Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 7, Number 19, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 4 November 1876 — Page 6

t. -TT

THE MAIL

PAPER

T*a* ft moonlight ulght," the trapper beAM wotay by the bright camp AreOome fill up your pipes, and pile on the brands,

And draw a little nlgher—

Tmasa moonlight night when Met anl I— Bet, MheV the old mare, you know— Started for camp on our lonely route

O'er the dreary waste of snow. 1 bad been to the clearing that afternoon. Kor powder and ball, and whisky, too, Por gam*- wan plenty, fur* In demand.

And plenty of hunting and trapping todo.

1 had no tear of the dangerthat lurked In the reuiou through wdlch my Journey lay, Till Be of a sudden plucked up her ear

And sulfftd the air In a curious way.

I knew at once what the danger was, And IW-t struck out at a iorty gnu Twaa life or death for the mare and nit,

And all 1 could do was to trust to fat*.

Wolves on our track, ten mllea from home A plemnt prospect that—eh,boy*? 1 could sec them sknlklng among the trees,

Aud the woods re-echoed their hldeou* noise. At lost, as their number began to swell.

They bolder urew iin.l prwwd UH clow So' Old I'lll Driver" 1 brought to bear, Jtnd gave the leader a leaden dose. Now, yon must know, if you dtnw the blood

On one of the sneaking, ravenous crew, The rc*i will turn on the double quick, And eat him up without more ado.

This gave me a chance to load my gun'. With Just a chance to breathe aud rest. When on 'hey camel a gaining fast,

Though Bet was doing her level best.

1 began I»»tblnk it was getting hot: "Pill lirlvi-r,"says 1, "this wilt never do Talk to a-«piln You bet she did,

And light IU his tracks lay number twa Well, bovs, to make a long story short, I picked them off till but one was left But hu wasa whopper.you'd betterbetleve—

A reg'iar mammoth In sire and heft.

Yea, he was the last of the ravage pack, For, aa liiey had followed the nai rat law, They bail eaten each other as IH»I as tue

Till all were condensed in hN spaeiou* maw.

The Dead Secret.

BY WII.KIE COLLINS.

[TtiUiiil^n-eiy interesting serial was commenced in The Mai! of Stp^mber 23-Vol 7, No. 13. BUCK au nbersof the paper can be procured uitlu* ultimo, at I ho ucwv staiaus, ortbey will be seut by mail on the reedpt live ecu is f.r each copy desired

CHAPTF.lt XII.

A L'LOT AGAINST THE SECUET. Toward the close of the evening, on the day after Mr. Urridge's interview with Mrs. Norburv, the Druid fast coach, running through Cornwall as far as Truro, set down three ii.s.de passengers at the door of the booking office on arriving at its destination. Two of these pasuengere were an old gentleman and his daughter the third was Mrs. Jazeph.

The father and daughter eolleoted their lugpage, and enterud the l.otei the outside passengers branched oil in different directions with as little delay as possible Mrs. Jazeph alone stood irresolute on the jiavement, and seemed uncertain what ahe should do next. When the coachman good-naturedly endeavored toa*l*t her in arriving at adccision of some kind, by asking whether he oould do any thing to help her, she started, and looked at him suspiciously thea, app?*aring to recollect herself, thanked Kim for his kindness, and inquired. with a confusion of words and a hesitation of UMiiner which appeared very extraordinary in the coachman oyee, whether she might be allowed to leave her trunk at tho liooking-offlce for a little while, until she could return and call for It again.

Receiving permission to leave her trunk as long as she pleased, cross ed over the principle street ol the town, ascended the pavement on the opposite side, and walked down the hrst turning she came to. On entering the by-street to which the turning led, she glanced back, satlsQed herself that nobody was following or watching her, hastened on a few yards, and stopped again at a small shop devoted to the sale of bookcases, cabinets, work-boxes, and wri-ting-desks. After llrst looking up at the letters nainted over the door—Buscn mann, CABtNKr-MAKKR,KTC —she peered in at the shop windew. A middle aged man, with a cheerful face, sal behind the counter,polishing a rosewood bracket, and nodding briskly at regular Intervals,as if he were bumming a tune and keeping time to it with his head. Seelug no customers in the sbop, Mrs. Jaxeph opened the door and walked in.

