THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, JUNE 11, 1887.

[SUPPLEMENT.

Ruby's Reward.

BY MRS GEORGIE SHELDON, Author of "The Forsaken. Bride," »' Brownie's Triumph," " That Dowdy," etc.

CHAPTER I.

4. STORY, A DEATH, AN» -V Viix "WA-TER." "Yes, Uncle Ralph." "I know that my days a;<J numbered.

have felt that the end was drawing near 'during the last week, and now then ani two or three things that I want to say to you privately. Como nearer, Walter, where I can see .you while I tell you what I

have in mind

Blanting beams of grnlight s* >>jtS_s-3-P In through tho western window o. a lofty -room, lighting up its delicately-tinted walls, brightening the warm, rich hues of the handsome carpet, and touching with a gentle radiance all the beautiful and luxurious furnishings which gave to the apartment an air of elegance and comfort.

Upon the quaintly-carved and canopied bed, from which the costly lace and silken curtains had been drawn far back to allow the air to circulate more freely, there lay Iv grey - haired old man, whoso sunken features, fading eyes, and laboured breath ing told but too plainly that his days were indeed "numbered."

A young man, who had been sitting by another window, arose upon being ad dressed as above, came forward, and seating himself by the bedside, bent over the in valid, with a look of mingled love and grief upon his face. He was appa_f_ntiy about twenty years of &ge, with a finely shaped head, clear and cameo-like features, intelligent eyes of dark brown, with large pupils, frank and steadfast in their gaze, and shaded with long brown lashes, while his hair was of the same colour, and fine and glossy as a child's.

It was a good face ; honest, tender, and true; a face to win the heart of a loving Woman, the confidence of innocent child- Yen, and the faith of strong men ; and the eyes of the sick man lingered fondly and •wistfully upon it,as if striving to impress its every lineament upon his heart ere it should fade from his sight for ever. " I am afraid you will tax your strength too much, Uncle Ralph, if you try to talk," the young man said, in tones as gentle as a woman's.

"No, I think not, Walter; but, if it Should, I must tell you all the same," was the resolute reply. Then, after a moment or two of thought, the sufferer continued : "You ha**-!long known how I cwne to take you, when you were a little I***l id rear and educate you." "Yes."

"'But you have not known the story of a -lozen year 3or more previous. You have hot known that your mother was the love of my early manhood." " <rNo;" and the young man looked up with a start, while a vivid flush mantled his brow _t this intelligence. ' '"Yes," pursued his companion, with a long-drawn Sgh, and a quiver of his palp, fiihlipS. 7" B_die Walcot was a lovely girl, : tiie belle of the village where we lived, and . _\oved her as man loves but once in his life. -;We were pledged to each other, and were to I _) married in a few months, when some one : boisoned her mind against me. She called ;ft. to accouut. 1 was headstrong, passion ate. I resented her lack of faith m me, and ;we parted in anger. I left the place imme diately-and went West, where I launched recklessly into speculation; > My operations exceeded my most sanguine expectations, and after three or four years I resolved to come East again, find my Sadie, beg her . forgiveness for having been so unreasonable, and ask her to give herself to me again, and . -hare my good fortune. But I learned that misfortune had overtaken her, and she had -eft the place, but .where she had gone I could not ascertain, although I spent nearly three months searching for her. I then re turned to the West, and, after a time, married a wealthy and beautiful girl who did honor to the position I gave her as long as she lived."

Again a deep sigh heaved the sick man's chest, as if the memory of his marred lifo had not been all that he could have desired, even though his proud, beautiful wife had honoured her position, and shone a brilliant star in the circle in which she had moved. ...... " Well," " you remember how one day I .met you in the great city of' New York, and something in your poor, little pinched face attracted me. You begged for a nickel to buy your mother, some bread. I asked your name, but that told me nothing, though something impelled me to go home with you to see if your story of destitution was true: and—oh, my boy! I cannot think of it even now without a thrill of horror! there I found my long-lost Sadie— starving !" " Yc_i know," he went on, stifling a sob, " that it was too late to do more than make her comfortable for the little while that she was to live ; but I trust—yes I know, that I brightened her last hours by pro mising to care for you as tenderly as if you were,my own son. I haye ; tried to keep that promise to the letter, my boy." „ > ... £.And you have, Uncle Ralph, the young-man interrupted, with deep emotion. "No father could have been more faithful and kind to me than you have been. I have often wondered why you were so gentle and kind to, me and now I under stand it: it was for my mother's sake— because you loved her." "Yes, I loved her far too well for my own peace of mind, for I never forgot her, nor ceased to lon-? for the tender love which I knew she would have given me. Per haps it is weak in me to confess so much ; hut wealth and fashion do not always contribute to the highest happiness ot tome;- remember that, Walter, whenyou choose your wife, as you will do one of these 7 days. But it has not been wholly for your mother's sake that I have loved and carea for you ; it has been for your own as well. You have always been a good and dutitui %. You have been a great comfort to me, 7»nd I have taken great pride in watching you develop. But! must not dwell upon the.past, for there are other things which 1 wi»h to talk to you about. Your mother wished me to tell you sbmething when ypu should become of age; but first I want to 'Peak about your plana for the future- Just before you entered' college you said wmething about a profession." "Yes, gUncle Ralph, I have always .anted to be an architect; and after i equated from the academy, I felt aeu x . °«ght to begin to do something for myseit >t you appeared so set upon my going °<%c that I finally yielded the point. .-V'-O. course it was best that you should Mm a collegiate education "W^gg* :. M would le time enough for a profoision •ftfithat. You have two yean more,a* |||c and, Walter, it is my, W-h^ha*^ them. After that yon shall be an i_9m*&, or anything else you choose. 1 Ksgffile ample provision for you ; ,4J«W he abuncLt means-fdr you-to do Jjjjvw you like. Ah! oh!-whab is ■-■ ■ '*■■•■' - • ■ • -■•.'.'...'■

