prospect of remaining another 
 night in his dreary cell. He shortly 
 afterward heard the key turning in the 
 lock; and the next moment a tall, muf- 
 fled figure stood in the doorway. 
 
 "Come with me," said a deep voice, 
 that Fred easily recognized as his 
 father's. 
 
 The young man arose and followed him 
 through a long, dark corridor, uniil they 
 reached the courtyard. Fred glanced 
 around at it with a shudder. 
 
 "Go, you are free, said his conductor. 
 And Fred noticed now for the first time 
 how hoarse and unnatural was his 
 voice. "Beware how you fall Into my 
 hands again! Go!" 
 
 Mechanically the young man obeyed; 
 


II 
 
 30 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFS 
 
 ' "%M 
 
 
 i 
 
 and he found himself In the street like 
 one who walks in his sleep, half tempt- 
 ed to !>eHftve the events of the past tew 
 days were nothing tout a dream. 
 
 His first thought was whither he 
 should direct his steps. He did not 
 Icnow where Nugent Pereival was stop- 
 ping, or he might have sought him out. 
 And by ^ very natural transition, while 
 thlnklr.g of the brother, the thoughts 
 wandered to the sister, and he was Just 
 falling into a delightful day-dream of 
 going to housekeeping with Edith, when 
 a slap on the shoulder startled him, and, 
 looking up, he saw a man by his side 
 wrapped in a long, dark cloak. 
 
 "Whither now, Frederic Stanley?" said 
 the well-known voice of the hermit. 
 
 "Oh, is it you?" said Fred, a little 
 surprised by his sudden appearance. 
 "This meeting is most fortunate. Sir, I 
 owe you my lifb." 
 
 "I am aware of that," said the her- 
 mit, quietly. 
 
 "IIow can I siiow you my gratitude for 
 what you have done? Believe me, I am 
 . not insensible to the great obligation 
 under which you have laid me." 
 
 "Cease your thanks, young man," in- 
 terrupted the hermit, in a tone of slight 
 impatience. "The only return I ask is, 
 that you will In all things be guided by 
 my counsels. Nay,'' he added, seeing an 
 irresolute expression on Fred's face, 
 "believe me, I will ask you to do nothing 
 inconsistent with your duty, or even your 
 overweening pride " 
 
 There was a slight sarcasm in the last 
 words, Fred felt half ashamed of his 
 momentary hesitation. 
 . "You may command me," he said. "I 
 owe you more than I can ever repay, 
 I do need some one," he added, sorrow- 
 fully, "to stand between me and my own 
 headstrong passions. If you are, indeed, 
 ray friend— and I have every reason to 
 believe it — I promise to be guided by 
 your counsels." 
 
 Something like a look of pleasure 
 shone in the eyes of the hermit. It 
 quickly passed away, however, and 
 when he again spoke his voice had re- 
 sumed his usual quiet one. 
 , "Come with me, then," said the her- 
 mit,, passing his arm through that of 
 the young man. "I have a friend resid- 
 ing here, with whom you can remain 
 until you wish to depart." 
 
 Both walked rapidly and in silence for 
 a short distance. Reaching, at length, a 
 small but comfortable-looking inn, the 
 hermit, who seemed familiar with- the 
 place, ordered a private room to be pre- 
 paTed, whither he repaired with hia 
 young companion. 
 
 "Well, vslr," he began, seating himself, 
 "may I ask what you intend doing with 
 yourself?" . 
 
 The, qi^estion was. so abrupt that Fred 
 couid not resist a smile. 
 
 "Keally; sir," he replied, "I scarcely 
 know how to answer you. In the first 
 place, I intend to return to my regi- 
 ment." 
 
 "Before you visit Pereival Hall?" in- 
 quired the hermit, fixing his eyes with 
 a peculiar expression on his companion's 
 face. 
 
 Fred started and flushed. His first 
 emotion was one of anger; but, quickly 
 repressing it, he answered, somewhat 
 coldly: 
 
 "I have no intention of going therp. 
 May I beg to know why you ask?" 
 
 "Come, come, my young friend," said 
 the hermit, "no concealments from me. 
 if you wish me to befriend you. You 
 love Kdlth Pereival?" 
 
 "I cannot deny it," replied Fred, half 
 irritated by the abrupt question. 
 
 "And she is engaged to be married t(t 
 another?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Fred, sternly. 
 
 "You have seen your rival?" continued 
 the hermit. 
 
 Fred l)Owed. 
 
 "Are you aware he Is your deadliest 
 enemy ?" said his strange questioner. 
 
 "Rivals are not usually very good 
 friends," said the young man, scorn- 
 fully. "It would be something , new if 
 we were not enemies." 
 
 "Young man, beware of him!" said the 
 hermit, solenmly. "You have reason to 
 fear his machinations." 
 
 Fred sprang to his feet, and dashed 
 back his long, dark hair, as he ex- 
 t "aimed, impetuously: 
 
 "Fear! I fear no man living! Let lilm 
 dare to meet me in open warfare, and I 
 will tfach him I am not to be insulted 
 with impunity." 
 
 "Sir, sir, De Lisle is no honorable en- 
 emy. He will not meet you in open 
 warfare. He is subtle and treacherous 
 as a serpent — his vengeance will not be 
 open, but it will be none the less deadly. 
 You cannot guard against a foe who 
 comes by stealth." 
 
 "Let him come," said Fred, scornfully. 
 "I fear him not." 
 
 "Rash youth!" said the hermit, in a 
 tone of mingled sorrow and anger, "You 
 despise my warning." 
 
 "No, sir," replied Fred, resuming hia 
 seat. "I thank you for your warning, 
 which, however, was scarcely needed. I 
 am already aware that De Lisle is my 
 bitterest foe, and I can assure you his 
 dislike is returned with compound in- 
 terest. I neither intend to seek him nor 
 to avoid him; but should we meet in 
 honorable combat, one or other of us 
 shall fall." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, diiring 
 which the hermit sat with his eyes cast 
 down like one lost in thought. 
 
 "Does Major Pereival know you love 
 his daughter?" asked he, abruptly, look- 
 ing up. ^ 
 


rUE HiSlfMIT OF TlIK t'UFFH. 
 
 31- 
 
 d, scornfully, 
 
 •No," said Fred, shrinking sensitively, 
 .IB he always did, from discussing such 
 a HUbjeot. 
 
 "Do you Intend telling him?" con- 
 tinued his unwearying interlocutor. 
 
 ■I do not know, sir. 1 must beg you 
 will drop this subject," said Fred, with 
 slorn Impatience. 
 
 ••My young friend, do not be angry. I 
 have the power, and, let me add, the will, 
 to asBist you. With the natural fiery 
 imi'atlence of youth you cannot brook 
 jiny Interference In this matter now, but, 
 l.clieve me, the day will come when you 
 �ill not be ho sensitive. ' Do you know 
 Major Perclval'B present address!" 
 "No!" said Fred, eagerly. "And I am 
 very anxious to see his son, too." 
 
 ■This is it, then, ' said the 'hermit, 
 writing as he spoke, on a card. 'And 
 now, farewell for the present. Make this 
 your home v.hile you stay here." 
 
 •Going so soon?" said Fred, rising, 
 scarcely knowing whether he felt pleased 
 or otherwise by his absence. 
 
 •'Yes, I cannot now remain longer, but 
 1 shall watch over you— not as a spy on 
 vour actions, but as a friend who takes 
 a' deep interest in your welfare. Some 
 day it will need no argument to convince 
 you of this. Good night, my son." 
 
 He folded his cloak around him, bowed 
 [Ki'avely, and was gone. 
 
 "Well, I must say," he observed, 
 
 [throwing himself in a seat, "of all the in- 
 
 Itomprehensible old gentlemen ever I 
 
 jinet, this half-crazed, wonderfully wise 
 
 [Hermit of the Cliffs beats them all. 
 
 IHere he gives me a lecture as long as 
 
 It he moral law, and orders me about as 
 
 It hough I were of no consequence at all; 
 
 iHnd T. who was always headstrong and 
 
 [rebellious, obey as meekly as though I 
 
 were not old enough to judge for myself. 
 
 That man is a mystery. I would give a 
 
 trifle^ to know by what wonderful spell 
 
 he saved my life. Telling me he will 
 
 watch over me, too, as though I were 
 
 a child. I am afraid if he watches over 
 
 mf too much I ^ill be inclined to resist. 
 
 There's Major Percival's address — I'll 
 
 liay my respects there to-night: it is 
 
 early yet " 
 
 So saying, he arose, took his hat, and 
 quitted the house. 
 
 Becoming absorbed in his own 
 thoughts again, he was quite .uncon- 
 scious how rapidly he was striding along 
 tmtil he struck against some one who 
 was passing, so violently as nearly to 
 knock him down. 
 
 "Better not try that again," said the 
 angry voice of the person he ran against, 
 ap by seizing hold of a lamp-post he re- 
 covered his equilibrium. 
 
 "Nugent Percival!" exclaimed Fred, 
 laughing; "don't you know me?" 
 
 "WTi at! "exclaimed Percival. drawing 
 back a&rhast, "Fred Stanley, by all that's 
 
 wonderful! Can this be you. or is it 
 only your ghost?" 
 
 "Myself, my dear Nugent, my verltni^U' 
 self," said Fred, passing his arm through 
 bis, and drawing him along, for Perrlval 
 seemed too much astonished to move. 
 "I have not the least hesitation In assur- 
 ing you, I am myself— as good as a score 
 of ghosts yet." 
 
 "Well, wonders will never cease!" said 
 Percival, drawing a deep breath, and 
 surveying his companion, as though still 
 in doubt. "Here I was going along, be- 
 wailing your untimely end, when, lo! 
 you start up as safe and sound as ever. 
 My dear Fred, have compassion on me, 
 and tell me how it all occurred. Did your 
 father relent, as I told you he would?" 
 
 In as few words as possible, Fred re- 
 lated what had occurred. Percival lis- 
 tened with a look of the utmost wonder. 
 •'Phew!" was his comment when Fred 
 ceased, with a long whistle of most 
 "sublime perplexity. "If the hermit is 
 not Old Nick himself, he must be a near 
 relation. What a providential escape* 
 My father called to see Sir William, and 
 came home in a towering passion be- 
 cause all his entreaties failed; and here 
 this unknown, moonstruck lunatic, with 
 a few words, has succeeded in what jio 
 other earthly being could have done." 
 
 Fred's mouth grew stern. 
 
 "I am sorry," he said, "your father 
 degraded himself so much for m.e. I 
 should not have valued a pardon thus 
 extorted from him." 
 
 "Oh! well! never mind; it's all right 
 now," said Percival, who seemed the 
 very soul of good-nature. "My father 
 will be rejoiced to hear of your escape. 
 And those at home, too, thank heaven! 
 we will not have to carry them such 
 direful news." 
 
 "I wish, Percival," said Fred, looking 
 slightly annoyed, "that you would not 
 mention this affair to them when you re- 
 turn. It is all over now, and it might 
 give— some of them pain. Promise me 
 you will say nothing about it." 
 
 "Oh. certainly!" replied Nugent, "but 
 they will be sure to hear it. De Lisle, of 
 course, will find out all about it, and re- 
 tail It to them with the greatest gusto." 
 
 "His only regret will be that I did es- 
 cape." said Fred, biting his lip. 
 
 "I have no doubt; but, of course, you're 
 too sensible a fellow to care. You'll re- 
 turn home with me, will you not?" 
 
 "No," said Fred, coldly. "I shall not 
 trespass on your hospitality so soon 
 again. My path of duty lies in another 
 direction." 
 
 "Well, I Wish you luck. And now we 
 must part for an hour or so: for my 
 path of duty at present lies up the next 
 street. You know where to find my 
 father; I will see you there when I re- 
 turn." 
 
 "Until then, adieu," said Fred, raising 
 


!l 
 
 Nltj 
 
 m 
 
 :i:! 
 
 ,1- 'r 
 
 ! ■ .-'i 
 
 89 
 
 THE aERMir OF THE CLIFFS. 
 
 hl8 hat, and turning leisurely In the dl- 
 reotloTi of the hotel. 
 
 A few momentfl brought him to It, and 
 inquiring for Major Perolval, he was 
 shown at once to hie room. 
 
 The major chanced to be thinking of 
 him at the time— thinking of his relent- 
 less father, and the sad fate of the son 
 in dying so young, when, hearing the 
 door open, he. suddenly looked up, and 
 iteh«id the object of his thoughts stand- 
 ing In the doorway, so tall, and dark, 
 and pale, that he might easily have mis- 
 taken him for a ghost. Starting to his 
 feet, the major stood staring at him as 
 though he doubted the evidence of his 
 Menses. 
 
 "Yoti seem surprised, Major Perclval," 
 said Fred, advancing toward him. "I 
 presutne you expected ere this that I 
 was numbered among the things that 
 were." 
 
 "What!" he exclaimed, "do I really see 
 alive before me Frederic Stanley?" And 
 the major's face assumed a look' of 
 amazement most wonderful to behold. 
 
 Fred smiled at his perplexity, and 
 once again repeated the tale of his nar- 
 row escape. The major listened with a 
 look of utter bewilderment, now and 
 then ejaculating: "Well, well!" "Jupi- 
 ter!*' "Wonderful!" and sundry other 
 expressions of astonishment. 
 
 "And have you no idea who this Her- 
 mit of the GlifCs, as they call him, is?" 
 he Inquired, when Fred paused. 
 
 "None, sir. The man is a mystery to 
 every one, and I believe Is generally 
 looked upon as a harmless madman." 
 
 "There seems to be method in his mad- 
 ness, however!'' said the major, "it is in- 
 deed most wonderful what influence he 
 can possess over your father! Sir William 
 Stanley and I were schoolmates once, and 
 iiltiinate friends in after life. I saved his 
 life once, and in his gratitude, he prom- 
 ffied that the first favor H. would ever be 
 c ir. -his power to grant to me should be 
 given. The first I ever asked of him was 
 to grant his owp son his life— and it was 
 angrily refused. Yet here at the last 
 liioment, a moonstruck maniac comes 
 along, and at his first word your life is 
 spared. Strange! Strange!" 
 
 '•I' fear It will always remain strange," 
 said Fred, "neither my. father nor the 
 hermit is likely to reveal it. I fear there 
 may be some crime connected with this 
 mysteryi" 
 
 "Well, it is useless for us to perplex 
 ourselves trying to find it out!" said the 
 major. "And now, to change the subject. 
 W^ return te Perclval Hall to-morrow, 
 and I beg you will accompany us." 
 
 "I thank you^ Majbr Perclval; but I 
 must decHne your invitation!" replied 
 Fred. 
 
 "Ohi poiE>hl pooh! I'll take no refusal, 
 you must come!" Interrupted the mftjor, 
 heartily. >. '^ .^ :....■. 
 
 He looked up in the young man^s face 
 as he spoke, and was almost startleu uy 
 ito cold, proud expression. 
 
 "Come, my dear Stanley, do not it- 
 fuae! You will spend a few dayH with 
 us at least!" he said, courteounly. 
 
 "I regret, sir, that I must refuse!" was 
 the frigid reply. 
 
 "Well, if you will not come now," con- 
 tinued the major, who seemed in an un- 
 usually hospitable mood, "promise tt) do 
 so in a few weeks. My daughter Edith 
 is to be married about that time, and 
 we Should all like you to be present at 
 the ceremony." 
 
 Fred had arisen as the other dpoko; 
 and now Major Perclval looked up In 
 bewilderment to see him looming up 
 above him so high, so dark, so passion- 
 ate-looking. He ceased speaking abrupt- 
 ly, and stood staring at him in wonder. 
 
 "Major Perclval," said Fred, in a voice 
 so deep and stern as quite to startle that 
 worthy man, "I cannot return to Perclval 
 Hall, because I love your daughter. Wait 
 one moment, sir, and hear me out!" he 
 added, as the major sprang .fiercely to 
 his feet. "Miss Perclval will, you say, 
 in a few weeks be a bride; in that case 
 we shall never meet again, so that I 
 can speak without fear of misrepresen- 
 tation. Since the first moment I saw 
 your daughter, I loved her — loved her, 
 too, knowing it to be hopeless, tor she 
 was then the betrothed bride of an- 
 other." ' : j . 
 
 "Sir, you're a villain, sir; yes, sir, a 
 scoundrel, sir!" shouted the angry and 
 deeply horrified m&jor. 
 
 "One moment, sir," said Fred, with 
 su'^h frigid haughtin«i«s as quite to over- 
 awe his excited companion; "my inten- 
 tion was never to mention this - to any 
 one, but the pressing, invitations of both 
 .v'ourself and your son render it neces- 
 sary. Sir, I am a man of honor, and as 
 Much could not again become a member 
 of your family, knowing that your 
 daughter loves me"— 
 
 "Do you dare to tell me this!" cri6d 
 the major, growing absolutely purple 
 with passion. '.;'. 
 
 "Knowing that she loves me," con- 
 tinued Fred, with the same stern cold- 
 ness as though the major had not spoken, 
 "I could not return; and my continual 
 refusal of your invitation might lead to 
 misrepresentation. Therefore, sir, I 
 have told you all; and now, to what- 
 ever you have to say I am ready to 
 listen." 
 
 He folded his arms, and stood like a 
 statue before him. 
 
 "My daughter love you, indeed! Sir, 
 your ci iduct has been treacherous and 
 dishonorable, sir, unworthy of a soldier 
 and a man of honor, sir; yeS; sir, even 
 from a rebel I expected better conduct, 
 sir!" exclakned the enraged jnajor; Fred 
 did not reply, but stood erect, calm artd 
 
 4f t 
 


THE HEUMIT OF THE VLIFFH. 
 
 M 
 
 e now," con- 
 »ed In an un- 
 Jrotnlse to d(» 
 ugrhter Edith 
 at time, and 
 je present at 
 
 itood like a 
 
 [Htern. "What buslnees hafl you, sir," 
 continued the major, still more vehem- 
 lently, "to worm yourself Into her affec- 
 tlonH? You knew she was betrothed" to 
 another; you knew 1 would soonvr see 
 her dead at my feet than the wife of a 
 rebel, sir. iJellevlnR you to be an hon- 
 orable young man, sir, although false to 
 your king and country, 1 Interceded with 
 your father for your life as I never hum- 
 bled myself to plead for any one before; 
 and In return you coolly come here and 
 l>oast that you have treacherously won 
 the affections of my daughter, an Inex- 
 perienced girl. Sir, I repeat It, you're a 
 villain, sir." 
 
 The major seemed to have forgotten, 
 in his rage, that though he liad inter- 
 ceded in vain for Fred's life, that young 
 man had saved the life of his daughter. 
 
 Still Fred, J:)y a mighty effort, listened 
 to his Insults without speaking, or be- 
 traying even that he heard his words 
 save by the Intensely scornful light In 
 his eyes. 
 
 "And now, sir," again began the major, 
 absolutely maddened by the contemptu- 
 ous silence of hi.s listener, "I never wish 
 to see your face again! Never presume, 
 sir, to see my daughter, more; begone, 
 sir! there is the door! I expected some- 
 thing different from you, but 1 have been 
 disappointed." 
 
 He flung himself into a chair as he 
 spoke, and began wiping the perspiration 
 from his heated and inflamed face. 
 
 Fred took his hat, and turning toward 
 the door, , jsatd : 
 
 "Your kind and gentlemanly words. 
 Major Fercival, will not soon be forgot- 
 ten. With many thanks for past cour- 
 tesies, which I regret should have been 
 lavished on so unworthy an object, I 
 have the honor to bid you good night." 
 
 He bowed with most ceremonious po 
 liteness, and was gone. Despite all his 
 outward calmness, his brain was throb- 
 bing and burning as though on fire, and 
 his passionate heart was seething with 
 fiery scorn and the bitter sense of wrong 
 and insult, which must be tamely borne. 
 
 As he stepped out into the moonlight, 
 a hand was laid upon his shoulder. 
 Something of what was pa.ssing in his 
 mind must have displayed itself on his 
 face, for Nugent Percival exclaimed, in 
 a voice of alarm: 
 
 "Stanley, my dear fellow, whgre are 
 you going?" 
 
 "To perdition!" was the passionate re- 
 ply. 
 
 "For heaven's sake, Fred, dorr't look 
 
 so wild," said Nugent, "tell me what has 
 
 •happened; Have you told my father?'' 
 
 "Yes," interrupted Fred, fiercely, "I 
 have told him all, and been loaded with 
 abuse and insult stich as no other man, 
 under heaven would have dared to heap 
 upon- me. - And all because I loved his 
 daughter. Am. I not her equal? Answer 
 
 me that. Am I not as worthy of her 
 as that cutthroat. De Lisle? Tell me, 
 for 1 have a right to know!" 
 
 He clutched ferclval's arm with the 
 grip of a madman, and glared upon him 
 with his excited eyes. 
 
 "My dear Stanley, do not talk so! You 
 look as though you were erased. Com« 
 with me for a walk— the cool air will 
 restore you to yourself," said Nugent. 
 soothingly. 
 
 He passed his arm through Fred's, and 
 drew him with him down the street. 
 The cool night air did Indeed soothe him; 
 and after walking a short way In silence, 
 Fred Rnld, mere calmly: 
 
 "Forgive me, Percival, I knew not 
 what 1 was saying. But to be obliged to 
 •stand there, and listen to his Insultr— 
 I, who never Imre a taunt from any man* 
 —was maddening. I spoke to him a*- 
 coolly, Percival, as you could have done.' 
 even though every word he uttfered stiing 
 me to the very soul." 
 
 Hlfl eyes blazed, and his face grew 
 livid at the remembrance. 
 
 "Do not think of hia words; they were 
 uttered in a moment of passion. liellevo 
 me, no one will regret them more than 
 himseh\ When he reflects upon what ho 
 has said. There, my dear fellow, do not 
 excite yourself; you look as though you 
 were delirious." 
 
 "My head aches as though red-hot 
 wires were passing through It," said' 
 Fred, removing his hat, and shaking 
 back his hair off ills burning brow, while 
 the fierce light slowly died out In his 
 eyes, as ho listened to the soothing voice 
 of his friend % 
 
 "Hasten to your lodgings, then; yoii 
 require rest and repose," said Nugent/ 
 "Gome, I will accompany you. To-night 
 you are wild and excited; to-Tnorrow 
 you will Le a different man." .•>>* 
 
 "To-^morrow I truet I shall be far from 
 here," said Fred. 
 
 ''We leave to-morpow, llkewtue," said 
 P^^rclval; "so- we will probably not meet" 
 again. for a while. Here we are at your 
 stopping-place. So, wishing the world 
 may go well with you until we meet 
 aga^n, I will Wd you good-by." 
 
 "Farewell, my dear friend," said Fred, 
 wringing his hand. And the two friends 
 parted - 
 
 '■--' CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THi: ADDUCTION. 
 
 "She stands as stands the stricken deer. 
 Checked midway In the fearless chase; • 
 When bursts upon her eye and. ear 
 The-gaunt, gray robber, baying jiear 
 Between her and her hiding-place;. 
 While, still behind, with yell and blow. 
 Sweeps like a stotm the coining foe." 
 - ' —Whittlet. 
 
 Meai*time, how was it with Bdrth and 
 our frie»ds^at Percival HaU? - 
 


M 
 
 THK UKHMIT (iF Tllh t'LlFFH. 
 
 ! iP P 
 
 • From the day of the departure of 
 Fred, De Hnle waB moBt devoted In his 
 att«'iUlonB »<» hlB betrothed. Never be- 
 ft»re had he appeared so deeply In love 
 — never had he been so devoted— never 
 !iad he been ho urKfnt that ahe nhould 
 name an etirly day for their inarrlaKe. 
 The fact of his havInK a rival had made 
 bim more resolved than ever to eompel 
 lOdlth to fulfil her enKaKement— an en- 
 H'lKenienl from which he Haw. with fierce 
 anKcr. Hhe shrank with lll-conccaled 
 loathing. The caufle was to him only too 
 plain, and he Inwaidly vowed that once 
 Hhe wan hlB wife, and her fortune his, 
 he would make her repent this visible 
 ('iHllke. 
 
 The other members of the family were 
 too much abHorbed by themselves to pay 
 much attention to Edith. And her lover, 
 Uus, who seemed suddenly to have for- 
 gotten his patriotism, was continually 
 tied to the apron-string of Nell— happy, 
 or Jealous, or Irritated, according to the 
 whim of that capricious young lady. 
 Mrs. Perclval, who was nearly always 
 .jbsorbed In the mysteries of cp.nvas and 
 IJerlln wool, left the young people to 
 their own devices. And so Edith was 
 forced to submit to the hateful atten- 
 tions of De Lisle. 
 
 Edith had never been so deeply UiS- 
 tressed before. There was no one In 
 whom she could confide. She dared not 
 even mention the secret of her attach- 
 ment to her mother or sister. Her father 
 was soon to return; and then she felt 
 sure De Lisle would so influence him 
 with his specious reasoning that he 
 would Insist upon her marrying him im- 
 mediately. But gentle and yielding as 
 Edith naturally was, and much as she 
 feared her father, she had a fund of 
 natural firmness — an unbending deter- 
 mination, vy-hich few gave her credit for. 
 She might never see Fred again; but 
 Hhe was firmly resolved to die sooner 
 than marry De Lisle. 
 
 But in the meantime she shunnej? 
 and detested her suitor as much as pos- 
 sible. She could catch, at times, the 
 fierce gleam of his eye as her voice 
 would involuntarily become cold when 
 he addressed her, or she would shrink 
 from taking his proffered arm. And so, 
 troubled by the present and dreading the 
 future, Edith grew silent, and pale, and 
 restlesE, passing her nights in tears and 
 sighs instead of slumber. 
 
 Seating herself at her chamber window 
 one night, her head leaning on her hand, 
 Edith was lost in thought, when the door 
 opened, and Nell, in dressing-gown and 
 slippers, entered, 
 
 "Why, Edith! what have you done to 
 De Lisle?" exclaimed Nell. "I saw him 
 go off, looking as cross as a bear, a few 
 moments ago. Seems to me you and he 
 don't agree so well as you used to. What 
 did you say to him?" 
 
 "Nothlng/'TepUed Edith. 
 
 "Well. I'd advise you to say aomethlnp 
 next time," said Nell, "and not drive tht 
 poor fellow to dlsti'actlon. I declnrf. 
 Edith, I never knew the like <»f you iiinl 
 Ualph— you're forever making him an 
 yrry. Now. there's Ous and J, vve jjit 
 along swimmingly together. Love ub! If 
 you quarrel in this manner after you' if 
 married. I don't know what sort of ii 
 life you'll lead." 
 
 Edith's face was hidden by her fallen 
 hair, and Nell could not see the expres 
 Blon of her face. After a pause, thai 
 young lady returned. 
 
 "I heard mamma and De Lisle talklnv 
 about the wedding to-night. Papa ha- 
 sent word that he will be at home In n 
 day or two, and has got some new 
 crotchet into his head; for he Bays h»' 
 wishes the marriage to talje place Im- 
 mediately. De Lisle is wonderfully 
 pleased about it, too; he was awfull.v 
 Jeal«^us when Mr. Stanley was here. O. 
 Edith! wasn't he a splendid-looking fel- 
 low ?" 
 
 But to Noll's surprise, Edith only bul- 
 led her face In her hands, and wept con- 
 vulsively. 
 
 "Why, bless me! what's the matter? 
 Have I said anything to hurt your feel- 
 ings? Tell me. what is it, Edith?" said 
 Nell, winding her arms around her sis- 
 ter's neck. "What are you crying for? ' 
 
 "Ellen, I'm so wretched," sobbed Edith. 
 
 "Wretched! what about? "Don't you 
 want to marry De Lisle?" asked Nell. 
 
 "No, no; no,' no! O Nell! I hate even 
 to think of it," said Edith, wringing her 
 hands. 
 
 "Well, now that's odd," said Nell, 
 meditatively. "Why, I thought you liked 
 him!" 
 
 "Like him! Heaven forgive me — I al- 
 most hate him!" said Edith, with a 
 shudder. 
 
 "La!" ejaculated Nell, "whom do you 
 like then? Edith, Edith! is what Ralph 
 says true?— do you love Fred Stanley?" 
 
 Edith hid her face in her falling hair, 
 and answered only by a shivering sob. 
 Nell's gay face wore a half-puzzled, half- 
 troubled, half-pleased look. 
 
 "Well, Edith," she said, after a little 
 thoughtful pause, "do you Icnow I'm 
 more than half glad you don't care for 
 De ^.isle? He's a Jealous, suspicious fel- 
 low, anij not half good enough for you. 
 My! Just see him alongside Mr. Stan- 
 ley; why, he looks a mere puppy, com- 
 pared with him, Reallyfif it wasn't for 
 poor dear Gus. I'd be desperately In love 
 with him myself," 
 
 Edith tipped her head, and gave her 
 sister such a radiant look of gratitude, 
 that tlie latter was quite startled. 
 
 "But, O Nell! what shall I do?" said 
 Edith, In distress, 
 
 "Do?" said Nell, with a look of sur- 
 prise. "Why, refuse him, of course!" "^ 
 
 la! 
 
 mai 
 
 Hel 
 
 yovi 
 i*eol 
 
 OlU 
 


TOM UKRMIT Of TUK VLlhyH. 
 
 86 
 
 'M.V Hornethliip 
 not drive the 
 F deolarr. 
 <»' of you iiihl 
 t'nK hfm an 
 n<J ;. �»- (f, I 
 Love UB? If 
 ■ after ynui.- 
 at Hort nf ;i 
 
 by her fall, i, 
 p the expre.s 
 pause. tliHi 
 
 Lisle talklnr. 
 Papa has 
 t home In ti 
 some new 
 he Hays he 
 fe place Im- 
 wonderfullv 
 'vas awfully 
 as here. d. 
 -looklnK fel- 
 
 th only hui- 
 d wept oon- 
 
 the matteiV 
 t your feei- 
 2dlth?" sahi 
 ind her sls- 
 •rylng for?" 
 hbed Edith 
 Don't you 
 Jked Nell. 
 I hate even 
 ringlngr hei 
 
 said Nell, 
 't you liked 
 
 me— I al- 
 ii, with ff 
 
 )m do you 
 hat Ralph 
 Stanley?" 
 lllng hair, 
 ering sob. 
 zled, half- 
 
 2r a little 
 tnow I'm 
 t care for 
 Iclous fel- 
 ' for you. 
 ^r. stan- 
 >Py. com- 
 ■'asn't for 
 ly In love 
 
 gave her 
 rratltude, 
 ?d. 
 
 o?" said 
 
 of sur- 
 
 irse!" 'V - 
 
 "But papa— he will be so angry!" 
 
 •'YfcB. I know, oh! he'll be awful. But, 
 ia! that'H no reason why yuu should 
 marry De I^lBle, if you don't like him. 
 He can't kill you. you know; and »o 
 you'll get off. Yuu needn't care for a 
 scolding." 
 
 "O Nell! I dare not; I am Bfraid." 
 
 "Afraid!" repeated Nell, contemptu- 
 ously. "Edith, 1 wouldn't i)e such a 
 coward as y<tu for all the world. Afraid, 
 Indeed! Oh! don't I wish It was me they 
 wanted to marry! Wouldn't I tell them 
 a piece of my mind, and Just let them 
 storm as much hh they liked. I'd walk 
 up to the altar and marry a fellow I 
 detested, because papa and the gentle- 
 man himself desired it? Oh! wouldn't I, 
 though?" And Nell whirled round In an 
 ironical pirouette. 
 
 "But you know, Nell, papa is bo vio- 
 lent." 
 
 "Violent? Fiddlesticks! You l)e vio- 
 lent, too; that's the way to do It. Put 
 your arms akimbo, and tell them all up 
 and down you won't have him; and if De 
 Lisle gets mad, and tears would tell him 
 you are sorry for him— but he's too late 
 for supper." 
 
 "O Nell, you know I couldn't do that!" 
 said Edith. 
 
 "No!" said Nell, sarcastically, "no; but 
 you could go and marry one man while 
 you love another. Well, do as you 
 please; and the first time I see Fred 
 Stanley I'll tell him he ha^ had a lucky 
 escape. Such a timid thing as you are 
 would be the last a high-spirited fellow 
 like him should marry." 
 
 "Sister, how can you be so cruel?" 
 said Edith, weeping, 
 
 "Bother! You'd provoke a saint. 
 Thank the stars Fm able to defend my- 
 self. Come, Edith." she added, more 
 gently, "be a man! Dry your eyes, and 
 don't niake a goose of yourself. Tell De 
 Lisle to-morrow you won't have him; tell 
 him you can't bear him, and tlmt you 
 wouldn't marry him if he was the last 
 man in the world. He'll be mad, and 
 make a fuss, of course— there wouldn't 
 be any fun in it if he didn't. Tlien, 
 when papa comes home, tell him the 
 same, and stick to it. Of course, they'll 
 all tear round, and be In a great way 
 at first; but, after a while things will 
 settle down again — 'after a storm there 
 Cometh a calm,' you know. Lor, Edith, 
 1 wish I was in your place, for the time 
 being; T wouldn't Avant bettei fun." 
 
 The energetic and vigorous spirit of the 
 little black-eyed Amazon seemed gradu- 
 ally to communicate Itself to her more 
 timid sister. As she ceased, Edith sat 
 erect, pale, but collected. 
 
 "You are right, Ellen!" she said, slow- 
 ly, as she gathered up her disordered 
 tresses. "Would to heaven I had your 
 fearless spirit ! but since I have not, I 
 must nerve my own to bear the trial." 
 
 "Bravo. Edith, my dear!" exclaimed 
 Nell, delightedly. 
 
 "YeH," continued EJdlth. like one think- 
 ing aloud, "there is no other way oC 
 avoiding the dele8te<i marriage. Beside, 
 J promised him I would!" 
 
 "Promised whom?" said Nell, opening 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Never mind, my dear," said Edith. 
 smil'mc and blushing; "leave me now. 
 (Jood nigbf. To-morrow you will find I 
 hwve taken your advUe." 
 
 Nell laughed, and, after kissing Editli, 
 left the room. 
 
 Edith passed an almost sleepless night. 
 Nutuially tlnild, she shrank from the 
 disclosure she felt heiself obliged to 
 make, kncnvlng well the violent scene 
 that would usHuredly follow. But since 
 there was no alternative, she determined 
 to brave the worst at once, und seek an 
 interview with De Lisle the next morn- 
 ing. 
 
 An opportunity was nut long wanting'. 
 Entering the library in search of a i>ook, 
 after breakfast the following day, she 
 beheld De Lisle seated at the window, 
 his head leaning on his hand, gazing 
 moodily out. He started to his feet h« 
 he b«^held her. while poor Edith, \wv 
 heart throbbing like a frightened l>ird, 
 turned Hrst red and then pale, and then 
 red ago In, feeling tljat the dreaded nno- 
 ment had at length come. 
 
 "This Is an unexpected pleasure, MlsM 
 Edith," said De Lisle, placing a chair 
 for her. 
 
 She acknowledged his greeting i>y a 
 slight inclination of the head, and stood 
 with one hand resting on the buck of the 
 chair, scarcely knowing how to begin. 
 
 "Is it not a pity to spend such a lovely 
 morning In the house?" said De Llali. 
 "What do you say to a ride?" 
 
 "Excuse me," said Edith, feeling more 
 and more embarrassed; "I do not feel 
 inclined for riding this rooming." 
 
 "You are not ill, I hope?" observed De 
 Lisle, somewhat anxiously. "You are 
 looking very pale!" 
 
 "I am quite well, thank you," answered 
 Edith, shrinking still more from the task 
 before her. 
 
 "I am rejoiced to hear it," said De 
 Lisle. Then, after a pause, he added, 
 abruptly : "I presume you have heard 
 your father and Nugent are coming home 
 to-morrow?" 
 
 "To-morrow?" echoed Edith. "So 
 soon?" * 
 
 "So it seems. Your mother received a 
 letter from the major last night." 
 
 "Mr. De Lisle," began Edith, desper- 
 ately. "I have— that is, I wii^— to"— 
 Edith paused, while her heart throbbed 
 so loudly she grew almost frightened. 
 
 De Lisle bowed respectfully, and stood 
 waiting with calm attention for what 
 was; to foUaws 
 
 "In a word. Mr. De Lisle," she re- 
 


36 
 
 TBE HERMIT Ot THE ChlFtti. 
 
 'i:' 
 
 h 
 
 PM 
 
 sumed, rapidly, thinking it best to be 
 brief, "it is impossible for me to fulfil 
 my engagement. Sir, I cannot marry 
 you!" 
 
 Her voice trembled a little, but. she 
 looked boldly into his face, which was 
 rapidly darkening. 
 
 "What!" he said, slowly, "break your 
 engagement? Have 1 understood you 
 aright. Miss Percival?" 
 
 "You have, sir," she answered, growing 
 calm and fearless, now that the worst 
 vas over. 
 
 "And for what cause, may I ask?" he 
 said, with outward calmness, though his 
 face was absolutely white with sup- 
 pressed passion. 
 
 "Because I do not love you," was the 
 answer. 
 
 "And because you do love that hand- 
 some rebel. Master Fred Stanley. Is It 
 not so, fair lady," he asked, with a bitter 
 sneer. 
 
 The blood flushed hotly to Edith's face, 
 and for a moment her eye fell before 
 that dark, scathing glance. It was only 
 for a moment, and then she looked al- 
 most defiantly up into his face. 
 
 "You are at liberty to assert what you 
 please, sir. 1 will not contradict you. 
 But I repeat it: 1 cannot— will not be 
 your wife." 
 
 "That remains to be seen, Miss Edith," 
 he answered, with a mocking smile. 
 "How do you suppose your father will 
 listen to such an independent assertion?" 
 
 "He will be very angry, doubtless." said 
 Edith; "but. in this case, even his anger 
 cannot move me. I cannot vow to* love 
 and honor one for whom I cherish no 
 affection, nor ardent emotion. It would 
 be doing injustice to you, to myself, and 
 to"— 
 
 "Fred Stanley— why do you hesitate, 
 my dear young lady?" said De Lisle, 
 with his evil sneer. 
 
 "Sir, I will not remain here to be in- 
 sulted!" exclaimed Edith, indignantly, 
 turning toward the door. 
 
 "Ah! so you do consider it an insult to 
 have your name coupled with that of 
 that rebel, Stanley? I am glad to hear 
 you have so much sense left, at least," 
 said De Lisle. 
 
 Edith, whose hand was already on the 
 handle of the door, turned at his -vords. 
 and confronted him with glowing cheeks 
 and flashing eyes, while she exclaimed, 
 vehemently: 
 
 "No! Ralph De Lisle. I do not con- 
 .««lder it an Insult to be named with him. 
 And now I tell you, since you have 
 dHven rne to it. that I do love him. and 
 him alone. Yes; I am proud to own 't, 
 and I never will marry any one save 
 him!" 
 
 "We shall see," said De Lisle, with the 
 same cold sneer with wh<ch bp ^Pd 
 spoken throughout. "I have very seri- 
 ous doubts as to whether the young gen- 
 
 tleman alluded to is not by this time in 
 a better world. As for this little scent', 
 it is very well done Indeed; meantime, 
 you had better prepare for your wed- 
 ding. Pass on, fair lady." 
 
 He held the door open, and bowed her 
 out with most ceremonious politeness. 
 Without deigning to notice him, Edith 
 hurried away to her room, and, burying 
 her face in her hands, burst into a pas- 
 sion ot tears. 
 
 And three hours after, making some 
 plausible excuse, De Lisle left Percival 
 Hall to join the major. 
 
 The following day '■he twain arrived 
 (Major Percival and De Lisle), busine^- 
 still retaining Nugent in the city. 
 
 It was evident to Edith that De Lisl* 
 must have prejudiced her fatiier againsi 
 her, for her greeting was returned with 
 cold sternness, vjry unlike his wonted 
 manner. But even this coldness aided 
 Edith, for had he met her with aflfet - 
 tionate caresses, her resolution might 
 have faltered. As <t was, her pride and 
 a sense of injustice sustained her. and 
 with the determination of dying sooner 
 than marrying De Lisle, she awaited the 
 scene that was yet to come. Not long 
 had she to wait. The following evening, 
 Edith, who had absented herself from 
 the supper-table, was summoned to the 
 parlor, where, seated In state, were 
 Major Percival and his lady, De Lisle, 
 and Nell. 
 
 "Be seated. Miss Percival," said the 
 major, with overwhelming dignity. 
 
 The color deepened on Edith's cheek 
 as she obeyed. 
 
 "Hem!" began the major; "you ere 
 aware, I presume, that in a few weeks 
 you are to become the»bride of De Lisle, 
 here?" . 
 
 "I was to have been his bride, papa," 
 murmured Edith. 
 
 "Was, Miss Percival, was?" said the 
 major, •severely. "You are tc be, you 
 mean!" 
 
 "I cannot, sir!" said Edith, though her 
 voice faltered a little. 
 
 "You cannot!" repeated Major Perci- 
 val, with an ominous frown gathering on 
 his brow. 
 
 "No, sir!" 
 
 "But I say yes!" exclaimed the major, 
 vehemently, springing to his feet. "You 
 shall be his wife. I command you!" 
 
 "Then, sir, it will be m^ painful duty 
 to disobey you*^" said li^dith, witli 8 
 heightened color, as she also rose. 
 
 "My dear." said Mrs. Percival, laying 
 her hand gently on her husband's arm. 
 "do not be violent. We can wait; give 
 Edith time— do not be angry with her 
 now." 
 
 The words so softly spoken subdued 
 the fiery wrath of the major. The fear- 
 less demeanor of Edith, so different from 
 all he had ever known of her, also had 
 


THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFS. 
 
 87 
 
 some effect, upon him Seatingr himself, 
 therefore. In his chair, he grrowled: 
 
 "Time! the minx may have as much 
 time as she likes, if It will only bring her 
 to a reasonable frame of mind." 
 
 "Oh! thank you, papa," said Edith; 
 •■l»ut I can never"— 
 
 "Major Percival," interrupted De Lisle, 
 who had listened in angry astonishment, 
 •am I to understand our marriage will 
 nut take place at the appointed time?" 
 
 "Why, De Lisle, you hear what that 
 vixen says!" 
 
 "But, sir, you should insist," said De 
 liisle, rising angrily. "I protest against 
 this deci^on!" ^ 
 
 "Protest and be hanged!" said the 
 major, growing angry in his turn. "Am 
 I to be ordered by you, sir? Edith Per- 
 cival shall wait as long as she pleases; 
 and you may consider yourself fortunate 
 U) get her in the end!" And the major, 
 happy ta find some one to vent his 
 wrath on, turned furiously on De Lisle. 
 
 "Sir I will not wait!" exclaimed De 
 Lisle, passion and disappointment for 
 the time overcoming prudence. "Your 
 daughter was to have been my wife at 
 the expiration of three weeks, and I now 
 insist on it as my right!" 
 
 " 'Insist,' do you?" thundered the 
 niajor. "You impertinent scoundrel: if 
 you say another word I'll cancel the en- 
 gagement altogether, and you may go 
 whistle for a wife!" And he brought his 
 clenched fist down with such a thump 
 in the table that every one jumped. 
 
 De Lisle bit his lip and was silent. 
 Convinced by this time how unwisely he 
 had acted, he resolved to adopt a difCer- 
 »^nt course. Assuming, therefore, a peni- 
 tent tone, he said: 
 
 "Pardon me, sir; my feelings have car- 
 ried me beyond the bounds of modera- 
 tion. I bow to your superior judgment 
 and willbear my disappoiatmeiit as best 
 I may." 
 
 The major rather stiffly acknowledged 
 his a.'701ogy — while Edith, pleading a 
 headache, hurried from the room. In a 
 few moments she was joined by Nell. 
 
 "Well. 'Dlth, what did I tell you?" ex- 
 claimed that young lady. "You see the 
 trial's over, and you're in the land and 
 living yet, My! did you see how morti- 
 fied De Lisle looked, though? It's my 
 iipinion his penitence was all a sham. I 
 never saw angrier eyes in any one's head, 
 than his were all the time he was speak- 
 ing so respectfully and humbly. Oh! 
 there's Gus in the garden; I'm going 
 down to tea,?e him. Bon soir!" And 
 Nell bounded froin the apartment. 
 
 All the next day De Lisle maintained 
 a respectfully reserved manner toward 
 Edith and the major. This evidently 
 produced a deep impression on the mind 
 of the latter, though Edith plainly per- 
 ceived it was assumed. The following 
 evening, as Edith stood on the piazza, 
 
 gazing out into the still moonlight, De 
 Lisle approached and, touching his hat, 
 said: 
 
 "Good evening. Miss Edith, you are 
 looking charming in the paie moonlight. 
 What do you say to a drive this lovely 
 night? My carriage is at the door." 
 
 "Thank you," said Edith, coldly, "I 
 prefer remaining �here I am." 
 
 "W.iat's that?" said the major, who' 
 now appeared. 
 
 "I ordered my carriage, sir, thinking 
 Miss Percival might feel inclined for a 
 drive this fine night. She, however, re- 
 fuses," said De Lisle. 
 
 "Nonsense, Edith," said the major, an- 
 grily, "you are growing as obstinate as 
 a mule. Away with you and get ready; 
 and don't let the grass grow under your 
 feet." 
 
 Edith could no longer disobey. She 
 accordingly entered the house, and soon 
 reappeared In carriage costume. De 
 Lisle handed her, with the most respect- 
 ful gallantry, into the carriage and they 
 dashed off behind a splendid pair of 
 bays. 
 
 For upward of an hour they drove on, 
 almost in silence, Edith replying to all 
 De Llsle's observations only in monosyl- 
 lables. Still, he showed no sign of re- 
 turning. 
 
 "Let us go back, Mr. De Lisle," said 
 Edith, at length; "the air is very cold." 
 
 "Wrap this shawl around you," said 
 De Lisle; "I am anxious to show you 
 something a little farther on?" 
 
 He tolded the shawl carefully around 
 her, while she submitted in silence; and 
 again they dashed forward more swiftly 
 than before. Half an hour passed, and 
 still he showed no symptoms of return- 
 ing. 
 
 "Mr. De Lisle." said Ed!'.h, impatient- 
 ly, "I wish to go home. Will it please 
 you to return?" 
 
 "In one moment," said De Lisle, as he 
 suddenly reined in the horses, and gave 
 a loud, peculiar whistle. 
 
 "Sir! what does this mean?" asked 
 Edith, in alarm. 
 
 He turned and gazed upon her for a 
 moment with an evil smile, but said 
 nothing. An instant after, two men 
 stood holding the bridle-reins of the 
 horses. 
 
 "Ralph De Lisle," said Edith, in in- 
 creasing terror, "what means this?" 
 
 "It means, fairest Edith, that Fred 
 Stanley, when he comes to woo, will have 
 to select another wife than Miss Per- 
 cival!" 
 
 "Sir, sir! I do not comprehend you," 
 said Edith, growing sick and faint with 
 terror. 
 
 "Do you not? Listen then, Edith; you 
 must come with me. When next you see 
 Percival Hall, it shall be as the wife of 
 Ralph De Lisle!" 
 
 In the clear moonlight his face re- 
 


TBti mitMif OF THE (fLlPFS. 
 
 ■iiln 
 
 i ill 
 
 !.■ 
 
 BetnbleB that ot % derhort: The truth 
 burst at once upon Edith with stunning 
 force, ahd with one wild, shrill cry of 
 terror, she sank back in her seat arid 
 the dark nigrht of Insensibility closed 
 around hier. , 
 
 ,^ CkAPtER XII. . 
 
 IN CAPTIVITY. 
 
 . "When first, with all a lover's pride, 
 I woo'd and won thee for my bride, 
 I little thought that thou wouldst be 
 Estranged as now thOu art from me. 
 
 —Anon. 
 
 WHEN Edith again opened her eyes she 
 found herself lying on a couch with 
 some one bending over her, chafing her 
 cold hands and temples. Her eyes wan- 
 ctered wildly around until they rested 
 upon the detested form of De Lisle, who 
 stood leaning lightly against the mantel- 
 piece. Pushing a\»'ay the hands that 
 rested on her foreb^ad, she raised her- 
 self on her elbow and gazed with a oe- 
 wildered air around. 
 
 "Leave the room, Elva," said De Lisle, 
 carelessly, without moving. 
 , Edith heard the door open, but before 
 she could look around it closed again and 
 she was alone with De Lisle. 
 
 "Where am I? what means this, sir?" 
 exclaimed Edith, springing to her feet 
 with an overpowering but undefined 
 sense of terror. 
 
 "That you must favor us with your 
 presence in this old building for a*" week 
 or so, Miss Edith," said De Lisle, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 "Do you mean, sir, that I am a pris- 
 oner?" desmanded Edith, growing very 
 pale. 
 
 r'Exactly so, my dear," replied the 
 young man. , 
 
 "You cannot— you will not— you dare 
 not!" exclaimed Edith, vehement-;. 
 
 "Dare not!" he repeated, w4th a sinis- 
 ter smile. 
 
 ■"Yes, sir. I repeat it, you would not 
 v-enture to detain me here a prisoner." 
 ' "We shall, see,", he said,, carelessly. 
 ."-Mr. De Lisle, I command you to re- 
 lease me." ■ , 
 
 "Command away, then; I like to hear 
 you," said De Lisle, with the utmost 
 nonchalance. 
 
 "Sir, if you are a man of honor, you 
 will restore me to my father!" exclaimed 
 Edith, still jnore vehemently. 
 
 "That I will do with pleasure when 
 you are my wife." 
 
 "I will never be your wife, sir; I would 
 die first!" she said, indignantly, 
 
 "Indeed, fairest Edith," he ssaid, with 
 a sneer, "perhaps you will not find It so 
 ea«y to die as you imagine. Most young 
 I&dies of youT age would infinitely pre- 
 fer marriage to death." 
 • "Ralph De Lisle, are you lost to all 
 
 sense of hohor?— forcing a /tiri to rnarry 
 you against her Will! Oh. shame!*' 
 
 "flonor!" said De Liisle, bitteiriy^; "that 
 word sounds well on your lips, fair lady. 
 It was, doubtless, vt.ry hono'rable in you 
 to break your plighted faith and sur- 
 render your heart to the n^xt who asked I 
 you for It. Tiake care, pretty Edith; f 
 those who live in glass houses should ij 
 not throw stones." ' 
 
 Edith sank back iii her seat and, cov- 
 ering her face with her hands, wept with 
 mingled fear and indignation. De Lisle 
 stood watching her for a moment with 
 a mo.st sinister smile — then, turning io 
 the door, he said: 
 
 "Farewell for the present. Miss Perci- 
 val; I shall send a girl to attend to you 
 by and by. I shall have the happines,s of 
 seeing you again during the course of 
 the day." . 
 
 He closed the door and was gone. 
 Edith heard the sounds of bolts draw- 
 ing without and felt she was Indeed a 
 prisoner in the hands of the man she 
 deteste^d. Oh! where was Nugent?— 
 Avhere was Fred then? She sobbed in 
 a perfect passion of grief until her over- 
 charged heart had had its way and sne 
 gradually grew calm. 
 
 "I will die sooner than marry him," 
 she exclaimed, vehemently. "He will 
 find I am not to be intimidated by his 
 threats— that I have spirit enough, when 
 roused, to resist injustice." 
 
 Her cheeks flushed and the sparkling 
 light in her eyes bespoke her determina- 
 tion. Feeling more composed, she 
 glanced around the apartment with 
 some curiosity. 
 
 It was a long, square room, with a 
 very low ceiling,- festooned elegantly 
 with cobwebs. In one corner stood a 
 bed, without curtains, covered with a 
 coarse but clean quilt. Opposite this 
 stood a table, a wooden chest and a 
 chair. This, together with the couch on 
 which she eat, comprised the furniture of 
 the room. The floor was uncarpeted and 
 the one solitary window uncui'tained. 
 
 Edith walked to the window and 
 looked out. The iron grating outside 
 destroyed the faint hope of escape whicb 
 had begun to spring up In her Ineaat. 
 The room was in the second or third 
 story, judging by its distance from the 
 yard below. The prospect on which she 
 gazed was dreary beyond description. 
 The dull-gray dawn of morning was 
 creeping sluggishly over the hills with 
 it'- spectral feet. A thick, drizzling rain 
 wati falling; and the wind, as it sighed 
 around the old hous^, sounded inex- 
 pressibly dismal. The view from the 
 window was not very extensive — being 
 bounded by tall trees, from which she 
 judged it was situated in the forest; A 
 high wall surrounded the wet, littered 
 yard below; and, altogether, a more 
 uncomfortable place—both within and 
 


THE HERMIT Of THE CLWm. 
 
 39 
 
 i itirl to rnarry 
 I* shame.'" 
 bitterijr; "that 
 "Ps, fair ladjr 
 
 ;n?*?ble In yoir 
 r^^Hn and suf- 
 
 >ext Who asked 
 pretty Edith; 
 nouses should 
 
 seat and, cov- 
 nds, wept with 
 Hon. De Lisle 
 moment with 
 sn, turning to 
 
 Id was gone. 
 I bolts draw- 
 was Indeed a 
 the man she 
 IS Nugent ?— 
 he sobbed in 
 ntll her over- 
 way and ame 
 
 3oni, with a 
 -<1 elegantly 
 ner stood a 
 2red with a 
 pposlte this 
 •nest and a 
 he couch on 
 furniture of 
 arpeted and 
 eui'tained. 
 Indow and 
 "Iff outside 
 joape T>/hich 
 her bieast. 
 »d or third 
 e from the 
 
 which she 
 description, 
 rning was 
 
 hills with 
 zzling rain 
 3 It sighed 
 ided inex- 
 
 from the 
 Jive— being 
 which she 
 forest; A 
 t> littered 
 ' a more 
 tthin and 
 
 hvlthout— could scarcely have beei> found 
 Ithan the prison of Edith. 
 
 Prawing her chair close to the window, 
 [Edith ."at down and tried to think. It 
 iwas a difficult matter; for her head 
 i throbbed and ached until her brain was 
 fin a perfect chaps. While she Slat, she 
 was startled to hear the bolts clumsily 
 ! withdrawn; and, raising her eyes, Edith 
 f beheld an object that made her spring 
 to her feet in terror. 
 
 It was a short, stooping, shriveled, 
 toothless, blear-eyed old woman, palsy- 
 stricken and frightfully ugly. In her 
 long, claw-like hands sne held a tea- 
 tray containing Edith's breakfast. This, 
 after closing the door, she deposited on 
 the table, and then turned slowly round 
 until she fixed her little, sharp, red eyes 
 •^n the shrinking Edith. A cap with an 
 enormous frill, that kept cont4nually 
 flapping about her face, considerably 
 heightened her, charms; and this, to- 
 gether with a Voolen gown, reaching 
 barely to her ankles and so remarkably 
 narrow that she evidently found some 
 difficulty in v. alking in it, completed her 
 costume. 
 
 "Here's your breakwis, ma'am," said 
 this singular old crone, in a voice un- 
 commonly like the shrill screech of a 
 parrot; "there's coffee and toast— too 
 good, a great sight, for such a chalk- 
 faced whipper-snapper as you are. Ugh! 
 whatever he wanted a-bringing of you 
 here I can't tell." 
 
 "Who are you?" asked Edit|j, begin- 
 ning to recover from her fright. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Who— are— you?" said Edith, speak- 
 ing as loudly as possible, and fully con- 
 vinced the old woman must be deaf. 
 
 "Me! Oh! um!— yes! Why, I'm Miss 
 Crow, housekeeper and superintendent 
 for Master Ralph. Yes! um!— take your 
 breakwis, ma'am, will yer?" 
 
 "I don't feel hungry," said Edith; "you 
 may take it away again." 
 
 "Hungry!" screeched Miss Crow, who 
 had the faculty of only catching one 
 word at a time; "well, if yer hungry why 
 don't you eat — eh?" 
 
 "I am — not hungry," said Edith, ex- 
 erting herself to speak loud, until she 
 turned quite red in the face. 
 
 "Oh, you're not?" cried the amiable 
 old lady. "Why couldn't you say so at 
 once, and not keep me 'a-waltln', 
 a-wastln' of my precious time and spilin' 
 of good vlttiis? Pugh! I's disgusted. 
 Wait till Miss Crow trots herself off her 
 J'^gs a-bringing of your breakwis ag'in — 
 that's all!" 
 
 And. with a grimace that made her 
 look positively hideous, Miss Crow gath- 
 ered up the untested "breakwis" and 
 hobbler] out of the room. 
 
 Left to herself, Edith resumed her 
 seat by the wmdow, inwardly wondering 
 if this pleasing attendant was the youngr 
 
 girl promised her by De Lis! •. She felt 
 she was surrounded by his creatures, 
 whose hearts were steeled against heiv 
 Then, by a , natural transition, her 
 thoughts wandered home to her friends. 
 She felt sure they were even then look- 
 ing for her. But would she ever be dis- 
 covered in this isolated old house? Or, 
 even if discovered, would not De Lisle 
 force her into a marriage with him be- 
 forehand ? 
 
 Absorbed in such thoughts, the fore- 
 noon wore away; and, ^as noon ap- 
 proached, she was once more honored bF. 
 a visit from Miss Crow, who came with 
 the tray again. 
 
 "Here's your dinner, ma'am," said the 
 little old woman, with her customary 
 screech. "I hopes as how you'll eat it, 
 and not go bringing of me up-stairs for 
 nothin' again, which Is what I ain't 
 noways used to. Pity if such a big lazy 
 thing as you are can't wait on herself, 
 and not go bringing ageable old women 
 like I is up two or three flights of stairs, 
 with the rheumatiz in the small of my 
 back." And here the screech subsided 
 into a groan. 
 
 "I am sorry to be. a trouble to you," 
 said Edith, seating herself at the table. 
 
 "Trouble!" cried Miss Crow, spitefully; 
 "so you think it's no trouble, do you? 
 But I'll let you know it is. And Master 
 Ralph may wait on you hisself ; though 
 I s'pose you'd sooner have a fine young 
 fellow like that to 'tend to you than an 
 old woman like Miss Crow." 
 
 Edith, not being inclined to shout a 
 reply, ate her dinner In silence, while 
 Miss Crow stood watching her with her 
 red, inflamed eyes, strangely reminding 
 Edith of the witches in Macbeth. 
 
 "Mr. Fulph told me he was coming to 
 see you in the course of half an hour," 
 said the old wdnan, after a pause; 
 'though what he can wan . with such a 
 baby-faced thing as yru are. I don't 
 know." 
 
 Here Miss Crow paused, as though she 
 expected to be told, but Edith made no 
 reply. 
 
 "Whafll I tell him?" inquired the old 
 lady, sharpl3'. 
 
 "Nothing," said Edith. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "You may tell him I don't want to see 
 him," said Sdlth, raising her voice. 
 
 "Want to see him!— hum! hum!— want 
 to see him! Ye,., I'll tell him so," replied 
 Miss Crow, rather complacently. 
 
 "I don't want to see him— do you hear? 
 I don't want to see him!" said Edith, 
 still more loudly. 
 
 Sundry unearthly sounds, which the 
 old woman took to be a laugh, followed 
 this reply: and, still chuckling to her- 
 self, she gathered up the things and left 
 the room. 
 
 Scarcely had she departed, when De 
 Llfle entered. Advancing into the room,' 
 


40 
 
 THE B^RMIT OF THE CLIPF^. 
 
 he threw himself indolently on the iouch 
 and, turning to Edith, he renidrked, 
 
 "I'm afraid old Nan Crow is not the 
 most pleasant attendant in the world. 
 You won't be troubled with her long, 
 however; to-morrow, Elva Snowe will 
 take her place." ^ ,^ . 
 
 Edith made no reply, but sat listen- 
 ing, in haughty silence. • 
 
 "The day after to-morrow, fairest 
 Edith will make me the happiest of 
 men. I have made every arrangement 
 for our marriage, 'Which will take place 
 on that day. My only regret is that it 
 must be delayed so long." 
 
 "Sir, must I tell you again I will never 
 be your bride?" said Edith— a sudden 
 crimson staining her fair face, and th^n 
 retreating, leaving her paler than be- 
 fore. 
 
 "No!" said De Lisle, with a quiet smile. 
 "Never is a long time, my dear Edith." 
 
 "You cannot force me to marry you. 
 even though I am your prisoner," said 
 Edith; 
 
 . "Can I not? There a,re ways of com- 
 pelling you that you dream not of, per- 
 haps," was the cool reply. 
 -"Sir, your conduct has been most base 
 and unmanly — most evil and- treacherous. 
 If you have one spark of honor remain- 
 ing in your heart, you will release me!" 
 pjcclaimed Edith, rising, with flushed 
 cheeks aiid flashing eyes. 
 
 "Never, Edith!" he said, fiercely, 
 "aever shall you cross this threshold un- 
 less as my wife. You talk about honor, 
 fOTsooth! Did I not love you, as I never 
 cared for mortal before, on this side of 
 heaven? were you not my betrothed 
 bride? was not our wedding-day fixed?— 
 iW^hen lo! a dashing stranger comes 
 along, and I am coolly told to stand 
 aside, for I am loved no longer!— told to 
 fitand aside and wait— wait until my 
 rival shall have wormed himself into the 
 ;good graces ojC the family, and become 
 •your accepted lover! One consolation Is, 
 that long before this he must have been 
 Iiung as a traitor." 
 
 Edith essayed to speak, but her voice 
 failed; and, sinking into a seat, she bur- 
 ied her face in her hands and wept pas- 
 sionately. 
 
 "After that interview with yoiir 
 father," went on De Lisle, with increas- 
 ing bitterness, "I urged him repeatedly 
 tO: revoke his decision, and insist on the 
 marriage, but in yain. And, at length, 
 he commanded me to drop the subject 
 altogether, and told me I .should wait 
 until it pleased him to appoint the time. 
 Tou see, fairest Edith, I have done so." 
 And he laughed sarcastically. "Your 
 worthy father, may search until he Is 
 tii:ed; but I doubt If he will discover you 
 i>ere. Once my wife, and he will not 
 <7&|Se to proclaim the deeds of his son-inv 
 Jaw to the ; world. . YoUr fortune will be 
 
 mine. I will not attempt to disguise 
 from you. Miss Perclval, that this forms 
 no unimportant item in my calculations. 
 Your fortune once mine, you may return 
 to your father's house as soon as you 
 please." 
 
 "Release me now," said Edith, looking 
 up; "and, since it is only my money you 
 want, I will persuade m^- father to give 
 it all to you." 
 
 "Nay, Mifs Edith, I must decline your 
 kind offer. I am inclined to think your 
 good father would prefer handing me 
 over to the civil authorities rather «than 
 to his banker. And a still more weighty 
 consideration remains; you love the man 
 I hate — yes, hate!" And his face grew 
 livid with passion. "The beet revenge I 
 can take is, by marrying you — whether 
 Avith or without your consent, matters 
 not. Thus I will raise an insuperable 
 barrier between you and gratify my re- 
 venge." 
 
 Edith shuddered involuntarily. He 
 stood watching her, with h*8 habitual 
 sinister smile. » 
 
 "I thought that would touch you," he 
 said, with a sneer. "Remember, the day 
 after to-morrow is your wedding-morn- 
 ing. The girl I spoke of will assist you 
 to dress for your bridal. Au revoir." 
 And, turning on his heel, De Lisle quitted 
 the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 BI..VA SNOWB. 
 
 "I see a little merry maiden. 
 
 With laughing eye and sunny hair— 
 With foot as free as mountain fairy. 
 And heart and spirit iight as air." 
 
 —Anon. 
 
 The gray daylight was fading out of 
 the dull sky. The wind sounded inex- 
 pressibly dreary as it moaned through 
 the dark, fragrant pines. Far in th^ 
 west, a red, fiery streak glowed among 
 che dark, leaden clouds, like a burning 
 line dividing heaven and earth. Dreary 
 and sad was the scene without; but 
 more dreary and sad were the thoughts 
 of Edith as she sat watching the ap- 
 proach of night. The gloom around and 
 above was congenial to her feelings; and, 
 lost in thought, she heeded not the wan- 
 ing hours, until all within and without 
 was wrapped in a mantle of pitchy dark- 
 ness. 
 
 The entrance of Nan Crow,, with her 
 supper and a light, rouaed her at last; 
 The old woman seemed unusually cross 
 and out of humor; and, after essaying 
 in vain to make her answer her quesr 
 tions, Edith relapsed into silence. With 
 a sharp command not to "sit moping 
 there like a ghost, a-buming of candles, 
 but to go to bed," she went out, slam- 
 mimir 4he door violently after. her. Hen 
 command v/as unheeded ; for, aeated at 
 


TBE BBRMIT X>F THE GLlFfH. 
 
 41 
 
 the wihdow— her burning forehead 
 pressed against the cold panes, Edith 
 remained till morning. It was a strange 
 stjene — that long, shadowy room, so poor- 
 ly furnished, and that you«g_glrl seateu 
 at the window, her face whiter than the 
 robe she wore. The candle fluttered and 
 burned dimly, with a long black wtck, 
 capped by a flery crest, until it went out 
 altogether, leaving the room enveloped in 
 the deepest gloom. 
 
 So passed the second night oi Kdith's 
 captivity. Morning fouml her pale, 
 spirilFess, and utterlj' despairing. She 
 knew tvell De Lisle would keep his word. 
 And what could she— a weak, powerless 
 girl— do to prevent him? Naturally timid 
 and accustomed to magnify dangers, she 
 could see nothing but despair, look which 
 way she Would. To rebiel would be use- 
 less; and, without an effort, she yielded 
 t<) titter dejection. At times she could 
 be brave enough, when laboring under 
 excitement of any kind; or when, after 
 listening to her vehement sister, she 
 would imbibe part of her spirit; but these 
 rare intervals were always followed by a 
 listlessness and timidity greater than 
 before. 
 
 The sun arose In unclouded splendor. 
 Every trace of the former day's dullness 
 had passed away, and nature once more 
 looked bright and beautiful. The chirp 
 of the birds in the pine-woods reached 
 her ear, but for the first time she lis- 
 tened without pleasure. All was sad and 
 desolate within her heart, and the joy- 
 ous splendor of that summer sunrise waa 
 to her feelings like "vinegar upon nitre." 
 