As soon as she was inside, she became aware that the cheerful man behind the counter was keeping time, not to a tune of his own buuimTng, but to a tune played by a musical box. The clear ringing notes came from a parlor behind the ahop, and the air the box was playing waa the lovely "Battl, Batti," of Mocart. la Mr. Buschmann at bome asked Mrs. Jasepb.

Yea, ma'am," said the cheerful man,

Eat

inting with a suiile toward the door 'ed into the parlor. "The muaic answers lor him. Whenever Mr. Buschmann's box Is plaving, Mr. Buschmann himself is not tar off from It. Did you wish to see him, ma'am?" ••If tbera la nobody witn

.glaa*

i^pipSSWS^^BIp

IKMI."

"Oh »o, he Is quite alone. Shall I give anv name Mr* Jaaeph opened her lipa to answer haaitated. ands iid nothing. Thesbopman, wita a quicker delicacy or perception than uwgbt have been expected from him, judging by outward appearances, did not repeat the question, but opened the door at once, and admitted

tbertsitor to the presence of Mr. Busch-

& The ahop parlor was a very small .room, with an odJ throe cornered look ^aboot it, with a bright green paper on the walls, with a large dried tl«h In a

caae over the fireplace, with two roeerahaom pipes banging together on jlht wail oppQftUo, and with a neat round table placed as accurately as possible in the middle ol the floor. On the table were tea things, bread, batter, a pot of lam. and a musical box In a quaint, old fashioned «ae and by the side of the table sat a little, rosy freed, *L aimpi» looking oU man, wbostorted lis, when tho door was opened wiih an taDooarance of extreme confusion, and tKJdtha *top that it might cease playing when Itcanie to tb© and of th® air. ,. «T lady to soaak with

parlor.

1.1-

A Will you pIMMW to ajat, wbare the atckneaa ahall nerer waate or •ma'am*" Mr, Bwobmann, when»tbe sorrow UHKJIJ him morel* Who?

2^*ibormxn bad?cloeod U* aa4{AM**»fi! youcauaotHr

gone btck t« liisoiunlnr, "Excuse the

FOR THE PEOPLE

A TRAPPER'S STORY.

music It will kwpdirt*c'ly" He spoke these words In a ron Ign accent, but with perfect fluency.

Mrs. Jazeph looked at him earnestly while ho wa addressing her, aud advanced a step or two before she said anything. "Am I so changed she asked, soitly. "So Badly, sadly changed. Uncle Joseph "Gottlm Hlmmel! it's her vole*—it* Sarah Le^tn cried the old man, running np to his visitor as nimbly as if he was boy again, taking both her hands, and kissing her with an odd briak tenderness on the cheek. Altbuugh his nieco was not at all above the average height or women Uncle Joseph was so short that he had to raise himself on tiptoe to pr-rlbrm ttie ceremony of embracing her. "To think of Surah coming at last! he aaid, pressing her into a chair. "After all tbe»e years and years, to think ol Sarah Ijeeaon coming to see Uncle Joseph again "Sarah still, Hit r«t Sarah Leeson," said Mrs. Ja*/. p.*«?ing her thin, tretiibliLg hands firmly together, and looking down on the floor while she spoke. '•Ah! married?" said Mr. Busoh matin, gayly. "Married, of course. Tell me all about your husband, Sarah."

He is dead. *ad and forgiven Sh murmured the last threo words in a whisper to l.eraelt'.

