OUT OF THE STORM; OR, Grace Wray's Trials.

V MAJOK AIiFORD ROCHEFORT. CHAFTEK I. GBACE WJEAY. It was an evening in December, just pre ceding the Christmas holidays, and a colder, brighter,cleaner afternoon had not beeo seen in many a year. There was a hard, crisp covering of snow on the ground, and away from the street-car tracks, that made such an unsightly net work in New York city, there was such sleighing as had never been seen before at that season. The air was musical with the runicclash of silrery belle, and ripples of laughter went up from the crowds flowing ia steady streams along the sidewalks. A year of great commercial prosperity was drawing to a close, and the great mass of the people had money to spend in gifts and unselfish acts, for the season would have made the most close-fisted miser liberal. The stores were doing a rushing business ; theie never bad beeii anything like it, and, as a conspqaence, the merchants were in high feather, and their employees were ex hausted with hard work. AH the stores were crowded with custom ers, but " oavis, Lent & Co's great fashion emporium " was literally packed. Grace Wray had charge of the cloak and wrap departmeatin this establishment. She had been in her place about six months, and gave great satisfaction to the firm. She secured her position by answering an advertisement that said that Davis, JLent & Co. " wanted a young woman of from eighteen to twenty, well-formed, and slightly above medium height, and it pos sible, of a pleasing address, and with a beau tiful face. Grace Wrty filled all these require ments. One, and perhaps the most important duty she had, was to try on the wraps and sacques that the customers thought of buying. Every lady purchaser deluded herself wiih the belief that she would look very much like the beautiful sales-girl when she came to wear the garment, and, without ex ception, all felt subsequently that they had been taken in, in some way. Prom this it may be inferred that the beauty of the wearer has much to do with the beauty of the costume. Eight P.M., and the work of a very bu3y day was over at Davis, Lent & Cos. The cash-Doys, looking like dwaifed policemen in their uniforms and numbeiod badges, had been duly checked off, paid, and sent home. The weary girls had dragged themselves from behind the counters, and made their way to the streets. The clerks and "floor walkers" had put on their overcoats, and, looking much less like a polios, had gone to their wives and children in humble lodgings, or to their bachelor quarters in the cheap boarding houses. The porters, messengers and drivers hud gone off to deliver the last purchase?, and a man with a uiufHer about his neck was going thiough the building putting out the lights" Grace Wray had just finished re-arranying the disordered robes, alt of which she had tried on that day; and having put her threadbare watorproof over her shoulders, she was tying on her hat, wheu " the Co." c»me up t« her, and said : " Miss Wray, I wish you to do me a favour." " What is it, Mr Pegg?" she asked, as «he came out on the floor with a little basket on her arm. "I have di.-covered that Mrs Seville's sacquo has not been sent home- she livea not far off, on Fifth Avenue—and as there is no person by whom to send It, I thought if you passed near there that—" As Mr Pegg. or the "the C 0.," as the girls iv the store called him, hesitated, Grace hastened to say : "I will deliver the parcel, sir." " Then piease to wait at the door, aud I will hand it to yon in a few moments," said Mr Pegs?, bowing, and going back. _ Tom Jf egg, or '• the Co." in the firm of Da vis, Lent & Co., was a man of thirty-five, or twenty.five, or forty-five, with a blase ex pression on his yellow face. He was well-dressed—a little too conspic uously dressed, perhaps, for good taste He had dull, gray eyes, and a dull, little mustache and goatee, with the dark, metal lic tint on them suggestive of dye. He was a bachelor, a nephew of the head of the firm. It was remoured that his father had left him well-off, but that he would have run through the fortune before this If his uncle had not induced him to put it, and his own time, into the business. Meeting Grace Wray at the door, '• Tom " Pegg. as his intimate acquaintances called him, said, when she offered to take the parcel he held in his hands : "I am going in the direction of Fifth Avenue and will carry the package as far as I go. And, then, I want to have a chat with you, Misa Wray." Ab he spoke he began walking off, so forcing Grace to follow, "If you please, sir," she said, coming to his side and reaching out her hand for the bundle, "I am in a hurry to get home." 11 Of course ; but, then, I walk as fast as you do." " I would rather go alone, sir." "Nonsense." Then, after a pause: " Won't you tell me where you live 2" "In Brooklyn." '• Brooklyn is a large place. Whafs the street and number?" Grace made no reply, but walked on with greater rapidity. Her speed and the crowded condition of Broadway prevented anything like consecu tive conversation. It was a clear, cold night, and the breath of the crowds shot up against the lamp lights in little white puffs, filling the air with floating particles that came down like a silvery dust from the glowing stars. Out of Broadway and into fifth Avenue. Here the sidewalks were not thronged, but the sleighs in the middle of the street made quite a carnival ofjlife, and colour, and joyous laughter. Afrcr walking.pn a short distance Tom Pegg slackened his speed, and half-extend ing his hand as if to stop Grace, he said : "Iwas going to tell you, Misa Wray, that the firm talk of cutting down our force after the holidays are over, but I shall see that you are kept on. You've been a big card for Davis, Lent & Co., and now that trade's going to be slack I don't propose to get rid of yon." "You are very kind, sir," she replied, with freezing dignity; " but as I have made up my mind to leave mv present place by New Year,, your good offices will not be needed." 11 Xo leave 1" he repeated.