hi? «.£ ?ld stoPPed- gasped, clutched at tIW ft' , an, dgrew Shastty white, and then suddenly lost consciousness. W w l afccher at "is bedside sprang to his feet, and rang the bell a furious peal w__ lv -oftered to sit with the invalid ol t Zt f __? . l. urse wenfc i™ a resfc and change, and Ralph Carpenter had seized _i__° p P°rfcimlfcy fc° make known his wishes respecting the boy whom he had taken i_?,. i _ * dyins m°bher, and reared and lovea as his own son ; also a communication _r_J_" P. rt_ .c,e wWch that mother had de sired should be made known to him when ne should come of age. But he was weaker than he thought, while the excitement of recalling the past had been more than he could bear, and had brought on this attack, from which he was never to recover.

Walter's ring was immediately answered by the appearance of a servant, who was followed by a young man of perhaps twenty-five years, whose faco instantly assumed a disagreeable frown as he saw Walter bending over his unconscious friend, and using such restoratives as were at b. _nd.

This young man was Edmund Carpenter, only son of Ralph Carpenter, and Walter Richardson, the child of his father's early love,had never been a favourite with him, as we shall see later.

A physician was summoned at once, and everything that human agency could do was done to arouse the dying man from the stupor into which he had fallen. Bub every effort proved unavailing., The learned and skilful doctor pronounced the sudden attack a stroke of paralysis, and said that a few hours would doubtless ter minate the patient's life, for vitality was at such a low ebb that he could not possibly rally.

That night, while the nurse kept watch in_ the chamber of death, together with Walter, who could not be persuaded to leave the bedside of his blessed benefactor while life remained, and who kept hoping against hope that he might rally and speak once more, Edmund Carpenter was locked in the sumptuous library below, where, with curtains drawn close, and a heavily shaded lamp, he was busily, though noise lessly engaged in examining the contents of his father's private desk. This was a quaint, ponderous, old fashioned affair, which Mr Carpenter had purchased from a friend who had met with reverses and was obliged to sacrifice his household goods, among which was this desk, which a wealthy ancestor had brought from England in old colonial times. It was a treasure of its kind, and would have delighted the heart of any lover of an tiquated furniture, for it contained all manner of mysterious nooks and corners, such as pigeon-holes, closets, secret drawers, and sliding panels, for the con cealment and reception of important docu ments and papers.

It was well filled with things of this sort, and, hour after hour, Edmund Carpenter sat before it, uever making a sound that could be heard outside theroom but examin ing most critically everything the desk contained.

Pigeon-holes were emptied and their con tents looked over; draw after draw un locked and carefully inspected • secret places were curiously peered into, but evidently without accomplishing the pur pose which the young man had in view, for he wore a frowning brow and his whole face, which was naturally of a handsome cast, was rendered extremely unpleasant by the almost fierce expression that per vaded it. *

Finally a little closet was all that re mained to be examined, and this was locked.

But there was a tiny key, attached to tho bunch beloning to the desk, which fitted it, and it.was the work of but a moment to unlock it and expose a pile of legal-looking documents neatly stowed within. Edmund Carpenter moved the lamp nearer—somehow he hesitated to take those papers out as he had the others—and, as the light fell upon tho one lying at the top, he read two words that made him start and grow suddenly pale. " Last will," was all that he saw, though there was something else written beiieatt it, but those words were enough to set everj/ drop of blood in his veins boiling with anger, while his white teeth came together with a vicious snap that betrayed the displeasure which the knowledge that his father had made a will caused him.

"I was afraid of it—l was almost sure of it," he growled, under bis breath, and then, leaning his head on his hand, he sat for a long time absorbed in deep thought. But, at length, he aroused himself, and turned his attention again to the contents of the closet