 Suddenly, the sound of a gay voice 
 caroling reached her ear. It was such an 
 tinusual sound that she looked out, alto- 
 gether startled from her dreamy lethargy 
 of sorrow. What was her surprise to be- 
 hold, emerging from the woods, a young 
 girl on horseback. From the distance at 
 which she sat she could not very easily 
 discern her features, but she saw her sit 
 on her hOrse like a practised rider. Her 
 Jong hair hung in braids over her shoul- 
 ders, tied with streamers of bright rib- 
 bon. In one hand she held a white sun- 
 bonnet, swinging it carelessly by the 
 strings as she shouted, rather than sang, 
 some wild mountain chorus, or talked at 
 intervals tb her horse. Edith could 
 plainly hear her, as her words cams 
 borne on the air: 
 
 "Come, Timon, my boy," she said, pat- 
 ting her horse on the neck, "hurry up, or 
 'old Nan Crow will give you and me flits, 
 Too bad, ain^'t it, you and I have to 
 go and live in that dismal old barn of a 
 house? But orders must be obeyed, you 
 know, Timon. Dreary me! as that queer 
 • old maid used to say: 'wonders never 
 will ceasCn I believe!' Who in the workj 
 would ever think of taking a bride Xsy 
 that horrid eld hole? And' so ,D^ Ltiste 
 is really going to be married! Weel, I 
 
 never! Father says she isn't dying 
 about him, either— which I don't wonder 
 at, I'm sure, for I can't bear him. I'd 
 like tO' see her, and know what ray fu- 
 ture mistress looks like. Come, gee up, 
 Timon, my son; I'm anxious to catch a 
 glimpse of old Nan Crbw's beautiful 
 face, and hear her musical, screeching 
 voice. Who knows but we'll soon — see 
 my lady herself, and I'm dying to have 
 a peep at her, so get along, my boy, 
 Elva's. in a hurry." 
 
 And. urging her horse into a quick 
 canter, the girl rode off, singing at the 
 top of her voice. 
 
 "Who can she be?" thought Edith— 
 "Elva, Elva! the name is familiar. Yes, 
 now I remember, De Lisle spoke of send- 
 ing me a girl of that name, Elva Snowe, 
 I think he called her. She spoke of com- 
 ing here, too, so it must be the same. 
 I hope It is; she will at least prove a 
 more pleasant companion than that cross 
 old woman." "■■' • l'^-^ - 
 
 For nearly an hour Edith sat expect- 
 ing to see her enter, but in vain. At 
 length, just as she was about to desiSair 
 of .seeing her, the outer bolts were with- 
 drawn, the door was unceremoniously 
 opened, and the young gtrl ^tood before 
 her. 
 
 Edith fixed her eyes on the other arid 
 scrutinized her from head to foot. The 
 newcomer was small, below middle 
 height, round and plunip in figure, and 
 looking to the best advantage iii the 
 crimson silk basque which she wore. A 
 short black skirt, which conveniently 
 displayed a pretty little foot and ankle, 
 Completed her costume— which, though 
 looking rather odd to the eyes of Edith, 
 had the merit of being very becoming. 
 Her face was decidedly pretty, though 
 browned a little by exposure to sun arid 
 wind. A low, smooth forehead, bloom- 
 ing cheeks and lips, merry, gray eyes, a 
 piquant little nose that turned up with 
 saucy independence, and little, white 
 teeth, made up the tout ensemble of the 
 little lady. 
 
 "Good morning," she said, pleasantly, 
 evidently rather favorably impressed 
 with the outward appearance of Edith. 
 "I have brought you your breakfast." 
 
 "So I perceive," said Edith. "I was 
 afraid I was about to be favored with 
 another visit from that deaf old lady 
 who has hitherto attended me." 
 
 "Yes, Old Nan Crow," said the girl, 
 laughing. "Isn't she a horrid old case? 
 I have the greatest fun with her TBom6- 
 times. Did you ever h ar such a voice? 
 Like a penny whistle, for all the world." 
 Then changing her tone to a sharp 
 screech, painful to listen to. she began: 
 "I'm Miss Crow .Jtiouse keeper arid super- 
 intendent for Master Ralph. Yes/ urn? I 
 laid awake ail last ni«:ht with the rh^u- 
 niaiis in the small of my back!" 
 


42 
 
 TUB HURMIT OF TMt! 4JUrF8. 
 
 m. 
 
 u 
 
 "That is she exactly," said Edith, 
 with something lilte a smile passing over 
 her pale face, "though it's quite abom- 
 inable of you to take her off in that 
 manner " 
 
 "She alway»3 scolds me from the time 
 I come- here until I leave," said the 
 other, "and, indeed, I rather deserve it 
 sometimes, and it does one good to get 
 a blowing up once in a while. My! if 
 she can't scold, It's a wonder— it's really 
 a comfort to hear her, for every word 
 comes from the bottom of her heart. 
 The only pity is, that I'm not here very 
 often to listen to her." 
 
 "Do you not live here?" inquired 
 Edith 
 
 "Live here! Bless you, no! I wouldn't 
 live in this lonesome old place for any 
 amount of money, at least any amount 
 I'd be likely to get for doing so. No, 
 indeed, I live in the village, eight or 
 nine miles from here, and splendid times 
 we have, I can tell you— at least we had 
 until this detestable war commenced, 
 and all the young men were provoking 
 enough to go off and be killed. Heigho! 
 Isn't everything still here? One can't 
 hear a thing but the swaying pines and 
 tlhe birds, tt's a splendid day, too. I'd 
 love to have a good gallop over the hills 
 this morning." 
 
 "Pray, don't let me keep you here," 
 said Edith. "I wouldn't deprive you of 
 the pleasure on any account. I will not 
 need any attendance during the day, 
 Miss Snowe — isn't that your name?" 
 
 "Yes, Elvena Snowe, but everybody 
 calls me Elva, for short; you needn't 
 mind calling me Miss, I ain't used to it, 
 and Elva sounds better." 
 
 "Then, Elva, do not let me deprive you 
 of that coveted ride. Go, by all means." 
 
 "You're very good, but I guess I won't 
 mind it to-day. I'll stay with you if 
 you have no objection. De Lisle will 
 be here by-and-by, and until he« cornea 
 I will remain." 
 
 "How long are you to remain here?" 
 inquired Edith. 
 
 "Dear knows," said Elva, suppressing 
 a yawn, "not long, I hope, for I'd blue- 
 mold, rust, or something else equally 
 dreadful, if I had to stay in this dull 
 old tomb. Why, everything's as still 
 here as if we were in our graves." 
 
 "It is still," said Edith; "what is the 
 oaus " Does no one live here but Misa 
 Crow?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes!' said Elva.'but this is 
 a wing of the building off by itself. It*^ 
 a sort of double house, with two front 
 doors, and connected together by a long 
 hall. In the other end, De Lisle and' 
 some of his men stayt.when they are 
 here, and you have this part all tc your- 
 self. Old Nan is their only servant, ex- 
 cept sometimes when De Lisle brings 
 
 pome of his friends hervj, big-bugs, you 
 know, English officers; then I have to 
 come here and help her." 
 
 "Then this place is not hidden in the 
 woods?" said Edith, "and is visited by 
 others besides De Lisle and his men?" 
 
 "La! yes. Generals, and colonels, and 
 captains, not to speak of lieutenants and 
 alde-de-camps, come here in drove.s, 
 sometimes, and spend whole night;^ in a 
 carouse. They generally stay In the 
 other wing of the building; this part 
 hfiSn't been much used for years." 
 
 "And so forms a safer prison for me," 
 sighed Edith. 
 
 "Why, yes, I suppose so," said Elva. 
 "But I guess you won't be here long, I 
 heard De Lisle telling my father thai 
 after he was married he intended get- 
 ting your money and sending you home." 
 
 "Your father!" echoed Edith, "who is 
 he?" 
 
 "Oh, he's only De Lisie's lieutenant, 
 Paul Snowe's his name; but he has a 
 good deal of Influence over the men, and 
 over De Lisle himself for that matter. 
 Only for him, you may be sure, 1 
 wouldn't be here; for I hate De Lisle as 
 I do sin, and wouldn't care a straw for 
 his orders. But I'm a little afraid of 
 father, and have to mind what he says, 
 you know; though I'd much rather fol- 
 low my own sweet will, and stay in the 
 village, and have fun, than come here 
 and wait on De Lisle and those dashing 
 officers he brings here." 
 
 "And your mother, where is she?" 
 asked Edith. 
 
 "Dead," said Elva. sadly, "she died 
 when I was a child. I have only a faint 
 recollection of her, as a pale, stately 
 woman, who used to come to my bedside 
 and kiss me every night. So you see 
 I grew up the best way I could, with- 
 out any one to look after me or nr.ake 
 me a good girl; and so I've got to be a 
 wild, sunburnt, good-for-nothing romp. 
 Oh, dear, if mother had lived I'd have 
 been a different creature from what I 
 am. She loved me, I know; but father 
 never seems to care for me, but rather 
 to dislike me than otherwise. I'm like 
 the miller of the Dee: 'I care for no- 
 body, and nobT)dy cares for me;' so I 
 lon't mind a pin what I do or say, since 
 there's no one to be grieved by It. It 
 makes me feel sad and lonely, too, some- 
 times." and she sighed involuntarily. 
 
 ■'Oh, Elva, I feel that I can love you, 
 if you will let me!" said Edith, gently, 
 taking her hand. 
 
 "Thank you, dear Miss Pereival." said 
 Elva, looking up with glistening eyes; 
 •'I love you already. But hark, there's a 
 step on the stairs. That's De Lisle, I 
 know, for he always takes half the 
 staircase at a bound. Qood-by now, I'll 
 be back after a while," and Elva quit- 
 ted the room as De Lisle entered. 
 


Jiff-bugs, you 
 in I have to 
 
 ildden in tiie 
 is visited l)y 
 d his men?" 
 colonels, ana 
 utenants and 
 in droves, 
 e nightt^ in a 
 stay In the 
 g; this part 
 years." 
 son for me," 
 
 said Elva. 
 here long. I 
 father that 
 ntended get- 
 ? you home." 
 ith, "who is 
 
 J lieutenant, 
 
 it he has a 
 
 he men, and 
 
 that matter. 
 
 be sure, 1 
 
 De Lisle as 
 
 a straw for 
 
 le afraid of 
 
 hat he says, 
 
 I rather fol- 
 
 stay in the 
 
 I come here 
 
 lose dashing 
 
 re is she?" 
 
 , "she died 
 only a faint 
 >ale, stately 
 
 my bedside 
 So you see 
 ?ould, with- 
 ne or nr.ake 
 got to be a 
 :hing romp. 
 id I'd have 
 om what I 
 
 but father 
 
 but rather 
 e. I'm like 
 are for no- 
 
 me;' so I 
 r say, since 
 I by it. It 
 , too, some- 
 untarily. 
 n love you, 
 ith, gently, 
 
 elval," said 
 ning eyes; 
 k, there's a 
 De Lisle, I 
 I half the 
 •y now, I'll 
 Elva quit- 
 sred. 
 
 TUB B-BkMlT 0>' TffE OLirFB. 
 
 48 
 
 <./.-. CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AN .UNLOOKBD-POR INTEBRtJPTION. 
 
 ' '*Know, then, that I have supported tay 
 pretensions to your hand in the wdy that 
 
 best suited my character." 
 
 —Ivan hoe. 
 
 , - MGooD morning, fairest Edith," was De 
 Lisle's salutation, as he entered. "You 
 are looking very pale, "I fear you did 
 not sleep w^ll last night." 
 
 "Not very well," saM Edith, coldly; "a 
 .captive seldom sleeps verj' soundly dur- 
 ing the first nights in prison." 
 
 "You have no one to blame for being 
 In prison but yourself, Eklith. Had you 
 to'een less obstinate and self-willed you 
 might now have been at home with your 
 father." 
 
 "Sir, these reproaches sit not well upon 
 your lips," said Edith, bitterly. "I am 
 neither obstinate nor self-willed", as you 
 well know, but I oould not consent to 
 marry one whom I no longer loved." 
 
 ^'No longer loved," repeated De Lisle, 
 fixing his eyes upon her: "then you did 
 lovf- ni^ once?" 
 
 "1 may have done so," replied Edith, 
 her face suddenly crimsoning, "but you 
 forfeited my good opinion; and where I 
 cannot esteem, I cannot loVe." 
 
 "And how, I pray you, fair saint,' did I 
 forfeit your esteem?" said De Lisle, 
 with a sneer. 
 
 •*By your base, unmanly conduct, sir, 
 unworthy a man or a soldier," replied 
 Edith, her gentle spirit roused to anger 
 by his taunting words. "I had heard of 
 the merciless cruelty of you and your 
 men; the relentless fury with which you 
 destroyed houses and villages, and shed 
 the blood of unoffending fellow crea- 
 tures, whose only crime was in defend- 
 ing their homes. And could I, could any 
 womanthtnk of you otherwise than with' 
 fear and loathing after such acts, more 
 fitted foi" savages than for civilized 
 men?" 
 
 "You seem particularly well informed 
 about what I have done," said De Lisle, 
 sarcastically. "Pray, fair lady, how 
 •much of this raw-head-and-bloody-bone 
 story have you heard from Master Fred 
 Stanley?" 
 
 "Mr. De Lisle," said Edith, her fair 
 face flushing, "I must beg of you to 
 cease- referring to him. If you do not, I 
 must decline holding any conversation 
 with you." 
 
 "Sooner than incur such a penalty, 
 pretty one, I would do* anything," said 
 De Lisle; "but before this time to-mor- 
 row you will be my wife — and after that 
 I trust you will know your duty to your 
 husband too well to refuse talking to 
 him." 
 
 "Sir, I will not; I will never be your 
 wife," said Edith, passionately. 
 
 "Oh. it is all very well for you to ^ay 
 
 ro, MIsa Percival, blJt how are ybli' to 
 help yourself? You are here, my pHi»- 
 oner, completely in my power, mirround- 
 ed by my people, the clergyman who Ib 
 to marry Us Will be most discreetly si- 
 lent as to everytiiing he will s«e dr hear 
 —Is {)repared for hysterics, 'tears, and 
 rebellton, and will pay no attention to 
 them. How, then, beautiful Bdlth, are 
 you to help yourself?" 
 
 "God llveth!" said Edith, rising, and 
 speaking in a tone of intense solemnity, 
 "and I appeal to Him from y6u— un- 
 worthy the name of mah." ■ 
 
 "The days of miracles are past, Edith," 
 ^ald De Lisle, with his customary mock- 
 ing sneer. "He will hardly sehd an an- 
 gel down t^ prevent the marriage of a 
 silly girl, "rtie time of miracles has long 
 since passed, fair one." 
 
 "But not a Divfne interposition." said 
 Edith; "my confidence in Him' can never 
 be shaken. I will trust in Him, and 
 you may do your worst. Hedven will 
 never permit the happiness of my life 
 to be blighted by you!" 
 
 "Bah! bah! bah! are you silly enough 
 to believe such cant, Edith?" said De 
 Lisle, scornfully. "I thought you had 
 more sense. But time wHl tell; ere fow 
 and twenty hours you will be my wile 
 in spite of yourself, and then where wlH 
 be your boasted confidence in Heiiven?" 
 
 "I have faith to believe that time will 
 never come," said £}dith. '"But ehouid 
 It, my confidence in Heaven wHl be^as 
 strong as ever." 
 
 -"You believe that time will never 
 come," said De Lisle, "and may I ask 
 what do you expect will happen to pre- 
 vent it?" 
 
 "Oh, fifty things might happen," re- 
 pled the voice of Elva, who entered ab- 
 ruptly, in time to hear his remark, and 
 took it upon herself to answer: "The 
 Yankees might «ome and set fire to the 
 bouse, and carry her off — or the minister 
 might forget to come— or she might be 
 very sick— or you might be accidentally 
 shot, which would set everything right 
 at once. For my part, if I was Miss Per- 
 cival I'd live in hopes." 
 
 "Would you, indeed?" said De Lisle, 
 angrrily. "Well, I prefer living in cer- 
 tainty. "And pray. Miss Snowe, what 
 brought you here?" 
 
 "My feet, of course," answered Elva. 
 
 "Don't be impertinent, minion; answer 
 my question." 
 
 "I did answer it. Mister De Lisle, sir," 
 replied Elva. 
 
 "What did you come here for?" ex- 
 claimed De Lisle, in a rage; "what do 
 you want?" 
 
 "Oh! I want nothing," r''plled Elva, 
 vvrfth provoking indifference; "only 
 father's arrived, and sent me here with 
 a message for you." 
 
 "What is It, what did he say?" de- 
 manded De Lisle, hurriedly. 
 


'I if 
 
 ' i; 
 
 44 
 
 THE HERMIT OF TUE VUfFti. 
 
 1 
 
 •He didn't say much; the meBsage 
 consisted of Just Ave words: Tell him 
 it's ail right.' that's all. It's short and 
 sweet, you see. like a weavers kiss. 
 
 The look of satisfaction that followed 
 her words rather surprised Elva. who, 
 after watching him a moment, turned to 
 Edith, saying In a very audible whls- 
 
 "Somethlng dreb^xiful has happened to 
 somebody, as sure as shooting! Nothing 
 else ever puts him in such good humor. 
 See how absurdly happy he looks." 
 
 "Clear out!" said De Lisle, who was 
 too well accustomed to the pert Elva to 
 get into a passion at her Impertinent 
 words. 'Tell Paul I'll see him by and 
 by; and don't you come here again until 
 you're sent for." 
 
 "Nice way, that, to speak to a young 
 ladv," said Elva. "I guess Miss Percival 
 would rather have me than you with 
 her. after all." And. turning a pirouette 
 on one toe, the elf disappeared. 
 
 "Well, Edith," said De Lisle, turning 
 to her, "our marriage will not have to 
 be postponed till to-morrow, as I feared 
 It would. I sent Paul to see if the 
 clergyman could come to-day, and the 
 answer is favorable. Therefore, you will 
 prepare to become my bride this after- 
 noon." 
 
 The blood rushed for a moment hotly 
 to Edith's face, and then retreated to 
 her heart, leaving her faint and sick. 
 She had hitherto looked upon it as some 
 fearful dream— now it arose before her, 
 a terrible reality. She strove to speak, 
 but the words died away on her pale 
 lips. Involuntarily, she laid her hand 
 on her heart to still its loud throbbing?. 
 
 "Of course," went on De Lisle, calm- 
 ly, "this news must be equally pleasant 
 to both of us. You, no doubt, feel anx- 
 ious to return home— which I regret you 
 cannot do until after our marriage, for 
 reasons before given; and I know con- 
 finement in this lonely place must neces- 
 sarily be very irksome to you. I trust, 
 therefore. Miss Percival, you will see 
 the wisdom of submitting yourself, and 
 make no resistance to the ceremony tak- 
 ing place — a resistance which you must 
 know would be idle and useless, since 
 there is no one here who has either the 
 will or the power to prevent it." 
 
 "Ralph De Lisle, you cannot, you will 
 not be so base!" said Edith, vehemently, 
 rising. "I conjure you, by all you hold 
 sacred in heaven and dear on earth, to 
 desist' Why should you render miser- 
 able for life a defenseless girl who never 
 injured you? It is not because you really 
 loye me that you wish me to be your 
 wife, but for my father's money; and 
 that you shall have, I solemnly promise 
 you. You will — you will release me! I 
 cannot believe you are so deliberately, 
 basely wicked!" 
 
 Bhe stood before him with clasped 
 
 hands, flushed cheeks, and glisteniiiK 
 eyes— her long, golden hair floating llkt- 
 n glory around her. Never had slu> 
 looked so beautiful; and, gazing upon 
 her, De Lisle grew more determined 
 than ever in his resolution. 
 
 "Nay Edith, you wrong me," he said. 
 "Your money. I confess, is an induct- 
 ment; but were you a beggar, my afCei 
 tion for you is so strong I would still 
 make you my wife! I love you better 
 than you are willing to give me credit 
 for." 
 
 "You do not!" she exclaimed, impetu 
 ously. "When did man wish to render 
 miserable the woman he loved? You 
 know I dlslik<i you — detest you — and 
 with you can never be happy!" 
 
 "You will learn to overcome this dis- 
 like in time, fair Edith," he said, coolly 
 "At present it is quite natural you 
 should feel indignant, and fancy you dis- 
 like me; but, I assure you, it will wear 
 away. Then, too, your sUly penchant foi 
 a person who shall be nameless, ren 
 ders you !css reconciled to this union 
 than you would otherwise be. Time, 
 however, works wonders; and I have no 
 doubt you will be in quite a different 
 state of mind in a few months. I shall 
 not trouble you again to-day until tht- 
 hour appointed for our marriage; but 
 Elva will attend you in the meantime. 
 Au revoir," and, rising, De Lisle quitted 
 the apartment. 
 
 Edith sat like one stunned by some 
 sudden blow. Her arms dropped power- 
 less in her lap: her eyes were wide open, 
 with a look of fixed, stony despair. Ev- 
 ery trace of color had fadei! from hei 
 face, as she sat like one suddenly turned 
 to stone. Prom the doom before her she 
 felt there could be no escape. De Lisle 
 was all-powerful and she was utterly 
 helpless. One by one the faces and forms 
 of loved ones passed before her: father, 
 mother, brother, sister, and — dearer than 
 all — Fred. Where were they all now? 
 Was there no one in all the world ~to 
 help her? Sun. and moon, and stars 
 seemed fading from her sky, and the 
 future loomed before her so dark and 
 full of horror that she drew back ap- 
 palled. Only a few brief hours, and she 
 would be the wife of De Lisle — a fate 
 far worse than death! Hope, there was 
 none; and involuntarily she covered her 
 face with her hands, and groaned in the 
 depth of her anguish. 
 
 She heard the door open and some one 
 enter: but shewdid not look up. Her 
 hands were gently removed from her 
 face; and. raising her head, she met the 
 pitying eyes of Elva. 
 
 "Dear Miss Percival," she said, gently, 
 "don't grieve so! Bad as Ralph De LLsle 
 is. I don't think lie'll force you to marry 
 him against your will." 
 
 "He will— he will!" exclaimed Edith. 
 


THE HERMIT OF THE VLIFFH. 
 
 45 
 
 med Edith, 
 
 wringing her hands. "Oh, Elva! What 
 shall 1 do?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't Itnow," replied Elva. 
 •'I wish I could help you; but it is quite 
 impossible. Really, though. I never 
 thought he'd be so mean. It's dreadful 
 to think about; but I don't see how it 
 can be helped." 
 
 The look of sublime perplexity on 
 Elva's face bordered closely on the ri- 
 diculous, and at any other time would 
 have provoked a smile from Edith. But 
 she only sat with her hands pressed to 
 her throbbing head, striving in vain to 
 think, with her brain in such a whirl. 
 
 "When is this precious wedding to 
 take place?" inquired Elva, after a 
 pauHe. 
 
 "This afternoon," answered Edith, hur- 
 riedly. "Your father went after a 
 clergyman." 
 
 "Why, you don't mean to say that lit- 
 tle, dried-up anatomy, with a face like 
 a withered pippin and a nose like a 
 boiled beet, who came home with father, 
 is a clergyman?" said Elva, opening her 
 eyes in amazement. 
 
 "I really do not know," said Edith, 
 faintly. 
 
 •Well, if it is, I'll give up!" said Elva, 
 drawing a long breath. "Why, I saw 
 him drinking gin and water with father, 
 and singing, 'Old King Cole was a merry 
 old soul,' as jolly as the worst cut- 
 throat in De Lisle's gang." 
 
 "Elva Snowe!" called the shrill voice 
 of Miss Crow, at this moment. 
 
 "Oh, there's Miss Crow!" said Elva, 
 jumping up. "I must go and see what 
 the blessed old seraph wants, or she'll 
 drive me wild with her screeches." 
 
 And Elva vr,::>ished. 
 
 The houra dri gged slowly on, and 
 Edith waited in vein for her reappear- 
 ance. The afternoon waned; but still, 
 to her surprise, she came not. Rousing 
 herself from the lethargy into which she 
 was failing, she arose and paced up and 
 down the room, striving to collect her 
 thoughts. She turned to the window, 
 and gazed out. The sun was setting in 
 cloudless splendor. The heavens were 
 flushed with gold, and azure, and pur- 
 ple, and crimson; and amid this radiant 
 setting the sun shone like a jewel of 
 fire. A fading sunbeam, as it passed, 
 lingered lovingly for a moment amid 
 her golden hair. With clasped hands 
 and parted lips, Edith stood entranced, 
 forgetting everything save the glorious 
 beauty of that gorgeous sunset. 
 
 The sudden opening of the door star- 
 tled her. She looked up, and her heart 
 sank like iea.^ in her bosom as she be- 
 held De Lisle. 
 
 "Come." he said, taking her hand— 
 "the hour has arrived, and the clergy- 
 man is waiting." 
 
 She grew taint and dizzy at his words, 
 
 and was forced to grasp his arm for 
 support. 
 
 "Let me assist you," he aaid, kindly, 
 as he placed his arm around her waist 
 and drew her with him. 
 
 She drew back involuntarily — her lips 
 parted, but no sound came forth as she 
 lifted her eyes in a voiceless appeal to 
 his face. 
 
 "Nonsense, Edith!" he said, almost an- 
 grily— "you must come. Have I not told 
 you resistance is useless?" 
 
 He drew her forcibly with him as he 
 spoke. Quitting the room, they crossed 
 a long hall, descended a flight of wind- 
 ing stairs, which led them to another 
 hall, similar to that above. Opening one 
 of the many doors that flanked it on 
 either side. De Lisle led his almost faint- 
 ing companion into a room, which she 
 saw indistinctly, as in a dream, filled 
 with people. 
 
 The clergyman, book in hand, stood 
 at the upper end of the room. At a lit- 
 tle distance stood the man, Paul— the 
 same individual seen by Fred in the 
 music-room of Percival Hall. ~ Near him 
 stood Elva, pity and indignation strug- 
 gling for the mastery on her pretty face. 
 Old Nan Crow, grinning and chuckling, 
 and evidently In a sublime state of beat- 
 itude, was perched on a chair in the cor- 
 ner. Various other individuals — mem- 
 bers of De Lisle's Tory band — were scat- 
 tered round the room, watching poor 
 Edith with mingled curiosity and ad- 
 miration. 
 
 Supporting the slight form of his com- 
 panion, De Lisle led her to Vhere stood 
 the clergryman. 
 
 "Go on, sir," said De Lisle, briefly, "we 
 are ready." 
 
 He opened his book, and already had 
 the ceremony commenced, when a sud- 
 den noise broke upon their ears, and 
 startled all to their feet in consterna- 
 Uon. 
 
 Shouts, cries, yells and the report of 
 firearms, mingled together In wild con- 
 fusion, resounded without. Ere any 
 one could move, a man, wounded evil 
 bleeding, rushed in and fell lifeless »i, 
 the feet of De Lisle. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THB PRISONERS. 
 
 "A careless set they were, in whose bold 
 
 hands 
 Swords were like toys." 
 
 For a few moments all stood spell- 
 bound, gazing in silence and consterna- 
 tion in one another's face, while the noise 
 and uproar without seemed still increas- 
 ing. Oaths shouted, the clash of swords, 
 and the report of firearms united in 
 fierce discord. So completely unexpected 
 was the surprise that all stood looking 
 at one another and at their fallen com- 
 


iiil 
 
 (6 
 
 THE UEUMir Of THE OLlFFki. 
 
 >tfl 
 
 i 
 
 » 
 
 ill 
 
 11 
 
 rade In speechless wonder. But De 
 Liiste'a presence of mind never forsook 
 him— the true state of the case seemed 
 to Hash upon him instantly— and, turning- 
 to £lva, he said, hurriedly: 
 
 "Condoict Miss Perclval to her cham- 
 ber, and, whatever happens, see that 
 she does not escape. " Then, turning to 
 the others, he called; "There Is danger 
 without! Follow me!" 
 
 And as he spoke, he disappeared 
 through the open door. 
 
 The men rushed pell-mell after him, 
 and in a few moments the room was de- 
 serted, save by the clergyman, Edith, 
 Elva, and Miss Crow. Edith stood lis- 
 tening breathlessly, while her heart once 
 more began to throb with hope. De 
 Lisle's enemies were her friends, and she 
 might yet be free once more. 
 
 Nan Grow was the first to speak. Turn- 
 ing to Elva, who stood listening eagerly 
 to the sound of the conflict without, she 
 said: 
 
 "What are you a-standlng there for, 
 like a fool? Go 'long with you, and take 
 her off to her room, as Mister Ralph 
 told you." 
 
 "Yes. Come, Miss Perclval," said 
 Elva; "there may be danger in remain- 
 ing here. Let me assist you— you seem 
 week and faint." 
 
 She passed her arm round her waist, 
 and led her from the room. Wrought to 
 the highest pitch of suspense and anx- 
 iety. Edith tottered and was obliged to 
 lean on her companion for support. 
 
 "Oh, Miss, Perclval, who do you sup- 
 pose they can be?" inquired Elva, when 
 they reached the apartment of Edith. 
 
 "My friends, I feel certain," said Edith, 
 pressing her hands on her- heart to still 
 its tumultuous throbblngs- "who, hav- 
 ing missed me, by some means discov- 
 ered that I am here. Great heaven, 
 Elva, listen to those terrible sounds 
 without!" said Edith, with a shudder. 
 
 "The conflict seems to grow more des- 
 perate each moment," said Elva, listen- 
 ing breathlessly. 
 
 The noise and confused din of the light 
 were Indeed momentarily growing more 
 violent. Almost wild with excitement, 
 Edith paced up and down the room, 
 striving to catch some sound by which 
 she could Judge which party was the 
 vict.>r. But she listened in vain — nothing 
 met her ear but a discordant din. In 
 which the cries of all were mingled in 
 indiscriminate confusion. 
 
 Per upward of an hour the strife con- 
 tinued, and then suddenly all grew still. 
 They could hear, for a time, the sound 
 of many feet passing and repassing 
 through the different rooms and pass- 
 ages; but gradually this died away, and 
 was followed by a silence so deep and 
 ominous that the young girls looked on 
 each other, pale with undefined fear. 
 
 '-Oh. this suspense!— this 'suspense! It 
 
 is killing me!" said Edith, sinking Intu 
 a chair and covering her face with her 
 hand. 
 
 "De Lisle must have conquered!" ex- 
 claimed Elva, "or your friends would 
 be here before now." 
 
 "The will of Heaven be done," cam<» 
 from the pale lips of Edith— while the 
 hope that until this moment had ani- 
 mated her heart died out in deepest de- 
 spair. 
 
 "What can this sudden silence mean?" 
 said Elva. "It is not their customary 
 Avay of conducting themselves after p. 
 victory. I cannot stay here — I must go 
 and see." 
 
 "Let r.ie go with you!" plea('.d Edith. 
 
 "No, no — you must stay here!" ex- 
 claimed Elva, hurriedly. 'To go with 
 me would be dangerous. I will return 
 Immediately. Do try and restrain your 
 Impatience for a short time, and you 
 will hear all." 
 
 She left the room as she spoke, and 
 Edith was alone In the profound silence 
 and rapidly deepening gloom. It was 
 a calm, starless night. Without, In the 
 gray dusk, the tall, swaying pine trees 
 looked like dim, dark specters. The 
 shrill cry of the whip-poor-will and 
 katydid came at Intervals to her ears; 
 and once the hoarse scream of a raven 
 broke the stillness, sending a thrill of 
 superstitious terror to the heart of 
 Edith. Each moment seemed an age. 
 until the return of Elva. Unable to sit 
 still, in her burning Impatience, Edith 
 paced rapidly up and down the rpom— 
 her excitement lending to her feeble 
 frame an unnatural strength. There 
 was a wild, burning light in her eye, 
 and a hot, feverish flush on her face 
 that betokened the tumult within. Her 
 head ached and throbbed with an in- 
 tensity of pain; but she hardly noticed it 
 in the fierce agony of impatience she 
 endTired. 
 
 She counted the hours as they passed 
 on; midnight came, but Elva was ab- 
 sent still. She seemed almost like a 
 ^nanlac in her maddening impatience, as 
 she trod wildly up and down the long 
 room. "She will not come to-night!" 
 was ringing in her ears, as she clencned 
 her small hands together so fiercely that 
 the nails sank into the quivering palhis 
 until they bled. 
 
 Her quick ear at last caught the sound 
 of a rapid, excited footstep without. She 
 sprang forward, breathing heavily in 
 her impatience, when the door opened, 
 and Elva, bearing a lamp in her hand, 
 entered. 
 
 Placing the lamp on the table, Elva 
 drew a long breath, and, with a mut- 
 tered "Oh, dear!" fiung herself into a 
 seat. Her long hair was streaming 
 wildly over her shoulders; her face was 
 very pale; her dress disordered and 
 stained with blood. 
 


THH HERMIT OF THE VLIFF8. 
 
 411 
 
 . sinking into 
 face with her 
 
 iquered!" ex- 
 riends would 
 
 done," canjf* 
 th— while the 
 ent had ani- 
 n deepest de- 
 
 lence mean?" 
 Ir customary 
 Jives after p. 
 e— I must go 
 
 lear'.d Edith, 
 here!" ex- 
 'To go with 
 I vvlll return 
 restrain your 
 ne, and you 
 
 ^ spoke, and 
 'ound silence 
 3m. It was 
 hout, In the 
 g pine trees 
 cters. The 
 )or-will and 
 to her ears; 
 I of a raven 
 
 a thrill of 
 e heart of 
 led an age. 
 rnable to sit 
 lence, Bdltn 
 the rpom — 
 
 her feeble 
 gth. There 
 In her eye, 
 )n her face 
 vlthln. Her 
 vith an In- 
 ly noticed It 
 atlence she 
 
 they passed 
 '^a was ab- 
 lost like a 
 patience, as 
 n the long 
 to-night!" 
 lie clencned 
 lercely that 
 ring palms 
 
 t the sound 
 ithout. She 
 heavily In 
 lOr opened, 
 her hand, 
 
 able, EJlva 
 th a mut- 
 lelf Into a 
 streaming 
 [* face was 
 iered and 
 
 "Elva! Elva! Speak! What haa hap- 
 p<.ied?" inquirod Edith, In a voice husky 
 with deep emotion. 
 
 "Oh, Just what 1 told you! De Lisle 
 iind hiR villainous-looking set have con- 
 »iuered!" exclaimed Klva, impatiently. 
 
 For u time nothing could be heard but 
 the labored breathing of Edith. She 
 strove to ask another question; but 
 though her Up? moved, they could not 
 utter the words. Elva sat with her lips 
 t'ompressed and her eyes tlxed moodily 
 on the floor. Looking up, at length, and 
 seeing the expression on Edith's face, 
 Hhe said, in reply to it: 
 
 "Yes, they were your friends — I heard 
 De Lisle say so. There were only seven 
 of them altogether; but they fought des- 
 perately, and. 1 believe, killed half of 
 De Lisle's band They were conquered, 
 however, and killed — with the exception 
 of those who appeared superior to the 
 rest, and whom De Lisle said he would 
 reserve for a more terrible fate. One 
 comfort Is," added Elva, flinging back 
 ner hair almost fiercely, "Old Nick will 
 pay him with interest for all this some 
 of these days!" 
 
 Edith did not exclaim nor cry. Her 
 lace was only a shade whiter, her eyes 
 dilated with a look of unspeakable hor- 
 ror, her voice, when she spoke, sounded 
 unnaturally deep and hoarse. 
 
 "Did you hear what were tjie names 
 (if those three?" she asked. 
 
 Elva looked up In alarm at the strange 
 sound of her voice. 
 
 "One, the youngest of the three, I 
 heard called Gus, I thjnk; and' another 
 looked so much like >ou I think he must 
 be your brother. Bu< the third — he was 
 «»plendld; he looked like a prince — so tall, 
 and dark, and handsome. He was 
 wounded, too, but he walked in looking 
 as proud and scornful on De Lisle as 
 though he were a king and De Lisle his 
 slave. I never paw such a look of in- 
 tense, fiendish hate and triumph on any 
 face as De Lisle's wore when he looked 
 on him. They are now confined In sep- 
 arate rooms at the other side of the 
 house, though I fancy they will soon 
 leave It for a narrower and darker 
 prison. Oh, Miss Perclval, I have had 
 to look on such fearful sights to-night! 
 I have a little knowledge of surgery, and 
 I was obliged to bind up those fearful 
 wounds. Ugh!" and Elva shuddered con- 
 vulsively. 
 
 There was no reply from Edith, who 
 stood like one suddenly turned to stone. 
 Her brother and cousin were in the 
 power of the merciless De Lisle — and 
 that other! there was but one man In the 
 world to whom Elva's description could 
 apply — one dearer than life — whom she 
 never expected to see again. And he — 
 would De Lisle let him live to see the 
 sun again? ' 
 
 "De Lisle is going away somewhere 
 
 to-mornjw." uald Elva, looking up, after 
 a pause. "He received a letter a few 
 hours ago which will take him off- 
 thank goodness! I suppose he will see 
 you before he leaves, and tell you when 
 he will return." 
 
 "Elva!" exclaimed Edith, suddenly, 
 "If De Lisle leaves here, why can we 
 not make our escape during his absence? 
 You can aid us, can you not?" 
 
 "I scarcely know," said Elva, thought- 
 fully. "I might aid you, it Is true; but 
 UH father is commander here until De 
 Lisle's return, he will have to be an- 
 swerable for it. Beside, you will all be 
 very carefully guarded; and I fear, were 
 any attempt to escape discovered. It 
 would be worse for us. De Lisle might 
 marry you Immediately, in spite of all 
 obstacles; and as for the others — well, 1 
 wouldn't give much for their chance of 
 life now, but any such attempt would be 
 their death-warrant!" 
 
 "Then escape is Impossible, and there 
 is no hope but In the grave!" said Edith, 
 sadly. 
 
 "Oh, do not say It Is Impossible!" said 
 Elva. "Indeed, the more I think of It, 
 the less difficult It seems. Let's see"— 
 and she leaned her head thoughtfully on 
 her hand— "De Lisle will probably be ab- 
 sent a week or so. Before the end of 
 that time I may find some opportunity 
 for throwing the men off their guard, 
 and setting you free. I have no doubt 
 I could easily effect your escape; but it 
 may be more difficult to liberate your 
 friends. However, If I cannot, you can 
 Inform your friends where they are, 
 and let them come here and free them 
 by force of arms." 
 
 "But, Elva, the moment De Lisle 
 would discover my escape, do you not 
 think he would wreak his vengeance on 
 those remaining In his power? You, too, 
 dear Elva— what would he do to you?" 
 
 "Oh! as for me, I ain't afraid of him— 
 only I don't like to get father Into trou- 
 ble; but as there is no alternative, he'll 
 ha re to run the risk, and I'll set you 
 free If I can. But your friends — yes. It 
 would be very dangerous for them to be 
 here after your fiight is discovered. I 
 must think. I have no doubt I can hit 
 on some plan to get the whole of you 
 cut of his power. And If I do, won't It 
 be as good as a play to see De Lisle! 
 Oh, won't he rage, though, and blow us 
 all sky high to think he has been out- 
 witted by a girl! La! I think I see 
 him." 
 
 And Elva, changing in a moTient from 
 seriousness to gayety. laughed outright 
 at the vision that rose before her mind's 
 eye. 
 
 "Do you think you see him, minion?" 
 suddenly exclaimed a low, fierce voice, 
 that made both spring to their feet in 
 terror. The door was pushed open, and 
 


48 
 
 THE HERMIT Of THK OUtfti. 
 
 
 ^llli 
 
 De Ll»le, pale with rage, Rtood before 
 them. „ , 
 
 "Oh, well, you heard ub, did you? I 
 never had a high opinion of you, and 
 I'm not HurprlHed to nnd you playing the 
 eavesdropper!" exclaimed Elva. dtflant- 
 
 Jy. 
 
 "By all the fiends In flames, girl, you 
 shall repent this!" 
 
 "Shall I. Indeed! That for you, Mr. 
 De Lisle!" said the audacious K�a, 
 snapping her fingers in his very face. 
 "Leave the room, you Impudent" — 
 "Impertinent, outrageous, abandoned 
 young woman— chlng a ring, a ring, 
 chaw!" sang the elf, making a whirl. 
 
 "You shall never remain another night 
 in this house"— 
 
 "Delighted to hear It," again Inter- 
 rupted Elva, with a profound courtesy. 
 "Silence? Who, then, will help this 
 fair lady or her lover to escape?" said 
 De Lisle, with a look of triumphant mal- 
 ice gleaming in his eyes. 
 
 "Heaven helps those who help them- 
 selves!" said Elva. 
 
 "Well, I fancy Heaven will not trouble 
 Itself about this affair. And now, miss, 
 the sooner you leave this room and house 
 the better," said De Lisle. 
 
 "Surel>, Mr. De Lisle, you will allow 
 Elva to remain with me?" said Edith, 
 speaking now for the first time. 
 
 "No. madam, I will not," said De Lisle, 
 sternly, "after listening to that ingen- 
 ious plot. I shall take care that every 
 means of escape is cut off. Leave her 
 with you forsooth! Do you think me a 
 fool?" 
 
 "Think!" repeated Elva; "not she. In- 
 deed; she knows you to be one." 
 
 "WUl you leave the room, or shall I 
 turn you out?" ex<!laimed De Lisle, an- 
 grily. 
 
 "Don't trouble yourself," said Elva, 
 coolly. "I'll go myself and be thankful 
 to get out of this dismal old tomb. Good- 
 l>y, Miss Perclval; keep up your spirits. 
 Old Nick' 11 twist De Lisle's neck for this 
 by and by— a blessing for which I in- 
 tend to pray night and morning. Don't 
 get into a rage, my dear sir, as I see 
 you are going to; it spoils your beauty, 
 of which you have none to spare." And, 
 casting upon him a look of withering 
 contempt, Elva left the room and ran 
 downstairs. 
 
 For a few moments after her depart- 
 ure De Lisle walked up and down, as if 
 to cool the Storm of passion into which 
 the ta^mtlng words of Elva had thrown 
 him. B^dith sat pale and motionless . in 
 her seat. . Pausing at last before her, 
 he said, in a tone of bitter sarcasm: , 
 
 "Well, Miss Perclval, I see you can 
 plot better than, I ever gave you credit 
 for. How unfortunate I chanced to spoil 
 your pretty little scheme!.. After all, you 
 see, Providence seems to favor me more 
 than .you. Do you not suppose It. was 
 
 'divine Ititerposttlon' that so providen- 
 tially sent tne here in time to discover 
 your plans?" 
 
 With the determination of not answer- 
 ing him, Edith sat listening In silence. 
 
 "You do not answer," he went on. In 
 the same Ironical tone, after waiting a 
 moment. 
 
 "It Is Just as well; silence gives assent 
 J know you will regret to hear that busi- 
 ness of Importance calls me away for a 
 few days, thereby delaying our mar- 
 riage; but at the end of that time I will 
 have the happiness of claiming you as 
 my bride. I scarcely regret the hasty 
 Interruption we met with a few hours 
 ago. as it will permit me to invite a few 
 friends of yours to assist at the cere- 
 mony. Mr. Frederic Stanley, who will 
 shortly follow his frienKUi to a better 
 wf)rid. will be present to witness our 
 nuptials, fairest Edith, and take his last 
 farewell of my bride. He will, doubtless, 
 feel happy during his last moments, 
 when he knows the lady he professes to 
 love Is the happy wife of another." 
 
 He paused, and gltinced with a look of 
 malignant triumph at Edith, who sat 
 quivering like an aspen in her chair. 
 
 "Yes, fairest Edith," he went on, "my 
 hour of triumph has come. Ere five 
 suns rise and set, he lor whom you 
 would willingly die will hahg a discolored 
 corpse between heaven and earth, and 
 you will be my wife. No power on earth 
 can save you; if an angel from heaven 
 were to descend and plead for you both, 
 I would refuse." 
 
 She lifted her head, and De Lisle saw 
 a face so full of horror, with such a look 
 of utter anguish and despair, that jfie 
 started back appalled. She did not see 
 him; her eyes were gazing steadily for- 
 ward, fixed, glazed, and rigid. She only 
 saw the vision his words had conjure^j 
 up— herself the wife of the living demon 
 beplde her. and he whom ahe loved dying 
 in agony the death of a malefactor. So 
 rigid, so unnatural, so full of speechless 
 ^orror was her look, that, alarmed for 
 the effect of his words, De Lisle sprang 
 to her .side., exclaiming: 
 
 "Edith! Edith 1 Good heavens! do not 
 look so wildly. Edith! look up— speak to 
 me!" 
 
 The hand he held was cold as ice. Her 
 head dropped on her breast, her eyes 
 closed, and she fainted entirely away. 
 
 Terrified beyond measure, De Lisle 
 raised her in his arms, and laid the ap- 
 parently lifeless form on the bed, and 
 sprang downstairs at a bouqd in search 
 of Elva. He found that young lady in 
 a violent altercation with Nan Crow— 
 who. In spite of ali EUva's vehement 
 threats and protestations, positively re- 
 fused to let her out until morning. . - 
 
 "Go upstairs! gol— Mleis Perclval has 
 fainted!" exclaimed. De I^isle, hurriedly, 
 


TBB BaHMIT Or TBK CUWyB. 
 
 Icatchlnv Klva'B arm In bin haate to 
 [puHh her ulonR. 
 
 WrtrnchInK ht^r arm violently from his 
 graap, and catKlnK upon him a Kiance 
 of cunuentrutod contempt and hatred, 
 Eiva pasHed him, and flew rather than 
 ran upatalrH to Edith's room. 
 
 Bhe Htill lay lifeleHH upon the t>ed. 
 Elva opened her druHa and began chaf- 
 ing her handtt and templeu. Long hIiu 
 labored In vain— no sign of life was 
 there, and something almost akin to a 
 feeling of pleasure entered the heart of 
 p]lva as the conviction that Edith had 
 escaped the power of De Lisle forced 
 itself upon her. But life was not ex- 
 tinct—a - few hard-drawn, laboring 
 breaths— a sudden fluttering at her 
 heart, and >ie long lushes were lifted, 
 and the < udless blue eyes bought the 
 t)right face of Elva. 
 
 "My dear, dear Miss Perclval, I 
 thought you .would never look on any 
 one again!" exclaimed Elva, as she 
 soothingly pushed back the bright hair 
 off Edith's face. 
 
 "You here, Elva?" exclaimed Edith, 
 vacantly. I thought— I thought— where 
 is he?" she said, with a sudden look of 
 terror. 
 
 "Downstairs, the horrid wretch!" ex- 
 claimed Elva, passionately. 
 
 "I thought he had sent you away?" 
 fcald Edith. 
 
 "Bo he did, and I am going, too; but 
 when you fainted he sent me here to at- 
 tend to you. I am sorry to leave you. 
 Miss Perclval, but you see I must go." 
 
 "Oh, it don't matter!" said Edith, 
 wearily; "it la all the same to me." 
 
 Elva looked hurt— so much so that 
 Edith noticed It, and, laying her hand on 
 ners, she said: 
 
 "Dear Elva, don't be offended. I di 1 
 not mean to hurt your feelings, but for 
 tlie few days I have to remain. It mat 
 ters little who attends me." 
 
 "Are you going away?" asked Elva, 
 in surprise. 
 
 "Yes, I hope so." 
 
 "With De Lisle? " * 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why, are you not going to marry 
 him?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "No!" repeated Elva, beginning to 
 think her mind wandered; "how will you 
 avoid it?" 
 
 "Elva, I shall die!" 
 
 "You will not commit suicide?" said 
 Elva, shrinking back in horror. 
 ' "There will be no necessity, Elva; I 
 shall die." 
 
 "Dear lady, I trtist not. Heaven is 
 merciful, and there may be happy days 
 in store for you yet. Before morning 
 dawns, night is ever darkest. Do not 
 give way to despair, but trust in Heav- 
 en." '■"•■•• •■■ ' -' 
 
 ^TTou o«in go n&w," said the voice of 
 
 r>e Lisle, as he nttHid in the doorway; 
 "your liorKie awaits y«»u at the door." 
 
 He imuHed, and drew back to allow 
 her to pans. 
 
 Pressing a klsa on Hdlth'a brow, she 
 arose, and, whispering in her ear the 
 one word, "Hope!" ahe left the room. 
 
 As she passed De I^isle, she cast upon 
 him a look of j^uch dark, withering 
 scorn that be absolutely quailed bt'f«»r© 
 her. Passing dt»wn the stairs and 
 through the numerous empty rooms, »»b» 
 left the house, sprang U|>on the back of 
 Tlmun, and In a few momenta waa lost 
 to sight among the trees. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 JOB SMITH. 
 
 "DoMt deem that uught can hide in beggar 
 rags 
 A heart so bold as mine? 
 And diX'atn'st thou aught of common dan- 
 ger now 
 Can Hcare me from my purpose?" 
 
 —Barry Cornwall. 
 
 To explain how the friends of Edith 
 discovered her prison. It is neoesaary to 
 retrace our steps a little. » 
 
 For an hour or two after her depart- 
 ure with De Lisle, Major Perclval 
 wallced thoughtfully up and down the 
 broad plaeza, debating within himself 
 whether It Vk'ere better to wait or com- 
 pel Edith to fulfill her engaKement. The 
 words of Fred Stanley had thrown a new 
 light on the subject, and he f«lt con- 
 vlnceti that her affection for him was 
 the cause of her refusal. To marry or 
 not to marry, therefore, was the ques- 
 tion; and, in a state of unusual inde- 
 cision, the major debated the caSe i»ro 
 and' cfin. '^ 
 
 Whil6 thus engaged Nell came run- 
 ning up the stairs and stood beside hlih: 
 
 "Papa, Where's Edith?" ' 
 
 •'Out riding with De Lisle." 
 
 "With D^ Lisle?" And Nell's eye8 
 opened to their wld68t extent with 
 ama-zement. . - 
 
 "Eh? What's that? " said the majof. 
 turning round sharply. 
 
 "Nothing, sir," said Nell, demurely, 
 "but I really thought Ralph De Ijlsle 
 was the last person Edith would go any- 
 where with.'' 
 
 "And why not. Miss Impertinence? 
 Whom should she go with. If not with 
 her future husband?" 
 
 "Why, papa, I thought Edith refused 
 to fulfill her engagement?** - 
 
 "We'll make her fulfill it!" was the 
 short, .«»harp arftJ decislYO reply. 
 
 "Hem-m^m! perhaps isoV said Nell, 
 with a Scarcely perceptible srtlle, "but 
 If I had been she,. I know I'd not have 
 gone with De Lisle to-night." v • 
 
 "You wouldn't?"- And a storm began 
 to gather in the major's eyes. "Why, 
 may I -ask?" ' ^ "" 
 


r4m 
 
 *»i 
 
 so 
 
 TBE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFH. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know; I wouldn't satisfy 
 liim so far; besides, he might try to run 
 away with me, or something. I wouldn't 
 trust him." 
 
 The words were spoken thoughtlessly; 
 but the major gave a sudden start, and 
 stood silent. Nell left him, and tripped 
 downstairs to join Gus in the garden, 
 leaving liim to his own reflections. 
 
 An hour passed away; Nell and Gus 
 left the garden and piazza for the cool, 
 pleasant parlor; but the major still re- 
 mained watching for the arrival of 
 Edith and De Lisle. Another hour 
 passed on, and still they came not. The 
 major began to feel anxious and angry 
 at the prolonged absence. His anxiety 
 began to contribute itself to the other 
 members of the family, as another hour 
 wore cway without them. A tif^usand 
 conjectures were formed as to the cause 
 of this unaccountable absence, but none 
 si^emed satisfactory. As midnight ap- 
 proached, uneas'iness changed into real 
 alarm; and the major and Gus, unable 
 to endure the suspense longer, mounted 
 their horses and rode off in the direc- 
 tion the absentees ha'^ taken. 
 
 A sleeplfeps night was passed in Perci- 
 val Hall. Early in the morning both 
 returned from their fruitless search, 
 weary and dispirited. No clew to their 
 A 'hereabouts could be discovered; and 
 Ai' gazed into one another's faces, pale 
 with terror. 
 
 Half an hour after their return, a ser- 
 vant entered bearing a note which, he 
 said, had been given him by a man, who 
 immediately departed. The major 
 glanced at the superscription, and rec- 
 ognized the bold, free hand of De Lisle. 
 Tearing it open, he read, 
 
 "My Dear Sir:— As, for wise reasons, 
 doubtless, jou decline bestowing on me the 
 .hand of your fair daughter, I am under the 
 painful necessity of making her my wife, 
 without troubling you to g've her away. 
 For your own sake. I feel convinced you 
 will not make a public riffair of this— as I 
 judge you have too much pride to allow 
 your daughte-'s good name to become a 
 byword for the town. Rest assured she 
 shall be treated with all the respect due tO' 
 the daughter of so distinguished a gentle- 
 man as Major Perclval; and when once my 
 wife, shall be restored to her home on one 
 condition. It is, that you will give me her 
 fortune as a sort of ransom which, as you 
 are wealthy, no doubt you will willingly 
 do If you refuse, why, then It will be all 
 the worse for your pretty, but rather stub- 
 born daughter. The retreat to which I have 
 taken her is secur;e, and you cannot dis- 
 cover it; theiefore, you had better make 
 up your mind to comply with my terms at 
 once. If you do. your daughter • shall be 
 Immediately restored to you; if not— 
 
 "I have the honor, my dear sir, to re- 
 main, 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "Ralph De Llyle. ' 
 
 "The scoundrel! the treacherous, de- 
 
 ceitful villain!" thundere'd the major,'' 
 springing to his feet, white with pas- 
 sion. 
 
 "What is It?" d'^manded Gus and Nell, 
 while Mrs. Penival's eyes asked the 
 same question, though her lips were si- 
 lent. 
 
 "Read that!" exclaimed the major, as 
 he flung the missive he had crumpled in 
 his hand fiercely from him. "Read that! 
 For I cannot tell you." 
 
 Nell took it up, and read it slowly from 
 beginning to end. 
 
 "Merciful heavens!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Perclval, "what shall we do?" 
 
 "Do?" shouted the major, "I'll send a 
 bullet through his heart if ever my eyes 
 light on hi again. The black-hearted 
 villain! Is this his return for ail I have 
 done for him? My daughter! My daugh- 
 ter in the power of such a villain!" 
 
 "My dear sir, what Is the matter?" ex- 
 claimed a well-known voice; and, look- 
 ing up, they beheld Nugent, dusty and 
 travel-worn, standing before them. 
 
 In a few words Nell related all that 
 had transpired, for the rest were to»i 
 much excited to do so, and ended by 
 placing De Lisle' s latter in his hand. 
 The brow of Nugent grew dark, and his 
 eyes flashed fiercely; but, subduing all 
 other signs of anger, he turned to his 
 father, and said: 
 
 "Well, sir, on what plan have you de- 
 cided?" 
 
 "Plan! I car. think of nothing but of 
 j'ursulng that scoundrel to the ends of 
 the earth. Mount! mount! and after 
 them!" 
 
 "Stay!" cried a voice, that made them 
 all start, it was so stern and command- 
 ing. "Are you mad to start, on such a 
 wild goose chase? Wait; follow my direc- 
 tions, and all will be well." 
 
 They looked up, and beheld, to their 
 amaaement, the Hermit of the Cliffs, 
 who stood before them like some prophet 
 of old, in his flowing robes, majestic 
 bearing, and snowy hair. 
 
 "You here!" exclaimed Nugent, in 
 surprise. ' 
 
 "And wherefore not, my son?" 
 
 "I thought you were in the city. You 
 were there a short time ago!" said Nu- 
 gent. 
 
 "Whithersoever my duty leads me, 
 there am I," answered the hermit, in his 
 calm, grave voice. "The wolf hath stol- 
 en a lamb from the flock, and the rest 
 shall be left in the desert while we 
 search for the one that is lost. Listen to 
 me, and go not fonh rashly." 
 
 "This is no time for fooling!" ex- 
 claimed the major, impatiently. "Stand 
 aside, old man, and let us begone!" 
 - "Nay, there Is one come who will show 
 you the way," said the hermit. "Why 
 should you wander in the dark when 
 thero \i: light at hand?" 
 
 "Do you know where my daughter is?"^ 
 


THE HERMIT O*' THE CUFm. 
 
 61 
 
 d ' the major/ 
 ite with pa.«- 
 
 Gus and Nell 
 
 Bs asked the 
 
 Ups were si- 
 
 the major, as 
 a crumpled in 
 "Read that! 
 
 It slowly from 
 
 claimed Mrs 
 lo?" 
 
 "I'll send a 
 ever my eyes 
 
 black-hearted 
 for all I have 
 •' My daugh- 
 1 villain!" 
 matter?" ex- 
 e; and, look- 
 t, duaty and 
 ■e them, 
 ited all that 
 ?st were too 
 id ended by 
 n his hand 
 lark, and his 
 subduing all 
 Jrned to his 
 
 lave you de- 
 thing but of 
 the ends of 
 •' and after 
 
 made them 
 3 command- 
 t.on such a 
 w my direc- 
 
 ?ld, to their 
 
 the Cliffs. 
 
 >me prophet 
 
 s, majestic 
 
 Nugent, in 
 
 m?" 
 city. You 
 " said Nu- 
 
 leads me, 
 [•mit, in his 
 
 hath stol- 
 id the rest 
 
 while we 
 
 Listen to 
 
 ling!" ex- 
 y. "Stand 
 gone!" 
 will show 
 It. "Why 
 ark when 
 
 Shter is?" 
 
 [demanded Major Percival, fixing his eyes 
 ? sternly upon him. 
 
 "Oi� is at hand who does!" repeated 
 the hi rmit, in the same quiet tone. '/My 
 hand may not point out the way, but 
 trust in him who will follow me. His 
 eyes have been opened, and to him it 
 is gf4ren to rescue the maiden of the 
 house of Percival." 
 
 , "Pshaw! Why do we stay listening to 
 I such nonsenst?" demanded the major, 
 , Impetuously. "What can this hoary old 
 'man know of Edith? Let ua away; why 
 f should we waste time lingering here?" 
 ; He turned to go; but the hand of the 
 hermit was laid on his shoulder, 
 
 "Thou Shalt remain, Major Percival!" 
 
 , he said, in the same firm, calm tone of 
 
 [command. "It is given me to know that 
 
 \ if you now set out, you ^ ill prove unsuc- 
 
 [cessful. Remain; he who cometh after 
 
 me is at hand, and when he arrives, 
 
 with thy son and this youth, let him 
 
 , search for the lost daughter of thy 
 
 house: but do you remain here and 
 
 watch over .hose who are left." 
 
 He bowed slowly and with grave dig- 
 nity, .and, folding hif5 garment around 
 him, quitted the house. 
 
 All stood looking In the face of each 
 other, in amazement and uncertainty. 
 Surprise that he should know already 
 what had occurred, and wonder at the 
 probable meaning of his words, were 
 mingled with an uncertainty whether to 
 follow his advice or n ->t. The major and 
 Newton thought of the strange power 
 he exercised over Sir William Stanley; 
 and, in spite of their impatience, were 
 hdlf inclined to follow his advice. Ere 
 they oould fully determine what course 
 to pursue, however, Fred Stanley, his 
 fine face flushed, and his garments dis- 
 ordered, stood before them. 
 
 "Stanley' by all that's wonderful!" 
 exclaimed Nugent, in unbounded aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 The major's brow grew dark as night, 
 but the young man. In his excitement, 
 scarcely seemed to notice him. 
 
 "What has happened? Where is 
 Edith?" was his first demand. 
 
 "Young man, will you be good enough 
 to tell us what sent you here?" said the 
 major, sternly, stepping forward. 
 
 "Certainly, sir!" said Fred, with a 
 stiff bow, "this singular note." And he 
 drew forth a letter, and handed it to the 
 major, who opened it and read: 
 
 "Ride, ride for your life to Percival Hall. 
 She whom you love is in the power of your 
 rival. He has carried her off by force. 
 Take the road to the north; near the vil- 
 lage of R. are the pine woods, where an 
 old mansion of De Llsle's is situated. There 
 you will find Edith Percival. E. S.. 
 
 "Hermit of the Clltts." 
 
 "Let us start Instantly!" exclaimed the 
 major. "Every moment is precious!" 
 
 '!You had Ijett^r follow tbe cHrectlons 
 of the hefcmit, and remain here," said 
 Nugent. "We • three, with one or i^ivo 
 friends, will be enough. De Lisle.'s men 
 are in all probability far enough from 
 their leader, who feels too secure in his 
 retreat to dread a visit from us. Be- 
 side, I have a message for you from 
 your friend. Colonel Greyson, which ad- 
 mits of no delay, and will absolutely pre- 
 vent you from going with us." 
 
 The major seemed stHl uncertain; but 
 the others joined Nugent In urging him 
 to obey the hermit, and remain behind. 
 
 Having, at length, reluctantly con- 
 sented, Fred, Gus and young Percival, 
 with one or two f rie ids, started in the 
 direction pointed out by the hermit. 
 
 Having reached the plape indicated, 
 they secreted themselves in the woods, 
 while Nugent, who was familiar with the 
 place, went to reconnoitre. 
 
 He soon returned with the ominous in- 
 telligence that there was a force six 
 times their number in the old house, and 
 that it would ruin tlieir cause altogether 
 to attempt at present to contend against 
 such odds. Nothing remained, therefore, 
 but to lie in wait, and seifce the first fa- 
 vorable opportunity. None, however, 
 presented itself; and the afternoon of the 
 following day, accidentally overhearing 
 a conversation between two of De LIsle's 
 men, by which they learned the marriage 
 was to take plaee that very day. they, 
 determined at all risks to make the at- 
 tempt, the result of which is already 
 known to the reader. 
 
 ♦ • * ^ ♦ * , ♦ . «,.,._ 
 
 Half an hour after his interview with 
 Edith, De Lisle sat in his own room, eat- 
 ing a hasty breakfast ere fie departed on 
 his journey. His meditations were at 
 length abruptly interrupted by the en- 
 trance of Nan Crowe, who. In her usual 
 screeching tones, announced that a boy 
 without wished to see him. 
 
 "What does he want?" said De Lislei 
 
 "Want?" repeated Mrs. Crow. ^'Yes, 
 he wants to see you." 
 
 "What is his business?" demanded De 
 Lisle, raising his voice. 
 
 "None of my business!" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Crow, in rising wrath; "allers the 
 way every one ireats me arter a-trottln'. 
 me off my legs, with the rhumatiz In the 
 small of my back, a-bringing of pesky 
 young galls to 'tend on, what ain't no 
 business here, a flghten. and sitten up 
 killing of one another, with the rhumatiz 
 in the small of my back" — 
 
 "Go to the deuce, vou old fool!" an- 
 grily interrupted De Lisle. "Be oflf with 
 you and bring him here, whoever he is!" 
 
 Muttering to herself. Nan Crow quitted 
 the room, and presently reappeared with 
 a yotit4i of some sixteen years--^ rough, 
 uncouth-loaking lad. 
 
 He was small for his age. and dressed 
 in a suit of coarse gray homespun. 
 


f2 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFB. 
 
 m 
 
 w 
 
 which looked, to use. a common but ex- 
 presBive phrase, as though they had been 
 thrown on by a pitchfork. His face was 
 bronzed and darkened by exposure to the 
 sun. his eyes were brigh* and Intelligent, 
 and shone and glittered like glass beads 
 through the coarse masses of uncombed 
 sai;dy hair. His walk was peculiar, as 
 he shuffled along In a pair of huge cow- 
 hide boots, dragging his legs after him 
 as thoiigh they belonged to somebody 
 
 Such was the lad who now stood, hat 
 in hand, before De Lisle, shifting un- 
 easily from one foot to the other. 
 
 "Who are you?" demanded De Lisle, 
 gazing rather contemptuously at the 
 new-comer. 
 
 "Joe Smith, sir," answered the boy, 
 with a strong nasal twang of "Deown 
 East." 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 "Wall, I kinder kalkerlated on gettin' 
 work." 
 
 "Work? what kind of work?" said De 
 L'sle. 
 
 "Wall, I ain't particular; 'most any- 
 thing comes handy to me." 
 
 "What hpve you bieen accustomed to?" 
 
 "Little of everything, boss. I gen'ly 
 work on the farm to hum." 
 
 "Why did you leave hum, as you call 
 it?" 
 
 "Wall, me and mother and Glory Ann 
 thought as how I'd better come up to 
 Boston and 'list; but arter lookln' round 
 a spell, I didn't like it, and klncluded 
 'twasn't no slch fun to be shot as 'twas 
 cracked up to be." 
 
 "What induced you to come here?" 
 
 "Why, I'd beam tell o' you some, and 
 thought maybe you wouldn't mind hirln' 
 a new hand to cook vittlls, and bring 
 water, and chop wood, and slch. You 
 see, bos I'm rather a smart chap, 'spe- 
 cially arter a llckin'; and didn't see no 
 reason why I'd waste my talents a-rais- 
 ing pumpkins all my life; so when I 
 makes my fortln here, I intends goin' 
 home, and gettin' spliced onto Glory Ann 
 liazybones, a gal what's 9, regular buster, 
 and no mistake." . 
 
 "You are an original," said De Lisle, 
 rather amused, "but I am surprised that 
 you do not wish to join the rebels, like so 
 many otheris of your class." 
 
 "Wall, boss, I allers had high ideers 
 since I was 'bout so old, when I used to 
 ride roun' every day on mother's old 
 cheese-horse for exercise. These here 
 rebels ain't no 'count, and beln' the 
 weaker party, I intends pitchin' into 'em 
 like a thousand o' bricks. Mother allers 
 ses-^sez she: 'Joe,' sez she, 'you stick to 
 the strongest party, my son; it's allers 
 best'; so, in course, as I'm a dootlful son, 
 I obeys the old 'oman. 'Sides, if I turn 
 Britisher, and help to lick our boys, 
 there's no tellin' but what they'll want 
 to make a lord or an earl o' me one o' 
 
 these long-come-shorts. Lord Joe Smith! 
 Jee-whlttlca! that sounds) sort o' grand. 
 don't it?" 
 
 "I see — number one's your lookout!" 
 aald De Lisle. "Well, since your ambi- 
 tion soars so high, it would be a pity to 
 depFlve Glory Ann of the chance to be- 
 come Lady Smith; so I don't mind tak- 
 ing you into my service." 
 
 "Thankee, boss; you're a brick!" Inter- 
 rupted Mr. Smith, patronizingly. 
 
 "Don't be so familiar, sir," said De 
 Lisle, sharply. "Learn a little more re- 
 spect when addressing your betters. For 
 the present, your duty will consist in as- 
 sifting my housekeeper in her household 
 aftalrs, and in looking after and attend- 
 ing to the wants of two or three prison- 
 ers confined here. One of my men will 
 direct you what to do. And now, to be- 
 gin your new duties, go and saddle my 
 horse and bring him round to the door." 
 
 "AH right, siree!" replied Joe, clapping 
 his hat on his head, and giving it a vig- 
 orous thump down over his eyes, as he 
 hastened out to obey the order, leaving 
 De Lisle to finish his breakfast. 
 
