Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 April 1896 — TUMBLE-DOWN FARM [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

TUMBLE-DOWN FARM

CHAPTER XVII. For a few moments, in that wild and hurried excitement, Vanity was forgotten. She lay upon a grassy bank, and none asked if she were alive or dead. But the detective went to her side, and saw that she breathed, although her eyes were closed and she was quite unconscious. With professional presence of mind, he opened her lips and poured a little brandy into her mouth, and perhaps he saved her life, for when, an hour after, she was taken into the hospital, the doctor declared that she had just escaped death by exhaustion—a few beats of the pulse more and she would have been past help and hope. But let us return for one moment to the burning farm. As I said, the most complete silence prevailed within the walls. Hardware was neither seen, nor was any motion of him heard again. Just after the whisper went round that the fire was going out, the roof fell in with a crash. Hardware had made elaborate preparations for a conflagration; and the fire ran from room to room, and seemed to meet fuel everywhere. Its rapidity was equaled by its heat and fury; for when the | ruins were searched there was absolutely | nothing but a charred mass. Rake it with , a rake, and pore over every handful and I sift it to the last pinch through a sieve. ' all was ashes, and nothing but ashes. They expected, perhaps, to find diamonds, i pearls, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, cat'seyes, and so forth. Blessed are they who expect not! Have you ever burned a lot of old letters in a corner of the grate? Within the four blackened walls of old Tumbledown Farm nothing was left but such thin ashes. All that raging flames could consume had vanished. As Willie Snow came back with help a strange thing occurred. At a turn of the pleasant lane, under a shady tree where ' he and Vanity many a time had stood, there met him a party of bearers carrying his former sweetheart down to the hos- . pita!. Now, I don’t by any means want to pile horror upon horror, and as Willie told J me, there was no horror here; for she lay ' white and calm, beautiful beyond words, ' the sweetest repose upon her face. “Is she quite dead?” Willie gasped. ‘‘No, but going fast enough,” some one replied. ♦ ‘‘God. spare her life!” the young man > cried. "Oh. God, bear my prayer, and ! spare her life!”

Under the excitement of the time. I! suppose, the detectives cast off their silent ways and answered questions free- j ly. Hardware was “wanted.” About two j years ago there had been a most extraordinary jewel robbery at Birmingham. From ‘‘information received” the police 'irere led to believe that a man named Barnitt had been connected with the robbery, and this man they traced into connection with old Hardware and his daughter. Now, in this place I had better relate ■ what came out afterward. Hardware was of respectable family, and had even ' been at Cambridge for one or two terms. But he turned to evil ways, drank, gambled, and took to the race course. Subsequently it was found that he had “reformed,” and had married the daughter of a clergyman. One daughter was born to them, and the mother stuck to him through all his vicissitudes and profligacy. Barnitt had early in life been celebrated as an amateur actor, and now, in his life ,£3 an adventurer, he took to the stage, and became a small manager. So he lived on for several years. His wife died; his daughter, whose beauty and vivacity were well known, went upon the stage, and, for "a time, father and daughter did tolerably well. Then the two vanished, and when they reappeared Miss Hardware had an aged father, very decrepit, but of excellent character. Under this disguise, throwing it off artfully and by night, he had committed several burglaries, and left the police nowhere at all. It is fair to say that there never was any proof Jthat his daughter was connected with his crimes, or even knew of them. Barnitt or Hardware had not only been in several burglaries, but there was little doubt that his was the hand which had shot one of the Birmingham police, who had tried to capture him. The detectives fully believed that Hardware—or Barnitt, rather—had learned that the police were on his track, and their “theory” was that he intended to set fire to the farm, and to lead them to the belief that he and his daughter had perished in the flames.