" Yes. I never liked ' the place, bat poverty urges us to many things that are not pleasant.". '• But what are you going to do f lie asked, in surprise, for he had a notion that tbe employees of Davis, Lent & Co. were ■wholly dependent on the firm. " I have no fear,'1 she replied, resolutely, and at the same time changing her quicK walk to a half run that tried the speed and breath of her companion. " Wait a moment, Grace." Ue had often tried to be familiar with her, nit this was the first time he had ever used ler first name. "We aro near Mrs Seville's. Here's the parcel ; but before I give it to you let me aak if you are willing that we sball be friends J" He bent down and tried to look under the drooping lids of her beautiful brown eyes. Quic'cly she looKed him full in the fJice and said : "I do not understand you. So long as 1 am in the service of Davis, Lent & Co. I shall do my full duty by them." 11 Knt, Grace, you are alone in the world, and I have position and wealth—" "Then keep them, Mr fegg. But lam not alone in the world, and if I were, I should still refuse your aid." She seized the package from his hand, and leaviug him, too much astonished to speak, she hastened ia the direction of the Humiliated mansion iv whica Mrs {Seville lived. Tom Pefie was not quick-witted at the best, but now he was stunned, and it was soni" time before he could say, between his teeth : "She looked at me as if she scoined me, but I can have her ia my power whenever I say the word. All's fair iv love and war, they say. I'll tame her, or my name aint—" "TomPegg" would h^ve been tin.1 next words, but before he could utter them he was'itruck smartly on the shoulder, and a stout man, with a fur cap and a black mustache, called out: "Hello, old fellow ! Out watching the girls, eh? Ah ! Tom Pegg, I'm afraid you are a sad rogue." "Why, i-eter Monks, I'm glad to see you !" said Tom Prge, shaking the proffered band ■with a great show of heartinet-s, There was that indescribable something about this Peter Monks that suggested the adventurer and gambler. His manners were at once bluff, oily aud cautious. Taking Tom Pegg's arm in a familiar way, he said : " Come dine with me at the club-house. I am as hungry as a whole pack of Arctic wolves." " Can't, Peter ; got another engagement; but if the game's going to bn open to-night, I'll drop in later on," replied Pegg, as they walked b;>-ck toward Broadway. "Theresa game at Monks's club-house every night," laughed the other. "But I wanted to speak with you, I have a report to make." " About Miss Wray •" " Guessed it first time." " Learned where she lives ?" " I have that." " Where ?" " Over in Brooklyn, wretched street near South Ferry. Big tenement house; I secured rooms there, and fixed the job." " The job, Peter ?" " Yes ; don't you understand 2" " Not clearly." . " Then you've g O t a 3hort memory." "I know I have," " Wa^'t it agn-ed that you must get a hold nil the girl if she snubbed you ?" " Yes, Peter." " ». n i didn't you give me a lot of sacques and stuff—" " That was your plan." " I know it was. I wouldn't give you credit for anything so shrewd. If you want tc prove that the girl ha 3 robbed your firm you can do it at any time.'" "Yes; I want to have her in my power." "Of course, Tom. Well, I found the man she lives with had two rooms to rent and I secured them ; but, in tne meantime, 1 asked permission to leave the bundle in his quarters, and he granted it. That bundle contains the plunder. Do you see !" a^ked Peter Monks, as they came to a halt before the brilliantly lit bar under the club house, or gambling den, over which he presided. " But what sort of a man ia this she lives with J" asked Tom Pegg. "That's the funniest thing about it," laughed Monks. "I know the world, but that puzzles me." " How so?" " You ccc the street is the abode of poverty, vice, and wretchedness ; but rents are cheap there, and this old fellow is ia keeping -with the place. He looks as if he'd been blown up ia a mine and lit on a cir cular saw—" "Think the fellow's her husband?" " No, no, no, Tom; he's her uncle." " What's his name?" " George Wray." 11 Her father's brother ?" "Looks that way. Now if you don't come in with, me," said Peter Monks, nod ding at the bar, I muss go in