OUT OF THE STORM) Or, GRACE WRAY'S TRIALS.

»V MAJOI- AI-FOHI) KOCHE-ORT.

CHAPTER IV.

PERFECTING THEIR PLANS.

Tom Pegg now felt that ho was Petei Monks's master. The gambling-den bank was broken ; only the two men most interested knew tliis, and Pegg felt that its going on de pended on his giving tho required three thousand dollars to the owner of the club house. The crowd of young men, middle-aged men, and not a few old men, put on their overcoats, drank a " good-night " to each other at the magnificent buffets that lined the walls, and then went home. To all Peter Monks had been as suave and sweet as if he had just won a fortune. Men of his class pride themselves on their self-control in times of good luck or disaster ; and when one, about to go out, asked : " Will the game go on ?" Monks replied, with a hearty shake of the liand: "Of course the game will go on—unless" —this with a wink and a sly laugh —"unless the cops close us up, and, as I pay them ■well to keep their hands off, I don't think there is any danger." Peter Monks had done a hundred things in his life for which, had he been tried, he ■would have gone to the penitentiary, or, perhaps, been hanged, but he did not fancy particularly, since he had seen the beautiful Grace Wray, the scheme for her ruin which had its origin in his own fertile brain. But as he saw the luck turning against him this night, he drew comfort from the assurance that he knew where he could lay his hand on the money for a fresh start.

Again Peter Monks and Tom Pegg sat in the sitting room of the former, smoking as before.

Pegg had just drawn and signed a ehecque for three thousand dollars, which he read over and over as if it contained sentences of thrilling interest to him.

"I think," he said, after along pause, "that before I give you all the money, it -would be well to have a contract. What do you say, Peter ?"

"A contract?" echoed Monks, as he tossed off a glass of brandy. '' Do you doubt my word ? I'd have you know I'm a gentleman."

"Of course you're a gentleman, and so am I ; but the more men are like gentle men the more anxious they are to stick down to business methods," replied Pegg. '' You have learned that since you joined the firm," sneered Monks.

" Yes, Peter, I have learned that, and a great deal more besides."

"Good. I like business methods myself ; I'd prefer, however, to give you my note, and have you take my word for the rest. But have it your own way ; draw up any contract yon please, and I will sign it," said Monks, pointing to the writing materials on the table.

Tom Pegg made as if he were going to write, but from the schoolboy posture he assumed it was evident he took no delight in handling a pen, much less in thinking out the binding terms of the^contract he had himself proposed. " See here," he said, at length. "If I was to state what you are to do, and the officers of the law were to get hold of the paper, I'd be in a pickle."

"In the hottest kind of a pickle," chuckled Monks. "But the proposition is yours. Go on and write, that for in con sideration of two thousand dollars, paid already to the said Peter Monks, he has placed, in the tenement of one Grace Wray certain articles which it must be made to appear she, the aforesaid Grace Wray, stole from the firm of Davis, Lent and Co. And for and in consideration of a further sum of three thousand dollars, well and truly paid by Thomas Pegg, and the receipt of which is hereby acknowledged, the party of the second part, Monks, does promise, pledge and bind himself to use all his arts, powers, wiles, talents, and abilities to get into the power of Thomas Pegg aforesaid—"

"Great Scott, Peter I Why, a contract like that won't hold water," exclaimed l*egg.