Gracious Me lay stretched on the grass, just where he had fallen. At last, when the excitement had somewhat subsided, they went to examine the dead body, and were surprised to observe that the eyes remained open. Still more the observers were astonished to see the said eyes blinking in a curious way. “Where were you hit?” inquired one of the compassionate persons. “Which side did the ball enter?” “Neither side,” said little Gracious, trembling still. “You see, this is how it occurred. I was here, and he was—there. He was going to fire, when it struck me— I can’t tell why—that if I was to drop down, do you see, and lie quite still, the affair might blow over. So I did. Hit? bless you, no! Not within a yard of me!” Vanity Hardware was taken to the hospital, where for seven weeks she lay between life and death. Suddenly she began to mend. Then one morning, when some kind person called to ask after her, the reply was that she had gone. Where? Nobody knew. Neither doctor nor chaplain could tell anything except that she was gone. Vanity had been dangerously wounded. The ball had entered her side, and the doctors had great trouble in extracting ft The patient suffered much; and from weakness she dropped into fever. The physicians said she would die, but she rallied, and, with a weary, heartsick look upon her face, turned, as it were, up the toilsome road leading back to the life that now is. A lady was nursing in the hospital who was what I used to call a nun —only I believe now the saying is “sister,” and she seemed to be drawn to Miss Vanity by what she was told. Somehow this lady, Sister Catherine, treated the sick girl like a daughter. Anyhow, she found the way to Vanity Hardware’s heart. Poor Vanity Hardware! Wounded in body and utterly broken in spirits, she i Hung to her new friend like a child, and told her all the story of her life. How her mother had been good and true through all her sufferings, until her death. How, when dying, she had called Vanity to her aide, and put a little faded white lower into the child's hand, saying: , "These, darling, I laid that lower on

I your little breast the day you were bapi tized. Then the flower was as fresh and ' sweet as your bosom was white and pure. Keep that flower, year after year, my child. Never do anything to soil it ” “Which I never did,” Vanity said, burstI ing into tears at this place. I never fori got mother's dying words——” "For which.” the good lady said, “thank the blessed Lord. You have a new life Ix-fore you.” “No,” Vanity answered, with a firmness ; in her beautiful eyes that amazed the 1 lady, "you mistake me. I shall never be j good.” And at this word Vanity Hardware turned her face upon the pillow and burst out crying. For all the world like a ’ broken heart! Sister Catherine was not the woman to give Vanity up. Attracted by Vanity's ' looks, pitying her sorrow and sustained most of all by her own resolute will, she i determined that this girl should have one more chance in life, and that a good one. She had a niece, a married lady, who lived about fourteen miles away in a handsome country house. This niece was rich, and of the same persuasion as the aunt, was a charitable lady and did many good works. This niece was not a nun, nor at all nunnish in her ways, but fond of life and fashion. Now, to this young lady the sister dispatched Vanity Hardware, with a letter of introduction, and the time was a rainy October evening when poor Vanity, with trembling steps and beating heart, stole up the avenue towards the fine house to which she had been directed. She saw an iron fence which ran round the lawn. She gazed into a handsome drawing room, which was so brilliantly lighted that her quick eyes could see all that went on. This might have been what quality call the children s hour. Two mites were playing about the room, dressed to perfection. and Vanity noticed that a third small girl, with a white face and long dark hair, was lying on a lady's lap. watching the other children with a tired expression. I auity called this lady mamma at once.

A gentleman sat in an easy chair reading the newspaper, and not taking notice of anybody. From the familiar way the two little children ran about him, Vanity judged him to be the father of the family. Next she remarked that on a settee there was post-id an elderly lady, very stout, very stiff, very dogmatic in her demeanor. Now, Vanity Hardware had eyes like a lynx or a hawk, and the light of the room, as 1 have said, was brilliant; so she sawhow this old lady watched with shrewd and designing face a bit of by-play which was going on at the piano. Beside the piano stood a well-fashioned ftddy young man, who had evidently just dropped into the drawing room. A yotthg lady was sitting at the instrument, looking up with laughter into his face. Little Vanity Hardware dreamed that in this drawing room she saw enacted the prologue to her own future life. Little handsome horseman, mistress, flirting girl and domineering dame dreamed how, out in the cold October mist, a watcher stood who was afterward to step into the midst of their schemes and hopes and fears, intrepid and resistless. Vanity hurried to the front door and rang the bell. A spruce maid answered. After some hesitation, the answer was given that, “0 yes, missis probably would see the young person.” Next moment handsome “missis” came out, with a quick step. “You look very pale,” she said. “Are you ill?" Vanity looked up. Something in the lady’s face encouraged her. But when she tried to speak, her lips would not obey her, and the only sound she uttered was a sob. Immediately the lady flew off to the drawing room, and Vanity heard her say. “Augustus! Augustus; there is a poor girl outside. She looks so thin, and so pretty—and so cold. Do go and see her.” “Well, well, Maud,” Augustus rejoined, in a good-natured tone, “this comes of being married to a wife. I suppose I may as well go at once. The frext instant the gentleman was standing beside Vanity. “What is your business, my girl?” • He asked this question with a curious air of mingled condescension, authority and kindness, “I come with a letter from Sister Catherine.”