 "There is yet one more duty to per- 
 form," muttered De*Lisle, rising; "one so 
 agreeable that it amply compensates for 
 all the humiliation I have been, through 
 him, forced to endure. Master Pred 
 Stanley, I go to pay you a morning visit, 
 and see how you estimate my kind hos- 
 pitality, in keeping you here my guest." 
 
 The sinister smile he wore made his 
 face almost repulsive as he arose and 
 left the room. 
 
 Passing through a long hall, he de- 
 scended a flight of narrow, winding 
 stairs, and stood in another long hall, 
 f anked on each side by doors. A sentry 
 stood pacing to and fro before them. He 
 paused, and touched his hat respectfully 
 on seeing De Lisle. 
 
 "Where is Stanley confined?" he in- 
 quired. 
 
 "Here, sir," answered the man, opening 
 one of the doors to allow him to enter. 
 
 Die Lisle passed In, and found himself 
 in a low, gloomy room, with a damp, un- 
 wholesome odor. Seated on a low stool, 
 the only article of furniture it contained, 
 was Fred Stanley, his forehead leaning 
 on his hand, his eyes fixed on the floor, 
 his brow knit, as though in deep, troubled 
 thought. As the creaking of the heavy 
 door fell on his ear, he looked up quickly 
 and SI rang to his feet as he saw his mor- 
 tal foe before him. 
 
 For a moment they stood silently fac- 
 ing each other— those two rivals. De 
 Lisle's face wore a look of triumph, min- 
 gled with most intense and deadly 
 hatred. A bitter, sneering smile was on 
 his lips, and a look of gratified malice 
 in his eyes. Fred, stern, and cold, and 
 haughty, stood opposite him, his arms 
 folded, across his breast, returning his 
 gaze with such a look of »ofty scorn. 
 


THE UHRMIT OF THE CLIFFS, 
 
 88 
 
 that, in spite of himself, De Lisle 
 quailed before him. 
 
 "Well, Frederic Stanley, my hour of tri- 
 umph has come," said De Lisle, with a 
 look of malignant triumph. 
 
 "Villain! do your worst! I defy you!" 
 was the bold answer. 
 
 "That most assuredly I shall do," re- 
 turned De Lisle. "Before the sun's rise 
 and set you shall die the ignominious 
 death of the halter." 
 
 "Do your worst, Ralph De Lisle; I fear 
 you not!" was the rejoinder. 
 
 "When you crossed my path, and won 
 the affections of her whom I loved, I 
 swore a deadly oath of vengeance. For- 
 tune has favored me, the time has come, 
 and your hours are numbered. She whom 
 you love Is in my power, and the same 
 hour which will see you swinging a dis- 
 colored corpse between heaven and earth 
 will see her a bride in my arms. You 
 both began a dangerous game, Fred 
 Stanley, when you thwarted my wishes, 
 as you will find when the halter is round 
 your neck, and as she will discover 
 when, after making her my mine, I will 
 whisper in her ear the fate of him whom 
 she loves better than life." 
 
 "Fiend! Devil in human form! Do 
 your worst, and may the heaviest ' curse 
 of Heaven fall upon you!" exclaimed 
 Fred, growing livid with passion. 
 
 "Ha! I thought you would feel that!" 
 said De Lisle, with a grim smile. "You 
 will have ample time to meditate on 
 these arid many otlier consoling truths 
 between this and the day of doom. It 
 will also, doubtless, be a pleasure to you 
 to know that Edith will be a prifjoner 
 under the same roof with you until my 
 return, which may be to-morrow, or, at 
 the furthest, three days hence. And now 
 it occurs to me that my revenge will be 
 greater to allow you to be present at our 
 bridal. I will thus have a double tri- 
 umph over you both." 
 
 "A fiend could not be more diabolical!" 
 exclaimed Fred, paling involuntarily at 
 his words. 
 
 "Have I not well learned the art of 
 torturing?" went on De Lisle, with a 
 fiendish smile. "Death itself would be 
 nothing — that would be a poor triumph. 
 I know you well enough to be aware that 
 you do not fear death; but the torture I 
 shall inflict before death shall last even 
 after the soul has left the body. I will 
 leave you now to repose and solitude. 
 You will have ample time," he added, 
 with a sneer, "to meditate on your latter 
 end, and make your peace with Heaven 
 during my absence. Should I return to- 
 morrow, before another sun sets you 
 shall swing as high as Haman. Au re- 
 vt)ir, until I meet you again on Abra- 
 ham's bosom." 
 
 And turning on his heel, he strode from 
 the room. 
 
 "To-morrow?" repeated Fred, gazing 
 
 after his retreating figure, "who knows 
 what to-mcrrow may bring forth?" 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 JOE VISITS HIS PRISONERS. 
 
 "Trust In God! 
 Thou forlorn one, cease thy moan; 
 
 All thy pain and all thy sorrow 
 Are to God, the Highest, known, 
 He leaves thee now, but helps to-morrow. 
 Trust in God!" 
 
 The bright sunshine of the morning 
 following that eventful night shone into 
 E^th's room; but it was all unheeded by 
 her. She lay on her face on the bed, not 
 sleeping, but in a deep, heavy torpor, her 
 white arms extended above her head, so 
 still and motionless that but for the 
 quick, rapid breathing, one might imag- 
 ine her dead. 
 
 Not of herself was she thinking, but of 
 those for whom she would have given 
 her life — of one whom she would gladly 
 have died to save. Fred! Fred! all 
 through that miserable night his name 
 had been on her lips — his image alone in 
 her heart. Never again would she meet 
 those dear, dark eyes — already, perhaps, 
 closed forever; that brave, impulsive 
 heart, whose every throb had been for 
 her, might now be cold and still in 
 death. 
 
 The- bolt was withdrawn, the door 
 opened, some one entered, but she did 
 rot look up. She was conscious that 
 some one was bending over her, but still 
 she did not move until she heard a 
 strange voice muttering, in a sort of so- 
 liloquy: 
 
 "Crikeyi she beats the seven sleepers, 
 she does! I'm blamed if she ain't as 
 sound as a top. Wall, I s'pose I better 
 leave the vlttals here, and arter her 
 snooze she'll fall to." 
 
 With a start, Edith rose on her elbow 
 and gazed wildly around. Her amaze- 
 ment at beholding tlie uncouth figure 
 and face of honest Joe Smith may better 
 be imagined than described. So com- 
 pletely was she bewildered that she con- 
 tinued to stare at him between surprise 
 and terror, scarcely knowing whether to 
 cry out for help or not. Joe, however, 
 bore her scrutiny with wonderful com- 
 posure, and returned her stare with com- 
 pound interest. 
 
 "Good mornin', marm. Fine day this. 
 How's your folks? I hope the old wo- 
 man and all the folks to hum is well!" 
 said Joe, in a tone of condescending po- 
 liteness. • 
 
 "What?" said Edith, rather bewildered 
 by the rapidity with which this speech 
 was delivered. 
 
 "Never mind, 'tain't worth sayin' over 
 again," said Joe. "I hope I didn't dis- 
 turb any pleasant dreams o' your'n. You 
 


H 
 
 TBE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFS. 
 
 '•'\ 
 
 ■i' 
 
 5' 
 
 -w.aa 8)eepln' ay^ay Jlike all creatiicin wb.en 
 I ca?ne In!" , , . , , - : 
 
 "Who sent you herfe?" Inquired Edith, 
 wljose terror had not quite Vanished. 
 
 "Wall, the cap'n did, maxTn," replied 
 Joe; I 'xpect I'm to he waitln'-mald till 
 he comes back. I hain't no objections to 
 It. though— 'cause, maybe, I'll be able to 
 rarn Glory Ann somethin' in her line 
 arter I go back to hum. Here's your 
 breakfas.', marm, what that Jolly old 
 case down in the kitchen sent me with. 
 Seems to me the cap'n's got a taste for 
 keepin' people 'n the lockup, jijdgin' by 
 all I've 'tended to this mornin'. Let's 
 see— two and one's three, and one's fpur 
 — f eur I've visited this mornin', countin' 
 you." 
 
 .^ An exclamation of delight broke invol- 
 untarily from the lips of Edith. Three 
 beside her! .Then Fred was living still. 
 "Hey? What Is It? Did you stick a 
 pin In you?" Inquired Joe, mistaking the 
 cause of her emotion. 
 
 "Who were the three you visited this 
 mornings?" inquired Edith, with breath- 
 
 "Wall, let'«-:see." said Joe, closing one 
 eye and laying his forefinger meditative- 
 ly -on the point of his nose; "the first, I 
 think, somebody called Goose, or some- 
 thin* about the size ©' that." 
 
 "0US," amended Edith, eagerly. 
 
 VYaas, Gus, or Goose, or some sort o' a 
 fowl. I found him lyin' on the, floor, 
 takin' a snooze, I s'pose, somethin' like 
 I found you. He got up when I came In, 
 and fell to the vlttals as if he'd been 
 Itvln' OB pavin' -stones for a week, an' 
 'tween every mouthful he took to askin' 
 me a string o' questions as long as a law- 
 yer's conscience. He wanted to know all 
 the particulars 'bout you, and 'fore he'd 
 give me time to answer one of 'em he 
 blowed the cap'n and the whole blamed 
 consarn sky-high. 'Twa'n't no use to 
 try to reason matters with him, 'cause 
 when I took to arguin', 'fore I got to 
 thirdly, he told me to go and be hanged. 
 You see I couldn't stand that— I wasn't 
 used to It, mother^ never 'lowed no, pro- 
 fane sweftrin' to hum so I just told him 
 to be hanged himself, if he liked, but as 
 f*r me, I was like the Highlandman, in 
 no hurry.'* 
 
 ■ "What Highlandman?" inquired Edith, 
 absently. 
 
 "Why, some old Scotch big-bug, long 
 ago, had a servant that did somethin', 
 I forgot what, and he was goin' to hang 
 him for it. But; you see, the servant 
 had been a favorite of his, so his master 
 told him he'd grant htm the favor of 
 choosing "wAlchever tree Ih his orchard 
 he'd like to be hung on. The servant 
 wtfs tickled to death to hear it, an* weftt 
 crttfr to ehoose th^ tree with his master. 
 At" last he stopped before a goosebierry 
 btrsh, aiid said he'd be h\ing onto that. . 
 
 "'Go to tt&a«\' B^z his master; 'tnat 
 
 ain't big enough to hang a six-footer like 
 you on!' ,; 
 
 " 'Oh, well',' elez the senraot, 'IMl wait 
 till.lt grows big. . I'm "In no hurry!' " 
 
 "But the others— the others?" exclaim- 
 ed Edith, who had listened Impatiently 
 to this digression. 
 
 "Oh, ya-as— just so. Well, the next 
 was the very picter o' you — s'pect he 
 must be some relation. He was sittin' > 
 down onto a bench, an' asked me a few 
 questions — not many, though; 'bout a 
 dozen or so — If I'd seen you, and where 
 was the boss, and so on. It was sort o' 
 comfortable to talk to hhn sides the oth- 
 er two, who didn't seem to have a single 
 grain o* senses in their knowledge- 
 boxes " -. . . 
 
 "And the third?" demanded Edith, 
 hurriedly. 
 
 • "Him! O Jerusalem! I've seen a wild- 
 cat — I've seen a bear with a sore head 
 — I've seen a gander when somebody 
 carried off the goslin's before him— I've 
 seen mother in a passion, and a-flarin' 
 around at the governor — but I never, 
 never, never saw such a savage, wlld- 
 lookln' scunner as the t'other one. 
 Cracky! when I went In thar, he was 
 artearin' up and down as though hf 
 was boun' to have a walk- somehow, if 
 the floor held out — lookln' so sort o' 
 savage-lookin' an' fierce that I like to 
 spilt his breakfas' atop of him. It's 
 lucky I didn't; for if he'd got his dander 
 riz any wuss the L.or' a massy only 
 knows whar Joe Smlth'd be now. I'm 
 blamed if I ever seen any one In sich a 
 tearin' rage as that oove was in." 
 
 "It must have been Fred," thought 
 Edith. "Was he wounded?— how did he 
 look?" she asked, aloud. 
 
 "Wall, marm, I don't know as I kin 
 tell," said Joe, thougrfitfully. '*He set me 
 into .sich a flusterlfication that It was 
 'most a danger to look at hlnr. He had 
 a black coat and trousls," and hair on, 
 and was as tall as— as— I don't know 
 who (that's a nice size for a mian). He 
 was sort o' darklsh-lookin', with a black 
 murstuasher onto his upper lip. Some 
 people might call him good-lookin* ; but 
 Glory Ann allers sez fair hair's the nic- 
 est." And Joe gave his tow locks a 
 complacent shake. 
 
 "Would you bring a message from me 
 to them?" inquired Edith, eagerly. 
 
 "Wall, now, I don't know," said Joe, 
 rather reluctantly; " 'twould be sorter 
 agin orders, you know. Sorry to refuse 
 you, marm, but I can'f help It." 
 
 "Tell him, at least, that I will die 
 sooner than marry De Lisle You will 
 befriend me by doing so; and you can 
 do no one any possible Injury," said 
 Edith, pleadingly. 
 
 "Tell who, niarm— which of 'em?" 
 
 "The one you spoke of last." • 
 
 "Oh! the fierce-lookin' one. Yes'm, I 
 don't mind telUn' him. But I guess he 
 


THE HERMIT OF THE VLlFrS. 
 
 W 
 
 % six-footer like 
 
 rvant, T.B wait 
 no hurry!' " 
 lers?" exclaim- 
 led impatiently 
 
 i^'ell, the next 
 you— s'pect he 
 He was sittln' . 
 aked me a few 
 lough; 'bout a 
 fou, and where 
 It was sort o' 
 1 sides the oth- 
 
 have a single 
 Ir knowledge- 
 
 nanded Edith, 
 
 ire seen a wild- 
 h a sore head 
 hen somebody 
 ?fore him— I've 
 1, and a-flarln' 
 —but I never, 
 
 savage, wlld- 
 t'other one. 
 
 thar, he was 
 as though he 
 k somehow, If 
 n* so sort o' 
 that I like to 
 
 of him. It's 
 got his dander 
 
 1 massy only 
 be now. I'm 
 one in sich a 
 
 was in." 
 red," thought 
 ?— how did he 
 
 now as I kin 
 . "He set me 
 
 that it was 
 him. He had 
 and hail* on, 
 
 don't know 
 a man). He 
 with a black 
 er lip. Some 
 1-lookin'; but 
 air's the nic- 
 tow locks a 
 
 sage from me 
 
 eagerly. 
 
 IV," said Joe, 
 
 lid be sorter 
 
 rry to refuse 
 
 !lp it." 
 
 t I will die 
 
 lie You will 
 
 and yoii can 
 
 njury," said 
 
 of 'em?" 
 
 last." • 
 le. Yes'm, I 
 t I guess he 
 
 won't care. I don't believe he'd go tci 
 the weddin' if he was asked." 
 
 "You will tell him. at least?— you will 
 not forget it?" said EMith. anxiously. 
 
 "Oh, no fear: I'll tell him, if he does 
 blow me up. 'Tany rate, I guess wed- 
 din's is the last thing he'll think about, 
 'cause the boss is boun' to string him up 
 ■like a dried mackerel soon as ever he 
 comes back." 
 
 A convulsive shudder was Edith's only 
 answer. 
 
 "Wall, now, marm, I wouldn't take on 
 so if I was you." said Joe, gazing sym- 
 pathetically toward Edith. "Arter all, I 
 shouldn't wonder If things should turn 
 out all right in the end. P'raps you've 
 hearn tell o' people entertainln' angels 
 In disguise?" 
 
 Edith lifted her head, and looked at 
 him with so much surprise that Joe 
 laughed and said: 
 
 "Keep up heart— there's nothing like 
 it. I shouldn't be s'prlsed if me and 
 Glory Ann danced at your weddin' yet. 
 There's never no use in frettin'. Hope 
 on, hope ever!" 
 
 "Who are you?" asked Edith, with an 
 undefined feeling that she had heard the 
 voice before. 
 
 "Lor! I'm only Joe Smith, from Bung- 
 town. Old Jake Smith's my governor, 
 an' me an' Glory Ann Lazybones is goin' 
 to hitch teams one of these times, when 
 they make a lord or somethln' of me — 
 that's all. 'Tain't wuth makln' a book 
 of." 
 
 "I think you resemble some one I've 
 seen before," said Edith, with a puzzled 
 look; "but whom, I cannot tell. Well, 
 you may leave me now; I wish to be 
 alone. You will not forget to deliver my 
 message?" 
 
 "All right, marm; Joe Smith's got a 
 stunnln' memory. Good morning. I 
 s'pect that blessed old angel down in 
 the kitchen'll give me fits for stayin' 
 here so long. Don't forget to keep up 
 your spirits. I don't believe we'll have 
 a weddin' or a hangin' so ~ soon as the 
 boss thinks." 
 
 With this sage concluding remark, 
 worthy Joe shuffled out of the room, 
 leaving Edith to ruminate on the prob- 
 able meaning of his words. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 PLOTTING. 
 
 "Nightly tears have dimmed the lustre 
 
 Of thy sweet eyes, once so bright; 
 And, as when dark willows cluster, 
 Weeping, o'er marble rocks, 
 
 O'er thy forehead white. 
 Droop thy waving locks- 
 Yet thou art beautiful, poor gin. 
 
 As angels in distress- 
 Yea, comforting thy soul, dear girl 
 
 With thy loveliness." 
 
 — Tupper. 
 
 The day's toll was over. Nan Grow, . 
 
 after screeching, and grumbling, and 
 scolding to her heart's content, had 
 thrown her apron over her head, and 
 fallen asleep in her easy-chair in the long 
 kitchen. The men were loitering Idly 
 about— some lying on the cool grass, 
 where the shadows fell long and dark, 
 rejoicing in the cool evening breeze after 
 the scorching heat of the day: some snt 
 at the table playing cards, swearing and 
 vociferating at an appalling rate; others 
 lounged in groups round the room, with 
 bottles and glasses before them, relating 
 their several adventun ., for the general 
 benefit of all. 
 
 Mr. Joe Smith, who found his duties 
 of mald-of-all-work rather fatiguing, 
 would gladly have left the revelers to 
 themselves; but they, having no one to 
 wait on them, were determined he should 
 not escape so easily. 
 
 Unceasing calls for Mrs. Smith, as they 
 named him, resounded continually from 
 one end of the room to the other, until, 
 at last, in a fit of desperation, he told 
 them to go to grass and wait on them- 
 selves. A shout of laughter and a unan- 
 imous cry of: "Come back! come back!" 
 reached him: but. unheeding their 
 shouts, Joe resolutely made his escape 
 and set. off for a ramble by himself. 
 
 Sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, 
 Joe leaned his head on his hand and fell 
 into a fit of profound musing. For up- 
 ward of an hour he remained thus* with 
 brows knit, eyes fixed on the ground 
 and lips compressed like one in deep 
 meditation. Suddenly a new light seem- 
 ed to dawn on him and he sprang to 
 his feet with the triumphant exclama- 
 tion: 
 
 "I have It!" 
 
 "Have what?" said a merry voice be- 
 side him; and. turning abruptly round, 
 worthy Joe beheld our little friend Elva. • 
 
 "Wall, now. I don't know as it's any 
 business o' youm," said- Joe, surveying 
 Elva coolly from head to foot. 
 
 "You're mighty polite." said Elva. 
 
 "Wall, yaas, rayther; Glory Ann allem 
 said so," said Joe, modestly. 
 
 "Who's Glory Ann?" 
 
 "A young lady up to hum; I'm goin' 
 to be married to her some day." 
 
 "Nice girl, I expect?" 
 
 "Nice! That word doesn't begin to tell 
 about Glory Ann Lazybones. I tell you 
 she's a reg'lar screamer and no mis- 
 take." 
 
 "Shouldn't wonder!" said Elva. "Is 
 she as good-looking as I am?" 
 
 "Wall, now, I don't know. Some folks 
 might say you was better-lookln'; but I 
 don't. You ain't so showy, you know. 
 Glory Ann's got nice red hair; and red- 
 haired girls is allers smart and spunky" 
 
 "M'hey are. eh? Now. if I'd known 
 that before I'd have dyed, and not gone 
 whimpering through the world afraid to 
 


66 
 
 THB EBRMIT OF THE CUFFS. 
 
 ^4 
 
 1 ■■!' 
 
 lifij 
 
 call my soul my own. Perhaps It's not 
 too late yet, eJv? What do you think?" 
 "Oh. you don't need it. Tou've got 
 ImpJdence enougEh. You'll do." 
 
 "Well, really, that's cflol. What's your 
 name?" 
 
 - "What's yours?" 
 
 ; "Elvena Snowe— not so pretty as Glory 
 Ann Lazybones, Is It?" 
 
 "Not quite ; hers Is a Scripter name, 
 you know. Yours is pooty, though,, and 
 sounds sort a' cool this hot weather." 
 **Now what's youF»." 
 "Wall, 14: might be Beelzebub, or Nebu- 
 chadnezzar, or any other Bible name; 
 but ?tain't. I- reckon I won't tell you; 
 I'd rather not have it made publie." 
 -^•Why?" 
 
 : "Oh, well, Joe Smith ain't a common 
 name, so I guess I'll keep it a secret. 
 'JSIdes, ther*8 no tellin' but you may fall 
 in love With me; and I'm anxious to 
 avoid sich a c'lamity." 
 "Y-ou're a case? Aren't you the boy 
 De Lisle hired yesterday?" 
 
 "Wal, I mought be, and ag'in I 
 moughtn't. Seems to me you're very in- 
 quisitive," said Joe, suspiciously. 
 : "And it seems to n^e you're very cau- 
 tious. What dayou take me for?" said 
 EStva, indtgnantYy. 
 
 •^"Why, you might be a good many 
 thtngs— you might be Cornwallis or 
 Washington in disguise, or you might be 
 a spjt from the enemy. There's never no 
 telHn'." 
 
 "You're too smart to live long, Joe, 
 dieai*. How do you suppose a little thing 
 Iflte- n>e could be anybody but herself?" 
 *<rt does seem odd," said Joe, scratch- 
 ing his head, as if to extract some reason 
 by the roots; "but then, you know, it's 
 better to be sure than sorry. I like to 
 be on my guard, so'S I won't leave Glory 
 Ann a wldder." 
 
 ■'■ "I honor you for your prudence, my 
 son. And now, Joe, when I assure you 
 I'm no desperate character — neither 
 Obrriwallls nor Washington In petticoats 
 — maybe you'll answer me a few ques- 
 tldns?" 
 
 ' "Yaas'm, if they're noways improper 
 fior me to listen to." 
 
 "You sweet innocent! do you think I'd 
 ask such a saintly cherub as you any- 
 thir^g improper? First, then, there's a 
 yx>\xtig lady confined a prisoneir In that 
 oM house over there?" 
 ■"Wall. »ow, raally couldn't say." And 
 Jo^ looked Innocently unconscious as he 
 issued this little work of fiction. 
 - "Oh, get otrt, and don't tell fibs!" ex- 
 clftim(&d Elva indignantly. "There's three 
 tJ^her prisoners there, " too, isn't there?" 
 "'^/S'here might be; I don't like to say 
 fbi* sar*in, for fear o' telMn' a He." replied 
 JM, B^ttttlng oiie eylfe, "slnd fixing the 
 <fth€r reAectively on ;& grasishopper at 
 ii[}s feef. "I'll aak wfieh 1 jfo Mi*; aftd 
 send yott a l(^ter to ' let you know." 
 
 "You abominable wretch! I know 
 very well they're there," said Blva, los- 
 ing all patience. 
 
 "Wall, and If you know very well, 
 where the mischief's the use o' askin' me 
 a string of impudent questions, ^and 
 callfn' me names?" exclaimed Joe, inr 
 dignantly. 
 
 Elva couldn't resist laughing at Joe's 
 look of offended dignity. 
 
 "Yes, you may larf," sai4 Joe, with 
 a look of intense disgust. "I s' pose It's 
 all very funny, comin' and callin' a 
 fellar names. It shows all the brought'n 
 up you had!" And Joe gave the inno- 
 cent grasshopper at his feet a vicious 
 kick. 
 
 "There, now,^ Joe. don't get mad, like 
 a good boy," said EHva, patting him 
 soothingly on the back, "listen to me; 
 I'm Miss Perclval's friend, and wish to 
 see her." 
 
 "Well, go and see her, then," said Joe, 
 sulkily, "I ain't hinderin* you." 
 
 "But I can't," said Elva, "unless you 
 help me." 
 
 "Me!" said Joe, opening wide his eyes, 
 "how?" 
 
 "Why, you must find the key of the 
 side door and let me In that way. I 
 don't want anybody to see me. Now do. 
 like a dear, good boy." 
 
 "You be grannled!" exclaimed Mr. 
 Smith, losing all patience, "can't you tell 
 a fellar who you want to see, and not 
 be goin' on with your story hind end 
 foremost." 
 
 "Why, I thought juju knew," said Elva. 
 "I mean the prisoner, Miss Perclval." 
 
 "Oh! that's her name. Is it?" How 
 was I to know, when nobody never told 
 me? So you want to see her, do you?' 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes! Do let me in, will 
 you?" 
 
 "Why don't you go and ask some of 
 the others?" 
 
 "Oh! they won't let me, they're hate- 
 ful, but you're not. Ah, Joe. won't you?" 
 And Elva looked pleadingly up in his 
 face. 
 
 "Wall now, marm," said Joe, laying 
 one finger refiectively on his nose. "I'd 
 like ter oblige you If 'twas anyways 
 possible, but if I'm found out the boss 
 wouldn't make no bones o' stringing me 
 up like a red herrln', and I tell you what, 
 I hain't no ambition to be elevated in 
 the world after that fashion." 
 
 "He won't find you out; how can he?" 
 exclaimed Elva, impetuously; "he is 
 away, the men are all loungin^T and 
 drinking in the other wing of the buiW- 
 Ing, old Neil Crow is asleep, and there 
 is no onie plotting mischief or making 
 love but you and me. There! you needn't 
 look surprised. I know more about that 
 old houstr and its inmates than you think. 
 So now, J<5fe, ydu 'dear, gbod-naturied 
 looking did «loul, Ifet me In to see Miss 
 Perclval tihd I'll dandeat your weddiagr." 
 


THt! ilBUXH'P OR THB CLlP'Fii. 
 
 97 
 
 Mng at Joe's 
 
 vide his eyes, 
 
 ask some of 
 
 Joe. laying 
 
 s nose. 
 
 This la.8t entreaty had a due effect 
 upon Joe, who indulged In sundry low 
 chuckles at the Idea. Recovering his 
 composure at last he seated himself de- 
 liberately on the log, and cros'-ing one 
 leg over the other, and fixing his eyes 
 solemnly upon his cowhide boots, fell 
 Into a profound fit of musing. Elva 
 stood watching him, swinging her light 
 straw ha,t by the strings and tapping her 
 little foot impatiently up and down. 
 
 "Well now, Joe, I hope you'll soon 
 honor me with an answer," she said at 
 last, quite out of patience. "I declare I 
 never saw such a stick of a fellow as 
 you are, a body can hardly ge: a word 
 out of you." 
 
 "Bh?" said Joe, looking up; "were 
 you speakin' to me. Miss Elva?" 
 
 "Was I speaking to you. Miss Elva?" 
 repeated- that young lady, mimicking 
 his tone. "Yes, I was speaking to you, 
 Miss Elva. Did you ever hear it was 
 impolite not to answer a lady when she 
 speaks to you?" 
 
 "Wal, If I don't talk niuch, I keeps up 
 a mighty big thinking," said Joe, "and 
 as to answerin' ladies, why, as I never 
 met one yet I couldn't hev bin very 
 Imperlite tp 'em." 
 
 "Why, you horrid, impudent fellow, 
 what do you call me but a lady?" 
 
 "Oh, my eyes!" ejaculated Joe, with 
 a look of infinite contempt. "You a 
 lady? You hain't no inore the look of 
 one than I hev. Lady, indeed! You git 
 ouf!" 
 
 "Well, We won't argue the question 
 now," said Elva. "Perhaps we've hard- 
 ly time at present to do, the subject 
 :(vstlce. And now, once for all, will you 
 grant my request?" 
 
 "Why. I don't mind if I do, seein' it's 
 you," replied Joe; "but first I'll go and 
 see Miss Percival, and tell her you want 
 to see her. By the time I git back it'll 
 be dark, and you can git in without bein' 
 seen, and everything will go off smooth- 
 
 jy" 
 
 ^'That's a good boy!" said Elva, ap- 
 provingly. "Maybe I won't write to 
 Glory Ann one of these days and tell 
 her what a nice fellow she's going to get. 
 Jiurry up now, and I'll wait here till 
 you conie back." 
 
 So saying, Elva seated herself on the 
 fallen tree, and watched honest Joe as 
 he shuffled slowly out of sight and dis- 
 appeared among the trees. 
 
 An hour passed, and Joe had not 
 made his appearance. A deep gloom 
 was settling around, the dark pines 
 swayed solemiily to and fro tn the night 
 breeze. There was no JIght ' sftVe thftt 
 of the radiant stars; nd sound save th£it 
 of the 'Wind and the cry of the katydid. 
 The silence wait almost painful, ais @v& 
 rAt .w4M with ImpatlWBce. At length, a» 
 bite W&B dbbut tt> deirpair of hijai coming 
 
 at all, a familiar voice at her ear startled 
 her with the expressive phrase: 
 
 "Here we is!" 
 
 "O Joe! is it you? I thought you would 
 never come. Well, can I see her?" she 
 exclaimed, breathlessly. 
 
 "Yes'm! I've 'ranged everything beau- 
 tifully. I'll go back to the house, and 
 you'll steal round to the side door you 
 was speaking of, and I'll let you in. 
 That's the way!" 
 
 And each took a different path, both 
 leadlttg to the old house.. 
 
 The side door sppken of had long been 
 unused, and was almost hidden by vines 
 and shrubs. Forcing her way through 
 these, Elva waited until she heiEird the 
 key turn in the rusty lock. Pushing 
 o.pen the door she entered a long, dark 
 hall, where she beheld Joe standing, 
 lamp in hand. 
 
 "Here, take this," sa^d Joe, handing 
 her the light. "I s'pose you know the 
 way up to her room better'n I can show 
 you. I'll be about here and wait, and 
 let you out." 
 
 "You're a darling!" exclaimed Elva, 
 as she almost llew up a Ipng, winding- 
 staircase. "How I wish I was Glory 
 Ann Lazybones to get such a prize as 
 you." And with a merry laugh she van- 
 ished amid the gloom, while Joe gazed 
 after her with. a look of decided f^d- ; 
 "miration. '• .. 
 
 Reaching the well-known chamber of 
 the prisoner she tapped at the door. A . 
 low voice bade her enter, and withdraw- 
 ing the bolts, she passed into the room. 
 
 Edith sat by the table, her head lean- 
 ing on her hand, her bright, golden hair 
 falling like a veil over her pale, sweet 
 face. She looked up as Elva entered, 
 and approached with extended hands. 
 
 Elva was shocked beyond measure by 
 the change those, few days had made. 
 The face of Edith, always fair, seemed 
 now perfectly transparent, the deep- 
 blue eyes had grown dim and heavy 
 with constant weeping. A long Illness 
 could hardly have changed her more 
 than those miserable days and sleepless 
 nights, albeit she was not used to "tears 
 by night instead of slumber." 
 
 "My dear Elva, how glad I am to see 
 you again!" said Edith, pressing the 
 young girl's hands in her own. 
 
 "The pleasure is mutual, my dear Miss 
 Percival. But how pale and thin you 
 are looking! Have yOu been sick?" 
 
 "No, not exactly sick; but I have been 
 ill in body and mind. O Elva! how 
 could I be otherwise irt this dreadful 
 place?" 
 
 "Very true!" said Elva, sadly; "and 
 your friends, are thej^ rtiH here, or has 
 De Lisle"— ; . ' 
 
 "Nq, nof" interrupted Bdith, hwrried- 
 ly, "not yet!: But .when hie retumfi— 
 O'Biva.'jElvaipr^ky Heaven I may die 
 befWe that dreadful tlm^t" 
 


58 
 
 THtJ HERMIT OF Tilt: VUrFH. 
 
 im 
 
 "Not so. Miss Perclval. You shall live 
 and be happy, in spite of all the De 
 Lisles that ever cheated the hangman!" 
 exclaimed Elva. "We'll see If woman's 
 wit is not more than a match for man's 
 cunning. De Lisle will not return, father 
 says, until the day after to-morrow; and 
 when he does come back and find his 
 hire" has flown away fr'-ni her cage 
 idurlnr his rbsence, wor't tl er.? be a 
 scene'' Whew! it will be as good as a 
 ylay to see hl»n'" A.nd Elva clapped her 
 hand J In Celight. '- 
 
 "Elva! what d-^ you mean? I do not 
 understand." said Edith, looking be- 
 wllderfid. 
 
 "Why, you shall make your escape 
 to-t.iorrow night— that's the talk! When 
 everybody is sleeping I'll come her ^, 
 fasten a rope ladder to your window— 
 climb up— Iron gratings old — easily takei 
 off— you'lT get down — make a moonlight 
 flitting- and before morning dawns 
 you'll be over the hllla and far away!" 
 
 Edith caught her breath at the vision 
 thus conjured up. But a moment's re- 
 ilectlGn banished the bright hopes Elva's 
 words had recalled to her heart. 
 
 "My cousin, my brother, and— their 
 friend, hojv can I go and leave them 
 here In the power of De Lisle? O Elva! 
 I cdnnot go!" 
 
 "Bother!" exclaimed Elva. impatient- 
 ly. "What good can your staying here 
 do them? Will it help them any? Do 
 *you think your marrying De Lisle (as 
 you will most assuredly have to do. if 
 you wait until he comes back)— if they 
 really care for you, will it not render 
 them far more miserable than anytning 
 they may have theinr.elver, to suffer? 
 Whereas, if you escapti you may yet res- 
 cue them; or, if you cannot, you can 
 at least let the world know what a 
 villain he is, and have the comfort of 
 letting the world see him danco on noth- 
 ingr. Stay here, indeed! Nonsense, Miss 
 Perclval! I beg your pardon tor saying? 
 so, but the Idea is perfectly absurc?." 
 
 Edith's feelings a/ways caught their 
 tone and impetus from whoever chr.nce 
 to be with her. Now some of the daring 
 spirit that glowed on the cheeks and 
 flashed in the eyes of Elva animated her 
 own heart as she raised her head, and 
 said, firmly: 
 
 "Be It so, then, kindest, best of 
 frien<Js. i Khali make the attempt: if I 
 succeed I shall at least be spared the 
 wretched doom of becoming the wife cf 
 one I detest; if I fail, my fate can be 
 no worte thau it is now." 
 
 " "Fall" echoed Elva, cheerily. "In my 
 vocabulary there is no such word as 
 fal . No^ you will live ani laugh at De 
 LJsle yet." 
 
 That's the chat!" exclaimed a voice 
 that made them both start; and turning 
 round in alarm, they beheld the shock 
 
 head of Master Joe protruded through 
 the half- open door. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE BSCA^HJ. 
 
 "The lovely stranger stands confesae^l 
 A maid in all her charms." 
 
 — OoldRiTlltl) 
 
 "That's the chat!" again repeated the 
 worthy youth, as. seeing he was dis- 
 covered, he walked In and coolly took a 
 seat. 
 
 "O Joe! my dear Joe! you will n<it 
 betray us?" eclalmed Elva. while Edith 
 Kat in silent dismay. 
 
 "Don't know 'bout that!" replied Joe. 
 " 'Tain't fair to be cheatin" the boss in 
 this fashion. La! how nicely I caught 
 you that time!" and evidently highly de 
 lighted at the reoollecilon, he leaned 
 back and laughed until the tears stood 
 in his eyes. 
 
 "O Joe! you won't tell, will you?" 
 pleaded Elva. "How would yo'^ like now 
 If Glory Ann was a prisoner and wanted 
 to escape if somebody hindered her' 
 Just think what a heartrending cast 
 that would be. and let us off." 
 
 "Wall, now. I don't know's I'd care. 
 T'm gettln' sorter tired o* Glory Ann!" 
 said Joe. coolly. 
 
 "Unfaithful youth!" exclaimed Eiva. 
 in a voice of horror "Poor, deserted 
 Glory Ann! But since that falls to mffve 
 you. Miss Perclval's father is very rich, 
 ami if you help her to escape your i;or- 
 tune is made." 
 
 "Go *. . grass!' inr'^gnartiy exclaimed 
 Mr. Smith "What d'ye s'posc I caro 
 'bout his money? No'm: If you han't 
 somethln' better to propose than that. 
 I'll blab!" 
 
 "What can I offer?" said poor Elva, 
 in despair. "Jr it mention something 
 y urself. Joe. an(Z if it's in my power, 
 yji: shall have it." 
 
 "There's one thing," said Joe, mtdi- 
 tatlvely. 
 
 "Name it — name it!" exclaimed Elva, 
 impadently 
 
 'It's very easy. tot>, though I nrever 
 thought of it afore." went on Joe, in 
 the saine blow, thoughtful tone, 
 
 "Name it! — name It!" exclaimed the 
 impatient Elva. 
 
 "Yes. I dor.'t care 'bout Glory Am: 
 — there's uo mistake in that. Red hair's 
 common, and I guess I'll take to_some 
 other coloi'." cortinued Joe, seriously. 
 w^ithout lifting his eyes off the floo*-. 
 
 "Oh, you wretch' You provoking 
 creature! Yo i stupid old th'ng, you! 
 Win you tell me what ft is?" and Elva, 
 :osing all patience, shook him so soundly 
 ':hat poor Joe looked up quite ^atonished. 
 
 "Hey? What's the matter? Oh, you 
 want to know what it hi, do you? WaU. 
 you see, I've got kinder tired ix' Glory 
 
 


ided through 
 
 C. 
 
 Is confensed 
 
 — Goldsmltli 
 
 repeated th(» 
 he was dis 
 coolly took a 
 
 you will not 
 while Edith 
 
 replied Jot* 
 the bosB ill 
 sly I cauglil 
 ly highly de- 
 n, he leaned 
 ; tears stood 
 
 will you?" 
 yo'J like now 
 • and wantf'd 
 ndered her" 
 •ending cast- 
 )flf." 
 
 v's I'd care 
 Grlory Ann!' 
 
 aimed Elva . 
 or, deserted 
 'ails to mOve 
 B very rich, 
 pe your for- 
 
 y exclai.ned 
 
 30SC I caro 
 
 ' you han't 
 
 than that. 
 
 poor Elva, 
 
 something 
 
 my power, 
 
 Joe, mtdi- 
 
 limed Elva, 
 
 gh I never 
 on Joe, in 
 one. 
 laimed the 
 
 Glory Ann 
 
 Red hair's 
 ce to_some 
 
 seriously, 
 
 floo'-, 
 
 provoking 
 h'nj?. you! 
 
 and Elva. 
 so soundly 
 ^atonlshed. 
 Oh, you 
 ou? WaU, 
 d <>' GWory 
 
 TBE H^yitMlT OF THE GUWm. 
 
 Ann. as I Md, and I'd like a change; 
 so I'M help the young lady to run off, 
 
 If"— 
 Joe paused, and looked doubtfully at 
 
 T**iVJl 
 
 "Well, if what?'* reiterated that young 
 
 "If you'll marry me!' exclaimed Joe, 
 l!ke a man of honor, coming to the point 
 at once. 
 
 ••Done!" exclaimed Elva; "there's my 
 hand on It. Who'll say, after this, I 
 haven't had a proposal?" 
 
 And Elva cast a glance toward Edith, 
 that, in spite of hers<'If, brought a smile 
 to the face of the latter. 
 
 ''You're a trump!" exultlngly ex- 
 claimed Joe, "a regular stunner! I tell 
 you what; I'll set free them three coves 
 down in the lower regions, if you like. 
 I will, gracious!" 
 
 With an exclamation of joy, Ekilth and 
 Elva both sprang forward, and caught 
 each a hand of Joe, who looked a little 
 surprised, not to say alarmed, at this 
 sudden attack. 
 
 "Joe, dear, you're a darling!" exclaim- 
 ed Elva. "I'll m^rry you a dozen times 
 over, if you liKeT'' 
 
 "All right!" said Joe, "and now that 
 the courtin' part o' the business is over, 
 Vpore we change the 8U'>ject. L.et'8 see, 
 i«-morrer night, 'bout twelve, be ready, 
 and If we don't fix 'em, it'll be . a cau- 
 tion!" 
 
 And Joe arose to leave. 
 
 "But. Joe, won't you tell us what you 
 intend to do?" said Elva; "just consider 
 I'm your better half now, and have a 
 right to know." 
 
 "Don't trouble yourself, raarm. I'll 
 tell you arterward," replied Joe; "and 
 now I shouldn't be s'prised if 'twas time 
 for you to go. To-morrer night, 'bout 
 this time, come round to the side-door 
 and I'll let you in so's to be ready to 
 start with us." 
 
 Elva laughed, and with a cheerful good 
 night turned to follow him. leaving Edith 
 with a more hopeful look on her face 
 than she had worn for many a day.. 
 
 The following day Joe did not appear 
 until nearly noon, when he informed 
 Edith that he Imd told her friends of 
 their plan and that th^y were "tickled 
 to death 'bout it." To all her anxious 
 inouiries as to what that olan was he 
 only replied by teiiing hor to "hold on 
 and she'd «!ee a^'ter a spell." 
 
 With the approach of night came Elva 
 who was silently admitted by Joe 
 through the side-door, and conducted to 
 Edith's apartment. There that worthy 
 youth left them, after miany charges not 
 to be asleep when he called for them 
 by end by. 
 
 Elva knew that three nien ramained 
 each night in the orriddr bef«re the 
 cells of the priaonei... aaid how Joe was 
 to conduct tliem past tttese was a mys- 
 
 tery she could not solve. Joe, however, 
 turned a deaf ear to all her <iu«Htian8, 
 and repeating his command to be ready 
 lit the appointed hour, left^th^m to 
 themselves. .*,:■•.. 
 
 Pa««mg through the many halls and 
 passages and staircases, Joe at length 
 reached the opposite end of the house 
 and entered a spacious sitting-room, 
 where nearly a dozen men were seated 
 around a long table in the middle of the 
 rtooT, singing, shouting, telling stories, 
 and vociferating in.f' most approved 
 fashion. At the head of the table sat 
 Paul Snowe, the father of Elva, in bliss- 
 ful ignorance of the plot his audacious 
 little daughter was weavl: ~ *'^ free his 
 prisoners. 
 
 "Hi there! Mrs. Smith! Where the 
 deuce have you been all evening?" called 
 a flashy-looking individual, known as 
 Dandy Dan; "I believe in n>y soul, the 
 tow-headed scoundrel is forever making 
 love to Lady Beauty above-stairs.'.', 
 
 "Come here, Mrs. Smith, my dear," 
 said another, "the jug's empty and Nan 
 Crow's asleep. Be off to the kitchen and 
 fill it, I and here's your good health, 
 ma'am." 
 
 With a smothered growl, which elicited 
 a shout of laughter, Joe took the huge 
 earthen jar which stood in the center of 
 the table, a-nd set off on the errand. 
 Pilling it from a lar^e cask which stood 
 ill the kitchen, he drew from his pocket 
 a bottle containing a colorless liquid, 
 and emptied its contents into the 
 Jamaica rum. A smile of triumph flitted 
 over his face, which was, however, 
 changed to one of sulky stupidity as he 
 again stood before the revelers, panting 
 under his load. 
 
 "Good boy, Jqu!" said Dandy Dan, 
 helping him to lift the jar on the table; 
 "has your mother any nrnwe like you?" 
 
 "Yes, thar's Ic*" on 'em to hum, but 
 none so smart as me," said Joe, in a 
 tone of artless simplicity. 
 
 "You're a genius, Joe. Pity they didn't 
 make a lawyer of you!" 
 
 "No, sir, none o' our family ever fell 
 so low as that yet," said Joe, in a tone 
 of offended prid6; "mother was to law 
 once and I never wants to know no more 
 'bout It." , „„ 
 
 "And what sent the old lady to law? 
 inquired Paul Snowe. 
 
 "Wall, 'twas about our cow. Our cow 
 and mother and two other cows was 
 out, and she kicked the minister." 
 
 "Who did? Yonr mother?" 
 
 "No. the cow. He was goin' 'long, and 
 she took to jawin' him 'bout something 
 she didn't llkp 'n his sermons." 
 
 "The cow did?" 
 
 "No, mother. So he comes over to 
 'xnlaln. and ' lie leaned agin her and 
 takes to smoothing down her back." 
 
 "Rmoothing your mother's hack?" 
 
 "No, the cow's. But she wasn't goin' 
 
 I'? 
 il 
 


60 
 
 TUK HERMIT OF THE CLIt'FH. 
 
 !i:i 
 
 to take none o' his blarney, so ehe Jlst 
 turned up her nose and told him to go 
 to pot." 
 
 "The ^w told tjlm so?" 
 
 "No, mother! But he took to arguln' 
 and at last forgettin* he wasn't In the 
 pulpit, he brought his flst down with an 
 almighty thump on her hack." 
 
 "On your mother's back." 
 
 "No, darn ye, on the cow's! So havln' 
 a spirit of her own that wouldn't put up 
 with sich Insults, she lifts up her hind 
 leg and gins him a kick." 
 
 "Your mother did?" 
 
 "No, blame you, the cow! By gra- 
 cious, I won't stand to hear the old wo- 
 man Insulted this way!" exclaimed Joe, 
 indignantly. 
 
 A roar oi laughter followed, during 
 which Joe stood looking savagely from 
 one to the other, and at last turned away 
 in evident disgust. 
 
 "I say, Joe, don't leave us, man," 
 called Paul Snowe. "Tell us what hap- 
 pened to your mother and the other 
 cow." 
 
 "Find out!" said Joe, shortly. "What's 
 the use o' tellin' a story whep you're 
 too stupid to understand it? I wouldn't 
 tell you another word if you was to 
 btist!" And with this spirited announce- 
 ment the young gentleman gave his 
 pantaloons an indignant hitch, and re- 
 paired to the kitchen. 
 
 Another hour passed, and the uproar 
 grew "fast and furious." Joe listened 
 with a smile, and a muttered, "It will 
 floon be over," and patiently "bided his 
 time." 
 
 Gradually the noise died away. Now 
 and then a heavy sound would be heard, 
 as one of the drunken revelers fell pros- 
 trate on the floor, »nd a long-drawn 
 snore betrayed his profoundly drunken 
 sleep. Joe went In softly. Lying under 
 the table, and in various directions 
 through the room, was De Lisle's gal- 
 lant band. Paul Snowe lay back- in his 
 seat, his head down on his breast, sleep- 
 ing as profoundly as the rest. 
 
 Joe seized the jar, considerably llght- 
 rir nov.-, and repaired with it in the di- 
 rection where the prisoners were con- 
 fined. Leaning against the walls, half 
 asleep, were the remaining three who 
 had been left to guard them. 
 
 "Who comes?" cried one of the senti- 
 nels, opening his sleepy eyes. 
 
 "Only me. Ben— Joe Smith. The other 
 chaos drunk thelrselves asleep, and I 
 l>'''>Mght the jug here, thinlclng you 
 miffht like the rest." 
 
 "Thanky, Joe; may you never die till 
 your time comes." said the man. as he. 
 together with his companions, gathered 
 round the jug. 
 
 "Don't pee any reason why them roves 
 upstairs should have all the fnn to them- 
 selves," said the second, taking a long 
 draught. . 
 
 "That was my notion exactly!" said 
 Joe. 
 
 "Prime that!" said the third, smack- 
 ing his lips. "Joe, you deserve to be 
 naade an archbishop of." 
 
 Joe took the compliment with all' hu- 
 mility and looked with delight at their 
 eagerness to empty the jug. Very soou 
 Its effects became apparent, for the 
 three worthy sentinels lay stretched at 
 full length, as sound asleep as thiii 
 companions upstairs. 
 
 Joe arose softly, and took the key.s 
 from the belt of one; then he openod 
 the nearest door, and Fred Stanley 
 stepped forth. Joe then noiselessly 
 opened the other two doors, and Nugent 
 Perclval and Gus made their appear- 
 ance. 
 
 Joe made a motion for them to be si- 
 lent, and, lifting the lamp, beckoned 
 them to follow. With noiseless step they 
 obeyed, and in a few moments they 
 stood in the cool night air, free once 
 more." 
 
 "Walt here a minute," said Joe, when 
 they arrived before the useful little side 
 door, as he opened it and disappeared. 
 
 "That small youth is worth his weight 
 in diamonds," remarked Gus, as he Joe 
 disappeared. 
 
 "He reminds me strangely of some one 
 I've seen before," said Perclval; "but 
 whom, T cannot recollect." 
 
 "Just fancy De Lisle's disappointment 
 when he comes back, losing his prison- 
 ers and his bride! Eh, Stanley," said 
 Gus. , 
 
 "What?" said Fred, rousing with a 
 start from a dream of Edith. 
 
 "Ah! I fancy I know where your 
 thoughts were that time," said Gus, 
 while Perclval smiled slightly, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 "Here we are," said Joe, reappearing, 
 followed by Edith, wrapped in a. large 
 cloak, and leaning on the arm of Elva. 
 
 There was but little time for congrat- 
 ulations. As the whole party passed 
 through- the gate, Joe gave Elva a nudge 
 in the ribs, saying, in a very audible 
 whisper: 
 
 "S'pdsin* you and me goes and gets 
 spliced right off! Where's the use losin' 
 time?" 
 
 "Thank you; I guess I won't mind it 
 just now!" said Elva, laughing and 
 blushing, as she caught the dark eye of 
 young Perclval fixed upon her with a 
 look of decided amusement. 
 
 "We part here, then," said Joe, ex- 
 tending his hand. "Good-by, Elva. 
 Have you no message to send to Glory 
 Ann?" 
 
 To the surnrise of all. he had suddenly 
 lost his peculiar nasal twang. Fred, who 
 bad be*»n.vvatchlne him earnestly, came 
 forward, and. laying his hand on Joe's 
 shoulder, said: 
 


TUE HEUMIT OF THE VLlFh'IS. 
 
 ,ctly!" said 
 
 "Further disguise Is unnecessary, I 
 know you " 
 
 Joe laughed and colored slightly, as he 
 lifted his cap and removed his wig, and 
 In spite of the dye on his face, they be- 
 held and recognized the merry face and 
 hlsxcK eyes of Nell Percival! 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THC JOURNKy HUME. 
 
 "Oh, she Is a shrewd one!— as keen as a 
 briar! 
 Though her lip pouts with love, it can 
 curl with disdain; 
 And her eye, now so soft, can shoot quiv- 
 ering (ire. 
 Ah! she's a shrewd one!" 
 
 -J. W. H. 
 
 "Nell! by all that's glorious!" ex- 
 claimed Ous. 
 
 "Is it possible!" ejaculated Edith, al- 
 most transfixed with amazement. 
 
 "I thought I hb.fl heard that voice be- 
 fore," said Nugent, •>:«,rcely less aston- 
 ished. 
 
 •'is she a girl or a boy?" said Elva, 
 turning from one to the other, com- 
 pletely bewildered. 
 
 "A girl, my dear, a girl!" said Nell, 
 gayly; "and I hope you won't forget 
 you've promised to marry me. If you 
 do, why then I'll call you out, and we'll 
 have pistols before coffee, as sure as 
 shooting." 
 
 "But Glory Ann?" said Elva. 
 
 'Ah, yes— poor thing! But we won't 
 pursue the harrowing subject Just now, 
 having no time to lose," said Nell. Then, 
 lowering her voice, she added, hurriedly: 
 "Can you give me other garments? I 
 don't wish— that is"— 
 
 "Oh, to. be sure!" interrupted Elva; 
 "we w^ill help ourselves to horses from 
 De Llsle's stables and you can come 
 home with me while the rest wait in 
 the forest. We won't be long." 
 
 A few minutes saw them on their way 
 —Nell and Elva far ahead of the rest. 
 
 "We had better wait for them here," 
 said Percival, suddenly halting. 
 
 'Who would ever think Nell so clever!" 
 said Gus, in a tone of delight. 
 
 "Seeing that cleverness don't generally 
 run in our family,' said Nugent, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " 'Pon my honor, I'd never imagine it. 
 She visited me daily, too, and I gave 
 her a decided blowing up once or twice," 
 said Gus. 
 
 "She told me of that," said Edith, 
 smiling, "and seemed quite Indignant 
 about it." 
 
 "I say, Edith, who Is that pretty lit- 
 tle dear she has gone off with?" in- 
 quired FerclvaL 
 
 "Why, it's Blvena Snowe, the daugh- 
 ter of one of De Liisle's men, and for 
 
 whose unfailing kindneos I shall ever be 
 grateful," replied Edith. 
 
 "'I hope we shall not be kept here much 
 longer." said Gus. "Had 1 not better 
 ride forward and meet them?" 
 
 "Meet them?— meet Nell, you mean." 
 iiaid Percival, laughing. 
 
 "Here they come," said Fred, whose 
 quick ear had caught the sound of 
 horses' feet In the distance. 
 
 In a few moments more the young 
 girls rode up, Nell arrayed in a neatly- 
 fitting riding-habit of Elvas— the bright 
 face 'flushed a little, now that the paint 
 was oiT, as they could see even In the 
 moonlight. 
 
 "I have coaxed Elva to come back and 
 bid you all good-by," said Nell. "Would 
 you believe it, she actually did not wish 
 to come." 
 
 "You would not have treated us that 
 way, dear Elva?" said Edith, kissing her 
 fair brow. "How I wish you could come 
 home with us altogether!" 
 
 "Yes, do. Elva; we'll have such glori- 
 ous times; you and I, and— Glory Ann!" 
 coaxed Nell. 
 
 "I cannot," said Elva, almost sadly; 
 "but I hope to see you all once more. 
 You had better hasten now — delay is 
 dangerous." 
 
 The adieux were hastily spoken. Wav- 
 ing her hand ih a last farewell, Elva 
 turned and rode off down the forest 
 path. 
 
 There was silence for a while, during 
 which the party gained the highroad- 
 Nell in advance, between Gus and her 
 brother, and Fred and Edith following 
 rapidly. 
 
 "And now, Nell, tell us about this 
 strange affair of your masquerade," said 
 Gus, at length. 
 
 "Well, it's nothing to make a fuss 
 about," said Nell. "I suppose I needn't 
 tell you that when you went off that 
 day you didn't come back, as we ex- 
 pected. Papa was away, and mamma 
 was making a great time about it. I 
 tried to cheer her up, but 'twas all of 
 no use; she insisted the whole four of 
 you were comfortably located in Abra- 
 ham's bosom." 
 
 " 'Pon my honor, we came pretty near 
 it," said Gus. 
 
 "Well, the day passed, and none of 
 you came. Mamma was in a dreadful 
 way, to be sure, and some of her friends 
 came to visit and console her. I knew 
 she wouldn't want me, with so many to 
 look after her; so I asked and obtained 
 leave of absence for a week or two, and 
 as I was always fond of adventure, I 
 determined, like a second Don Quixote, 
 to go off In search of you." 
 
 "Bravo, Nell!" exclaimed Percival. 
 
 "I knew how to find the old house, and 
 felt pretty sure Edith was there, at least, 
 though I confess I had my doubts 
 whether you three had not been 
 
 


68 
 
 Tun ummT or THje cuffs. 
 
 Bent to 'kingdom come.' I determined 
 to disguise myself, and, havlniK colored 
 my fa^e, and i»rocuicd that horrid tow 
 wig, I dressed mynelf In a suit of clothes 
 procured fftr the occasion. Before ven- 
 turing Ihto the power of De M8l<-. I de- 
 termined to see If any one would recog- 
 nize me, and I attuHlly chatted for an 
 hour with mamma, about the farm 'to 
 hum,' and 'Glory Ann Lazybones,' with- 
 out being recognized. So, of course, I 
 knew my disguise was perfect; and I 
 came, saw, and conquered. That's all!" 
 
 "By Jove, Nell!" exclaimed Ous, de- 
 lightedly, "you're a"— 
 
 •What?" said Nell. 
 
 "A regular stunner!" was the reply. 
 
 "Well, I consider that anything but 
 a compliment," said Nell; "and, rest as- 
 sured. Master Gus, I should never have 
 taken the trouble of going there to save 
 you— but as it was Just the same to take 
 you along with the rest, I thought I 
 might as well do it. Being wonderfully 
 amiable, I'm always willing to oblige 
 people when It's no trouble to myself," 
 
 Conversing gayly thus, they rode along 
 until the red hue of coming morn ap- 
 peared In the east. 
 
 "Fred and Edith seem to have quite a 
 nice time of it behind there," said Nell, 
 looking back; "I expect they're saying 
 a lot of pretty things to each other." 
 
 "Suppose we follow their example," 
 said Gus. 
 
 "Perhaps I am de trop," observed Per- 
 elval, smiling. 
 
 "Here th^ come!" said Nell; "wonder 
 if they overheard us?" 
 
 At this moment Fred and Edith rade 
 rapidly up. The keen dark eyes of Nell 
 saw in a moment that her sister had 
 been weeping, and that Fred looked un- 
 usually flushed and agitated. 
 
 Lifting his hat to Nell, he said, brief- 
 ly: 
 
 ''We part here, I believe. Allow me 
 to bid you farewell." 
 
 "What! going to leave us?" exclaimed 
 Qus and Perclval— while Nell, complete- 
 ly astonished, silently retained his hand, 
 and Edith bent her head still lower to 
 hide her falling tears. 
 
 "Yes, I must be at N to-morrow." 
 
 answered Fred. 
 
 "But I thought you were coming home 
 with us," said Percival. 
 
 "I regret; I ciannot do so. My presence 
 here is no longer required, and business 
 
 obliges me to go to N . Good-by, 
 
 Miss Ellen," he added, with a smile, 
 "give my best wishes to Glory Ann. 
 Farewell, Percival. Gus, when shall I 
 expert t<J see you?" 
 
 "Let's see, a. week at the furthest," re- 
 plied Qus. 
 
 ■"3rery well! Until then au revoir! 
 Adieu, Mjjjw Percival." 
 
 Her Upg moved, but her reply was not 
 audible as 8h€ took iii hers the hand 
 
 extended. The next moment he was 
 galloping rapidly off in the opposite di- 
 rectitm. 
 
 "Now, that's what I call real mean of 
 him." said Nell, pouting, "to go off and 
 leave us that way. I don't care if he 
 was twice as handsome as he is, I 
 wouldn't have anything to do with such 
 a fiery-headed fellow for any possible In- 
 ducement." 
 
 "Very glad to hear it, my dear," said 
 Gus. 
 
 "Well, Ihen, you needn't be, my dear. 
 For Indeed I'd no more have you than 
 him." 
 
 "Oh. come now, Nell, you don't mean 
 it?" 
 
 'Oh, come now, Gus, I do mean It! 
 And I'd thank you not to be so confident 
 that I'm dying about you, for the fu- 
 turt'. If T choose to amuse myself flirt- 
 ing with yon, for want of any one else, 
 you're not to imagine I care one pin 
 for you, I'd have you know." 
 
 'My doar Nell, if I thought you were 
 serious, I'd tnke up the first broken ram- 
 rod T could find, and blow my brains 
 out." 
 
 "My dear Ous, you can do for that 
 as you please; only, as you happen, un- 
 fortunately, to' have no brains, I don't 
 see how you're going to blow them out. 
 Seems to me, if I were you, I'd try to 
 blipw a few in, instead of blowing them 
 out." 
 
 "Nell, be serious." 
 
 "Gus, I am serious, awfully serious, as 
 you'll find out to your cost." 
 
 "I know you Just do this to torment 
 me, yoM little vixen. But do try and be 
 good-natured for once. Ne^, you know 
 I must leave you in a day or two, 'and 
 he off to the wars again.' " 
 
 "Dear knows, I'll be glad to be rid of 
 you," said Nell, In all sincerity. 
 - Gus looked hurt, so much so that Nell 
 looked up and exi^laimed: 
 
 "There, gracious me! you needn't look 
 so sulky about it. Of course, I'll be glad 
 when you go off, for all my other friends 
 of the masculine persuasion were afraid 
 to pay me the slightest attention, lest 
 they should be wasting their 'sweetness 
 on the desert air,' that is to say, on 
 somebody else's property. And I'll tell 
 you what you'll do, Gus," she added, as 
 though struck by a sudden thought, "go 
 off and try if you can't captivate Blva 
 Snowe. She's a nice little thing, and al- 
 mo.3t as pretty as me." 
 
 "I'd rather have you, Nell." 
 
 "Oh! I dare say; but you see you 
 can't have me, Gus. 'Tain't everybody 
 In this vale of tears can get such a 
 prize as I am (not to be egotistical). 
 Wen, dear mel (to change the subject) 
 won't this be an adVenture to talk of! 
 Why, I don't belieTft one of your. wonder- 
 ful Lady Aramlntas in the roniianceci 
 couW have done it better." 
 


THE HERMIT Of THE VUFES, 
 
 (W 
 
 ear," 8ai<( 
 
 m't mean 
 
 jerlous. as 
 
 be rid of 
 that Nell 
 
 "Nor half bo well, my dear." 
 
 "I alwayR had an ImmenHe renpect 
 for Joan <Jf Arc," went on Nell, "but 
 I'll begin to admire myself after I per- 
 form two or three more wonderful deedn 
 of urms. How hot it la! Poor Edith 
 (IroopB like a flower wilted In the sun." 
 
 "I hope you're not going to take to 
 poetry, Nell, If you do"— 
 
 'Don't be alarmed, Gus; I have too 
 much respect for the feelings of my 
 family to be gyilty of such a thing; but 
 poor Edith does look dreadfully used up." 
 
 "There Is an inn not far from here," 
 observed Gus; "I think we can procure 
 a carriage of some description there 
 that will convey you and Edith home. 
 You must be tired too, Nell." 
 
 "Oh! not a bit. I'm never tired, but 
 we must try to get one for Edith. Walt, 
 Ml tell her." 
 
 Nell drew up, and waited until the 
 others had reached her, then In a few 
 words she communicated her wishes to 
 her brother. 
 
 "Yes, that will be best," said Perclval; 
 "Edith does look worn out. How far is 
 thp Inn from here, Gus?" 
 
 "Not more than a mile," replied Gus; 
 "we will soon reach It." 
 
 A few minutes brought them to It, 
 and after waiting for breakfast they 
 resumed their Journey, Edith and Nell 
 comfortably seated in a light wagon, 
 with Gus driving, while Nugent gallop- 
 ed on to announce the news at home. 
 
 There was a Joyful meeting at Percl- 
 val Hall that night. Nell was decidedly 
 the lion of the evening, and bore her 
 honors with edifying indifference. Major 
 Perclval, who had only returned a few 
 hours before, was in raptures, and de- 
 clared she was "every inch a Perclval." 
 Mrs. Perclval gazed upon her with 
 moistened eyes as she thought of the 
 narrow escape of her children, and the 
 numerous friends of the family were 
 extravagant in their eulogisms of her 
 conduct. 
 
 Edith lay on the sofa, utterly pros- 
 trated in body and mind, too wearied for 
 the exertion of speaking; and with her 
 eyes shut, she listened.' while her 
 thoughts were far away. There was one 
 wanting to make that family circle com- 
 plete—one whose name all avoided men- 
 tioning. 
 
 A few days restored Edith to her wont- 
 ed health; again a soft bloom began to 
 mantle her pale cheek, and her blue 
 eyes grew bright and radiant once more. 
 A happy circle gathered in the parlor of 
 Perclval Hall each evening— the past 
 making It seem more happy by contrast. 
 
 But leavingr the Inmates of Perclval 
 Hall, we must follow the changing for- 
 tunes of Pred Stanley. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 TUB HKItMIT't) PREDICTION. 
 
 "My heart 1h with my riutlvi' lund. 
 My ,Mong Is for her glory; 
 Her wurrlorH' wreath Ih In my hand, 
 
 My llj)H breathe out her Htory. 
 Her h»fty hills and valleyH green 
 
 Are HmlllnK bright before me, • . 
 
 And like a ralnbow-Hlicn Ih Heen -n 
 
 Her proud flag waving o'er me." 
 
 -T. H, H. 
 
 The little village of Grassfleld was In 
 an unusual state of excitement. Groups 
 of old men, boys, and women were scat- 
 tered In every direction, talking over, 
 with exultation, the latest news from 
 the "seat of war." A splendid victory 
 had been gained by the American troops, 
 the news of which haO Just reached 
 Grassfleld; and now the matter was be- 
 ing talked over. In all Its bearings, by 
 the delighted villagers. 
 
 In the barroom of the "Battle and 
 Bowl," the one solitary Inn which the 
 village contained, was assembled the 
 collective wisdom c Grassileld. The 
 hostess, a pretty little black-eyed wo- 
 man, bustled in and out, attending to 
 her guests, occasionally stopping to 
 glance In the cradle where a tiny Item 
 of humanity lay, with wide-open eyes, 
 making desperate exertions to swallow 
 Its own tiny fists. 
 
 The unusual sound of a horse gallop- 
 ing rapidly along the street caused the 
 whole assembly to rush pell-mell to the 
 door. The horseman drew up, and con- 
 signing the animal to the hostler, passed 
 through the gaping crowd, and entered 
 the barroom. 
 
 Pretty Mistress Rosle. the hostess, who 
 was busily washing glasses behind the 
 counter, no sooner beheld him than 
 with an exclamation of Joy, she drop- 
 ped her towel, and running forward, 
 seized him by both hands, exclaiming: 
 "Why, Mr. Fred, how do you do! I'm 
 delighted to see you! I am indeed! 
 Where have you been this long time? 
 Fighting with the rest, I suppose! Well, 
 well, who'd have ever thought it? Sit 
 down, sit down! Well, I declare. I am 
 glad, r 1 you see my Josh lately? No. 
 I s'pose you didn't, though, or he'd men- 
 tioned it. He's off. fighting like the rest; 
 he is. indeed! I had a letter from him 
 last night; and he says he's quite well, 
 and expects to be home soon. Well, this 
 is a surprise! Dear me; how glad I 
 am to see you. But sit down. la. nr»e! 
 sit down, Mr. Fred. I declare, I've kept 
 you standing all this time!" 
 
 And having by this time talked herself 
 quite out of breath, the bustling little 
 woman danced out a chair, and flirting 
 her apron over it to blow off the dust, 
 permitted Fred Stanley (for he it was) 
 to sit down. 
 
 "And how are all my friends. Mrs. 
 


64^ 
 
 THE HklRMlt 01^ THE 0LIFF8. 
 
 m 
 
 i! 
 
 Wilde/' he aald. with a smile; "for your- 
 self, I reed not ask, for I see you are 
 looking as blooming and handsome as 
 ever." 
 