He slipped his finger under the obnoxious document that had so disturbed him, and peered at the one underneath. It proved to be a mortgage. Lifting one end of this, likewise, and one after another of those remaining, he ran, through the entire lot, all of which were either mortgages, bonds, or insurance papers. Then, with a sigh, and an angry jerk of his hand, as he realised that the wealth which those valuable documents represented was doubtless destined to be sharedjwith' one whom he had always despised, of whom he had always been jealous, he let them settle back into their place ; but in so doing the top one-that one labeled " Last Will"— slipped suddenly backwards and disappered from sight.. A look of surprise came over Edmund Carpenter's face. He removed the other papers, and noticed that at the back of that tiny closet there was quite a crack between the panels. ' ~ ~ ~ , The "Last Will" had fallen through this and now lay somewhere underneath in the interior of the quaint old desk ; but where, he could nob tell without knocking the thing, to pieces. A peculiar smile suddenly shot over the face of the man. "It would be a pity if either of these other valuable documents should meet with a similar fate," he muttered. "I wonder if this bottom panel could not be slipped back to close that crack." He pressed hard against it. »' It moved a little. . . He tried again ; the board slipped into place, and the crack was closed. With a sighof relief, and with a resolute air, he replacedthe remaining papers as he had fonnd them, locked the tiny closet, put the rest of the desk in perfect order, closing _n_ lockins* the cover over all, extinguished Ss S !nd then stole softly from the library to go to hi. own room above. As he passed his father's door he paused a moment to listen. n -He-had hardly done so, when the door opined noiseles-ly, and Walter Richards confronted him on the threshold. _ "Ah ha' How is he now?" the son stammered, in some confusion at being found in that attitude. .- , "Failing. lam going down to the dining-room for some brandy. Will^you go in'" Walter answered, as he stepped aside to allow the dying man's son to pass into tb«Bdo any good?" Edmund asked, casting a glance of awe within the chamber °f " No one can do any good now," Walter answered, with a quivering lip; but you may like to be with him at the end. m il Nolthat is-I'm afraid it might unman me " faltered the dutiful son with an ashen £<_> at the thought; " but if you need me, 7TalterWek and passed silently on about his errand, while Edmund Carpenter crept away to his own room, where, with Sdoor closed and locked, he. shook his clenched fist in the direction of the hall be no fear -not. of your rob. bingS inheritance. G vehimallthe a Son yo/like, he is P^ee^g your arts, and you will get nothing foi it.

Yes, Ralph Carpenter was past all know ledge of either Walter's faithfulness- or Edmund's neglect ; past ever righting a great wrong that had been perpetrated that night.; past making known more of his wishes regarding the future of the boy whom he had so dearly loved, and past revealing to him certain information respecting his own ancestry, which might have made a vast difference in the life that he was now destined to lead during the years that were to follow.

CHAPTER 11. "choose your own path, and walk un aided IN IT." Ralph Carpenter, the master of Forest vale, a beautiful estate, in the suburbs of the City of Brotherly Love, was dead. lie breathed his last toward morning of the next day, after the sudden attack men tioned in the preceding chapter. Walter and the nurse remained with him till the end, watching the tide of life ebb slowly away, and doing what they could for his comfort, while the son and heir slept soundly until morning, and awoke to be told that his father was no more. Edmund Carpenter made no outward demonstration of grief, though he went about with a pale, set face, and insisted that every mark of respect should be paid the dead in the approaching obsequies. But down in his heart there was really no deep-seated sorrow on account of his loss ; for f our long years he had been cherishing a feeling of resentment toward his father for an act which should have commanded his highest admiration and love, and now the discovery that he had just made re garding a a\ rill having been left, had served to embitter him ten-fold. He had always been keenly jealous of Walter. The boy, from the first, had been a veritable thorn in the flesh to him, although he had taken pains to conceal the fact from his father, from a fear of incurring his displeasure, but the feeling had grown with his growth nevertheless. Edmund Carpenter had been an ex tremely selfish boy ; he was, consequently, an extremely selfish man, and the thought that anyone should come between him and any portion of his inheritance—as ho-had feared Walter would, knowing how ten derly his father loved him—was torture _o him.

He was five years Walter's senior, and had reached fifteen years of ago when Mr Carpenter returned from a trip to New York, bringing with him'the little lad-who was henceforth to share equally with him in all things. Mrs Carpenter had died two years pre viously, but had lived long enough to thoroughly imbue the mind of Edmund with much of her own cold, proud nature. She had always been a woman of the world, of fashion and pleasure; wealth, position, and style were more to her than oither love or home, hence her noble and sensitive husband had been heart-starved and homesick during all his married life, and it was no wonder that he had cherished the memory of, and longed for, the gentle, beautiful girl whom he had loved so fondly in the d iys of his early manhood. He had confided to his son the story of his early love when ho brought Walter to his home, telling him how sweet Sadie Walcot had been true to her affection for him for long years, and then, being friendless and alone in the world, had given her hand to a man who loved her well enough to take her to his heart, though he, could never occupy the first place in hers. But all this confidence was sadly mis placed, for the high-spirited youth had re garded tho confession as an insult to the proud woman whom he had called mother ; he had regarded it as an insult to himself, also, to thus force upon him, the son of a millionaire, the " society of a low-born beg gar," for thus he regarded Walter, and his aversion continued to. increase from year to year as he saw how fondly his father was growing to love him, and how the boy de voted himself to the friend and benefactor to whom he owed so much.

Ralph Carpenter had never hinted that he intended to make a will; but Edmund had long suspected that he had done so. Had he not said from the first, " Hence forth Walter is to be the same as a brother to ynu. I want you to love each other as brpij.3l., and share alike in all things?" _.n_hehad made no distinction in tho years that followed. Walter had had every thing that heart could wish ; every luxury and pleasure, every advantage of education, the same as if he had been an own son.

But of course he could not share in the property unless some legal measures had been adopted to secure a portion of it to him. If Ralph Carpenter mado no will, all his large estate — his bonds, mortgages, and bank account, would fall, by the law of inheritance, to Edmund, his son. This, he knew, would not be in accordance with his father's wishes, consequently he had been very sure that there was a will somewhere, and when he knew that he could not live many hours, he had set himself the task of finding that will, determined to know its contents before it could pass into other hands.

