A STRANDED SHIP

A STORY OF SEA AND SHORE.

Br L. CLARKE DAVIS,

" If tho red slayer think he slays. Or if tho Blain think ho la slain, Thoy know not woll the subtlo ways I keep, and pass, and turn again." Ralph Waldo Emerson,

PART 1,

OX DUN_,-Tll_'_ WHARF,

The old historic town of Cambridge, which was yet old when the.fight ot Concord was only a story of yesterday—old in its gigantic elms, in its collegc-halla, in its legends gt the Mayflower—was older yet as its streets and houses lay hushed and deserted under the June sun of its annual Commencement-day.

On none had that day's sun risen warmer or brighter than on the student Luke Connor, to whom had fallen the honours of hie class. On none would it go down more darkly, or the stormy night following de scend more mercilessly.

Lifo had been bounteous to this boy in many ways. It liad given him wealth and energy and superb physical health. He was long ago an orphan ; yet his youth had lacked no love. To-day he stood surrounded by grave professors, trustees, and friends, like Saul among his brethren, taller and fairer than thoy. Ho rose to .peak the farewell of his class, seeing boforo him a crowd of .eager, expectant faces. They greeted him with long applause and encouraging smiles. Yet he was to go out from that old col lege hall, from among those who had loved and given him such honours, with the alien's curse upon him ; and while men's praiseH were loudest, and his lifo seemed to thorn to open up before him in a long vista of triumphs, the shadow of the curse came close and covered him ; and as men somotimes feol death suddenly touch them when they think death afar off, tho gloom of a great wrong embraced and took from him for an instant power of speech and strength of limb. He had advanced to the rostrum, patiently awaiting subsidence of the tumult hia name had arouaed, when suddenly he threw his hand up to his face, as if to shut out tho sight of something or to avoid-, a blow. When tho hand was again withdrawn, ho laid hold of a chair to keep himself from falling, and his face had lost it-ruddy colour. " Take time, Mr Connor," said one of the professors, leaning forward. "It will pass away in a moment; take time."

The boy looked over his shoulder, smiling back at the speaker. " It is gone now, thank you." Then the boy's will, which was great as a man's will, came to his rescue, and the words of his farewell followed. There were in them the fulness, grace, and charm of that oratory which is of nature ; and when he ceased speaking there was a long, pain ful silei>cc, and his audienco breathed heavily; for the sombro spell of the hour was upon them all, and it was as if the shadow that had touched the student had touched them too. He had felt and spoken greatly ; but no loud applause followed. It was noticed by a few in that fast-thinning multitude that when the other professors came forward to give him such moderate commendation as befitted those grave gentlemen, there was one, the youngest of them all, who stood indifferently aloof, and purposeljr avoided him. It was curious, they thought, that this boy should have a single enemy. Professors, trustees, seniors, and friends dropped off, one by one, but the student still lingered uncertainly on the platform, turning often to look furtively behind him, as if no felt some presence there which might he real, or oaly incorporeal air. But whatever was real iii that scene then was to him all dim and intangible, even to the departing audience ; hisown words had sounded strangely in his ears, and the language of others was unmeaning to him. It was all over at length, and, as he saw the last of the crowd leave the hall, he mechan ically moved away ; if he had any thought at all, it was to bo quite alone. Directly he knew that he was in the long college walk, to his left rose up the granite shaft of Bunker Hill, and before him the glitter ing dome of Boaton SJtate-House. Some of his' classmates standing in hia way accosted him ; but he did not notice them, and passed on. It was not an idle fancy which "mode him feel that all the morning's sunshine had gone out of the air; he looked up at the sty, and saw that it was clouded over and threatened a storm. That was all ho remarked, until he found that he waa in the Cambridge Road, entangled in a mass of horses, and vehicles, and that people were crying out to hjm to move aside. Extricating himself, he walked onalcng the boarded'path underhuge elma, dimly aware of his'name being called, and of people speaking cheerily to him ; but he did not stop to reply, pursuing his way, dogged, he fancied, by some devilof disaster. At the door of one of the moat ancient of Beacon-atreet houßes'he entered; but before oloaing: it after him, he turned quickly, looking'over his shoulder again, thinking the pursuing shadow must bo there. It was an idle fancy; and, thinking still, as he ascended the great uncarpeted stairway, how idle it was, he entered a large square room, 'wainecotted to the ceiling in black oarved w'alnufc, having a spacious tiled fire place, 'over which hung the high mantel piece, sombre with the smoke and ashes of a century, its carved griffins' heads throw ing curious shadows on the floor. About him, lbosely strewn on tables, brackets,, shelves; and pedestals, all the ages of art seemed to have left some token. There were rare, pictures and marbles, curious bronzes and grotesque old carvings in ivory and wood, 61a weapons, and quaint furni ture' of mahogany, velvet-cushioned and blackened" with age. An unwholesome room, ja. the sunniest of times ; unwhole somestpf all when the clouds were black, as they v/pre now, with an impending storm. A wood-fire blazed upon the hearth, for the north-east wind blew up chillingly from the bay. fie had only seated himself before it, in the.'luxurious depths of his cushioned chair, for a moment, when he was startled by a khdck at his door. He cried out im patiently, " Come in I" and a servant entered, handing him a letter. He took it from the man's hand, shut him out, closed and locked the door. Then he knew, by the subtle instinct that some men have, by which they feel disaster in the very air, that the persuing shadow had entered there, and that he would suddenly grapple with the substance. The student read the letter to the end, and did not cry out nor utter any word of hurt or pain; but the agony on his face was piteous to see. Then the shadow that had entered there fell atlaßt, and held the boy, never to leave him—never again to depart from him in all the coming yea™, until the sea should roll over him, and hide him from the eight of living men. Till then this day of grace was dead. , . • . The letter told him that his siater, for Whom/^e fancied, hia love was beyond all brother*s love, was lying dead in the home her life had made beautiful to him; had died confessing an awful wrong and shame. It was'written by bis guardian, a man who had supplied a father's place, no.t only >n duty, but in love to brother and sister, tie waa ah* old man now, and his story wos haltingly, incoherently told, yet it con veyed to the student a sense of loss and dishonour, by its , very indistinctness, deeper than the most studied expressions could:have dono. But that which was worse for guardian and worse for brother was, tfrat the roan who had wrought this wrong was the student's friend, his class mate hij.re, hia old school and playfellow at home,'.jo , . , The poor giH was dead in her sin anfl dishonour, dying with this man's name up on her'Jips, crying out to him in her agony and shame, to save her from the threatened ruin. ,'Dead in all her sweet and tender womanhood; dead in her charm and grace of youth; and the man that killed her , lived, 'and was the friend that be had set ahpve;aH other men to love and honour. That is-as the bitter part of it all-his

Stunned and made mad, the student lay back In his chair, the letter crumpled savagely in his hand, his physical strength gone, his."mind alert only in its unwhole some fancies. Then to this boy, whose life \ had been, singularly pure and gentle, came, tpedeyili'and tempted him. There were -r6ngs,.he thought, which nor word nor act •' couldever make right; there were wrongs whickcried out, with the clearness and ful ness bf.lhe old Jewish law, for the requital of vengeance. There should be life lor ~ ."life. ;-?.'..'. , - •-. , '■■•'■ "-. Filled,, with temptation, the day wore i : BloWlyon. The blurred sun crept down |||$tedffie' gathering clouds, and up out '_\ the sea and \)ay cajije the, storm ana - dartness; the logs upop the hearth W • down *and buried their flames under the greyirlg ashes j uncanny and unwholesome 't shadows stole out from the recessesnt the Hptethe frescoed arabesques grew aim w

the wailing light; the statues and the quaintly-carved old furniture reflected themselves upon the floor and walls in dis torted images, which, by times, mixed themselves curiously with the murder ous fancies that filled tho student's mind, strangely distorting and warp ing all the good thero was in it, turning tho .gentle, loving nature of the man into unclean channels of morbid bitter ness and hatred. Ho felt the influences at work upon him, and made no effort to cast them off, but yielded to them. Man is not stronger than destiny, he thought; why should he struggle? He knew the worst that would surely come—knew that life for him had changed, that tho promise .of all the years past, all the fruits of their toil and patient endeavour, were gone for over. In that hour he sank down, helpless under the weight of his wrong and shame, and putting away from him all chance or hope of honour, or men's love or happiness, bartering them all for his shallow thought of vengeance, he accepted the future and the work that he felt he had been called upon to do. With no weak regrets, no pity for the beautiful life to bo trampled under foot, he took up the crime and curse of Cain, and did not murmur nor look back. His wrong, the unwholesome day, the weird shadows, and his own sombre fancies, had conspired together and told him he must kill the man who wrought this evil. That was his work, and lie must about it speedily; and he would.