"Of course it won't. And, then, a con tract that cannot be enforced by the law is worse than useless. Still, lam ready to do anything you say. I can stand the conse quences if you can," said Monks, quietly. Tom Pegg stroked his narrow forehead and looked up at the chandelier as if he had become suddenly interested in its struc ture. After a while he burst out, with an affecta tion of heartiness that did not impose for an instant on his companion, "Confound it, Peter ! Why should there be so much formality among friends ?" "Am I making the formality?" "No. lam." " You are my guest, and can do as you please." *' I am a fool." " As you know more about that than I do, I won't presume to debate it." "Well, there's the money," said Pegg, tossing the cheque to the other side of the table, and adding, as he picked up the note: *' I'll keep this by way of a reminder. Now let us have a glass of brandy, for it is after three o'clock, and I had no sleep last night." Peter Monks folded up the -heque without looking at it, and putting it in his pocket, said : " I'll do as I agree, Tom. You can count on that all the time." He poured out his own brandy, and pushing the decanter to his companion, continued : " We're in for a dangerous job, and can't be too careful. Here's success to the undertaking, old fellow." Their glasses touched, and they tossed off their liquor, but not as if the taste or odour delighted them. After Peter Monks had bade his friend good night, and fastened the street door behind him—for all the employees of the club-house had gone home—-he returned to his sitting-room and lit a fresh cigar. He looked out of the window and saw the silent, white street, with a muffled police man heavily walking his beat on the othor side.

The solitary figure seemed to fascinate him, for he remained there for some timo : but it need not be said his thoughts woro not fixed on the guardian of the peace.

Waking up from his reverie, ho pulled to the curtains, and walking back, threw him self on a sofa with an expression of weari ness and disgust, while over his faco came an aged look that transformed him into another man.

" Better I had died twenty years ago," he said with much bitterness and a sad shake of the head. " Why go on eternally playing this life farce? Farce? Gracious Heaven ! it is no farce, for I have been playing in the reddest of tragedies ever Bince I became a man ! A man ? A mon ster I"

It is a peculiarity of those who seldom read to move their lips as if they were forming the words. °

It is a peculiarity of thoso who neither from habit or their callings are given to serious thought to siieak their thoughts aloud when they aro strangly moved. Peter Monks spoke aloud now, and his soliloquy ran after this fashion, and he punctuated it with puffs from his cigar, at which he drew with an energy that indi cated his feelings, while the smoke formed a cloud that settled about his head :

"What a position for a man to be in I Only think of it ; a man worth, in his own right, over a million dollars, invested in the best real estate right here in this city, n_t only cant get jt cont of it, but he's so hard up that he has to sell himself to a cur for five thousand dollars ! But curse me if I don't keep my word to him.

" Has the world spared me V No ! Then why should I spare her or him, or any one else, if by doing so I must sink myself '!

" Ten to one this girl, with the face of an angel, is ten times sharper than both of us put together. And yet—and yet—l do not like the idea."

He pulled at his cigar, and for fully five minutes he did not speak again : but the expression of his black eyes—usually so hard and worldly—told that tenderer thoughts had come to him.

With something like a sigh, he he re sumed :

" Sly own girl—my own baby girl—if she were living now, would be just about Grace Wray's age — and her name was Grace."

Here Monks was seized, with, a lit of cough ing ; it might have been caused by the dense cloud of smoke from his cigar that had set tled about his head.

" Poor child !" he went on. " She died away among the mountain, in the far West: away with him who protected and loved her, when I, into whose hands the law gave her, was forced to abandon her to save my own worthless self.

" But he is dead —my brother—the best brother God ever gave to a villain—died trying to cover my sins."

He leaped from the sofa as if hi; had heard the cry of "fire!" and for some time he stood panting, with his left hand resting on the table.

Then his eyes fell on the brandy decanter, and rilling up a glass, he held it at arm's length, and said, huskily :

" George Seville—dead < leorge Seville—to your sainted memory I drink."

He tossed oti'the liquor, drew his sleeve hurriedly across his lips, and again throw ing himself on the sofa, the thought of his hard luck, as he called it, asserted itself.

The memories of the past became swamped in the necessities of the present. " What if lam charged with crime? Is not wealth the panacea for every moral disease 1 s

" With a million dollars and more behind me, the hest legal talent in the State will be ready to prove my innocence, and society will again open its arms to me be cause I am rich.

" But can my innocence be proven with the dead to point to, and the living to appeal to? Ah ! that is a hard question."

He held the lingers of his strong right hand between his eyes and the light and examined them critically, as if looking for stains ; and a shudder passed through his powerful frame as he gasped :

" The dead, the slandered wife, and the dye of blood that no washing will re move !