What more he intended to do we cannot say, we simply know that he found the will yet he did not learn one word that it con tained, for a strange fate wrested it from his grasp before his desecrating hand could tamper with it. We know how eagerly he accepbed bhe situation, and what measure he adopted to preclude the possibility of it ever being found, by closing up the. aperture through which it had fallen into some hidden nook in that quaint old desk. Of course no one would ever think of breaking the thing to pieces to search for it, and there it might lie for ages, and the 'law of inheritance would have its way. The obsequies were conducted with all the ceremony which would naturally be ex pected for a man who had stood so high as Ralph Carpenter had stood in the city, where he had resided for so many years.

He had possessed many friends, and been profoundly respected, both as a business man and a citizen, as the large number of people who followed to his last resting-place testified.

When aty was over, of course, questions regarding the settlement of his large pro perty came up for discussion. Everybody knew that Walter Richardson had been ,like a dear "son to the man ; he had been carefully reared and educated; there had, apparently, been no distinction between him and Edmund, and people naturally expected that some handsome provision had been made for him. On the return of- the family from the costly tomb in Laurel Hill Cemetery, Mr Fairbanks, a firm friend of Mr Carpenter, and one who had occasionally transacted important business for him, asked Edmund if he supposed his father had made a will. "He may have done so, Mr Fairbanks," replied the young man, with apparent candour. " You know he. has always been very fond of Walter, and he may have wished to secure something to him, which of course, could only be done in that way. Suppose you assist me in lookine over my father's papers and see how matters stand" Mr Fairbanks was agreeable to this pro position, and a thorough investigation was made; but no will was found, although that intricate old desk was ransacked' from end to end.

The gentleman expressed himself greatly surprised at this result, for he said that he had heard Mr Carpenter repeatedly remark that he intended to provide liberally for Walter's future.

"I presume my father felt he could safely leave that matter to me," Edmund re marked, with some dignity. "Of course," he added, " it would have simplified things somewhat if we could have known just what his wishes were; but since we cannot,* we shall have to do the next best way," and there the subject rested. 7

But Mrs Coxon, the faithful old house keeper, who had served many years in the family, and who had been almost like a mother to the two young men, could not be reconciled to the fact. ' After her first expressions of surprise and dismay, she had looked very wise, and re marked with some asperity, that, " It was very strange, for she had been requested by her master, more than two years before, to sign a document—whether it was a will, mortgage or, what all, she couldn't say ; but she believed on her honour that it was a will. Mr Simons, Mr Carpenter's most in timate,friend, had signed it also." This was a revelation to Edmund Car penter; but he took it very calmly, for Mr Simons had been abroad nearly a year, and was likely to remain as much longer. But even in the event of his return, since no will could be found, his interests could not be seriously affected, as it would be natural to infer that, if his father had ever drawn up such a document, he must afterward have destroyed it. To Walter, however, this state of things seemed inexplicable. Ho had confidently believed that his Uncle Ralph, as he had been taught to call him, had made a will ; for he had distinctly told him, only a few hours before he died, that " he had made ample provision for him ; that there would be abundant means to enable him to do anything he liked." But now he was dependent entirely upon Edmund's genorosity, and the feeling of dependence was very galling to him. He knew that Edmund had never regarded him with favour ; there had been a hun dred ways by which he had betrayed it when not in the presence of his father, and his life, now that his best friend was gone, was lonely and sad indeed.

. He was loft very much to himself, t° go or come as he pleased. Edmund seldom addressed him or noticed him in any way. At meal timo his presence at table was ignored, except when good Mrs Coxon would try to make things a little more cheerful and pleasant by seeking to draw him into conversation, whereupon Edmund would immediately subside into dignified silence ; and, as tho days went on and tho time for his return to college drew near, there were many ways by which Walter was made to feel like an alien and an in truder in the house.

His liberal allowance, with which Mr Car penter had supplied him from month to month, had given out; nothing had been said about replenishing his wardrobe for the coming fall; no mention had even been made of hjg return to Yale. At length he made up his mind that he could endure this state of things no longer, and he resolved to have an interview with Edmund, and come to some distinct under standing regarding his future. Accordingly, one morning he boldly knocked upon the. library door, after having seen Edmund enter the room.

" Come in," was the response from with

Walter entered, and was quick to notice the frown that settled over the young man's face at his appearance. "Do I interrupt, you ?" he asked, in his frank, straightforward way. "No; if you have anything you wish to say, lam at your service. There's a chair; sit down."

Walter seated himself, but witu She feel ing that he was a very unwelcome'guest. He had resolved, 'however, to have his future relations with the master of Forest vale settled without delay, and he «.;s,._» to the point at once. , " I have come to ask you, E .muiid," he said, "if the plans' which Uncle Ralph laid out for me, regarding my future, 'neeb witli your approbation ?" " What were they?" was the brief, cold query of his companion. "That I should complete my college course, and after that study to be an arehi toct "

" Indeed ! I should think the best pre paration for that profession .would be to learn the carpenter's trade," observed Mr Carpenter, sarcastically. "I suppose I could learn to design buildings without going into rough work like that," responded Walter, but with a flush of anger at his companion's tone.

" So you intend to complete your college cour.se ?" Edmund asked, ignoring his reply.- ■ • " It was GntJarSfllph's wish that I should do so."

" At that rate it will cost something to prepare you for the real business of life." " Yes ; but if you object to my goiu^ back to Yale, I will give up my coarse and begin the study of my profession at once," Walter returned, trying to speak calmly, for he felb it would be a great- trial to give up his education. " How do you intend to study for your profession ?" " I had not planned for that as yet. I could enter the office of some experienced man, and prepare myself under him."