Yet, until tho evening had come, the boy had not moved toward the fulfilment of his purpose, though he knew the man whom he had doomed to die he could find whenever he sought him. He still lay back in hia chair, before-the dying embers of the fire, the crumpled letter iv his hand, quiet as a man dead or sleepiug, an awful pallor on his face, his white throat bared, his black hair hanging in damp, close curls about his forehead—a boy in years, with a stature like Saul, with a grand physical mould and strength of breast and limb.

Whon the dusk deepened, he took from the wall a curious old Spanish knife, its long,: thin blade tapering to an almost imperceptible point. Thero was a latent, devilish cruelty in the careful manner shown by him as ho ran his finger along tho edge pf the murderous toy; but he was evi dently satisfied with his scrutiny, for he placed the knife carefully in his breast and went out.

The rain began to patter on the stones as ho turned into Tremont-street, but he rather welcomed that: it would cool tho fever of his blood. He went on down the street, down past tho houses of his friends, — of the men and women and little children whq had given him true love. There was not a single regret or tinge of bitter ness in the thought that to-morrow they would all be closed against him—homes and hearts alike. Ho had woighed all his losses; and that was among them. From the open window of one mansion, a young girl, whom yesterday he had fancied he was fond of, spoke to him some pleasant, congratulatory words ; but he passed on without returning her salutation. Now, the girl was not quite certain she had done right to speak to any one in that manner, and when Luke Connor passed by without a word to her in reply, there came to her a sense of shame for what she had done, and a fear that ho thought her unwomanly; bo that she stood there at the window, looking after him a long while, with someunhappy tearswotting her cheeks. But he went on his way, blind and dumb to everything that lay outside of his ono ugly purpose. Presently no rang tho bell of a houso facing the Common, in Boylston Place.

" Tell Mr Lawrence I wish to see him," he said, when his summons was answered.

"Mr Lawrence has gone out. Will you come.in and wait?"

Hohesitated for a moment, brushed past the servant as he had often done before, leaped the stairs two at a time, and was in Lawrenco'a chambers. No signs of hurried flight there ; the rooms were undisturbed and Orderly. A pipe, still warm, lay en the table, an open book beside it; hia easy chair standing near. He took it all in at a glance—was at the door again, where the servant still lingered, looking out at the rain.

"It's a rough night, Mr Connor," he said. " Won. you wait a bit for Mr George!" „.. "No ; I will firia him," ho said,, and re traced hia atepa along Boylston-etreet, dropping in here and there at club-houaes and George Lawrenc.'a other well-known haunts; but he was at none of them.

At each place, almost the same qucs tion was asked, "will yoli come in and wait?" and the same invariable answer given, " No ; I will find him." Foiled in his search, he remembered that Lawrence frequented the editorial sanctums on Court and Washington-streets, and that he should probably find him in ono of them, iHe had begun hia pursuit cool and unhurried, but his failures excited and maddened him at last; the ugly fever in his blood had stolen,up ward to his head, and he was aware that his manner wa? atrango and nttracting atten tion. He tried to sober hi nself as he en tered ono newspaper offi> c after the other ; but he noticed that .his \_iu6ky, voice, or something in hi- face, startled for a moment the men he questioned. He had at length exhausted all the likely places of finding the man ; then he thought of the unlikely ones. He began, too, to think that Lawrence hod heard, in some way, of the girl's death, and was avoiding him; but that did not matter, he said, under hia breath, he would find him all the same. - .'■'•'•■

Aware now that he had lost all clue to his intended victim, he walked on, quite aimlessly, from one street to another, until; after an hour of ' such search ing as had been, after all, only an eager! scrutiny of the faces of the few pedestrians he met, he"' found himself 'standing under the black shadow of the Old Soutlf Cnui;c_; thinking of its grim legend ; from; there he was in Hanover-street again, under Faheuil Hall, looking up with a new interest at its ugly historic front j then on again, his brain whirling curiously, his stop.unsteady, and scarcely knowing how he had got there, be stood on Dun lethe's Wharf, gazing out at the black, silent bay gliding along to the sea, strangely fascinated by its rippling I tide and the lights dangling from the yard-arms of. ships! A California steamer, going to sail that night, waiting for the turn of tide, lay half a mile oflVshore/with steam _p and a hundred lights blazing 'aboard of her.' Be low him there .was a shipping office, the windows of which a boy was hurriedly closing for the night. As the last shutter was fastened the door was thrown open, and, in the flood of light streaming out, George Law rence stood revealed for a moment, but as if undecided whether he should return to the shelter of the office or fulfil his first in tention of going out. The boy came out after him and closed the door, deciding the matter for him. Drawing the collar of his coat about his ears, he walked on down the wharf, shading his eyes with his hand, and looking out over the bay to the steamer. The student saw him there—had seen him before, when the office lights were full upon him; but he failed to recognise his enemy in the oddly disguised figure now coming rapidly toward him. A single lamp glimmered dimly at the end of the wharf, and the rain, coming down in torrents, had driven the officers of the watch to shelter, so that the two men were quickly closing in upon each other, in a spot seemingly eet apart on this foul night for a foul deed. A boat, lowered away from the steamer, was being rowed slowly "gainst the tide, towards the end of the long wharf, a lamp swinging from the bow showing dimly a single rower. Luke Connor had forgotten the man he hunted altogether, but stood watching the crawling light on the bay with a strange interest in a thing so trifling, when he-was rudely jostled; the next instant he held George Lawrence by the throit, and, by an effort of his powerful strength, bore him to his knees. - The boat wa.3 coming nearer; the rower hailed his expected passenger, rested on his oars for a second, then hailed again; but there was no answer. The two men were on the verge of the pier, against which the black tide rippled hungrily. Luke Connor had said to others and to himself a hundred times that night that lie would find the man. He had found him— found him, too, in a lonely, secluded spot, where no help could come if he but did his work quickly. He was not surprised, not moved in any way. that the man had been dolivered, as he thought, into his hands. It was Fate or Providence, as his death 1 would be—all Fate. Ab quietly and undisturbed as he would have spoken to his friend in that oariier, happier time, ho spoke to his enemy now ; "This coward's disguise," he said, " means flight; and that tolls me you know your crime, and expected me. If you have a prayer to say, cay, it now, and quickly ; for I mean to kill you." , . George Lawrence heard the splash of the oars in the coming boat; a moments time gained or a loud cry for help might save Etm yet, he thought. He struggled up. ward, and tried to; cry out; but the hand clutching at his throat was as firm as a band of steel, pressing the life out of him Luke Connor's hand went quickly to his breast, and when ; it came out again aU the devil that possessed fe man clutched at the Spanisllknife; and nerved him against any lompunctibn or faltering in his purpose. The dip of the oars in the approaching boat

Hounded fatally near, whon tho cowering wretch at his feet sprang up and struggled with him for his life. Thero was only a short, dull cry, as Connor plunged the knife homo; then he swayed his victim to and fro for a moment, and, exerting hia great power of limb, flung him headlong into the rising tido, that splashed mid licked the spectral pier. An hour later, when it ebbed, it would have grown tired of beating something against the muddy piles, and would hurry another burden, beside the California steamer, out to sea. Then the boy, whose work was done, but whose boyhood had slipped for over away from him within an hour or two, quietly looked at the bloody knife in his hand—flungit into thetide—stood irrosolute for a moment, debating within himself whether he should go then and surrender himself to justice, or wait until morning. From where he stood he could hear the slow laboured " heavo-ho " of the sailors on the steamer, as they weighed anchor; the approaching boat, he thought, could put him aboard, and escape would be certain and easy. Captains of outgoing vessels were not disposed to be too suspicious of the character of their passengera, or to in quire too closely into their motives for leaving the States, no matfer how or whon they came on board; for California had not yet ceased to be a sort of free commonwealth whero adventurers, thieves, and worse, went abroad in the open day, unqueationed and unmolested, But he had no intension of flight. He had, from the first moment of hia resolve, calmly weighed all the consequences of its fulfilment; and he was now quite ready to meet them. It mattered nothing to him that one of them wos the chance of an ignominious death, or lingering imprison ment ; neither hod any terrors for him now. Tho sister was at rest, and sho was tho last of his kin ; so thero could be no one else to bo hurt or tainted by hia crime or its punishment. But he would wait until morning to give himself up to tho lave, he said ; then, it might do with him what it would. He had a fancy that he would like to go back to his old rooms, and say good bye to them, before going to prison or death. Itwasapleasantold streot, ho thought. No where else in Boston was the air so sweot and strong, blowing in to him from tho. bay, over the city gardens. From his win dow he could look across tho Common, and fancy that nowhere else was the grass: so green, nor the viow down the serpentine walk so fine; and the trees, waving in the morning wind, were aa old friends, whoso every leaf and bough he seemed to know. Even the plash of the fountains had some thing loving and friendly in it. It waa all pleasant and friendly there; and the fancy of the moment beforo now became an eager desire to go back thero and see it all in tho sweet hush and light of another morning. He started back, making his way slowly among the rubbish of tho long wharf, step ping deep in muddy pools, or slipping in the eoft clay, hearing no longer the plash of oars nor roar of wind nor boat of rain nor Bwasb of tido, nor remembering for a moment the something it was beating against the piles or bearing out to sea ; but, as be went on through the deserted streets, he grew conscious that he walked unsteadily, and that, despite the chilling winds and rain, he was burning with fever, and that his head pained him. He put hiu hand up to his face, and, coming then under a lamp, found his finger dripping blood.