"A pretty fellow I, to dream of being rich antl respectable again ! Ha, ha, ha !"

Again he rose to his feet, and laughing as if he were convulsed with the grotesque notion, he said :

"That thought is so good I'll drink to

He poured out a larger glass of liquor than before, and raising it to his lips, he exclaimed:

"To dead George Seville's dead brother, Monckton."

The alcoholic demon makes most men frenzied or maudlin. It made Peter Monks stronger and clearer of brain.

With the manner of a man who, after a long struggle in the water, touches bottom, he came back from the wild, whirling currents of the dead past, and coolly took in his surroundings. "Why should Peter Monks rave on in this way ?" he said, with his worldly calm ness of manner. " I'eter Monks has nothing to do with the past; nothing to do with the future. He lives only in the present.

" Monks never had a brother, wife, nor child. Ho is alone in the world, and the world scorns him, and he pays back the feeling with defiance and loathing. Let him play his own hand in his own way. "Tom Pegg, you are my master for the time, and though I despise and detest you, and would gloat to see your blood on my hands, yet, you cur, may I be shot if I do not earn my money, or rather your money.

"And now another glass of brandy, and farewell to trouble and welcome sleep." Again he drank ; then turned out the lights ; and going into an adjoining room went to bed.

But sleep did not come to his eyes. He rolled and tossed, but still before his mental vision there was ever thecalm,beau tiful face of Grace Wray.

As daylight began to steal into his room, he dropped off into a troubled doze, but still ho saw the beautiful girl ; but now. she was in the house witli the wounded man from whom he had rented the rooms, and he heard the man speaking again, and he wondered and wondered where he had heard that voice before. CHAPTER V. KAH'IC TIIOUXTON IS .MICH I'KKIT.KXF.IJ. Ixstkaii of going home, as had been his habit of late when he had no positive en gagement, Ralph Thornton told Pat, the coachman, to drive him at once to his club, not far from Madison Square. On entering the club he met a friend, who urged him to go round with him and hoar at least one act of a famous play, in which a well-known actor was performing, but he replied : " Excuse me to-night. I don't feel well." Though face and form indicated robust health, Ralph Thornton did not equivocate on this occasion.

Amusements do not give pleasure so much as they add to it.

No man ever enjoyed a theatrical per formance who had a note to meet in the morning, and did not know how he was to get tho monoy.

A man much in love never enjoyed a ball from which the loved one was absent.

Ralph Thornton was engaged—solemnly engaged to marry the rich and beautiful widow, Mrs Seville, and he felt that in thinking of Grace Wray he was acting the traitor to the woman he had pledged him self to love.

But the feelings arc not under tho control of the will, though the will is often a mask to conceal them. Do what he would, Ralph Thornton could not got his thoughts away from the fair face .that haunted them. He saw it no matter where he looked.

Ho stamped his feet, compressed his lips, and called himself a fool, but that did not help the matter..

"I urn treating Alice badly," he thought. "I'll go homo and spend the rest of the evening in her company." Alice was Mrs Seville, the rich and com paratively young widow of Ralph's cousin.