alone." "I'll be back after a while, Peter; but let me thank you for what you have done," said Tom Pegg, reaching out his hand. " When I promise to help a friend you can bet your last nickel I'll do so; and when I want a friencl to help me, I want him to be prompt about it. lam very fond of p omptness, Tom," said Monks, with much ardour, "Ah, yes. Of course," said Tom Pegg, coughing to hide his feelings from his companion, _ which, he did not succeed in doiDg. CHAPTER 11. FRO.M MANSION TO TENEMENT. Grace Weay went up the front steps of the house where she was to leave the parcel, and she was in the act of ringing the bell, when a tall young man, who had just got out of a sleigh on the street, sprang to her side, and touching his fur cap with his fur glove, he looked down at her and asked : " Pardon me. Do you wish to see any one here ?" " I have a package for Mrs Seville." re plied Grace. "Permit me to let you in," said the handsome young man, as he opened the door with a dead-latch key. "Now be pleased to walk in here." He led her to the parlour door and pointed in. "I will send some one to you." Grace Wray was not lacking in self-pos session. Her manners were those of a well bred lady. But;now she lost tho power to resist the young man's request, and, with out a word, she walked in and sat down in the grand, brilliantly lit parlour. She did not feel out of place, nor was she at all over-awed by the giandeur of her sur roundings. With a full appreciation of the beauty about her, she looked at the hangings, pic tures and mirrors, that told of taste and •wealth. So far back that it seemed miles away Bhe sair a conservatory, filled with rare flowers and tropical plants, and walking among them was a handsome, white-haired lady, accompanied by a beautiful young

woman, in whom Grace recognised Mrs Seville. A less noble nature than Grace Wray's would bave felt envy at all tnis splendour and comfort, and would have broken the tenth Commandment again and again, but she caw only the beauty of her surrouoding, and she drank it iv with an enjoyment that, for the time, could not hare been increased bad the mansion been all her own. In a few minutes a maid came in, and said, with a decided Freuch accent : " Ze madame vill'ave you to please wiz me to ccime to ze sitting-room." Without replying, Grace followed the maid up a flight of stairs and along a wide, aoftly-carpeted hall. At the end of this hall and looking into the conservatory, there was an exquisite family room. Here Mrs Seville and Mrs Thornton, the l»tter the mother of Ralph Thornton, the young man who had let Grace iv, awaited the parcel rather than the messenger, •' Ah '." exclaimed Mrs Seville. "It was very kind of Davis, Lent & Co. to send you." Then turning to the elderly lady, she continued : " This young woman is the cloak model about whom I spoke to you Aunt Grace." *' Indeed !" replied Mrs Thornton, as with, a sweet smue and a gracious bow, she adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses. "And I am sure that Miss—Miss —" Seeing that Mrs Seville hesitated, the messenger of Davis, Lent. & Cj. said : ''My name is Grace Wray." " Grace," repeated the eld lady. "My name is Grace, and so I like it." And xhe half raided her hand a-< if she were going to lay it on Grace's shoulder, but with a cran p ression of the lips and a slight heaving of the breast, as if she were choking down a sigh, she let it fall a^aiu, " i am vcrv tuvjgh obliged to you, Miss Wray," said Mrs feeville, as she untied the parcel. " And you would add to the favour if you would try this on." , Without a word, Grace laid aside her little basket; then took off her thin cloak and her hat; and with the seal-skiu sacque on her arm, she took a position where the full light of the blazing chandelier could fall on the robe when she had it on. ucseen by the ladies in the reception room, Ralph Thornton, who was in the con servatory talking with tha gardener about a bouquet he wanted to honour a famous singer with at the opera the next night, chanced to look up, and the sight on which his eyes rested held him spell-bound. He lecalled having seen Grace's wonder full tace before at Davis, Lent & Co.'s, but now the setting for the picture was so much better that he could hardly credit