"lam glad tho dovil struck back," ho said, quietly, and went on.

But he lost hie way presently in tho tortuous areots of tho locality, and, seeing a light ahead, followed it, and saw that it came from the travellers' room of the old Stackpolo Inn, which was an inn of tho better sort, as it now is, one hundred yoars ago. As ho entosod tho cleanly room, tho clork, with his chair tipped back against tho wall, was sleoping soundly ; and he passed on to tho travellers' room beyond, tho door of which, standing open, revealed an inviting fire, and lights. As he crossed the threshold, a dog started up and dis puted his pass ago; when a man, soutod at tho table roading, looked up, and recog nising the student, and seeing blood upon his face and hands, started to his feet.

" My God I Connor, you are hurt," he said, coming forward. Tho speaker waa tho professor, who had been noticed by a few.poople that morning to stand aloof from tho boy at the close of his address. They had never liked each other, and Connor thought that it would have pleased him better to have met any other man than Professor Daunton that night. Yet it did not greatly matter ; it might bo hotter that an enemy and not a friend should give him up to justice. The boy staggered forward, laying his hand, on the other's arm impatiently, and motioning back to the man asleep in the outer room.

"It is nothing," he said, "Are wo alono hero ?"

" Yea, quite alone. I was caught in the storm, and have sent for a carriage. It will be hero presently," the professor replied. " Will you give me a chair ? lam dizzy, and this sudden light has blinded mo." The professor drew a chair to tho fire, and, Beating him in it, stood waiting for a moment. Luke Connor's head fell for ward on the table, and there was a miserable silence .in the room, only disturbed by the dog coming forward and snarling savagely at the odour of some thing on the students hand. When Connor looked up again, his eyee wandered about the walls and furniture, dazed and stupid. " Will you tell me what it was I asked you a moment ago ? I have lost myself alto f ether, and have forgotten something that wished to say to yon." • . . The student had risen, and the professor kindly put out hiß hand to save him from falling; when he had seated him again, he said, "You asked me if we were alono here, and I answered, 'Yes, quite alone.' Can you recall whalj it was you wished to say to me?"

"JYes I I killed the man to-night who did this"—pointing to a cut reaching across the temple to the ear. " You must give me up; but will you let me rest until morning, and send an officer to my rdoma then ?" "Yes, I will do what you wish,"—an ex pression of incredulity in his eyes, and secretly douotine Connor's sanity. "Is there anything that I can do for you?" he asked. - ■.* "~

"Will you get me some brandy, and— close that door after you?—l would rather that man did not see me."

When the liquor was brought, Luke Connor drank it eagerly. As the professor turned his back to put down the glass, he naked, "Do you core to tell me! about this matter?"

"No; I will not tell you, I never liked you, nor you me; and that ia why lam not Borry you will give me up. Not that I think it will be a pleasant thine for you to do, professor 5 but I would rather you did it than a man I cared for."

" You are right; it will not be ploasant for me to send the first of the class to a jail or beyond. But a man's duty may lie even there."

"Yon are right; it is you duty. To night I rely on your generosity to leave me undisturbed. Will your carriage be here soon ?"

"It is here now," the profoseor said, hearing the sound of wheels outside. "If you are ready, I will throw this cloak about you as you pass through the next room." " You are considerate, professor;" and the man put out his hand frankly, but the other did not take it.

'When they entered the outer room, the drowsy clerk had again tilted his.chair back against the wall, and growled good night without looking up. When they arrived at the Beacon-streejt house, the professor carefully led the student to the door of his rooms, then courteously said good-night. But Connor stopped him with a question. " You bear me no ill-will, professor ?" "No. Why should I?" " Will you shake hands, then ? I have a fancy we will not meet again." " No; I prefer not. Good-night." "Good-night, Professor Daunton," the student answered back; and he grimly smiled as her thought of the professor's pre judice, closing the door after him. Then he went into the inner room, and stood with his handa resting on the dressing table, looking into the mirror, coolly survey ing the face he had seen under all phases but that of crime. He had fancied that it would be altered; that when he saw it next the demon of murder would have set his seal upon it, changing and defiling it. When he had satisfied himself, he said, "It is not different from my face of yesterday, only that it is gashed and bloody. I am glad he struck me. He washed the blood carefully from his face and hands, throwing the water into the street when he had done, not wishing to see the atain in it again in the morning. A wound,'- running- -across the temple to the ear, showed itself when the matted hair was brushed aside, which began to bleed attain as he washed away the clots about it. He' bound it up with his handkerchief, changed hier clothing, select ing, piece after . piece with curious care, packed a small trunk with such things as he thought he would need in wison", and then threw -himself- into bis chair by the-j-e-, plenished fire, to wait for the morning.' After a while fie slept, quietly and calmly

i as lie had ever done, disturbed by no dreams of the dead man drifting out on the tido. The swcot Juno morning camo in with tho songs of tho birds in the Public Gar dens ; and tho sunshine, falling warmly across the bright colours of tho carpet and hangings, touched into wondrous radiance, hero and there, a pictured face or land scape. A bust of Psycho, at the base of which some white flowers grew, attracted him with tho sunlight lingering on it. A face full of beauty, purity, and pain, he fancied ; then stoopod to kiss the forehead. When he raised his head, there was a blood stain on the marble.

Then he somehow knew, as nothing else had told him, the full and perfect meaning of the thing he had done. He had smiled last night at the professor's refusal to take his hand, as unmeaning prejudice ; but the spot upon the forehead of the pure Soul, Psyche, told him that he was never again to touch tho hand of man, or tho lip of woman, without leaving a stain behind. Believing that, the prison or death would be altogether best, he thought. The officer came awhile later, and found the man impatiently awaiting him, " Now," said the officer, " it's uncommon plucky in you to give yourself up in thiß way; and while I don't want you to say anything that can bo used against you, I would like to know who tho man was, and how you came to do it." " I think your duty lies another way, my man. Suppose you follow it. I am quite ready," Connor said, shortly. "Oh, as for that, I know my duty ; but, naturally, I am not without curiosity,"

When tho day was gone, Luko Connor had been committed to prison, thora to await, as best ho might, his day of trial. It seemed a long way off at first; but, like all far-off events, it came, if slowly, none the less surely. He felt, when ho was called upon to enter his plea, that ho was among friendly people, and that in no man's faco amoni? them all was there a single craving look for his life. Then ho placed his hands firmly on the wooden railing before him, and, in clear, unfaltering accents said: "A man deserved death at my hands, and I killed him ; but in tho manner and form in which I stand indicted, I am not guilty." The prosecution, in their opening ad dress to the court and jury, in support of the indictment, alleged: That a murdor had been committed by the prisoner at the bar. That in proof thereof they would offer two separate and distinct admissions of the prisoner, made on the night of the -2nd day of June, 1855; and that whilo neither of theso admissions included the name or a description of the murdered man, yet they belioved and expected to prove that he was a former friend of the prisoner, viz., one George Lawronce. That, in addition to said admissions of the prisonor.tboy would offor.insupportofthein dictment, the evidence of a learned and eminent citizen, who had accidentally en countered the prisoner while his hands wero yot wet with his victim's blood, and also the piisoner's bloody garments worn at tho time of the perpetration of the murder. That, moreover, they relied upon tho following facts, which they would establish, to support the theory of tho prosecution that tho said George Lawrence was slain in cold blood by tho prisoner at the bar.

1. The aaid Goorgo Lawronce had sud denly disappeared from hia domicile and all his othor usual places of resort without any previous preparation, notico, or warning. 2. That he disappeared on the night of that fatal 22nd of June, and had never sinco been seen nor heard of.

3. That an'cxamination of hia domicile had established that ho had not intended flight nor concealment.

4. That the widost and most untiring in quiry of friends, relatives, and officers of the law, failed to supply any clue to his whoreabouta, or to assign him a place among living men. 5. That ho had loft his rooms but a few minutes previous to the prisonei . having inquired for him there, leaving a message with the servant that ho would return soon.

6. That, on that 22nd of June night, the prisoner had sought the said George Law rence in all likely andin ■ omo unlikely places, until a late hour, under the the peculiar circumstances ot a violent |storm raging, and repeated failures. 7. That the prisoner's manner during the time of this search was eager, violent and oxcited.

8. That the aaid George Lawronco had, in some manner unknown to the prosecu tion, wronged the prisoner, and that the prisoner belioved the said Lawrence had deserved doath at his hands, and that the prisoner, being instigated by the devil, did murdor the said Lawronco.