Moved by this laudable resolution, Ralph started to leave the club, but was stopped at the door by a stout, pleasant-faced man of ! his own age. They were evidently warm friends, and had not met for a long time. " Why, Harry Gray, old boy I" cried Ralph, still retaining his friend's hand. " I thought you were still looking up out law matters on the Pacific coast. When did you get back ?" " This morning," replied Harry (Jray, as he drew Ralph to a corner where they could sit down and chat without being over heard. "If I had known you were in the city, I should have been down to your office—■" " Where you would not havo found me, Ralph, as I have been busy all day with other than professional matters. But I am glad I met you, for I can give you a brief verbal report of my trip to California." " I hope you had good luck." " Yes, and no. I have learned enough to satisfy me that both your uncles were living on the Pacific coast within the last five years. They passed under assumed names, but Monckton was recognised by many of his old associates who had known him here. By the way, it was Monckton who intro duced his cousin Homer to the lady who became his wife and is now his widow," said Harry Gray, with the dry manner of a lawyer referring to a professional matter, and ignorant of or indifferent to the blushes and feelings of the man he was addressing. Harry Gray—it may be said m explana tion —did not then know that Ralph Thorn ton was engaged to the widow of Homer Seville.' "So long as there is any uncertainty about the death of either of my uncles," said Ralph, gravely, "so long the property must remain in their names. I, fortunately, do not need it, but I am anxious to know just what is mine, or rather what belongs to my mother." " You deserve no end of credit, Ralph," Harry Gray hastened to say ; " but I should hardly care, if I wero you, to have Monck ton Seville turn up again ; and yet it is certain that he is living, and it would not surprise me if he were in this city—" "You have traced him hither?" "I cannot say that, but since reaching home this morning I heard of a man who answer's the description I got iv California; I shall look into this and keep you posted." Harry Gray rose and accompanied his friend to the door, Ralph excusing himself for not remaining longer by saying he did not feel well. After parting with Harry Gray, Ralph Thornton went directly home. It was near eleven o'clock, but the streets were still crowded. Electric lights still flashed on the squares and before the hotels and theatres, filling all the adjoining streets with the strange, spectral glow. He walked with his head bowed and the absorbed mien of one wholly indifferent to his surroundings. Heart and thought were back in that wretched tenement, up whose rotting, rickety steps he had seen Grace Wray dis appear. On reaching home, he found his mother and Mrs Seville in the sitting-room, the latter reading aloud. Mrs Alice Seville was a recent addition to New York's very best society. Sho was very rich, very fashionable, and possessed of more than ordinary beauty and intellect. In addition, she was the widow of Homer Seville, who, it was well known, had squundeied a fortune by dissipation in New York, and doubled it by speculation in San Francisco. During her husband's lifetime Mrs Seville had visited Mrs Thornton, and now she was spending the winter with that lady by in vitation. There was much speculation in society as to Mrs Seville's antecedents; but the fact that Mrs Thornton received her, and that she was rich and accomplished, were pass ports that the most exclusive were forced to acknowledge. She had been Airs Thornton's guest about three months. Perhaps it would better ex press it to say that she was a member of Mrs Thornton's family, for she had grown to call that lady "aunt." Mrs Seville was one of those ladies one meets in an age, who seem to have entered into a truce with time. According to her own account, she was married to Homer Seville when she was only sixteen ; she lived with him ten years, and she had been a widow two years—long enough to lay aside all the trappings of woe, and to assume the styles and orna ments that so became her beauty. This would make her twenty-eight, but she certainly did not look it by four years. In addition to her many other attractions, Mrs Seville, it was said by the gentlemen who had met her, had that wonderful mag netic manner that is strongest when the re sistance is greatest. From the first she completely won Mrs Thornton, and with such an ally on her side the conquest of the handsome son was a comparatively easy matter. Until he met Mrs Seville as a widow, Ralph Thornton never gave much thought to the subject of love or marriage. Thathe must marry some time, as a sort of duty he owed to society, lie considered a mere matter of course. He was now twenty-six, and strongly de voted to his mother, and he reasoned that if marrying the unexceptionable widow would add to the old lady's happiness, there was no good reason for his remaining abachelor. " I am not feeling quite like myself." This was the answer Ralph made to his mother and Mrs Seville when they chided him for his silence. "Not sick, I hope," said Mrs Seville, in witching 'accents, as she took a seat beside him on the sofa, and laid her soft white hand on his fore head, first pushing back the ripples of soft dark hair. "Not the least bit sick Alice," replied Ralph. Thon, anxious to change the sub ject from himself, he continued: "Before I left I was down in the conservatory, and chancing to look up here I imagined I saw a remarkably pretty girl. Who was she?" " A shop girl from Davis, Lent and Co's," laughed Mrs Seville, as if there was some thing very funny in the thought. "And you were quite right in thinking her pretty," said Mrs Thornton, with much animation. " I should say beautiful, for I must confess I never saw such a face. Alice and I have been talking about the girl, and do what I will, I cannot banish her from my thoughts. And only to think her name is Grace Wray, your grandmother's maiden name, Ralph." "Itis a sweet name, and I have often noticed that a pretty face and a pleasant manner, make the commonest name attrac tive," said Mrs Seville, toying with the leaves of the book she had been reading when Ralph came in. Ralph saw the motion and begged her to continue the reading, which she did with much grace. Ralph Thornton, with fixed business to occupy him in the day.time, but with many pleasures to fill his night hours, was not an early riser. But the following morning was an exception to the rule. He was up before daylight— up before the servants—and out pacing up and down Breadway, not far from Davis, Lent & Co.'s store. He could not account to himself for this extraordinary conduct. He called himself