" Yes ; but you would have to bo sup ported meanwhile. You could not earn much for the first year or two."

"No." " How old are you ?"

" I shall be twenty in a couple of weeks," Walter replied, but feeling very sure that Edmund Carpenter Isl_ _' ni& exact age as well as he did.

" Twenty ! It seems to vue you are old enough to be earning somcdiing for your own support."

"I wish I were prepared to do so, Edmond," Walter answered, a vivid crimson shooting athwart his white forehead ; " but Uncle Ralph disbincbly said, during the last conversation I had with him. that it was his wish that I complete my course, and after that I might feel free to choose any profession I preferred." " Indeed. It is a pity, then, that he did not provide for you to do so." . Walter opened his lips, as if to reply to this sarcastic retort, but checked himself.

He had been on the point of repeating what Mr Carpenter had said to him about having provided hands.omely for him, but concluded that it would be unwise to say anything to arouse Edmund's "anger, so he made no reply at all. '"..-'. "/ think," the young heir resumed, after an awkward pause, " that it is high time that you were doing something to sup port yourself.- You have received a good education -r-far better than the majority •of boys in your position receive—and you ought now to be able to go into some business without further preparation. Are you a good accountant ?" '■'_ "I believe I stand fairly in mathematics," Walter responded modestly, though he was almost first in his.class. ■ '■*. '*.:.'

"Then I will make you a proposition," Edmund Carpenter returned, a hard, de termined look settling over his face. " Since no provision appears to have been made for you by my father, you wilt doubt less feel the necessity of . beginning to de pend upon yourself. I wish to give you a fair start in life because of the interest which he manifested in you; therefere I will arrange for you to go into our office as assistant book-keeper, giving you nine dollars a week and your board for the first year, with a promotion in view if you do well at your post." Walter's heart sank heavily at this pro position. Was he doomed to give up all thought of completing his education, and to go mtoa close, dark office where he must sit, day in and day out, cramped over a desk, and endless lines of figures ? .. Must air his bright hopes of becoming an architect, and ottaining eminence in the profession, be blighted in this sudden and cruel manner? The thought was utterly ob noxious to him. .',':'•■

"If," continued Edmund, relentlessly, " you are still anxious to begin your archi tectural studies at once, there are evening schools where drawing is taught in all its branches,-and Where in time you may, with • ... ~■- •',, j.,,-. .-., • i.i ■-.. —... - *■■

application, be able to attain youf desire and become an architect."

Walter's spirit arose at this supreme irony and heartless speech. . • He knew that Edmund Carpenter must have inherited nearly, if not quite, a million dollars froi^i his father; he knew, too, that a portion of this money should have been his by virtue of the love that the dead man had borne him ; and it was more than he could tamely bear to be told that he must enter an office for the paltry sum of nine dollars a week, which was less than his usual allowance for spending money had been ; and, more than this, that he must study nights, after the labours of the day, if he still entertained any ambition to become an architect.

He looked up into the dark, sinister face opposite him, and said, resolutely, " Edmund Carpenter, Uncle Ralph told me the evening before he died, that he had mado ample provision for me, and that there would be abundant means for me to study for whatever fliked after I should complete my college course. I am .very sure he would not have been pleased with any such arrangement as you havo proposed to me." Edmund Carpenter knew well enough that all this was true, but it angered him to discover that Walter had been told so much, and to discover that he suspected the exist ence of a will. An angry red suffused his face ; his eyes (lushed ominously, and his lips curled with an ugly smile. "Really," he sneered, "you appear to attach considerable significt-vnee to the wanderings of a feeble mind in its last hours. If my father made such fa_ple pro vision for you, there ought to be something to show it." Involuntarily Walter's eyes wandered to wards Mr Carpenter's desk, which stood near him. "Yes, thero ought," he admitted ab sently. Tho young man opposite turned fiercely upon him. " Perhaps you imagine that Mr Fairbanks and I have acted dishonourably and sup pressed important documents belonging to you. Hero are tho keys to my father's desk. You can examine his papers for yourself, if you doubt our integrity." Walter turned his frank, clear gazo upon his companion. "I have no right to doubt you or Mr Fairbanks, and I have no wish to examine your father's papers," he said, " but I am very sure that Uncle Ralph intended and wished me to complete my course. I frankly confess that I do not liko the idea of going into the counting-room even for a timo ; it would put me back so that years would elapse beforo I could go into business for myself."

"Of course ; but then you must rcmem bor that circumstances alter cases."

" Edmund," Walter suddenly said, ig noring this last sarcasm, "why will you nob advance mo money sufficient to enable me to commence as an architect ? 1 will give up tho two remaining years of my collegiate course cheerfully — you have abundance, and could easily do ib, while I will repay every dollar of ib as soon as I can earn ib."

" I havemadeyou an offer, Walter ; if you do not choose to accept ib, I wash my hand of you entirely," was the cold reply. " I feel that you have had a great deal done for you already—more than any boy, situated as you were, had any right to expect. My. father was 'quixotic in some of his notions, but, of course, if he chose to indulge in sentiment on your account, ho could afford to do it, and it was no affair of mine, although I must confess I have always considered it a mark of disrespect toward my' mother' that he should have confessed to a weakness for an other woman and installed her son hero on an equal footing with his own. But now matters are upon an entirely different basis; I have no money to throw away upon uncertainties, and I have no proof that you would ever be able to make an efficient architect, even if you study for that purpose. If you choose to accept my offer, well and good ; if not, you must henceforth select your own path and walk unaided in it." ; ..