Tho prosecution in support of tho indict ment, called their witnesses, who testified to Goorgo Lawrence's disappearance on the night of the 22nd of June ; tho subsequent search for and failure to find any traco of him ; to tho excited, angry manner of the Crieoner on that night; the finding of his loody clothing ; his admissions before the magistrate. Beyond that they could not go ; and when the name of Albert Daunton was called, there waa a aonaution in the court —men and women rising up and pres sing forward, looking over each other's heads, to see the learned professor, whose evidence, it had boon said, would destroy the prisoner's chance of life.

The professor was requested to narrate the circumstances of the interview in the travellers' room of the old Stackpole Inn ; which 'he did, very slowly and carefully, evidently considering that a man'a life might hang on the proper pla oing of each word ho uttered. Occasion ally he glanced uneasily toward the pris oner, as if to convince him of hia sympathy or to let him understand that, though it was his duty to say that which might con sign him to death, it waa, nevertheless, an unpleasant thing to do. He told the story simply and [truly, and not without some feeling, too. "We have closed. Cross-examine," said the prosecuting attorney. And then this dialogue occurred between the counsel for tho prisonor and the witness: Counsel: Did the prisoner mention tho name of the man he said he had killed ? ! w

Witness: He did not. He said; '"I killed the man to-night-who did this," pointing to a wound on his temple. Counsel: Did you ask him the man's, name, or why he had killed him ? Witness : I did not. I asked him if ho cared to tell me about the matter, and he declined.

Counsel: Will you describe the prisoner's manner, nearly as you can, at that time, and say whether 'you thought him to be in full and perfect control of his faculties ? Witness: Hie mannor was excited and feverish; he was physically very weak, and would have fallen once or twioe if I had not seated him. I think hia mind wandered a little at times. He asked me a simple question one moment, and forgot it the next. I thought, at the time, that he waa not in full poe-, session of his mental faculties during all portions of the interview, at others that hie mind was never clearer.

Counsel: Did you notice, in the morning of that day, at' any time during the Commencement exercises, anything peculiar in tho prisoner's manner t

Witness: I did. At the moment he stepped forward to deliver his address to the class, he seemed to grow dizzy, threw his hand up to his face, and would have fallen, I fancied, but that he laid hold of something. I afterwards walked after him, along the Cambridge Road, into the city, and; I remarked that he frequently looked furtively over his shoulder, as if under the impression he was being pursued; his face was very pale, and his dazed, un certain manner was especially peculiar, as his success as a student and speaker had been very assured on that day. Counsel: That will do, Professor.

Albert Daunton sat down then to wait for the end, with a larger stake in. the trial than he knew.

The Commonwealth having closed, the counsel for the defence alleged in sup port of the prisoner's plea of not guilty. That no murder had been committed by the prisoner at the bar. That the one essential element in the case of the prosecution which could onable them to maintain the indictment was abaent, inas much aa the body of tho alleged murdered man had not been found nor recognised. That, aa regarded the disappearance of the said George Lawrence, the defence would show to the court and jury that the said Lawrence had ample and sufficient cause for flight and subsequent conceal ment. .

That there was no reason whatever to Buppose that the said Lawrence had been murdered or made away with at all. That the prisoner's admissions amounted to nothing, as the prisoner was non compos mentis at the time of making such admis sions and for some hours previous thereto ; all which they believed, and much of it had been, already, proved by the Commonwealth's own witness, the learned and eminent citizen already produced,by: the prosecution. ; ~ Counsel. With the permission of the oCqort we will now call witnesses to prove that George Lawrence had sufficient reasons for flight and concealment.

At this moment the prisoner beckoned to his counsel, whispered something briefly in his ear, and insisted on it against the other's continued protest. "May it please the Court," said the counsel, "wo are reluctantly compelled, by the express wishes of tho prisoner, to rest our case here. He will not permit us to call ,tho witnesses, who wo aro assured, would satisfy this court and lury that Georgo Lawrence had meditated night, ond that he had good reasons for keeping a long and enforced concealment. Our hands are tied, we can do no more. We must, there fore, submit the caae to the jury on its present merits." The Judge delivered his charge, the jury retired, deliberated, and came into Court with their verdict. " Not Guilty," the foreman said. When the verdict wbb rendered, the people there pressed forward, straining to see how it would affect the prisoner ; but they saw no change nor emotion in the man's face. He had then, as before, the same subdued, quiet manner; and later he received the congratulations of his counsel, calmly and almost listlessly. Instead of being, as was natural, tho most interested per son there, in the result of the trial, he ap peared to bo tho least so. The impassive face and manner revealed nothing; but if the man just escaped from peril of death had told thorn what he felt, he would only have eaid, " I am tired, and glad it is all over,"

Ashe stepped out of the provided room into the radiance and warmth of the fair summer day, a free man again—free to go and to come as ho willed—there was only his counsel by his side. Some of his old college-chums stood at the door, waiting for him to come out; but they did not speak to him as he _«ssed. It hurt him more than he cared to say ; but he was silent.

He parted from bis counsel at the next street, and went back to his old rooms, there to think it all out and to resolve what to do next. He found a dozen notes lying on his table, of old dates. Some enclosed' tradesmen's bills, and several others notified him of his expulsion from his college societies and his club. The harvest he had sowed, he began early to reap. Ho know that when insti tutions closed their doors against him, no pure homes would open theirs, at his summons.

He sat reading the last of these notes, -when a boy ran past outside, crying, " Evening paper." He raised the window, and called to him. When the paper was brought in, the first paragraph that caught his eye had referenco, to his -.trial. The sharp fellow who preparod the court reports said, in rogard to tho verdict, " If the laws of Scotland prevailed here, the verdict would have been not proven, instead of not guilty." "So I that would have been the verdict, would it?" he thought, (hen flung the paper from him. All this made his way dearer, easior. He determined to go away somewhere; it did not greatly matter where, but as far from civilization as possible, Then a curious fanoy seized bold of Luke Connor, and held him; he resolved to go out into the world and to make his hands earn the bread he ate; to übo the mighty strength of trams he boro, and turn it to account. Ho meant to go where his crime was unknown, and where, under a new name, maybe, he could remain un questioned, and trusted by honest men ; for men's good word and regard wore some thing essential to his being. But in taking up his resolve, he novor once thought of the old scriptural ourao, " A fugitive and a vagabond shaft thou bo in tho earth," He yet lacked a yehr of hia majority; until then, or longer, bo would live among strangers. When he came into his own, he fancied ho could buy friends and love and forgotfulnosa; and until then ho would labour liko a menial: that would help him to forgot. Then bo closed up the beautiful old rooms ; and from among the men who had known him, and who knew tho ugly history ot his crime, he suddenly disappeared ; and as timo went by, he was lost so completely from their sight that at last his name be came only a fireside legend which sent children shivering to their beds, and in which they were told the history of a man cruelly murdered and drifted far out to sea on the stormy tido of a June night.

(To be Continued.)

WINE PROSPECTS IN FRANCE.

A Groat Champagne Vintage Promised

this Autumn,

The vino interest in Franco is looking up. From many distant quarters come reports that the. plants appear richer and greener thia year than they have evor been since the phylloxera got the upper hand, and hopes are somewhat prematurely expressed that the pest is wearing itsolf out. But tho truth eeems to be that, in somo dis tricts at least, the downpeur of two winters ago partially drowned out the insect, tho only effectual mode of destroying which is inundating tho vineyards wherever land and water lend themselves to the opera tion. . The early part of the year, when the vine blossoms, was generally unfavourably to unsheltered localities. Cold wind by day and colder nights were adverse to the knitting of the fruit, and the flowers "ran " — coulaimt, as the vine grower says. The consequence is that the bunches carry quantities of little abortive grapolots, which must harm the wine.

There is, too, a very general complaint of anthrachoais, mildew, and the oidium, which first oovei- the grape with a fungus, then blackens and bursts it open, and finally rots it away. Frequent sulphur ing of the young shoots, the leaves, the buds, and the grapes by means of a special bellows is the oaly remedy for this; but the labour cos te money, and it is not always properly : practised, nor, it must be con fessed,- always qutte ewjoeesful. Plants which struggle against the phylloxera are yet bo weakened toy its attacks that their fruit is often a total prey to these other diseases, especially in the damper climates. \ This applies especially to the Bordeaux country, where, however, if the 1884 yield be smaller in consequence of the late dry, hot season, the quality is expected to be very fine. The vineyards thereabouts still hold their value. One near Pes&ac, about four miles. southwest of Bordeaux, well known as La Mission Haut-Brion, because originally planted by the monks, has just been sold to the Bouillons Duval Company of Paris for £10,000. It pro luces, one year with another, about 3,C(!0 gallons of the well-known chlof red yin de graves, so called from the gravelly soil in which the vines are planted. This vine ia rich in colour, and more robust than the most celebrated Medocas, with which it challenges comparison. Its boucpiet, soft neaa, and delicacy are also inferior. Still it commands at tttctes a .higher .price than the Rothschild Monton. It takes long to kinature—from Bix to seven years; ao that the careful may note that in about that time it may be worth while, if all goes well, to order a bottlo of Haut-Brion at a Duval restaurant,

We are promised from Rheims a grand champagne vintage this year, as to quality; the vinos are looking splended. As to quality it will be but moderate, owing to "coulaga" in the spring and tho present excessive heats. On the Loire there are no complaints save where' heavy hail-storms have been at work. In the extreme south there is a great outcry about the terrific heats, the grapes in some places roasting instead of ripening. In the Cognac dis tricts the remnant of the vine's'will give what is rurally known as a "jealous" vin tage—very good here, bad there, and mid dling further on. The native vines gra/ted on American stocks are now beginning to sell wherever they have been planted, and are the healthiest of all.