“Indeed!” the gentleman said; but in that brief space he, too, passed under the spell of her face and voice. “Let me see, will you—won’t you—had you not better come in to —to the drawing room?” “I am not fit for the drawing room,” she said. “Please don’t ask me.” “My library, then,” he said. “Follow me.” The upshot of the interview in the library, and the perusal of Sister Catherine's letter, was auspicious. An hour later Vanity found herself alone in a pretty bedroom surrounded by comfort and refinement, and twelve hours’ quiet before her. In the morning a servant brought her a message that the lady of the house was engaged, and could not see her until 12 o’clock; and meanwhile a small boudoir next to her room was set apart for her use. Here she had her breakfast. The room looked out upon the garden; and as the morning was warm and sunny, she opened the window and enjoyed the fresh air. \ Well might Vanity sit and muse. What road in life was she to take? 'Her experience was remarkable, almost unexampled. Her mother, affectionate, pious and refined, had made it the chief care of her struggling life to imprint something of herself upon her child. But Vanity had inherited some of her father’s qualities also; his recklessness, his love of change. A horror had oppressed her ever since the tragedy at Tumbledown Farm; why allow it any longer 1 to brood over her mind? Her father wns gone. She had no part in his awful fat*. She might change her name, and with that banish forever the terrible gloom which she had believed must rest upon her firever. Her experience of Willie Snow's inconstancy had been a bitter disclosure. Vanity had idolized that young fellow. AU that her mother had e rer taught her about goodness had gathered around Willie, and he became in her ey< s the image of integrity and virtue, gust when she expected him to rise to heroism Willie had sunk down to respectable selfish commonplace. Vanity suffered not from lacerated affections alone. Her ideal had been degraded. Virtue and goodness had been reduced to feeble amiability and prudent

consideration for number one. Yet whnt was this whisper in her heart? Why, a* she listened to it, did her color deepen, and her eyes grow strangely bright, and her pulse beat fast? “Willie Snow —the man who loved me once—who was stolen from me —who could not resist me even now—the man that I love still —what if I won him back after all?” CHAPTER XVIII. Suddenly, as she sat at the window, she saw her handsome hostess appear, walking in a very sisterly way with the young horseman. They promenaded the gravel walk up and down, engaged in earnest talk. "No. Tom,” the lady said, “I don’t agree with you; most decidedly not. I cannot call her handsome. Of course I don't care to say she is anything else.” “But, like the celebrated parrot, Maud,’’ he replied, “you think a deal.” “Besides, Tom” —Maud raised her finger warningly—“mark my words; you wilj have the old lady on yonr hands. Charming mother-in-law, Tom.” “Oh, no, you know,” Tom called out, in sincere alarm. “Take precautions, you know. Insert special clause in the lease. You see” —he knocked the ash out of his cigar—“what is a fellow to do? These beauties require such a lot of love-making, and it eats up a fellow's time. Xow, Arabella is not excessive in that way.” “Then I suppose it is settled, Tom? v “Don’t think I could do better, Maud.” “Well, dear. I hope you will be happy.” But if ever a kind sister’s voice expressed sorrow and disappointment, verging on disgust, it was Maud's voice then. Just at that moment a servant came hurrying out and whispered something to her mistress, who flew into the house without a word, seeming in an instant to forget her brother. The cause of Maud Neville's exit did not at first appear. In about a quarter of an hour she came into Vanity's room, and Vanity noticed that her expression was anxious. The letter of her aunt— Sister Catherine—had evidently not been the first communication made to her concerning the young actress, for she knew all her history; and Vanity felt grateful for the tact and delicacy with which she glided over things which would be painful to the poor wanderer. Every minute she grew more charmed by the kind manner of her new friend, and felt even ready to accept her guidance.