his senses. The perfect profile ; the white throat and rounded oust; the wealth of bright bronze hair that looked like g"ld in the yellow light; the exquisite poite of the classic head, and the expression of perfect un consciousness—all struck him as the most perfect picture of youthful beauty and ideal grace he had ever beheld. Enraptured, he watched the charming tableau. He saw her trying on the robe, and though it was fit for a queen, it seemed to him to detract from her beauty, yet he felt thankful that it did not cover her face. He saw the robe laid aside again, and the hat and waterproof assuropd, and he noticed the shake of the head and the flush on the fair cheeks, as Grace Wiay refused the gra tuity offered her by Mrs Seville. And then he saw his mother snaking hands a second time with the girl before she vanished. Ralph Thornton was a gentleman, not only by wealth, social standing, and educa tion, but by that rarer and better test—in stinct. Bat now he felt an irresistible impulse to know more of this girl —and this though he waa engaged to the beautiful young widow, Mrs Seville. To the gardener's burprise, Ralph Thorn ton started off withoat anotuer word. He ran to the hall, threw on his over coat and cap, and then rushed down to where his sleigh was stfU waiting at the curb. ™ " Pat," he called to the driver, " do you see that young lady that just left the house ?" ' " There she is, sir," replied the driver, pointing after Grace with his whip. " Drive up ! I want you to keep her in sight," said Kalpb, as he leaped into the sleigh and drew the fur lobes about him. "Ail right, sir," said the driver, though he had no little curiosity to know the cause of this most unusual conduct on the part of his young master. So eager was Ralph Th.irnton to keep her in sight that he watched more keenly than the driver. He saw her enter a stage, and he knew its destination was the foot of Broadway, but that did not deter him, for he was not a man to be thwarted, unce he had made up his mind. She got out of the stage near the ferry hou^e, and at the same instant Ralph Thornton sprang from the sleigh. " Wait here, i'at, till I come back." "How long will you be gone, air?" asked the perplexed driver. 11 Don't know." And the next instant Ralph was lost in the crowd surging into the ferry. On the Brooklyn side he keot her in sight, though it tested his fine pedestrian powers to do so. Along a dingy street, flinked with high, grim tenement-houses, and swarming with ragged children, he followed, and ha re called the picture in his own room of " Dante's Beatrice passing through the region of condemned souls." At length he saw wrace stopping before a mean grocery store and drawing her little basket from under her cloak. . She made some purchases and put them in the basket, then started off again. She turned into another street, dimmer, dirtier, narrower, and colder, while the black tenement-houses, like the walls of a Western canon, rose nearer to the far-off stars. Intoone of these houses Grace Wray dis appeared. Kalph Thornton went up to the open dour, that looked like the entrance to, a cavern, and by a dim li^ht, the source of which was unseen, he saw flights of stairs, rotten aud rickety, rising up and up till lost in the inky darkness beyond the reach of the light. " May Heaven help the poor girl!" sighed Balph, as he turned and retraced his steps in the direction ot the stately avenues where lights flashed on every hand, and wealth and beauty, and lite—whose every thtob was a joy—had their abode, Grace Wray made her way up the creak ing stairs, and as she was about to knock at a door in the back part of the house, on the top floor, the door opened and a man appeared, shading a lamp. A strange-looking; man he was, with his face all cut and powder-stained till it looked like a hideous mask. One eye was gone, and the other showed its weakneas through a smoked glass protection. "Grace, my child," aaid the man, in a voice full of adoring tenderness, while ho reached out a hand, two angers of which were gone. "Ihave been crazed with anxiety. What kept you so long 2" " Come in, Uncle George," she replied, as she kissed his battered face. " Come in, you dear old pet, and I will tell you all, as we eat out supper."