 "Oh, to Le sure." said the lively little 
 woman: "what would hinder me? All 
 your friends are well, too, and Betsy 
 HiggliAS Is married to the tail<>r— you 
 remember her. don't you? the little 
 milliner that used to be in love v/ith 
 you. There, you needn't be laughing 
 now; if you had been in Betsy's place, 
 I guees you wouldn't see anything In It 
 to laugh at. But bless me! I forgot to 
 show you the baby. He's named after 
 you, too; for everybody says he's your 
 born Image." 
 
 T/ed laughed as he glanced down at 
 the little fat, red face, framed in an 
 enormous cap frill. Mrs. Wilde — evident- 
 ly delighted at the striking resemblance 
 between the tall form and dark, hand- 
 some facp of Fred, and the little blinking 
 atom, his namesake— lifted up the biaby 
 and deposited him, with a jerk, into the 
 arms of Fred. 
 
 "Therel" e^^ciaimed Mrs. Wilde, fold- 
 ing her arms ahd nodding her head in & 
 very satisfied manner, "if he ain't yo»:r 
 very plcter! It takes after you every 
 w:iy. toa, for It's the quietest, Wessedest,. 
 young one"— 
 
 Here a loud, shrill yell from the blessed 
 young one hi,m»*lf interrupted his mam- 
 Aia's euloglum. Fred, who seemed rather 
 afraid o2 it than otherwise, glanced ap- 
 nrehendingly at Mrs. Rosie. 
 
 "A.h, you aggravatln' little monkey, 
 you!" said that lady, snatching It from 
 Fred with one hand and giving it & 
 shake, "stop that yellin', or I'll turn you 
 up &nd give you such a spankin' as ye 
 never had In all your born days. There, 
 Me in that, then, if you won't," she 
 added, dumping it into the cradle, and 
 leaving it to its own reflections. 
 
 Baby^'who seetned quite accustomed to 
 this kind of treatment, immediately 
 stopped crying, and became so absorbed 
 in contemplating his own little fat fists 
 as to forget all minor considerations. 
 
 ' i suppose, Mr. Fred, you're going to 
 ?:rtay all night?" Inquired Mrs. Wilde, 
 resuming the washing of her tumblers: 
 
 "I rather think' not," said Fred, doubt- 
 fully, "my horse is lame, so I was 
 forced to come here. If I find he is well 
 enough to proceed, I will go oh." 
 
 "If . not, you'll stay; so we needn't 
 tlMink you for your company," broke In 
 the little hostess. "Hark! here's some- 
 body else, as I live! I never did know 
 one td come unexpected but another 
 was siire to follow. Who's this, I won- 
 der?" ■■ " •• ••-■•' 
 
 The W6iider was speedily solved, for 
 a young man with an exceedingly sol- 
 dier-Ukf^ air walked the next instant into 
 the batrroonk. > 
 
 "Bh, is it possible? Captain Rogers, 
 
 my dear fellow," said Fred, springing 
 up. and extending hisi hand. 
 
 "Stanley! What, In the name of all 
 that's wonderful, drove you here?" ex- 
 claimed the newcomer in surprise. 
 
 "Where did you expect I would be?" 
 said Fred, smiling: at his look o< aston- 
 ishirient. 
 
 "With your regiment, to be sure! But 
 hold on ; I haven't seen my old sweet- 
 heart, Rosie, yet. Ah! Roste. here you 
 are. as pretty as ever, I see. Why didn't 
 you send me an invitation to the wed- 
 ding? Well, never mind; it's not too 
 late to salute the bride yet!" 
 
 A Sound box On the ear was his re- 
 ward, while Mrs. Rosie's cheeks grew 
 most becomingly red. 
 
 "What's this?" said the young man, 
 who bore the little woman's indignation 
 with most exemplary coolness, as his 
 eye fell on the cradle, "a bahy» La! 
 what a comical little concern! I say, 
 Rosie, you Jon't mean to say" — 
 
 But Rosie, wWd wasn't golns to put 
 up wItKhls impudence, a.dministered.. an- 
 other box on the ear, with no very 
 gentle hand, and seizing baby, imme- 
 diately decamped. 
 
 Captain Rogers looked after her and 
 ^-^.ughed. 
 
 "Did ^ ou I how, Fred. Rosie ahd; I 
 kept up auite i spirited flirtation winter 
 before last? *1 'on my honor, J[ was quite 
 spooney about her one time, too, but 
 Josh Wilde carie along and cut me out." 
 
 "I never knew you when you weren't 
 spooney abou',. some one," said Fred. 
 
 "Oh! to bo sure! there's nothing, like 
 It. t>on't you know what the»song says: 
 
 "I am in love with tv^enty; - 
 
 I could adore aS' many mtire: 
 There's nothing like a plenty." 
 
 "You hardly find as much ^tinie to 
 flirt now as you used to, I ^ancy?" said 
 Fred. 
 
 "Why, no, not quite; but when an 
 opportunity presents itself I always Im- 
 prove It. By the way, Fred, they say 
 old Perclval has two or three deuced 
 pretty daughters. Pshaw! man! never 
 redden so; I Intend to cultivate the old 
 gentleman the first chance I get, for the 
 sake of ma'amselle Estelle — Edith— 
 what's the name?" 
 
 "You may spare yourse'f the trouble, 
 my very dear friend. She would not 
 notice you." 
 
 "Don't believe it," said Cabtain Rogers, 
 glancing at the mirror. "Never- knew a 
 female heart could resist me yet! But 
 noiitswverrons, mon ami! When have you 
 seen Ralph De Lilsle?" .. 
 
 Fred started at the name. 
 
 "Why, what of him?" he demanded. 
 
 MOh, nothing, only they say you've 
 cut him out there. Serves him F^bt* 
 too ^- he's an hifemal villain!" ;- .';-... 
 


THE HERMIT OF THE GLIF^S* 
 
 aji ! never 
 
 "Have you seen, him lately?" said 
 Fred, bttihgr his lips to repress his im- 
 patience. ■ 
 
 "Saw him yesterday with youngr Bates, 
 off on some expedition of mischief. 
 But, Stanley, is it i^ally true tlutt you've 
 won his lady-love from him?" 
 
 "Captain Rogers," if you wish us to 
 remain friends you will pay no more 
 on this subject." said Fred, sternly. 
 
 "Gadso! You're confoundedly touchy, 
 Stanley. Well that's one proof you're 
 guilty, .And now. may I ask, if I qah do 
 so without offending you, whither are 
 you bound?" - ^ 
 
 "To flPt"!! — to Join my regiment," 
 
 'Thar s lucky! 
 
 Are ydu Ih much of 
 a hurry?" 
 
 "Why, no; not particularly." 
 
 "Then might ■ I ask you to grant me 
 a favor?" 
 
 "Cert,#,inly, my deiir Rogers;, anything 
 in my power." 
 
 "Thank you, thank you!" interrupted 
 Rogers, eagerly. "These, despatches I 
 have been ordered to convey to Colonel 
 — -; but an affair of a moat pressing 
 nature requires, my presence in another 
 direction. Now, if you would deliver 
 them, you would render me an inestim- 
 able servlccB." - '^ ''.''■■'• •.'..:■ 
 
 "With all my heart, my i^ood feUow., 
 stand and deliver." 
 
 "It's rather a dangerous busUaess^" said 
 Rogers, drawing a foruiida'-jle-looklpg 
 document from hla breast-pocket. ."Toy 
 will have to make your way through the 
 
 forest to reach .Colonel M 's quarters; 
 
 and there are lurking parties of Indians 
 and tories forever prowling about"— 
 
 "Say ne. more about It," Interrupted 
 Fred. "I am too weH accustomed to 
 danger to fear It; beside, who would shun 
 danger In the service of. his country?'' 
 
 "You will start to-night, I supposes ?" 
 ,"0h, certaljRly; ' there Is no time to 
 flose^ Here comes our pretty hostess, so 
 not a word!": � 
 
 7 "Weir, Rosit, Til take a drink and be 
 off! What have you done with that 
 pocket-edition of Josh' Wilde?" 
 
 "None of your business. Will Rogers," 
 replied Rbsle/ saucily. "Here, take this, 
 and be off; I can't be bothered with 
 you." , 
 
 Captain Rogers liughed, drained the 
 glfiss she handed t » him, ohuckfed her 
 iihdlat* the chin, siv; nted a ^careless 
 good-by.to Fred, sprang ua his horse and 
 amid many an admiring glance from 
 the bright eyes of the village damsels, 
 rode oify 
 
 "I thtflk I h»d better follow him," 
 remarked Fred, turning Cttplessly frgfttt 
 
 • ""You'H wia^t-^ i^r -^iwier, . wonH .y<iu1''' 
 sftU BoiOe^ t'Gomfc.. ja#W ./ I'U ^take np^ 
 refusal. I Jmva eY&^miVB»n»JMntisto 
 say to xttu. T^re^ t koew. you Wo^lA.'"^ 
 she tm^. M ^^ dmtled. ^ust wal)^ 
 
 Into the parlor; dlnner'll be ready, in 
 a minute." 
 
 So saying, she laughingly pushed Fred 
 Into the parlor, closing the door behind 
 her, and leaving him to amuse hlms^f 
 during her absence as best 'he might. . 
 
 Fred seated himself, and.taklQg up * 
 volume of Goldsmith's works, was soo|i 
 absorbed in the pages of "Sht Stoops, t(^ 
 Conquer," when the door opened, arid* 
 Mistress Rosie stood again -Jbef ore him* 
 
 "There's a geiitl&man out here Inamf- 
 Ing for you, Mr. Fred," said the llttlfe 
 hostess. ' 
 
 "For*me?" said Fred Ip surprise. "Who 
 .can it ^?': . 
 
 ijit^ 
 
 w 
 
 X 
 
 , "He looks like some of tl^^m oldrphr 
 bers In the' pj[etures," said liilts. WUqe, 
 "with a long elbak; wrapped rounds hlm, 
 'knd his Hfet' pulled way down oyer lilB 
 eyes. Will I show him 4h?" , 
 
 "I suppose so," said Fred, inwa.rdly 
 wondering who the mysterious persQnaiB|e 
 could be. . ./- '" 
 
 The door opened, and the figure of. ft 
 man, wrapped in a long, black . o1q^«c> 
 •srtth his hat pulled far down over- h?« 
 eyes, stood before. him. - 
 
 > ITo whom am I indebted f or tha hpnor 
 of. this visit?'' said Fred, rising, 
 
 "TO a friend, young man; pne w^ho is 
 no stranger to, you." And removing, his 
 hat, Fred beheld the white locks of the 
 Hermit of the Cliffs. 
 
 "A friend you have indeed proved tO 
 me, good father," said Fred, frankly 
 extending his hand. "Even now you 
 were in my thoughts, though I hardly 
 expected the honor of this visit;" 
 
 "You will ever find m«. near you when, 
 danger is at hand,." said the hei^lt. 
 
 "Danger?" said Fred. "And w^jat dan- 
 ger threatens -me now?" , ■ 
 
 ".4.. soldier's life is ailways dangerous," 
 replied the old roan, evasively; "esp^ 
 cially with so many enemies as ybi| 
 
 ''liBt It come, then,". said Fred, care- 
 lessly. "I am too well accustomed tq| 
 danger to shrink from it now," 
 
 "Perhaps you think you carry a charm- 
 ed life/' said the hermit; "and because 
 you have escaped the bullet* Of th^ 
 executioner, and the halt^c. of De Lisle, 
 you can rush into greater dah^rii, and 
 oOme forth soaihiess.' YotJnsr man, ^ I 
 say to thee, beware!^ Last n{gr8t; when, 
 the sJtars rodv^ in solemn splendiMr 
 through th^ heavens, I read thy fate. 
 AH was dark and ominous. The-qhadow 
 of the scaffold f6lr redljr aferOss^^y 
 path. The steel of the assassm Is sharp- 
 ened for the. heiaFt of one ydu love, and. 
 ,for the crime of another shall yOtt die. 
 Again I sa,y to thee,, be ware! Be warned 
 hif l!ktt«;^e>tso youv^ihatt Tepent it When 
 top... latel ".,;.... -~.v ■ '■"' '■ ''-"■^- ■- ■■ — •'* 
 
 The d^p.' inteiMe« ..passionate sol- 
 emritty- with which "he spoMe-^twedrln? 
 ▼ohihtarily tliib fearlefHs taeact of Fred. 
 
 ■'m 
 


66 
 
 s :< I 
 
 I ti 
 
 TSS HERMIT t)F TBE CUFFS, 
 
 I. 
 
 A iftenBatlon of fear,, not f for himself, 
 but for one dearer than all the world 
 beside, crept over him. 
 
 "Old man!" he exclaimed,, seizing him 
 by the wrist with a vise-like gn'tp. "who 
 is this for whom the steel of the assassin 
 Is prepared? Speak, and tell me, ior I 
 must know." ' . ' 
 
 "That I -saw not," replied the hermit, 
 calmly. "Can the lips -oSt man reveal 
 what • the stars speak not? ^Guafd 
 against the danger ivhlch hangs over 
 yourself, and trust the rest to a Higher 
 Po-^'er!" 
 
 "Pshaw! I might have known 'twas 
 but silly raving," said Fred, shaking off 
 the superstitious feeling that had for a 
 moment overcome him. "If you have 
 nothing more definite than this to warn 
 me against good father, I fear your 
 words have been in vain." 
 
 "And thou wilt not be warned?" said 
 the old man, sadly." "It is only when 
 the \ danger is at hand thou wilt believe 
 me? Did I not warn thee before, and 
 did not my words prove true? Hast 
 thou forgotten thy powerful enemy, Pe 
 Lisle?" 
 
 "T am not likely to forget him; but I 
 fear him ixot," said Fred, scornfully. 
 
 "So thoir didst say before," said the 
 hefmit, calmly; "yet thou didst fall in 
 his power, and yrould" have died by his 
 hand but for the heroism of a young 
 girl; The same thing may happen again, 
 when there will be no one at hand to aid 
 you." 
 
 "Forewarned is forearmed," said Fred. 
 . "Ralph De Lisle will find it not so easy 
 'to get me once more within his clutches; 
 and sHould we ever meet in open war- 
 fare, then, good father, you will find 
 it your duty to bid him beware, instead 
 of me!"- 
 
 "Rash youth! thou canst not., read the 
 book of fate as I can." said the hermit, 
 sorrowfully. "Again I tell thee, danger 
 is at hand — nay, hangs over thy head, 
 and over one for whom thou wouldst 
 give thy life. In the hour of doom thou 
 canst not say there was no one to warn 
 thee of thy danger." 
 
 The tone of profound melancholy in 
 ^yhlth the last words were uttered touch- 
 fed Fred. ISTdt that he believed what the 
 old man said— his words he considered] 
 the niere idle raving of a moonstruck 
 idiot, who warned him of danger after 
 hearing of his narrow escapes, and know- 
 ing De L^le was still his enemy._ But 
 his evident affection for him and interest 
 In his fate reached his heart. 
 '""Accept, at least, my thanks for th^' 
 Interest you manifest ih hre," :^aid Fred; 
 '*liUhou^h' I may never make use of your 
 warning. I feel , grateful to you for it. 
 And now, let me ask you, why should 
 you care So much for one who is a 
 i^ranger to yoii, and whose father you 
 
 have Spoken of Jn the most opprobrious 
 terms?" 
 
 / moment after he was sorry he had 
 asked a question which seemed to act 
 like a galvanic shook on the hermit, 
 whose head fell heavily on his clasped 
 hands, while his Whole frame quiverf d 
 with emotion, 
 
 "My dear sir," said Fred, starting up, 
 "If I have said anything to hmrt your 
 feelings, believe me it was quite unin- 
 tentional, and I am sincerely sorry for 
 it." 
 
 "Say no more, say no more!" said the 
 hermit, raising his head, and startling 
 the young mein by the deadly paleness 
 of his face. "I am subject to th«>8e cud- 
 den shocks, and do not mind them. Some 
 day, perhaps, before I die, should you 
 survive me, you will know who I am. 
 But until that time comes, let what you 
 already know of me sufl!ice. You think 
 me crazed— perhaps I am ; but there is at 
 least 'method in my madness.' Believe 
 me to be your friend — your best friend 
 on earth. You say you are a stranger 
 to me. Believe it not. Long before you 
 saw me, I knew you ; and when you least 
 fancied it I have been watching over 
 you. I-.ask neithei; your love nor' con- 
 fidence in return. Should we both live, 
 the time will come when you will give 
 both willingly. And now, farewell! I 
 have come to warn you, but you heeded 
 not my words. In the hour of your 
 darkest trial, when your summer friends 
 desert you in the winter of aflliction, I 
 shall be near. When danger threatens, 
 look for me. Until then, farewell." 
 
 He wrapped his cloak around him, 
 drew his hat down over his eyes, bowed 
 with stately humility. And was gone ere 
 Fred could f rafne an answer. 
 
 **Strange being!" thought the ydxing 
 man, throwing himself into a seat, and 
 leaning his head on his hand. "Howdark 
 and mysterious are his words! Can It be 
 that that simple old man really reads 
 the secrets of futurity? 'Thou hast hid- 
 den from the wise and prudent, and 
 revealed unto babes.' Wonderful being,! 
 Will those ominous predictions borne 
 true? I have already seen his W«rds 
 verified, and why may not these like- 
 wise? 'The shadow of the scaffold ! falls 
 across my path.' Well, though I "have 
 escaped twice. I begin to think T haVe 
 been born for a halter, after rilt. -l"'can 
 eas^ily ,arcount for my narrow escape 
 from shipwreck by the wise old proverb, 
 that' any one born to be hanged will 
 never be drowned. It's a pleasant an- 
 ticipation, truly." 
 
 ^Why. Mr. Fred, you look as dismal 4s 
 if you had lost your last relation." satfl 
 the merry voice of Rosie Wilde, breakr 
 ing in uDon his reverie. "Goodness 
 gracious me! have* you Seen a ghost^; or 
 are you^ thinking of committing gwiftn- 
 tJlde? If you are. I've a botUe of lode- 
 


THE HERMIT OF THE GLIFF8. 
 
 W 
 
 [Pprobrioiis 
 
 fe »»e hjKi 
 ped to act 
 »e hermit. 
 Ms clasped 
 quivered 
 
 larting up, 
 Ihwrt your 
 lite unln- 
 sorry for 
 
 ' said the 
 startWng 
 paleness 
 hese ffud- 
 em. Some 
 lourd you 
 ho I am. 
 what you 
 [ou think 
 here is at 
 BeileVe 
 St friend 
 stranger 
 
 -tore you 
 
 you least 
 
 'ng: over 
 
 nor/ con- 
 
 oth live, 
 
 will give 
 
 ewell! r 
 
 u heeded 
 
 of your 
 
 f fiiends 
 
 ictlon, I 
 
 ireatens, 
 ell." 
 
 d him. 
 . bowed 
 rone ere 
 
 yoting 
 at, and 
 w mark 
 m It be 
 
 reads 
 St hld- 
 t. and 
 being! 
 
 t<Mne 
 Words 
 
 Ifke- 
 l^falls 
 
 nave 
 
 have 
 l"'can 
 scape 
 •Verb, 
 
 wllj 
 
 an- 
 al As 
 saw 
 6akr 
 ness 
 f, or 
 sftn- 
 )d«. 
 
 lum out in the bar that -will send you 
 sleepiitg c6int<frtably to the other world 
 in less fMan too time. Ho! ha! ha!" 
 
 "Bgad! I've a strong notion to follow 
 her advice, and cheat Jack Ketch, after 
 all," muttered Psed. . 
 
 "Well, now, dinner's ready; so never 
 mind talking to yourself just now, for 
 fear I might overhear you. So come 
 along." 
 
 Fred laughingly accompanied Mrs. 
 Wilde to tlie dining-room, where they 
 sat down to a comfortable meal, to 
 which both did ample Justice. 
 
 An hour after, as Fred stood in the 
 parlor with Mrs. Wilde, previous to 
 starting, another horseman galloped up 
 and alighted at the inn door. 
 
 "T'U have General Washington him- 
 self here next, I expect," said Mrs. 
 Wilde, who was rocking' the cradle. 
 "Your coming brought them all, I think; 
 for I haven't had so many visitors be- 
 fore, this month of Sundays." 
 
 "Landlady!" called a high, imperious 
 voice, that made Fred start arid flusfli 
 to the temples. 
 
 "Coming, coming!" answered Mrs. 
 Wilde, hurrying from the room- 
 Half an hour passed by. Fred stood 
 with his arms folded across his breast, 
 all his indifference gone, and a look of 
 fierce sternness and Intense hatred on his 
 face. Well he recognized that voice. 
 
 "Gone at last," said Mrs. Wilde, again 
 making her appearance. y 
 
 Fred looked out. a young man passed 
 out of the door, sprang on his horse, and 
 rode off. but not before Fred had caught 
 a full view of his face. 
 
 It was tlalph De Lisle. 
 
 "Well, I regret to say I must leave 
 you now, Mrs. Wilde." said Fred, turn- 
 ing from the window, and striving to 
 banish the shadow that had gathered on 
 his brow. 
 
 "Very sorry to hear it," ^ said Mrs. 
 Rosle. "but I. hope to see you soon 
 again." 
 
 "Rest assured of that, my dear ma- 
 dam," said Fred. "I shall certainly visit 
 my little namesake as soon as may be. 
 Good-by until we meet again." 
 
 Raising to. his litis the plump little 
 hand she extended. Fred passed out, 
 sprang on his hOrse. and was soon out 
 1-; '«*gnt, while the pretty little ho^ess 
 of the "Bottle and Bowl" stood* in the 
 doorway, watching him until he disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Night found him making his way 
 slowly aiid with difficulty along the slip- 
 pery forest path in the direction pointed 
 out by his friend. Captain Rogers. It 
 was a gloomy, disagreeable night. A 
 thinv drizzling rain was falling, a cold, 
 sharp wind was. sighing drearily through 
 the tre^B. There was no light, save the 
 faint, sickly g^ow of the spectral moon» 
 as 8fa« lifted her wan face over tlM 
 
 bleak tree-tops, through the dull, dark 
 clouds- th^t scudded across the sky. > 
 ' Urging his horse with rein and spur. 
 Fred bent his head to the storm, and 
 proceeded slowly onward. There was a 
 strange presentiment of evil hanging over 
 him— an oppression of spirits he ' had 
 never ..felt before. It might have been ' 
 
 caused«jby the words of the hermit, hifl 
 chance glimpse of De Lisle, which he 
 felt half-inclined to consider an omen of 
 evil, or it might have been caused by 
 the dismal night, and the lonely path he 
 was pursuing. He strove to shake off 
 these superstitious fancies, kjiowlrig 
 there might be more tangible evils at 
 hand, for there were always lurking 
 bodies of Indians prowling about in the 
 woods. Now and then the cry of some 
 wild animal would break upon his ear, 
 making his horse start anjl snort with 
 terror, but no enemy had molested Wni^ 
 and ere morning he trusted to be far 
 from danger. 
 
 Suddenly an abrupt turn in the road '^W^ 
 brought him jn view of a scene that "" 
 'made him start and draw back in alarm. 
 
 In the center of a large semicircle, 
 evidently the work of nature, and not of 
 art. a large fire was burning. Gathered 
 around it were some twenty half naked, 
 hideously painted savages, who, with a 
 large keg, which Fred well knew con- 
 tained rum, were evidently bent upon 
 making a night of it. In spite of the In'- 
 clemency of the weather. 
 
 To e^jcape without being discovered was 
 now Fred's only idea. He turned nolse- 
 'pssly to proceed In another direction, 
 but his horse reared at the sudden bibze 
 nf light, and gave a loud neigh of fean 
 
 It reached the keen ears of the Ipdiaris. 
 Snatching up their weapons, they sprang 
 to their feet, while a series of diabollcftt 
 yells rent the air, "followed by an omi' 
 nous silence. 
 
 4. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. v 
 
 THH STAKE. 
 
 "Through the leafy halls of the wild old 
 wood, 
 Rang an echo full and free. 
 To the -ravage shout of a fearful band, 
 As they bound the white man foot and 
 hand 
 To the sacrlflclar tree." 
 
 — H. Harlon Stephens'. ' 
 
 EscAPK was now out of the question. 
 Resolved to sell his life as dearly^ as 
 possible, Fred drew his pistol, and two 
 nf the . foremost savages, with wild^ 
 howls, bit the ground. Maddened by the 
 sight, the remainder sprang fiercely upon 
 him, and in aplte of hie desperate re- 
 slstancerhe was overpowered by ntnn- 
 bers and securely bound. They next 
 turned their etttentlon to their . fallen 
 companions. One of them was oinlf; 
 
 M 
 


'68 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFY. 
 
 ■ ■', 9'- 
 
 •«■ 
 
 lii 
 
 wounded, but the other was quite dead. 
 A long, low wall was heard, as he who 
 appeared to be their chief touched the 
 fresh scalp-lock which dangled at his 
 
 belt 
 
 The savages now gathered In a cluster 
 together, and appeared to hold a con- 
 sultation, while Fred, bound to a tree, 
 inwardly wondered what Dame Hprtune 
 had in store for him next. In the red 
 light of the Are, the scene resembled 
 one of Salvator Rosa's wild^palntings. 
 The dark, gloomy forest in the back- 
 Kround. through which the wind sjghed 
 a dirge-like chant; the wild faces, 
 gleaming eyes, and horribly painted 
 bodies of his captors, giving them the 
 look of demons in the lurid glow of the 
 
 Are. . ^^ ,* # 
 
 Fred waited eagerly for the result of 
 this conference. Now. and then he would 
 catch some fierce exclamation; but as 
 they spoke in their own language, he, of 
 course, understock not a word. Often, 
 too. he would catch a look directed to 
 himself that hoded him no good. At 
 last, they seemed to ha>e arrived at 
 sonfe conclusion; for, rising to their 
 feet, they returned to their former places 
 round the fire, glaring savagely upon 
 him as they passed. 
 
 Left alone, Fred was soon lost in 
 •thought. He seemed to himself a mere 
 football in the hands of Fate,, to be 
 tossed wherever the fickle goddess will- 
 ed. In the power of the Indians, he 
 well knew that death, speedy and 
 bloody, must be his doom. Death and 
 he had been too often face to face for 
 him to shrink frrtm it now; but to die 
 thus, afar from all who ever knew or 
 cared for him, might have chilled the 
 stoutest heart. To die on the field of 
 battle, fighting for his country, would 
 Aave been glory; but such a death as 
 he well knew was now In store for him, 
 was indeed appalling. Hf» thought of 
 Edith, freed from the rower of her 
 mortal foe, and happy At home, and 
 wondered if she would ever hear of his 
 fate. He thought of th< strange, mys- 
 terious hermit, and of his dark pre- 
 diction of coming danger so soon 
 fulfilled. 
 
 He turned his eyes to where sat his 
 captors. Some of them, overpowered by 
 the eflfects of the fire-water, were 
 stretched on the ground asleep, looking 
 like dark statues in their rigid repose. 
 The others still sat drinking, some 
 whooping and yelling fearfully in their 
 Intoxication, the rest silently staring at 
 them, evidently more than half stupefied. 
 
 Fred's position was painful in the ex- 
 treme. The ligatures which bound his 
 wrists behind him were tied so tightly 
 that they seemed cutting their way into 
 bis flesh. His position was painfully 
 comtratned, bis head being the only por- 
 tion of bl» body he could move. 
 
 To add to his sufferings, the storni. 
 which had for several hours been threat- 
 ening, now burst in all its fury. A blaze 
 of lightning, so vivid that It seemed as 
 though the heavens were one vast sheet 
 of flame, followed by a terrific crash of 
 thunder and a flood of rain, and tht 
 storm was upon them in full fury. Rous- 
 ed from their slumbers, the stunned anrl 
 half-drunken savages gathered together 
 in evident dismay. The wimi howled a 
 perfect tornado, the lightning still flash- 
 ed in one continual sulphurous gl|tre. 
 the thunder pealed as though the heav- 
 ena were rending asunder, and the rain 
 fell in perfect torrents. A tali tree, 
 scarcely three yards from where Fred 
 stood, was shivered to atoms by a blind- 
 ing flash, and another was torn violently 
 up by the roots and hurled almost at 
 his feet. 
 
 For nearly two hours the storm con- 
 tinued in all its fury. Then the sullen 
 clouds began slowly to break away, the 
 lightning still flashed, but at rare inter- 
 vals; the thunder growled far ott In the 
 distance, the wind abated its fury, and 
 though the rain still fell, it was no longer 
 i.n drenching torrents. The savages re- 
 covering from the effects of their first 
 alarm, and still stupid with liquor, agam 
 stretched themselves on the wet ground, 
 and scon lay motionless, like hideous 
 figures ii^ wax. 
 
 ^Fred. wet. cold, and benumbed, stood 
 waiting the approach of day. His arm 5; 
 felt as thoutrh they were dead, having 
 swollen from bein^ so tightly bound. As 
 he thought ol the fearful fate for which 
 he was most probably reserved, he had 
 more than rnce. during the raging of 
 the storm, wished that some friendly 
 fiash of lir.htning had freed his spirit, 
 and borne him from their power. 
 
 The hours of that dreary night wore 
 on, but Fred thought it the longest he 
 had ever known. The gray, foggy light 
 of morning at last stole pver the tree- 
 tops, coming slowly and unwlllingrly. as 
 though reluctant to behold the disasters 
 of the preceding night. Fred recollected 
 that at that time, twenty-four hours 'be- 
 fore, he bade adieu to Edith, and some- 
 thing akin to despair filled his heart 
 as the certainty that Jie should never 
 see her ainrain stole over him. 
 
 His c|iptoK- had by this time arisen, 
 and were now busily engaged in making 
 their morning meal. This over, some of 
 them wpnt In » parch of their horses 
 where thev had left them the preceding 
 night, while two others approached the 
 prisoner; and having unfastened the 
 thongs which bound him placed before 
 him a sort of hard, codrse cake made 
 of Indian corn, a gourd filled with water, 
 and made signs for him to eat. 
 
 It was some time before he could com- 
 ply, for his hands were stiff nnd l>e- 
 numbed, and the food none of the most 
 


THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFS. 
 
 0» 
 
 (^ storn,. 
 
 n threat - 
 •A blaze 
 
 'emed i,s 
 ,»st sheet 
 
 crash of 
 
 and th. 
 
 '• Rous- 
 ^ned anfl 
 
 together 
 lowied a 
 "1 flash - 
 |8 «^re, 
 'e heav- 
 ,;he rain 
 1" tree. 
 
 e Pred 
 
 la blfnd- 
 
 -^olentlv 
 
 iioet at 
 
 palatable. Knowtag, however, nature 
 tniist be sustained, he essayed to eat: 
 and by the titne he had finished his 
 meal, the rest returned with the horses. 
 
 Fred was permitted to mount his own 
 horse; and with one of his captors placed 
 on either side of him, dashed off at a 
 rapid galtop. 
 
 They rode on for several hours, avoid- 
 ing with the utmost care all white settle- 
 ments, and- a little before noon they 
 halted at a running stream to rest their 
 wearied animals. Fred allpr^ted, and 
 was bound as before, to prevent his 
 escaping, while his captors once more 
 regaled themselves with their coarse 
 food. 
 
 All traces of the previous night's storm 
 had now vanished. The sun shone in 
 unclouded splendor, and at any other 
 time Pred would have admired the 
 beautiful scene around him, but now 
 his eyes were fixed on his captors. 
 
 They were a savage, bloodthirsty look- 
 ing set, hideously painted, and fright- 
 fully ugly, looking fiercer and more bar- 
 barous in the clear light of day than 
 when he had seen them first. They ate 
 in solemn silence; and having finished, 
 again mounted and rode off, seldom 
 speaking, save when he who appeared 
 to be their chief addressed to them a 
 few brief words, evidently concerning 
 their Journey. 
 
 Toward evening the party again halt- 
 ed, and made preparations for the night. 
 PYed was again bound, but ki such a 
 manner as would permit him to lie down. 
 The savages then proceeded to kindle a 
 fire: and seating themselves around it 
 after partaking of their evening meal, 
 of which Fred received a share, they 
 stretched themselves on the damp 
 earth, and were soon buried in sleep, 
 with the exception of one who remained 
 to keep guard. 
 
 It was a lovely night. The moon rode 
 in radiant brightness through the blue 
 arch of heaven. One by one the solemn 
 stars came out, looking with their pity- 
 ing eyes on the pale face of the captive. 
 The cool south wind lifted his long, dark 
 locks off his noble brow. The air was 
 redolent with the odor of flowers, and 
 with a singsong sound in his ears, Fred 
 fell asleep. 
 
 And sleeping, he dreamed. Once again 
 in fancy he stood by the side of Edith, 
 whispering in her ear "the tale which 
 ladies love to hear." Suddenly a shadow 
 fell across his path. Edith was torn 
 from his side, and with the rapidity of 
 thought, he found himself swinging by 
 the neck from a halter. A shriek of 
 mortal agony. reached his ear, ^nd look- 
 ing down, he beheld Edith struggling In 
 the arms of De Lisle, now transformed 
 into a hideously painted savago. With 
 a start, he awoke to find his dream, in 
 part, realized. . ' 
 
 The red hue of coming morn was al- 
 ready crimsoning the sky. His savage 
 captors were up and gathered together 
 In a circle, as if holding a consultation. 
 Among them, Fred beheld the fierce. 
 dark faces of three or four of De Lisle's 
 tory band; and standing above him. 
 with his arms folded across his breast, 
 and a look of fiendish triumph on his 
 face, was Ralph- De Lisle himself. 
 
 "So," said De Lisle, slowly hissing the 
 words through his closed teeth, "so, 
 Fred Stanley, we have met again." 
 
 "So It seems," replied Fred, calmly. 
 
 "You see. sir, you are in the hands of 
 fate, and you cannot escape me. No 
 doubt you fancied, when you so cleverly 
 freed yourself from my power, that you 
 were safe. Now you are convinced of 
 your mistake. Since our last meeting I 
 have dally prayed I might soon hold 
 you in my clutches once more; and now 
 my prayer is granted." 
 
 "Which proves that your master, the 
 devil. Is good to his own," said Fred. 
 
 "You are pleased to be facetious, my 
 good friend. Well. I can excuse that in 
 one whose hours are numbered. Fred 
 Stanley. Dame Fortune has favored you 
 long. One time I almost fancied you 
 bore a charmed life; but Fate can bear 
 you BO further than the ,end, and your 
 hour has come. For your present risk, 
 you have no one to thank but yourself; 
 and. being such a hot-headed fool, our 
 dusky friends yonder will prevent your 
 getting into any more scrapes by send- 
 ing you to Heaven, where you belong, the 
 first opportunity. Dream no longer that 
 you can escape. Yonder sun which la 
 rising, you will never see set. Ere three 
 hours we shall have reached the. Indian 
 village, where the stake is prepared, and 
 your doom is sealed. No power, either 
 in heaven or earth, can save ^you now. 
 And if, as you say. the devil is my mas- 
 ter, I most sincerely thank him for pre^- 
 servlng you from the rope, since it has 
 reserved you for the far more horrible 
 fate of death by slow torture. I shall 
 faithfully, like a true friend, stand by 
 you to the last, and witnessing your 
 death-agony, console you by the agr< e- 
 able information that, in spite of fate, 
 Edith Perclval shall yet be mine. Doubt ^, 
 lesd she Imagines, as you did a few; 
 hours ago. that she has escaped me for- 
 ever. Like you. she will find her mis- 
 take ere long; and I swear, she shall 
 repent in dust and ashes for her scorn 
 of me. Ha! you change color. I thought 
 that would touch you. I see you can 
 fear for her though not for yoyrself. 
 Well, every indignity that woman can 
 endure shall be hers until your dainty 
 lady-lo^te shall weep for the hour she 
 was born." 
 
 De Lisle paused, while his eyes actu- 
 ally blazed. An infernal spirit mlglit 
 


•» 
 
 THE HERMfT OF THE GUFF8. 
 
 .-rr 
 
 I Bit 
 
 1:1. 
 
 have envied- the diaboHeal- triumph that 
 ahone In his face. .;-.;■, 
 • " Villain! monster! devH!" cried Fred, 
 .almost maddened by his words. "An 
 hour of fearful reckoning wll} yet come 
 for all this." 
 
 . "Tou are disposed to moralizej my 
 dear Stanley," said De Lisle, with his 
 usual mocktng sneer. "Well, doubtless, 
 the near approach of death doe» incline 
 men that way. As for the future reck- 
 oning you threaten me with, believe in 
 It If you will; as for me, I have a spirit 
 above such hypocritical whining and 
 preachers' cant. However, I will not 
 argue the matter now, as in a few hours 
 you will havei an opportunity of knowing 
 •which of us is right. If, when you reach, 
 the^ other world, you really do see the 
 gentleman in black— my maiJter, you 
 know — just give him n>y Gompllments, 
 -Will you, and tell him f trust he will al- 
 wavs remain as true a frlejid to me as 
 he has up to the present. Ah! here comes 
 my friend Long Knife — suggestive name, 
 Isn't it? I will leave you to meditation 
 and prayer, hoping you will offer up a 
 good word for Edith and me while I 
 consult with yonder dusky chieftain." 
 And lifting his hat with mock politeness, 
 I>e Lisle turned on his heel and strode 
 a.way. 
 
 .It would be 'impossible to give fii\ idea 
 of the torrent of fiery, passionate, mad- 
 dening thoughts that leaped in burning 
 chaos through the brain of Fred. The 
 Image of Edith in the power of De Lislf, 
 that demon in human form, was ever 
 before him. And he knew of the fate in 
 stjore for her, and yet was unaMe to 
 ' assist her. He grew maddened, frenzied 
 at the thought, and struggled to burst 
 his bonds, until, finding an his efforts 
 Ineffectual, he sank back exhausted. 
 
 Standing at a few yards distant, talk- 
 ing to a frightfully painted savage— who, 
 from the number of feathers waving 
 from his scalplQck, appeared to be a chief 
 of unusual distinction— stood i)e Lisle. 
 He saw the impression his words had 
 made and the smile of gratified hatred 
 on his lips; and the light of triumphant 
 malice in his eyes made him appear 
 more of a demon than ever. 
 
 After a few moments' rapid conversa- 
 stion, the parties separated, and mount- 
 ing their horses, prepared to start. Fred 
 rose as before, guarded by twq of the 
 Indians. De Lisle put himself at the 
 head of his own men,' not mor^ than half 
 a dozen In number, and aJl dashed off. 
 
 Fop over . three hourr they rode on 
 rapidly, and almost In slience. Now and 
 then De Lisle would turn to converse 
 with the man Paul Showe, who formed 
 «ne of his party; but this was only at 
 fcatervals. and each seemed too much ab- 
 sorbed In his qwn- reflectinns to talk. . 
 » . At levtf^^ as they rea^shed the summit 
 of a high hill, the whole party drew rein, 
 
 and paused- for "a moment. Befow them 
 lay an Indian village, enveloped by en- 
 circling hills, and forming a sort of circle 
 of thirty huts or thereabouts. The whole 
 population of the village seemend to have 
 turned out to meet theip:; and with wild 
 shouts, more than half of Fred'« captors 
 dashed off, leaving hira wltJr De Lisle's 
 men and the others to follow more 
 slowly. 
 
 As Fred neared the village he turned 
 to gaze on them, and was forced to 
 think that a more repulsive-looking set 
 he had never beheld. The wome*i were 
 even worse than the men, with their 
 flat. unintellectiMiI-looklng faces, dirty 
 persons, and savage, -unpitying eyes. 
 Every look was bent upon him. as he 
 rode past, but all were fierce and stern, 
 and even the children seemed to glare 
 with their dark eyes as fiendishly as 
 their parents. 
 
 One of the Indians made a sign for 
 Fred to dismount: and bidding him fol- 
 low, led the way toward one of the huts, 
 the crowd opening right and left to allow 
 them to pass. I»ushing aside the skin 
 which served for a door, he motioned 
 him to enter, and then binding him hand 
 and foot, he seated himself beside the 
 door to keep guard, with his scowling 
 black eyes fited on hia prisoner, with 
 the steady gaze of a basilisk. 
 
 Fred had made no resistance, knowing 
 it would be wOrse than useless; and now 
 he sat with hIa eyes fixed upon the 
 ground, striving to collect hia thoughts 
 and think calmly. In vaini an was wild 
 confusion in his >eart and brain, every- 
 thing seemed red a^^d darifcing before his 
 eyes. Death! death* seemed written In 
 fiery characters everywhere he turned. 
 Never had he felt so dreadful a certainty 
 that his last hour was come, than when 
 sitting there, expecting each moment to 
 be led forth to the stake. He felt art 
 that bitter moment that De Lisle'a 
 words were true, and that it would have 
 been better to have died by the halter 
 than to be reserved for the fearful doom 
 now in store for him. His bodily suffer- 
 ing almost equaled the mental, for the 
 ligatures which bound him were cutting 
 into the quivering fiesh, and his posture 
 was so constrained that he could not 
 move. He strove to pray; but the hated 
 Image pf De Lisle, at such times, would 
 rise before him, driving away the pity- 
 ing form of his good angel, and filling 
 his mind with fierce, bitter thoughts. 
 
 And so two or three hours- passed 
 away. His savage jailer still crouched 
 at the door, glaring upon hIra with his 
 eyes of fire, his half naked, horribly 
 painted body and scarred face giving 
 him the apnearance of some hideous 
 painting, rather than a living man. Now 
 and then a bright ray of sunshine would 
 ateal in through some chink, falling like 
 an anifel hand' on the black, glosfiy locks 
 


Tt£ti UK If MIT OF Till-: CLIFFs) 
 
 ■ii' 
 
 [f turned 
 proed to 
 
 l^'ng- set 
 ie*i were 
 th their 
 ^s. dirty 
 8" eyes, 
 as he 
 |<J stern, 
 to glare 
 shJy as 
 
 of the 'captive.' Tttl»re was a drowsy 
 stillness In the air, rendered more op- 
 pressive by the dull. monot(»nous hum 
 that cante from the village. At length, 
 a profound stillness for a few moments 
 pupceedetl. Fred listened In ponder, and 
 ev^n hla guard betrayed some sign of 
 interest. They could almost hear each 
 other breathe, so profound was the still- 
 ness, when lo! a yell so fierce, so savage, 
 ?o diabolical, that It seemed to come 
 from the depths of panden)x>i)tum, broke 
 upon their ears. With an answering cry, 
 the Indian guard spi^ng to his feet, 
 and turned to Fred with. such a look of 
 fiendish triumph, that he could no longer 
 doubt what these shouts purported. 
 Thoy were his death-warrant. 
 
 A moment after, and the skin at the 
 entrance was burst rudely aside, and 
 two fierce, hideous-looking warriors 
 entered and spoke a few words to the 
 ^uard, who Immediately rushed Irom the 
 hut. Then approaching Fred, they sever- 
 ed his bonds, and made signs for him 
 to rise. With some difficulty he obeyed, 
 for his limbs were cramped and painful 
 in the extreme. Then motioning him to 
 follow, they led the way Into the air. 
 
 It was a golden, glowing summer day. 
 The sun shone In a sky of unclouded 
 i)lue, and poured a glow of light and 
 lieat over the green earth. The air was 
 lieavy with the odor of flowers, and the 
 dear chirping of numberless birds min- 
 gled gently with the dreamy murmur of 
 the trees. Never had nature appeared 
 so lovely to him before, as he cast one 
 long, last, lingering look around. 
 
 A series of unearthly yells greeted him 
 as he appeared. The whole population 
 of the village — warriors, squaws, and 
 papooses had assembled around a large 
 stake, firmly driven In the yielding earth, 
 and were glaring upon him with their 
 fierce eyes. 
 
 Around the stake was a pile of fagots 
 ready to be set on fire, and leading 
 him toward It, they bound his arms 
 fti'mly behlndjilm to the stake. 
 
 Almiost uhknown to himself, there had 
 been hitherto a wild hope still lingering 
 in Fred's breast— a hope that fate, or 
 rather Providence, had rtot reserved' him 
 foi- a doom so fearful. But now the last 
 faint spark of hope died out, and wltix 
 it went all his w^ild, tumultuous thought iii 
 and a deep, settled calm took their place. 
 
 He looked up, Before him stood Del 
 Lisle, his arms folded across his breast, ' 
 gazing upon him with his evil eyes. The 
 4 sneering smile of a demon was on his 
 facie, all the intense hatred and revenge 
 he' had ever cherished glowed In hie 
 features, and a light of Intense malignity 
 glittered In his serpent-Hke eyes. 
 
 "Wfll. Fred Stanley, we have met for 
 the last time,*' he b$.VA, mockingly. "T9U 
 st>e now the death you were born fol: — 
 
 vout doom is to roa.qt alive by a slow 
 nre." 
 
 Fred made no' reply. Fixing hlr ey s 
 on De Liale'.s face, he gased upon him 
 so long, so fixed, so steadily, that in- 
 vdluntarlly he quailed before him. It 
 was but for a moment, however, and 
 recovering himself, he went on: 
 
 "And have you no message to send t() 
 Edith? I go from here to-night, and 
 with the help of my master, bi?fore re- 
 ferred to. T shall carry her off In spite 
 of them all. to where they will never 
 again behold her. Look as fierce as you 
 please, mv good fellow; I rather enjoji* 
 It than otherwise, slnee It tells me you 
 feel. Once, had I not hated you so in- 
 tensely, with a hatred that became pan 
 of my very being. I could have envied 
 you for the heart you had won— a heaft 
 which I will yet trample under my feet; 
 until your fat^ will seem an'envlable one 
 compared with hers. She despised me, 
 spurned me with contempt for the gay,' 
 the handsome, the fascinating, the gal- 
 lant Fred Stanley; and In her turn she 
 will learn what It Is to be spurned. No 
 one who has ever yet Injured nie escaped. 
 To the very ends of the earth I would 
 follow them, like a bloodhound following 
 a trail, until I had wreaked my ven- 
 geance. You wronged me, Insulted me, 
 and you see the result— a fate, so dread- 
 ful that manhood must shudder to con- 
 template It, will be yours. Her turn 
 comes next; for now that you stand on 
 the threshold of. eternity, I swear to you. 
 Fred Stanley, that neither heaven nor 
 earth can turn me from my purpose." 
 
 "Monster!" exclaimed Fred. In a voice 
 that sounded low and unnatural with 
 Intense horror, "is this the return you 
 make for all Major Perclval has done 
 for you? For myself I neither have nor 
 shall ask for nrercy from you, fiend that 
 you are— I would not accept It If offered; 
 but gratitude to the old man, who has 
 been more than a father-to you, should- 
 restrain you from a crime that even- 
 those bloodthirsty savages around us 
 would shrink from committing. Man! 
 man! If there Is one spark of human 
 nature In your fiendish heart, you will 
 not bring the gray hairs of that old man 
 with sorrow to the grave." 
 
 "Ha! ha! and Fred Stanley can pleadi 
 for the roan who spurned him like a 
 dog!"" laughed De Lisle, scornfully. "If 
 you continue In this strain, I shall begin 
 to think you are a saint— have you' 
 canonized, an^ l<?t Edith know you died 
 in the odor of sanctity. Tour eloquence 
 is .quite lost, my good friend; that one. 
 spark of human nature, you see, does 
 not exist In my fietldlsn heart. Say, my 
 friend, was It not for pretty Edith you 
 were pleading that .time, instead of her 
 doting old fool of a father? Spare him! 
 ha! haf why, I have m long score against 
 him, too, that m\i8t l>e, wiped out hy a> 
 


72 
 
 TOE HERMIT OF THE efLlFFlS. 
 
 few <jf hin doubJoons, When he refused 
 to compel his love-alck daughter to 
 marry me, I vowed vengeance against 
 him as well as the rest: and, as I don't 
 Uke to be In people's debt, I ' ha«- take, 
 care to- cancel It as sf n as ' ssl le." 
 
 "If there e'''"r "^'bl^ -«' a > imAn 
 form. It Is y> :, Raip - !>• ^ <flel" ex- 
 claimed Fred, with a 16. '• vf -red and 
 loathing; "to purstie .hut ; ih lii^r ven- 
 geance of a tiger, an old nian an >lp- 
 less girl for some fancied wrong--; Ad 
 It been a man— but old age .and help- 
 lessness! O coward 1" 
 
 De Lisle's face grew livid with rage, 
 as he half drew a pistol, and 'advanced 
 a step toward him. 
 
 Jj^red observed the action; ahd his 
 heart bounded with the hope that in hi^ 
 rage De Lisle might shoot blni. and thus 
 t)ave him from a more terrible fate. 
 
 The hope was In vain, however. De 
 Lisle saw the quick gleam of. his eye, 
 and stepping back, he replaced the pistol 
 In his belt, saying, in his customary sar- 
 castic tone> 
 
 *'No, don't flatter yourseif I'll end you 
 sufFerings so speedily. I have no inten- 
 tion of depriving m^y good friends here 
 of the pleasant scene they anticipate. 
 I must confess it is rather new for me 
 to allow any one to call me a coward, 
 and let him escape immediate chastise- 
 ment; but circumstances alter cases, you 
 know. I percielve Liohg Knife approach- 
 ing, to give the signal for the fagots to 
 be lighted, and our red-skinned friends 
 ■ are growing impatient. So farewell, 
 \P'Eed Stanley! I wish you a pleasant 
 Jpumey tf the other world» and a cordial 
 welcome when you arrive there!" 
 
 He bowed with most ceremonious 
 politeness, and stepped aside, as the 
 tfavage chief approached. Waving his 
 hand as a signal, one of the Indians 
 approached, and thrust a lighted brand 
 among the combustibles. 
 
 In a moment, the whole pile was in a 
 blaze. With screeches and yells that 
 cati be likened to nothing earthly, the 
 savages joined hands, and danced madly 
 4i'f>und the flames that rose crackling, 
 and blazing, and roaring as though ex> 
 lilting In their power. 
 
 Fred raised his eyes, to the bright sky 
 abfivje him for one farewell glance. It 
 was such a glorious day, bright and 
 radiant with sunlight. J^\] nature lodked 
 lieaceful and lovely; in the breast of 
 ni^n alone fierce, dark passions -existed 
 ~theVi alone thirsted - for each- other's 
 
 ; Higher^ and higher rbse . the flannes. 
 flercet* and fiercer they blazed, faster 
 and fa ster they Spread, until he stood 
 4lone A^lthin a red, lurid cll^cie ot fire: 
 Thfe heat and" smoke w^r? besihYiing 1%> 
 grow unbearable, for tMe flameti had tiot 
 »ea<^e4 >ln}<^ -Flxtaefrhtsiey^g Jon tb«^^0ie^ 
 vouring monster, Fred silently commit- 
 
 ted his soul to Heaven. One last thon^ , 
 of Edith, and then all were turned 
 that dread unknown to whlc'. he was o 
 rapidly approaching. 
 
 The crlesi whoops. y<.:h3 and screeches 
 fj thC' ^av^gej each tihoment Increased. 
 rtS they danced madly without the ring 
 of Are. He scarcely heeded or heard 
 them, until suddenly they died away. 
 Every voice was arrested — the ma«1 
 dance ceased— and all stood as If trans- 
 fixed. Following the direction toward 
 which every eye was now turned, Frod 
 beheld a sight which filled him with 
 amazement. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A NARROW ESCAPE. ... 
 
 "Oh! ask me not to speak thy fate— 
 
 Oh! tempt me not to tell. 
 What doom shall make thee desolate, 
 
 The wrong thou tpayst not quell. 
 Away! away! for death would be ■ 
 E'en as a mercy, unto thee." 
 
 Tnn cause of their astonishment was 
 soon explained. There, before them, ifte 
 a spirit, In his flowing robes and snowy 
 hair, stood the Hermit of the Cllffsf 
 
 With a grunt expressive of surprise 
 and satisfaction, not unmlngled with 
 awe, the chief advanced to meet him. 
 There was something truly Imposing In 
 the majestic appearance of the old man 
 —his fantastic robes fluttering In the 
 air, his long white hair and beard flow- 
 ing over his shoulders. There was an 
 evident reverence and . respect for this 
 singular old man In the hearts of the 
 Indians, who looked upon him ais a supe- 
 rior being— something more akin to the 
 Great Spirit than to his fellow men. 
 
 Pointing with his hand toward th^ 
 prisoner, the hermit addressed the chief 
 in his own language, In a tone more*of 
 command than entreaty. At first, Jlls 
 words were listened to Impatiently— then 
 angrily— and finally with a sort of ^wfe. 
 As the hermit went of). Increasing in 
 • vehemence, the warrior listened In auip- 
 erstitlous silence, and When he had coi^- 
 cluded, he bowed his head, and, foilotWisid 
 by the hermit, turned toward his o^p 
 people, who had stood watching thejr^. 
 durlne; their conference, with looks .of 
 P^lngled respect and curiosity, and. began 
 pddrewslng them In their own langviagi^. 
 As a matter of course, Fred undejrstocid 
 not a word; but. from the savage eyes 
 that were every now and theii turiied 
 toward him. he Judged he was the sub- 
 ject of their convjersatlon, ., ,-,, .j i/^ 
 
 Surprise, first, and then rage, was der 
 pljjted on every face, while knlvei* and 
 tomahawks were brandished, with fleroe 
 veils. But thfe-ltoud. harsh voice of the 
 ^chlef.inaide itself ^earii ahove^ «he dtes 
 'm. t^m«R of-:.ffn^«Rr n.nd oomtrtAnd. friw 
 warriors gradually relapsed into sullen, 
 


irned 
 
 Was ,, 
 
 •creased. 
 [the rlnjf 
 heard 
 away. 
 •® mad 
 I* trans- 
 toward 
 'd, Pred 
 im with 
 
 THE BBRMIT OF THE CUFFS. 
 
 (loKired silence, while >very eye was di- 
 rected toward the aptlve, and glared 
 with eoncetitrated passion and dfsap- 
 pointnient. 
 
 W'^'^n the ohltftaln ceased, the hermit 
 aduressed the enraged crowd. High and 
 clear, like the sHvery tones of a trumpet, 
 his voice rang out, soothing the waters 
 of passion- which the words of their 
 rhief had lashed into fury. As they lis- 
 tened their noisy demonstrations of rage 
 gave place to low, deep growls and sul- 
 len mutterlngs, while they glared like 
 wild beasts upon Pred, whose position 
 at the stake was now almost unbearable. 
 
 As he folded his arms across his 
 breast,, and ceased speaking, the war- 
 riors fell sullenly back, and the chief 
 
 perfectly ghantly with su n.essed pas- 
 sion, 'but think not. tho^ h you are 
 triumphant now, you have conquered 
 Ralph De Lisle. I swear I will yet have 
 threefold vengeance on 'thee, hoary sor- 
 cerer, and on this doUbl(6-dyod traitor 
 beside you!" 
 
 With a fierce exclamation Pred sprang 
 forward, and De T.lsie would doubtless 
 have b^en felled to the earth, but the 
 hermit laid his hand oh the young man's 
 shoulder, and said, aternly 
 
 "I ommand you, do It not. 'Ven- 
 gei. ce mine, salth the Lord, and I 
 w«i! re /.' Leave this flend Incarnate 
 tr d h er power. His race will soon 
 
 'H : say you so, good father?" said 
 
 hloiHelf. leaping over the burning circle, ! pg v^gie, Ironically. "It may be so, but 
 freed the bonds of Pred, and motioned | i ^,j;i ggnd a few of your particular 
 him to follow. No second invitation wad Mends before me. to announce my corn- 
 necessary to make him leave his plact. 
 of torture, and the next moment he 
 stood beside the hernilt, who scarcely 
 gave him a single glance, as he turned 
 again and addressed the chief. 
 
 Puring these proceedings, which oc- 
 cupied but a few moments. De Lisle had 
 stood watching them, like one who can- 
 not believe what he sees. Now be ad- 
 vanced to where the <^rlo stood, and with 
 a face perfectly Jivld with rage and 
 disappointment, he turned toward the 
 hermit, and angrily exclaimed: 
 
 "Sir, what means this? By what 
 devilish art have you bewitched these 
 savages into giving up their prey?" 
 
 "It means, sir, that your evil machina- 
 tions are again defeated by me. I use 
 
 no devilish arts; as you well know; but 
 
 there is a power higher than that of 
 
 man— a power that can defeat man's 
 
 most cunning scheme, in its own good 
 
 time!" answered the hermit, with grave 
 
 dignity. 
 "Death and fury! Old man, cease 
 
 your prating!" exclaimed the maddened 
 
 Be Lisle. "Though this copper-colqred 
 
 fool 'here has given him up. by heaven! 
 
 I will disappoint you yet, and you shall 
 
 bear from hence but a dead carcass." 
 'He drew a pistol as he spoke; but, 
 
 ♦^re he cdtild fulfil his threat, it was 
 
 strttck from his hand by the chief, who 
 
 brandished his tomahawk before Wa 
 
 eyes with a fierce yell, and would doubt- 
 less have prevented his ever drawing: 
 
 another, but for the intervention of the 
 
 hermit. Motioning De I.lsle back with 
 
 a: 'nia|(estic wave of the hand, he salct; before.- All the events since his capture 
 ^'"AWay, 'slrr One word from.: me. And 'had passed so raplttly that he was. al- 
 you' and your band of cutthroats ther^ most tempted to believe it was but. a 
 wilF, In five minutes, be in eternity! troubled dream. A glance, however, at 
 Thou?" you- can show ho mercy to oth- bis dusky companion^ soon convinced 
 
 T regret leaving such pleasant com- 
 pany, but 'necessity knows no law.' I 
 trust soon to have the pleasure of meet- 
 ing you both again. Until then!" 
 
 He bowed; lifted his hat, and with 
 the same oold, sneering smile on his 
 lip, turned away. Whispering a few 
 words in the ear of Paul, Snowe, whose 
 eyes were fixed as If fascinated on the 
 hermit, he gave his men the order to 
 mount. Ere five minutes had elapsed, 
 they were In their saddles and away. 
 \ "We must follow their example," sqld 
 the hermit ' to Pred. Then, turning to 
 the chief, he spoke a few words in the 
 Indian language, to which the other an- 
 swered by a nod; and making a sign 
 that they should follow him, he turned 
 and forced his way through the group of 
 dogged-looking warriors, whose glances 
 toward Pred were anything but friendly. 
 Fred's horse was led forth, together 
 with the hermit's. The chief himself 
 mounted, and gave some order to his 
 followers, upon which some half dozen 
 sprang into their saddles, and the whple 
 party dashed off. 
 
 As they reached the summit of the 
 hill, Pred paused a moment to look back. 
 Scarcely eight hours had elapsed since 
 he had stood in the same spot— but how- 
 different were his feelings! Then he 
 stood on the threshold of death, wt;l;h 
 his deadly foe on one side and blood- 
 thirsty savages on the other, Now l� 
 yfSis safe and free, or at least on the 
 high road to freedom, saved by the same 
 mysterious being who had saved his life 
 
 ers, 
 
 rcy shall be shown. ta you. Away 
 . al^— yotir very presence Is pbl- 
 
 \>eyj; ;nfK»t -reverend V^leaier in 
 
 hi.: r and -smHe. though his face wa»[inade captive^ tlMlr.saya.ge.eijcatflt,l«ft 
 
 him of the unpleasant reality, and qulek.- 
 enlng his pace, lie descended the hill, 
 ahd^ bade a Jastaiid-unr^uot^nt ad(eu*to 
 the Indian vtUaffe.. . _ . t .. .: • . . ry 
 f>Iear the fpoi vwhtere ^r§dxJiad >ij^eB 
 
 F 
 
 ^' 
 
 P.. 
 


n 
 
 THE HEHU1T OF THE C*i-//(Vftf; 
 
 rtiein, and the preserver and preserved 
 went' on their Journey alone. 
 
 For a time they rode on In silence. 
 Roth were too deeply absorbed in 
 thought to eonvOTse. At length the her- 
 mit looked up and said: 
 
 "Yours was a narrow escape, my 
 friend. You were Indeed Hterallsf shatch- 
 ed 'a brand from the bdrning,*" 
 
 "And to you T owe it," replied Fred, 
 gratefully. "You seem fated to place me 
 under a debt of gratitude. I will not 
 attempt to thank you for saving me 
 from a doom an dreadful. No- words of 
 mine"— 
 
 "I want no thanks," Interrupted the 
 hermit. "If you really feel grateful, Ic'. 
 your gratitude be inward, and manifest 
 Itself by actions instead of words. I 
 know the world too well to place much 
 confidence in hollow promises!" 
 
 "How did you discover I was a pris- 
 oner?" inquired Fred, whose curiosity 
 could no longer be restrained. 
 
 "Very easily. I foresaw danger when 
 VOX! started, and followed you." 
 
 "Then you were near me during my 
 journey," said Fred. "I wonder the 
 savages did not discover you." 
 
 "I was near you at first, but was un- 
 able to ride forward as rapidly as your 
 party. However, I followed your trail, 
 and reached the village a few hours 
 after, and providentially in time to sav^ 
 your life." 
 
 "It is most wonderful that they would 
 surrender a captive at the stak^" said 
 Fred. "Your power, sir. «eems^to be 
 omnipotent." 
 
 "I had a strong claim on the gratitude 
 of the chief," said the hermit. "Once, 
 when I found him alone, wounded and 
 almost dying, I had him ^orne to my 
 dwelling and nursed him until he recov- 
 ered; Since then he has been anxious to 
 redeem the promise made at the time, to 
 grant me the first favor I ever asked of 
 him, and as your life chanced to be the 
 first, he was forced to grant it. Beside," 
 he added, with a smile, "his supersti- 
 tious followers consider me something 
 more than mortal, and labor under the 
 delusion that in offending me they will 
 draw upon themselves the wrath of the 
 Great Spirit." 
 
 "Your power extends ovef more than 
 superstitious savages," said Fred. "My 
 father, stern and haughty as he is, quails 
 before you, as hft has never done before 
 any other living man. Would I knew 
 the secret of your -niysterious power!" 
 
 A shadow passed rOver tl^e face of thfe 
 hermit, and tvhen he spoke again his 
 voice wa» unusually low and solemn. 
 
 "Some day, ere long, perhaps, you will 
 learn all. Until that tjme rest in peace, 
 atiel believe this mystery is all for the 
 best. I go now to my home on the cUflts, 
 but somettitng ,tie1l9 tn^ that we shall 
 soon moet>ag«itn." >";' 
 
 "Well, let it be for joy .or for sorrow, 
 the meeting will be welcome,'' replied 
 Fred; "but why should you reside iri 
 that lonely spot— why not seek a hoinu 
 with your friends?" , 
 
 "Friends?" repeated the hermlt^v r' 
 most bitterly, "who in this selflsh world 
 deserve that sacred name? No, I havt- 
 done with trusting the world; my expe- 
 rience has taught me how much reliance 
 there Is to he placed in it. I would be 
 alone with natuee.. Watching th»' 
 mighty, ever-moaning, sea, listening to 
 the wild shrieks of the wind or gazing 
 upon the blue lightning, I am happy. 
 I never wish to mingle with my fellpw- 
 men more." 
 
 "Strange, eccentric . being!" thought 
 Fred, as he gaaed on the pale face of 
 his companion, now lit up . by epthufU.- 
 asm. "What strange vicissitudes he 
 must have passed through!" 
 
 "What do you think now of my predic- 
 tion?" said the hermit, quietly, after a 
 few moments' pause. 
 
 "Think?" replied Fred, "why, that your 
 prophecy has in a most unpleasahtly 
 short time been fulfilled, and I must 
 apologize for ever presuming to. doubt 
 its truth." 
 
 "I fear still grefiter dangers are In 
 Htore for you," said the hermit, gloom- 
 ily. 
 
 "From what quarter now?" inquired 
 Fred. 
 
 "From your mortal enemy, De Lisle. 
 There was something perfectly fiendish 
 in his look as he left us, and It needs no 
 soothsayer to tell he Is even now plot- 
 ting against you." 
 
 "Well, it seems to be a drawn battle," 
 said Fred, with a half smile; "he plot- 
 ting and you counterplotting. As for 
 me, I seem like a rudderless craft in the 
 stream of life, drifting whichever way 
 the current sets. It is useless striving 
 to guard against dangers when we can- 
 not foresee in what shape they ttiay 
 come. So, my dear sir, I shall preserve' 
 the even tenor of my way, and place my 
 trust' in Providence and you!" 
 
 "Youth is always hopeful and' blitidly 
 trusting," said the hermit: "but Heavetfl 
 forbid my presentiments should pihdVe 
 true, for there niay be dahgbrs Wors^' 
 than death. Disgrace to you would t>e k 
 thousandfold worse." 
 
 "Disgrace!" exclaimed Fred,- almost' 
 furiously, while his face flushed; "who 
 dares couple nty name with dlssrraGe?" 
 
 "De Lisle will endeavor to db so, rest 
 assured," said the hermit; "there— there 
 is no need of looking so fierce about it. 
 Do you imagine there Is anything- he can 
 do to injure you In the opinion of the 
 world, more especially - in that of the 
 Percivals, that he will not da? And, 
 speaking of the Percivals, I presume 
 that is your present destinati*6n?" 
 
 ''No»" said Fred/ "I go there tlo. more. 
 


THB HBRMIT OF TUB OUFF8. 
 
 Wowi* tp heftven I h4* nevet gon* 
 ttietel" ' .» . • 
 
 "It 'would liave ireeii better for all par- 
 Wen," said the hermft; "but the past can 
 never be recalled, and you can only en- 
 deavor toatone for It by absenting; ypur- 
 Helf for the future. Edith's love for you 
 has remained firm throughout, and will 
 tq the end— for her you need have n<* 
 fear. The war will soon be over, and 
 there can be little doubt which side will 
 be victorious. Major Perclval's views 
 may change in time, and his fair daugh- 
 ter may yet be your bride. Who can 
 tell what the future may bring forth?" 
 
 "Who, Indeed?" thought Fred, "though 
 I fancy that prediction is altogether too 
 goqd to prove true." 
 
 "And now farewell!" said the hermit, 
 when they emerged from the forest road. 
 "I go to my wild home among the cliffs, 
 while you go to follow the pa'th of glory. 
 It may be, when we meet again, many 
 things now hidden in darkness will be 
 brought to light. When in danger, re- 
 member you have a friend in the Her- 
 mit of the Cliffs." 
 
 He turned In a direction opposite to 
 that taken by Fred, and was soon out of 
 Bisht. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE UAflT RKBOLVE. 
 
 "There was a laughing devil in his sneer. 
 That raised emotions both of rage arid 
 
 And where his frown of hatred dark':* felL 
 Hope, withering, fled— and Mercy sigheCr 
 . farewell." 
 