With which unfeeling speech, Edmund Carpenter arose and abruptly left the room, thus putting an end to the conference.

(To be Continued.)

MORNA DALE OR The Guardian's Forgery.

CHAPTER XVIII.

UNEXPECTED WITNESSES—CONCLUSION.

The Superior Court was in session at Wal lingham, and the day had arrived which had been appointed for the trial of the cause of Jonas Crandal, Esq., guardian, versus Samuel Laybrook, M.D., et al., the plaintiff claiming custody of an infant ward wrongfully and forcibly withheld from him by the defendant.

As the day approached the interest be came deep amd absorbing ; and when the appointed day had finally come the excite ment was widespread and intense. The fair girl, claimed by Jonas Crandal as his ward, was known .to nearly everybody. Especially did the poor, tho needy, and the distressed know her, as they had known and loved her father before her. Sym pathy was strongly in her favour. What the law would say remained to be seen.

As the day had approached Mr Amberly, who had given his whole' attention to the case,' preparing it even to the minutest details, beforehand, had come to feelthe necessity of having Darnley Werter present to give his testimony. Said he: " It will be the culminating, point of our case. With his testimony, clearly' and straightforwardly given, the court, and the jury, must be. convinced. Crandal, you must send for that man !"

And Jonas had said, —"I will go my self. He will come for me, lam sure."

And Jonas had gone ; and he had found poor Werter, in, a comfortless garret, with a worn sack of straw spread upon the floor, for a bed, and with not a particle of food at hand, though he had half a pint of- rum, hidden away in a small cupboard.

Keeping the broken and shattered wretch safe in his garret, Crandal fed him, and clothed him ; and then procured a railway ticket, of third class, for Scotland, Werter having promised that' he would go there; and he went the more willingly because the villain made him believe that 7 they were searching for him to prove the forgery of that deed of guardianship. Ten pounds in gold—ten sovereigns—Crandal gave him, and saw him off. Then he had returned to his lawyer, and declared that Werter must, be dead. At- all events, no trace of him could be found. He described to Amberly the garret he had visited, where, an old woman told him, the poor wretch had passed his last days in the neighborhood of Lincoln's Inn., And Horace Amberly could have wept in his sympathy; for he remem bered Darnley Werteras he had been in the brighter and ; better years ; and he knew there had been vastly more of good than evil in his nature. A,doubt of his client's good faith had not entered; his mind. The case came on. Morna was in the court-room, provided with comfortable quarters, where her immediate friends .were gathered around her. . Jonas Crandal was there, and Captain Tom—the former gruel-looking, ugly-aod

determined; the latter seeming to regard the whole thing as a farce—a, game of hazard—in- which the chances were so evenly balanced that he could hardly de cide on which side he would stake his wager. He hoped, however, his father would win. .Mr Amberly presented the. case of his client. He made a concise statement of the facts, as he understood them. He was an eloquent man, and logical; . and he possessed, in an eminent degree, the happy faculty of telling a story in the fewest words and in the clearest and most interesting manner. He claimed the privilege of tell ing the jury why his client had been robbed of the custody of his ward : and, following this, he claimed the right to tell the court and jury why the thing should not have been done. Then he went on to tell how his client had been trusted by Sir William Dale—what great interest had been left in his hands, and how honest and honourable he had proved. " Aye, gentleman, so honest and true, under the watchful eye of the brother of Sir William-the, father of the ward in question—that that father, Doctor Lawrence Dale, made him steward of his possessions, without bond, with no surety whatever save that of character !" Then he presented a picture of the steward's position, honoured and respected by all who knew him, with no breath of suspicion against him. (Here Tom was seen to smilo and hide his face.) This was the man whom Lawrence Dale had made guardian of his child. "But; did he do that ? I will show you, your honor, and you, gentleman of the jury." And he produced the instrument and handed it to the sheriff. It was given first to the judge. He looked it over, and his countenance fell. Evidently, his sympathy was with tho fair respondent; but this was a stern fact, which he could not allow sympathy to put out of sight. He had known Mor timer Rivers's legal papers — had been familiar with his judicial forms, and with his peculiar style and hand for years. Also, he had been long and intimately familiar with the hand of poor Darn ley Werter. That the instrument in his hand had como from Mortimer Rivers's office he was as sure as he was that the sun would rise on the morrow. Ho then told how his client had held off from claiming his rights as guardian until ho had come to feel it his duty to take her to the home that was to be hers in tho coming years, and teach her how to manage it. He wished that she should come to know the tenants of the Abbey, and that the vast interests involved should become familiar to her. And then, feelingly and '^urßMcally— having accepted the man's own account of the affair—ho told how his client's beloved ward—the child of his old and dearest friend —about whom all the pure and warm affec tion of a father's heart was clinging-^-had been taken away from him ; and when he had asked that she should be restored to his loving care he had met cold and cruel refusal. " And now, to this honourable court, and to you, gentlemen of the jury, he comes, asking that you will give him that which is his lawful right—the custody of his ward— to all intents and purposes, as every in telligent Englishman knows, his own child —as much his own as though she were bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh." As yet he called no witnesses, as no point, saving only the nature and character of the guard ian's credentials, was likely to be ques tioned. ' ' .'"'■-.. Mr Blackmore, for the defence, made a general denial. The claimant was in ho sense, and in ho way or manner, guardian of his client. He related all the circum stances attending Dr. Dale's preparation for his departure for India; how he had solemn ly promised his daughter that Jonas Crandal should hot be her guardian ; had promised her that she should be left entirely free ; and that her only guardian* should be her .pro mised husband. Then he drew a picture of Ralph Ashmore, as he must be remembered by nearly all who.heard him speak—a young physician, who had won his way to. distinc tion and renown, even in his early youth. And Morna Dale had been promised by her father as that man's wife. They were to have been married at the end. of a year. Dr. Dale had loved this youth with all the strength of his loving heart. He had been as a son to him from his childhood, being, in fact, the adopted son of his dear brother, the baronet.