All! I am so sorry for you I spoke too sud-ieidy, did I not, my child ?"said the old .nan. "Nevermind! No.no I don't man that—I mean let us talk of s«m"h ii4 ulsd. You will have a bit of bread and jtm, won't you, Sarah?—ravishing raspberry jam that melts in your moutti. Some tea, then? So, so, she will have some tea, to be sure. And we won't talk of our troubles—at least, not just yet. You look very pale, Sarah, very 'much older than you ought to look —no, I don't mean that oithur I don mean to be rude. It was your voice I knew vou by, my child—your voice that yjur poor uncle Max always said would have made your fortune if you would only have learned to sing. Here' ui pretty music box going twl. Don't look so downnoarted u/t, prsv I) listen a little to tne UIUHIC WU re'in'icr the l*)x? »,.er Max's 0-x it was? vou loi.K? Hive yon r„ .. fi- taut the Jivii"' /.t. u.it-' ...» brother with lnu« .i it iux wasaboyin the music "t. Vienna? Listen! I have it g'»mg again. It's a song they call iiatti, llaui it's a song in an opera of Mrzirt's. Ah, beautiful! beautiful! youf uncle Max said that all tuusio was comprehended in that one soug. I know nothing about music, but have my heart and my ears, and they tell me that Max was right.

Speaking these words with abundant gesticulation and amazing volubility, Mr. Buschmann poured out a cup of tea for his neice. stirred it carefully, and, patting her on the shoulder, begged that she would make him happy by drinking it all up dire tly. As be came close to her to press this request, he discovered that she was trying to take her handkerchief from her pocket without being observed

Don't mind me,"' she said, seeing the old man's face sadden as ho looked at her "anddou't think me forgetful or ungrateful, Uncle Joseph. I remember the box -I remember everything that you used to take an interest in, when I was young"r and happier than I am now.* When last saw you, I came to you in trouble and I come to you in trouble once more. It seems neglectful in me never to have written to you for so many years past but my life has been a verv sad one, and I thought I had no right*to lay the burden of my sorrow on other shoulders than my own

Uncle Joseph shook bis head at these last words, and touched the top of the musical liox. Mozart shall svait a little," he said, gravely, till I have told you something. Sarah, hear what I say, and drink your tdn, aud own to me whether I spiak tlu truth or not. What did I, Josepu Buschmann,tell you,when you first come to me in trouble, fourteen, fifteen, ah more! sixteen years ago, in this town, and in this same bouse? I said then, what I say again, now: Sarah'a sorrow is my sorrow, and Sarah's joy is my joy and if any man asks me reasons for that, I have three to give hnn."

He stopped to stir up his nolce's tea for the second time, and to draw her attention to it, by tapping «ith the spoon on the edge of the cup.

Throe reasons," he resumed. First, you are my sister's child—some of her flesh and blood, and some of mine, therefoie, also. Secondly, my sister,, ir.y brother, and, lastly, uie myself, we owe to your good English father— all. A little word that means much, and may be said again and again—all. Four father's filends cry. Fie! Agatha Baschmann is poor, Agatha Buschmann is foreign! But your lather loves the poor Herman girl, and he marries her in spite of their Fie, Fie. Your father's friends cry Fie! again Agatka Busohmann has a musician brother, who gabbles to us abort Mozart, ana who can not make to bis porridge, salt. Your father says, Oood I I like his gabble I like hi» playing I shall get him people to teach and whilo I have pinches of salt in my kitchen, he to his porridge shall have pinches of salt too. Your father's friends cry. Fie! for the third time. Agatha Buschmann has another brother, a little stupid bead, wboto the other's galtb'.e can only listen and aay Anion. Sond him trotting fortbe love of Heaven, shut up all the doors and wend Stupid Head trotting at least! Your father says, No! Stupid Head has his wits in bia bands he cau cut, and carve, and polish help him a little at the starting, and, after, he shall bolp himself. They are a'l gone now but me! Your father, your mother, and uncle Max—they are all gone! Stupid Head alone remains to remember and to be grateful—to take Sarah's sorrow for his sorrow, and Sarah's joy tor his Joy."

He stopped again, to blow a speck of du«*t ofT the musical box. His niece endeavored to apeak, but be held up bla hand, and shook hia forefinger at her warn'ugly.