 —The Corsair. 
 
 Months passed away. Hoary winter 
 had shrunk back before bright, smiling 
 spring, and the gblden summer days 
 were approaching again. Many exeltlhg 
 events had taken place since the cir- 
 cumstance recorded 'In the la»t chapter, 
 for the war was over, and America was 
 free. 
 
 it was a dark, sultry night in June. 
 In the back parlor of an unpretending 
 looking inn sat two men conversing. 
 They were our old acquaintances, Ralph 
 Efe' Lisle .and his amiable friend, Paill 
 Snowe. 
 
 ''Well, what Is this wonderful plot you 
 have In your wise head now, De Lisle?" 
 inquired the man Paul. 
 
 "A plot that, like some great medicines, 
 must either kill or cure!" answered D« 
 Lisle; "one that noakes Edith Percival 
 mine beyond hope of redemption." 
 
 "I never knew one of your plans yet 
 that you were not equally sure of. Take 
 care this does not prove a wlU-o'^the- 
 wiept like the rest," said jthe other, with 
 a sneer. •^' 
 
 - "No, Uy heaven!" exclaimed E^ Lfaile, . 
 setting his teeth fiercely; "this night 
 
 Edith Percival shall be^ either my bride 
 or that of death; this night the crisis of 
 her fate and mine has come." 
 
 "nah! bah! all foolery-^all child's 
 play!" said Paul Rnowe, In his bitler, 
 Jibing tone. "You lay wonderful plans, 
 and see them slip through your Angers 
 when they are In your iJower. This girl 
 who has made sueh a fool of you was 
 for a week under the same roof with 
 you; her lover and your mortal foe was 
 likewise within arm's length of you. 
 Well, you let both go— let them give you 
 the slip and laugh at you and your plans 
 in safety." 
 
 "For that I may thank your dainty 
 (lauRhte>< and that villainous young 
 scoundrel, Joe Smith," said De Lisle, an- 
 grily. "I should have liked to have 
 twisted her treacherous neck for her on 
 my return, and would have done so but 
 for you." 
 
 "I have no doubt of it." said Paul, de- 
 liberately fllHng a glass of brandy; "but 
 you well know you. are too completely in 
 my power to play any of your tricks off 
 on me. What would you do If I took a 
 fancy to split some day and let all out?" 
 
 "If you would!" exclaimed De Lisle, 
 his face grow»ng absplutely livid with 
 rage as he drew a pistol, "I would"— 
 
 "What?" said Paul Snowe. with his 
 cold, deriding smile, as his leader paused. 
 
 "Shoot you like a dog!" hissed De 
 Lisle through his clenched teeth. 
 
 "Two could play at that game, my 
 worthy captain," said the man, careless- 
 ly, touching a long knife he. wore, "If 
 I took a fancy for peaching, there would 
 be a slight obstacle in the way Qf your 
 shooting me— something like this." And 
 Paul made a peculiar motion under htti 
 left ear. Indicative of hanging. 
 
 "Villain!" said De Lisle, "there was a 
 time when you would n«t daxe to be thus 
 insolent. But boast away; I fear you 
 not; you are too careful of your own 
 precious Jugular to risk it by such an 
 experiment. I fancy when Ralph De 
 Lisle swings, Paul Snowe will keep him 
 company." 
 
 "Perhaps so. Well, it's a comfort to 
 think the world will wag Just as mer- 
 rily when we are gon< There will be 
 few tears shed over our grave — eh, cap- 
 tain?" 
 
 "You forget your affectionate daugh- 
 ter," said De Lisle, sneerlngly. 
 
 "Oh, Elva? She will be better without 
 me; but for her sake I will avoid Jack 
 Ketch as long as possible. But to change 
 the subject, which la getting, rather per- 
 sonal, when you talk of hanging, hovy^ 
 do you propose to abduct Miss Perci- 
 val?" * 
 
 "I shall not Abduct her, my good 
 friend; she must come with me of her 
 own free wIH or not at all." 
 . "Faith, you are gettlijg jirig^tiy- par- 
 ticular. I've seen the time when yon 
 
 


70 
 
 THK HERMIT OF THE CLIFFB. 
 
 Ifl 
 
 I 
 
 I'l 
 
 \m 
 
 weren't so choice, and wan glad to get 
 her. by hook or by crook." 
 
 "Yea, hut that time ban pasHed. and 
 my proud Lady Edith nhall eue to me 
 now aa I have heretofore done to her. 
 Love and hatred, worthy Tnul, are nearly 
 akin. Next to mysolf, I loved that girl 
 better than anything on earth. Well, Bhe 
 jilted me for this dashing rebel— or patri- 
 ot. I suppose I should say now. since they 
 have triumphed — and I hate her now 
 with an Intensity far surpassing any 
 lovo I ever felt for her. Now I would, 
 as far as love is concerned, a thousand 
 times rather marry your pretty daugh- 
 ter Elva than her." 
 
 •• "Much obliged for the honor." said 
 Paul, dryly. "But. In the name of my 
 'pretty daughter Elva,' I beg respectfully 
 to decline the Illustrious alliance." 
 
 De Lisle smiled scornfully, but, with- 
 out noticing his words, went on: 
 
 "Affection, therefore, you see, has 
 nothing to do with my wish to make 
 Edith Perclval my wife. Hatred and 
 revenge are my sole motives. She 
 loathes the very sight of me, I know, 
 and there Is no other means by which 
 I can punish he%. for It so well. Her 
 lover, too— Master Fred— will feel It 
 more. than anything else I could possi- 
 bly do. Therefore, these are my reasons 
 for wishing tc n^.sfv pretty Edith." 
 
 "Well, I didn't ask you for your rea- 
 sons," said Snowe; "I don't take so 
 much interest In either of you. You 
 say you are going to make her marry 
 you. Now, how are you going to do it?" 
 
 "Listen!" said his friend, with a sar- 
 donic smile. "I have learned that my 
 quondam lady-love has taken a fancy to 
 a sick glr) in the neighborhood, and visits 
 her veryoften. A brother of the Invalid 
 —a child of nine— goes for her when 
 wanted. This little fellow I told to meet 
 me to-night at a place I appointed, but 
 I have not yet told him what I want. 
 I think I can manage to Induce him to 
 bring Edith out. I will meet her— urge 
 her to fly with me— and if she persists 
 in refusing"— 
 
 "Well, and If she does?" said the man 
 Paul, looking up. 
 
 "I win stab her to the heart!" ex- 
 claimed De Lisle, In a fierce, hoarse 
 whisper, while his eyes glittered with a 
 demoniacal light. 
 
 Paul Snowe drew back involuntarily at 
 the strange, wild expression on his com- 
 panion's face. There wag a look almost 
 of horror on his face as he exclaimed: 
 
 "No, no! devil as you are, you would 
 not murder an unoffending girl!" 
 
 "Ha, ha! Paul Snowe turned preach- 
 er!" mocked De Lisle. "Wheii was it 
 your conscience became so tender, hon- 
 est Paul ?-^iMnGe^ the night your Spanish* 
 knife let the moonlight through Dandy 
 
 Dan's backbone for cftUtng you a liar— 
 eh?" 
 
 "Perdition selie you! Hunh!" ex- 
 claimed Paul, growing pale. "I meant 
 to dissuade you from it, because It will 
 be discovered, and then we shall swing, 
 you know." 
 
 "Well, It's swing with us, anyway, 
 sooner or later. One may aa well be 
 hung for a sheep aa a lamb, Paul." aald 
 De Lisle, recklessly. 
 
 "To be sure." said Paul, turning un- 
 easily In his chair and draining another 
 glass of brandy. "But where'a the use 
 of being so desperate? You ougnt to 
 take precautions." 
 
 "So I have, my honest friend. If it 
 does come to the worst, I think I hav«' 
 arranged matters In such a manner that 
 all the blame will fall -on the shoulders 
 of that meddler, Fred Stanley." 
 "Ha! have you? In what way?" 
 "This dagger belongs to him; I saw hlH 
 name engraved on it, and, thinking It 
 might be useful to me, I took charge of 
 it. About three hours ago I saw him 
 parting with Major Perclval. and* the 
 major foaming and scolding like jin en- 
 raped washerwoman. Shortly after he 
 mounted his horse and left the village in 
 hot haste. Now, if the major's daughter 
 is found mur — well, you know what I 
 mean— In the morning, with his dagger 
 somewhere near, that circumstance, tak- 
 en In connection with his Quarrel with 
 the major and subsequent flight from the 
 llage, will, without doubt, place the 
 orthy youth's neck in a tight place 
 and convince the world generally, and 
 his admirers particularly, that, after all 
 his escapes, he was born to be hanged 
 at last." 
 
 There was a wicked and most sinister 
 smile on De Lisle's lips, a glittering light 
 In his evil eyes, that involuntarily made 
 Paul Snowe. hardened in crime though 
 he was, draw back In horror. There was 
 something so fearfully cold-blooded in 
 the manner In which he unfolded his dla- 
 bolical plot that his listener placed his 
 hand on the hilt of his knife and looked 
 for a moment Into De Lisle's gleaming 
 eyes In alienee. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of it?" de- 
 manded De Lisle, at length. 
 
 "Think!" repeated Paul: "why, that If 
 there ever was a fiend Incarnate on 
 earth, you are one!" 
 
 •!Ha! ha! Well, no matter for that. 
 Do you not think my plan a safe one?" 
 
 "r neither know nor care, Ralph De 
 Lisle. If you are safe yourself, all right. 
 If you are not safe, all right likewise. 
 i will have nothing to do with your dia- 
 bolical plans: therefore, as I .saidl^ before, 
 I neither know rior care wl^ether you are 
 safe or- not." ,^ ' 
 
 "Insolent villain!" exclaimed J5e Lisle, 
 


TBB UBHMIT OF THE CUFFS. 
 
 I 
 
 de- 
 
 fiprlnalnff fltrcely to hiR f«et: "ymi shall 
 rep«nt this!" 
 
 "Hands off. T)e Lisle!" said Paul, bold- 
 ly confrontini^ him. "I am not afraid of 
 you. Commit your own murders for the 
 future: I will have no more to do with 
 such a cold-blooded assassin." 
 
 For a moment De Lisle glared upon 
 him like a wild beast: hut the bold eye 
 of Paul flnowe quailed not beneath his 
 burning gaxe. Seeing how little he was 
 feared, D^ Lisle rhanged his tactios, 
 and, throwing himself back In his chair, 
 he said, with a forred laugh: 
 
 "Well, we won't quarrel, Paul: we have 
 been friends too long to part In anger, 
 and espeeially about surh a trifle." 
 
 "I never was a friend of yours, Cap- 
 tain De Lisle," said Paul, doggedly. 
 "Villainy bound us together; but the 
 link of crime Is very different from that 
 of friendship." 
 
 "Well, have it your own way," said 
 De Lisle, with affected carelessness, as 
 he replaced the daprner within his vest. 
 "And now I see by yonder timepiece that 
 'tis time I was keeping my appointment 
 with little nine-year-old. You'll wait for 
 me here, of course?" 
 
 "No, I won't!" was the short, sharp 
 and decisive reply. "I have waited for 
 you too long, as I may yet And out to 
 my cost. You and I part to-night, De 
 Lisle," continued Paul Snow, rising, and 
 taking his hat. "I -intend to leave the 
 country as soon as possible; and, if you 
 wish to avoid the hangman, you will fol- 
 low my example, and let Edith Perclval 
 alone. Don't turn so white about the 
 gills, man: I won't peach. But you 
 kno^' . however long the fox may run, 
 he'll he caught by the tall at last. So, 
 as w« are parting, I'll take a last glass 
 with you. In memory of old times. Here's 
 wlshlnff you long life and an escape from 
 the halter." 
 
 "I'll drink no such toast!" said De 
 Lisle, biting his lips to keep down his In- 
 creasing anger. "Here's to the bright 
 eyea of your daughter Elva." 
 
 "So be It, then." said Paul, refilling his 
 glass; "and on those sa4|[| bright eyes 
 you will nevwTook again, ifiy susceptible 
 friend. Oood-nlght, De Lisle, and luck 
 be with you." 
 
 He turned and quitted the room. De 
 Lisle looked after him with an evil smile 
 as he muttered: 
 
 "Say you so, worthy Paul? That re- 
 mains to be seen. And now for the 
 drama of the"evening. Will It be a trag- 
 edy or a farce? Well, ere midnffeht I 
 shall know." 
 
 He drank deeply, as If to nerve him- 
 self for what was approaching: and then, 
 muffling himself in his cloak and draw- 
 ing hta hat down over his brow, he quit- 
 ted the obscure tnn. and disappeared In 
 the gloomy night. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THR OLD HOI'SR O.N THK RLUPr. 
 
 •A wlllliiK menneriKer— <'rltn»*'K midy tool— 
 A thiim of Menh and blood that may b« 
 
 lunight 
 And Hold like vllent mcnhnndinc." 
 
 TiiK sky was dark and overcast with 
 storm-threatenlng clouds. The moon 
 struggled feebly on her way, shedding a 
 sickly, watery light over the earth. The 
 wind had been rising all the evening, and 
 now blew chill and raw. accompanied by 
 a thin, ilglg drtszle. Lights were twin- 
 kling here and there through the village 
 as De Lisle passed along; but there were 
 few abroad— a circumstance he rejoiced 
 at. lest he should be discovered. ThoSe 
 who did meet him as they hurried home- 
 ward, paused to stare In surprise at the 
 tall, dark, muffled figure which strode 
 along as though gifted with the famous 
 seven-league boots. 
 
 Faster and faster he walked; for, half 
 mad with excitement, he strove to lose 
 memory In the rapid motion. His head. 
 hot and throbbing, felt as though it 
 would burst. He paused for a moment, 
 and, leaning against a tree, took oft his 
 hat that the cool breeze might relieve 
 him. - His long, dark locks streamed 
 wildly in the wind behind him, and his 
 heart throbbed so loudly that every pul- 
 sation sounded like the stroke of a 
 sledgehammer. His hands were red with 
 blood— his soul dark with crime; but 
 never had he meditated so dreadful a 
 murder as weighed on his heart to-night. 
 The shadows, as they flitted by. looked to 
 his heated Imagination like specters ris- 
 ing from the grave to warn him back. 
 
 The village clock struck nine. He 
 started at the sound, and, unable to re- 
 main longer Inactive, started on more 
 rapidly than before. As he walked, he 
 suddenly lifted his head, and beheld the 
 churchyard before him. To reach the 
 place where thi boy was to meet him, he 
 must par* H The tombstones gleamed 
 white arJ ijiiastlT/ in the dim light. How 
 they S" ' med to glare i'.)>on him with their 
 cold, tn e ?yes! 
 
 He >haddered, ar ' hurried on faster 
 than V .ei. Hln rrroid walking soon 
 brought him fo the p/ace of rendezvous; 
 it wa-t an old, deserted house on the black 
 hillside known as the Barn on the Bluff. 
 It had »;eien untenanted for many a day, 
 and was only used as a shelter for sheep 
 on stormy nights. No other house was 
 near it on any side. It sltocd alone, 
 bleak, grim, and dismal— a fit place for 
 the dark scene It was to witness that 
 night. 
 
 A boy of about nl ie— a vacant-eyed, 
 stupid-faced urchin— stood shivering be- 
 side one of the broken windows, and en- 
 deavoring to peer out Into the gloom. 
 Hearing approaching footsteps, he start- 
 ed from his corner, and met De Lisle in 
 the doorway. 
 


n 
 
 THE HE^RMIT OF THE CLIFFS. 
 
 4f',n 
 
 
 i 
 
 iJM 
 
 "If yoM'd stayed muc^i longer, I 
 wouldn't waited," said the boy, rather 
 fmllenly. "Why didn't you come Hooner?' 
 
 "It's time enough." said De Loale.. "Dp 
 you think you'll find Miss Perclval at 
 home now?" 
 
 "Be' sure I will," replied the boy. 
 "They have a party to-night, and she'll 
 be sure to be there." 
 
 "A party!" muttered De Lisle; "tnat 
 deff'iits all my plans. Why didn't you 
 tell me this before, you young rascal? 
 She won't come with you IJ, they have 
 a party." 
 
 "Yes, she will, too," said the boy. 
 "She did it afore, and she told our 
 Mai*riet any tlms she wanted her she'd 
 come, and no bother about it." 
 
 "Well, will you go and tell her yoor 
 sister Is dying, or any other He that 
 you think will be likely to bring her 
 here? 3ee. I will give you- this Koicl 
 guinea now, and a dozen when you come 
 back." 
 
 "Will you. though?" exclaimed the 
 boy r^ his eyes sparkling with delight. 
 
 "Yes, if you bring her here alone. 
 Mind, don't tell her there is a man 
 waiting for her here. You have to pass 
 this bluff on you'' way home, have you 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes; but there's another shorter 
 way." 
 
 "Oh! well, don't mind the shorter 
 way. Briftg her here—dlone, mind— 
 alone. Do you think there is any danger 
 of her being accompanied by any one?" 
 
 "No, I guess not; she often came 
 with me alone to see Harriet as la'.e 
 as this." 
 
 "Oh! very well, then; go now and don't 
 be long. Romeniber, if you bring M'ss 
 Perclval here alone, you shall h&ve my 
 purse upon your return." 
 
 "All right," an«wered the boy, touch- 
 ing his cap, as he quitted the old house 
 and bounded down the bill. 
 
 Folding his arms across his b^c.^"**. 
 and drawing his cloak closer around 
 him, De Lisle leaned against the broken 
 doorway, and strove to stih the wild 
 tumult within, and think. Think! how 
 could he think with heait and brain 
 burning anr» throbbing with such a 
 blinding Intenrsity of pain? His face was 
 deailly pale, his eyes inflamed and 
 blooOshot. his lips dry and parched. A 
 horror, nameless and hitherto unfelt, 
 was sveallng over him. It was as if 
 some dread calamity were hovering 
 over his own head. 
 
 All was profoundly still. The ligbts in 
 the village below were going cat one by 
 one, as tl?ie simple villagers retired to 
 rest, Ifttle dreaming of him who leaned 
 silent and alone in the old house with 
 such a tumultuously throbbing heart. 
 The wind wailed dirge-like through the 
 troes, and at intervals the harsh, omi- 
 nous croak of a raven—that evil bird 
 
 r,t night— as It flew past, would break 
 upon his ear, startling him like a gal- 
 vanic shock. 
 
 "Would this night were over!" he mut- 
 tered, taking off hlfl hat, anj shaking 
 back his black locLs. "Am I turning 
 coward that I quake thus at every 
 sound? Ralph Ds Lisle, courage, man! 
 'Tis but a girl more or less in the world, 
 anfl there is no one to know It." 
 
 No one to know It! A stray gleam 
 of moonlight, bi^eaking through the 
 clouds, fell on his face white as that of 
 thf dead, but lighted up with suoh 
 intensely burning eyes. No onfe to know 
 it! A still small voice deep down In 
 his heart and silent for many a year, 
 raiig out with one word, clear and dis- 
 tinct. A host of memories — memories of 
 his almc^t forgotten childhood— rushed 
 back l(' his mind. Again he felt his 
 mother's jjentle hand straying amid his 
 hair; h«r soft voice whispering, as she 
 passed fiom earth r "Love and fear God, 
 my son, and meet me in Heaven." How 
 reproachfully her loving eyes rose before 
 him now. Again, in fancy, he wander- 
 ed hand in hand with Edith, as he had 
 often- done in childhood, or lay on the 
 grass at her feet, while she sang for 
 hini the sweet "Evening Hymn," and 
 he thought the sky not half so bl:ie and 
 luautifu' as her eyes. Words "he had 
 h.iig forgotten came again to his mind; 
 the simple, earnest prayer he had said 
 in his boyhood night and morning, like 
 some wandering strain of music rose to 
 his lips. It was the last struggle be- 
 tween good and evil lin his heart. His 
 better nature seemed for a moment tfi 
 prevail. He turned to quit the old house 
 when the Image of Fred Stanley arose 
 before him. The struggle was past — ^he 
 stayed. His good angel covered her 
 bright face an(! wept, and Ralph De 
 Lisle was forever — lost! 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 CAUGHT IN THK SNARE. 
 
 " 'Tls done! IjKlw It In my dreams- 
 No more 'a^hR hope the future beamsl 
 
 My days of happiness are few; 
 Chilled by Mlsfortvme's wintry blast. 
 My dawn of life is oVercast; 
 Lov3, hope, and joy alike adieu: 
 Wouid I could add remembrance, too!" 
 
 —Byron. 
 
 Prrcivai. Hall was all aglow with light 
 and radiance, music and mirth, feasting 
 and fest'.vity. The loft3r*room8 were 
 c^owdifed with the numerous friends of 
 the family for the last time, for Major 
 Perclval had announced his intention of 
 departing for England In a few weeks, 
 to reside there permanently. 
 
 Weary with dancing, Edith had quitted 
 the balHroom and sought refuge In the 
 conservatory. The gay sounds 6t muuic 
 


THE HERMIT OP 'THE CLIFFS. 
 
 19 
 
 break 
 a liSLi. 
 
 B mut- 
 aklng 
 
 irnine: 
 every 
 man! 
 
 world. 
 
 Kleam 
 the 
 hat of 
 suoh 
 know 
 pvn In 
 
 and dancing came to her ear, softened 
 and mellowed by the distance. 
 
 Seating herself In a shadowy corner 
 her igrolden hair falling like a glory 
 around her, she leaned her head upon 
 her hard, while her thoughts wandered 
 far away. She felt sad and out of spir- 
 its, and in no mood to Join the gay rev- 
 eleriS. She was about to leave her home 
 for the shores of "Merrie England," to 
 leave many whom she lov$d, and who 
 loved her, behind her. Shp thought of 
 Fred, but no longer v/ith hope. At her 
 father's command they parted forever. 
 Unable longer to resist the temptation, 
 he had sought the village and they had 
 one Interview. The major discovered it, 
 and a few hours before, they had parted 
 after an exceedingly stormy Interview, 
 and iahe had been sternly forbidden ever 
 to see or speak to him again. 
 
 Therefore Edith feet, sad and silent, 
 with tears ^slowly fllling her deep-blue 
 eyes, and falling unheeded on her white 
 hands. Tears for him, tears for herself, 
 and a weight heavy and oppressive on 
 her heart. 
 
 The entrance of a servant roused her 
 from her sad reverie. The' girl paused 
 as she approached her. and Eldlth looked 
 up Inquiringly: 
 
 "If you please, miss, little Eddy Dil- 
 lon's out here. He says his sister Har- 
 riet sent him with a message for you." 
 "O dear little Harriet! I hope she is 
 not worse Where is he, Betty? I must 
 see hivn immediately," said Edith, for- 
 getting her own sorrows to listen to 
 those of others. 
 
 "Down here at the hall door, miss, ' 
 said Betty. And Edith flew past "tfier 
 apd ran down to the hall door, where 
 stood little Eddy, cap In hand. 
 
 "O Eddy! how is Harriet?" exclaimed 
 Edith, breathlessly. 
 
 "A great deal better— I mean worse. 
 Miss Edith," said Edd^ ; "don't expect 
 she'll live till to-morrow, nohow." 
 
 "Is it possible? Poor little Harriet! 
 O Eddy! why didn't you come for me 
 before?" said Edith. 
 
 "Cause I was busy," said Eddy, 
 scratching Ms head, as he composedly 
 uttered the He. "But she. wants to see 
 you now, 11 you're agreeable." 
 
 "Certainly, I'll go. Betty, bring me 
 my . hood and mantle," said Edith, 
 promptly. 
 
 VO Miss Edith! I wouldn't go to-night, 
 if r Was you. It's goinfe to rain I'm 
 afraid, and the company"— 
 
 "Betty.-ycu mustn't talk so. Do you 
 think any such selfish conJ-.ideration 
 would make me refuse that dear child's 
 dyir? request? Bring me my* hood and 
 cloak immediately." 
 
 Betty disappeared to obey her; and 
 turning to Eddy, Edith began inqui hit' 
 SQ ei^rly about thttr-sudden dangero> ft 
 turn fti hlB Sister's Illness that the good 
 
 youth, not having a stock .»f lies .manu- 
 factured for the occasion, got quite be- 
 wildered. Betty's reappearance with the 
 desired articles relieved him . from his 
 dilemma, as she threw the cloak over 
 Edith's shoulders and tied on her j^ood. 
 
 "Hadn t you better let me or 5ne of 
 the others go with you?" said Betty. 
 It s powerful lonesome going along 
 alone." 
 
 _':Oh! no, thank you; I'll do very well. 
 Eddy and I havp often gone alone 6n 
 the same errand, to see poor Harriet." 
 "What shall I say, if any one asks 
 for you. miss?" called Betty after her. 
 
 "You may tell mamma where I have 
 gone; and if any oiie else asks you, 
 refer them to her. Come, Eddy. I am all 
 ready. "_ 
 
 They went down the steps together, ' 
 and started at a rapid walk. The clouds 
 were slowly breaking awf^y, and the 
 moon rode in silvery radiance through 
 the star-studded dome. The cool night 
 breeze brought a bright flush to Edith's 
 pale cheek, and a clearer light to her 
 blue eyes, as she tripped lightly along, 
 thinking of "dear '.Ittle Harriet." and 
 almost envying her for being freed from 
 earth so soon. Master Eddy, too, was 
 thinking— a very unusual thing for him, 
 by the way— and which never occurred, 
 save on an unusual occurrence like the 
 present. He was wondering what the 
 tall, dark man could want with her, and 
 whether he had acted quite right in de- 
 ceiving her as he had done. Unable to 
 solve this knotty problem, he. placed his 
 hand In his pocket where it encountered 
 and closed upoH a guinea, which, in a 
 wonderfully short space of time, removed 
 all his scruples, Just as It would those 
 of an older person. The recollection of 
 the twelve he was to get on his return, 
 clinched the argument, and Master Eddy 
 lifted bis head and walked along In the 
 proud consciousness of having discharg- 
 ed his duty as a man and a Chrlstlah 
 should Having heanl the villagers talk 
 ov%>r the story of »Iiss Edith's rebel • 
 lover, he concluded this must be he come 
 to hold a clandestine interview with her. 
 "Why are you taking this .roundabout 
 way?" asked Edith, as her companion 
 turned in the (direction of he bluff. "The 
 other path is wuch shorter." 
 
 "Yes, I know it; but the other road's 
 muddy; 'taint • so good as thlfi" said 
 Eddy, rather at a loss for a suitable lie. 
 "This ain't much longer, either." 
 
 "Oh, very well!" said Edith; "only 
 hurry, I am so anxious to qpe Harriet." 
 Both walked on rapidly, and in silence, 
 until they reached the dark bluff. 
 
 "Where are you going?" s^sked ^ith, 
 as Eddy began to descend. 
 
 "I left something up in the old ba-^n, 
 T rplist go after. Come with me; I dou't 
 Ifke to go alone." 
 Unconscious and unsuspecting, Edith 
 


'■S 
 
 -y^^ 
 
 80 
 
 THE BBttMtT OF THE 'CLIFFS. 
 
 Ji ' 
 
 followfd him up the ste.ep hUlsldc The 
 Tbrlgrhi modnllsht shone full upon 'tfte 
 deserted, barn, and showed it in all Its 
 dreary loneliness. ;. 
 
 ■ "What a dismal plaeeV thought Edith: 
 "It Iflteks wilder and drearier to-night 
 than I e.ver remember to have seen It 
 befqr*. How ghastly tljose moldering 
 wallsf look.in the dold moonlight!" 
 
 Within the shadow of those walls, 
 how little did she dream that he whom 
 she dreaded most on earth stood watch- 
 ing her. Rapidly she followed her young 
 guide, whose steps wefe quickened by 
 the recollection of the reward promised 
 on hjis return. '... 
 
 A tall, dark figure, muffled In a cloak, 
 stepped from within the shadow of the 
 , doorway, ' and -approached them. Some- 
 thing in his height arid air reminded her 
 of Pred, an(i, filled with the idea that 
 he had again. sought her to bid a final 
 adiet|, she sprang forward, exclaiming 
 breathlessly: 
 
 "Fred! Fred! can this be you?" 
 
 He raised .his hand. and. pointing to 
 the lad, made, a motion ^or her to be 
 silent. Then, slipping the promised re- 
 ward into his hand, he whispered 
 sternly f 
 
 "Go!" 
 
 "O .Pred! this is very rash!" Said 
 Edith, as the l?»y bounded down the 
 hillside and disappeared. "What would 
 papa say, if he knew of this?" 
 : "Hist!" said: De Lisle, disguising his 
 voice in a hurried whisper; "come in 
 here!" i ,. . 
 
 He drew h«r arm i^dthin his; and, 
 half-bewilderetl hy this sudden meeting, 
 she scarcely realized his meaning until 
 she. stood with him in the old deserted 
 house. H€ released her arm^ and stood 
 between her and the door, his hat stiU 
 hiding his fac<e. so taM, so still, so mo- 
 tionless, that he looked like some dark 
 statiie. • 4 ' 
 
 "Pred, is this you?" said Edith, k Wild 
 thrljl of fear, shooting through her 
 heart at his strange silence. The long 
 cloak that mulHec' him fell off, he slowly 
 raised his hat.' and she beheld the pale, 
 fierce face fifnd"' Intensely, burning eyes of 
 her dreaded foe. Ralph' be Lisle. 
 
 I 
 
 -. v- ■ « 
 
 -;^^' |. CH^^PTER XXt:n 
 
 THE CA'ASTUOPHE. 
 
 "Murder, moat foul— ns in the best it is- 
 But this most foul, strange, and un* 
 fmitui^5ll."., 
 
 ■ ^'*' ' — Shakesneare. 
 
 STimNED,' bewildered, giddy, the wild 
 shriek of. ;morta.i fear, that quivered on 
 the lipg 5f E^lth dl«daway. as. she met 
 these fierce. daFk.ey*s ahe dreaded moat 
 on eart^K 9x1^- upon Jhev with such a 
 fiery, ^^rp^nHlHe gaJse. > 
 
 She arrew dizay, and gasped for breath :- 
 
 for there was a look more of a demon 
 than of a man on the face before her. 
 Alone with him In that deserted house, 
 too far from the village for her cries to 
 reach human ears— nothiniif but Heaven 
 could saye her now. All the dangers of 
 her appalling situfitlon burst upon hei* 
 at once. A dimneaa stole over her eves 
 —the sound of many waters was In her 
 ears— her heart throbbed like-the muffled 
 beating of a drum, and she would have 
 fallen had she not graspied the wall for 
 support. 
 
 "I see you have not forgotten me. 
 Edllh,"^^ were his first words, spoken with 
 cold, bitter sarcasm. "When last we 
 parted ^ou had decidedly the advantage 
 of me; now the tables have turned, and 
 Edith Percival is again In tny, power !?'' 
 
 She strove to speak; but, though her 
 lips moved she could not articulate a 
 word. 
 
 "You mistook me for PrfeB,". he went 
 on. in the same mocking ^:one: " 'tis a 
 wondrous pity you were disappointed. 
 You never need call on htnii agrkin. Tf-hls 
 night is the crisis of, both our lives. 
 For what purpose, do you think, I have 
 had you brought here?" 
 
 "I know not," said Edith, speaking in 
 ^ voice yet faint with terror. ^^ 
 
 "Listen, then: this nigHt you must 
 either consent to. be .my"~*ride or yeaj 
 will never live to see the sun riae agalnf 
 
 His face wore the look of a flehd— his 
 glittering eyes were fixed dn her. face; 
 his voice sounded low, hoarse and utt- 
 • natural, in thAt dreary room. 
 •■ Her lips parted— her eyes dilated wltli 
 horror; her face wa,8 deadly white, but 
 na cry escaped her. Her very he«rt 
 seemed for a moment to stand still at 
 his. appalling word.", and ifaen— the cour- 
 age that had . never Wen hers before 
 was granted her in that dreadful mp-- 
 ment. In her awful peril, fear and 
 horror alike passed away, and i feeHng 
 Of Intense loathing and lofty scorn t6r 
 him who stooi before her took their 
 pl^ce. Drawing herself, up to her full 
 ■ T 'i ?*»e shook back her golden ha«; 
 and fixing her large blue eyes full dti 
 his face she said, in a voice WhoS^ ii*ery 
 calmness startled even herself- • i' <. 
 
 "My Itfe you may take, fpr it is In ybiiP 
 power; but I would die a thcKufiand 
 Qf thine?'*^"^^ than be bride or aiight 
 Her fearless words and undaun^ 
 manner were so unexpected, that, he 
 started back a pace, and stood regard Ir« 
 her In silent, wonder. It was but for a 
 moment, and the fiend wfthin his heart 
 was aroused into fury teif fold greater 
 than before. •^i., ° ■ 
 
 \.llt^^ ^*?** <iare def y me «»us<'' he m 1, 
 setting hs teeth hard-.-toeethor-n "Bo4, 
 
 J know tt ; but deuith i» pref ef able 
 
 ■^muiMirmm^ 
 


THE HERMIT OF' THE CUFFS. 
 
 ?l 
 
 emon 
 |e her. 
 
 Jiea to 
 leaven 
 rers of 
 (n hei' 
 
 eyes 
 M her 
 luffled 
 
 have 
 Ul for 
 
 me, 
 with 
 
 '■ we 
 
 [ntage 
 
 and 
 
 Jh her 
 ate a 
 
 to bekigr the wife of a demon incarnate, 
 ^such as you!" 
 
 His face grew livid with diabolical 
 'passion, and he grasped her by the arm 
 so fliercely that she could scarcely re- 
 press a cry of pain. 
 
 "Consent to be my wife, or by aH the 
 fiends in flames, this shall enter your 
 heart!" he hissed, as he brandished the 
 gleaming dagger before her eyes. 
 
 "O Ralph De Lisle! lay not the weight 
 of this dreadful' crime on your souT I 
 conjure yovj!" exclaimed Edith, laying 
 her small white hand on his arm, and 
 looking up in his face with her earnest 
 eyes; "by the memory of the past, when 
 you were young and guiltless, I implore 
 you to spare. my life! Think of the re- 
 morse you will endure for this awful 
 crime in days to-.trome! O Rallph! Ralph! 
 by, the love you bore me once, commit not 
 the fearful sin! Think of t.ne eternal 
 woe pronounced against the murderer 
 hereafter, and have mercy upon your- 
 self!" i'vT-f'. ■! ;•■■■■ ■ ji» . 
 
 The thrtiting,' the intehise solemhity of 
 her tone awed even his heart of stone. 
 Like some wandering strain of music' it 
 broke upon his ear, and for a^ moment 
 he paused, appalled at the magnitude of 
 the -crime he was about to commit. But 
 his evil mentor whispered in his >« ear: 
 "It is too late tonretreat"— and the chord 
 she ha4 touched no longer vibrated. 
 
 "You prate in vain!" he exclaimed; 
 "once again, I ask you, will you be my 
 wife?" 
 
 "Never— never ! " 
 
 He paused, as if to work his feelihgit 
 up to the most intense pitch of madden- 
 ing Excitement. ' His whole frame quiv- 
 ered and his gheistly face was convulsed 
 by Tage. 
 
 "For tHe last time T ask you, Edith 
 Percival,"- he said. In a voice hoarse and 
 choked, "will you marry me, or dijf!" 
 
 •;i will 4ie!" 
 
 Her words fell clear and distinct in the 
 de«|> silence of the lonely night. Foam- 
 inir,Vlth rage, he drew the slender,. glit- 
 tering knife tfjad plunged it up to the 
 hUtl^, her side! 
 
 •Tjhe hot blood spurted up in hia face. 
 With one wild cry of mortal agony she 
 feU.tp ^the ground. 
 
 ©e Lts!% stood above her, ghastly and 
 pafailjrzed: by the awful deed. With one 
 last effort she rose on her elbow, fixed 
 h©*" flying eyes on his face and drew out 
 the dagger. 'A torrent of blood flowed 
 over her snojvy hands and dyed with 
 crimson the floor around. Her white 
 lips parted, but no sound came forth— 
 her eyes grew glased and sightless, and 
 she fell back; stiff, and cold, and lifeless. 
 ' Abd tTie^TB, rm0i(f Itght of the solemn 
 stars, In the wi#ly silence of the night„ 
 the feaffM ti'a^edy had been enaciad- 
 The coTd glare of the mocntight, streitm- 
 
 Ing through the broken casement, fell 
 softly and pityingly on the still form 
 that lay on thfe ground. The golden Wfttr 
 fell over her face, but the wild, despiiilf-' 
 ing eyes seeftied still fixed on the face 
 of her murderer, as he stood, like oiie 
 turned to stone, above her. Her white 
 festal garments were red with blood,- and 
 one little hand still held the . dagger, 
 dyed with the same dreadful hue. 
 
 De Lisle stood rooted to the gi .diiid, 
 f eelint, as though he neither lived wir 
 breathed. Everjrthing danced red and 
 fiery before his eyes— his brain and heart 
 seemed rending In twain. Heilven of 
 heavens! how those dying, despairing 
 eyes seemed glaring upon him ! 
 
 Maddened;, frenzied, crazed, he turned 
 to rqah from the building. His foot 
 sti;-uck against something, and he stum- 
 bled. He gljanced down, and saw it was 
 the fatal dagger. With a fearful bath 
 he hurled it from him over the craggy 
 bluff and fled out into the op«*n air.' 
 
 He paused for a moment and pressed 
 his hands heavily to his burning tenir 
 pies, that throbbed madly beneath his 
 fingers. His eyes were like burning 
 coals— his Hps were hot and parched, and 
 his hands trembled as though he were 
 stricken with the palsy. The night-wind 
 seemed to shriek in his ear. "Murderer." 
 Ringing— ringing through heart and 
 brain was the last dying cry, until he 
 stopped his ears In aeronized horror. " 
 
 What should he do? Whtthfr should 
 he go? His first impulse was to rush 
 from that dreadful spot, aAd fly— fly 
 far from the world, far from hte yellow 
 men, and far from himself. One other 
 idea filled his mind: it was to destroy 
 the evidence of his crime— to burn the 
 old house, and what It contained. He 
 could not endure to see It standing there, 
 so dark and ghastly, seeming to mock 
 him In his agony of remorse. There was 
 a pile of loose brushwood near. He set 
 it on fire, and paused to gaze; aa 
 
 — -— "fierce and hi^h 
 The death-pile biazed- unto the sky." t . 
 
 How red and angry the flames looked! 
 Were they, too, tinged with blood? 
 
 He knew the place would soon ♦be sur- 
 rounded, and fee dared not pause to oee 
 his dreadful work accomplished. Like 
 one pursued by a demon, he fled, and 
 paused not until he had gained the. vil- 
 lage. There was no one astir; ail were 
 buried in peaceful repose, unconscious 
 of the awful crime that had just been, 
 committed. How the murderer envied 
 them as he flew past.. 
 
 He paused not until he had gained 
 his own room, and locked himself in. A 
 flask of branrty strtod' on the table. Otess 
 after glass of the fiery liquid he drained 
 to drown recollection; b>rt atl in vainr-. 
 
 
 ?■ -a 
 
 t 
 


82 
 
 THE HERUfT 4iF THE GLIFFti. 
 
 »i\ In vain! Those dying eyes— thojt de- 
 spairing cry— that last Imploring ifa«e, 
 were before him still; and he paced up 
 and down the rootn like a maniac, not 
 daring to pause one moment in his rapid 
 walk. 
 "Fire! Fire!" ^ 
 
 The cry rang through the streets, and 
 roused him into action. J^ll was bustle 
 and confusion. M«n were rushing 
 through the streets toward the scene 
 of the tragedy. He coilld not endure 
 this dreadful inaction longer. Opening 
 the door he left the inn. and mingling 
 with th^ crowd, rushed toward the burn- 
 ing house. 
 
 Amid all that crowd no one litrove so 
 zealously to extinguish the flames as 
 he. In the wild excitement there was 
 no time to think, and hf worked as 
 though his very life depended, on it. , All 
 their efforts were, however, vain — higher 
 and higher rose the flames, rearing <helr 
 heads. ,red and fiery, unto heaven, until 
 Dp Lisle almo.st fancied they were cryfng 
 for vengeance on him. 
 
 Suddenly a bright sheet of flame shot 
 into the cloudless sky— the next moment 
 there was a loud crash, as the whole 
 building fell, a mass of red. flery ruins 
 to the ground. 
 
 De Lisle felt as though the sight was 
 leaving his eyes, as he witnessed that 
 last act in the fearful tragedy of the 
 night. The people, wondering how the 
 fire coul(Lhave originated, were hurrying 
 to their 'Tiomes. He dared not venture 
 to go with them; for. in his excitement, 
 he fancied every one could read "mur- 
 derer" in his face. He turned, and 
 ^plunged lnt(5 the dark pine w()ods, scarce- 
 ly knowing whither he went^ only strly- 
 Irrg to escape from .himself and his 
 haunting remorse.' He could hear that 
 cry as th^^wind wailed like a lost spirit 
 through tfie trees— he could see those 
 inploring eyes still before him, wher- 
 ever he 	'ent. He put his hand over his 
 eye^ :u shut thern out. but all In vain — 
 the: .'?¥;•> Bf\y ".'^fore him: so mournful, 
 so beste.'AJj i so >;idly reproachful. 
 , "O, tha*. *l)is njtfht were over!" he 
 said, wiping (h« perspiration from his 
 heat'd h.v. ^ rhp havp I d- le. that 
 I sK aife }w XctiuvKl ilius? ' » for the 
 watfi::. ».< r.s .! e- tt, tuown maddening 
 memt), ' ' ,&ha>i . I never aK^'n know 
 
 peace; *'.. J ii«vr ; f scape rom my- 
 
 Through tif*^ &'
, soiemn woo4s he 
 paced unv ! ir>», ng. The red sunlight 
 gilded with t, J. ■ n glory the green tree- 
 top^, and the murderer shrank frr>m its 
 bright, k^en gaze like the guilty twing 
 that he was. He hurried to his rooms, 
 djalned glass after glass of brandy, and 
 then flung himself on his bed, to lose, ttii 
 fevprish sleep, the recollection of what 
 .he had done. 
 
 CHAPTBI^ XXVI^, 
 
 MEXT MORNINO 
 
 "And over all there hung a baleful gloom- ^ 
 The step stole fearful tnrough ieach, shad- 
 owy room. 
 Dark, sumptuous, solemn as somi^ Bastt rn 
 
 pile 
 Where mutes keep watch^-a home without 
 a smile." -'-' 
 
 . — Bulwer. 
 
 * • . ■" 
 
 TfiE red light of coming morn dispers- 
 ed the revelers from Perdval Hall. One 
 by one they departed until tvhere lately 
 all was music and m'rth^ profound 
 silence reigned. 
 
 And father and mother, brother and 
 sister, all slept, little dreaming, of th* 
 fate of her they loved. During the night, 
 when the gay hours flitted by on "rosy 
 wings,"' no presentiment of what wap 
 passing in the lonely house on the bluff 
 arose before them to mar their festivity. 
 And now, all unconscious of her absence 
 or h*r dreadful fate, they slept peace- 
 fully. 
 
 "Where is Edith?" asked Major Perci- 
 val, as the family assembled a few hours 
 after around the breakfast-table. 
 
 "Don't know, I'm sure," replied Hell. 
 to whom the question was addressed: 
 "I lyiven't seen her since early last 
 night." ^ 
 
 "She was not among the tlancers dur- 
 ing the morning," remarked Gus; "I 
 missed her, and heard several wondering 
 at her absence." 
 
 "Strange," said the majer. frowning 
 slightly. "What must our guasts have 
 thought? Edith has acted very strange- 
 ly of late." 
 
 "Perhaps she is lU," said Mrs. Perci- 
 val, anxiously. "Tell one of the ser- 
 vants. Ellen, to go up to her. room and 
 see." 
 
 "mi go myself," said Nell, rising, and 
 hurriedly leaving the room. 
 
 In a few moments she reappeared, and 
 with a look of alarm, announced that 
 Edith was not in her room, and tnat 
 her bed had not been slept in, at <a]l 
 that night. ^ 
 
 "Where can she be?" said MrSi jRercl- 
 val, now thoroughly alarmed. Oopd 
 heaven! something must have hap 
 pened." 
 
 "Ring the bell and see if any of the 
 servants know," said the major, inore 
 angry than frightened. 
 
 Nell obeyed, and In a rhojrtent Betty 
 made her appearance. ' 
 
 "Have you seen Miss Edith this morn- 
 ing?" demanded her mtoster, as she 
 entered. 
 
 "This morning? No, sir." 
 
 "Do you know wht 
 the major, for the ttrg 
 to feel slightly alarmel 
 
 "Yes. sir; little Eddy Dillon came here 
 for her last night, saying his; sister liar- 
 
 ,,Bh.e Is?" said 
 !^|liptme beginning- 
 


THE BERMtT OF THE CUFFS. 
 
 S8 
 
 |cn. sh.id- 
 Bast. rn 
 Without 
 
 iUlwer. 
 
 IdlBpers- 
 ^11. One 
 
 [e lately 
 frofound 
 
 >er and 
 I; of th( 
 ]e nigrht, 
 In "rosy 
 »t was 
 »e bluff 
 festivity, 
 ibsence 
 peace- . 
 
 Perci- 
 hours 
 
 d l^el). 
 reased : 
 y last 
 
 rs dur- 
 Us; "I 
 iderlng 
 
 ' have 
 range- 
 
 Percl- 
 i ser- 
 n and 
 
 '. and 
 
 . a^d 
 thHX 
 
 Km- 
 
 erpl- 
 3opd 
 l?ap 
 
 the 
 lore 
 
 ?tty 
 
 •rn- 
 she 
 
 aid 
 BR- 
 
 ire 
 
 [J-- 
 
 rlet was dying, and wished to see her. 
 She went with him and bade me tell 
 you, ma'atn, but I found no chance." 
 
 "Oh, then, 'she's safe enough, I sup- 
 pose," said the major, while Mrs. Percl- 
 val drew a long breath, as though re- 
 lieved. 
 
 At this moment, Nugent sauntered 
 carelessly In. '- 
 
 "Well, good folks, have you heard the 
 news ?'^ he asked, throwing himself In- 
 dolently on a lounge. 
 
 "No— what news?" said Nell. 
 
 "Why, the old barn on the bluff was 
 burned down last night." said Nugent. 
 
 "Burned down! it must have been the 
 work of an incendiary, then," said his 
 father. 
 
 "Doubtless It was, though I cannot 
 see what could have been the object for 
 which It was done," replied his son. 
 
 "Some misoWevously-inclined person, 
 who wished to rouse the villagers," sug- 
 gested Ous. 
 
 "Very likely: 'twas fit for nothing but 
 a bonfire. Where's Edith?" 
 
 "At the Widow Dillon's." 
 
 "The Widow Dillon's! Why, she hasn't 
 been there since yesterday morning." 
 
 "What!* . 
 
 "She has not been there since yester- 
 day morning." said Nugent, decidedly; 
 "I was going past there about an hour 
 ago, and Mrs. Dillon called me In to see 
 her littie girl. Harriet begged me to tell 
 Edith to come to her Immediately, and 
 Mrs. Dillon said she had been longing 
 for her since she had been there yester- 
 day morning." 
 
 "What can be the meaning of all this?" 
 said the major, rising hurriedly, while 
 Mrs. Perclval grew pale with terror. 
 "Her son came here for Edith last night, 
 and they both departed together." 
 
 "She must nave left him then, sir," 
 said N agent, "for she certainly -^id not 
 accompany him home. He was in the 
 cottage while I was there, and made no 
 mention of her having started with hlrn; 
 neither did the widow allude to her hav- 
 ing sent for Edith at all. And now I 
 recollect, she said she would have sent 
 for her last night, but on account of 
 the ban, she thought she would not 
 trouble her." 
 
 "O Major Percival! .something dread- 
 ful has happened." said Mrs. Percival, 
 rising in great agitation; "I feel it! I 
 kaow it! She heis been carried off again, 
 and we shall never see her more!" 
 
 "Nonsense, Mrs. Percival! She is 
 doubtless somewhere In the village," 
 said the major, concealing his own 
 alarm, *1 wll! go in search of herfjf 
 
 "Let me accompany you," itaid Nugent, 
 springing up; for the many dangers 
 Edith had recently e.«ieaped made them 
 doubly anxious. 
 
 Both quitted the house together, ard 
 
 talked rapidly In. the dJrecUon of the 
 
 village.'--- •• ••^T.^^i'^-"":,.., -■/v^■-rv■ >*v ^' 
 
 '.'I tf*** *'*i^re may -^be danger, father," 
 said Nugent, uneaSiJy; "the whole affttlf 
 seems rather mysterious." *• * 
 
 ../'if^*^?." forbid!" said his father," hur- 
 Uedly; but we must see this boy with 
 whom she departed, and learn what has 
 happened from him." * 
 
 They walked on in silence until they 
 reache^^the widow's humble cottage 
 
 ^m^ ^*"?" ^''^ ^^^"^ *n the doorwSy. 
 looking alarmed and excited. 
 
 "O Major Percival! I'm so gtart to see 
 you! Just look here." and the widow 
 displayed a purse filled with bright gold 
 guineas. * ■ 
 
 "Why Mrs. Dillon, what piece of good 
 fortune is this you have met with? Tou 
 liaven't robbed a bank. I hope," said 
 young Percival. / 
 
 "No. indeed. Mr. Nugent." suld th*' 
 widow, anxiously. " 'twas he brought 
 this ho.Tie." And she pointed to where 
 ^^J^^\ hopeful son; and he, with his 
 finger in his mouth, was looking dog- 
 gedly on the ground. 
 
 "Eddy: why. man alive, where did you 
 get all this money?" said Nugt nt. giving 
 him n shake. "Look up. sir. Have you 
 turned highwayman?" 
 
 The boy sat in sulky siler <?. 
 
 "I'm terribly afeared he 3tr le It." said 
 the widow, in evident distre'^^. ; "he won'* 
 tell where he got it. and I know he 
 never ame honestly 'oy it," 
 
 "T' is s. rious," Ffv..l tne major, "and 
 mil )e seen to. Bse l:ere, my fine 
 fell. ' he said, sternly, 'where did you 
 gel lis money? Have yuu stolen If" 
 No. I didn't steal it," said the boy. 
 su' ily. 
 
 Ijere did you get It. then? Answer 
 '^ or I'll have you committed to 
 )n," said the major, with Increasing 
 . nness. in order to intimidate him. 
 Kddy looked up, and seeing the In- 
 flexible iook on the f .' ce bending over 
 him. burst into tears. 
 
 Come, my little man, don't cry," said 
 Nugent, patting him on the head, "tell 
 the truth, and nothing shall be done 
 to vnu. Where did you get It?" 
 
 "The man gave it to me," sobbed 
 E^ 'V. ■ 
 
 ^ What man?" inquired Percival. 
 
 "The man who told me to bring Mio . 
 Edith to the bluff, last night." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the major, catch^ 
 Ing him so fiercely by the, arm that the 
 boy uttered a cry of pain. 
 
 "Father, be calm," said Nugent, 
 though his own face grew deadly pale, 
 "we mu.vt hear all the particulars, ar^ 
 if you frighten him zo he will not 
 «neak. Begin new at the first,, Kddy. 
 Who was this man?" - 
 
 "I don't know— he didn't tell me his 
 name, " replied Eddy, 
 
 


LkSHf 
 
 ,;^i 
 
 H4 
 
 TBE HERMIT of the CUFFS. 
 
 i 1 
 
 "Can you describe him? What rid he 
 
 look like?" . ^ ^. , ». . 
 
 "He was tall and dark, with black hair 
 and whiskers, and wore a long, black 
 «loak. I couldn't see his face, 'cause his 
 hat was pulled away down," 
 
 "When did you meet him first?" 
 
 "Yes'day evenln«- He asked me If Miss 
 Edith didn't visit Harriet, an* I said yes; 
 and then told me to meet him on 
 the bluff at nine o'clock, and that he 
 would pay me well." 
 
 "Did you go?" asked Nugent, growing 
 more and more excited. 
 
 "Yes, I went and waited for him in 
 the old barn. He came and told me to 
 go up to the hall, and say Harriet want- 
 ed Miss Edith— and than bring her to 
 him and he'd pay rne~I"— 
 
 TI 1 boy i).auaed, and feianceJ In terror 
 at the agitated face of the major. 
 
 "Go on, ^ said Nugent hoarsely. 
 
 "7'ui alraid," said the boy, again be- 
 ginning to cry. 
 
 "Go on, go on, go on!" said the young 
 man, impatiently; "no one shall touch 
 you. Did you obey?" 
 
 "Yes. I went up to he hall and Miss 
 Edith came with me. She ran forward 
 when she saw the man, and cailed him 
 Fred, and he gave me this money and 
 told me to go, and as I ran dov;n the 
 hill I heard her say: 'O Fred, tiiis is 
 very rash!' and then she went with him 
 into the old house.*' 
 
 Father and son gazed into each oiher'a 
 faces, pale with undefined terror, 
 
 "Well, what else?" said Nufent, al- 
 most giddy with a strange appr^^^-'sion. 
 
 "Then I come home, " v»ent on the boy, 
 reluctantly; "but 1 wanted to hear who 
 he was. and what he was going to do. 
 So I came back and stood where I could 
 see them without they seeing me. I 
 couldn't see his face, 'cause he haM his 
 back turned, but I could hear them talk- 
 ing. He asked her to go with him and 
 marry him, or something, and she said 
 she wouldn't, and then" — 
 
 Again the boy paused, and covered his 
 face with a shudder. 
 
 "Well, end then," said Nugent, in a 
 voice that sounded husky and unnatuial. 
 
 "He got awfully angry, and took out a 
 lortg knife; and I got frightened and 
 ran away," said the boy, trembling at 
 the recollection. 
 
 Nugent paused for a moment to mas- 
 ter the emotions that threatened to un- 
 man hiiirt. Then with an effort at calm- 
 ness he said: 
 
 "And what followed next?" 
 
 "I went home and went into bed," 
 continued Eddy, "until I hoard them 
 singing out 'fire,' and then I got up and 
 went to the blufT, and the barn was 
 burning, I »aw the man in the crowd, 
 but I was ai'rald to speak to him, he 
 seemed so wild-like. When the barn was 
 all burned down the ptsople went a>vay 
 
 and I saw him go off into the WGod.s 
 and that's all I know." 
 
 "Merciful heaven!" exclaimed Nugent, 
 reeling back, as though stunned by a 
 heavy blow, "Edith is murdered!" 
 
 "And Fred Stanley Is her murderer," 
 said the major, in a voice so deep and 
 unearthly that it seemed to issue from 
 the jaws of death. 
 
 "It cannot be! it cannot be! it is mon- 
 strous! impossible! absurd!" exctaimed 
 Nugent, in wild excitement. "Fred 
 Stanley could never be .an assassin!" 
 
 "I tell you he has murdered her," said 
 his father, in a tone of concentrated 
 fierceness; "and by the heaven above us. 
 his life shall pay for hers. An eye foi- 
 an eye, a toeth for a tooth, and a life 
 for a life!" he cried, rushing madly from 
 the house. 
 
 Nugent followed; and feeling the 
 necessity for calmness and firmness in 
 the dreadful crisis, he laid his hand on 
 his arm and arrested his fiying steps. 
 
 "Father, father! be calm! be calm for 
 heaven's sake! Think of my mother, if 
 she sees you thus, and hears this news; 
 the shock will kill her. For her sake 
 '"ompose yourself and be calm '' 
 
 "Calm, sir! dare you talk of calmness 
 when my daughter has been foully as- 
 sassinated? O Edith! my child! my 
 child! I AvIU not think of mourning for 
 tl eo until I have had vengeance on thy 
 murderer!" 
 
 "Father. It ifc Impossible that Fred 
 Stanley has been guilty of this dreadful 
 deed. I will never believe It!" cried 
 Percival, excitedly. "A nobler heart 
 never beat within the breast of man 
 than his." 
 
 "Who else is there to have done such 
 an act?" said the major passionately. 
 "Did we not part in anger a few hours 
 before? I tell you there was murder in 
 his flashing eyes as I watched him ride 
 away. You heard how it occurred. He 
 urged her to fiy with him. She, dreading 
 my anger, refused, and no doubt, riad- 
 dened by her resistance, he slew her on 
 the spot. O my daughter! my daughter! 
 why was I not near to save you from so 
 dreadful a fate?" 
 
 He wrung his hands and groaned aloud 
 In bitter anguish. 
 
 "But the villain shall meet his doom." 
 he again^ exclaimed, with the old fierce- 
 ness flashing in his eyes; "this, very day 
 shall he be arrested I" 
 
 They walked on in silence until they 
 reached the foot of the bluff. 
 
 "Let us visit the scene of the tragedy," 
 said Nuprent, as they paused for a mo- 
 rnenlr to contemplate the heap of black, 
 smoking ruins 
 
 They turned tc ascend. Scarcely had 
 they gono a dozen stepa, when the ma- 
 jor's c-ye fell on something brf.ght gleam- 
 ing: among the rocks. He stooped to 
 


THE HERMIT OF THE CUFFS. 
 
 86 
 
 l»i( k It up, and started back with a cry 
 of horror. 
 
 It was the fatal dagger, red with the 
 fliied blood. As he turned It over, his 
 <ye fell on the name engraven on* the 
 liandle— "Frederick Stanley." 
 
 re 
 
 "Just heaven! how wonderful is thy 
 trlbutlon! he exclaimed, as he handed 
 I he knife to his son. "With this fatal 
 l)lade the deed was done, and the mur- 
 derer's name Is on It. In the excite- 
 ment of the moment he has cast It 
 :i�ay and forgotten It." 
 
 Pale with horror, Nugent examined It. 
 He had often seen the dagger with Fred; 
 it had been given him by his father In 
 his boyhood and was prized as his gift. 
 To doubt his guilt longer seemed out 
 n( *he question, and yet how could he 
 heU-'ve him ffullty? Fred Stanley, so 
 brave, so generous, so noble-hearted, 
 i^ullty of so dreadful a crime! Oh. never, 
 iii'ver! The thought was too unnatural 
 to be entertained. 
 
 They stood at length gazing with fet 
 inffs impossible to describe on th 
 smoldering remafns of the fire. There 
 FMith had been slain and her body had 
 perished amid the flames. . ' 
 
 It was with very different feelings 
 they stood gazing upon the charred and 
 ."smoking ruins. In Major Perclval's 
 breast, above every other feeling, was 
 the fierce, burning desire for vengeance. 
 He could scarcely think of sorrow, so 
 intense was his desire for revenge; it 
 seemed an Injustice to her memory to 
 allow her murderer one moment longer 
 to burden the earth. Hanging seemed 
 a thousand times too good for him, and 
 he would have given worlds to see him 
 broken on the. wheel, tortured on the 
 rack, or roasted at a slow fire for the 
 rrlme he had committed. 
 
 In Nugent's heart, horror for his sis- 
 ter's dreadful fate, a feeling of remorse 
 that he had not been near to save her, 
 were mingled with agonizing doubts, 
 whether or not to believe Fred Stanley 
 etuilty. One moment he almost hated 
 himself for believing him capable of such 
 an action: and then the startling train 
 of circumstantial evidence would arise 
 before him, until there seemed no longer 
 r.oom for the shadow of a doubt. Amid 
 all this war of conflicting emotions, 
 neither of them suspected Ralph De 
 1-isle. whom they imagined far away. 
 
 "Ha! what have we here?" exclaimed 
 Nuprent, suddenly, as a portion of a blue 
 scarf caught his eye, lying unjJer a char- 
 red and broken stick. He picked It up. 
 Both recognized It as one Edith had 
 worn that fatal night, It was of rich 
 blue silk, embroidered with silver fringe, 
 and now inore than half burned. It was 
 spotted with blood and pear the end 
 was a hole, exactly such as would be 
 made by the dagger. 
 "it is but another proof >r his guilt," j 
 
 f.^\^}}^ major. In a low, thick voice. 
 O Edith! Edith! but there is no time 
 for mourning! When Justice is satisfied 
 there will be time enough for tears." 
 
 His eyes "Were burning and tearless, his 
 face was deadly pale, and there was a 
 look of fierce determination in his face. 
 
 As they reentered the village they 
 were met by the bustling little landlord 
 of the inn. 
 
 "Ah! good morning. Major Perclval! 
 good morning, Mr. Nugent! fine day 
 this; been up to the fire, I s'pose; queer 
 thing that, queer thing. S'pose you 
 haven't seen anything of a tall fellow In 
 a black cloak, and hat over his face, 
 hey?" 
 
 "What of him?" said Nugent, with 
 breathless Interest. 
 
 "Oh. nothing! nothing! only he came 
 here late last night, and ordered a room- 
 then went out and didn't come in till 
 after midnight. Two or three minutes 
 after he was off to the flre, and since 
 hat nobody's seen him. Funny chap! 
 A'ent off without paying the reckoning, 
 ar\6 drank more brandy than I like to 
 thiiik of. Good morning!" And the land- 
 lord bustled away. 
 
 Major Perclval hurried to the nearest 
 magistrate to make a deposition of the 
 case, and obtain a warrant for the arrest 
 of Fred Stanley. Nugent, finding the 
 task of announcing the dreadful news 
 devolved upon him, hastened home- 
 stunned and bewildered, like one who 
 walks In a dream. 
 
 Gently as he broke the news to them, 
 the effect was terrible. Mrs. Perclval 
 fell into violent convulsions, and .was 
 carried to her room. Nell grew deadly 
 white, and such a feeling of sickness 
 came over her that for a moment she 
 was on the verge of fainting. But when 
 she heard Fred accused as the mur- 
 derer, indignation restored her to her- 
 selt and she ipxclalmed, vehemently: 
 
 "I'll never believe it— never, never! I 
 would as soon credit it, Nugent, if they 
 said you did It yourself. Oh, how dread- 
 ful! how dreadful!— to think we were 
 all here, dancing and enjoying ourselves, 
 and Edith lying cold and dead without 
 one friend near to aid her! O Edith, 
 Edith, Edith! my dearly beloved sister!" 
 She covered her face with her hands, 
 and wept so hysterically that both Nu- 
 gent and Gus were alarmed. The latter 
 endeavored to console her, hut she 
 pushed him away, saying 
 
 "No. no! let ine alon ' Oh. Edith, 
 Edith! my murdfnnl ulster!" 
 
 And all through that day she wandered 
 about the Klooiny house, wringing her 
 hands and repeating that dear name — 
 her pale face, disheveled hair and disor- 
 deied dress giving her the look of one 
 insar". It was a silent and gloomy man- 
 sion indeed. The servants, palo with 
 horror, stale about as noiselessly as 
 


M 
 
 THB BERMIT OF TUB CUFFS. 
 
 I< 
 
 ghMts thtouffh the Hou»e'. sdH as the 
 grave, save -when " a wild shriek from 
 the -darkened 'room of Mrs. Perctval 
 would reach their, ears. And J>IelI wan- 
 dered vacantly about, twisting her pale 
 ITogers and repeating, "Edith* Edith!" 
 —seeing but one object, (he nr>urdered 
 form of her sister. 
 
 Through the village the news had 
 (ti>read Ilke^ wildfire. Men were gath- 
 ered li, groups at every corner, talking 
 over the tragic occurrence; women for- 
 got their household affairs to. speak of 
 the goodness of the nrurdered girl and 
 weep over her untimely fate — for Edith 
 wa» unlversiftUy beloved. People spoke 
 of it in low whispers, for the whole affair 
 eeemed wrapped In mystery. Never had 
 such a thing been heard of befdre to 
 that quiet little village, and they almost 
 held their breath, as they wondered 
 whose turn it would be next. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 . ' . THE ARUESr. 
 
 ■ '"And yet he sefemK not ovcreom*?, 
 »•'• Althoul^h as yet hln voir* l»t' dumb." 
 
 *■*.'■■■ ■-'-■■ ' • 
 
 ■In the little parlor of the "Bottle and 
 Bowl" was Ir^d Stanley. He lay 
 stretched at full i ngth on a lounge, leis- 
 urely smoking and listening to the mer- 
 ry, ringing voice of Mrs. Rosie Wilde, as 
 she alternately • scolded the servants, 
 laughed with the neighbors and talked 
 to the baby. And while he Indolently 
 watched the blue smoke wreathing up- 
 ward, Fred was thinking. 
 
 He thought of Edith, iind wondered if 
 he should ever see her dear face again; 
 of her stern father and his InvincibJe an- 
 tipathy to himself; of his hated rival, 
 Ralph De Lisle; of his father, who was 
 on the eve of departure for England, and 
 whom he had never sen since the night 
 he liberated him; of the Siysterious her- 
 mit, and wondered what new danger 
 was destined to bring them face to face, 
 arid lastly, of himself, as yet undecided 
 what to do or whither to go. 
 
 The quick tramp of horse's feet dash- 
 ing down the street arresteti his atten- 
 tion. The htjrseman. drew up and alight- 
 ed at the inn door. Fred fancied his 
 form was familiar, but he stood unde- 
 cided until he heard the neweomei pro- 
 nounce his name In quick, hurried nes. 
 The next moment the door was 'vn 
 
 violently open, and Gus Elliott le, 
 
 haggard, dusty and ^ ax'ol-worn st 
 
 into the room. 
 
 "Gus. my dear feljow It pobb ble?" 
 
 exclaimed Fred, spring! i... up and Rrasp- 
 iftg hW hand. "But,^ h< .-> ided, 'eelns 
 hfs despairing face, "hat the .'crlU 
 has happened?" 
 
 Gus fixed his eyes or? face, 
 
 could read nothing thei frank 4 - 
 
 tonishment. Would a gulli <ii ct and 
 
 look' thus? His doubts, If he entertained 
 any, vanithed In a moment, and, wring- 
 ing the hand his friend extended, he ex- 
 claimed: 
 
 "Oh, Fred! then you have not beard? 
 .How can I tell you the dreadful story?" 
 
 "What dreadful story? My dear Gus, 
 sit down and compose yourself. You look 
 as though you were insane." 
 
 "Do I? I may well look Insane. Fou, 
 too, will look Insane, when you have 
 heard my story." 
 
 "Then let me hear it." 
 
 "Oh, Fred! my business here Is very 
 painful— painful In the extreme!" 
 
 "Then, my dear Gus, let me advise you 
 to get It over as soon as possible. The 
 longer you hesitate the worse It will be," 
 said Fred, resuming his seat on the 
 lounge. 
 
 "Have you no Idea what my errand Is? 
 J come from Perclval Hall.' 
 
 "Well?" said Fred, Inquiringly. 
 
 G\is paced silently up and down. 
 
 "Does It concern Bdlth?" Inquired 
 Fred, for the first time Wglnnlng to feel 
 alarmed. ' 
 
 "It does." 
 