J " I ask any sensible man,—Would .the /.father, in his right mind, have appointed jj -ne plaintiff in this case guardian of his 1 daughter under such circumstances ?" f An audible "No INo !" was heard over ■ ie whole room. . At this point the court adjourned for ■ dinner, Mr Amberly giving notice that he would call his witnesses after dinner. Poor Morna left the court sad at heart. She saw plainly that the case was going against her. If Amberly succeeded in establishing the honesty of the deed the court coulel not set it aside. But Dr. Lay brook bade her cheer up, and Mr Black more did the same. . Said the latter: "Let them decide against us, and we will appeal to the Lord High Chancellor. Ah ! I have not done with the Crandals yet. I havo a rod in pickle for them they do not dream of;" "0, Mr Blackmore ;is it—is it—about Ralph ?" "My dear young lady, I beg of you do not question me. It is of Ralph. I will tell you the rest if bhe case goes against us." When the court came in, and business was resumed, after the noontide meal, Mr Amberly called his witnesses. Three old clerks, who had served Mortimer Rivers for years, declared, under oath, to the best of their knowledge and belief, that the instru ment submitted to them, constituting Jonas Crandal guardian of Morna Dale, was genuine. They believed that to be the bona fide .signature of their old employer; and, as to the pc.rfc of Darnley Werter, that he had written the body of the instrument, was too self-evident to be for a momenb quesbioned. Several other, men—men who had been long familiar with old Rivers and his-modes of business—also. testified that bhe' signa ture was his. Then came testimony touch ing the signature of Lawrence Dale; and here he made a strong point.' - ,:. • He dared any man present to point out wherein that signature was,unlike the.doc tor's true sign-manual; and he had turned, evidently with the intention of speaking to the opposing counsel, when he saw- that individual, in a state of great excitement, whispering with a sergeant of police; who had just entered the room and crowded his way down to the bar; and, before he could speak further, either to summon wit ness or to address Mr Blackmore, the last named arose in his place and asked permis sion of the court to retire for a moment. "It is a matter, your honor, of the ut most moment, one, to me, perhaps, of life and death." . ■'_' . ,77 " Permission was granted, and he went out. He was gone not more than'five minutes. All eyes were fixed upon him on his return, but a stone sphinx could not have been "less demonstrative. He was altogether too calm. Amberly knew, as though he had read it in , letters of light on the wall,' as did Belshaz7 zar, that something had happened.. But he was not a man to be crushed by an unseen danger, and he went on with his witnesses. The authenticity of the instrument was es tablished. ~ , . At this juncture a slip of paper, • closely folded, was put into Blackmore-'s hand. He opened and recognised, the writing of; Arthur, Morley. This was what was writ-' ■ ten.: .' ' , v . ~•■; . , ,^ _ .

"Wake up! Male a desperate push! 1 The jiiry are against you to a man. A.M."

, A peculiar smile curled the lawyer's lips as he crushed; the paper into.a wad, and, slipped it into his pocket. A, moment later ; his eye fell upon the superintendent, and he potion^7fo^,fcjjs Jq p9m,Q t .'.hjm, *■ .skeft

he had come he whispered a few words into his ear. The officer gasped and caught his ; breath, and for a. single moment his face ; was almost white. Blackmore repeated the ;; whispered sentence, upon which,, with a;N deeply-drawn breath, Morley moved away,' but not to leave the room. He went and ;i whispered to one of his inspectors, and thai? j inspector, in turn, was soon whispering to j others. At this juncture the voice of the court caused a hush to fall upon the packed audience. . ■ ' "Mr Blackmore, have you anything to ■

offer in rejoinder ?" ' "Your honor, I have to offer that the paper which has been put into this case is k a base and wicked forgery, as I have once before pronounced it." . There was something in the tones of the ; counsel's voice—something so deep, .so solemn, so majestic—that both judge and jury were startled. ! : " Your honor, may I ask you, Had you in your own mind resolved tliat the instru ment was genuine? " Would you, of your own judgment, have allowed it ." ' ) "Really, Mr.Blackmore, this is unusnal, and out of place and character : yet, as Ij 1 know you mean well, I will frankly answer, ■ ] I must have done so, as I think you would j have done in my place." . Whilo this conversation had been going on, there had been an unusual movemenb at the entrance to the chamber, and pre sently two men were seen following the police superintendent and one of his ser geants down towards the bar. Then said , the counsel for the defence : . ' , "Your honor, I thank heaven that I-i have a, witness who can very soon convince. *> you that the whole paper—" j The sentence was not finished. At that instant a quick, low cry, as of infinite ec stasy, broke the quivering air, and Morna Dale was seen to spring forward into the j arms of a short, portly mam, who clasped "■ and held her close.