In general it may be said that unless the weather take an extroardinarily bad turn, tho complete ripening of the grapes is now assured, and that is everything as to the excellence of the wines, be the yield great or small. The consequence is that the wine sales between the proprietors and the merchants are small, and it is noticeable, too, that the importation of foreign wines to Bordeaux fell off 5,000,000 gallons in the first seven months of this year. That port alone still, however, took the immense quantity of 12,000,000 gallons from abroad during that period. Three-fifths of it came from Spain. How long will the Eng lish consumer persist in paying France Bordeaux prices for ordinary Spanish wines ?

Now Care for Diphtheria.

An Italian doctor has adopted a new and successful method of treating diphtheria. His treatment consists in wrapping the patient'-in a cold, wet sheet; repeating the packing three or four times a day, accord ing to the height of the fever. Cold com presses are kepk continually at the throat. He uses gargles of the alkaline sulphites, carbolic | acid, etc., as disenfectants, but never caustics. In 1875 six cases so treated all recovered, this disease, lasting on an average ten days. This treatment is well borne, and much liked by,,the patient. Stimulants at the same time are freely administered,—" Cleveland Leader."

The General's Ward

General Bidduli.i eat back in hi 3 chair looking tho picturo of misery, while his currie was growing cold and his henchman and trusted servant Scott was amazed and a little alarmod at such extraordinary pro ceedings. The cause of all this was a letter with a foreign postmark held feebly in the General's hand. It was briefly, nay, tersely written. "—tii Hussars, Delhi, May 10, 18— Dear Dick :—Just received your last letter; many thanks for the budget of papers you have Sent; they are most acceptable. Am anything but well, and much worried._ Will you do be a favour. My girl is anxious to see England ; it is simply impossible for me to get leave for the next two years, and, as that state of affairs does not please her, she has determined to start oil by herself. Of course she will have proper chaperonage from here, and bring her own people, but I thought you would do me a turn for " auld long syne," and look after her. It seems altogether a most unorthodox arrangement, but she is a young woman with a will, and you know my old maxim, " anything for a quiet life." She will arrive, I expect, soon after you get this, and will go first to Clarges-street with, tho lady who is taking care of her. With much gratitude and remembrances to the. old set, over, dear Dick, your affectionate friend, Druce Daly.

P.S.—Enclosed find draft on my banker for any expense she may incur. Dessa is just 19."

It certainly was an alarming prospect to a young bachelor. A young girl, untram melled, untaught, to be thus thrown on his hands! The General felt as'if an eclipse had suddenly darkened the sunshine of liis life, as if some heavy veil were dropped over the bright viata of the future. To nave his days tormented by the whims and fancies of a little minx, his social joys disturbed to escort a young savage from the Tower to Madame Tussaud'a, the thoughtwas terrible. He pushed away bis plate, and in his an noyance rumpled his carefully-adjusted locks of hair, whereat Scott grew more alarmed, and at last summoned up courage to ask his master if he would not like some fresh breakfast. The Goneral woke from his dream of horror, and looked gloomily at the man,

"Eh, what, Scott? breakfast? No. I think I shall stroll round to the'club. I have had some troublesome news."

Scott silently broughtthe immaculate hat, stick, and gloves, and stood by whilo his master rearranged hia locks and adjusted his hat.

The Goneral drew a deep breath of satis faction as he marched up St. James-street to hia club. The sun was shining gloriously, the air was warm and delightful, and gradually his depressed spirits roee, and he felt once more himself.

"After all," he mused, as ho walked along, " Daly used to bo the best fellow in the world years ago; who knows if she may not take after him ? I shall look her up in the morning, trot her about to one or two places, and then I shall have dono my duty. It is just liko Druco Daly"—his wrath was rising again—-"to putnraan of my position, a bachelor, in such an awkward fix : but he always was the most careless and shiftless man possible. Wonder is how he ever married and had a daughter. Let me see whom the deuce did he marry ?" Back into the far past fled his memory ; but although he thought and thought, he could not recall the mother of the girl who was coming to plaguo his life, " I must aak Godwin," he determined ; "he is sure to know. Deuce take it, why on earth am I to be troubled with another man's worries ? Why did the mother die ? Why did Daly marry and have a daugh ter 1"

Ilia railings at fate were interrupted by a hearty "Good morning " from a halo-looking man, as ho entered the club and sat down at the same table, whereupon was laid a dainty breakfast.

"Good morning, Godwin," ho replied gloomily, not even trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror opposite, a saro sign that ho was greatly disturbed. " Have Borne breakfaat ?" "Thanks."

Hunger waa asserting itself. He took the cup of coffee pushed across the table and stirred it round and round, hia thoughts flown away to his vexation again. " Why, hang it all, man, you look quite worried ! Anything wrong?" asked Colonel Godwin, in an interval of hearty eating. " Yes," laconically ; and then he unbur dened his mind to his friend.

Colonel Godwin looked amused,

" Well, I don't see anything very terrible in all this," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "You aro fond enough of women, aa a rule; why should you object to this one?" "Thia is a very different case,"aa_d the General testily. " I admire women, it is useless to deny it; butl like them cultivated, refined gontle, not raw, untutored savagea as this young female ib sure to be. Then, it is the greatest bore on earth to be tied and bound by the whims of a girl in her teens, who will lead me a life of horror before she is done! Want to eat penny ices in the street or some such thing I" The other laughed heartily. " I suppose having girls of one's own makes all the difference; I don't mind their chatter and fun ; it is rather pleasant than otherwise. If tbia young woman is anything like her mother was, she ought to be the most charming creature in the world." "The very thingl wanted to ask you," exclaimed General Biddulph. " Whom did Daly marry J" " She was the only daughter of Bruno— you remember him out in Cashmere. It must be, let be see," continued Colon.! Godwin, leaning back in his chair and musing—"it must be about twenty or twenty-one years ago since I saw her. She was the most lovely girl, with a face like an angel's."

The General's countenance brightened. "Daly fell" a hopeless yjctim, and in re turn I think she loved him pasasionately. He was nearly distraught when she died. The girl must be just the age her mother was when I first met her."

The General's hand stole unconsciously to his gray mustache. "And you say Mrs Daly was very lovely ?" he asked, glancing for the first time at the mirror; the break fast had certainly refreshed him.

"Very I" emphatically. " Ah, well, perhaps it may not be so bad. Druce Daly waa a good-looking chap." "He waa indeed," responded Colonel Godwin. "Let me know when this girl arrivea ; I should like to see her, ao I am suro would my wife. If she gets beyond you, pack her off to Combewall to play with my girle." "Thankß. Are you going to Spencer's ? I will come with you '! I must speak to him about my new mare."

Somehow the news crept out. When General Biddulph took hia stroll in the park a few days later ho was greeted by sly hints and tender inquiries after his ward. Fair faces beamed on him, and pretty lips mur mured kind promises to take the young stranger in hand and show her life. He began to shino with a reflected glory. Miss Daly, according to Colonel Godwin's au thority, must be a beauty, and—this was gently whispered—it was well known that Druce Daly had dollars collected in goodly numbers. The ne'er-do-wella and out-of pocket young men exhibited an extraor dinary consideration for the General's wel fare. They were always dropping in upon him unawareß, notwithstanding the prim ness of Scott and unmistakable frigidity of their wolcome. Every morning General Biddulph eagerly searched his letters in quest of some despatch informing him of the arrival of his ward, and he called twice a day regularly at Clarges-street, only to re ceive the intelligence that "Mrs Cornyns and Misa Daly had not yet arrived."