No, lie said. "Tt is yet my business to talk, and yonr business to drink tea. Have 1 not my third reason atlll? Ah! you look away from me yon know mv third reason, before I aay a word. When I, In my tnrn, marry, «nd my wfTs die«,and leaves tne alone with little Joseph, and when the boj Mis sick, who comes then, so quiet, so pretty, so neat, with the bright young eyes, and the bands ao tender and light? Who helps me with little Joseph by night and by day Who makes a pillow for him on her arm when bis bead is weary? Who holds this box patiently at his ear? —yes! this box, that the hand of Mosart ban touched—Who holds It dower, closer always, when little Joseph's sense grows dull, and be moans for the friendly niusie that be has known from a baby, the friendly mnslc that he can now ao hardly hardly hear? Who kneels down by Uncle Joseph when his heart is breaking and says,• Ob, hush! bush! The boy is f00* where the belter music play*,

sa® sia

yoM cannot forget the Long Ago! When the trouble la bitter,aud the burden la heavy, It is cruelty to Unole Joseph to keep away It la kindness to bun to oome here."

The recoleotlons that the old man had called up found their way tenderly to Sarah's heart. 8he oould not answer him she oould only.hold out bor band^ Uncle Joseph bent down, with a quaint affectionate gallantry, and kissed It then stepped back again to hjs place ly the musical box. "Come! he said, patting it cheerfully, "we will «iy no more for a while, Moeart'a box, Max box, little Joseph's box, you shall talk to us again!''

Having put the tiny machinery ini motion, he sat down by the table, and retnallied silent until the sir bad been played over twice. Thon, observing that his neice seemed calmer, he spoke to her once more. .... ,A

You are in trouble, Sarah, he said, quietly. Yon tell me that, and I see it is true in your lore. Are you grieving for yourhusband?" ^I grieve that I ever met him," she answered. I grlevo that I ever mar_ ried him. Now that be Is dead, I can not grlevo—I can only forgive him.

Koruive him? How you look, Sarah, when you aay that! Tell me— fancle Joseph 1 I have told you that my husband is do&d, and that I have forgiven blui."

You have forgiven him He was hard and cruel with ou, then? I see: I see. That is the end,

Uncle Joseph, I married him because I was too weak to persist in saying No! The curse of weakness and fear has followed me all the days of my life! I said No to him once I said No to him twice. Oh, uncle, if I could only have said It for the third time! But he followed me, he frightened me, he took away from me all the litt will of my own that I had He made me speak as he wished me to speak, aud go where he wished me to go. No, no,—don't come to mo, uncle don't sav anything. He is gone he is dead— I have got mv release I have given my pardon Oh,' if I could only go away and hide somewhere! All people's eyes seem to look through me all people's words seem to threaten me. My heart has been weary ever since I was a young woman and all these long, long years, it has never got any Ast. Plush the man in the step—I f:rgot the man in the shop. Ho will hear us let us talk in a whisper. What made me break out so? I'm always wrong. Oh me! I'm wrong when I speak I'm wrong when I sav nothing wherever I go and whatever I do, I'm not like other poople. I seem never to have grown up in my mind, since I was a little child. Hark! the man in the shop is moving—has he heard me? Oh, Uncle Joseph do you think be'has heard me?"

Looking hardlv less startled than his neice, Uncle Joseph assured her that the door was solid, that the man's place in the shop was at some distance from it, and that it was impossible, even if ho heard voices in tho parlor, that he could also distinguisn any words that wore spoken in it.

You are sure or that?" she whisperod, hurriedly. "Yes, yes, you are sure of that, or you would not have told me so, would you? We nsay go on talking now. Not about my married life that is buried and past. Say that I had some years of sorrow and suffering, which I deserved—say that I had other years of of quiet, when I was living in service, with masters and mistresses who were often kind to me when my fellow-ser-vants were not—say Just that much about my life, and it is saying enough. The trouble that I am In now, the troublo that brings me to you, goes back further than the years we have been talking about—goes back, back, back, Unole Joseph, to the distant day when we last met." "G«es back all through the nlxteen year*!" exclaimed tbe old man incredulously. "Goes back, Sarah, even to the Long Ago!" "Even to that time. Uncle, you remember where I was living, and what had happened to me, when—" "When vou camo here In aecret? Wten you asked me to hide you That was the same week, Sarah, when your mistress died your mistress who lived away, wewt, In the old house. You were frightened, then—pale and frlghumed as I see you now."