He took the basket from her arm, and as he followed her into the room it could be seen that the man was lame in addition to his other afflictions;. but the broad shoulders, the set ot the fine massive head, and a certain ease of movement, told that he had once been a giant in strength and of perfect form. The room in which they found themselves had sufficient furniture for.comfort a cosy fire burned brightly ia a tittle open stove, on which a kettle saog a welcome to Grace. A little table, with a clean, white cloth and white ware, was set for two. B«ck of ihe sto?e was a sofa-bed; and a candle, seen through the open door of another room, discovered another bed, a box of geraniums, and a canary bird, that began toning at a great rate when Grace entered to lay oil her hat and cloak, for this apartment wa* sacred to herself. Coming back, she was about te help with the sapper, but George Wr-ay, her uncle, geatly forced her iuto a chair, saying : 11 Rest, my darlins. When I was out West, miaiagan.i bunting, the partner that procured the food was not allowed to cook But everything is ready. Chops, and toast, and tea for two. Full up, Grace " Grace moved her chair to the table, and by way of stimulating her appetite her uncle went on to tell her that he had iub-let the two adjoining rooms, for which they bad no use, to a man who williogly pft id him as rnucn as they had been paying for the tour. •' And who is to be our neighbour ?" asked Grace. " «. man named Monks-Feter Monk?," was the reply. «• What does he look like, uncle ?" t*",i A Ah ! my.chil<!' with my sight how could' I tell? I thought at first that I knew his voice, but of course I was mistaken, for the man he recalled has been long since dead Bat you have not told me why you were de tained; 'he said, moviDg the lamp so that, while saving his sight, he might the better see her face. With a cheerfulness and artlessne-fs that made the little room warmer and brighter Grace told her story, beginning at the beginning and going brightly on to the end ; by which time the supper was finished. She was surprised to hear her uncle making so many inquiries about Mrs Seville and the Thorntons ; so much surprised, in deed, that she asked : " pW you ever hear of these peoplebefore, Uncle George ?" * ' "I have, Grace. But let it all pa-s and be forgotten, ' was the reply, as he rose to put away the dishes. Grace made him sit down and light his pipe ; and it was surprising how soon she had things to rights, and all the preparations made for the morrow's breakfast. Then she sat down on a low stool beside him, and laying her hand on his wonnded arm, ehe told him that after the holidays were past she would leave the service of Davis, Lent & Co. " It cuts me to the heart, Grace, to think that you have to be any one's servant," said George Wray, with a sob. "Oh ! I like to work," she saia, press ins his arm; " but I do not like' this place. 11 The work is not congenial ?" '• No ; I would rather be in le«s of a crowd, where 1 could sew or teach till you get your mines and all jour property back. Then, she said, with a smile, "we will look bacK and laugh at the hard times." She looked up and saw a tear coursing down the battered cheek from the si^htlesH eye. Then she rose quietly, and potting her arms about his neck, she kissed him, and whispered : " Good night, Uncle George. Keep up a good heart.' r CHAPTER 111. AN ACCOUNT OF A STKANGE COHTHACT, WITH a view to economy, George Wray turned down the light; and then his sight did not admit of a continual glare. He relit his pipe, and, quite forgetting that it went out a moment afier, he sat be tore the open stove. The coals began to dim, and were covered with a gray ash, as if they were visibly ageing. They took on strange shapes, and he seemed to sea in them a pictnre ot his own past, and of the future of the beauti ful girl sleeping so sweetly in the next room. The Christmas holidays are conducive to dreaming in those who have seen better days, and George Wray fell into a fit of musing now. Grace had mentioned names to-night that had sent all the memories of the past trooping through the afflicted man's brain. Under another name than that he now bore George Wray saw himself a boy again playing with his twin brother, sons of a rich father. Hs saw, as distinctly as he saw the ash covered coals, the race of an older half-*ister —for his father had been twice married. He lived swiftly over again the school days spent with his brother up to