 "What has happened? Good heaven! 
 Gus, has De Lisle carried her off again?" 
 
 "NO; no! worse still!" groaned Gus. 
 
 "What mean you?" cried Fred, spring- 
 ing up, white with apprehension. "Is she 
 —Is she"— 
 
 "Dead!" said Gus. solemnly. 
 
 There was a long pause. Gus turned 
 to the window, to hide his agitation. He 
 did not venture to look at hiu friend, 
 whose deep, labored breathing sounded 
 unnaturally loud in the silence of the 
 room. 
 
 "Where — how— when did she die?" he 
 asked, at length, in a voice so altered 
 that Gus started back in terror. 
 
 "Fred, my dear friend, prepare your- 
 self for the worst!" he said, scarcely dar- 
 ing to tell all. 
 
 "The worst has passed; Edith Is 
 dead! Nothing you can say now will af- 
 fect me," he answered, with such unnat- 
 ural calmness that Fred almost feared 
 the blow had unsettled his reason. 
 
 "Then, Fred, she was— murdered'" 
 
 Another long pause followed. Fred's 
 face had grown so sternly rigid that It 
 looked as though -turned to marble. 
 
 "By whom?" he asked. 
 
 "That is unknown," replied Gus. who 
 shrank with cowardly fear from telling 
 him all. 
 
 "When was she— when did his hap- 
 pen?" 8ai<J Fred, whose lips e jmed un- 
 able to frame the word. 
 
 "The night before last. The newe has 
 
 spread like wildfire, and I h^A hoped 
 
 that I'ou had heard it ere this and so 
 
 spared me the pains of being the first 
 
 'to annotmce It." 
 
 "Where is Ralph De Lisle?" said Fred, 
 


I 
 
 THE BERMIT OF THE fJLIFFB. 
 
 In Jiitoni that plainly Indicated he had Hph there with another «<^Vifr*tM«i> '• 
 ....!« ^«..h» whr. w«. t»,« m«r,l*.r»r said the Cheery vo»ce of RobIp Wllde 
 
 o,M*"lJ*7?^^?^ PUBhed open, and atein 
 ?«n. ^''^''*?'*' ^^'' "»'^''*'' o' the county, 
 them ^ * cnnBtable. stood bWore 
 
 • «."^'' ^*»"'«y- I helleve." aaid The sher- 
 iff bowing to Pred. who lifted hl8 head 
 and answered briefly in the affirmative. 
 
 ♦ K T'»«"'.f'»'. I arrest you In the nam*' of 
 h/«HTi, "**?t- **** sheriff, letting his 
 h ipd fall nn the young man's shoulder. 
 
 Arrest me!" aimioi"-.-.^ m — j — ._ 
 
 little doubt who was the murderer 
 
 "T know hot. Moat probably on his 
 way to Engfland or In the far Southwest. 
 < No ope suspects him of being the mur- 
 derer." 
 
 "Who. then, can it be? How could one 
 so aweet, so gentle, hav^ enemies? Was 
 fihe robbed as well a»>niurdered?" 
 
 "Her body was not found," said Qus, 
 
 who uttered each word as slowly and 
 
 reluctantly as though it burned his lips. 
 
 "You recollect, perhaps, the old barn on 
 
 . the bluff?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "She was decoyed there and slain. Th 
 )iarn was afterward set on Are, and her 
 remains ^ere consumed In the flames." 
 Bomething like a groan escaped the lipv 
 of Fred. Sluicing into a seat, he shaded 
 his face with his hands, and for several 
 moments s^t silent and motionless. 
 Then, without raising his head or look- 
 ing up, he said, huskily: , 
 
 'Tell me the particulars. I would 
 know all " 
 Sadly and reluctantly Ous complied. 
 Fred sat with his hand still shading his 
 tace— his lon«, dark locks falling heavily 
 over his temples— so cold and still that 
 he seemed to be slowly petrffylng. Gus 
 related all save who was the suepected 
 murderer— his lips refused to reveal that. 
 "You see the affair is wrapped in com- 
 plete mystery," he concludtid. "But no 
 doubt the murderer will y»t be found. 
 No exertion will be spared to ferret him 
 out.. The arm of divine Providence is 
 long enough to reach him, even to the 
 uttermost bounds of the earth." 
 
 Pred did not speak or move. The sud- 
 denness of the shock seemed to have 
 completely stunned him. 
 
 "My dear friend," said Gus. going over 
 and laying his hand on Fred's shoulder, 
 "bear up! It is a heavy blow, and T can 
 sympathize with you; but never despair! 
 We all knew and loved Edith— we all feel 
 her. loss; but still, despair is useless. 
 Rear up, Fred, and be a man! I have 
 seen you before now face death at the 
 cannon's mouth without wincing, and 
 will you now sink under aflllctlon like a 
 timid goirir' 
 
 Fred looked up and disclosed a face so 
 pale and eyes so despairing that Gus felt 
 his words were worse than useless. 
 
 He went and took a seat by the win- 
 dow and gazed out. Pred. his face hid- 
 den by his hand and his black locks, sat 
 silent and motionless. And so an hour 
 passed before either moved ojr spb^e. ♦ 
 
 T^JS^^jfiound of a carriage stopping; be- 
 for.» tjhe door at length startled Gus. He 
 looked up eagerly, and jsrew a shade 
 paler, as he heard a quick, authoritative 
 voli'e inquire for "NTr. Frederick Stan-^ 
 ley." 
 
 "Step in the parlor, sir, if you please.! 
 
 * w. - exclaimed Pred, sprlng- 
 .ng to his feet and flercely shaking ofl" 
 the officer's hand, as though stung by a 
 
 viper. n «jr a. 
 
 ''Such is my painful duty, sir." 
 
 "In the name of Heaven, sir. up«>n what 
 charge? Impetuously exclrflmed Fred 
 now- thoroughly aroused into action 
 
 "You are arrested upon the charge of 
 having murdered Edith Perclval." 
 
 Fred reeled as though suddenly struck 
 and was forced to grasp the table for 
 support. For a moment everything 
 seemed swimming around him; then, 
 conscious that the cold, keen eyes of the 
 official were fixed upon him, he recov- 
 ered his usual stately firmness, and an- 
 swered, with cold self-possesHlon. 
 
 "I am ready to attend you. air. Gus. 
 farewell! Do you believe this charge'" 
 
 "Heaven forbid, Fred!" said Gus in * 
 choking voice. 
 
 "You knew, when you came. I was 
 suspected— did you not?" 
 
 "Yes; but it was so monstrous, so ab- 
 surd, I could not tell you." 
 
 "It would have been better if you had; 
 but It matters not now. The world, no 
 doubt, believes me guilty; but what care 
 I for the world now? Sir. I am quite 
 ready." .^ 
 
 The sheriff bowed, and in his charge 
 Fred quitted the room. Bidding adieu 
 to Mrs. Wilde, whose lamentations were 
 loud and heartfelt, he entered the car- 
 riage, which was driven immediately to- 
 ward the county jail. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 "And he for her had also wept: 
 
 But for the eyes that on him Razed, 
 His sorrow, If he felt It. slept: 
 
 Stern and erect his brow was raised; 
 Whate'er the grief his .soul avowed. 
 He would not shrink before the crowd." 
 
 A PCRTNiOHT had passed away since 
 the arrest of Fred Stanley. The court 
 would sit In another wrek. and his trial 
 was among the first in the session. 
 
 In his cell the prisoner sat alone. His 
 fcice was pale but firm, sad and com- 
 posed. His long-neglected locks fell 
 darkly over his lofty brow, as he sat 
 watching a fading aupbeam that stole 
 through the dj;isty, grated window. He 
 heard the key turn In the lock; the next 
 


88 
 
 THE UERMIT OF THE CLIFFH, 
 
 i)j.' 
 
 m 
 
 momem the door open«d and Oua en- 
 tered. •'; ^ - 
 Prnd arose and extended ma hang. 
 naylnR, with a sad BmHe: 
 
 "This. iH Indeed kind, Ous! AH thfi 
 rest of, th»? world seems to have desert- 
 ed na^'but youv" . ,' 
 
 "They believe you gutlty, Fred— I do 
 not. 1 would have visited yon before, 
 hih circumstances would not perm;:. 
 When docH your trial come on ?" 
 ■ "To-morrow week." \- r 
 
 •i:"You ha-ve eng;aar«d counsel?" , f 
 . "Yes^Mr. Jolce, one of the best law- 
 yers In the State." 
 
 "That's well. Oh, there's no fear of 
 your acquittal, Ffed.' It seems Incred- 
 ible to me how you could ever have been 
 suspected."* . - 
 
 "You forget the clrcumstan^al .evi- 
 dence."- ■ - > • ^.�. '■ 
 
 "Nothlng^ but clrcumstaictlal^ evidence, 
 nevertheless, my dear friend." - 
 
 "'True; but much silghter has been 
 found sufficient to condemn a man be- 
 fore, now." 
 
 "Bnt It will not In your case. 1 feel 
 efure of it! It Is Impossible, Pred, that 
 you ckn be convicted!" exelalmed Ous, 
 impetuously rising and pacing the cell. 
 . "Well, never mind that now. What's 
 the news from the outer world? What 
 does public opinion ^ay of hie?" 
 
 "Public opinion'* a- fool!" 
 ? "In "many cases It Is, no doubt; but 
 what does It say of me?" 
 • "It says you're— guilty." 
 
 "I thought so," said Fred, quietly. 
 '^Thls charitable world is always In- 
 (;Ilned to look on the worst possible side 
 of things. No doubt there will be an 
 Immense crowd at the trial." 
 ».. "Oh, of course! you never saw such 
 excitement. Your family and the Per- 
 civals are so highly connected nothing 
 else is talked of. People are looking 
 forward to the trial with an eagerness 
 and anxiety you can have no idea of. 
 They are crazy to get a sight of you, 
 too, and you may expect to endure a 
 pretty prolonged stare from a couple of 
 thousand eyes on that day. This exag- 
 gerated anxiety would be ludicrous we're 
 ft not so annoying," said Gus, biting his 
 Hp. 
 
 ,*• Where are the Perclvals now?" In- 
 quired Fred, after a pause. 
 
 "The major and Nugent are In town 
 here; Mrs. Percival, whose life Is de- 
 spaired of. Is at hon>e; and poor Nell, 
 half insane with grief. Is �lth her." 
 : "la my, father here yet?" 
 
 A'Yes: I saw him yesterday, looking as 
 though fifty years had lately been aidd- 
 ed to his age; but as proud and haughty 
 ^ 6ver,. 'TIS said he will wait until 
 after yoUr trial, and then leave for Bng- 
 ■land.".- '■■ ,.■■'- -^., .t - . ;- ■ 
 
 ^. v';t, auRPQWi. hift Jwiftg*9.#'»»e gvHty^,, \Of.e 
 the rest ?'! .<' > ' ^ ~^— ^ - ' ■ 
 
 ■i< 
 
 "No doubt; but when your trial Is 
 over, and your Innocence clearly proved, 
 perhaps they will change their tune." 
 
 "It matters little." said Fred, "even 
 though I am acquitted public opinion 
 will still believe me guilty, and I will be 
 Just as much a murderer In the eycH of 
 the world as though I had ''been con- 
 demned. But what do I care for the 
 opinion of the world?" he added, draw- 
 ing himself proudly up, while some of 
 the old haughtiness Hashed In his eyes 
 and crrled his Up. "I live In a world 
 of my own, as high above theirs as heav.^ 
 en Is above the earth. But you, dear 
 Gus— I should be sorry to lose your faith 
 In my Integrity. How will you be able 
 to maintain your, belief in my Innocence, 
 against such an overwhelming; mass of 
 testimony as will be brought against 
 me?" 
 
 "Though all' the wdria should believe 
 you guilty. Fred, I never �\l\," replied 
 Gus, firmly. 
 
 "Even 'though I should be con- 
 demned?" 
 
 "Even though you should be con- 
 demned!" 
 
 "Heaven bless you, my dear friend," 
 said Fred, grasping hfs hand, while tears 
 sprang In bis deep, dark eyes. 
 
 "And now I must leave you, Pred," 
 said Gus. "I will see you to-morrow 
 again. If possible. Meantime, remember 
 the old motto: 'Hope on, hope ever.' '/ 
 
 "There remains but little for me to 
 hope for," said Fred, sadly. "Hitherto, 
 I have always borne an unsullied name, 
 but now, the disgrace of this trial for 
 murder will cling to me for life." 
 
 "Nonsense, Fred! the world Is not so 
 unjust 'Before morning dawns, night is 
 ever darkest.' There are bright days in 
 store for you yet, believe me." 
 
 "You are unusually full of 'wise saws' 
 to-day, Gus," said Fred, with something 
 like the old smile flitting over his hand- 
 some face. "I shall wait Impatiently for 
 your coming to-morrow; for, shut In this 
 black hole, it seems like a gllmpi^e of 
 the outer world to catch sight of you." 
 
 Gus knocked at the door, to be let out. 
 The Jailer opened It and the yovith difr 
 appeared. , , n. 
 
 The day of the trial came at last. Even 
 at early morn the streets were crowded 
 by the excited mob, anxious to, catch a 
 glimpse of the prisoner when he i^hould 
 be led forth. Stores were (^Iqped. for 
 men forgot to buy and sel|,i in talking 
 over the dreadfiil murder, and the as- 
 sassin's probable fate. Women forgot 
 their ordinary occupation to chat over 
 the merits and demerits of the calM€ixtor 
 the prisoner, being young» handteme, 
 and Wghjy connected, deeply Interested 
 the' fair sex, E;ven chlldfjen forgot their 
 m«^rbl.es..lw»d; tops In jtft0 a|,i-aV»a<>rblhg 
 topic, and played at ''trials," and talked 
 


trial |« 
 
 provt'd. 
 me." 
 
 "even 
 "pJnIon 
 wHi be 
 eyt'B of 
 'n cun- 
 foi the 
 draw- 
 ome of 
 la eyea 
 World 
 s heuv^ 
 u, dear 
 r faith 
 be able 
 oc6nce, 
 naM of 
 against 
 
 believe 
 replied 
 
 i con- 
 
 TUB HEHMIT OV THE CLlFfB. 
 
 of judges and Juriea, int4ead of kites and 
 penknives. In Rhort, nothing was 
 tlioughl ir spoken nf but the one excit- 
 ing BUbJ> rtr> the trial of Frederic Stanley 
 on the' appalling charge of murder. 
 
 The doorH were at length ttirown open 
 -the crowd rushed in and the court- 
 loom was fllled to suffocation. A deep, 
 low murmur, like the aurglng of the sea, 
 fllled the air, as the mighty crowd 
 swayed to and fro. The murmur in- 
 creased almost into a rpur as the pris- 
 oner, in the custody of the sherlft/en- 
 lered. The dark, scowling faces on ev- 
 ery side showed how deeply the mob 
 were prejudiced against him, and it was 
 with the utmost difticulty order could 
 he maintained. 
 
 Fred entered with the careless grace 
 habitual to him — his fine head erect, his 
 keen, dark eyes fixed calmly on the ex- 
 <?ited crowd. More than one scowling 
 gl'^nce ^ell before his haughty, scornful 
 eye, and the public were forced to think 
 that he looked far more like some cap- 
 tive prince than an assassin. If he were 
 gu.'lty, he certainly betrayed no sign 
 of it. 
 
 Taking his place at the bar, Fred 
 glanced again at the crowd in the court- 
 room ■ There sat Major Percival, with a 
 brow stern and dark as night, his eyes 
 t^xed on the prisoner with a look of such 
 intense hatred and loathing that he 
 seemed longing to tear him limb from 
 limb. Near him sat Nugent, his eyes 
 Axed on the crowd, his brow clouded; 
 but there was a look far more of sorrow 
 than of anger in his face. That he be- 
 lieved lilm guilty there could be little 
 doubt; and for a moment, a feeling of 
 desimir weighed or the hieart of Fred 
 at the thought- "If Nugent Percival, 
 with his open, generous nature, and 
 noble mind,* believes me capable of mur- 
 der, what can I expect from strangers?" 
 
 At the opposite end of the courtroom, 
 with his arms folded across his breast, 
 his cloak thrown over his shoulders, and 
 wrapped in his haughty pride as in a 
 garifnent, sat Sir William Stanley. His 
 face was cold and sterh, his eye clear 
 and unpltylng. his mouth Arm and rigid. 
 Whether he believed in his son's guilt 
 or not, it would be hard to determine. 
 Nothing coufd be read from his face; all 
 was stera ahd expressionless there. 
 
 Again he glanced over the crowd. 
 Whichever Way he turned, nothing met 
 his eyes hilt fierce looks and sullfen 
 glances. Those who had been his friends 
 in other days sat with downcast eyes 
 and averted faces: no kindly look was 
 t^re; Not one among all thatimmense 
 CTQwd, it called upon to prenp mce hi« 
 doom, but would nave shouted .'Guilty, 
 atillty}" 
 
 . ll«r fUrned 'a^vay with a feeWiig of de- 
 8i)a!r at his heart but his otttwatd -biear- 
 ing waR-boJd, ujida*nrte*..and.al*n«»t de- 
 fying. He glanced at the Bench. Even 
 
 the presiding Judge seemed to have made 
 up his mind as to tha guilt of the pris- 
 oner, Judging by the lo«;k his face wore. 
 
 As for the Jury, little could t)e read 
 from their blank faces, but more than 
 one of them he knew to be his personal 
 t nemles. 
 
 Amid all that assembly there was but 
 one who in Ills heart believed in the 
 Innocence of the prisoner. Ous, faithful 
 to the last, stood by his side, returning 
 every hiok of hatred directed toward his 
 friend with compound Interest, and en- 
 deavoring by nlH cheerful face and hope- 
 ful glances to encourage him to trust 
 for the best. 
 
 Having taken his place, the usual 
 charge was read, arraigning the prison- 
 er for the wilful murder of Edith Per- 
 cival, by stabbing her with a knife on 
 the night of the fifth of June. Fred 
 listened with outward calmness to" the 
 charge, and when the clerk of the court 
 asked the usual quesilon, "Frederic 
 Stanley, how say you— are you guilty or 
 not guilty of the felony with which you 
 are charged?" his dark eye flashed and 
 his lip curled, as he answered, with cold 
 haughtiness: 
 
 "Not guilty!" 
 
 The State's attorney then arose, and 
 proceeded with his address. No pen can 
 describe the emotions which his elo- 
 Qiience and pathos produced In minds 
 ai. jady made up to believe the prisoner's 
 guilt. To destroy any favorable Im- 
 pression the well-known nobleness and 
 generosity of the prisoner might have 
 made on the minds of the Jury, he spoke 
 of the excesses to which blind rage will 
 often excite even the most tranquil; of 
 his known haughtiness and flery tem- 
 per, which could never endure opposi- 
 tion. 
 
 He dwelt long and eloquently on each 
 trifling circumstance that could by any 
 possibility heighten his guilt, until Gus 
 grew pale with apprehension. 
 
 As he proceeded to state the case, the 
 audience were wrought up to a pitch of 
 the highest excitement. 
 
 He stated that the prisoner at the bar 
 had conceived a passion for his unhappy 
 victini, knowing ber to be the betrothed 
 of another; how by his artful words he 
 induced her to forget her plighted en- 
 gagement, and turn her affections * to 
 himself; that he had audaciously dis- 
 closed his feeKngs to the father, boast- 
 ing of his ascendancy over her at the 
 saitie time; that, meeting with whaJ; he 
 deserved, an indignant disilntssal, h(^ had 
 departed in high anger; that some tirhfe 
 after, her former ; engagement bein^ 
 broken: by a circumstance not necessary 
 to mention, the prisoner, on , the evp»- 
 ' ing of the murder, agaih made his ajl- 
 peeirah^ in' the little vDlacte, thinking, 
 no doiybt, he was noW «ure of suceestf; 
 tttat he-was met by the y'outag iad!V% 
 father, who refused to permit him to 
 





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9Q 
 
 THE EERMIT OF THE. GtlFFB. 
 
 -M ■ ■ ■ 
 
 ll\ 
 
 • I 
 
 see her; that angry words ensued, and 
 the prisoner rode off in high displeasure; 
 but, instead of leaving the village, had, 
 by means of a little boy, decoyed his vic- 
 tim to a lonely house, and there, upon 
 her steadily refusing to fly with him, 
 murdered her. 
 
 The prosecuting attorney spoke of all 
 this at length, and not with the brevity 
 with which it is summed up here. 
 
 He referred to the gentle and amiable 
 character of the unhappy young lady— 
 her beauty, her goodness, and the deep, 
 trusting affection for himself with which 
 her murderer had inspired her. How un- 
 suspectingly she had been betrayed into 
 meeting the unworthy object of her love, 
 and because her sense of duty was 
 greater than her affection for him, was, 
 as she stood there with him, alone and 
 helplessjr basely assassinated. 
 
 So touching was the picture he drew, 
 8opathetic-were his words, that all the 
 women present sobbed convulsively, and 
 even among the men many eyes, all un- 
 used to the "melting mood," grew dim, 
 and flashed still more fiercely through 
 their tears on the prisoner, who, with 
 h<s face shaded by his hand, strove to 
 hide the agony he endured when the 
 speaker dwelt on the harrowing fate of 
 his beloved Edith. 
 
 The State's attorney concluded by say- 
 ing he would prove his statements by 
 facts— stern, undeniable facts — by com- 
 petent and respectable witnesses, whom 
 he would now call in the order in which 
 the circumstances they were to prove oc- 
 curred. 
 
 "Major Percival will take the stand." 
 
 The major advanced, and, after the 
 usual oath, testified that the prisoner at 
 the bar had conceived a passion for the 
 deceased, which she returned; that the 
 prisoner had boldly informed the witness 
 of it, and that they had parted in high 
 anger. That on the evening of the mur^ 
 der the witness had accidentally met the 
 prisoner, and accosted him, demanding 
 his business there, knowing he could 
 have come for no good purpose; that the 
 prisoner had audaciously told him he 
 came to see his daughter once more be- 
 fore leaving tha country; that he indig- 
 nantly bade him begone, and that the 
 prisoner, in a rage, had ridden off, and» 
 that he had not seen him since until to- 
 day iat the bar. 
 
 Qeing cross-examined, he admitted 
 that at parting the prisoner had made 
 use of no threats, and that his own 
 words had been angry and insulting. The 
 witness was then allowed to retire. 
 
 The next witness called was Nugent 
 Percival. 
 
 He corroborated the testimony of his 
 father; further deposed that after learn- 
 ing the particulars of the murder, he 
 had, In company with his fatlier, visit- 
 ed the spot! .4;hat he had foun« a dog- 
 ger, stained, with blood, which he knew 
 
 to be the property of the prisoner, aa it 
 bore his name, and had been the gift 
 of his father. That he likewise discov- 
 ered a portion of a silk scarf, which he 
 knew the deceasexJ had worn on the 
 night of the murder. 
 
 The dagger and scarf were produced, 
 and identified by the witness. 
 
 A severe cross-examination followed, 
 but nothing more was elicited. 
 
 Sir William Stanley was then called, 
 who, after closely examining the dagger; 
 pronounced it to be the same he had 
 himself given to his son. 
 
 Fred listened like one thunderstruck 
 to this testimony. That the drgger was 
 his, there could be no doubt, and he now 
 recollected having lost it a short time, 
 previous to the murder; but had trou- 
 bled hin;self little about it — never dream- 
 ing it would yet witness so fatally: 
 against him in a court of justice. 
 
 Gus, who had listened with equal sur- 
 prise, now stooped down and whispered: 
 
 "Bah! That proves nothing. TJie mur- 
 derer might have accidentally found it 
 or stolen it to lay the blame on you." 
 
 The third witness called was Edward 
 Dillon. 
 
 Master Eddy came up with a swagger, 
 evidently in the highest spirits. Con- 
 vinced that nothing could be done to 
 him for his share in the transaction, 
 and elated by the reward promised him 
 if he told the truth boldly, he was in ex- 
 cellent humor, and delighted to find him- 
 self shining off before so great a crowd. 
 
 "Witness, do you understand the na- 
 ture of an oath?" asked the State's at- 
 torney. 
 
 " Spect I do," said Eddy, seriously. 
 
 "What is an oath?" 
 
 Eddy laid his finger on his nose in 
 deep meditation; but, evidently, the 
 question was a poser. He* glanced ap-- 
 pealingly at the judge, but that high 
 functionary was looking at him thrbiugh 
 his gold-rimnied spectacles, with silent 
 but overwhelming dignity. Findiaig'Ho 
 help from this quarter, Eddy scratched 
 his head witTi '^ look of intense per |>lfe«- 
 ity. ■ :- ■■■^'■\ ■'■■•'■ 
 
 "Witness, what is an oath?"'solen4hly' 
 repeated his interlocutor. 
 
 "Well, if I must, I must, though I 
 plaguey hate to," said Eddy. "When 
 you told the tailor day bief Ore yester- 
 day, when he asked you for his bilK' to 
 'go to the devil/ that was an oath." 
 
 A roar of laughter from the crowd 
 followed this, while the attorney, who 
 was noted for now and then Indulging 
 in profanity, turned crimson with ragt. 
 
 "Silene6, sir, and answer to the point!" 
 he angrily exclaimed'. "Do you know 
 where you'll go to when you die if yojU 
 take a false oath?" ; ' " 
 
 ^'Well. I s'pose I'd go Where they say 
 all the had folks aina th6 lav^yets go.'" 
 
 And Eddy gave his head a peculiar 
 jerk, to designate the ^Ikce below.' ' " 
 


TBE M^IiillT OF the: CLIFFS. 
 
 n 
 
 I followed, 
 
 Anolher snicker from the crowd fol- 
 lowed this j and," eon vhiced by thie time 
 that Eddy; realty did know the nature 
 of an oath, the court concluded that the 
 promising young gentlemao should be 
 sworn. 
 
 "Witness, look at the prfsoner at the 
 . bat!" 
 
 Eddy turned and favored Fred with 
 a patronizing nod and grin. 
 
 "Now, witness, you have, seen the pris- 
 oner. Do you know him?" 
 
 "Well, I can't ^i^y that I am parttcu- 
 .ularly acquainted with him," answered 
 Eddy, gravely. ' 
 
 "Have you ever seen him before?" , 
 
 "Weil, now, I really couldit't say for 
 certain, you know. Think I have» 
 though." 
 
 "Does he look like any one you have 
 ever seen?" 
 
 "If he had a long cloak on, and a hat 
 pulled over his ^ace, I wouldn't be 
 s'prised if he looked uncommon like the 
 chap as got ipe to go for Miss .Edith." 
 
 "Witness, on your oath can you testify 
 tliat this is the same person who paid 
 you on the night of •the murder to bring 
 the young lady to the lone house on the 
 Bluff?'* 
 
 " "Twas after night, and his hat was 
 away down over his face, and the rest 
 of him , was kivered up in a big cloak, 
 and, - not having the eyes of a cat, I 
 couldn't 'stinguish him precisely. He 
 was 'bout the size of that 'ere prisoner, 
 though, and— yes, he had long black hair 
 like him, too— I saw that." 
 
 "Weili inow; ten the jury Itll' that 
 paseed between you and the murderer 
 that night." 
 
 Interlarding the narrative w4th many 
 explanations of his own, not particularly 
 lucid, aihd many profound observations 
 on what he thought and said to "his- 
 self," which were generally cut short 
 by the unceremonious attorney, Eddy 
 proceeded with his tale, which is too 
 well known to need repetition here. 
 
 When he came to the meeting where 
 Editii addressed her murderer as "Fred," 
 the prisoner lifted his head and gazed 
 upon the boy with a look of utter amaze- 
 ment. That he was telling the truth 
 there eould be no doubt, for there wa» 
 an unmistakable look of honesty and 
 candor on his face. 
 
 Eddy was severely cross-examined by 
 ):he counsel for the defense, but all his 
 answers were plain and straightforward, 
 and to the point. At length, thoroughly 
 exasperated by this raking fire of cross- 
 cjuestions, he indignantly and stoutly, rfi- 
 fused to answer a single question more. 
 And,^ amid the laughter of the audi- 
 ence, Master Eddy was pernrvitted to 
 sit down.- 
 
 The girl Betty was then called, who 
 corroborated the evidence of Eddy, as 
 far as coming foi; the deceased was con- 
 cerned, and further identified the scarf 
 
 f«;,*»"e the deceased he* vvopn>«n'-le«V^^ 
 iHg home; ,- =- . ,< ..,„;",. 
 
 The landlord of the inn was the next 
 .witness summoned, who deposed thaA a 
 stranger, answering,, to the descrif^tibn 
 given of the murderer, had engaged a 
 room In his house for the night; that 
 half an hour previous to- the murdter he 
 had hastily left the house and turned. 
 
 Ru,£*^ ^u^**^?"* **^ **^« ^^^ »^0"8e on the 
 i^luff; that he had returned ip. great 
 haste, and evidently much; excited, and 
 drank a great deal of brandy; that upon 
 the alarm of fire being given he had has- 
 tened out with the rest and that his al- 
 most frantic actions ba4 excited the 
 wonder of several; that after the fire he 
 (the witness) had hastened home; that 
 he observed the assassin plunge into the 
 woods and return to his house no more. 
 J3elng cross-examined, he could not swear 
 positively that the prisoner at the bar 
 and the murderer were one and the 
 same person, as he had not, during the 
 night, procured a good view of his face; 
 but he thought they were the same— 
 their height was alike, the color of their 
 hair, etc. . r - 
 
 _ Several other witnesses were exam- 
 ined, but nothing more of importance 
 was elicited, and the court was shortly 
 after adjourned until the following day. 
 
 -On the second day of the great trial, 
 the crowd was even greater thap be- 
 fore—all eager to hear the fate of the 
 prisoner. Every eye was turned upon 
 him as he entered. Pale, but firm, his 
 ^agle eye met the gaze of that crowd, 
 all anxH)us for his condemnation, with- 
 out flinching, and, taking his seat, he 
 lifted his princely head and fixed hjs 
 dark eyes on the Bench as calmly as 
 though the men before him held not his 
 life in their hands. 
 
 When the last witness for the prosecu- 
 tion had been examined, the defense was 
 taken up and conducted with great skill 
 and eloquence by the counsel for the 
 prisoner. He spoke at length upon the 
 high character his client had always 
 inaintaiiied, and eiilai ged on every ]b6lnt' 
 that could possibly be in his favor. It 
 was evident, however, his words made ' 
 but little impression on the minds of the 
 jury. • 
 
 The counsel for the pi-osecution then 
 arose, and summed up the testimony 
 against the prisoner in one mighty, 
 crushing mass of evidence. When the 
 judge Siood up to charge the Jury,- the 
 silence of that mighty crowd was so 
 deep that It might almost be felt. It was 
 quite evident that In his mind there 
 existed no doubt of the prisoner's guilt, 
 and though he urged the jury to delib- 
 erate calmly upon the evidence, every 
 one present ft- It that the prigoher's doom 
 wias sealedf^ . 
 
 The jury withdrew to deliberate, and 
 the silei>ce of that mighty crowd waa so 
 profeuQd and ominous that it was pain- 
 


92 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE GLIFFB. 
 
 
 ful to experience. Every eye was di- 
 rected toward the prisoner, who, with 
 his stately head erect, his proud, hand- 
 some face as cold and firni as marble. 
 l)etrayed no sign of his feelings within. 
 Gus. noble, true-hearted Gus. still stood 
 faithfully by his side, his only remain- 
 ing friend, and looking fierce defiance at 
 c-ery scowling glance directed toward 
 
 Fred 
 
 
d What were the feelings of those 
 who in other days had stood by him, 
 during those awful moments of sus- 
 pense'' Sir William Stanley, as stern 
 and grim as death itself, sat with his 
 lips compressed, his stony eyes fixed on 
 the floor, his iron face expressing no 
 emotion whatever. Major Percival sat, 
 deadly pale, but with the old look of 
 mingled hatred and triumph on his face. 
 Nugent's head was bowed on his hand, 
 his face hidden by his falling hair. 
 
 Presently the jury re-entered. The 
 foreman arose, and announced that their 
 verdict was ready. One look at their 
 sad, stern faces, and every heart stood 
 still, knowing wen what was to come. 
 
 The judge arose. 
 
 "Gentlemen of the jury, how say you, 
 is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not 
 guilty?" 
 
 "Not guilty!" cried the clear, excited 
 voice of a female, and. forcing her wa,y 
 through the crowd that fell back in 
 mingled fear and amazement, a young 
 girl stood before the bench. 
 
 Throwing back the veil that hid her 
 face, the newcomer turned' slowly round 
 and the wonder-struck spectators beheld 
 the pale but beautiful Edith Percival. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 EDITH'S STORY. 
 
 "Then think of this maxim, and cast away 
 sorrow, 
 
 The wretched to-day may be happy to- 
 morrow!"' 
 
 For a moment the profound silence of 
 intense amazement held every tongue 
 speechless, every voice silent, and the 
 dense crowd stood motionless, spell- 
 bound! And then "Edith! Edith! 
 Edith Percival!" rang out like the roar 
 of the sf.a. 
 
 The ei'.citement and uproar were fear- 
 ful; the judge sat transfixed; the jury 
 gazed on her with mouths and eyes 
 agape; the crowd reeled and swayed 
 to see one who seemed to have risen 
 from the grave to vindicate the prison- 
 er; the clerk of the court forgot to cry 
 silence, and stood staring in speechless 
 astonishment, like the rfest. 
 
 And Fred— the sudden revulsion of 
 feeling, the unexpectfri sight of one he 
 imagined in heaven, cam^ so. stunningly 
 upon him, that, for a moment, the sight 
 left his eyes, his senses reeled, and he 
 leaned jiis head upon the railing, feeltng 
 
 as though he shoulf faint. It was but 
 for an instant — then all his wopderful 
 power of self-control came back, and he 
 lifted his head — almost fearing what he 
 had seen and heard was but a delusion, 
 a dream. But no.; there stood Edith 
 alive, lovely and radiant as when he first 
 beheld her — her soft blue eyes beaming 
 upon him. with such a look of deep, un- 
 utterable love. 
 
 With a passionate exclamation, Major . 
 Percival arose to his feet, and would 
 have sprung toward his daughter, but 
 as ^well might he have endeavored to. 
 force his way through a wall of iron 
 as through that madly excited crowd. 
 Nugent perceived how vain would be 
 the effort, and, although almost delirious 
 himself with overwhelming emotion, he 
 strove to keep him back from the crush- 
 ing throng of human beings. 
 
 But high above all the noise and up- 
 roar that filled the court-house, there 
 arose a cry, a cry so full of unspeakable 
 horror and despair that every heart stood 
 still. AH eyes were turned in the di- 
 rection from whence It came, and there 
 before them, like a galvanized corpse, 
 stood Ralph De Lisle. Okil such a ghast- 
 ly face, such livid lips flecked with 
 blood and foam, such wild, despairing, 
 horror-struck eyes! Every face blanched 
 with a deep, unspeakable awe as they 
 gazed. 
 
 "Sheriff. I command you to arrest 
 Ralph 0e Lisle, on charge of attempting 
 the nurder of Edith Percival," called a 
 calm, r*ommanding voice, that sounded 
 strangely clear and cool amid- all thai 
 wild storm of passion and excitement, 
 and, waving his arm to where stood the 
 consclence-strickert man, tyie Hermit of 
 the Cliffs turned toward the Bench. 
 ■ "Never!" shouted De Lisle, fiercely- 
 all his presence of mind returning with 
 the imminence of his danger, as he 
 struggled madly to force his way 
 through the waving sea of beings be- 
 tween him and the door. 
 
 But he struggled in vain. The, strong 
 hand of the' officer grasped his colleti* in 
 a grip of iron. 
 
 "Dog of a sheriff! release me!" he 
 cried, foaming with rage, and endeavor- 
 ing to wrench himself from his powerful 
 grasp. 
 
 Half a dozen willing hands were raised 
 to aid the oflficer, when De Lisle, seeing 
 all hope was past, with the rapidity of 
 lightning drew a pistol and leveled it 
 at Edith. She stood white and motion- 
 less, unable to move, while a low cry of 
 horror arose from the spectators. But 
 his murderous object failed ; for, as quick 
 as thought, his arm was struck upward, 
 while the nlstni fpii to the ground and 
 went off. A shriek of pain followed, and 
 a boy was raised from the floor bleed- 
 ing, and carried out— the ball having 
 lodared in his .ankle. 
 This 'did not tend to allay the feelings 
 


THE HERMIT OF THE VLIFFH. 
 
 93 
 
 e feelings 
 
 of the mob, who turned upon De Lisle 
 and would have torn him In pieces but 
 for the interference of the officers. His 
 arms, after a desperate resistance, were 
 pinioned firmly behind his back; and, 
 still struggling like a madman, he was 
 borne to a place of safety. 
 
 With the utmost difficulty, peace was 
 at length restored, and Edith was com- 
 manded to tell her story; and then the 
 deepest silence followed where a moment 
 before all had been fierce noise and wild 
 uproar, and all ears were bent and necks 
 strained to catch each word that fell 
 from her lips. But Edith was so weak 
 and faint from excitement that her voice 
 was inarticulate, A chair was brought 
 fo^- her, and a glass of water presented 
 by Gus. who, poor, faithful fellow, 
 scarcely knew whether he ought to 
 laugh or cry, and consequently did 
 neither; and then, revived, Edith turned 
 to the Bench and began: 
 
 "I presume all here present know most 
 of tht events of that night. Oh, that 
 dreadful night! I cannot 6ven now 
 think of it without a shudder. 
 
 "Thinking I was to visit his sister, I 
 accompanied the boy, Eddy Dillon, from 
 home. Forming some excuse, he per- 
 suaded me to go with him to the old 
 house on the Bluff. Ae we ascended the 
 hill the figure of a man wrapped in a 
 cloak — his face hidden by his hat — 
 stepped from the old house and stood be- 
 fore us. I imagined it to be Frederic 
 Stanley, who that evening had been in 
 the village; and, thinking he had em- 
 ployed the boy to lead me there for a 
 clandestine interview. I addressed him 
 by his name. He did not reply, but said 
 something in a* whisper to Eddy, who 
 immediately ran away. Still thinking it 
 was Fred, I followed him into the old 
 house, and again called him by his 
 name. Still he w^as silent. I grew 
 alarmed; when he dropped his cloak, 
 and raised his hat, I saw before me my 
 .»nortal enemy — Ralph De Lisle!" 
 
 Edith shuddered, and covered her face 
 with her hands as memory conjured up 
 that almost fatal night. 
 
 "I was so shocked, so startled, so ter- 
 ror stricken, that for a moment I almost 
 fainted. T scarcely know how I rallied, 
 but I was inspired by sudden courage, 
 and stood fearlessly before him. He 
 urged me to fly with him or die. Death 
 was preferable to life with him, and I 
 refused. Blinded, nnaddened by my re- 
 fusal, he drew a dagger and plunged it 
 into my side. Dimly, as one remembers 
 a frightful dream, I recollect falling to 
 the ground; then I drew out the knife, 
 and then all grew dark, and, with- a dull, 
 roaring st)und as of many waters in my 
 ears, memory and life were alike for a 
 time lost in oblivion. 
 
 "When I again opened, my eyes I found 
 myself lying in the little cottage among 
 
 the cliffs, occupied by the aged hermit. 
 For days I hovered between death and 
 life, and, with a care for which I can 
 never be sufficiently grateful, the hermit 
 watched over me night and day. He 
 scarcely ever left me, even for his nec- 
 essary repose; and, : ^ing to his care, I 
 slowiv recovered. He said it would be 
 dangeious to remove me home, and I 
 was too weak and powerless to care 
 where I was. As he never went out, we 
 heard nothing of what was transpiring 
 in the outer world, until yesterday, yield- 
 ing to my entreaties, he went to inform 
 my parents that I was still alive. The 
 first person he met related the arrest of 
 Mr. Stanley, and informed him that he 
 was to be tried for murdering me, to- 
 day. With almost frantic haste he 
 tuined home and told me all; and, 
 scarcely pausing to make the necessary 
 arrangements, we started for this place, 
 and, thank Heaven! we have arrived in 
 time to vindicate the Innocence of Fred- 
 eric Stanley," 
 
 Edith paused and glanced with a look 
 of unchangeable affection toward the 
 spot where Fred sat — his face alternate- 
 ly flushing and paling with powerful 
 emotion. There was a moment's dead 
 silence, and then a cheer that made the 
 old court-house ring came from every 
 excited 'heart. Yes, in that moment a 
 complete revulsion of feeling took place 
 in every breast, Fred's triumph was 
 complete; and, with its usual impulsive 
 considerateness, the mob as heartily re- 
 joiced in his innocence, as, a few mo- 
 ments previously, they had done in his 
 guilt. 
 
 "But how were you rescued?" said the 
 judge, partaking of the universal ex- 
 citement. "This blank in your story" — 
 
 "Can be filled by me," interrupted the 
 hermit, stepping forward. "On the night 
 in question, passing accidentally— or 
 rather by a dispensation of Providence 
 which men call chance — near the Bluff, 
 I beheld, to my surprise, a sudden jet of 
 flame shoot up from a pile of rubbish. 
 Anxious to know the cause, I hastened 
 up and entered the old barn. All was 
 deserted and dreary around; and I was 
 about to quit it and give the alarm 
 when my eyes fell on an object lying at 
 my feet that almost transfixed me with 
 horror — that froze the very blood in my 
 veins. iThere, lying cold and lifeless, 
 bathed In blood, lay Edith Percival. In 
 a moment the whole truth burst upon 
 me. She had been murdered there, and 
 the assassin had set Are to* the house 
 to conceal the evidence of his crime. 
 Should I leave her to perish in the 
 flames? No; not if I died with her. An 
 almost superhuman strength seemed to 
 inspire me. I raised her lifeless form 
 in my arms as though she had been an 
 infant, and turned in the direction of 
 the cliffs. At any other time the feat 
 


M 
 
 THE HERMIT OF THE CUFFS. 
 
 ii ! 
 
 WQuld ;have been Impossible; but a 
 strenirth not my own seemed suddenly 
 ■ to have 'been granted to me, and ere 
 rriornlrtg dawned we had reached my lit- 
 tle cottage in safety. 
 
 I had imagined her dead; but, to my 
 surprise and joy, I soon discovered signs 
 of Mfe. Having a little knowledge of 
 surgery, I examined the wound, and dis- 
 covered that, though dangerous, it was 
 far from being mortal. I applied such 
 rerifiedies as I knew to be good in such 
 a case, and, in the course of a few days, 
 she began to recover. I did not wish to 
 tell her friends, knowing they -would dis- 
 turb her with visits, and perhaps insist 
 on having her removed— a proceeding 
 which I knew would be highly danger- 
 ous. The world callff me odd and eccen- 
 tric—perhaps this was oue of my eccen- 
 tricities; beside, I wished to have the 
 pleasure of returning tc her family her 
 whom they Imagined dead. It never oc- 
 curred to me that any one but the real 
 murderer would be arrested. Judge, 
 therefore, of my surprise, when the first 
 time I left home I learned that Frederic 
 Stanley had been arrested, and was 
 about to be tried for her murder. I lost 
 no time in hastening here — and here I 
 am." • 
 
 And then such another shout as rent 
 the air! — the crowd seemed to have gone 
 wild. Then the court was adjourned, and 
 the prisoner discharged; and Edith went 
 over and laid her hand in his, and looked 
 up in his face with her love-beaming 
 eyes. 
 
 The friends of Fred were now pressing 
 around, to shake hands and congratu- 
 late him On his triumphant vindication. 
 And first among them came Gus, with 
 "a smile on his lips. and a tear in his 
 eye," and who shook Fred's hand until 
 it ached, and who squeezed Edith's lit- 
 tle hand until her fingers tingled. Then 
 wary /was made for Major Percival and 
 hiei son, the dense crowd opening right 
 B,tid left tc allow tliem to pass. Their 
 meeting was not a very demonstrative 
 one— it could not be in that crowded 
 courtroom; but it was none the less 
 heartfelt and deep for th*it. 
 , "And Fred, papa?" sa.id Edith, gently. 
 
 The face of the major grev/^ red with 
 a flush of honest shame and embarrass- 
 ment, as he held out his hand. For a 
 nMiment Fred hesitated; all hUs pride 
 rose, as he recollected the many indigni- 
 ties he had received from the man be- 
 fore him. Edith saw the struggle in his 
 mind, and,* laying her hand on his arm, 
 apd lifting her soft, reproachful eyes to 
 his face, she said: 
 
 "Dear Fred!" 
 
 He Qould not resist that witching 
 glaiice. The next moment his hand 
 grasped that of tixe major in the warm 
 clasp of friendship. 
 
 "And thus do I atone for the pa'st," 
 
 3aid, the major, placing the hand of 
 Edith in that of Fred. 
 
 Ih that moment the past — all its 
 wrongs, and sorrows, and sufferings- 
 was forgotten. That instant of bliss 
 more than compensated him for the 
 troubled, stormy past. 
 
 There was one other whose eyes fell 
 on that scefte. Ralph De Lisle, pinioned 
 like a malefactor, and led out between 
 two officers, saw it as he passed. He 
 gnashed his teeth in impotent rage; and 
 his eyes, in their frenzied despair, 
 glared upon them like the burning orbs 
 of a tiger; Such a look of undying hate 
 and fierce anguish Lucifer might have 
 worn when cast from heaven. His livid 
 lips opened to heap curses upon them, 
 but words refused to come. His face 
 grew black and convulsed — his oyes 
 turned in their sockets— he reeled, and 
 would have fallen to the ground, had nut 
 the otficefs supported him in their arms. 
 
 As they raised him frpm the ground, a 
 dark stream of blood flowed from his 
 mouth. In his agony of rage and de- 
 spair, he had ruptured a blood vessel. 
 
 They bore him off to prison, while the 
 spectators gazed on horror-struck. Faint 
 and sick, Edith hid her face on her 
 brother's shoulder with a shudder. 
 
 "Let us go," .said Nugent, turning 
 away, pale with horror, as he passed his 
 arm around his sister's waist, to lead 
 her from the room. 
 
 "You will accompany us, of course?" 
 said the major, in an imperative tone 
 to Fred, who glanced at Edith, and 
 bowed, with a smile. "And you, too," 
 added the major, turning to the hermit, 
 whose eyes were fixed, as if fascinated, 
 on Sir William Stanley, as, borne along 
 by the swaying rush, he was approach- 
 ing them. , " 
 
 "No," said the hermit, gravely; "my 
 task is ended, and I must return home." 
 
 "Oh, pray, come with us,*' said Edith, | 
 eagerly; "you will be much happier, I 
 am sure, than living all alone among 
 those dreary cliffs." 
 
 But the hermit only shook his head, 
 and steadily refused. 
 
 Finding entreaties vain, they turned to 
 go out, when, unable to extricate him- 
 self from the crowd, Sir William Stan- 
 ley stood directly beside them. All 
 paused in momentary expectation. 
 Fred's cheek fiushed and his heart 
 throbbed as he caught his father's eye. 
 He would have held out his hand, but 
 the baronet's stem look forbade It. Lift- 
 ing his hat to Edith, he bowed coldly to 
 the rest, and passed on, with the same 
 look of Iron inflexibility hds hard face 
 alway» wore. Suddenly his eye fell on 
 the hermit, who was half hidden behind 
 the tall figure of Fred. He gave a sud- 
 den start, as though he had received a 
 galvanic shock-yhis face grew deadly 
 -vrhite, and then deepest crinison, as he 
 


THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFEH. 
 
 95 
 
 plunged into the crowd and disappeared. 
 A carriage was in waiting to convey 
 the party to Percival Hall. The hermit, 
 in spite of their united entreaties, per- 
 sisted in refusing to accompany them, 
 and at the door bade them farewell. The 
 major, Edith, Nugent, Fred and Gub 
 therefore entered and were soon on their 
 way home. They traveled slowly, for 
 Edith was still weak, and the next day, 
 about noon, they arrived at the Hall. 
 Who can describe the meeting that there 
 ensued? Joy seldom kills; and though 
 ttie shock nearly extinguished the slight 
 spark oi life that yet lingered in the 
 breast of Mrs. Percival, she slowly be- 
 gan to recover. As for 'Nell, her first im- 
 pulse was to embrace every one present, 
 which she accordingly did, to the great 
 disgust ol Gus— who wouid have been 
 inlinitely better pleased to have received 
 them all himself. That young lady re- 
 mained quite serious for a day or two, 
 but after that she became the same in- 
 corrigible she had been beforef And 
 Ous, 'Jriven to desperation, declared 
 that, of all thP trials his friend had been 
 afflicted with he had never to endure 
 so severe a trial ad Nell Percival. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXn. 
 
 "THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH.'' 
 
 "Burning heart and beating brow i 
 Ye are very quiet now " 
 
 — E3. B. Browning 
 
 It wfts-night, dark, chill and dismal, 
 The rain pattered with spectral fingers 
 against the grated windows, the wintl 
 moaned and wailed drearily without. 
 
 In his cold, flreless cell, sat the once 
 gay and handsome Ralph De Lisle. Dark 
 and wild was the storm without, and 
 darker and wilder was the heart within 
 his bosom, , His face v.'as blanched to 
 the hue of death, and looked still whiter, 
 contrasted with his heavy black locks. 
 He wias half reclining on his wretched 
 bed— lying so still, so motionless, that 
 (me Alight have thought him dead, but 
 tor the fierce living light blazing in his 
 ^vild black eye^. 
 
 It was wonderful how he could lie 
 there s6 immavabie, with such a fire in 
 his heart; the burning fire of remorse. 
 All his life seemed passing in review 
 liefore him, and he alniost shuddered to 
 himself, so young in years, yet so old 
 in Clime. His part in the drama of life 
 was over; and the world would go round 
 as though he had never existed. He felt 
 like a man who has staked his all on 
 the gaming-table, and lost. The world 
 had beeti to him a chessboard, and men 
 and women had moved as he willed; but 
 an unseen though powerful hand had 
 t>een plftying against him; another had 
 won, and Ralph De .Lisle was check- 
 mated in the great game of life. 
 
 Like gome dark panoriiJ|ia, all the 
 
 events uf his life were still passing be- 
 fore him. He thought of the past— of 
 his boyhood with all it.s bright prom- 
 ises, high hopes, and glorious delusions. 
 How easy ail those noble projects 
 seemed of realization then, but, like the 
 mirage of the desert, one by one they 
 had faded away at his approach. His 
 radiant day-dreams had all set in a sea 
 of blood and crime, and he had gone 
 down, down, in his rapid career of crime, 
 not daring to look liack at the height 
 from which he had fallen. And then 
 came his visions of that bright land of 
 light and roses where Edith reigned 
 queen, and once more he seemed wan- 
 dering with her through the dim aisles 
 of the grand old wood, and watching, 
 with his old feeling of adoration, the • 
 gulden sunlight falling on her flowing 
 hair. His prison walls stretched away, 
 and he saw himself standing in the lofty 
 rooms of Percival Hall, with Edith 
 blushing and smiling beside him. his be- 
 trothed bride. He saw her so vividly be- 
 fore him with her sunny smile, and her 
 blue, love-beaming eyes sinking beneath 
 his, that the almost forgotten lov6 of 
 other days C3me back, and with the ir- 
 repressible cry, "Oh. Edith! my hope! 
 my dream! my life!" he stretched out 
 his arms, almost expecting to enfold the 
 radiant vision before him. It faded 
 away in thin air, and he awoke with a 
 start from the tiance into which he was 
 falling 
 
 The past was gone; he could think of 
 it no longer. And the present! Could 
 this be he, Ralph De Lisle, the high- 
 born, the haughty— this convicted felon? 
 Had all his daiing projects, his bold 
 schemes, from which less reckless minds 
 would have shrunk — all his fearless 
 deeds, come to this at last? He had 
 trampled the solemn commands of God 
 and the slavish laws of men alike under 
 his feet; he had committed crimes that 
 no other would have dared to contem- 
 plate, until he had begun to fancy him- 
 self above punishment. He had gone on 
 so long in his reckless career of crime 
 with impunity, that he ha,d forgotten a 
 day of reckoning must yet come; now 
 he realized it at length. He could have 
 made his escape after the diabolical 
 crime had been perpetrated, but some 
 power within chained him to the spot. 
 He felt sure Fred Stanley would be con- 
 victed, and then his triumph would be 
 complete. After the execution of hfs 
 rival, his intention was to return to En^- 
 land, and in God-forgetting London lost- 
 the recollection of the past. But all his 
 projects had fallen to the ground with 
 a crash; she whom he imagined dead 
 was clasped in the arms of his hated 
 foe, and her stem father smiled on their- 
 union ; a life of happiness was before 
 them — and he was here. 
 
 What had the future in store for: him? 
 His trial was soon to come, and he Saw 
 
 I 
 
 *v .# 
 


96 
 
 THE HERMIT Of THE GLIFF». 
 
 4 
 
 'aV\ 
 
 \% 
 
 
 the eyes of the crowd fixed upon him 
 In hatred and derision. They whom if 
 at liberty he would have spurned under. 
 hi« feet, could now point to him In acorn 
 as the foiled aasassin. If the law found 
 him guilty and he was condemned— he 
 . shuddered as the gallows and all the 
 fearful paraphernaMa of a felon's death 
 rose before him. Vh<^ maddened crowd, 
 glaring at him with their savage eyes, 
 and ready to tear him limb from limb 
 as they attempted to do in the court- 
 house. And hia rival, his mortal enemy, 
 would be there to i&xvilt over his ig- 
 nominious death. 
 
 But his life might be saved! True, he 
 was as much si murderer as though his 
 victim had perished In the burning 
 tiouse; but the law mijrht not find him 
 fed. And if he was spared, what then? 
 A long lift Lime of drudgery among fel? 
 ons, the lowest of the low, until death 
 would place him in the convict's de- 
 spised grave! 
 
 Those hands, small and white as a wo- 
 man's, must -grow, hard and coarse with 
 unceasing toll; and he, De Lisle, born 
 to v?eaith and honor, mvist herd with 
 thieves and murderers for the remainder 
 of his life* The picture grew too horrible 
 to be longer endured. He sprang from 
 his bed, with the perspiration standing 
 in great beaded drops on hia brow — his 
 hand clenched until the nails «ank into 
 the quivering flesh— his eyes bloodsliot 
 and glaring— ^an expression of horror un- 
 uittefable on his ghastly face! Oh, ii) 
 that moment, how fearful 'vas the mad- 
 -denJhg storm of paBsiOn in hia guilty 
 heart! ~A.-ltf€tinie of agony seemed con- 
 centrated into -each second as. It passed; 
 the blb<?»d seemed to pour like molteh. 
 lead tftTough every vein, a wheel of .fire 
 seemed- oraishing through his btailn} his 
 vety ejres seemed like red-hot halls of 
 fire.' ' ■' ■■ • ' ■"■• 
 He strode 4ip and down like a maniac, 
 i and, apringhifif to the window, shook th^ 
 irpn . bars with the . fierce strength of 
 n(iadne9s.! . His , hands were cut and 
 bleedjiiff, but he heeded it not, ds he 
 struggled like a caged tigei- to wrench 
 them away. . AU in valh! The strong 
 grating resisted all his efforts, iand he 
 i feH beavjly with his face on the stone 
 floor. , ^liB head struck on something 
 aharp. and the blood rained .down from 
 a «:ash in his forehead. He pressed hia 
 hand to the wound, and gazed op the 
 flpwing blood vvtth a smile that might 
 hav^^cWlted the atoute^ heart.* - v , 
 
 "Never shall they;«ao.-degrade Ralph De 
 Leslie! "he. Shouted, springing to his feet. 
 'g3»is night , the trage^dy shall be com- 
 Plptefl, and. the gaping mob cheated of 
 its "Victlfh! 'DK) I not hold ftiy life in 
 niy 6;K'ii hahast and shall 1 live tt> b^i. 
 cQi^e A n;^t^ for the finger of scorn to 
 , . potnt'^ at ? Never ! TO 'this world, ^wtth 
 all U« drealina &nd delusions: to sun, and* 
 moon, atid stsirs, I win this night ' bid 
 
 adieu. Ere morning dawns this body, 
 and the spirit it contains, will have sunk 
 into nothingness." 
 
 Into nothingness! Was it a dream, or 
 was it the mocking laugh of a fiend that 
 rang through the lonely cell? 
 
 "Eternity! eternity!" he said, passing 
 his hand across his clammy brow; "can 
 it be that what preachers tell us is true, 
 and that there really is any hereafter? My 
 mother taught me so once — my mother! 
 fiend that I am, dare I mention her sa- 
 cred name? Well, in a few moments I 
 will have solved that problem, ahd have* 
 learped the mystery that no living man 
 can ever know," 
 
 . He walked to th6 window and listened. 
 How the driving rain beat against that 
 little casement; how the wind howled 
 and roared! It seemed- to hinj like the 
 voice of the Destroyer, shouting im- 
 patiently for his prey. From the black 
 pall of night that no eye could penetrate 
 white, spectral faces seemed gleamlngr. 
 mocking him With their deriding lau^h-^ 
 ter. He turned away; amid the war of 
 the elements and the roar of tixe tempest 
 should his dark, crimson-atained soul 
 go forth. ; ~ V • 
 
 The storm passed away with the morn- 
 ing's dawn. The bright isummer sun- 
 shine was streaming gloriously through 
 the window whien the jailer entered, And 
 there, right in the glow of the blei^ed 
 sunlight, hung the convulsed form of 
 Ralph De Lisle— deiad by his own hand. 
 
 Of all the .sights which the suii rose 
 Upon, it looked on none more 'tearful 
 than that. Without the. prispn Walls, 
 the stream of busy life, fio wed Tnaeijtrily ! 
 on; the bride stood at the aitar, the. 
 roan of buainesa hurried by. and fieople 
 talked ;ahi9 laughed aa though despair 
 wa« a wor« unknown; and withUi, stark 
 and cola in tJie glare of the, aunllght. 
 lay the rigid form Of the dead man, his 
 face upturned to the sky, and staring 
 wide open were the glassy eyes . that 
 leaver would look on aught In this world 
 again! 
 
 : CHAPTER XXXIIL /\ 
 
 ■ A sTAiiTWNO DiacoyiBfif; ; ;" 
 
 "^S^ ^^^ through all my life it StWked, 
 That deadly, deadly sin! " -'f 
 
 Though"^' erao fair the outside mirth, 
 The spectre sat within." ; ,, 
 
 I must a$e hitti 'be- 
 
 "Go, Elva, go! 
 fore I die!" . 
 
 '"Ohi father, liaten to the ajtorm! How 
 can I go out to-night!'' 
 
 "Qirlj I tell you I in»at sae -him— J 
 mwst! Do you Jiear? Even though fi're 
 Wfefe failing from heaved Y0U shdtild 
 have to go forth, and biiiig Wiii to me!*' 
 ■ But, felther, I know ijot wheirii*he la! 
 J, ^'^M ^ave the »t<^;.:i3«ip j^ inay 
 ale here bexoure I;,r«stisi3»i,''. ' V^ *- 
 
 "I cannot ^Hl^^lwmriof die before 
 
 r: ■ 
 


k' 
 
 THE HERMIT Ot' THE VUFk'ii, 
 
 07 
 
 his body, 
 have sunk 
 
 dream, op 
 fiend that 
 
 3, passing 
 fow; "can 
 us is true, 
 after? My 
 mother! 
 >n her sa- 
 loments I 
 an.d have* 
 vlDg man 
 
 3 listened, 
 linst that 
 howled 
 n like the 
 itlng im- 
 the black 
 penetrate, 
 gieaminir. 
 ng lau^h- 
 le wa,r of 
 e t^npest 
 ined soul 
 
 the morn- 
 nier suh<- 
 7 through 
 ered, And 
 le blesBed 
 form of 
 wn. hand. 
 
 suii rose 
 •e • tearful 
 oil Walls, 
 aTjnefj-Uy ; 
 litar, the. , 
 ad .'iMMple'-'- 
 1 despair 
 iln, stark 
 jaunlight. 
 
 man, his 
 1 staring 
 j^S that 
 Ills world 
 
 • *S. - 
 
 :' Bit^ked, 
 
 ■■' • '' 
 mtrth, 
 
 - - ' ' .'.• ■ . ■ 
 
 fiitii «*)e- 
 
 laV How 
 
 > J»Jm— J 
 ugh ^flre 
 
 1 shotild 
 to me!" 
 **he is! 
 fMi may 
 
 you return!" almost screamed I*aul 
 Snowe, tossing in wild delirium on his 
 pillow. "Go and find Sir William Stan- 
 ley, I tell you.' and bring him here to 
 nie. I cannot (lie untill have seen him." 
 
 It was that same tempestuous night 
 on which Ualph De Lisle had breathed 
 his last; and now his accomplice in 
 crime, Paul Snowe, lay wounded unto 
 death. Strange that, on the same night, 
 i»oth should be doomed to die.. 
 
 He lay in the little room of the inn, 
 near Perclval Hall. It was the same 
 iiouse in which De Lisle had planned the 
 murder of Edith a few weeks before. 
 Perhaps the recollection of that night 
 added to his delirium, as he tossed on 
 his bed in feverish agony. 
 
 A week before, as he loitered round 
 the village, bound by some unaccount- 
 able fascination to the place of the sup- 
 posed murder, he had been stabbed in a 
 drunKen brawl. Finding his days were 
 numbered, he had caused them to send 
 for his daughter, Elva, who had arrived 
 a, few hours before. 
 
 Troubled and anxious, Elva threw her 
 cloak over her shoulders, and, tying o« 
 her hood, hurried out into the driving 
 I'aln. As she passed out, she encountered 
 the bijrly landlord, who gazed at her as 
 though, he had seen a ghost. 
 
 "Jerusalem!" he ejaculated, in ama,ze- 
 ment, "you ain't going out anywhere in 
 this storm, Miss Snowe?" 
 
 "Can you tell me where Sir William 
 Stanley is to be found?" inquired Elva, 
 hurriedly. 
 
 "Well, no, I rayly can't; but his son 
 lives up at Perclval Hall. Likely he can. 
 tell you." 
 
 "Perclval Hall!" said Elva, with a 
 start. "Does it belong to Major Percl- 
 val?" - 
 
 "Yes'm."' 
 
 /'Has hie a daughter-, EdHh?" inquired 
 lijlva, with increased agitation; 
 
 •^Yes^m," agaiti responded mine host, 
 looi^ng- rather surprised at the emo- 
 tion she manifested. 
 
 "Edith! dear Miss Edith!" exclaimed 
 the impulsive Eiva, in a sort of rapture, 
 as she darted out into the blinding 
 storm. , ^ 
 
 "WeUi I never," said the jolly land- 
 lord, epening his eyes in amazement, un- 
 til they resembled two midnight moons. 
 
 In a moment she was back again, and 
 by his side. 
 
 "Cattvyou tell me which way I must go. 
 tp reaeh Percival Hall?" she asked, 
 breathlessly. ' * 
 
 "Yes'm. Keep on straight for a spell, 
 then turn to the right and take the for- 
 est road. Mind, and don't go the other 
 way, or you'll break your neqk over the 
 oliffs. Tdu'd better let. me send Jemmy 
 along with • you to shoW yoU the way, 
 cftiise— oh! sfce's gone! -^ She's a qu^r 
 oijci "aM ho;AU8take,r' T^ald the ^^o^|| 
 
 landlord, hastening to raise up the spir- 
 its of his guests by pouring his own 
 spirits down. 
 
 Meantime Elva pursued her lonely way 
 through the driving rain and blinding' 
 storm, toward Percival HaU. almost Hy- 
 ing along In her haste to reach it. I 
 scarcely know whether It is proper to 
 tell a young lady's thoughts or not; but 
 certain it is that, though Edith occupied 
 a prominent place In her mind, Edith's 
 brother occupied a still more promi- 
 nenter (I don't know whether that's ac- 
 cording to Webster, or not). 
 
 But Elva, bewildered by the storm, her 
 own thoughts, her haste, and the 
 strangeness of the place, forgot the 
 landlord's directions, and took the road 
 leading to the cliffs. f^v, s^? went, 
 ."tumbling £irid sllppirig over rod :■ end 
 crags, at the irnininent danger of break- 
 ing her neck, suddenly, the fiash of a 
 light caught her eye, and, walking in 
 that direction, she soon found ht&rself 
 before the home of the Hermit of the 
 Cliffs. Elva rapped loudly, and A mo- 
 ment after the door was. opened, and 
 the hermit himself stood before her, 
 holding a lamp in his hand, the full light 
 of which fell on his imposing figure. 
 
 With a half -suppressed scream of 
 mingled terror and surprise at this sin- 
 gular apparition, Elva turned to fly, 
 when she was arrested by the mild, kind 
 voice of the hermit: 
 
 "Fear not, riiy daughter; the Hermit 
 of the Cliffs is the friend of all man- 
 kind." 
 
 Elva paused and stood hesitating. 
 
 "Come in out -of the storm^, my ehtldi 
 It is a wild, night for a young girl like 
 you to be abroad.'' 
 
 Reassured by his friendly words, and 
 wishing to know more of this strange- 
 looking personage, Elva,' who wa^ nat- 
 urally ooiirageous, entered the cottagre. 
 . She glahced curiously around, but 
 there was nothing very singular about 
 it. It was fitted yp as any other oom- 
 njon room .might have been, and was 
 singularly neat and clean. 
 
 "Now, my* child, what can I do for 
 you?" asked the hermit, in his grave, 
 pleasant tones. . 
 
 "I started for Perciva Hall," an- 
 swered Elya, "and, bein* a stranger 
 herie, I lost my way; and, guided by the 
 light of your lamp, I wandered here and 
 sought, admittance." 
 ; "You had better stay here until morn - 
 ning," said the hermit; "the night is too 
 stormy for yoii to venture abroad."' 
 . "Oh, nof Icainnpt. My father is dying, 
 and I cannot rest until he sees Sir Will- 
 iam Stanley. I- must hasten to Perclval 
 Hall immediately, if yOu wiU be kllid 
 -erioiigli- ,to show me the way." 
 
 "Sir WiUiain Stanley, did I un4ersta|id. 
 ypM. tA Jpay?" .saUol the hermit, with a 
 .atHJA^a slart...,. ..'.■.. ■\.. 
 


,:'l 
 
 THE UEKMIT OF THE VLIEFH. 
 
 Hi : 
 
 l'S' if 
 
 "Yt's. Perhaps you can tell me where 
 to find him." 
 
 "Who is your father, child?" asked 
 the hermit, without heeding her ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "His name is Paul Snowe," replied 
 Elva. 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the hermit, almost 
 I oundlng from the floor. 
 
 "His name is Paul Snowe," repeated 
 i:iva, drawing back in surprise and 
 alarm. 
 