A week had elapsed since he had received Major Daly's letter, and still no tidings had come. Contrary winds or recalcitrant en gines had delayed the P. & O. with its fair | freight, and tho General was begining to be uneasy. At last one morning he was gratified when he called at the house my the announcement that "the ladies were expected that evening." Now that the actual moment was ap proaching whon he should come face to face with the muchthought-of, much talked of ward, he found himself actually nervous and excited. Scott, who had received the news with stolid silence, gazed with as tonishment at the spectacle of his master, fidgeting, actually fidgeting from the win dow to the armchair, like the veriest school boy. The • General's mind during these unusual migrations presented a brilliant panorama of future success. He saw a vista of long social triumphs in which he shared largely. Then he fell to thinking what the queen of all these joys would be like: tall and stately, small and.fragile; blue, grey, brown, black eyes; complexions fair as a lily or dusky as the proverbial berry ; a Cleopatra or a' Gretehen; soft as a ball of down, or sturdy as the Norse daugh ters. One thing, at any rate, be was certain of—she would be young. With life s apnng dawning on hercheek; how could ahe be ought but charming ? It is wonderful how a man like the General, who had lived so many years and had so much- experience, could have made this mistake. Beauty is all very well, but youth is more than often

connected with indifferent skin, lengthy limbs and gawky foms, generally desirous of wriggling out of. their garments. Hia wishes in this case were father to the picture, and he ended by starting to welcome tho traveller with the* personifica tion of female loveliness before his eye. He knocked briskly at the door in Clarges street, and smiled benignly on'the man who opened it and preceded him upstairs. The June sun was lingering on the walla as he mounted the staiicase, and the even ing air came in sweet and fresh through an open window.

It had been very hot all day, and the General was surprised at first to find a bright fire burning on the hearth of the room into which he was ushered, until he remembered that of course the travellers would feel chilly. i

The room was empty, but from an ad joining chamber came sounds of voices, loud and almost discordant,

The General shivered. Could her's be one of them ? He hoped not.

It was apparent to the meanest intelli gence that some sort of altercation was proceeding. He grew nervous. Rows and distur. banceß were at all times appalling.

After a few moments the voices dropped, and he let his eyes wander round the poom. In one corner stood a huge travelling case, with labels all over it; masses of wraps, vivid acarlot, a bearskin rag and an unmis takable Scotch plaid were tossed unheeded on the floor, while parcels and small boxes were Btrewn around in the wildcat profusion. The hands of the clock moved slowly on. Waiting is always annoying; now it was most provoking.

But justaa he was debating whether to go or stay, tho door of the inner room was opened, and a pale, fair, faded woman of about 40 made her appearance. The Goneral advanced with a low bow.

" How do you do, General Biddulph ?" she said in languid tones, extending a thin, delicate hand. "I am so sorry to keep you waiting; but I was detained by Deaßa" (sighing faintly). The General hastened to push an easy chair forward. "I am really Suite glad you'have come," continued ilrs omyns, sinking into the chair and drawing the shawl closely round her, "for she is al together beyond my reach." " Are you alluding to Miss Daly!" asked the General, hastily.

" Yes,"sighed the lady. " Out of friend ship to Major Daly I undertook the charge of nis daughter; but I was totally unpre pared for her wild temper and ways." ''"She is high-spirited?" he suggested, feebly. ; "very," Mrs Comyns replied, dryly. "My health is bo bad I am quite incom petent to manage her. i " May I not see her?" asked the General, after a pause. " Sho will be here in a moment. I dare say you beard some sounds of quarrelling as you came in. Yes, I thought so. That was Dessa giving her ayah a lesson; in fact, pulling out the poor creatures, hair in imndfuls." ' '

The General uttered an exclamation of d'3may. ~ ' " I think it is only right to let you know what she is," the lady continued, holding out her hands to the fire, though to him the room was insufferably hot, "unless you are prepared. Perhaps you are. Has Major Daly told you anything about her ?" The General was reluctantly compelled to reply in the negative. " Juat as I expected ; he ia to lazy to do anything of the sort. My own opinion is that he is too delighted to get rid 01 her for a time. lam not surprised." "But she i 8 beautiful," said the General apologetically, the picture of hia visionary ward rising clearly before him. Mrs Coinyns turned her head aside. "Sho is a trifle dark," was the reply, and some how the General traced suppressed merri ment in her tones.

"Sho is a brunette, thon ?" ho asked anxiously.

Mrs Cbmyns laughed softly. "My dear General Biddulph," she said, looking to him for one moment, "I see you are not au courant with the state of things. May I ask if you remember the late Mrs Daly f'

"I have no personal recollection, cer tainly j but I know her to have been a beauti' ful and amiable woman," he returned promptly. " That was the. first wife; I mean the

second.'

"The-second!" repeated the General, blankly.

"Itia a most extraordinary story. Major Daly, in one of bis erratic moods, wandered up country, fell ill, and was carefully nursed and tended by a native woman of inferior rank. With zeal worthy of a better cause, Major Daly sought her out when he re covered, and he married her."

Mrs Comyns's soft, low voice died away. The General stood silent as a statue. "Then this girl," he said, at length, " ia— ia—" "Black," observed Mra Comyne—"black as your hat or the chimney." A sound of rapid movement came from the inner room, the door was burst open, and before the General had time to recover himself a girl stood in the opening. "Ah, here is Dessa. Dessa, this ia your guardian,; come and shake hands with him." ■ Speechless with astonishment and vexa tion, the poor man gazed with horror on the figure before him. Short, squat, dressed in the most unearthly garb, with huge gold rings dancing in her, black ears, and in numerable silver bangles shining on her dusky arms, stood the beauty of his dreams, the heiress, his ward.. He advanced freely with outstretched hand. . The girl's face expanded into a broad grin, her white, even teeth gleaming liko pearls in their ebony setting. "She is shy," said MrsiComyns, with a smile _till hovering round the corners of her mouth. "You will be better friends by and by," . - - a ,■.;. O Murmuring some incoherent farewell, the General seized his hat and hastily made his escape from the .oom, down _he stairs and out of the house. He strode home over whelmed with , the horrible disoovery. Mortification, anger, and vexed pride surged in his heart, and he longed that moment for Major Daly's, head, that he might have relieved his overcharged feelings He would be the. laughing-stock, of the season, Alter co much anticipation, what a, result! He passed the evening alone; he could not face tlio club and sought his pillow a much depressed and annoyed man.

As he sat at breakfast the next morning, carefully studying his Brachjhaw preparatory to taking flight, Scott entered, marched up to his side, and tendered a tray with a card upon it. The General toek it up mechani cally. "Miss Daly." He dropped the innocent pasteboard as if it had been a scorpion. ''.-.. - ' . j "1 am engaged, Scott," he gasped, leaning back in his chair aghast. " Say very sorry, but "i ■ " Beg parden; General; the young lady was most anxious to see you.-" " The .General groaned. " Show her in." He turned savagely to his Bradahaw. What was he to Bay to the black-amoor when she appeared ? He could not submit to be hunted down in this-way. She must be made to understand clearly that he would have nothing to do with her, and to-night he would start for Paris en route for some place, the further fromi England the better. The door opened. He shut the book ner vously. The apparition of the night before loomed in the doorway. He turned cold j it was worse by daylight than in the evening gloom. He shut his eyes for one second, and when he opened them again they fell on the sweetest, fairest face it had ever been his lot to see. Before he could: recover his surprise the owner of the face Was speaking. "General Biddulph," she said, hesitat ingly, "please forgive me for disturbing you so early, but I could not rest until I had seen and. apologised for my nonsen ical rude ness last night." ;• The Generallooked mystified. "To whom "have I the pleasure of speaking ?" he asked hurriedly. ~. ; >

" I am Dessa Daly." " Miss Daly ! But surely—l—that is—" " Please ' let me explain all," said Miss Daly, quickly, her pretty face suffused with plushes. "I scarcely know how to begin. When we landed yesterday, some- people, friends of Mrs Comyns, met her, and when !• they were gone I learnt from her that there was a littl^ excitement about me, and—it wt*s very foolish of them—they wished to see what I was like. They told her you knew nothing about me, and, a spirit of mischief entering our heads, we determined to play a little joke on you, and pass off Sunda, here," drawing the smiling black maid forward, "as me. It was very, very wrong, but I hope you will forgive us." The General drew himseif up stiffly, ana looked decidedly grim. ;, .. i_ " I don't know what papa would say_if he knew how shockingly I had treated his old Mend," continued the culprit, her pretty head drooping gracefully J '.'but I hope—l do hope you will forgive me. __ x> "The General thawed. He took the little hand outstretched and pressed it wftrroly * .'. ■ ~ **■' " Who could resist such a pleader T" he replied, gallantly, the vision of loveliness before him dispelling all his wrath. " But, then, you were not scolding your maid last night.?":..-.-..;, ~■■. ~;-.._ "-•_ ~.-,< uA':>y-i, ~, "No, no," laughed the girl, gayly; Mthat was part of my plot. I wanted you tothink I was the most horrible creature in the world. Sunda acted that scene Jill alone for your benefit.'* ..