their twenty-first year. He recalled the face of the beautiful wo man whom both loved, and his own dis covery that his brother, Monckton, was her choice. He saw himself flying from home and kindred, without leaving a clue behind, and golDg to the gold mines on the Pacific coast. He lived over the years of exile, during which he learned that his brother was mar ried, and his father and mother were dead. But why follow the vision when it is simpler to tell the gad story of the brave man's life ? The death of his parents was a sore blow, but he was rejoiced to learn that his brother was well off and happy, and that he and their half-sister were to have all the property if after seven years George did not come back to claim his third, George Wray did not care for the money ; he was willing that his brother and half sister Bhould have it; but long before the seven years were up there came to his ears rumours of profligacy on his brother's part, and other rumours that he had been divorced from his wife. Back over the hills and plains came George Wray. He found that the courts had given the child, a little girl, to the father, and that, the mother, whom many declared to be innocent of the charges brought against her, had gone^ off crushed and disgraced. A short time before George Wray's arrival his brother, MoncktoD, had abandoned the child and fled from the officers of the iaw, for he had been detected in a forgery. It was then that, overwhelmed whh dis grace, George Wray changed his name and that of the child, to whom he henceforth de voted his life. He placed her in charge of a good family, and when she was old enough he kept her at the very best schools until one year ago. For seventeen years he worked in the mines, away from the world, and all that Grace might be a lady and never know what hard work, ot poverty, or heartashe was. Then came a day when, with ten of hia men, in the mine of which he was part owner, and in which he had invested his all, he was blown up ; and he was the only man thatcame up from the black depths alive. Before that explosion he was a giant in strength, and he had good reason to be vain

°f his face and form. Now the crumbling: °oals reminded.him of his wretched and help *ess life. _ But iv the darkest hour of his sore afflic tion the light came again—not to his eyes, bat to bis heart. Over the plains and the mountains Grace bad come to nurse him back from the verge of the grave and to cheer his daikenod houra with her love. "Ob, brave, brave child," he muttered, as the coals fell and blazed up for an instant. ''She led me away from the mines, telling me the doctors iv New York would cure me. But how we ever readied here God only knows. We were pennileea, yet she cheered me up, and went to work for rue, and here we are. Oh, that I could coia my blaod into gold for her, ann give the remnant of my shattered life to secure her happiness 1" The ashes, in grey masses, dimmed the fire again ; the little lamp began to flicker ; aud the bells ia distant steeples attack the midnight hour. He crept near to her door and fell on his knees, and so he remained till the lamp died out aud the ashes had smothered the fire. Tbeu ho went softly to bis owu little bed be hind the stove and lay down, but it was not to sleep. As Kalph Thornton, in driving home, pissed Mouks'a club-house, he saw Tom Pegu standing b'fore-the door. i^alph had met Pegg in a business way, and he kuew the character of the house be fore wbich ho stood. "I wonder," thouaht Kalph, "it the other members of the tirm kuow that 'the Co. 1 has gone back to his «,ld tricks again ?" Even the officers of the law knew the kind of business that was carried on at Moaks's clab-hoose, but for reasons best known to themselves they said nothing about it. It was a noted resort for the large class known as " sporting men " There was ares taurant attached to the house, aud good din ners and rare wives could be had there, and the upper floors were finely furnished and devoted to the kind of " sport " which seems to have the greatest fascination for idle men the world over. Judging by the Well-dressed throng that went in, it was a popular place— much more popular, indeed, with some thau their owu bandgume houses ou the " Avenue." Peter Monks established this club-house two yearj before tuis, and alter it became known it did a thrivi g bu-inesi. Peter Mouks was ever a iuyscery to his customers, who could never get him to talk about his past life, though on every