 "Good Heavens! is it possible!" said 
 the hermit, deeply excited. "And are 
 you Paul Snowe's daughter?" 
 
 "Yes. sir," said the astonished Elva. 
 
 "What is your name?" 
 
 "Elvena Snowe." 
 
 "Elvena! Elvena!" repeated the her- 
 mit. "Can there be two Elvena Snowe's 
 Jn the world?" • 
 
 "Sir, I must go," said felva, in alarm, 
 beginning to think him Insane. 
 
 "Wait one moment, and I will go with 
 you," said the hermit, cloaking himself 
 with wonderful celerity. "Can it be that 
 T will see Paul Snowe yet once again be- 
 fore I die?" 
 
 They . passed out, and the hermit 
 turned in the direction of the inn, hold- 
 ing Elva firmly by the hand. 
 
 "But I must go to Percival Hall," said 
 p]lva, drawing back. 
 , "Why?" 
 
 ."To see Sir William Stanley." 
 
 "He is not there, child!" 
 
 "His son is, then, and he can tell me 
 where to find him. I must go," said 
 Elva, wildly. 
 
 "His son knows no more of his where- 
 abouts than you do, Elvena. Believe 
 me, it is impossible for you to find him 
 to-night. If Paul Snowe wishes any- 
 thing, I will do as well as William Stan- 
 ley. Do not hesitate," he added, as Elva 
 still hung back; "I repeat, it is utterly 
 impossible, for you to find him to-night. 
 Come." 
 
 Elva felt convinced that he spoke the 
 truth, and, seeing no alternative, she 
 allowed him to draw her on, inwardly 
 dreading to meet her father without the 
 man for whom she had been sent. 
 
 On reaching the inn, the hermit de- 
 manded to be at once shown to the 
 chamber of the Sick man. As they en- 
 tered, Paul Snowe half raised himself on 
 his elbow, .and glared at them with his 
 inflamed eyes. 
 
 "Elva, is it you?" he cried. "Have 
 you brought Sir William Stanley? Ha! 
 who are you?" 
 
 "Your best friend, Paul Snowe," said 
 the hermit, advancing to his bedside. 
 
 "I should know that voice. Who are 
 you?" 
 
 "Men call me the 'Hermit of the Cliff,' 
 )iut you knew me by another name 
 once," was tki^ answer. 
 
 "And Sir William Stanley, where is 
 he, Elva? Elva, did you not bring him?" 
 exclaimed the wounded man, in an 
 agony of alarm. 
 
 "My friend, you cannot see him. Sir 
 William Stanley is many a mile from 
 here. You will never meet him in this 
 world again, for your hours are num- 
 bered. Anything you wish to tell him, 
 confide In me, and, believe me, he shall 
 hear it." 
 
 "Can I— dare I tell you? You will not 
 have me arrested?" said the Invalid, 
 wildly. 
 
 "No, my friend; you are beyond the 
 reach of human laws. Speak, and fear 
 not." 
 
 "Men say you are good and generous," 
 said Paul, tossing restlessly; "therefore, 
 since it cannot be helped, I will tell you. 
 Elva, leave the room. Listen; what 1 
 have to say concerns her." 
 
 "Your daugliter, Elva?" 
 
 "She is no daughter of mine; neither 
 is her name Elva. I stole her when a 
 child. Her name is Leila Stanley!" 
 
 He fixed his eyes on the hermit's face, 
 to see what effect this announcement 
 Would have; but, beyond one sudden, 
 convulsive start, he betrayed no emo- 
 tion. 
 
 "Go on," he said, after a pause. ^ 
 
 "To tell why I stole her, it will be 
 necessary to go back in my history, 1 
 once had a sister — her name waa Elvena 
 — whom I , loved as I never loved any 
 other human being in this world. She 
 grew up a beautiful girl/the pride and 
 belie of our village; but in an evil hour 
 she -met Sir William Stanley. He was 
 young and handsome in those days, and 
 she soon learned to love him. He pre- 
 tended to return her affection; and, un- 
 der an assumed name, he wooed and 
 won her. She became his wife — little 
 dreaming she had wedded a baronet. 
 Well, I must hurry on, for I feel that I 
 have but a few moments to live. , He 
 used to go to England, undei pretense 
 of business, and, on one of these occa- 
 sions, he married again some high-born 
 lady. He had grown tired of his first 
 wife, for he was always a heartless vil- 
 lain; but he wanted his son (th^y had 
 one child). He came and forcibljr fore 
 him away, and departed for Englah'd. I 
 don't know what story he told Lady 
 Stanley about the child; probably that 
 he had been married, and that hii) wife 
 was dead, or some other convenient lie. 
 1 was absent at the time, but <vhen I 
 returned I learned what had hapt»ened — 
 that my sister had gone crazy aiid wan- 
 dered off, and, as we afterward teamed, 
 died in a distant village. I swore a 
 fearful oath of vengeance, and that oatlt 
 has been kopt^^ Years passed <ixi befofe 
 X could go to Elngland and seek out .thy 
 sister's murderelr. 1 foun^'liim otif at 
 last, and learned that htf had ahother 
 


THE HtJRMir OF THE VLlFt'H. 
 
 fherp iB 
 him?" 
 In an 
 
 |m- Sir 
 »«^ fiom 
 Jn this 
 num- 
 ?ll him, 
 le shall 
 
 /111 not 
 |in valid. 
 
 fnd the 
 Id fear 
 
 M 
 
 child — a daughter, whom both he ana 
 Lady f^tanley almost Idolized. He had 
 stolen Eilvena'8 child from her, and so 
 caused her death. He should suffer as 
 she had done — he, too, should know what 
 it was to lose a child; and one day, 
 when she was out playing, I carried her 
 cff. 
 
 "My first intention had been to kill 
 little Leila, but I could not do It. As you 
 may imagine, there was a mighty up- 
 roar* made almut Sir William Stanley's 
 child being kidnapped; the whole coun- 
 try was aroused, but I eluded them all. 
 r had a friend — the mate of a small 
 trading-vessel, and his wife consented to 
 take care of the little lady. . I gave her 
 my dead slater's name, and, as Leila 
 grew up, she -forgot she ever had any 
 other parent but me. I brought her here, 
 and, after a time, fell in with Ralph De 
 Lisle; and joined his reckless band of 
 licensed cutthroats. 
 
 "But during all those years undying 
 remorse for what I had done haunted 
 me day ahd night. Lady Stanley had 
 died shortly after her child's loss; and, 
 when I heard of It, I felt as though I 
 were a murderer. Do what I would, rea- 
 son as I pleased, my accusing conscience 
 slept not. I was not one to inspire af- 
 fection, but I think Elva really likes me. 
 I grew fond of the child myself, but I 
 never could endure her caresses; for at 
 such times the recollection of what I 
 had done would rush upon me with 
 double force, and I would think how she 
 would shrink from me in horror did she 
 know to what I had reduced her — the 
 heiress of a baronet. 
 
 "In after years, I met Sir William 
 Stanley's son. Loving my sister as I 
 did, it may seem strange to you I did not 
 love her child also; but I hated him for 
 his father's sake. He was once im- 
 prisoned by De Lisle, and liberated by 
 Elva, who little dreamed she was liber- 
 ating her own brother. 
 
 "As I toid you, my undying remorse 
 gave me no rest, and I resolved at last 
 to tell Sir William Stanley what I had 
 done, and then, if possible, fly the coun- 
 try. But the hand of Providence over- 
 took me, and my tale of crime has been 
 reserved for my death -bed confession. 
 
 "The dress Elva wore the day I stole 
 her is in yonder chest," continued the 
 dying man, pointing faintly in the direc- 
 tion; "also, a small locket containing her 
 mother's portrait. If anything further 
 is needed to establish her identity, there 
 Is a peculiar mark on her arm that can- 
 not be mistaken, and will set at rest 
 all doubts. And now, thank Heaven, my 
 story Is ended, and Justice has been done 
 at last. It Is said that you have great 
 po?ver over Sir William Stanley; there- 
 for^, y^u will have no trouble in induc- 
 ing , Mm to helleve nriy dying words." 
 
 "litiUB it Is that Heaven ever oonfounds 
 
 i 
 
 the wicked, and brings hidden things of 
 darkness to light. Thus it Is that Jus- 
 tice shall be nmdered unto all men at 
 last, .said the hermit, clasping his hands 
 soli'rnnly. 
 
 'That voice!— that voice!" said Paul 
 Snowe, raising himself wildly on the pil- 
 low. "Has the grave given up Its dead? 
 Are you a man or a being from the world 
 of spirits? (Jreat Heaven, are you"— 
 
 Ere the hermit could speak, the fear- 
 ful death-rattle resounded through the 
 room. He clutched the air convulsively, 
 his eyes grew fixed and glassy, and, 
 falling heavily back on his pillow— all 
 was over! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 AT LAST. ^. 
 
 "All's well that eiid.s well." 
 
 Half an hour passed away in the 
 chamber of death ere the hermit moved. 
 He sat gazing still and silent, on the 
 rigid form before him, wondering, per- 
 haps, how such tierce passions could 
 have existed in that clay-cold form. 
 
 Then he arose, and, opening the door, 
 Ijeckoned Elva to enter. Awed by the 
 expression of his face, she stole softly 
 into the room, and approached the bed. 
 As her eyes fell upon the rigid figure 
 stretched upon it, she sprang back with 
 a wild cry of grief. 
 
 For, with all his faults, and notwith- 
 standing all his cruelty, Elva had really 
 loved Paul Snowe. He had been the 
 only friend and protector she had ever 
 known, and with a passionate exclam- 
 ation, "Oh, father— father!" she fell on 
 her knees by the bedside and hid her 
 face in her hands. 
 
 "My child, grieve not," said the her- 
 mit, laying his hand on her head, "Paul 
 Snowe was no father of thine." 
 
 She arose and stood before him, with 
 parted lips and wonder-dilated eyes. 
 
 "Not my father?" she said. "Who, 
 then, is?" 
 
 "Sir William Stanley." 
 
 She did not speak, but stood still, re- 
 garding him with such a wild, startled 
 look of incredulity and amazement that 
 he hastened to explain. 
 
 "Sir William Stanley had wronged 
 him, and to revenge himself, he stole his 
 only daughter. Your name is not Elva 
 Snowe, but Leila Stanley." 
 
 "And this was why -he implored me so 
 wildly to bring him Sir William Stan- 
 ley?" said Elva, In a low, breathless 
 tone, almost bewildered by this sudden 
 announcement. 
 
 "It was; he could not die in peace un- 
 til he had confessed what he had done. 
 And now that you know how deeply he 
 has wronged you, can you forgive him?" 
 
 Elva was, gazing sadly and intently on 
 the death-cold form before her. At the 
 


106 
 
 Ttn: HERMIT OF TUK CLIFFS. 
 
 W\ 
 
 f 
 
 f 
 
 ■';i 
 
 hermlt'H MueHtWin. she looked up and 
 nald. earneHtly: 
 
 "ForKlve him? Oh, yeH. eh I hope to 
 be forgiven. But this HeeniH 8«» strange 
 —HO Improbable— Bo like an lOastern ro- 
 irtame Cnn It be that 1 really have a 
 father living?" . „ u 
 
 •'And a l)n)ther. likewise. You have 
 i«een Fred Stanley?" 
 
 •YtH— yes; I have seen him. He is 
 tall and dark and handsome as a 
 prince. And he Is my brother! Some- 
 thing drew me toward him from the 
 lh>t; but 1 never, never could have 
 imafeined anything so wild as this! He 
 is somewhere, near this, Is he not?" 
 "Ypb; at Percival Hall." 
 
 •ShaM I see him to-night?" 
 
 "No; it were better not. The last re- 
 inalns-^rf Paul Snowe must be consigned 
 to the grave first. For a day or two 
 you will remain with me, and then all 
 
 Hhall be revealed." 
 
 • ••*•••• 
 
 "What God has Joined together, let no 
 man put asunder." 
 
 The great drawing-room of Percival 
 Hall was ablaze with light. From base- 
 ment to attic the house was crowded 
 with guests, assembled from far and 
 near, to witness the nuptials of Major 
 Percival's daughters. 
 
 Fred- and Gus, looking excessively 
 happy, and very unnecessarily hand- 
 some, stood before the venerable clergy- 
 man, who, in full canonicals and im- 
 posing dignity, pronounced the words 
 that made them the happiest of men. 
 Edith and Nell, radiant with smiles and 
 white satin, blushes and orange-flowers, 
 stood by their side, promising dutifully 
 to "love, honor and obey;" although, if 
 the truth must be told, Nell hesitated 
 a little before she could promise the lat- 
 ter. 
 
 Suddenly the door was flung open, and 
 in a pompous tone, the aristocratic but- 
 ler announced: 
 
 "Sir William Stanley." 
 
 Had a bomb exploded in their midst, 
 greater consternation could not have 
 appeared on every face present, as Sir 
 William, pale, wild, excited and agitat- 
 ed, stood before them. 
 
 'This is an u-nexpected pleasure. Sir 
 William," said Major Percival, advanc- 
 ing with extended hand. 
 
 "My daughter — my daughter! la she 
 here?" demanded the baronet, wildly. 
 
 "Your daughter?" said Major Percival, 
 in surprise. "If you mean Edith" — 
 
 "No, no, no, no! I mean my own child 
 —my long-lost Leila!" 
 
 "Can he be deranged?" said the major, 
 turning to Fred with a look of alarm. 
 
 "I am not mad— read that!" said Sir 
 William, handing the major a note. 
 
 "Go to Percival Hall," it said. "This 
 night you shall hear of your lost daugh- 
 ter, Leila," 
 
 'It Is from the mysterious Hermit of 
 the Cliffs," said the major, In astonish- 
 ment. "What can he mean?" 
 
 "What he says," said a ealm, elear 
 voice that made them all Htart as they 
 turned and beheld the hermit in their 
 midst. 
 
 "My daughter— my Leila — what of 
 her?" exclaimed Sir William, striding 
 forward. 
 
 "Behold her!" said the hermit, step- 
 ping back, and every eye turned to the 
 slight, girlish figure behind him. 
 
 "Elva Snowe!" exclaimed a half dozen 
 voices simultaneously, while the baronet 
 started back suddenly at the name. 
 
 "Not Elva Snowe, but Leila Stanley," 
 paid the hermit, drawing her forward. 
 "On his death-bed, Paul Snowe confessed 
 he had stolen her, and resigned her (o 
 jTie. This trinket was on her person 
 when stolen. Probably you recollect it, 
 Sir William." 
 
 "Yes — yes; It was I who placed it on 
 her neck; but, if Leila, she bears on her 
 arm a singular mark" — 
 
 "Look." said the hermit, pushing up 
 her sleeve, and exposing a little crimson 
 heart; "are you convinced now?" 
 
 "My child— my child!" exclaimed Sir 
 William, clasping in his arms the shrink- 
 ing Elva. "Thank Heaven. I have found 
 you at last." 
 
 Amazement held every one silent. But 
 the hermit advanced and said: 
 
 "You have found one child, and the 
 other"— 
 
 "Shall be mine likewise," interrupted 
 the baronet, approaching Fred, "if he 
 can forgive the past." 
 
 "Willingly, joyfully, my dear father!" 
 said P'red, grasping his hand while tears 
 sprang to his dark eyes. "And Elva— 
 Leila rather — may I claim a brother's 
 privilege?" he added, pressing his mus- 
 tached lip to her blushing brow. 
 
 "And now for a still more surprising 
 discovery," said Sir William, turning 
 with much agitation toward the hermit. 
 "On this joyful occasion it will not do 
 to have one cloud marring our festivity. 
 If you can forgive me for the great 
 wrong I have done you, we may see 
 many happy days together yet." 
 
 For a moment the hermit hid his face 
 in his hands, while his whole frame quiv- 
 ered with powerful emotion. Then, rais- 
 ing his head, to the amazement of all 
 present, he removed his flowing white 
 hair and his long beard. His large, flow- 
 ing robe fell from his shoulders, and lo! 
 a pale, stately, dark-haired woman stood 
 before them. 
 
 Wonder chained every tongue. Sir 
 William Stanley sprang forward and 
 clasped her in hia arms, exclaiming pas- 
 sionately: 
 
 "My wife — my wife — my own Elva'" 
 
 "Good Heaven! Sir William Stanley; 
 


nJlJ llLUMll Ol' lilK iUtl,y. 
 
 lUi 
 
 lat (,t 
 
 • Btt'J). 
 
 to the 
 
 \'. hut mt'aiiH all this?" exclaimed Major 
 IVr.lval, flndltiK his tuiiRue at laHt. 
 
 "It nieanH," Hald Hlr Wllliain, iuIhImk 
 Ills head proudly, "that this lady In my 
 tlrBt, my only wife, Elvena Snowe. I)«m'i>- 
 ly have I wronged her, but I shall strive 
 to atone for it, by a public ronfession 
 to-night. When I forcibly toulc her son 
 from her, yonder youth, she waw for a 
 lime deranged and wandered away from 
 the village of her birth. After a time 
 a report went forth that she was dead. 
 Hhe heard It, when sanity partially re- 
 turned, and resolved never to return to 
 the spot where she had suffered so 
 much. She found a cottage deserted 
 iimong the wild cliffs, and resolved to 
 make her home there. Afraid that some 
 one would recognize and bring her back, 
 with the cunning of partial derange- 
 ment, she disguised herself as you have 
 ween, and for years lived on alone, until 
 she learned to love the dreary spot. 
 When the war commenced I came here, 
 and was followed by my son. She heard 
 of it, and, unknown herself, she deter- 
 mined to watch over her son. I, as you 
 all know, had condemned him to die. 
 At the eleventh hour she came, and by 
 disclosing who she was, saved his life. 
 I believed her, for the time, to be a 
 
 being from the world of spiritH, and tlu» 
 shock und surprise were ho great that 
 I Mi)ari'd my Hon. Afterward we mot. 
 und she tt>ld .me all: but pride would 
 not allow me to contuHH to the world 
 my guilt. Kut now since Leila has been 
 so miraculously restored, I van trample 
 pride and the opinion ;)f the world uii- 
 iler foot, and proclaim the »)ii( •• Hermit 
 of the ('llffs my wife, in the face of 
 heaven and earth!"' 
 
 A month later, Sir William and Lady 
 Stanley were bounding over the blue 
 waves to "Merrie England." 
 
 They went not alone, for Leila, now 
 Mis. Nugent Pentlval. and her liusbund,. 
 her. 
 
 Edith and Guh and Nell 
 land thty loved best. 
 
 farewell. We have 
 long, but notliing 
 can last forever. All thingH must have 
 a close, and the charactcis who have 
 passed before you must disappear from 
 your view at last. I, too, must go from 
 your sight— for the daylight is dying out 
 of the sky, anil my task* is ended. I 
 trust, however, we may meet again, 
 rrnic KND.l 
 
 accompanied 
 Fred and 
 
 dwelt In the 
 
 • * 
 
 And now, reader. 
 Journeyed together 
 


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 I 
 
 ;■?..,, -v- 
 
 ■■■ ■If.^- ^,,-_ 
 
 Tl SIS TER OF CHARITY. 
 
 By Mrs. MAY AGNES FLEMING, 
 
 Author of A Wonderful Woman," "A Terrible becrei,-' " The Mystery al Jiiacknmod Granqe •• 
 
 ^ "Sir N.el'8 Heir," Etc., Etc. ' 
 
 'She was once a lady of honor an>^. 
 wealth 
 
 JJright glowed on her features the roses 
 of health; 
 
 Her vesture was blended of silk and of 
 gold, 
 
 And her motion shook perfume from 
 every fold. 
 
 Joy revelled around her, love shone at 
 her side, 
 
 And gay was her smile, as the glance o{ 
 a bride. 
 
 And light was her step in the mirth- 
 sounding hall, 
 
 AVhen she heard of the daughters of Vin- 
 cent de Paul." 
 
 Q. Ghifpkn. 
 
 This was my first visit to the city. All 
 my life had been spent in a quiet coun- 
 try farmhouse^ far removed from the 
 noise and bustle and din of the outer 
 world. The most exciting events of my 
 life were my first parasol and my first 
 beau. So it will not be wondered at that 
 I was completely bewildered with de- 
 light at the ever-varying scenes and 
 faces I met in my new home. There was 
 a vast difference between passing my 
 eveninga quietly knitting, or sewing, or 
 reading, as I had formerly done, and go- 
 ing each night to balls, and parties, and 
 concerts, and operas, as I did now. 
 
 Among the many new acquaintances I 
 made there, there was one who particu- 
 larly struck me from the first. This was 
 a young lady, the only child and heiress 
 of a Southern millionaire, the reigning 
 beauty and belle of the city. No queen 
 on her throne could receive tho homage 
 of her subjects more proudly than did 
 Alma Vernon; and, truly, no queen could 
 look more regal than she. I close my 
 eyes and see her now standing before 
 me, as 1 did the first night we met; her 
 gorgeous robe of purple velvet sweeping 
 the carpet with its rich folds; her dia- 
 mond necklace and cross flowing in a 
 
 blaze of light around her snowy neck, 
 and flashing like imprisoned sunbeamn 
 from her ears and on her fingers. A glit- 
 tering circlet of gems enclasped her long, 
 silky, jet-black tresses, that would per- 
 sist in eoquettishly breaking from their 
 \ imprisonment, and fiow in long spiral 
 ringlets on her neck. 
 
 I think she was the proudest girl I 
 ever knew. How gloriously her splendid 
 : Oriental eyes ^ould kindle, and. her 
 beautiful lip ^ ill sarcastically, as she 
 I listened with scornful indifference to the 
 I prettily-turned compliments ever poured 
 in her ear by he!" admiring train of fol- 
 lowers. 
 
 I used to stand ^n some distant corner 
 and watch her for hours together with a 
 sort of subdued rapture; she evinced 
 over me a sort of i^trauge fascination, for 
 which I cannot account. Of me, she 
 never took any not.'ce. I was too small 
 and insignificant; I was only one among 
 the countless numbers who regarded her 
 as a being belonging to a higher sphere. 
 
 Among the most devoted of her fol- 
 lowers there was one, a dashing young 
 ofllcer, the handsomest man I have ever 
 seen. Captain Travers seemed in every 
 way fitted for the peerless "Flower of 
 the South/' as she was called. Rich, 
 handsome, distingue, of an old and aris- 
 tocratic family, . there seemed nothing 
 likely to Impede the course of his woo- 
 ing; and the world was not surprised 
 when it was announced that Captain 
 Travers and the "Flower of the South" 
 were engaged. 
 
 About this time, matters over which I 
 had no control rendered it necessary I 
 should leave home for another land. I 
 departed in the hope of speedily return- 
 ing again to witness the nuptials that 
 were soon to take place. But fate or- 
 dered it otherwise; and three yeam 
 elapsed ere I again set foot on my natir^ 
 
 i 
 



 •ft!'. " 
 
 10 
 
 TZ/B 8I&TBR OF CHARITY. 
 
 J'O' 
 
 
 I: \' 
 
 Ui!' 
 
 f 
 
 ji 
 
 ghore. My lirst Inquiry was for my old 
 friends, arid ariiorig the I'est for Alma 
 Vernon; but. to my surprise, no one 
 knew anything of her. She had left the 
 city shortly after my departure, accom- 
 panied by Captain Travers, and since 
 then had not been heard of. All my en- 
 deavors to iearn further were in vain. 
 I could hear nothing more of her. 
 
 One day 1 repaired to the house ceu- 
 pled by the Sisters of Charity, being 
 anxious to place a -poor, friendless or-, 
 phan under the charge of the good Sis- 
 ters. My business concluded, I arose. to 
 go, when the iSuperior, noticing the curi- 
 osity with which I eyed -tihe chapel— 
 JWhich I could see from thie parlor where 
 we were^-said: 
 
 ;, 'Perhaps, miss, you would like to see 
 the chapel? If iBO, vespers will com- 
 ihence presently, and we will be happy 
 to have you remain."'. "' . ^; ., ' . , .. 
 \. Having eagerly signified 'the pleasure 
 it would give me to do so, Ifollowed the 
 nun to the chapel. The profound still- 
 ness that reigned here, the perfume of 
 the flowers with which it was adorned, 
 :ihe beautiful pictures and statues 
 afoTind, made the place seem very lovely 
 indeed. Involuntarily I fell to speculait- 
 ing oil the lives the nuns must lead, and 
 wondering if be'ng confined here was not 
 terribly irksome, when a lay sister en- 
 tered to light the candles on the altar— 
 aisCkttiolics always do before service. In 
 a few moments after, the nuns entered 
 in procession, two by tw<^ and noiseless- 
 ly took their, places. Suddenly I started; 
 I'almost exclaimed aloud,- as, amid the 
 numerous black-robed figures that glid- 
 ed past me. I beheld the tall, graceful 
 form and beautiful face of the '/Flower 
 of the South," Alma Vernont .. ^1 
 /< Like one in a dream. I saw her take 
 her^ place at the organ to sing vespers. 
 For a moment I fancied my eyes were 
 deceiving me. Altna Vernon— the heir- 
 ess, the beauty, and bene— a nuril The 
 thought was bewildering, and yet she it 
 was! There could be no mistaking that 
 pale, but still ^exquisitely lovely face— 
 rovelier. I fancied, than I L.td ever seen 
 ij; before; for the old scornful, sarcastic 
 look of ipride was gone, leaving in its 
 place one of calm, earnest, heartfelt 
 peace, which cannot be descfi'bed', but 
 which those who l�ve seoji nu^s can un^ 
 .derstand. Yes. there she stood': the veil- 
 vet robes exchanged fw her black nun's; 
 dress; her diamonds gone, and in th«lr 
 place' a rcJsary "aad ciructfii ;" tlftr iKjUig^, 
 
 silken curls shorn off. and their place 
 supplied by her long black veil— tBe 
 badge of her eternal separation from the 
 world. ^ 
 
 There was something, I thought, al- 
 most seraiphic in her face, as with the 
 others she cha;nted the "Evening Hymn 
 to the Virgin." When the vespers con- 
 cluded, she flitted past like a shadow 
 among the rest, and disappeared. 
 
 It was one of the lay sisters who came 
 to show me out. so there was no oppor- 
 tunity of having my curiosity concerning 
 her gratified. 1/ stepped out, the heavy 
 door closed behind me« and I shuddered 
 as I heard it— it seemed so like shutting 
 in those fair young nuns in a living 
 tomb. - 
 
 I visited the convent many times after 
 that, but still no opportunity occurred of 
 my seeing Alma Vernon again. I shrank 
 from asking the Superior — might she not 
 think it impertinent curiosity? — and I 
 knew not the name she went by among 
 the Sisters, so I could not ask to see her- 
 self. And even if I had known it, what 
 motive could I say prompted me to ask 
 for her? I had no doubt she had forgot- 
 ten me long ago. So weeks passed on, 
 and my curiosity was still unsatisfied. 
 Where was Captain Travers? Why had 
 those two, who seemed formed for each 
 other, parted? Why had she become a 
 Catholic? I wondered and wondered, and 
 worked in my. own mind a romance con- 
 cerning them, but still the wish to hear 
 the story haunted me night and day. 
 
 One evening as I, with some friends, 
 was out driving, a sudden storm of thun- 
 der and lightning arose, with such vio- 
 lence that our horses took to flight, anjl 
 all pur efforts to restrain them were in 
 vain. On, on they went, dashing madly 
 through the crowded streets, while the 
 appalled crowd strove to check them in 
 vain. I closed my eyes, expecting in- 
 stant death, when suddenly a cloak was 
 thrown over the heads of the furious 
 animals, a powerful hand grasped the 
 reins, and we were safe. A loud shout 
 from the crowd followed the deed, and 
 numberless hands were still outstretched 
 to restrain the still restive horses. I 
 ventured to look up to thank our deliv- 
 erer, but he cut me short- by lifting Jiis 
 hat and disappearing among the crowd. 
 Somewhat chagrined by the indifferent 
 way In which he had treated the pretty 
 speecli I was about to make, I turned to 
 One of the bystanders and inquired who 
 ^hie'^^«raiji;-':'t^v ■:".;;■■ " ■: •",■'.:■■"-■,'.■::: *.;,.. 
 


THE 8I8TER OF CHARITY. 
 
 11 
 
 "A Catholic priest," was the reply. 
 ^'He was, jvist leaving yonder cottage, 
 where th'ere is a sick woman, when your 
 carriage came dashing down the street. 
 Quick as lightning he sprang forward 
 and "threw hi« cloak over the horses' 
 heads, and so saved your life." 
 
 "You had better go into one of those 
 cottages for a few moments," said a gen- 
 tleman of our party, approaching me. 
 "The shaft has been brok >., ti:^. ' must be 
 repaired before we can lo any farther." 
 . I sprang to the ground, and, making 
 my way through the crowd, approached 
 one of the humble-looking cottages and 
 entered. It was a wretched, squalid 
 place, totally devoid of furniture, and 
 rendered almost unendurable by the 
 dense smoke with which it was filled, 
 tha^ came from the black, smoldering 
 fire in the hearth. Two or three dirty, 
 half-naked children sat cowering over 
 the miserable fire, striving in vain to 
 wi^m their chilled limbs. But my at- 
 tention was soon drawn from them to 
 another sight. In the farthest corner, 
 stretched on a heap of straw, and cov- 
 ered only by a single ragged quilt, lay 
 the worn and wasted form of a woman, 
 wbose livid face, purple lips, and glaring 
 eyes betokened the r.apid approach of 
 death. Kneeling by her side, and hold- 
 ing one of the dyii^g woman's hands in 
 hers, was a Sister of Charity. In her 
 ether hand she held a prayer-book, from 
 which she read, in a low, sweet, sooth- 
 . tag voice, the touching prayers for the 
 4yfng. I approached softly on tiptoe, 
 and, with A feeling of awe, such as the 
 presence of death can never fail to 
 awaken, I knelt down. As I did so, I 
 caught sight of the nun's face, and be- 
 Keld f< ? the second time the beautiful 
 Matured of Alma Vernon. I canr.ot de- 
 scribe the feeling that stole over me as I 
 re^gnized her. She, the once flattered 
 heiress and belle, the sole attendant of a 
 poor, wretched pauper— she, who had 
 Itved all her life in the grandest and 
 most aristocratic of mansions, kneeling 
 now In this wretched hovel alone. Sure- 
 ly, some motive highe and nobler than 
 any other earthly consideration must 
 have induced her to leave riches, and 
 -eomforts; and all the pleasures that 
 wealth and beauty can bring, to become 
 aberrant df servants, to become tlie at- 
 tendant of paupers, forgotten and. de- 
 spised by aU the rest of the world— to 
 teecom€, IB A word, a Ststw <rf Charity. 
 I katl aiismyB looked iJpon nvnm '&» oie- 
 
 graded beings, sunk in superstition, and 
 blinded by fanaticism; but in this mo- 
 ment some of my old prejudices were 
 swept away. Alma Vernon, enlightened 
 and accomplished, surely could not be a 
 victim of priestcraft; and yet, the old 
 romance came again before me, how had 
 she left the world? Had she married 
 Captain Travers? What had become of 
 him— so young, so noble, so handsome? 
 How many heartaches chose two must 
 have suffered before they parted! What 
 would I not give to know th© whole 
 story? 
 
 Lost in my own reflections, I almost 
 forgot where I was, until a noise that 
 made my blood run c^ld smote upon my 
 ear. It was what is called the death-rat- 
 tle — the sure forerunner that life is go- 
 ing. I looked up; the woman lay back 
 on the pillow, her features already grow- 
 ing rigid in death, while the nun clasped 
 her hands and exclaimed fervently: 
 "May God have mercy on her soul!" 
 
 For a few moments she remained ab- 
 sorbed in profound prayer, while her 
 beautiful face wore a look of such rapt 
 devotion that she resembled an angel. I 
 scarcely dared to breathe, until at length 
 the nun arose, and, turning round, be- 
 held me. A slight bow was the only no- 
 tice she took of me; and she began to 
 compose the limbs of the dead woman in 
 the attire of the grave. She then whis- 
 pered to the elder of the children. Who 
 went out, and reappeared with two or 
 three women from the adjoining cot- 
 tages. Very profound and respectful was 
 their courtesy to the Sister, who gave 
 them a few directions in a low tone, and 
 then, approaciiing the little porch where 
 I stood, she held out her hand, saying, 
 with a smile inexpressibly sweet: 
 
 "We are old friends, I believe. I saw 
 you that day at vespers; and the little 
 orphan Ellen, whom you brought us, is 
 never done speaking of you. So, you see, 
 I am well acquainted with you." 
 
 "I believe I have a still stronger claim 
 to your friendsihip," said I. raising her 
 hand to my lipt!. "Long ago I knew you 
 as Mies Vernon, though I know not now 
 whether to address you by that name or 
 Mrs. Travers." She grew very pale, and 
 drew her hand away, while she said, 
 hurriedly: 
 
 "As neither— as neither! To one I 
 have no right* the other I have left be- 
 Irind me la the world, together with all- 
 *he «mpty vanftlea that were- wine when 
 


xa 
 
 THE B1HTEB OF CHARITY. 
 
 
 I bore it. I am now Sister Mary Teresa. 
 But you— who are you?" 
 
 "Don't you remember a little awkward 
 country girl, who used to follow you like 
 a shadow?" said I, laughing. 
 
 "Little Susie! Oh, I remember her per- 
 fectly! And are you that little thing? 
 How you have grown!" 
 
 "Yes; I have shot up wonderfully 
 these last three years," said I. "And you 
 —you have changed greatly, too." 
 
 She sighed first, then smiled. 
 
 "Yes, I have grown old and worn-out. 
 Did you recognize me that day in the 
 
 chapel?" ^ ^,^, 
 
 "Recognize you! Oh, of course I did! 
 
 Though I could scarcely believe my 
 
 "I suppose you hardly expected to see 
 Alma Vernon, the most worldly and 
 thoughtless of girls, in a veiled nun," 
 said the Sister. 
 
 "Indeed. I did not. Ah! Miss Vernon, 
 what could have ever induced you to 
 leave the world for a convent!" I ex- 
 claimed, earnestly. 
 
 "Not that name— call me Sister," she 
 said, with a slightly impatient move- 
 ment. "And so you would like to hear 
 my story, Susie?" 
 
 "Oh, indeed, I would, Sister Teresa!" 
 said I, eagerly. "Do tell me why you 
 left all the '^.umberless pleasures that 
 were yours for a gloomy convent. And 
 Captain Travers — where is he?" 
 
 Her voice faltered a little, but she an- 
 swered, calmly, "He is dead!" 
 
 I was shocked, the announcement came 
 so suddenly and unexpectedly. I had 
 seen him last full of life and radiant 
 with beauty, glowing with hope and 
 light-heartedness: and now— I raised my 
 eyes to the still lovely face of the nun, 
 who stood with her large, ^rk eyes 
 fixed on the floor, while the nervous 
 twitching of her mouth betrayed that the 
 old memories had again risen before her 
 with saddening power. 
 
 "And this is why you became a nun," 
 said I, at length. 
 
 "Partly; but I have not time to tell you 
 now. Come to the convent some day. 
 and I will tell you all. Perhaps the story 
 may do you good. I must go now. Good- 
 by." 
 
 She pressed my hand, and, drawing 
 her thick veil over her face, she hurried 
 away, and was soon out of sight. 
 
 I went several times after that to the 
 wnvent, but some weeks passed ere I 
 found an opportunity of hearing Sister 
 
 Teresa -s story. At length, one day, she 
 came to meet me in the parlor, apd with- 
 out preface began her story: 
 
 "Shortly after you left the city I start- 
 ed for New Orleans, my bii't^olaoe, ac- 
 companied by papa, Captain Travers and 
 my cousin Lulu. As you know, we were 
 engaged to be married in a few weeks, 
 but I, ever whimsical and capricious, 
 and taking a strange delight in torment- 
 ing others, suddenly changed my mind, 
 and positively refused to fulfill my en- 
 gagement until we had made a tour 
 through Europe. Captain Travers and 
 the others rebelled, but the more they 
 urged me the more determined I became, 
 and at last, much against theii* will, they 
 consented. There were a large number 
 of passengers on board, and I soon made 
 many acquaintances, and resumed , my 
 old business of flirting, with the amiable 
 design of making Tracers jealous, in 
 this I succeeded to perfection. He grew 
 morose and sullen, scarcely ever speak- 
 ing to* any one; but I kept on in my mad 
 career, not caring a straw for him or hit; 
 jealousy — for I had never really loved 
 him as a woman should the man she in- 
 tended to marry. I liked him well 
 enough ; he was rich and handsome, and 
 polite-^and that was all I fancied any 
 one wanted in a husband; and as for 
 sacrificing any whim of my own to 
 please him, I had no idea of it. 
 
 "Still, there were times when I did not 
 flirt; when I was as quiet and subdued 
 as even Captain Travers could wish. 
 This was when conversing with one of 
 the passengers, a Catholic-priest. iv 
 
 At first, when I met him, I took him 
 to be a professor, in his plain black suit. 
 Had I then known what he really was, I 
 would have shrunk from him as from an 
 Eastern leper. But I did not know; and 
 there was a strange charm in his dis- 
 course that often drew me to his side. 
 One day he accidentally mentioned who 
 he was, and. to my own surprise, I 
 found myself listening without the hor- 
 ror I once thought I would have felt 
 at meeting a priest. From that day 
 I sought Father John — as he called 
 himself — continually. It was such a 
 relief — aftfer listening to the tawdry 
 compliments and insipid nothings of the 
 brainless fops that hovered around me— r 
 to hear Father John's grave, earnest, but 
 gentle words. By degrees, partly to pass 
 the time at first, I began to question him 
 concerning his religion; and became so 
 enraptured with his explanations that. 
 


THE 8IBTBR OF CHARITY. 
 
 IS 
 
 
 before our arrtval in England, I. became 
 an entbusiastlc convert to his faith. For 
 a few weeks I managed to keep my 
 change of religion a secret from the rest 
 of the family; for I had not courage to 
 brave the storm of anger which I feared 
 would follow its avowal. But they soon 
 learned it; and then my father stormed 
 and raved, Captain Travers absolutely 
 entreated me on his knees« Lulu wept 
 and implored; but all was. in vain. I re- 
 mained firm. Seeing I was not to be 
 moved, my father at last sternly bade 
 me to leave his house. With a heavy 
 heart, indeed, I left .my home — the last 
 ivords I heard from Captain Travers be- 
 ing a terrible oath that he would be le- 
 venged on the wily Jesuit who had 
 weaned me from the faith of my fathers. 
 I sought and found a home with the Sis- 
 ters of Cnarity, and for a while heard 
 nothing of the others; until one day I 
 read in the paper that "Richard Vernon, 
 lij^sq.. and his niece h|d left in the Water 
 Witch for New Orleans." I had not ex- 
 pected my fault would be so severely 
 punished. I never dreamed for a mo- 
 ment they would have left me alone in a 
 strange land ; and for a while I was in- 
 iconsolable. But the kindness and affec- 
 tion of the good Sisters somewhat con- 
 BOTed me; and at length I grew, if not 
 happy, at least content. Of Frederick 
 TFravers I had never heard since the day 
 * we parted. 
 
 "One evening I repaired to a neighbor- 
 ing cathedrat, and, feeling a delicious 
 pleasure in the holy quiet of the place, 1 
 did not leave until near dark. As I went 
 out, I overtook Father John, and, wish- 
 ing to cons^t him about something, we 
 walked on together. Suddenly, there was 
 the report of a pistol behind us. With a 
 groan, Father John fell at my feet, wel- 
 tering in blood. My piercing shrieks 
 s'oon collected a crowd, and the assassin. 
 Who had turned to fly, was soon cap- 
 tuf e|d. As he was led past, I looked upi 
 and, to my unspeakable horror, recog- 
 nized Captain Travers. 
 
 "Father John was borne to a neigh- 
 boring house and a surgeon sent for — 
 who, to the great joy of all, pronounced 
 the wound dangerous, but not mortal. 
 The constant care and attention of the 
 jjgood people of the house soon restored 
 
 him to health once more. The trliU <A 
 the assassin came on; but, as Father 
 John refused to appear against him, he 
 was discharged, and, as it was reported, 
 (luitted England immediately for his na- 
 tive land. ^- 
 
 "Three months more passed aw&y, and 
 I still remained with the good Sisters of 
 Charity. I had not taken tne veil, but I 
 often assisted the nUns in tending the 
 hospital patients and visiting the sick. 
 
 "One nigHt a man was brought to the 
 hospital horribly mutilated and in a dy- 
 ing state. He had been engaged in a 
 brawl in a gambling saloon, and waa 
 stabbed by his adversary. Some chari- 
 table persons brought him to the hospi- 
 tal, but it was too late. Every breath 
 pumped the life-blood from a ghastly 
 wound in his head. I knelt by his side to 
 wipe the clotted gore from his face. He 
 slowly opened his glazing eyes and fixed 
 them with a wild, maniacal glare on .my 
 face. Suddenly he raised himself, with 
 a last convulsive effort, on his elbow and 
 shrieked, 'Alma!' Then, with a choking 
 gasp for breath, he fell back, dead. But 
 I had recognized him. It was Frederick 
 Travers." 
 
 The nun covered her face with her 
 hands, while her slight figure quivered 
 convulsively at the remembrance of that 
 terrible scene. Then, lifting her pale 
 face, she went on hurriedly : 
 
 "There is but little more to tell. They 
 buried him in a little ^English church- 
 yard, and I — I became a Sister of Char- 
 ity. My father died a year ago, leaving 
 all his wealth to Lulu. May heaven 
 grant her a long and happy life to en- 
 joy it!" 
 
 "And oh. Sister, can you be happy 
 here, always by the loathsome bedside of 
 dying paupers, leading tHTs self-sacrific- 
 ing, this laborious life?" 1 cried out. 
 
 "Yes, my dear, I am happy; for I know 
 I am doing my duty," she answered, ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 "And Father John?" I inquired, after a 
 pause. 
 
 "Saved your life just now, my dear," 
 she answered, smiling. 
 
 She stooped to kiss me. The next mo- 
 ment she was gone. We have never met 
 since. 
 
 t;;*;V.»'-<-'^,- ■ 
 
 ,t.^-f,y...f..ff.i--Ji. --ft *; - 
 


CARRIES BRIDAL. 
 
 By Mrs. MAY AGNES FLEMING, 
 
 AuthorqfA Wonderful Woman," " A Terrible Secret," " The Mystery at Blaokwood Qranae," 
 
 "Sir Noel's Heir," Eto., Etc. ^ ' 
 
 
 I, ■ . 
 
 A sweet, pretty little girl was Carrie 
 Fay. None of your wonderful beauties, 
 you know, so transcendently lovely that 
 all creation falls in love with them at 
 first sight, but a pretty little thing, with 
 merry, blue eyes and wavy brown hair 
 and rose-tinted cheeks, and red, laugh- 
 ing lips, and the dearest, prettiest little 
 form ever you saw in your life. Then 
 Carrie had such winning ways, such 
 sweet smiles and gentle words for every 
 one, except her beaux, that it is no won- 
 der she was the prime favorite of every- 
 body in Ashfield. She was especially 
 fond of old men and women — so fond, in 
 fact, that half the claimants foi* her 
 hand could have strangled all the old 
 people in the village from sheer jealousy. 
 
 Carrie, of course, had plenty of lovers 
 kneeling at her feet and vowing ever- 
 lasting fidelity, while she laughed in 
 their face. The house of Deacon Fay 
 was besieged bj' wearers of broadcloth 
 from morning till night, to the great an- 
 noyance of that orthodox pillar of the 
 church. But, seeing that Carrie laughed 
 at them all alike, and seemed to have no 
 intention of falling in love with any of 
 tnem, the worthy deacon made up his 
 mind that for the present at least he 
 would "grin and bear it." 
 
 Carrie and I were fast friends. We 
 had gone to school together when chil- 
 dren, played truant together, and got 
 punished together — except, sometimes, 
 V hen my brother Hugh, by some plausi- 
 ble story, got us oft, or took our punish- 
 ment on himself. And on these occa- 
 sions Carrie would throw her arms 
 around his neck with her usual impul- 
 siveness and exclaim: 
 
 "Oh, Hugh, you're such a good boy, 
 and I do love you more than anybody 
 else In the world!" 
 
 Hugh, however, who had a true boyish 
 
 dislike of caresses, would disengage him- 
 self and push her away with a gruff: 
 
 "Bother!" 
 
 But the Fates had ordained that we 
 should part. I was sent to a French 
 academy to be "finished," Hugh obtained 
 a midshipman's appointment, and Carrie 
 remained in Ashfield. Five years passed 
 ere we met again, and now behold me 
 lying on a sofa i» Carrie's room, car- 
 ressing a hideously ugly little terrier, 
 while his mistress sits before me re- 
 counting her adventures since we parted 
 last. 
 
 "And so you haven't got married yet, 
 Sue?" said Carrie. "I expected you 
 would have been Mrs. Somebody-or- 
 other long before this, and here you 
 come back a dashing city girl, it is true, 
 but plain Susi.e Ford after all!" 
 
 "Nothing wonderful in that, my dear. 
 There never was a man born yet half 
 good enough for me. I intend to be an 
 independent old maid, and when I die 
 I'll leave my money to found a hospital 
 for superannuated dogs and cats. I'm 
 fond of puppies of all sorts, except those 
 running on two legs." 
 
 "Sour grapes, Sue, nothing else; some- 
 body's jilted you, and, for spite, you rail 
 against the whole sex. Come, now, con- 
 fess; you've been in love and" — 
 
 "Never, as I am a sinner! I scorn the 
 accusation. But you, with more beaux 
 than I could shake a stick at, why ain't 
 you a 'blessed bride,' eh?" 
 
 "Oh, well, because I don't want to be 
 married — at least, not yet. I think it's 
 horrid. And the men — well, I declare, 
 of all the silly looking, creatures imag- 
 inable, a man in love is the most intol- 
 erable. There was Captain Lucas, now; 
 I thought him a splendid fellow before 
 I got acquainted with him — so grave and 
 stately, and dignified, and all that. Well, 
 I got an introduction to him and for a 
 


CARRIE'R BRIDAL. 
 
 i 
 
 15 
 
 while we got along swimmingly to- 
 gether; but at last he took it into his 
 head to fall in love with me. I never 
 suspected such a catastrophe at all, until 
 one night he knelt down at my feet and 
 began telling me I was an 'adorable crea- 
 ture,' and, just at that moment, his pants 
 succumbed to the pressure of his knees. 
 I burst out in laughter, and the stately 
 captain, springing to his feet and cast- 
 ing one look of horror at his ruined un- 
 mentionables, fled from the spot, and I 
 have never seen him since. 
 
 "Then^ there was Dr. Stuart, the hand- 
 somest man of my- acquaintance, who 
 went to 'pop the question' and got dread- 
 fully confused, stuttered and stammered, 
 and blushed red and purple and white, 
 and all the colors of the rainbow. Ac- 
 tually, the bewildering doctor was trem- 
 bling and blushing before poor little me. 
 Now, I don't mind a girl's blushing now 
 and then. I rather like it than other- 
 wise; but to see a man — a lord of crea- 
 tion — as red in the face as a boiled lob- 
 ster, all his dignity oozing out of the 
 toes of his boots, and looking like some- 
 body about to be hanged for sheep steal- 
 ing — oh, horror! I was disenchanted on 
 the spot, and never could bear the sight 
 of the doctor since. 
 
 "Then there was Mr. Adolphus Per- 
 simmon Byron, a literary character, who 
 wrote pathetic love tales and melancholy 
 verses for the Ashfleld Lightning Bug. 
 He used to come here rainy days and 
 bring his pathetic poems with him and 
 read them aloud to me. I was always 
 glad to see him, I'm sure, for he reg- 
 ularly set me sound asleep before he got 
 to the end of the second verse, which 
 was just what I wanted. I had no idea 
 he'd ever fall in love with me, poor 
 thing! or I'd have told him beforehand 
 it was a waste of ammunition. Bat one 
 day he handed nie a copy of verses, and, 
 with tears in his eyes, implored mc to 
 read it and answer favorably. It was 
 a heart-rending proposal of his heart 
 and hand and fortune, the last item 
 being invested in a railway near the 
 North Pole, in a region y-et to be dis- 
 covered. There were most awful, ter- 
 rifying hints of arsenic, ratbane and 
 drowning if I refused; but refuse I did, 
 in elegant verse, of which the following 
 is a copy: 
 
 " 'Your heart, your hand and your for- 
 tune you offer— 
 
 And truly, dear sir, 'tis a irenerous prof- 
 fer; 
 
 But as I can't think to deprive you of all, 
 I'll take the last-mentioned, though I 
 
 fear it's but small. 
 So send on your fortune without more 
 
 delay- 
 It will ne'er be refused by your friend, 
 
 "'Carrie Fay.' " 
 
 "Oh! stop! stop! you wicked little flln! 
 Do you really mean to tell me that you 
 have become such a wicked trifler with 
 the gentlemen's hearts?" 
 
 "Gentlemen's hearts! Come, I like 
 that! As if anything encased in broad- 
 cloth ever had a heart. No, my dear, 
 there is nothing but a cavity filled full 
 of vanity, somewhere under their watcli 
 pocket, in the place where the heart 
 ought to be. Bless you! it does them 
 good to take the conceit out of 'em. I 
 believe I was made for the salvation of 
 them all." 
 
 "Come, now, Carrie, be sensible; 
 among all your suitors is there not one 
 whose affection you return?" 
 
 "Not one, 'pon honor! I wouldn't give 
 two stra-TTs for the whole blessed lot of 
 them." 
 
 "And you were never in love?" 
 
 "Never. Oh, I mean since your brother 
 Hugh left me to w£ar the willow. You 
 know how zealously I paid my distresses 
 to him, and how ungratefully he rejected 
 them. Even when he went away his 
 'last speech and confession' was adding 
 insult to injury. There I was, with my 
 arms round his neck, hugging and cling- 
 ing to him like a chestnut burr, and cry- 
 ing till you couldn't see ^n eye in my 
 head. And what do you think was his 
 return? Why, he pushed me away and 
 told me to 'go off and not make such a 
 little goose of myself,' and there he left 
 me whimpering on the ground." 
 
 "The hard-hearted monster!" I replied, 
 unable to repress a laugh at Carrie's 
 dolorous look and tone. "Well, he'll be 
 here in a week or two, I expect, and you 
 will have a chance of making him apol- 
 ogize for his rudeness." 
 
 "Oh, is he coming home?" cried Carrie, 
 clapping her hands. "How glad I am! 
 Won't I fix him, though? I perfectly 
 dote on sailors—especially midshipmen." 
 
 I left Carrie and walked slowly home- 
 ward, thinking about nothing in partic- 
 ular, according to my usual habit, when, 
 just as I entered the door of my resi- 
 dence, I was confronted by an individual 
 six feet high, dressed in "gorgeous 
 array," and glittering with brass but- 
 tons. I felt sure I had seen that hand- 
 
 d 
 


16 
 
 CARRIE'H BRIDAL. 
 
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 ■4 
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 I' 
 
 some face and those wicked black eyes 
 and glossy dark locks somewhere before, 
 but ere I could call memory to my aid, I 
 was clasped in his arms, while he eagerly 
 exclaimed: 
 
 "Susie, Susie, little sister, don't you 
 know me?" 
 
 "Why, Hugh! my goodness, Hugh; can 
 this be you? I'm so glad!" I exclaimed, 
 in delighted surprise. 
 
 "Yes, this is me, nobody else. Hugh 
 Ford, Esq., U. S. N., past midshipman," 
 was his concise and descriptive answer. 
 
 "Why, how tall you are, and how 
 handsome you've grown," said I, hold- 
 ing him off and surveying him with ad- 
 miration, "and what a splendid mus- 
 tache you've got." 
 
 "Wish 1 could return the compliment, 
 sis." ' 
 
 "When did you come?" 
 
 "About an hour ago. They told me 
 you were somewhere in the village, and 
 I was about to go cruising in search of 
 you, when you dropped ini" 
 
 "Yes. I was up with Carfie Fay. You 
 remember little Carrie, don't you?" 
 
 "What! The little girl with the blue 
 eyes and yellow hair, who used to be 
 BO fond of me? I should think I did. 
 She used to half-strangle me with her 
 caresses," he replied, coolly, stretching 
 himself indolently on a lounge. 
 
 "Take care the tables are not turned. 
 Master Hugh. Carrie is one of the pret- 
 tiest girls in Ashfleld, which is noted far 
 and near for its pretty girls." 
 
 "Then, in that case, she may be as 
 fond of me now as she pleases, and 
 caress me whenever she likes. I won't 
 oppose it in the least." 
 
 "You incorrigibly yain wretch. If you 
 had heard her a while ago it would have 
 taken the nonsense out of you. We were 
 speaking of you, you know." 
 
 "Yes; good, no doubt." 
 
 "No, indeed, we wer'n't. You don't 
 catch Carrie speaking well of you," said 
 I, thinking, inwardly, if she admired 
 cool impudence she would likely take a 
 desperate fancy to him pretty soon. 
 
 Late that evening I went over to see 
 her, and, without telling her of Hugh's 
 arrival, asked her to come home with 
 me. 
 
 We walked across the fields together, 
 Carrie drawing on her gloves and chat- 
 ting gaily. Suddenly, in the middle of 
 an animated speech, she gave her kid 
 glove a desperate pull and tore it in 
 pieces. • 
 
 "There, now, look at that!" she ex- 
 claimed, ruefully. "I paid a 'dollar and 
 a half for these yesterday. I wish to 
 goodness I had a chance to kiss some- 
 body and so get a new pair." 
 
 "Why, how would that get you a new 
 pair?" said I. 
 
 "What a piece of simplicity you are! 
 Do you not know, if you kiss a sleeping 
 gentleman, without his knowledge, you'll 
 get a pair of new gloves? The first 
 chance I get I'm going to try it." 
 
 As she spoke I opened the parlor door 
 and entered. The room was darkened 
 to exclude the heat; and there, on the 
 sofa, lay Hugh, as sound asleep ns 
 though I had not seen him with his eyes 
 wide open when we first entered. 
 
 "There's a chance for you, then," said 
 I, pointing to the sleeper. 
 
 "Who is it?" said Carrie, who, on en- 
 tering the darkened room, could not dis- 
 tinguish objects very clearly; "your 
 Uncle John?" 
 
 "Who else would it be?" said I, eva- 
 sively. 
 
 "Then here goes!" exclaimed Carrie, 
 in a tone of suppressed delight, as she 
 tip-toed forward, and, stooping over the 
 sleeper, imprinted a kiss on^his fore- 
 head. ^ 
 
 In a moment she was encircled by a 
 strong arm, and her salute returned with 
 compound interest by some one who was 
 not Uncle John. Surprise at first held 
 her spell-bound; then recognizing her 
 former playmate in the dashing mid- 
 shipman, she broke from his arms and 
 fled, like a startled deer, from the room. 
 
 Suppressing my laughter, I followed 
 her, and found her sitting at the foot of 
 the garden, with her face hidden in her 
 hands. 
 
 "Come, Carrie," said I, gaily, "you 
 shall have the gloves, though you did 
 kiss the nephew' instead of the uncle. 
 Mistakes will happen in the best of fam- 
 ilies, you know." 
 
 She raised her head and laughed, 
 though her cheek was deep crimson. 
 
 "It was too bad of you to deceive me 
 so, Susie. Wliat will he think of me? 
 Oh, Susie, what will he think of me?" 
 she said, earnestly clasping her hands. 
 
 I burst out laughing. 
 
 "Why, he'll be very much disappointed 
 when he finds your affectionate embrace 
 �as not intended for him. But here he 
 comes to plead his own cause, and, as be 
 doesn't need any assistant counsel, 1*11 
 vainish." 
 
 I 
 
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i 
 
 CARRIE' it nUIUAh, 
 
 « 
 
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 r and 
 Ish to 
 some- 
 new 
 
 are! 
 replug 
 you'll 
 
 flr&t 
 
 •« "1 
 
 door 
 veiled 
 n the 
 > fis 
 eyes 
 
 said 
 
 Carrie started in alarm to her feet, 
 with the intention of following my ex- 
 ample, but Hugh was by her Bide, malt- 
 ing ten thousand apologies for taking 
 advantage of her mistake. 
 
 I left them to settle the matter them- 
 selves and sauntered off, humming to 
 myself and gathering cinnamon roses. I 
 think she forgave him, for, two hours 
 afterward, when he escorted her home, 
 they were laughing and chatting as mer- 
 rily as thougl that unlucky blunder had 
 never occurred. 
 
 The next day I explained the matter 
 to Hugh, who charitably wished Carrie 
 might tear her gtove and make a similar 
 mistake every day. That evening a pair 
 of tiny lavender-hued gloves found their 
 way to the deacon's, accompanied by a 
 beautiful bouquet. 
 
 Ifugh had received long leave of ab- 
 sence, and he certainly improved it by 
 devoting all his time to Carrie Fay. 
 Three weeks passed, and, in spite of all 
 my entreaties to go and see the rest of 
 the family at Cape Maj^, where mamma 
 and the girls were spending the dog- 
 days, he still lingered, rusticating at 
 Ashfleld. 
 
 "Now, Hugh, look here," said I, one 
 morning, "here's this letter from mam- 
 ma, and listen to what she says: 
 
 "'What on earth is the matter with 
 Hugh, my love? Is' he bewitched or 
 what attractions can there be for him in 
 a hum-drum country* village to detain 
 him from us? Tell him to come imme- 
 diately here — command him. Your sis- 
 tiers, Maud and Eva, are quite as anxious 
 to see him as I am. MisB Rich* the old 
 niillionaire's< daughter, is here. She Is 
 enormously wealthy, and used to admire 
 Hugh very much as a boy. If he plays 
 his cards well he may have the -richest 
 bride in the United States. Tell him to 
 make all possible haste. Miss Rich begs 
 to be remembered to him.' "• 
 
 ^'Miss Rich be— hanged!" exclaimed 
 Mr. Hugh, in a passion. "I wish my 
 mother would not take upon herself the 
 odious character of matchmaker. I 
 won't go." 
 
 '"You will go, Hugh," said I, firmly. 
 "You must go. No, never flash up so 
 haughtily at that word; just listen pa- 
 tiently for a moment. Tell me, what 
 is it keeps you here?" 
 
 His dark cheek flushed, but he laughed'" 
 and answered carelessly: 
 
 "Why, my winsome little sister, to be 
 
 sure," he said, twining my curls over 
 his Angers. 
 
 "Don't talk nonsense, Hugh! What 
 would mamma and the girls pay If they 
 knew you stayed here making love to a 
 little country girl, with two or three 
 thousand dollar.s for her fortune?" 
 
 "Making love! Don't be a fool. Susie!" 
 he exclaimed, almost angrily, getting up 
 and pacing the floor. 
 
 "Very well, sir; perhaps you are quite 
 innocent, but your long moonlight walks 
 and your morning rides and afternoon 
 sails look most suspiciously like it. Now 
 go to Cape May and pay your respects to 
 mamma, and if you find my presence 
 here a stronger attraction than Miss 
 Rich's dollars and dimes, why, come 
 back to me — that's all." 
 
 He left the room without making any 
 reply, and I saw him go toward Deacon 
 Fay's house. Two hours after he re- 
 turned, bade us all a hasty good - by. 
 vaulted into the saddle and quitted Ash- 
 fleld. 
 
 That evening I went over to see Carrie. 
 She was sitting watching the moon- ris- 
 ing over the tops, with & sad, dreamy 
 look on her fair face. Her parents were 
 present, and so was a short, fat, pom- 
 pous-looking old man, whom the deacon 
 presented to me as Mr. Rich, whose 
 daughter mamma wished Hugh to marry. 
 
 I stayed with Carrie all the evening, 
 but she did not once mention Hugh's 
 name. Old Mr. Rich seemed struck by 
 her beauty, and announced his intention 
 of spending the remainder of the week 
 with them. 
 
 That '^veek passed and the next, and 
 still he remained; and the people whis- 
 pered in the village that there would 
 soon be a wedding at the deacon's. I 
 had heard nothing from Hugh since his 
 departure; but, in a dainty note, my 
 fashionable sister, Eva, gave me to un- 
 derstand that he was decidedly the hand- 
 somest man at Cape May, and regarded 
 with favorable eyes by the "beauty and 
 heiress," Miss Rich. 
 
 One evening, as I entered the porch 
 of Deacon Fay's house, I heard his voice 
 in loud and angry tones. Ere I could 
 retreat the following words met my ear: 
 
 "I tell you, Carrie Fay, I'll have none 
 of your nonsense. Old, forsooth! as if 
 that made any matter. You must and 
 shall marry him — mind that! When 
 young Ford was here I let him spark 
 around, thinking he would marry you; 
 but now he's off with his fashionable 
 
 i 
 



 i 
 
 I", r ■ 
 
 18 
 
 CARRIE'S BRIDAL. 
 
 II 
 
 family at somo watering place, and going 
 to be married to some great lady. So, 
 no more whimpering. I trust I know 
 my duty well enough to provide for my 
 daughter. So prepare for your wedding 
 as soon as you like." 
 
 I fled from the house Just in time to 
 avoid meeting the deacon, who came 
 stalking out, with a look of grim deter- 
 mination on his face. 
 
 The next day, as I sat alone, a letter 
 was brought me in the handwriting of 
 Eva. I tore it open and read: 
 
 "Dear Sur: Hugh is married at last. 
 He and Sellne Rich were united this 
 morning and everything went off splen- 
 didly. All the world was here to witness 
 the nuptials, and everybody says they 
 never saw so magnificent an affair. 
 Celine has heard some absurd report 
 that her father Is going to marry a 
 country girl In Ashfleld; but, of course, it 
 cannot be true. She Insists, however, on 
 going there to see; so you will soon have 
 an opportunity of beholding your new 
 Bister. Eva." 
 
 Tlie letter fell from my hand and 1 
 dropped my head on the table with a 
 groan. A touch on the shoulder startled 
 me. I looked vp and beheld Carrie, but 
 so pale and wil4 that I scarcely knew 
 her. 
 
 "Susie," she said, "read that." 
 
 I took the newspaper she held and saw 
 In flourishing capitals the announcement 
 of the marrlag© of Hugh Ford and Celine 
 Rich. 
 
 "Oh, Susie," she cried, passionately, 
 "Is it true?" 
 
 "Yes," I said, briefly.' 
 . "Then God help m©!" 
 . There was such utter despair In her 
 voice that Iw^s startled. Her face was 
 deadly white, even to her Tps, and such 
 a look of deep, settled apgulsh I never 
 saw.in human eyes before. 
 
 "Dear Carrie," said I, gently, "what 
 is It? Did yoH love him?" 
 
 "Oh, Hugh! Hugh!" 
 
 That wild; mournful cry answered me. 
 I passed my arms around her waist and 
 ^ould have drawn her down beside me, 
 but she gently released herself, and, cov- 
 ering her face with her hands, stood for 
 a time silent and motionless. Then 
 looking up, she said, hurriedly: 
 
 "Susie, I am to be married the day 
 after to^morrowr.. "WTill you be my brides-, 
 maid?" ^ r :■ , 
 ; I Stared at h^r In amazemeilt. 
 : "Married! To whoii^?" ..^ 
 
 "To Mr. Rich," she said, with a sort 
 of shudder. 
 
 "That old man! Oh, Carrie!" I said, 
 reproachfully, 
 
 "Hush! Oh, hush, Susie, I must!" she 
 cried, wildly. "Do not talk to me now. 
 I cannot bear it. Oh, they have all 
 talked to me too much. 1 am going 
 crazy, I think. Susie, you will come?" 
 
 "Since you wish it, Carrie — yes." 
 
 She smiled faintly, as if to thank me, 
 and slowly left the house. 
 
 I did not see her again until the wed- 
 ding morning. She was in her room and 
 would see no one — not even me; but that 
 morning she came down like a spirit 
 among the guests, all in white, and with 
 a face more deathly pale than any bride 
 ever was before. 
 
 "I am tired, take^ me up stairs," she 
 said to me, faintly, when the ceremony 
 was over. I looked and was unepaak- 
 ably shocked to see the light had died 
 out of her eyds, the bright golden hliift 
 8«emed even to have faded from her 
 hair. 
 
 Supporting her with my arm, I led 
 her to her room. She seated harself by 
 the table, and, leaning her arm upon it, 
 her head dropped heavily down. .<..% 
 
 Just at that moment the sound of Car- 
 riage wheels arrested my attentlpn, 1 
 ran down stairs, and there In the parlor 
 stood Hugh and his bride. 
 
 Proud man as 'he wao^ he actually 
 auailcd before the look I gave him. His 
 wife was talking la loud and angry tones 
 to her father. 
 
 "Where is this girl you have mar- 
 ried?" she said, 1^ no very gentle voice. 
 "I must see her." 
 
 "She Is up stairs, madam," said I, 
 coldly; "but I do not think shie is a*fl« 
 to tjome down." 
 
 "Then I shall go up. Come with me> 
 Mr. Ford," she said, passing her arni 
 through his and turning to follow me. 
 , We ascended the stairs. Carrie still 
 Mt.ioaiOtlonless by the table, her head 
 resting on her folded arms. I stooped 
 over her and whispered her name, but 
 ' she did not stir. 
 
 "Carrie," said I. shaking her gently, 
 "Hugh is here." : * 
 
 Had she been dying that name would 
 have recalled her to life; but now it fell 
 unheeded. . , 
 
 With a -wild, vague fear I raised her 
 head. The golden-brown hair fell heav- 
 ily over my arm, the lids were closeul 
 / o^rer :the >iiro«^ry;bluie eyesp, a smile still ' 
 


CAKRlFl'a BRIDAL. 
 
 Iff 
 
 lingered on the sweet, beautiful lipB. and 
 on her bridal day her aching hetut u.id 
 found rest. 
 
 I laid her down, and, waving them 
 back, I turned sternly to Ce'.lne. 
 
 "You are too late, madam," I said, bit- 
 terly; "Yonr reproaches ^111 fall un- 
 heeded now. Carrie Fay is beyond your 
 power." 
 
 "Dead!" she exclaimed, with a shriek. 
 "Dear me, how shocking! Do take me 
 (town stairs, Mr. Ford. I feel as though 
 I 53hould faint." 
 
 "Disease of the heart." the doctors 
 said, as they bent over the lifeless form. 
 
 Down in the village churchyard, where 
 the sunshine falls brightly and the 
 sweet aoutb wind comes loaded wltb tbe 
 
 odor of cinnamon roses, they laid Qarrle. 
 No cold, white monimient niarkw her 
 losting place, but a majestic willow sighs 
 mournfully above it, and drops tears 
 upon the roses through the long nights. 
 And in the hush of midnight the tall, 
 dark form of a man comes here to wres- 
 tle with his romorse and nnKulsh, thiit 
 t\9 world dream« not he has ever felt, 
 lor 
 
 "The dnrk eyes, dim with wicplnif. 
 Sparkle 'mid the crowd again." 
 