As every one sees me! People are always staring at me always thinking that 1 am nervous, always pitying me for being 111."

Saying these words with a sadden fretiuluess. she lifted tbe tea-cup by her side to her llpa, dralne It ofltaoontenta at a draught, and pushed tt across the table to be filled again. "1 have oome all over tblr*tv and not," she whispered.

More tea, tfncle Joseph—more tea." It 1s cold," aald tbe old man, "Wait till I ask for hot water."

No!"she exclaimed, stopping him as he waa about to rise. "Oire it me ooid I like it cold. LH nobody else oome in I can't speak If anybody else oomes In." She drew bar chair close to her Uncle's, and went on: "You bare not forgotten bow frightened I was ia that bygone time do yop remember why I was frightened?"

You were afraid of being followed— that was it, Sarah. I grow old, but my memory keep* young. Yoa were afraid of yonr master, afraid of his sending servants after yon. Yon bad ran away you bad spoken no word to any bod and you spoke little—ab. vary, very HtUe—even to Unole Joseph, even to me."

I told you," aakl Sarah, dropping her voice to ao faint a whisper that tbe old man eoold barely hear he*. "I told voti that my mistress had left tne a aecret on her death-bed—a secret In a lettlar. which I waa to aire to my master. I told you 1 had hidden tbe letter, became I oould not bring myself to deliver it— because I would rather die a thousand

T'fl

TF.K^TC^H AitTE^lTURUAY- EVENING MAIL.

rah—but tue

begining Is the beglnlng that you loved nitn?" Her pale cheeks flushed and she turned her head aside. "It is hard aud humbling to confesi it," she murmured, without raising her eyes "but you force the truth from me, uncle. I had no love to give to my husband—no love to give to any man.

And vet, you tnarfled him! Wait! it is not for me to b'ame. It is for me to rind out not the bad, 'nf tho good. Yes, I shall say to niVM-! h- married him when she was poor Hri'l helpless she imrri.d hint when--ho should have come to

Unci-Jo*e|.,,

ustead. 1 shall

-ny st to ni^ selt, ani 1 shall pity, but I shall no more.'' Sara., hrtlt reached her hand out the oU mau again—then suddenly pushed her chair back, and changed the position Ui which she was sitting. It is true that I was poor," she said, look ing ibout her In confusion, and speak ing with ditticulty. "But you are so good and so kind, I can not accept the excuse that your forbearance makes for me. I did not marry hi an because I was poor, but—" She stopped, clasped her bands together, and pushed her chair back still farther from tbe table. "So! so!" said the old man, noticing her confusion. "We will talk about it no more." "I lifcd no excuse of lovo I had no excuse of poverty," she said, with a sudden burst of bitterness and despair.

a to

what I knew of It. I told you ao much. I know. Did I toll you no more? Did 1 not aay that my mistress made me take an oath on the Bible? Unole I are there cardies in the room Are there candles we can light without disturbing any body—without calling any body iu here?"

There are oandlea and a match-box In my cupooard," answered Uncle Joseph. "But look out of tbe window, Saran. It ia only twilight It la not dark yet."

Not outside but it is dark here.'* "Where?" •'In that corner. Let ua have tbe candles, I dont like tbe darkness when it gathers in oorners, and creeps along walla."

Uncle Joseph looked all round the room, inquiringly, and smiled to himaelf as he took two candleajrom the cup board and lighted tbem. "You are lilit' the children/' he said, playfully, while he pnlled down the window-blind. tfou are afraid nftho dark."