other subject he was iluent, and even coiumuni cative. He knew New York a« well as if be had been born there and had remained in tne city all his life. He was evidently well educated, and al' though a swaugerer and the soul of selfish ness, there were time" when he seemed the very perfection of despoudeticv. Those who noticed him op s'nch occasions felt sure that the man's conscience had sur vived the wreck of his morol nntare. Peter Monks hnd private room* in the club-honse, to wbich but few of his patrons had aeces?. Amons these favoured ones was Tom Pegij, who now entered the Cozy sitting-room by invitation. "See here, Vom," said Monks, when the waiter, who had conducted Pegg up, had gone otf and closed the door behind him. "Sit down and take a ciaar. I want to have a chat with you about that girl. Let me see. What's her name ':" •' Grace Wray," replied Torn Pegg, as ho sat down ou the opp,.si<e side of the table anri took the protiered cigar. "I've been thinking about that girl, Tom." . " Ha : ha, ha 1" lauchod Pegg. '■ So have I. But a-i we don't think of acr in thusame way we shan't li^ht." "Lef me see. Tom." Here Monks took a memorandum book from his pocket and ran the leaves acroas his thumb. "You agreed to pay me five thousaud dollars if l helped you in this matter." " I did, Peter, and I showed my faith by payiug you two thousand in advance " re plied Pegg. " Just so "Well, I have been thinking it over, and I want to back out. Here are the two thousand dollar?, .and let us cry quits on that. I have seen the rir], and her face haunts me." as Peter Monks spoke, he laid a package of bank bills un the table and pushed them towards his companion " Oh, come, Tom ! Isn't a bargain a bar gain ? asked Pegg, as he shoved the b;lls back. • " Yes ; but I made the bargain when the bank was near broke. But now that I'm in fnnds again, I think better of it." "Won't you keep your word?" asked Tom Pegg, nervously. " I thought Peter Monks was a man of his word." " Keep my word 1" repeated Monks, with a hollow laugh that startled the other. "If I bad kept my word as faithfully when I led, what the world thought, a better life as I have since I Decaroe a gambler, I would not be to-ni»ht a wifeless, childless outcast But this is baby talk. Ha, ha, ha ! A drop of wine too much makes me'as senti mental as a girl, txcuse me, Tom." Peter Monks knocked the ashes from his cigar, put it in his mouth, and finding the light was out, he dashed the cigar iuto a cuspidote aud lit another. "It does you credit to be—what do \ou call it ?—sentimental. Do you know w htn I was younger I often felt that way T' said Tom Pegg. J ••Indeed ! Well," ea<d the other, drily " I should never have suspected it." "Yes, and I even wrote poetry," added Pegg " i can believe that," said Moaks. with anill-concealed sneer. Then, with a sudden change of manner, "Tom, why can't you do the square tking by this K irl and marry her ?" J "Did you ever take a ticket iv the lottery of marriage?" asked Pcgn- w jt a „ grin. " Curse your impudence 1 I am not speaKing about myself, bat about you." " If 1 was after a wife, Peter," said Tom Pegg, wiih a drawl, " do you think I'd be willing to pay you five thousand dollars to find me one ? And then, old fellow, you can bet this gin ia playing just as sharp a game a3 I am. She wants to get me in her power as much as I want to get her in mine O, X know women, I can tell you, and I can read her like a book." " Well, if you and the girl are playing a game of cross-purposes, have it out between yourselves. You won't need me," eaid Peter Monks, again motioning to the money. "Well, I'll tell you what I'll do, Peter, for I don't want an unwilling ally." " What?" "I'll not take the money ; you are not sure but that fellow Moses may be here again to-morrow night and clear you out Keep the cash and I'll be hero at midnight. •Let me see—today is Tuesday. Yes to morrow aight- Christmas-eve; and 'then U you feel like backing out, all rioht " "I asree to that, Tom. Now, have a ♦ ? jW,uJi me ; lam tired and want to co to bed. B .'*ln, behalf of the house, I thatrk you " W, ?h teVi Sinßi ? n u fetchin S a decanter from the sideboard behind him. The friends had a glass of wine, and Tom Pegg left. ihe next night Tom Pegg was tin hand early, and he eagerly watcaed the play A man, with white hair and beard but otherwise very sprightly, whom, for the

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STAB SATt7KX>AY SUPPLEMENT, AUGUST 25, 188&.