"She was most successful," said the Goneral, dryly'; "but I wilt be even w.th you yet, Miss Dessa, for the trick you have Slayed on me. I might have known Druce 'aly's daughter would havo a good spice of mischief in her constitution. It is just the sort of thing your father delighted to do when we were boys together." Dessa lifted her deep groy oyea to luß. "Then you have forgiven me?" she said softly. ... A7<

" Now—for ever—always 1" The General's ward was a great success,

The Professor's Other Young Woman.

Mrs Bamo., wife of William Barton, a young professor of natural philosophy, was very pretty and very good. But no human being is perfect, Of course, and Mrs Barton had the fault of being of a suspicious nature. She was devoted to her husband, and he' to her, yet, when they were near any other pretty woman, she would watch Mm with a jealous vigilance,. Of this the professor, always engrossed with his own thoughts upon tha doctrines of sound and acoustics —a subject he had long studied and care fully investigated—was happily uncon scious. One day the proprietor of a museum called upon him, and was shut up with him a long time in hia study. "Will you please tell me what he wanted!" said Mrs Barton to her husband when the visitor had gone. " I promised the man that I would tell no one, Mary, and I mußt keep my word. But you will know in time. "It must be a melodious voice," muttered the professor to himself, as he again relapsed into a, pro found reverie —■ "very sweet, very feminine." ~,,: , : "What I" cried his wife, aghast, " Did you speak ?" he again asked. ; " It was nothing," she said, seating her eelf in a rocking-chair, and rocking to and fro.' i ',-.,. ~, ~,...

He rose and went to his study., " Very sweet and very feminine'?'.' That was what he said to himself, and the words kept ringing through her brain. . She guessed what it meant in a moment. -The museum man had invited him to go to the museum for a business purpose, no doubt, but it was connected with some Of: his female singers. The professor would doubtless be introduced to her, and then it would all end-at last in his going off with, her. Yes, that was very evident—oh yes— and now what was she to do ?

" I will not say a word to him about it," thought the grief-stricken wife, " but I'll watch—l'll watch closely, and I'll baulk the artful minx, whoever she may be." o "I have some very noisy experiments to make, Mary," said net husband on the fol lowing day, " The neighbours may wonder and ask questions, so I will hire a room for a study away from .home. I think that lonely old housejust outside the village will do."

She simply bowed her head, but her heart beatrapidly. . .1 "So the game has commenced," she thought. , . Before night the professor had removed all his experimental apparatus—brazen tubes, articles of brass ana glass, coils of wire, trumpets, &c, to the old house he had selected. , .

There he worked day after day in a room on the ground floor—the only.one which was habitable—with locked • door and closed shutters. His wife kept as vigilant. a lookout as was possible. Often]at night, when ho did not come home, she would go and listen at the door and the closed shutters. But as yet sho heard nothing to confirm her suspicions, : On the following evening, when starting on her usual spying expedition, she took, with her a pistol, which Mr Barton had, always kept in his room, but which, he had informed her, was never loaded. Her' reason for taking it on this occasion was that, just before dark, she' had seen tramps lurking about the village,' and she thought that if they should assault her on her way for- the purpose of robbing her of her beautiful gold ring and earrings—presents from her husband—she might be able to frighten them off with the weapon. 0 Nothing of this .kind, however, took place. She reached the old house and listened at tho shutters, when, to her dis may, she really heard a woman's voice in the room.

She also heard the voice of the museum proprietor, and .the convictions at once flashed uivon her that he had brought the female singer and introduced her to the professor. She endeavoured to open the shutters a little without noise, and at last succeeded, as they were merely: fastened with a string. .- -> What did she see through the window ? A eight that froze her very blood, and set her heart throbbing wildly, while her brain reeled so that she could Scarcely stand.

In the centre of the room stood a female figure, clad in a fantastic garb of gold and tinsel, with a plumed hat | gracefully poised on her head. The professor, her husband, stood with both hands upon the shoulders of this handsome figure, apparently looking straight into the eyes, The museum man in the further corner of the apartment had his back to the twain, while examining a curious apparatus of glass and wire, in one corner. v '

And now, hark I The professor speaks to the fair one, upon whose shoulders his hands are still resting. . i "Do you love me?" he inquires, in a clear, distinct voice. . - ,■; "I dot" replied the other softly and melodiously; ~,.•.. - : ,: : v " The shameless huzzy !" i gasped Mrs Barton, "and there before a third nerson, too. I cannot endure this perfidy 1 No! no! no Ito think that William could deceive me so 1" k With mingled rage and anguish she stood, her gaze rivetted' upon the female form in the room. • : . ■>;•,(; Her husband had now turned away. She pulled the pistol from her pocket. ;i ,•'. " I willlet them know .1 have been a wit-, ness to their base conduct,".'she groaned.: "And she, that brazen, woman,, 1.,wi1l at least have the satisfaction of frightening her!" :-.,,.- ■.<{• '-A . A.AA

She pointed the pistolat theheadof the fair object of her rage, and was about to utter a Ciy to attract the letter's attention, whan, lo 1 the trigger upon vrhioh she had pressed fell with a dick, and to her dismay, tho weapon, which she had thought was not loaded, went off with a loud report.l, ~. : . There was a groan from the gracoful female form in the room, as it .dropped to the floor, the bullet having passed through the right temple 1 "What have I done?" gasped,the;un: happy wife, and with wild terrorand dismay she fled homeward. She hurried-into her chamber on reaching the house, and gave way to-remorse and anguish. "A murderess I I a murderess !V she moaned, wringing, her hands. "I did not mean to do it, but who will believe that!"

She walked the floor until her strength gave way, and, half fainting, she sank upon a chair. ...

"Ob, if William .ould only come 1" ahe cried, rocking herself to and fro. "I will confess all to him, but even he may not be lievOmel" - '"■■'■> ■ !.-v_!"V_i

At last she heard voices outside. She looked out of the window, and saw before the door the stout person of the village con stable, whose lantern also revealed near him the form of her husband. ' ■■ "■<

" The constable has come to arrest me !" she gasped in wild terror, and she dropped senseless upon the floor. t -: ... When she opened her eyes,!her husband: was tenderly Bending over her, applying camphor to her forehead. Sno raised herself on her elbow in the bed, where she now lay, and looked at him: a moment, ere the memory of the fearful deed she had perpetrated returned to her mind. - ••■< -•■

'.' Yes 1 yes 1 • William !" she screamed. " I did it, but don't let the constable arrest me !; I did not know that the pistol was loaded when I aimed it at that woman I"

The professor, who had looked puzzled at first, now seemed to divine the truth.

" So it was you, Mary, whofirod that un fortunate shot ?" . O O■- Ol ,' "Is the woman dead? Have I killed her?" gasped the poor wife. .'And where ia the constable?** she added, glancing round her with a look of terror., •<■ , » The constable did not enter the house. He only accompanied me ta the tor, 1 had spoken to him about the outrage, and we were trying to talk over eomejilan for the apprehension of the guilty party; but I did not dream it was you. The woman is not dead," be added smiling, "although she was shot through the temple," «What!" cried- his wife; astonished. " What do you mean—not dead ?" ■/.. " No. Now tell me why yon aimed, the pistolat " j. "Oh, William," she interrupted, the tears rushing to her eyes, " surely you must -know that woman with you I I—l—was driven almost crazy." "I see," he said gravely. _^iY<ra.have been spying upon me. lam very sorry foi this, Mary—Borra-you had so little confi dence in me. , However, we will say no more about that. Are you strong enough to go with; toe to my room in the other house?"he continued. _■«■.;. _-. Yes, ainywhere-^anywhere." .■ i _■?. . "Then come, ond I will show yon some thing," .' A/ ' - •-••■' ■•■'- ---:"---"

• The two soon reached tho professor's study in the old building. He lighted a lamp, and then pointed to the floor, where lay the female figure which had aroused his ~ wife, jealousy and rage. This figure, - she now discovered, wosJ iiS merely of wood and plaster, dressed in, 'A feminine apparel—ln a theatrical costume. ' > The head had been partially broken by the. S shot, so that tho complicated machineiy -■■ inside, which the professor had been. _0... long preparing and had put there, was | partly visible. ■ T , .* ■-.■/

I " The museum proprietor sent' the images to me a few days ago," said Mr Barton, 1 " He meant to exhibit it in his museum r,s • S tho 'talking image,' after I had put in it - the machinery by means of which it was to _ I be made to speak certain words ; the works I for the purpose being regulated by pressuie ■ upon a spring in each shoulder. , That shot a 1 ot yours lias broken somoof the wires."'7 "But I-arh sure Iheard the strfinge3 ' thing groan after I fired,"; <; "It was\ the severed clock-like wiie running down that "made a noise very - lil-e a groan," answered the professor,•■• . | nately, the damage, though serious, can be - repaired.":' . " « AA " Ah,'mo'V see what I have done through % | my foolishness," cried the penitent wile, - throwing herself on hie breast. "Canyour! | forgivem'e?" :;~'';-': ,:." ■■■•■• -• ••< , "Freely;" kindly answered her husband, kissing her, "but you must never doubt n 0 agaiil"" .