A knock -was heard at the door; the «axne maid who had harried out into the *arden came in. “Please, ma’am, the doctor is here.” “Burt why do you look so white?” the •nlstrees asked, reading the servant’s face "with ■Quick apprehension. “Is Miss Maud tworse?” “Please, ma’am, the doctor must speak to yon.” The maid lingered for a moment “What is tie matter?” Vanity asked. “Our smallest young lady has got smallpox,” the servant said, shuddering as she epoke. “Master has seen the doctor, and we don’t know whet to do.” Vanity Hardware (had the terror of that disease which every woman feels, and she turned pale herself. “And the little lady is master’s pet,” the servant continued; “and mistress has ■always made so much of her; and she has elways slept beside mistress, and she won’t hardly go out of her sight” ’’l daresay,” Vanity remarked, “her mother will nurse her.” “There it is, you see,” the said said, ■closing the door, and speaking in a confidential whisper; “master says the mother ■shall notgo near her. You see”—closing the door more impressively—“master is •o proud of missus’ 'looks; and he says the risk •hall not be run.” “Can’t they get a nurse?” Vanity asked. “Don’t you see,” the other replied, “that’s where it is. This little lady is so nsed to mistress singing to her, and being with her, that she will not allow any nurse to come near her; and we only keep her quiet by the five minutes saying: ‘Mamma’s coming, dear;' and even then she bursts out times and times. Amd if you .please, doctor says the little lady must be, kept quite away from everybody; anil your room is the best iu the house for her; ><nd will you please come down stairs? Your room is made dark, and the little lady is to be taken there at onee.” Vanity came out upon the gallery over the large entrance hall, out of which several doors opened and one or two Short flights of steps ran up different passages. At the top of one of these flights stood the redoubtable old lady in a most excited abate. For some inexplicable reason, she had gathered up her-Skirts; and the first idea her figure suggested was that of a stout elderly lady, of inflexible purpose, who was about to wade a river. “I always sand so,” the old lady called out. “This comes of your Sunday -school tracts. But Maud never would listen to advice —not since she was four years old!” Poor Maud, pale and crying, -sat upon a chair. Beside her stood the doctor and tier husband; the wail of the -sick child was plainly heard. At the -sound, the mother Started to her feet. “Augustus!” she called out piteously, “I muert go! Doctor, dosoy that'l am to go! Baby will die if bhe frets on in this way. It is cruel to keep 'me. It is my duty to run whatever risk there may be. Do let me go. I cannot bear to hear her.” “Maud,” her husband said, drawing dose to her, “I cannot .permit it. We must get a nurse. Baby will soon cry herself to sleep.” “Oh, it is cruel!” she said; ‘’it is cruel!” At this point the soldier brother spoke. “I feel for you, Neville,” he-said to his brother-in-law; “but I do think .my -sister fa right. Her duty is with (her child. Let her go, and leave the test in> the hands of God.” “Mind,” the old lady called out,‘tL don’t agree with either of you. Remember that hereafter.”

“Now, Augustus,” the wife cried, ‘'now you will let me go!” Neville, feeling the tide cunning -sharply against him, saw that he must speak decidedly. Like many easy-going people, he could, on occasion, assert himself ir•reastibly. “There must be an end of this,” he said. ‘'Doctor, let us have a nurse at onee. IMaud, you must not go near the child; 'your life is too valuable to us all.” Vanity had watched this scene with a remarkable look on her face; and now She hurried down stairs, and crossed the hall •to the lady’s side. “I will nurse the baby,” she cried, “il am not afraid!” g The whole company stood transfixed. ■The .young soldier acknowledged the power of beauty by gazing for a moment at the stranger with a possibly too obvious admiration, but he soon recollected himself. Maud Neville looked up. *'Qh, thank you, thank you,” she said. “It wouldn’t be the slightest use. Baby wifi have ,no one but myself.” ‘T know, I know,” Vanity replied almost impatiently. “Come with me.” Maud looked up in wonder; as for the rest, they stood in silent amazement; even the old lady was at a loss for a sentence. “Come with me,” Vanity repeated, in a decisive voice. “Bid your servant follow us.” To the sunrise of everybody, Maud Neville rose and walked across the hall with Vanity. The servant followed, and all three went out of sight. Then the maid-servant was seen flying into the sick child’s room, where the sound of closing shutters was heard. Thence she ran up stains and disappeared. Then again she darted down to the doctor and whispered to him. After this she drew down every blind and closed every shutter of the hal! windows, reducing the place to darkness. Then, without explaining these proceedings, she disappeared once more. The whole party still remained motionless, none daring to speak, and in the darkness and suspense it seemed that several minutes passed away. At-last, low, soft, sweet, in the most soothing lullaby note, they heard a voice singing: “Now the day is over, Night is drawing nigh, Shadows of the evening Steal across the sky.” “Why,” Whispered Neville to his brother, “that is Maud singing to the child. She sings that hymn to her, night by night.” Then, in the semi-darkness of the hall, the husband saw his wife, dressed in a long, loose morning robe which he knew well, bearing the child in her arms and chanting as she slowly moved across the hall. The effect of the song on the sick child sopn appeared. The little weary voice caught up a word or two here and there, and sung it in a drowsy, satisfied tone. “Maud,” the husband whispered, in a low, reproachful voice, ”1 am grieved.” He felt a hand in his own. Maud had op to him from behind.