a fool, and biting his lip, he was about to go home, when, chancing to look up, he was brought face to face -with Grqpe Way, Their eyes met for an instant, then, with drooping lashes and a sudden flush on her pale cheeks, Grace hurried on.

Ralph Thornton made a motion to lift his* hat, but beforo he could do so she had pissed. Ho was, too much of a gentleman to gaze after her, so, perplexed, dispirited with him self, and sick at heart without any reason ble cause, he returned home.

CHAPTER VI. TOM l-KGG MIKPARES THE FIRM, AND GEORGE WRAY RECOGNISES HIS TENANT. GRACE Wray was always among the first of the girls to reach the store in the morn ing, though sho .lived furthest away. She was never very busy till towards the afternoon, when the tide of shoppers began to set in, yet she never permitted herself to be idle. With that fine taste that from the first at tracted the attention of the firm, she busied herself in arranging the draperies and wraps in her own department, so as to show oil' their beauty to the greatest advantage. Tom Pegg came in about ten o'clock, look ing as if ho had not had enough .sleep, but he w.is as affable, and tried to be as familiar, as had been his custom ; but her manner, always distant, was now more reserved than ever. Tom i'egg was not a man to be chilled. He flattered himself that he knew the world, and he hugged the consolation to his breast that he had the girl in his power. About now a messenger came to Grace, and said : " Mr Davis wants to see you in his office, Miss Wray." It was not unusual for the head of the firm to send for the head of any of the de partments, to consult with them about the wants of customers and the state of the stock in their charge. M r Davis was a shrewd little man, with a quiet bearing and a low voice.

Grace found him alone, but there was that in his manner that puzzled her, for he rose on tiptoe when she had entered the office, and softly closing the door behind her, he said, in a cold whisper : "Sit down, Miss Wray; sit down. I want to havo a private talk with you." Grace obeyed him, but said not a word.

" Have you noticed, Miss Wray, that there are some valuable articles missing from your department?" "I have not, sir, she answered, promptly. And though she looked him full in the face, she could not help blush ing.

" Mr Pegg, in whose charge your depart ment is, tolls me that there are three of the finest seal-skin sacques unaccounted for."

" How can he know that when there has been no list of the stock on hand taken for the past six weeks?" asked Grace, now quite self-possessed.

"That I cannot pretend to say. But mark you, Mjss Wray. He expressed the. strongest belief that you knew nothing about the missing articles," said Mr Davis, in even a lower whisper than before.

"If I had dreamt they were missing,' said Grace, "of course 1 should have re ported the fact at once."

"I am sure of that. But this is why I have sent for you." Mr Davis drew his chair closer to her, and in the same con fidential tone, went on : " The articles have been stolen, without doubt, by some one in our service, and it is my experience that thefts at first successful will be continued till detection comes. Now I want you to watch and report to me any of the employees who come into your department without having business there." "I shall do so, sir, but I fear I shall make a poor detective," said Grace, rising, for Mr Davis waved his hand to indicate that the interview was at an end.

Grace went back Ho her department, but her work, never the pleasantest, was this day onerous and heavy.

She could not blame herself, and yet she had an instinctive feeling that^Mr Davis, despite Bis mildness, did not hold her entirely innocent.