LAST WORDS.

The Closing Scenes In the Life of TWO _

Groat Men.

The , last scene, of all in, fiction and Ho« »'| grapby is generally the .most affecting and often the moßt characteristic, One v j might make a curious collection of extracts to show how frequently those who are just -. crossing the river recur, at the moment of ' unconsciousness, to striking events in for- jpj mor years, or to occupations which, liavo taken a Btrong hold of the sufferer when in active lifq, The last words of Napoleon A. were remarkable for this,, and we have -lately been struck by tho account of the , death of that great magistrate, Chief Jus tice JParson,"! "of,; Massachusetts;'- hi' tlo'-: - memoir by his son, the late Professor P«r-- '•'< Bohs.iof the' Harvard- Law School :> t "Bis iim thoughts, when he could no- lOngO. contr-1 'At§ them, went back to his duties - and hisi . - business, and responded unconsciously t0... his condition, as death drew near to clote H his ' .earthly career. - When he spoke, nitr in; was as a judge, giving answers, directions,., o-j etc. At last after a suspense of all speech ; so long that-wd thought we should never' hoar his voice again, ; ,h%.suddenly -revived, vl..1 and, with perfect distinctness, spoke,fortho ~■<' last time 'on earth that formula which' he ' had used hundreds of times;,- -' Gentlemen j£j '* of the jury, the case is cloßed, and | in. syour hands. You will please retire and agree iM upon your verdict."' Almost the same thing is said in tie ' biography of Lord Chief Justice Tenterden, . ~ We quote from his life by Lord Campbell: • "An access- of fever' 'supervening, he was- ' I put to bed, from which-he-hever-. rose. ;He- 3__\ became delirious and talked incoherently, - 1 Afterward he seemed to, recover, his ,-coni posure, tad, raising his.hea- from the pilloWf jlf was heard tb .ay, in a slow' and eolei__nft6i-p; •' as when ha used to conclude his summingup in cases of great importance.:;.' jAnd now, v., ■ gentlemen'■;of, the, jury, you will consider your verdict.' 'These were his lost wordr, '-.: When he had tittered .them hi- head sat k : down, and in a few minutes he -expired without a groan," ■ '.-', 1 In connection with the above, it affords us pleasure to print a communication from an accomplished scholar, whose accuracy in ' matters of history is 'only: equalled by the j' elegant simplicity of his style. ' i\ " I met the other day a little article on ' ' the difficulty1 of getting correctly' at the last- - ■ M words of great men; and referring particu- - * larly- to William Pitt; It* brotight __ my mind Daniel Webster; The'evening before g_ ho died'-his 1 phyeidanirepeated to tim the ■•■■ words, ' Thy rod and Thy Btaff they coni--^ j i fort me;' and-Mr Webster replied,-as -• in sympathy, but too weMc- W "■ ebm-[-':---- ---§lete - the- sentence,^ '■' "Thy¥bd' ard'-r M 'hy staff "—the fact^the fetb^l 1 Jwant_*«* B Here the 1 ttia-ter; rested-; a." 1? a .""first %«^. Corted, anil, rI think, as publicly repeated- ■ y Mr The,true account; as ,t ' camei to-'_je 'Very'directly, is;as follows; -' Mr.-Web_ter;asked' whether he was likelj^ to live till mirhing. 'r'His, physiciaii; -Dr.'.,'' A Jeffreys, not wilUng'-togivefrdireetahswer,* ' -A repeated, ,from.: the 23-d Psalm, 'Thy rod '" and thy staff," _„, Mr Webster'saw i the'''':;f evasion,'and in' a:clear and rather seVeiß*"* tone, said. * "Thy rod-and thy staff V'rriATi the fact, the fact, I want,'i.e., ho wanted': an answer to his question.' *""' ' ■--"« '3'*;;<* - ,'.This-reminds mo ol the list,''prnearly'' _M tho last words of his distinguished' friend :1* Jeremiah Mason. Hia daughter said in a -r" suppressed voice 'Heisdying.' MrMaioii A A asked what sho was saying. ;I-_Vothinr,"";-' father,'she replied.. ' 'Precisely what Worcs dldyou!Uße' ; to. •say,h6tKi_i'g'?,i was the qn'ei •"-' '■'■'-.■ tion then put bythf great lawyer and'crosE«^ "*' -' examiner. In f both .t/hese instances the' r clear, penetrating intellect of theadyocate , ' continued to the-last." ~.«.; . ; ' ,■•■-,' ■-'■■ '"" "" :''"'-' "j'r.-''i- '?■-.VI

A Ghost Story from the Pacific.

AooßßßOTONflßOTin'Canton sends -the fol-• •'-■■ lowing story' for the Spiritualists from the 7!' Marshall Islands j—,',',The end of last year, ij or the.beginningof this; an American ship,/!»S the KaniOr,';was Wrecked'on these '•■ ifelahdp,. s© and about twenty meti""found^ refuge."on .4 the^.t But their nUniber being1 too' _fatf* - - fortheir supply.! broyisiona, it was agreed that the party shouldseparate. The captain '! caused a small twenty-ton schobnor to be 8 built of the remains of the wreck, and tak- ' ing teniof the oreW ahda share of the visions-sailed away _6r".andther iilahd ot"I*1 ''* the group, about, three hundred miles off,*' " The restoff the crew were, left in (I "' the.first, mate^ason-in-law of:;:thie :r-captaii:, .-':--' £ The second mate was sentoffto make' his wj way to Saigon andappeal for aid; This he did, finally reacßing HongKcng, when the v ■*: 9?,7,*!. lEssex was despatched to the # rescue,' Carrying the second "mate" as' o' '■' guide; MeanwM^ the king !of;thc iiUtd - on which the shipwrecked men were, Who " was kind and friendly" to tbem, .was full of ■ forebodings as to the:fate of thfe. _iptiuh .? -' party and the'sdeond .mate; said - they*' - would never' see therd' again, and so onjj '■'■ ■ •But oneday he <jame With different tidiiSgr, ' It seems he' was in the habit of holding . spiritual'comkuhion 'with W dead wifp, "'v "" by name glivia,". In one of' these seapc.B he had, I suppose, asked her if sh^ could give him. any tidings, . any "hopes' for his ! shipwrecked friends. She said that on a ' Sunday a sail would,bo seen, and they ''' would be rescued. The King brought t_i_ newswith greatjoy to the refugees, and Wish ' some curiosity they awaited .the res'ul', ; This must have- beeti. Some' four : montl s !" after they were wrecked. Sure enough om the following Sunday a sail was seen, but "' in spite of their efforts to attract attention. ; the ship passed - on.. her. course. But tb_ Sunday after that the' rescuing ship, the ' BBB6X, appeared in 'flight, and''eventually - . took them all off. This t story'was rela. d: I by_ an officer of the' Essex to . _ friend of ' mine, who at 6nce came ahd» told it rce, I will add, that for the benefit'of any ardor, ts $ or .newspaper who may desire'to go at once to the "Mar- '>' • shall ,8-ands in searphof revelations from savage mediums, or to interview the, Kir g,'.-'.. that,these islands are in the North Paciuc Ocean, to the S; W; of the Sandwich Isles, and there is very little communication wit h ' them."

Strange Discovery of Human Remains.

j Thi: workmen engaged In making somo ! sewer.connections at St. AJbunscamo uj _n a pit containing^ very large squantity of human remains. Strange to say, they con- , I sis'ted almost entirely of skull and limb bones, only one rib being found, the skulls ' ~ being certainly;more than a hundred in ''■■'. number, and the whole, find amounting to > quitea cartload. The fact that skulls, leg, % and arm bones alone were found would :1aa3'.:... to the supposition that some'wholesale pro- \ ■ cess of decapitation "and dismemberment '! had been carried on in some .bygone days, ' The remains were.interred'but four feet '. from the surface and about two from tho roadside, and in very close proximity to the foundation of the wall which, in the-•"•' ■-. Roman period, surrounded Verulam. The '•"' pit containing the' remains, which are clearly those of both old and very young , persons, is about feut feet in diameter.. Some twenty years ago a, similar,; qu(mtl&i_j of human bones wore found. It is recorded ' that in theyear;l74s, atthe timebf Ch'arls-Hl Edward's, v rebellion—to which period tho bones' apparently date—a riurnber of exocu cutions took place in immediate proximity' to the spot where the remains are,,now fuund, but this would in no way account for the largo number found, as only .about . ten executions Jobk place hero . "

THE AUCI_J_AND^ J5. ■.!&«.» ~-^«~

3



' FLIES AND BUGS. l«ii_.(__W __h_, ra_i»*&S l,Uii.ji,u^__.£. .hfrt. chl^t_ou_, _U__d oat t7 ~Jt-aih .« ' o --> '"•"I" tM^fwnw .*^f &_!!£_■&* .?. ~__.