“Hush,” she said. "Can’t you understand ?” The sweeping gown touched his feet, and the muffled head of ids child was close to his own, as the mysterious figure glided by, etill singing: “Jesus, give the weary Catan and sweet repose; With thy tender blessing May mine eyelids close.” “Why, Maud!” whispered Neville, clasping his wife’s hand, “I could have sworn it was your very voice!” “Is it not wonderful?” she whispered back, “Baby believes she is in my arms, and she is quite happy.” In the darkness Neville felt his wife leaning her head on his shoulder, and pouring -out the mingled sorrow and thankfulness of her heart. Meanwhile the dusky figure was seen slowly moving up the wide stairs toward the room where the child was to be laid. Low, sweet, the lullaby sounded: “Grant to little children Visions bright of Thee, 'Guard the-sailors tossing 'On the deep blue sea.” “But, Maud,” the hudband said, “when she leaves the child in the room, how much better shall we be?” ‘®ear, dear!” exclaimed his wife, but in the lowest of whispers, “she is going to nurse baby through the illness. The room is dark. Baby will never know, till she is well again!” Vanity had reached the door of the sick room. They could now see her figure .plainly, and she turned round, as if to give the mother one last glimpse of her darling. “Through the long night watches May thine angel spread Their white wings above me, Watching round my bed.” Thesong was over. The dark threshold ■was passed. And the brave actress was -shut in with her task and her danger. CHAPTER XIX. The housemaid understood her busiaesa Without waiting for the word of command, she let in the light once more, and the whole party saw each other. “Maud,” the husband said, breaking the silence, “what does all this mean?” “Really, Augustus, you are stupid! Don’t you see? Little Maud thinks lam with her, and going to stay with her! But such a Clever girl! I really thought it was myself singing. She asked me, ‘Have you any little thing you sing to the child?’ So I sung her a verse of‘Now the day is over.’ The verses, the music, the very tone of my voice, she caught on the instant. And then she went in to baby—in the dark—and took her up, singing all the while, and baby put her little head against her shoulder, and was quite soothed and still.” The mother’s tears fell as she spoke, and the husband was moved himself. “What a brave act!” he said. “I should have thought a woman would as soon have walked into Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace. For a poor and lovely girl—for a lovely girl she is—to risk her beauty for the sake of a sick child is real heroism. I shall never forget what that girl has done. And if she were to catch the smallpox, and her face were spoilt, I should never forgive myself.” “No more should I!” the soldier called out. “Never!” “Really, Mr. Pembroke,” the old lady said loftily, “will you be good enough not to be too absurd ? Providence did not expect you to nurse the Child.” “I feel,” Augustus continued gravely, “that I must take the whole responsibility of the young woman’s future upon myself.”

“Not the whole of it, Augustus!” the soldier called out earnestly. “I ought to help you. Share and share alike, you know. No, I don’t exactly'’mean that; but really, old fellow, I could not let it all come on you, you know.” “Listen, Tom,” his brother-in-law remarked; “if that girl were to pay the price of her bravery with her face, I • don’t -see what I could do for her. It would be an awful result of so gallant a •deed. 'lf that happened ” ‘llf that happened,” Tom Pembroke cried, interrupting, with great excitement, “if her face were spoiled, it would not be your business, Augustus. As you say, you eould do nothing for her. In that case, -sooner than she should die of a broken heart, I—l—l would marry ’her myself.” “Thomas Pembroke,” exclaimed the old lady, “ll.am horrified. But while we stand talking here, that complaint”—here she pointed to ithe closed doors of the sick chamber —“may come down those stairs and take some of us into eternity.” Not a 'thought about the little sick child upon whom Death seemed to have laid his haad; not a thought about the brave young woman who had taken the poisoned frame to her own breast. She retreated precipitately, flew into her room and shut her door with .a terrific crash.