She was anxious to get home and consult with her uncle, in whose judgment she had unbounded faith, but she little knew that in the meantime her uncle was being sub jected to an ordeal greater than that through which she was passing. Enough has been seen of George Wray to prove that he was not an ordinary man, but no pen is adequate to describe the man's torture of body and mind. When he came to New York with Grace, the doctors offered to treat his wounds and restore to health his remaining eye if he would consent to follow their directions in a charity hospital, but against this his proud spirit revolted.

Ho was now being treated at homo so far as Grace . earnings of a dollar a day would permit. Before the brave girl he was always cheerful, and even hopeful, but when he was alone in the two dark mean rooms through call the weary day, he felt the full force of his helpless situation, and gave way to sad broodings. His mining property should have made him comfortable, but it had fallen into the hands of thieves, and he was powerless to enforce his claims.

He was still, as to age, in the very prime of manhood, with a powerful constitution, yet here he was, crippled, blind, and do pendent on the exertions of the child to whom ho devoted his life.

For such a condition even religion has no perfect balm, nor has philosophy any conso lation.

What he was, was evef' before him. What he might have been was never out of sight. In the black hours he often wished him self dead, and all the hours that Grace was away from him were blacker and more cruel than the grave. " If I were dead," he would say to himself, " a burden would be taken from her life." And on the heels of this came ever the thought that made him cling to life. " If I were gone, who would love her and think of her as I have done through all these years ?"

Then hope would come at times and flat ter him with the belief that his sight was improving, and that he would be soon able to go again into the world and fight the life battle as bravely and successfully as of old.

He could not remain wholly alone in such a crowded tenement as that; but, to the credit of the poor toilers about him let it be said, they never intruded on his privacy in order to gratify a vulgar curiosity. Only the poor can truly sympathise with those poorer than themselves ; only those who have suffered woe and want can measure the agony of those they see in the same condition.

The other tenants saw and felt that the crippled man and the beautifnl girl living on the top floor were different from them selves, not so much in that they might have seen what the poor call " better days," but that they were better born, and bore in voice and manner evidences of that higher breeding that always shows itself without assortiou and commands respect without seeking it. Mrs Murphy, the wash-woman who, with her son Dennis.occupied the top story front, was a neighbour worth having, and, in

addition, she was the person from whom Ueorge Wray sub-let his rooms. '

Mrs Murphy declared the top rooms were the choicest in the house ; she certainly found them the most convenient to the roof where she dried her clothes.

She sang cheerily at her work, declaring that it saved soap ; and at night, when Den nis came homo from the coal-yard where he worked, and washed off the grime and ate his supper, they would have little concerts that wero very pleasant. Mrs Murphy had a good voice, and her son was something of a musical phenomenon, in her opinion, for he accompanied her on two jew's-harps, played at one and the same time.