At the same moment another cry, equally joyous, had burst from the lips of Dr. Lay brook, and Tom Crandal, looking across from his place, beheld a sight that froze tho blood in his veins, and held him for a brief space spell-bound. He saw before him, alive and well, as strong and vigorous as ever, though poorly clad, and embrowned by long exposure, the man whom he had left to perish in a scuttled boat in the mid mouth of the English Channel! Perhaps three seconds he remained under the spell, then his senses came back to him, and very quietly he turned him about and glided away into the open aisle, where he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a voice in his ear —only a whisper, but it was a thunderbolt to him:

"Tom! don't hurry. When we .are ready to leave you will go with me ! Easy ! Do you want me to slip the darbies on ia this public place : ?" That conquered him. It was the face of Arthur Morley into which he looked, the voice of Arthur Morley in his ear. .

By and by Dr. Dale, for he was the man who had been holding Morna so closely, turned her over to her own dear lover, her darling Ralph, while he tc. >k the stand. The moment his eyes fell i on his own name on the paper which had been put into his hand, his memory went back to the time of its writing. But he needed not that reminder. He had met Darnley Werter at Dover. That poor waif had parted with Crandal at the Broad-street station in London. At the first junction, only a few miles out, he had met a man who had in his possession a Dover ticket. Darnley, wishing to go to France with his ten pounds, had exchanged with him his pass to Scotland, which had not been taken from him. The guard had kindly believed the pitiful story he told- and Jet him out; and he had got as far as Dover perfectly sober when Dr. Dale met him, and, very naturally, in his great joy at discovering that the wicked deed forced upon him had not consigned Morna to the hands - and power of a villain, he told the whole story. "0! Jonas! Jonas! Friend whom I trusted ! What shall I say ? How—o, how could you find it in your heart to so betray me?"

! For a brief ..space the strong man shrank i and cowered. For a second, or- more, he had doubted the evidence of his own senses ; but that doiibt was quickly passed. Then he shrank and cowered ; and then, casting his eyes around, and seeing his son in the hands of Morley, with the eyes of the officer fixed significantly upon himself, his mood changed, and the true, inborn nature of the man manifested itself. With a half-mu b tered oath and a curse upon his luck he straightened himself and spoke : "Pshaw! what's the use! I give in, Doctor. The game is yours. Bear down lightly, if you can. I have not a word to say. There is my warrant of guardianship ; and even you won't dispute your signaturo to it. I have nob another word to say. How I came by it you will never k_ow." " Poor, deluded fool!" returned the doctor, more in pity than in anger. " I know the whole story." " Eh ! Has— Bub—no that cannot be." > "It can, Jonas, and so it is. The poor wretch whom you frightened into forging that deed, and whom you recently started on his way to Scotland, -left the train on, which you placed him, and turned his face, instead, to the south. I met him at Dover." At this juncture a deep, bitter groan burst from the lips of Horace Amberly. It was terrible to him to find how he had been deceived —how brutally, and even foolishly. Morley" afterwards told him that, though he could not even break down the certificate of guardianship, he' had been prepared with reliable information which would have- led the Lord High Chancellor to put his con veto on it. Jonas heard the groans of his counsel, and met his blazing eyes for an instant; then he bowed his head, and would not again look up. .... , "Doctor Dale," said the judge, after he had grasped his hand ■with glowing, warmth and fervour, "I understand you to pro nounce that instrument a forgery ?" *-■■:..-;> Z. "I do, your honor. Shall I relate the. circumstances?" :> . ,'-.-.,- : b__-; " If you please." ■■': ;,, : f .-, The doctor went on at once.;.-He told,, first, how, and when, .and for what he had. written his name on that sheet of .paper, afterwards folding the margin over, so that the slip might be torn off. .But, while he had been called out for a" few. moments, Mr Crandal had written the. same name on an-, other and,similar sheet,.and it had. been . used without the roguery being detected- Then he told the story of poor, Darnley Werter—told of the hold which Crandal had upon him, and how he had literally, forced him to save himself by committing a new crime. ■■.:■, a ':...7 . When, the doctor had answered, a few. questions of the jury, and the matter of the; forgery was well' understood, the judge jwent.on*. ,- .;■,.•' .« *. ■ _ . -...f \-____.r*,, ■ ,-.f f My dear.Doctor, though somewhat oub= of regular course, 1 think it would be very interesting to aIP present'for you to i tell us ' how it is that we see you here after having, so long mourned your death." "It is all very simple,your honour." r He spoke loudly and clearly, so that iall might" hear, and even Jonas > Crandal pricked up his ears.; " You will remember I "sailed in. the ill-fated Regulus. . At Cape Town I :re-.. ceived intelligence7of the death, of amy. brother, whom 'I -was on my way to Calcutta" tosee.7Tlie ship'bringing that news arrived.' in Table Bayitbhe:same time that our. own . ship entered; and tl'immediately sent my letters: home .; = AtTthat'time there lay at; Cape Town a Frehch^teamer just.on the eve . of ; sailing for my destination. 'I was assured • that she was swift and safe ; and her com-, mander cheerfully gave me passage, which I-had sought, as the Regulus was tb remain . several days longer. You can imagine? my'■? anxiety to'reach Calcutta ; and, l I. will *,-. further ,siy, a strong and strange longing . had seised me to be at ;&#».£.;. Aa- a, -7* r - =