CHAPTER XX. Vanity was alone in the darkened sick room. Her little charge was satisfied with the low song of “Now the day is over;” and as often as the small sick voice plain ted out its "Mamma.” the reply of a chanted voice assured the little sufferer that her best consoler was at hand. But the generous glow died out, as all emotion will. Now, in the dark room, Vanity had time to think what she had undertaken; and, it must be confessed, she began to feel afraid. She resolved to stay at her post, however, and, when the sick-nurse arrived, she announced her resolution of sharing the duties, and etill keeping up the kind illusion which gave tranquility to the little sufferer. On the whole she was calm. Now, upon the subsidence of the terrible excitement of the last few weeks, Vanity knew the state of her own heart. The awful end of her father had been a stunning stroke of Fate. Vanity had never known the facts of her father’s life. The robberies of which he was suspected were never, with her, matters of positive knowledge. Still, she knew that her father was a bad, unscrupulous man; his coiduct made it evident that some terrible danger was ever hanging over him. His death, appalling as it was, forever )id the worst facts she suspected from discovery or from legal proof. But Willie Snow had broken poor Vanity's heart In spite of IJs weakness, which she could not but desjise, she loved him still. In her secret Hart she strip caressed the dangerous memory of handsome Willie Snow. The secret threads which bind the heart of a womans to a man are inexplicable. She bought of Ma

winsome ways, his handsome face, recalled their love scenes, hated her rival. la the darkened room of sickness, with peril hard at hand, Vanity Hardware talked thus with herself: “I have exposed myself to fearful danger; if my life is sacrificed, shall I much regret it? But if I survive, and leave this room with beauty unimpaired—then, Mistress Nancy Snow, beware! You stole my lover from me. I shall repay you. I know my power. I shall steal your husband from you. Then tear your hair as I tore mine, and sob and cry for death as, under your cruel hands, I sobbed and raved and cried! If lam not to make Willie my own —why, here I have exposed myself to danger—let me be struck down; but if I come forth hence unhurt, then I shall treat my life as my own. Willie! Willie! by your weak, impulsive nature and by my beauty you shall yet be mine! After that, come what may!” From the hour she took this resolution, all her fear of infection or of death was gone. She even courted danger. There was her fatalism again. “Dare anything; give Fate every chance of wrecking your scheme; and if you pass unscathed, then call your life—call Willie’s life —your own!” So she went about her self-im-posed task no longer wrth the tenderness of her first impulse, but with a stony calmness, under which lay a secret sense of approaching triumph. Time went by. The attack of smallpox was not severe, and the child soon began to mend. Vanity in the dark room still played her part of mother, and the child would never be still unless her “mother” ■was at hand. She grew fond of her little charge. The child was the most patient of sufferers; would whisper “Thank you, mamma,” with a grace and prettiness every time she was tended; Vanity began to feel a new affection.in her breast, a tenderness for this little child. Had this story been narrated in the shape of a comedy, a pretty scene might have been arranged here. A well-ordered flower garden, toward the end of October, in a genial year when summer lingered long. In the midst of the garden a large, low house, with a long veranda in front, and above the veranda a balcony. Maud Neville standing below, talking with Vanity Hardware in half whispers, lest by any chance the small ears inside should hear. If Maud Neville’s husband was proud of her looks this was not to be wondered at. As to Vanity, she had never looked half so lovely. Her recent illness had left a transparency in her complexion, and her'eyes shone with softness and brilliancy. The scene is net yet complete. Besides these two pretty women, a third figure often appears. Tom Pembroke liked a morning cigar, and his habit had been to smoke it while walking in the kitchen gardes. All of a sudden Tom took a fancy to the flower garden. So sure as Maud began to talk with VatfTfy about the sick child, so sureiy would Tom be seen idling round the garden with his cigar, and taking an opportunity of raising his hat to Vanity, whom everybody there treated as a lady without knowing why. Maud felt that she must warn her •brother to be careful. She loved her brother above every human creature except her husband and her children; but still Maud knew what men are, and she was a plucky woman who always said her say. She determined to tell Tom plainly that this sort of thing would never ■do. (To be continued.)