 And to-night, listening to the bitter 
 autumn storm, I cannot rest, for my 
 thoughts are with the lone\y sleeper in 
 tbe cold churchyard. 
 
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'1'.^ 
 
 Mr. Mounter-ville. 
 
 By Mrs. MAY AGNES FLEMING, 
 
 Author of'* A Womttrful Woman," " A Terrible Secret," " The^Myntery at Blackwood Graun, " 
 ^ '* Sir NueVa IMr," Ktc, Etc. 
 
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 K 1 
 
 'I fl 
 
 His name was Mountervllle — John 
 Frederick MounterviUe. That sounds ro- 
 mantic, doewn't it? lilie the hero of a 
 high-pressure novel, you know, but for 
 all that he wasn't a bit romantic. Fancy 
 thlrty-flve years, five feet six, two hun- 
 dred pounds weight, a florid complexion, 
 and sandy whiskers, and point out the 
 romance, if you dare. That was Mr. J. 
 F. Mountervllle; and he kept the large 
 grocery store up the village, and sold 
 kerosene, and liog's-lard, and pork, and 
 butter and r.-c!:.sses; and If there's any- 
 thing romantic or .sentimental in all 
 that, T shall be happy tc have you tell 
 ihe of it. How he ever came to be Mount- 
 ervllle, the gods above only know. If 
 ever Smith — Peter or Samuel — was writ- 
 ten In a "human face divine," it was In 
 Mr. Mounterville's, But for all that it 
 was his name, real and bona fide, and 
 had been his father's and grandfather's 
 before kirn, and was likely to be his 
 son's, if he ever got that far, for Mr. 
 John Frederick Mountervllle, grocer, 
 was a bachelor. And that is how I come 
 to be writing about him to-day; for, of 
 all the odd things that ever happened, 
 the oddest was that this man should go 
 and fall in love with me. 
 
 You see. ma — ma's a widow, and I'm 
 her only one, and we keep the village 
 school. Ma used to send me to the gro- 
 cery store for butter, and sugar, and tea, 
 and coffee of every-day life, and Mr. 
 Mountervllle used to wait on me a good 
 deal, and make pleasing Jittle remarks 
 about the weather, and the prices-cur- 
 rent, and our school, and things gener- 
 ally. T didn't notice it myself, at first, 
 that there was any display 'of the tender 
 passion in all this, for one would as soon 
 have thought of a kangaroo In love as 
 Mr. Mountervllle; but Phil Marks, one 
 of the clerks, got into a way of grinning 
 knowingly whenever I appeared, and 
 
 dodging off to wait on some other t \i; - 
 tomer, and leaving me to "the boss. • 
 And then, by-aud-by, in a sheepish and 
 shanuS-faced sort of way, Mr. Mountci- 
 vIDo took to making me presents. Not 
 bouquets of hothousa exotics, or Tenny- 
 Bon in gold and azure, or illuminatHl 
 sheets of music, but nice little cakes ol" 
 cheese, and pounds of roll butter, aiul- 
 drums of figs, and bottles of pickles, and 
 such like, until gradually my eyes began 
 to open to the truth, and I realized the 
 staggering fact that my black eyes and 
 I raven* tresses had wrought havoc inside 
 Mr. Mounterville's capacious vest. 
 
 When the thrilling conviction first 
 dawned upon me I stood stunned, speecti- 
 less, for about ten minutes and a half. 
 Then I sat down in the nearest chair, 
 and laid my head back, and laughed, and 
 laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until 
 ma came running up, and stood before 
 me, with tears in her eyes, and the cam- 
 phor bottle in her hand, thinking It was 
 hysterics. 
 
 "Go away, ma," I said, as soon as I 
 could speak, "it isn't that— I mean hys- 
 terics; it's Mr. Mountervllle." 
 
 "Mr. Mountervllle! Whatever has 
 Mr. Mountervllle done?" 
 
 "Nothing much, only — oh! good gra- 
 cious!" — another paroxysm — "only, ma, 
 can't you see through the little cheeses, 
 and l-olls of butter, and figs, and sau- 
 sages, yet?" 
 
 "See through them, Lucinda? What do 
 you mean?" 
 
 "Mean! Why, ma, look here; a bat 
 might see it — Mr. Mounterville's in 
 love!" 
 
 "What! Lucinda, my child," with a 
 look of horror, "you never mean to say 
 the unhappy man has fallen in love with 
 me?" 
 
 "No, ma; not with you — only with, 
 me." 
 


MR. MOVSTKItVILhE. 
 
 "Luclnda!" 
 
 "It's true, ma: It has rushed upon me 
 uU at on(;o« like an Alpine avalanche! 
 Cheeses and sauMagcs arc Mr. Mounter- 
 vine's way of breathing hlH houI'h deep- 
 cHt feelinKH. I know what Phil Marku'H 
 grins mean now; and I've only to suy the 
 word and I'm certain to change the ple- 
 beian name of Thompson for the hlgh- 
 Houndlng cognomen of MountervlUe — 
 M.H. John Frederick MountervlUe; U'h 
 lovely. Isn't It?" 
 
 "My dear," said ma, thoughtfully, "you 
 might do worse." 
 
 "Yes, die an old maid — the most horri- 
 ble of all earthly dooms. And I was 
 twenty-seven last birthday; and when a 
 lovely female comes to be twenty-seven 
 It's time she ceased to be prrtlcular. 
 Well, ma, I'll think about it." 
 
 And I did. I went slowly and thought- 
 fully up stairs to my own room, and sat 
 down by the window to turn It over. Mr. 
 MountervlUe waa rich; selling lard and 
 molasses may not be romantic, but it's 
 remunerative — and Mr. MountervlUe had 
 made money out oT it. He lived in a 
 handsome white wooden mansion up the 
 village; he kept a horse and buggy in 
 summer, and a horse and sleigh in win- 
 ter, and a cook, and a housemaid, and a 
 boy, and two clerks. Could any right- 
 thinking schoolmistress of seven-and- 
 twenty-odd long for more? Surely my 
 lucky star had ridden high in the heav- 
 ens the day Mr. MountervlUe first cast 
 upon me the eye of desire. Yet, oh, my 
 prophetic soul! was this what the dreams 
 of my youth had come to! I, who had 
 once reveled in the gorgeous delusion of 
 wedding a Count Lara, a corsair, a 
 giaour, a veiled prophet! Hud not my 
 Ideal, all my days, been of a grand, un- 
 approachable creature, with swarthy 
 skin, and ferocious whiskers, and a cim- 
 etar by his sWe? A man who would 
 
 "Leave a Corsair's name to other times, 
 Linked with one virtue and a thousand 
 crimes." 
 
 And here I had fallen into this! Come 
 to think over a two-hundred-pound gro- 
 cer, with sandy sj.dewhlskers, and eyes 
 like pinholes, as a very desirable match 
 Indeed. 
 
 Nine o'clbck struck, school came In, 
 and I twitched my collar and apron 
 straight, glanced at my black eyes that 
 had done such execution, and descended 
 to teach the ybung Idea how to shoot. 
 But I was in a state of pensive abstrac- 
 
 tion ail day, and set suniB, •nd wrote 
 copies, and slapped little girls and boys, 
 in H frame of pleaHing melancholy, with ■ 
 my thoughts on the white wooden man- 
 sion up the village, and the cook, and 
 the sleigh, and the chambermaid, and 
 the buggy, ami piles and plle.-i of new 
 dresses. Liefore I dismissed the forty 
 cherubs on my roll cull (fond of crying 
 as the other cherubim). I had miide up 
 my mind, with a gentle sigh, to bury In 
 oblivion tli" image of my Pay aim hero, 
 and accept Mr. MountervlUe as »oon as 
 he should scirew his courage to the stick- 
 ing point and propose. 
 
 I think ma must have been revolving 
 the matter in her mind, too, and arriveii 
 at a similar conclusion, for Just before 
 dusk she says to me: 
 
 "Luclnda, love, the molasses is out, 
 and there's no gingerbread. Suppose you 
 take the pall, dear, and step over to Mr. 
 Mountervllle's?" 
 
 I was nothing loath. I put on my best 
 bonnet, threw my shawl picturesquely 
 over my .shoulders, took the tin pall, and 
 departed. 
 
 It was a lovely evening. The month 
 was February, and the snow lay piled 
 high and white. There was no wind, and 
 a crystal moon was rising like a shield 
 of silver over the black pine woods, and 
 the sparkling stars cleft fro.sty and keen. 
 The white road glittered as if sown with 
 diamonds; and the village llghtsgleamed 
 and twinkled athwart the hazy blue at- 
 mosphere. All nature was conducive to 
 tender muifing as I went along for mo- 
 lasses, and my heart was melted within 
 me like a roll of Mr. Mountervllle's but- 
 ter. 
 
 Mr. Mountervllle's shop was one blaze 
 of illumination, for three kerosene 
 lamps, suspended in mid air, like the 
 sword of — What's-hls-name. The two 
 counters were crowded with customers, 
 and Phil Marks and Sam Wilson, thn 
 other clerk, were busier than nailers, 
 and there was an overpowering perfume 
 of coffee, and kerosene, and codfish, and 
 apples that reminded me of "Ceylon'a 
 spicy breezes," and "summer isles of 
 Eden In purple spheres of sea." And 
 there was Mr. MountervlUe, waiting, 
 with superhuman energy, on three old 
 women at once, and tying up quarter 
 pounds'^of tea< and ounces of starch and 
 pepper, with a rapidity that waa the 
 very poetry of motion, and made me 
 wink again — Mr. MountervlUe, who 
 bounced away from the three old women 
 


-,■,.• 
 
 
 22 
 
 MR. MOUKTERVILLK. 
 
 r 
 
 
 l 
 
 R* 
 
 and was confronting me over the counter 
 in a flash, with a heavenly smile illu- 
 minating his face. 
 
 "Good evening, Miss Lucinda, good 
 evening. What can I do for you this 
 evening?" 
 
 Now, if any of my pupils, in making a 
 remark to me, had put three "evenings" 
 so close together, I should most certain- 
 ly have rapped them over the head for 
 it. But Mr. Mounterville was different. 
 1 could bear tautology from him, and 
 smile over it. A man who keeps three 
 servants and two clerks need not stand 
 on trifles of rhetoric. 
 
 "Half a gallon of molasses, if you 
 please. Yes, it is a lovely evening, Mr. 
 Mounterville. I declare, I was almost 
 sorry the walk over was so short. Thy 
 don't you take advantage of this lovely 
 weather and call and see us? Ma was 
 just remarking to me, she hadn't seen 
 you she didn't know when." 
 
 Mr. THounterville's florid complexion 
 turned absolutely crimson with delight. 
 
 "Did she. Miss Lucinda? Now, that 
 was real kind of your ma. You see, 
 we've been pretty busy, right straight 
 along, in the shop here, and I ain't ranch 
 of a visiting man, anj'way." 
 
 "Oh! of course, business before pleas- 
 ure; but you must try and make an ex- 
 ception in our favor. How do you sell 
 these pickeled mackerel? Ma's so fond 
 of mackerel." 
 
 "Miss Lucinda," Mr. Mounterville 
 cried, trembling with eagerness like a 
 calves'-foot jelly, "might I send her over 
 a dozen, just to try 'em? Sam'll take 
 them, and the molasses, too; and if 
 you wait a minute, until I wash my 
 hands and take off my apron, I'll see 
 you home." 
 
 A dirty apron worn habitually around 
 a lover's waist can hardly be less than a 
 poisoned dart to the breast of any young 
 woman of refinement. But I smothered 
 my feelings and smiled. Yes, I paw Mr. 
 Mounterville take off his apron and wipe 
 two very dirty hands on it, and I smiled! 
 
 Sain winked at Phil as he seized the 
 mackerel and the molasses. It was with 
 the eye next Phil; but I saw it, and I 
 folded my shawl around me like a Ra- 
 man toga, and drew myself up, and 
 turned my back upon that young man, 
 with a solemnity and asperity of aspect, 
 I'm inclined to think, he won't forget in 
 a hurry. 
 
 There were dozens of customers in the 
 shop, but, with a wild and reckless dis- 
 
 regard of popularity and fractional cur- 
 rency, Mr. Mounterville shuffled them 
 over to PhiU and stalked majestically 
 out into the night, with me by his side. 
 He didn't offer me his arm (to take a 
 gentleman's arm in our village is equiv- 
 alent to a binding engagement), but we 
 trod along, side by side, slowly and sen- 
 timentally., with that Sam on ahead, 
 stopping every now and then to shift the 
 molasses and mackerel from one hand to 
 the other, and take a backward glance 
 at us. 
 
 The night was lovely — I think I made 
 the remark before. A profound stillness 
 reigned, and everything in the firma- 
 ment above and the earth beneath was 
 conducive to a tender declaration. My 
 heart throbbed, as the hedrt of a spot- 
 less maiden should throb, the first time 
 the question is popped; and Mr. Mount- 
 erville, with his hat rather on one side, 
 as he likes to wear it, and a pungent 
 odor of codfish and onions about him, 
 looked up at the moon with one eye 
 shut, and a plaintive expression of coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 "Nice, isn't it?" remarked Mr. Mount- 
 erville — we had walked about three 
 dozen yards without exchanging a syl- 
 lable. "I always had a hankering after 
 moonlight, and then it's a saving in 
 kerosene, too, if a man only keeps his 
 shop door open. How's the school get- 
 ting on. Miss Lucinda?" 
 
 "Pretty well; much the same as 
 usual." 
 
 "Don't you ever get tired of that 
 there? It's sort of wearing to the feel- 
 ings, I should think." 
 
 "Do you mean teaching?" 
 
 "Yes; it's wearing, ain't it?" 
 
 I sighed heavily; you could have 
 heard me a good way off. 
 
 "BXit what can we do, Mr. Mounter- 
 ville? We must live, ma and me, and to 
 live we must labor. It is of no use com- 
 plaining; it is our lot, and must be en- 
 dured." (Sigh the second.) 
 
 "Well, but, Miss Lucinda, look hei-e," 
 said Mr. Mounterville, firmly; "hain't 
 you ever thought of being married?" 
 
 Good gracious, here it was! I had 
 thought Mr. Mounterville would have 
 been embarrassed, and stammer, and 
 tremble; but I can't say he did. He took 
 it coolly, as though the matter in hand 
 had been several new tubs of butter. 
 
 "Married! Oh, dear me, Mr. Mounter- 
 ville; such a funny question, you know!" 
 with an hysterical little giggle. 
 


MR. MOryTERVILLE. 
 
 M 
 
 I enr- 
 theni 
 ^ically 
 side, 
 lake a 
 Jqiiiv- 
 hit we 
 sen- 
 ihead, 
 fft the 
 md to 
 glance 
 
 made 
 
 Illness 
 rma- 
 wa« 
 My 
 
 spot- 
 time 
 
 ount- 
 side, 
 
 igent 
 
 him, 
 eye 
 
 oun- 
 
 as 
 
 "Is it? Now, I should think it was 
 time. When a girl comes to be your age 
 she ought to marry, if ever she means 
 o. 
 
 The odious brute! I could have pound- 
 ed hffn, but I didn't. I only giggled more 
 hysterically than before, and said noth- 
 ing. 
 
 "I've been thinking about marriage a 
 good deal myself lately," pursued Mr. 
 Mounterville, looking severely at Sam, 
 who, gazing back at us, had spilled the 
 mackerel over the snow, "and I've about 
 made up my mind to try it. I haven't 
 had much time all along, up to the pres- 
 ent, to reflect on such light matters; but 
 I'm pretty comfortably off in the world 
 now. Got a nice house, and everything 
 fixed up in pretty good style, and all I 
 want to top off with is a wife. I ain't so 
 young as I've been, and no more are you, 
 Miss Thompson, and I think we couldn't 
 do better. Now, what, do you say? I 
 want a wife, and you want a husband, so 
 suppose we clinch a bargain? I don't be- 
 lieve you can do better." 
 
 Good heaven! Did ever mortal maiden 
 hear such a proposal? The coarse, nasty 
 wretch! But I thought of the white man- 
 sion, and the horse and carriage, and 
 servants, and swallowed my wrath. 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Mounterville, this is so — so 
 sudden!" I stammered, and then I 
 dropped like a hollyhock on the stem, 
 and was silent, 
 
 "Sudden, is it?" said Mr. Mounterville, 
 taking a^pinch of snuff; "why, I thought 
 I'd been hinting at it this some time (in 
 groceries gratis, I thought). But never, 
 mind the suddenness, Miss Lucinda, it's 
 out now, and let us have your answer- 
 yes or no." 
 
 This was an upright and downright 
 way of putting things with a vengeance! 
 With a low-lived longing in my ten fin- 
 ger nails to scratch his odious eyes out, 
 I stammered and drooped my head. 
 
 "I hardly know what to say, Mr. 
 Mounterville; one feels— feels so—" and 
 there I came to a deadlock. 
 
 ."Good gracious!" cried Mr. Mounter- 
 ville, wildlv; "can't you say something? 
 Yes, or no; that's easy enough, I'm sure." 
 
 "Yes, then," I returned, goaded to des- 
 peration; "if ma don't object." 
 
 "Oh! she won't object; she knows 
 which side of her bread's buttered! I'll 
 go in and sneak to her— nothing like 
 striking while the iron's hot. And here 
 we are. Sam, I've kept my eye on you 
 all along, and I'll trounce you within an 
 
 inch of your life when I get back. Be 
 off!" 
 
 Off scuttled Sam in mortal alarm, and 
 enter Lucinda, foUol^d by Mr. Mounter- 
 ville. 
 
 Ma was in the parlor, darning stock- 
 ings; and she got up and shook hands 
 with my companion with motherly vim. 
 
 "So happy to see you, Mr. Mounter- 
 ville — such a while since you've been 
 here! Take the rocking-chair, da And 
 how well you're looking; dear me, grow- 
 ing younger every day— isn't he. Lu- 
 cinda?" 
 
 " Thanky, mum," responded Mr. 
 Mounterville, dropping into the Boston 
 rocker and making it creak in every 
 pore; "so a man ought when he's going 
 to be married." 
 
 "Going to be married!" with a little 
 scream. "Just hear that, Lucinda!" 
 
 "She has heard It, mum; I asked her 
 coming along— that's why I made Sam 
 fetch the molasses— and she's said yes; 
 and all that's wanting's your consent — 
 and that won't be wanting long, I 
 reckon." 
 
 My ardent wooer snorted and took an- 
 other pinch of snult. Ma put her hand- 
 kerchief to her eyes and sniffled; and I 
 — I sat staring at the fire, and pulling 
 the fringe frantically out of my shawl. 
 
 "I'm sure," ma sobbed, at last, "It's a 
 trial, and you'll overlook a mother's feel- 
 ings, Mr. Mounterville, though, not be- 
 ing a mother yourself, you can't be ex- 
 pected to understand. I don't see how I 
 ever shall get on without her; and you'lj 
 have a treasure that money can't buy, 
 though I say It that hadn't ought to, aifll 
 — Lucinda, my love," with a sudden 
 gush, "kiss me!" 
 
 I kissed ma, and then ma went over 
 and kissed Mr. Mounterville, with a sec- 
 ond gush. Mr. Mounterville snorted 
 again, and took some more snuff. 
 
 "That means yes, don't It? Than we've 
 clinched the bargain, I suppose, Miss Lu- 
 cinda?" 
 
 "I suppose so," rather sulkily. 
 
 Thereupon Mr. Mounterville got up 
 and shook my hand as If It had been 
 the village prjip, and^hook hands with 
 ma; and ma, in a gay and sprightly man- 
 ner, tripped out of the room and re- 
 turned presently with a bottle of black- 
 berry wine and some slices of sponge 
 cake. This innocuous collation beingr 
 partaken of, and Mr. Mounterville a spir- 
 its rising with it, he proposed the first of 
 April for his wedding-day. 
 
 I 
 
 itf ■ '- 
 


I' 
 
 i, 
 
 91 
 
 MR, MOUNTERVJLLE. 
 
 W^ 
 
 \i'y . 
 
 IE.:; 
 
 
 !:JI 
 
 "April Eool'8-day, you know/'with a 
 chuckle; "so kind of appropriate, you 
 know. Let's be Dirtied April FooVs- 
 d^y, Miss LucindaP 
 'If I could have shied the plat© of 
 sponge cake at his head, as he sat there, 
 what an inexpressible relief it would 
 have been to my overcharged heatt! But 
 I only "grinned horribly a ghastly 
 smile," and said it should be as he 
 wished. 
 
 So the wedding-day being fixed, and all 
 things settled, Mr. Mounterville got up 
 to go. I accompanied him to the gate, 
 shook hands with him across it, and 
 bade him good-night, and watched him*| 
 plodding along the moonlit road, his 
 bands in his pockets, and whistling for 
 purest joy, like an asthmatic bullfrog. 
 
 As I stood there, contemplating the 
 starry brilliancy of the sky and the spot- 
 less whiteness of the earth, in a pensive 
 reverie, there started out from the cor- 
 ner of the house, and the shadow of an 
 old pear tree, a young man,, who stood 
 still and confronted me. 
 
 I gave one little yelp of terror and 
 started back, staring with all my n^ight. 
 And no wonder, for the young man was 
 tali as a telegraph pole, and robed in 
 sombre b�ck; and his countenance was 
 albeit handsome, with two blazing black 
 eyes, and a shock of tar-black hair. 
 
 'MDh! let me not startle you, pretty 
 one," said this remarkable phenomenon, 
 in a deep and husky bass; "had I heart 
 for.falsehood formed, I never could in- 
 jure thee! Do you take boarders in your 
 house?" 
 
 The jerking suddenness with which 
 this question was put, and the peculiar 
 gtyle of his two previous remarks, left 
 me gasping like a stranded fish, and ut- 
 terly unable to reply. 
 
 "And still she gazed," said this tall 
 young man, rapidly, with a violent 
 sweep »f one arm; "and still the wonder 
 grew! Tell, oh! tell me, fairest maiden, 
 dp you keep boarders?'* 
 
 I found nay tongue at last. V 
 
 "If you'll step in, sir," I said, unlatch- 
 ing the gate, "I'll see. We do take board- 
 ers occasionally; but you must speak to 
 my mother." 
 
 "Oh! thou hast been the cause of this 
 anguish, my mo;ther," chanted the tall 
 5*;<juhg man, striding through. "Proceed, 
 ikright vision! I follow whithersoever 
 thou leadest." 
 
 Really this young gentleman's style of 
 conversation was remarkable, to say the 
 
 least of it. I opened the. door in consid- 
 erable trepidation, and ushered him into 
 the maternal presence. 
 
 "Madam, I salute thee, lo te salute!" 
 said the seeker after lodgings, laying his 
 hand on his heart and bowing low; "this 
 fair creature, your diaughter, I perceive, 
 informs me you take boarders. Madam, 
 madam, may I have that honor?" 
 
 "Goodness me, Lucinda, my dear!" 
 cried ma, jumping back, and dropping 
 her balls and needles in a paroxysm of 
 terror and dismay. 
 
 "Fear not, fear not, fairest being!" 
 said the gentleman, in a shrill, chanting 
 voice, and transfixing me with his wild, 
 black eyes. "I know not, I ask not, if 
 guilt's in thy heart; but I know I want 
 lodgings, whatever thou art. Answer me 
 quickly!" getting excited, "and answer 
 me truly, minion, wilt thou, or wilt thou 
 not?" 
 
 Then it all fiashed upon me — the tall 
 young gentleman was mad! He looked , 
 like Lara, or the Corsair, a good deal; 
 but I didn't care for my ideal just then, 
 and would have given a year of my life 
 to see Mr. Mounterville's florid complex- 
 ion and sandy whiskers beaming on me 
 through the door. I had heard that a lu- 
 natic, and a dangerous one, had escaped 
 out of an asylum in the next town, and 
 was supposed to be hiding in the pine- 
 woods. And here he was, glaring upon 
 me, with flaring black eyes. ■ 
 
 "Speftk!" cried our terrible visitor, ad- 
 vancinig a step toward me, "speak! or, by 
 the stars above, I'll tear thy perjured 
 soul from out thy craven carcass, and 
 fling it to the four winds of heaven! 
 Wretch! miscreant! base minion!" with 
 a howl and a hop nearer me, "this night 
 Shalt thou pay the penalty of thy crime; 
 this night my wrongs shall be avenged!" 
 
 He made^a grab at me, caught me by 
 the shoulder, and waved the other arm 
 aloft. I gave one shriek, and then my 
 throat was grasped. 
 
 "Foul wizard, ayaunt! I have mar- 
 shaled my clan! Down, slave — down! 
 Cease thy cries, for these dungeon walls 
 are thick, and none shall hear, or help! 
 Die the death! Die! worm, toad, siren, 
 fiend in female form! Die!" 
 
 Not yet! The door was flung open, 
 and oh! thanks and praise forever! in 
 rushed Mr, Mounterville, and laid hold 
 of my frantic opponent. My face was 
 black, my eyes and tongue protruding, 
 and I rolled over in a heap on the floor. 
 
 "Ah, 
 hast col 
 luadmai 
 ton thlt 
 me hurl 
 
 There 
 they vo\ 
 other's 
 life of 
 ris^s t( 
 erville'^ 
 fought 
 my bral 
 victorif 
 skeletol 
 
 way. 
 floor al 
 
 "Fet 
 and r 
 Ah, y< 
 crazy 
 heels, 
 Wasn' 
 hook 5 
 I heal 
 Nowl 
 afltii 
 this cl 
 
 I si 
 slapp« 
 lound 
 on th< 
 
 "Al 
 decei' 
 him i 
 untie 
 


MR. MiH\TEti\ ILLB. 
 
 fonsid- 
 into 
 
 flute!" 
 Pg his 
 'this 
 
 i'celve, 
 [adam, 
 
 iear!" 
 PPPing 
 |sna of 
 
 ing! " 
 
 inting 
 
 wild, 
 
 ^ot, if 
 
 want 
 
 er me 
 
 iswer 
 
 thou 
 
 "Ah, vassal! dog of a Christian! thou 
 hast come to the rescue!" yelled the 
 madman; "thou wouldst shield the wan- 
 ton thing! But share her fate, cur! Let 
 me hurl thee to inferno!" v 
 
 There was a clutch and a wrestle, and 
 they rolled over and over, locked in each 
 other's embrace. There is a time in the 
 life of every man, I suppose, when he 
 ris'fes to sublimity — this was Mr. Mount- 
 erville's time. The Corsair couldn't have 
 fought more manfully for Medora than 
 my brave little man for me. And he was 
 victorious! The madman was a mere 
 skeleton, and his fictitious strength gave 
 way. Mr. Mounterville pinned him to the 
 floor and called to me. 
 
 "Fetch me the clothesline, Lucinda, 
 and I'll fix this squirming vagabond. 
 Ah, yes! you would, would you? — you 
 crazy scamp! That will do; hold his 
 heels, and keep him from kicking. 
 Wasn't it lucky I dropped my pocket- 
 book and came back to look for it; and 
 I heard you yell out here on the road. 
 Now he's safe; and there's the ir other in 
 a fit in the corner. See to her, l.ucinda — 
 this chap's all right!" 
 
 I shook ma, and, sprinkled her, and 
 slapped her, and presently brought her 
 round. And all the while the lunatic lay 
 on the floor glaring at the ceiling. 
 
 "Ah! you're, quiet now, you matchless 
 deceiver!" said Mr. Mounterville, giving 
 him a little push with his toe; "but just 
 untie you, and see the cantrips you'd cut 
 
 a 
 
 up. Where would you be now. Lucinda, 
 only for me?" 
 
 Where, ndeed? Would you believe it? 
 I walked right over and kissed Mr. 
 Mounterville. 
 
 "False! false!" moaned the young man 
 on the floor, "false as fair! Thou hast 
 learned to love another; thou hast 
 broken every vow! But go it-^go it! Let 
 fate do her worst; I'll not flinch!" 
 
 It was of no use — he was tied too fast. 
 I went to the village for help, and our lu- 
 natic was removed with his eyes fixed on 
 the stars, and dreamily murmuring po- 
 etry. He had been an actor, it appeared 
 afterward, when his keepers found him. 
 and ono of the worst cases in the asy- 
 lum. I was grateful to Mr. Mounterville, 
 of course, and gratitude Is akin to love. 
 After all, Medora and Gulnare, and the 
 itst of these poetic beings who had de- 
 lightfully romantic husbattds (by the 
 bye, were they their husbands?) were 
 unspeakably unhappy young women; 
 and it was much. better to marry a rich, 
 stout, elderly grocer than a cut-throat 
 brigand, if one comes to look at it in a 
 proper light. And so I rather think I'm 
 resigned to my fate. 
 
 April is drawing near; my dresses ar6 
 being made; the school is broken up; 
 and the grocery store flourishes like a 
 green bay-tree. And sitting here, gazing 
 at the moon rays with folded hands and 
 dreamy eyes, I sign myself, for the last 
 time, yours pensively, Lucinda Thomp- 
 son. 
 
 1 
 
 :\ 
 
 !i 
 
 / 
 
 HKaii 
 


I, 
 
 m ■ 
 
 I. ■ .*! 
 
 mr 
 
 I.; 
 
 
 S.^ 
 
 , ,>.:i ;<■.. 
 
 
 ; By Mrs. MAY AGNES FLEMING, ' : ^ ' 
 
 Author of " A Wonderful Wonum," " A Terrible Secret," " The Mystery at Blackimod Orange" 
 
 ^ • .r^-.;..,v • " Sir lioela Heir," Mo., Etc. • <'• . • 
 
 * /■ 7 
 
 "iPa'tter; p'attfer, patter! How drearily 
 the rain thilB to-day. Around the old 
 l^criifie, through those gray old walls, the 
 dying wind creeps, wailing and meaning, 
 like the last cry of a broken heart. Sadly 
 the rain beats against the window, with 
 heavy sobsMike to human sorrow. Wifti 
 the voices of the wind and rain in my 
 ears, with the black and murky sky 
 above my head, and with gloom all 
 ground, iny thoughts wander back, , far 
 away to the sorrowful past. On such a 
 day /as this should my life's story be 
 told, for, like this ghostly, dreary au- 
 inihn day, it risies before the, shrouded 
 In darkness arid glpom. 
 C Far away, amid the grand old forest, 
 Che. first fourteen years of my life were 
 spent. The only world I ever knew was 
 bounded by the majestic trees; the only 
 faces I had ever looked upon were the 
 dark-skinned members of our tribe. 
 Spmetimes visitors, gay ladies and gen- 
 trleinen, would pass our encampment and 
 t^top to haye their fortunes told, but I 
 never saw them. My grandmother, 
 Gypsy Kerine, as she was called, the 
 oiily relative I ever knew, watched over 
 irie with jealous carel Never, she said, 
 firmly, should the eyes ,of these gay 
 young men rest upon chiXd. of hers again. 
 ,^he daughter of .her old -age had once 
 fled with one of these. I was her only 
 child, gifted with all the fatal beauty of 
 my dead mother, mingled with the fire, 
 energy and pride of my father, and now, 
 .ijKrJijile , s1i€> lived, her. daughter's,, child 
 sj^ouXd.nevei' see one <>f her. father's race. 
 ^ Oh- the vague,. wild. longings that, at 
 times, would fill my heart to see the 
 beautiful wcirld beyond, of iwhfeh the 
 young gypsy girls rela.ted "such wbiider- 
 1^1 tales. Of beajiiljfiil ladies, dressed so 
 jmJ^ndUidJiy, jn. rpji^es ,^that jv^uld . ds^saile 
 '%nh eyes'^^to loot iipon,, arid of handsonie, 
 cp^rtly ; g^t^mts^i wha wjould -jptp: them 
 
 such charming compliments, and cross 
 their palms with gold, for tehing them 
 of a future as glorious as a gypsy's 
 dream could make it. Then, coming 
 home, my fervid imagiiration fired with 
 such tales, I would cast myself at Ker- 
 ine's feet, and beg passionately, wildly, 
 for permission to go forth and see all the 
 beautiful world beyond for myself; and 
 again and again 1 would hear, in answer, 
 the same cold, firm, determined: 
 
 "Never, Myra!" 
 
 Sometimes I would grow desperate at 
 this confinement, doubly irksome to one 
 of my impulsive, fiery nature, i^nd, with 
 wild vehemence, declare my determina- 
 tion to escape. At. such times my grand- 
 mother would smile sneeringly and point 
 to where stood one who followed me 
 everywhere — followed me night and day 
 like my own shadow — a wild, untamed, 
 lawless gypsy boy — by name, Lendoh 
 Bray. 
 
 Lendon Bray — oh, how I hated him! 
 Evei* since I had been able to remember 
 anything, he constantly followed • me. 
 No dog could track out a fugitive's steps 
 as he could mine, wherever I went. 
 Through the forest, it mattered not how 
 stealthily I looked round, I would see 
 him behind me, creeping along in my 
 trail like a snake. Oh. how I loathed 
 and hated that boy; the very sunlight 
 seemed hateful when he stood in it. 
 Many and many a timfe, when driven 
 nearly to desperation by his ceaselessly 
 dogging my steps, have I wished it were 
 in my power to murder him. I knew not 
 then how sinful such thoughts were; 
 could I have found the opportunity, I 
 would have slain him, with as little 
 remorse as I v^ould crush a viper; but 
 fate willed it otherwise. 
 
 One pleasant afternoon, in the glorious 
 
 Indian shimmer, I was Eeated^ mirsing 
 
 i\^P9.]i the iirkBO|ne, lonict^ life I . was 
 
 his 
 Kerl 
 
 apra 
 
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 <i 
 
 plii 
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 Idd 
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 br 
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 ik 
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 ft 
 
 8 
 t 
 S 
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 1 
 
 • "•■"'■ ' ' "^ ■> 
 


aYPSY MY II A. 
 
 obliged to lead, so different from the 
 free, gay, careless life of the other gypsy 
 girls, and longing, with strange eager- 
 Bess, to leave the forest forever. Had I 
 Known how to pray, I might have im- 
 plored help from on high, but I had 
 never even heard the word. Seme vague 
 notion I had of a supreme being, who 
 iniled over the destinies of men, but that 
 ■waa all. The idea of addre£sing one I 
 could not see would have then appeared 
 to me ftbsurd and iucompreheuslble. So 
 I sat there, weaving pictures and day- 
 dreams to myself, of that unknown 
 world I seemed never doomed to see, and 
 feeling a sort of dreamy pleasure in 
 knowing that I was alone. Gradually, 
 IJowever, I felt I was not alone. I had 
 heard no one approach, yet, when I 
 looked up and saw Lendon Bray before 
 me, I felt in no way surprised. 
 
 "One of the tribe is dead, Myra," he 
 said, gazing at me steadily, with his cold, 
 glittering black eye. 
 
 "I wish you were dead, too, Lendon 
 Bray," I said, passionately, springing to 
 my feet, and turning away. 
 
 ."Stop, Myra," he said, calmly, laying 
 Wis hand on my shoulder, "it is Gypsy 
 Kerlne, your grandmother, Myra." 
 
 -With a low, sharp cry of horror, 1 
 e^prang. to his side. 
 
 "My grandmother dead! Lendon Bray, 
 what do you mean? How— when — where 
 did she die?" I exclaimed. 
 ' -"She died half an hour ago," he re- 
 plied, in his usual cold, indifferent way. 
 "She was walkfng toward the keeper's 
 Ibdge, and fell into one of the fox traps, 
 keeper Lee heard her cry out and came 
 toward her, and, finding her still alive, 
 brought her here. She couldn't speak 
 when she arrived, and died a few mo- 
 ments after." 
 
 I listened with a sort of bewildered 
 consciousness, like one stunned by some 
 sudden blow. Little cause had I to love 
 Gypsy Kerine, and yet tears of real sor- 
 row fell fronr my eyes, as the clods were 
 laM on the face of the old woman. Stern 
 ^Ad harsh to me she ever had been, yet 
 s&e was my only relative, and I felt, as I 
 took my last look at her dark face^ that 
 a great gap lay between me and every 
 one elise in the world. 
 
 iPrOm meditations stieh as these I^wasj 
 iici^iraed by the sound of footsteps beside 
 mfc Looking up I saw the hated fifinire 
 <Sf Len^oB Bray. He watched me «i«i^ly 
 for a toonreDt, then, with a strange, rest- 
 
 less glitter in his dark eyes, he said, 
 quietly: 
 
 "Free at last, Myra." 
 
 P'ree! Ye«, I was free. I had not 
 thought of it before, aud my heart gave 
 a sudden glad, exultant throb. I raised 
 my head and drew myself up proudly. 
 
 "Yes, Lendon Bray, free — free for ever- 
 more! Free to lead what life I like; 
 free to go and come when I please, un- 
 watched and unfollowed. Free from you 
 forever — remember that!" . 
 
 "I shall remember, Myra," he said, 
 calmly. "What use do you intend to* 
 make of your freedom?" 
 
 "What I please. It is no business of 
 yours, that I am aware of," I answered, 
 shortly. 
 
 "Oh, none whatever- certainly not!" 
 he said, in his cool, carelets tone, "only 
 there is going to be a fafr at the town 
 to-morrow, and, as you've never been 
 to one, I thought I would bring you." 
 
 "You bring me?" I exclaimed, with a 
 scornful laugh. "No, no — not so; you 
 will never see the day that I will accept 
 a favor from you. I can take care of 
 Gypsy Myra, and you mind yourself, 
 lendon Bray." 
 
 He made no reply. I stooped to gather 
 a cluster of crimson berries for my half 
 and then turned proudly away. He took 
 one step after me, and, laying his hand 
 on my arm, said, sorrowfully: 
 
 "Myra, what have I ever done that you 
 should treat me thus? Why should you 
 dislike one who loves you?" 
 
 "Dislike!" I repeated, fiercely. "I bate 
 you, Lendon Bray — oh, how I hate you, 
 and I wish you were dead! Go back, 
 sir! don't dare to follow me. Back — I 
 command!" and I stamped my foot pas- 
 sionately. 
 
 A sudden, sharp gleam shot from his 
 black eyes, as he hissed, from between 
 his clenched teeth: 
 
 "Have a care what you say, girl. I am 
 not to be scorned with impunity, Gypsy 
 Myra." 
 
 A very fury seemed to possess me as 
 he spoke. 
 ; "This for your warning, then." 
 
 I. picked up a sharp stone and fiung 
 it with all my might at his bead. One 
 naoment I stood; I heard his sudden ex^ 
 cYamation, saw the stream of blood that 
 flowed from bis forehead, saw his face 
 grow livid with Eag€(, as he made one 
 spritig after me. A mocking laugh was 
 my answer,, as I darted through the- 
 


I 'if 
 
 .'. I, 
 
 m 
 
 9B 
 
 OYPSY MYRA, 
 
 bushes, and flew, rather than walked, to 
 the tents. 
 
 All the rest of the day I remained care- 
 fully out of sight. It was not dread of 
 Lendon Bray made me shrink from 
 meeting him— fear was a sensation I had 
 never known; but I felt ashamed and 
 grieved at what I had done. I did not 
 know or care, perhaps, that it was wrong 
 and sinful, but I felt humbled at having 
 given way to my passion, and, after all, 
 he had never really injured me. 
 
 The next day's sunlight, however, dis- 
 pelled all these reflections. When I arose 
 the people were all preparing for the 
 fair — packing up carts, making flres, 
 cooking breakfast, and getting ready 
 their baskets for sale; all was bustle 
 and confusion. How often had I sa;t 
 watching them prepare for fairs and 
 gatherings before, with feelings of envy; 
 now I was going myself— going to see 
 the beautiful world beyond, at last. 
 
 "Time to get ready, Myra," said Zita, 
 the handsomest gypsy girl in the tribe, 
 approaching and interrupting my medi- 
 tations, j 
 
 "I have nothing to wear," I said, look- I 
 ing up in dismay at her fanciful adorn- 
 ments, most of which had been stolen by 
 her own clever flngef s. 
 
 "Oh, no matter! Gypsy Ruth is not 
 going, and she'll lend you hers. They'll 
 just fit you, and, before night, if you're 
 clever, you'll manage to nab enough to 
 buy a dress," and Zita laughed, sang a 
 wild mountain chorus, struck her tam- 
 bourine gaily and jumped into one of 
 the carts, all ready for the fair. 
 
 In a few moments I was all ready, 
 and, running across the green, sprang 
 into the same cart with Zita, just as it 
 began to move away. 
 
 "How handsome Myra looks in her 
 crimson gypsy cloak. She altogether 
 outshines you, Zita," said some one be- 
 hind me. 
 
 I turned hurriedly, for well I knew 
 that voice, and crimsoned to the temples. 
 Gypsy Zita tossed her raven braids co- 
 quettishly, aiid replied, angrily: 
 
 "Mind your own business, Lendon 
 Bray. You needn't think because you're 
 dying about Myra every one else is. Get 
 oft." 
 
 He leaped from the cart without a 
 ward. As he did so his cap fell off, dis- 
 clOBlng hia forehead, swollen and cut. I 
 felt now sincerely sorry for what I had 
 done, but before I could apologiie he 
 was gone. 
 
 "What do you intend to i do in the fair 
 to-day, Myra?" loquired aiita. "Sell bab- 
 kets, tell fortunes,- or pick pockets?" 
 
 "I am no thief," I answered^ curtly. 
 
 "Oh, well!" aaid Zita. "I'll show you. 
 It ain't hard." 
 
 "I don't want to learn to stealj" I said, 
 angrily. 
 
 "Well, dear me, you needn't get so 
 cross about it!" said Zita, indignantly. 
 "I'm sure you ought to be thankful for 
 the offer. What do you intend to do — 
 tell fortunes?" 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "Do you know what to say?" persisted 
 the good-natured Zita. 
 
 I nodded again. 
 
 "Who show:ed you? Gypsy Kerlne?" 
 
 Another nod. 
 
 Zita, finding I was determined not to 
 enter into conversation, turned around 
 and began plying the next one to her 
 with questions, until, to my great relief, 
 the cart stopped and each one got out 
 and mingled with the crowd. 
 
 For a few moments I stood by myself 
 and gazed around, half-bewildered, on 
 the crowd of people, moving to and fro. 
 
 At last I went forward, feeling curious 
 to see the, wonders of the fair. Suddenly 
 some one right before me exclaimed: 
 
 "Oh, brother, look! look! See that 
 gypsy girl with the red cloak-roh, how 
 handsome!" 
 
 I looked up, somewhat conhised, to 
 see the speaker. It was a fair, richly 
 dressed young lady, who leaned: upon the 
 arm of a young and eminently handsome 
 man. As I stood, not knowing whether 
 to advance or recede, Gypsy Zita passed 
 me and whispered: 
 
 "Don't stand there like a fool all day, 
 Myra. Go up and tell their fortunes,". 
 
 Acting on this hint, I advanced boldlv 
 and, turning to the lady, I said: 
 
 "Let the gypsy girl tell your fortune, 
 my pretty lady?" 
 
 "Just what I was going to ask you to 
 do," she said, laughingly extending her 
 hand. "Mind now, my dark-eyild gypsy, 
 and predict for me a happy future," 
 
 "One so beautiful cannot be otherwise 
 than happy," I replied, demurely taking 
 her hand. ^ 
 
 "There's a compliment for you, sis," 
 said 'her companion, pinching her blush- 
 ing cheek. "Now let us hear your fate." 
 
 I could scarcely refrain from sniiltog 
 at the eagerness with which she listened 
 as I predicted for her, with the usual 
 cant of our tribe, an uoclohded: future.. 
 
 tfa*e 
 


QYPf^ MYHA. 
 
 Slie smiled brightly, when I had done, 
 Bind extended me a guinea, saying: 
 "Now . tell this gentlemau^B fortune, 
 
 Miss iJypsy;" '• • ■:.'■■. ' . ■•:-!? '■ ---vv ■«;'y> .,.;r.v . 
 
 I looked up fearlessly Ih bier face, but; 
 meeting the look of profound admiration 
 in bis blue eyes, my own fell, and I felt 
 the hot blood crimsoning my cheeks. I 
 took his hand, small and white as a 
 Ifldy'Sr ^nd every nerve in my heart 
 thrilled at the touch of those mU, warna 
 fingers. What a contrast it was to my 
 little brown hand. 
 
 Oh! ye who talk so coolly and sedately 
 of falling in love, little dream of the in- 
 tensity of loving at first sight. From 
 th*e first moment my eyes rested on the 
 , face of. Wil lard Dale I loved him— loved 
 him with all the passionate fervor that 
 only tropical natiitres like mine can 
 know. The blood seemed leaping, with 
 new life, through every vein, as, with 
 wild enthusiasm, I. pictured a future, as 
 brilliant and glorious as even my heart 
 eould wish him. Involuntarily he caught 
 his breath and flushed to the temples at 
 my impetuous words. ^ 
 
 "How glorious! how dazzling!" ex- 
 dimmed his sister, her eyes kindling as 
 I ceased. "Oh, Willacd, what a future 
 there is for you!" 
 
 'He smiled slightly, and, still holding 
 my- hand, he drew from his own an ele- 
 gant eeal ring and placed it on my finger, 
 saying: 
 
 "Accept my thanks and this ring, most 
 beautiful gypsy, and may your own fu- 
 ttire be as bright as that yoii have fore- 
 told me." . And, with negligent ease, he 
 rettirhed my low salutation and turned 
 away with his sister. 
 
 .During the- rest of the day I moved 
 about like one in a dream. The fair had 
 lost all its* attractions for me — every- 
 thing was forgotten save him I had seen. 
 Even London Bray, whose dark face and 
 ■glittering eyes met me at every turn, 
 watching me with the old restless, eager 
 look. How anxiously, as the day wore 
 on,; I scrutinized every one I met to see 
 il he was near; but, in vain— he had de- 
 parted. > 
 
 At len||th, as evening drew oa^ we all 
 assembled and entered the carts to drive 
 ' home. Each had their own story to re- 
 - late, their money to count, and the clev- 
 erness with which, they had earned it to 
 boast of. 
 
 '.^And what have you got,.Myca?" In- 
 Q«rlred Gypsy Zita. 
 ' I fi»d been sitting, gazing so intently 
 
 upon tha ring on my finger that I heana 
 - not a word that had been spoken «ntil 
 she addressed me. I started and colored, 
 like one guilty, and wrapped my hand 
 in my cloak to conceal the tok^n. 
 
 "Don't hide- it, Myra," said the voice of 
 Lehdon Bray, with a short laugh, "it's 
 a pretty toy, and the River was very 
 handsome, too — wasn't he,- Myra?" 
 
 His glassy eyes glittered as he spoke, 
 with an evil light. I shuddered invol- 
 untarily, and, wrapping my cloalf closely 
 around me, turned away in silence. 
 
 Zita was about to begin questioning 
 again, but something in my manner 
 checked her, and the Journey home was 
 performed in unusual silence. 
 
 All that night, in my dreams, I saw 
 the pale, thoughtful face and clear blue 
 eyes of Willard Dale watching me. Yet, 
 though he never for a moment "v^ ab- 
 sent from my thoughts, 1 could scarce-y 
 suppress a cry of surprise and joy when 
 I encountered him next morning in tho 
 forest. How well he looked! Better, I 
 fancied, even than th^ day befoi^e, 
 dressed in a green hunting suit, his gun 
 on his shoulder and his dog by his side. 
 
 "Why, is it possible, my pretty gypsy!" 
 he exclaimed, in surprise, throwing him- 
 self on the grass beside me. "I'd not the 
 slightest idea I was to be so fortunate 
 as to meet you here." ' ^T 
 
 "Nor did I expect to meet you' here, 
 sir," I answered, looking up in the eyes 
 I already loved so well, v ; '; i V . ''^i':^ 
 . "Some good fairy sent me feitfier, no 
 doubt, to see the dark-eyed queen of the 
 forest," he said, gaily. "Why, I have 
 bQen thinking, of you ever sinee we met 
 yesterday. I intended to seek for you, 
 but I knew not your name. What is it?" 
 
 "Gypsy Myra." '^ * . 
 
 "Well, then, Myra, I have son^ething 
 to tell you. Yesterday, after you told 
 me my fortune, an 'evit- looking gypsy 
 youth Eought me out and threatened me 
 with all sorts of calamities if' I ever 
 spoke to you again. Who was hie? Do 
 you know?" 
 
 "Yes — yes— 'I know. What did you 
 say to him?" 
 
 . ."Say^ to him!" be repeated, laughing. 
 "I didn't stop to reason matters with 
 him, I assure you. I just took him by 
 the collar and pitched hiin, head first, 
 into the middle of the crowd, as a gentle 
 hint to mind his owi^ bus!nes8.t I rather 
 think the young gentleman won't trouble 
 me for a white againv" - 
 
 As- he spoke' a fttstHng In the btisbes 
 


80 
 
 OYPSr MYBA. 
 
 I !<<) 
 
 arrested my attention. I glanced around 
 and beheld a pair of black eyes, blazing 
 witli ominous light, glaring at us from 
 the thicket. Wei: : knew to whom they 
 belonged. A strange dread of that ev-1- 
 minded boy stole over me» I arose to go. 
 
 "What, Myra! you're not surely going 
 to leave me so soon?" he explained. 
 "Come, sit down; I want to talk to you." 
 
 "Not now," I replied, hastily. "I will 
 be missed." 
 
 "jOh! Well, then, I won't detain you 
 If you must go. Good-by! I shall soon 
 visit you again, my pretty Myra." 
 
 He touched hla cap gallantly, whistled 
 to his dog, and plunged into the thicket, 
 while I turned slowly and thoughtfully 
 homeward. 
 
 The next day, and the next, and the 
 next, Willard came, and every day, until 
 autumn began to give place to winter, 
 we met. And ever lurking on our steps 
 came Lendon Bray. Look which way 1 
 vould, his basilisk eyes seemed ever 
 upon me. 
 
 One day I. hastened, as usual, to owri+^an a 
 trysting place. It was one of those 
 balmy days that sometimes linger on the 
 verge of winter. Never had the forest 
 worn so gay a livery as now, decked out 
 m Its many-hued diess. I Eeated myself 
 beneath a large outspreading oak, our 
 favorite seat, where often, during those 
 happy latter days, I had sat, my arms 
 around the neck of his favorite dog, lis- 
 tening to his stories of far-off climes. 
 
 How anxiously I listened for his loved 
 footsteps. The time of meeting was al- 
 ready past, and never before had he loit- 
 ered. 
 
 At length the well-known sound 
 reached my ears; Bruno came dashing 
 through the thicket, and a moment after 
 his master was beside me. 
 
 "Have I made you wait, Myra?" he 
 said, taking his seat. 
 
 "Yes, but it don't matter, now .that 
 you're here," I answered, gaily. 
 
 He was silent. I looked up, in sur- 
 prise, and saw an unusual cloud resting 
 on his brow. 
 
 "Has anything happened?" I Inquired, 
 in alarm. 
 ^ "Yes, Myra. I have unpleasant news 
 for you. I am going away," he said, 
 slowly. 
 
 Going away! I Was bewildered. I 
 could not speak, so sudden came the 
 shock. For a time we were both silent; 
 then, controlling my emotions by a firm 
 
 effort, I said, in a voice which faltered in 
 spite of mysQlf: 
 
 "I am sorry. How long will you he 
 absent?" 
 
 "Three or four years, perhaps," he 
 said, sadly. 
 
 What an eternity It seemed to me! I 
 clasped my arms tighter around Bruno's 
 neck and hid my face In his shaggy side. 
 Willard watched me, in silence for a 
 moment, then he unclasped my arms 
 from around the dog, and said: 
 
 "Nay, Myra, you should grieve witli 
 your arms around my neck. Instead ot 
 Bruno's! Look up — I want to talk with 
 you." 
 
 Look up! I strove to do It, but, mce - 
 Ing those sorrowful eyes, my head le 1 
 over more heavily oix his shoulder. 
 
 "I cannot— I canfiot! Oh, Willard, 1 
 shall die if you leave me!" I'cried, pas- 
 sionately. 
 
 "No, you will not — you must not, 
 Myra!" he said, passing his hand caress- 
 ingly over my long bl^ck hair. "I want 
 to see ycu live to be something better 
 gypsy. You must live to be a 
 woman— a woman in every sense of the 
 word — good and noble, and self-rellan*;— 
 one I shall be proud of. Listen, Myra. 
 You have a splendid voice, and mighc 
 make your fortune as a singer. Will yoi 
 not try?" 
 
 "Yes, yts — anything you wish," I fal- 
 tered. 
 
 "Then, I shall speak for you to-mor- 
 row; and (I shall tell yoiyr fortune this 
 time) when I return I shall see you, 
 Myra, the gypsy no longer, but Myra, 
 the prima donna of one of the first 
 operas in London. And now, Myra, I 
 shall see you to-morrow for the last ^ 
 time . until my return from Germany, 
 whither I am going." 
 
 The last time! How like a knell of 
 death sounded the words in my ears. 
 The very sunlight seemed to freeze me 
 now, for the light and warmth of my 
 life departed with him. 
 
 He had told my fortune truly. Ere 
 two years were past-I was the acicnowl- 
 edged prima donna of the opera. 
 
 Night after night I was haile^ wl^h en- 
 thusiasm, and the fame of "La Belle 
 Myra," the "Queen of Song," had spread 
 far and wide. Many of the noblest in 
 the land had knelt at my feet, craving 
 for one smile; but I turned sadly from 
 them all, for my heart was far away. In 
 a "land beyond the sea." , . 
 
 And, during all this time, my evil 
 


OYPfiY UyRA. 
 
 81 
 
 genius, In the person of I^ndon Bray, 
 pursued me. How often, when, wl.h 
 cheeks glowing and eyes Bparkllng, i 
 would look around and meet tho^e co.d, 
 gleaming eyes, that, in my proudest mo- 
 ments, could strike a chill to my heart. 
 A loathing and horror iinspsahable al- 
 ways crept over me at the sight. I would 
 gladly have given all I posFessed in the 
 world to be free from h m; but eacaie I 
 could not. Night after night I world se^ 
 him before me, watching me ever with 
 the old eager, mocking sneer on his lips. 
 
 And so the three years of Will ard's 
 absence passed, and he would soon be 
 home again. I thought of this, as I 
 stood arrayed before the glass, one niTht, 
 preparatory to appearing on the stage. 
 That very night, three years before, he 
 had bidden me farewell! 
 
 How I had changed in that time. 
 Strange, I had never thought of it be- 
 fore; but it struck me forcibly now, as I 
 gazed upon the image reflected in the 
 mirror, clothed in the rich, flowing 
 robes, and wearing the crown of Norma. 
 
 Would he know me? He had left me 
 a little, tawny, dark - eyed, sun - burned 
 gypsy. An"d now! I started as I gazed 
 upon the dark, bright Oriental face, the 
 large, languishing, black eyes, so full of 
 lire and passion, the crimson cheeks and 
 lips, and tall, regal figure. Involuntarily 
 I wondered If "I be I." 
 
 A vague Impression that he was pres- 
 ent filled my mind that night, v/hen I 
 stood on the stage. I heard as one who 
 hears not the thunder of applause that 
 greeted me. I raised my eyes, and cast 
 a sweeping glance over the audience, and 
 — ! Yes, he was present! That proud, 
 erect carriage, the princely head, those 
 dark blue eyes! Oh, well I. knew them. 
 Yea, he was there. 
 
 That night I sang as I never sang be- 
 fore. I forgot myself. I seemed In- 
 spired. I was no longer "La Myra," but 
 Norma herself— sorrowful, noble, beau- 
 tiful Norma. I lost sight of all present 
 and sang with passionate abandon, until 
 thfe last act of the opera. Then, utterly 
 exhausted, I sank into a chair. 
 
 But not long had I to rest, for shout 
 after shout, and cheer after cheer, broke 
 upon my ears until the very house 
 shook. The simultaneous cjy of "l>a 
 Belle Myra," rang again and again upon 
 the air, unt|l once more I stood before 
 Uiem. Then showers of wreaths and 
 bouquets, many knotted with jewels, fell 
 at my feet. Lad'es, carried away by the 
 
 enthuBiasm of the moment, clapped their 
 hands and waved their handkerthiefs, 
 ::nd the cries grew wilder and wilder, un- 
 lil, hoarse with the effort, the multitude 
 lapsed into silence. Yes, it was a tri- 
 umph—a triumph such as even I had 
 never before won. Yet, as I bowed, with 
 (lushed cheeks and palpitating heart, my 
 eyes fell on the hated face of Lendon 
 iiray. A deadly sickness came over me, 
 a sudden revulsion of feeling, the blood 
 nu bed to my heart, and I sank, nearly 
 Ewooning, on a seat as the curtain again 
 fell. 
 
 I had won fame and wealth, and the 
 love of many; but the proudest and hap- 
 piest moment of my li.e was when, one 
 month after that eventful night, Willard 
 Dale held me in his arms as his be- 
 trothed bride. Yes, that for which I 
 had struggled was won; that which I 
 had, ever since our first meeting, looked 
 forward to with wild longing— Willard's 
 love. 
 
 I had quitted the stage forever — for we 
 were to be married Immediately — and 1 
 had taken, as I hoped, my last look at 
 the dark face of Lendon Bray. 
 
 'Twas the "night before the bridal." 
 I stood on the piazza of my houEe, gaz- 
 ing dreamily out upon the moonlight, 
 with all the conflicting emotions of a 
 bride passing through my mind. Sud- 
 denly I felt a cold hand laid on my 
 shoulder. I turned quickly around, and 
 almost shrieked aloud as I found myself 
 face to face with Lendon Bray. 
 
 "As you have not thought fit to invite 
 me to your wedding, Myra, I thought I 
 would call and tell you I Intended to 
 come without an invitation," he said, 
 with an evH smile. 
 
 "Lendon Bray, wnat do you me».n?" I 
 exclaimed,'' a nameless dread crteping 
 over me. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," he answered, with the 
 same sinister look; "only, as I have 
 watched over you so carefully all my 
 life, I fancied you would at least have 
 asked me to see you married, if it were 
 only to get my blessing," and he laughed 
 a short, bitter laugh as he spoke. 
 
 "Watched over me?" I repeated, fierce- 
 ly, all my fiery passions roused by his 
 gibing manner. "Yes, you have dogged 
 me, night and day, like the crawling 
 snake that you are! Haunted me, until 
 I scarce dared go outside the door for 
 fear of meeting you! Followed me. un- 
 til ynu have made me hate you as I hate 
 Satan himself — until I have been tempt- 
 
 MM 
 
 ^ f 
 


81 
 
 OYPhY MXRA-> 
 
 ed to slay myself, rather than breathe 
 the same air with y(),u. I have loaLheU 
 you from my c^i^lclhood up, and ever 
 shall, until the grave separates ub." 
 
 "And the grave alone shall ever sep- 
 arate us," he hissed, in a tone that made 
 me quail in spite of myself. "Lc;ok," 
 and he took off h!s cap and pointed to 
 a deep scar on his forehead; "do you see 
 that? Well, your own dainty, jeweled 
 Angers gave me that true love - token. 
 You struck me, and to did he. You two 
 were the first and shall be the last, who 
 ever gave me a blow. I swore then to 
 be revenged, and, though years have 
 passed since then, those blov/s cry for 
 i-evenge as loudly as ever. And so, 
 Gypsy Myra, farewell till we meet 
 again!" and with a bitter, mocking 
 smile, he was gone. 
 
 During the remainder of the night I 
 paced my room up and down, thinking of 
 his ominous words. What could he 
 mean? I dared not think of an answer 
 to the question, for well I V ew his dark, 
 wicked mind. 
 
 Morning found me pale and restless. 
 I stood like one In a trance, while my 
 bridesmaid robed me for the altar. I 
 saw them throw the long, rich veil over 
 my head, saw them weave the orange 
 blossoms through my jetty locks, heard 
 them whisper, with startled looks, that 
 I resembled far more a corpse than a 
 bride. And all the time I saw before me 
 the vindictive, revengeful face of Lendon 
 Bray. It came between me and every- 
 thing else. His dark eyes clouded all my 
 future. 
 
 At length I was arrayed. Willard, 
 bright, happy and joyous as ever, only 
 wondering a little at my altered looks, 
 handed rae into the carriage, and we 
 drove to the church. The spacious build- 
 ing was crowded to excess. Strangers 
 
 X.^-i:v. 
 
 had assembled from far and near to wit- 
 ness the nuptials of "La Belle Myra." 
 
 The ceremony began, and, as it pro- 
 ceeded, every beat of ray heart sounded 
 us loudly as the stroke of a sledje ham- 
 mer. There was a dead, a prolound 
 silence throughout the church, as the 
 clergyman pronounced the Impressive 
 words: "What God has joined together, 
 let no man put asunder." 
 
 Scarcely had the words passed his lips 
 ere the report of a pistol broke upon tie 
 air. With a cry, so full cf piercing ago;.y 
 that It even now rings In my ear, Wil- 
 lard sprang high In the air, and fell dead 
 at my feet! Another shot broke the ap 
 palling stillness that reigned throughout 
 the lofty edifice. I felt an awful crash, 
 as If my skull were rent In twain, then 
 all became dark — thought and conscious- 
 ness left me, and I fell to the ground. 
 
 Months passed before I arosa from that 
 bed of sickness that had nearly been the 
 bed of death. 
 
 The flowers had long been blooming 
 on the graves of my husband and his 
 murderer. 
 
 I did not learn how Lendon Bray cp,me 
 to his end until I was fully recovered 
 from my wounn. He had fied imme- 
 diately after committing the deed, but 
 was arrested a few days after. He was 
 tried, found guilty of murder and sen- 
 tenced to death. The very night of his 
 condemnation he was found dead in h's 
 cell, having committed suicide rather 
 than be publicly hanged. 
 
 Years and years have passed sinc« 
 then. As gold is purified by fire so is 
 man by afillction. I have passed through 
 the furnace, and, I trust, have come forth 
 cleansed. I am walking amid the shad- 
 ows, but I only wait the summons that 
 will call me home, to be happy forever- 
 more. 
 
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 066. At HAY. By Mm. Alexander. 
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 071. A Fatal Tbhptation. By Cbarlotte M. Braemo. 
 
 072. The Gold Bug. By Edgar Allen Poe. 
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 074. The Ghost of Ri vbko alb Hall. By Mrs. May AgMf 
 
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 Lady Ethel's Whim. By CbailotteM. Braeio*. 
 
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 She's All the World to Ma. By Hall Caioe. 
 
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 No. 
 C47. 
 c48. 
 C49. 
 
 cm. 
 
 c5l. 
 
 c52. 
 c53. 
 
 c54. 
 
 C55. 
 
 C56. 
 
 c57. 
 rM. 
 cl>9. 
 C60. 
 
 C61. 
 c62. 
 fC3. 
 
 C64. 
 
 c65. 
 c6o. 
 c67. 
 c6a. 
 c6d. 
 c70. 
 
 c7I. 
 c72. 
 c73. 
 
 c74. 
 c75. 
 
 c76. 
 
 c77. 
 C78. 
 c79. 
 c80. 
 
 c81. 
 
 c82. 
 c83. 
 C84 
 crfS. 
 
 c86. 
 
 c87. 
 c88. 
 c89. 
 c9ii. 
 
 c91. 
 
 c92. 
 
 A Ro.se in Thorns. By Charlotth M. Brarhb. 
 Airy Fairv Lilian. By " The UOOHBSS " 
 Olpsy ©ower. By .Mrs. May Agnbb clbmino. 
 The American <'ountess. By Etta W. i'lERCE. 
 L.orrie ; or, Bollonv Qold. By Charles 
 Oarvice. 
 
 < ousln iMaude. By Mrs. Mart J. IIolmbs. 
 IVinninK Her IVay. Volume I. By Mrs. Emma 
 
 D. E N. SOL'THWORTH. 
 
 W^innlng Her Way. Volume II. By Mrs. Emma 
 
 D E N. SOCJTHWOKTH. 
 
 The World Between Them. By Charlotte 
 
 M. BBAE.ME. ' 
 
 .Millhankj or, Roger Irvlng's W^ard. By 
 
 Mrs. Mary J. Holmes. 
 Doris. By "The Duchess." 
 Her Heart's Desire. By Charles Oarvice, 
 Kvelyn's Folly. By Cuahlottb M. Braeme. 
 The ■..elghton Homestead. By Uta. Mart 
 J Holmes. 
 
 The Story of a Birth. By Etta W. Pierce. 
 Leslie's Loyalty. By Charles Garvice. 
 The Hallo%v Kve Mystery. Volume I. By 
 Mrs. E.MMA I). E. N. Southworth. 
 Tl»e Hallow Eve Mystery. Volume II. By 
 Mis. Em.ma 1). K N. Southworth. 
 ii^et In Diamonds. By Charlottb M. Braeme. 
 Edith Lyle's ^j-ecret. By Mrs. Mart J. HoLMta. 
 Rossmoyne. By "The Duchess." 
 A Passion Flower. By Charles Gaeyick. 
 Heron's Wife. By Etta W. PiKBcn. 
 Ladv Damer'8 Secret. By Cuablottk M. 
 Braeme. 
 
 Ethelyn's Mistake. By Mrs. Mart J. Holmes. 
 Portia. By " THE DUCHESs." 
 The Baronet's Bride. By Idrn. Mat Aones 
 Fleming 
 
 Sweet Cymbellne. By Charles Garticb. 
 Mildred; or. the Child of Adoption. By 
 Mrs. Mary J. Holmes. 
 
 The Romance of a Black Veil. By Char- 
 lotte .M. Braeme. 
 
 Mrs. Oeoffrey. By "The Ducess." 
 Left Alone. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Sodtoworth. 
 Macaria. By Augusta J. Evans. 
 Dora Deane and Maggie Miller. By Mrs. 
 Mary J. Holmes. 
 
 Signa's Sweetheart. By Charlottb .M. 
 Braeme. 
 
 Beauty's Daughters. By "The Duchess." 
 Twlxt Smile and Tear. ByCHAUUESOABViCK. 
 High Tided. By Etta W. Pierce. 
 Miss McDonald and Rosamond. By Mrs. 
 Mary J. Holmes. 
 The Sin of a, Lifetime. By Chablottb U. 
 
 0|k A RMIS 
 
 Faith and Unfalth. By "The Duchess." 
 
 A Willful Maid. By Charles Gabvioh. 
 
 A Dark Deed. By Etta W. Piehck. 
 
 The Homestead on the i'ill.^ide and The 
 
 Rector of St. Mark's. ByMrt>. MakyJ Holmes. 
 
 Dumaresq's Temptation. By Charlottb 
 
 M. Braeme. 
 
 A Mental Struggle. By "The Duchess." 
 
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