Mrs Murphy did tho washing for George Wray and his niece, and you may be sure she did it well and cheaply. A dozen times a day she would run in to cheer her neighbour up, bringing with her a merry laugh and a strong odour of soap. While giving him all the gossip she would set draco's room to rights, and see that the fire in the little stove was kept alive. Every noon sho would lead George Wray into her own room, declaring that she "hated to tako a bit or a siq> alone." And she would make him partake of her tea and her toast, for both of which articles she had an extraordinary fondness. At such times Mrs Murphy would regale her guest with stories of tlie miraculous eye-cures she had known in her time. From her own accounts—and she was certainly a woman of veracity—she had met enough people, blind or nearly so, to stock several asylums ; and with the few unim portant exceptions of men whose eyes had been completely gouged out. all the people with defective visions got so well in time that they never even thought of using spec tacles. • Mrs Murphy had just edified her guest with the story of a man whose eyes the doctors had taken completely out and put on a saucer, where they were washed clean and put back again, just as good as new, when a gentleman, with a shiny hat and a black mustache, appeared in the doorway. " Is Mr Wray here ?" asked Peter Monks, bowing to Mrs Murphy and looking at the man who vas sitting with his back to the light. '•Sure he's .ittin' there afore yer two eyes. Are you the gint that rinted the two rooms there beyant?" said Mrs Murphy, indicating the direction with her strong ret] arm. "1 am, madam," replied I'eter Monks smiling and showing a very line set of teeth. "1 wish to see Mr Wray about the keys."' George Wray rose, and keeping his back to the strong light that poured in the front ' windows, he said, as ho groped his way back to I.is own room : "Come to my quarters, sir, and I will ex plain." Mrs Murphy came to the door and called after him : i " Misther Wray. if lean be of any service in explainin' all ye have to -lo is to rize yer voice, for I'm quick o' hearin', an' I'll be will ye in no time.'' (ieorge Wray thanked hor, and entered his own room, followed by I'eter Monks. "You're a little dark "here," said I'eter Monks, taking a chair near tho door, and trying to make out tho objects in the room. '• I have to have it so, sir. an account of my sight," saidOeorge Wray. " But about the keys to your rooms : there were none in the doors when I came here, and I have not been able to see about the others; but I shall have it done as soon as possible : or if you could have keys fitted 1 would allow it in the rent, or pay you now." ( leorge Wray had moved back into the corner farthest from the light, and while he sjioke he was seized with a lit of coughing, that resulted in making him so hoarse imme diately that his voice sounded like that of another man. "Thnt will be all right, Mr Wray," said I'eter Monks. '• I can have keys made to suit me. I know just the place. But if you <-;,n keep the package t left with you, and take care of any more I bring—they won't be large why. I may not need to use the rooms for some time." "The parcel you left here when you rented tin- rooms is just behind you," said George Wray. from the corner where his form was scarcely visible. I'eter Monks would havo been greatly puzzled if he could have seen his landlord's face and attitude at this moment. The crippled man was bent forward, the smoked glass was removed from his eye, and he was intently watching the face near the door, on which all the light entering the room seemed to centre. " Do you smoke, my friend?" asked Peter Menks, as he took two cigars from his pocket, bit the end off one, and half rose, as if he were going to ham! the other. " nnn \ s'r • tnat '*' ' never smoke cigars," said (leorge Wray, again seized with a tit of coughing. " Do you object to my smoking ?" "Xotatall." " Sure it won't add to your cough ." " My pipe often allays my cough." Peter Monks struck a match on the bottom of tin; chair, lit his cigar, and after taking a few puffs to secure a good tire, he said, with some interest: " You appear to be afflicted, my friend." "And I am what I appear," was the answer. " Too had ; too bad." Peter Monks pulled at his cigar again. His interest was increasing, for he broke the silence by asking : " Been so long '!" " Yes ; it seems that I have been so an age." "Time drags when one is suffering. 1 know that from experience ; been knocked about a good deal myself." " Yes?" hoarsely interrogative. "Oh yes," assuringly from Monks. Another pause, during which Monks knocked the ashes from his cigar, and sur vcyed the burning end contemplatively. " Should think the doctors could help you case. It is astonishing what doctors can do in these days. You know there are eminent men who devote themselves exclusively and with great profit to diseases of the eye." "I am aware of that, and their charges are proportioned to their skill," said Georgo Wray, still peering at the face of his guest. " Yes ; they charge like the Light Brigade : but I hear they do a great deal of free work for poor patients." " So I understand." " How did you come to get hurt?" "An explosion." "In a mine ?" " Yes." " Ah, that's bad. Have known lots and lots of fine fellows to lose their lives in mines. I had a brother killed in that way." "Indeed." " Yes ; years ago out on the Pacific coast Ever there ?" " Yes, sir." " In California, of course?" "Yes." " That's where you got hurt ?" "Yes, sir." " Ah, California is a grand State. Live thore long ?" " Some years. But I was much in all the mining States." "Ever meet a man out there named Homer Seville ?" "I never did." " Well, I suppose you'd hardly run across him, as he spent all his time in San Fran

STAB SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, SEPTEM3_BB 1, ,1885.

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