Sarah did uot appear to hear him. Her eyes were flxea on the corner of the r«om wbioh she had pointed out the moment before. When he resumed his place by her side, she never looked round, but laid her hand on his arm, and said to him, suddenly: "Uncle! Do yoa believe that the dead can come back to this world, and follow the living every where, and see what they do in it

The old man started. "Sara1!" he said, "why do you talk so? Why do you ask me sucn a question "Are there lonoly hours," she went on, still never looking away from tha oorner, still not seeming to hear him, "when you are sometimes frightened without knowing why—frightened all over in an instant, from head to foot? Tell me, Uuole, have you ever felt the cold steal round and round the roots of your hair, aud crawl bit by bit down yourbajk? I have felt that, even in the summer. I have been out of doors, alone on a wide heath, In the beat and brightness of noon, and have felt as If chilly fingers ere touching me—chilly, (lump, softly creeping fingers. It says in the New Testament that the dead came once out of their graves, and went into the holy city. The dead! Have they rested, reste'd always, rested for ever, since that time?"

Uncle Joseph's simple nature recoiled in bewilderment from the dark and daring speculations to which his neice's questions led. Without saying a word, he tried to draw away the arm which she still held but the only result of the effort was to make her tighten her grasp, and bend forward in her chair so as to look closer still into the corner of tho room. "My m'stress was dying," she said,

My mistress was very near her grave, when she made me take my oath on the Bible. She made uie swear never to destroy the letter and I did not destroy it She made me swear net to take it away with me, if I left the house and I did not take it away. She would ha made me swear, for the third time, to give it to my master, but death was too quick for her—death stopped her from fastening that third oath on my conscience, But she threatened me, Uncle, with the ileath npnesson her forehead, and the .leath whiu-ness on her cheeks—she threatened to come to me from tbe other world, if I thwarted fcer—and I have thwarted her!"

She stopped, suddenly removed her baud from the old man's arm, and made a strange gesture with it toward the part of the room on which her eyes remained fixed. "Rest, rest, rest," she whispered under her breath. "Is my master alive now? Rest till the drowned rise. Tell him the Secret when the sea gives up her dead."

Sarah! Sarah you are changed, you aro ill you frighten me!" cried Undo Joseph, starting to his feet.

She turned round slowly, aud looked at him with eyes void of all expression, with eyes that seemed to be scaring through him vacantly at something boyond.

Gott im Himmel! what does she see?" He looked round as the exclamation escaped him. "Sarah! what is it? Are you faint? Are you ill? Are you dreaming with your eyes open

He took her by both arms and shook her. At the instant when she felt the touch of his hands, she started violently and trembled all over. Their natural expression Hew back into her eyes with the rapidity of a flash of light. Without saying a word, she hastily resumed her seat, and began stirring the cold tea round and round In her cup, round and round so fast that the liquid overflowed into the saucer. "Come! she gets more like herself," said Uncle Joseph, watching her.

More like myself?" she repeated, vacantly. "So! so!" said tho old man, trylne to soothe her. ',You are 111—what the English call. out of sort. They are good doctors here. Wait till to-morrow, you shall have the best."

I want no doctors. Don't speak *f doctors. I can't bear them they look at me with such curious eyes: they are always prying into me. as if they wanted to find out something. What have we been stopping for I had so mnch to say and we seem to have been stopping just when we ought to have been going on. I am in grief and terror, Uncle Joseph, In grief and teror again about the Secret—" "No more of that!" pleaded tbe old man. "No more to-night, at least!"

Why not Because you will be ill again with talking about it. You will be looking into that oorner, and dreaming with your eyes open. You are too ill yea, yea, Sarah, you are too 111."

I'm not ill 1 Ob, wfcy does every body keep telling me tbat I am ill? Let me talk about It, ancle. I have oome to talk about I can't reat till I have told you."

She spoke with a changing color and an embarrassed manner, now apparently conscious for the first time that sbe bad allowed words and actions to escape her whloh it would have been more prudent to have restrained.

Dont notice me again," she aald, with bor soft voice and her gentle, pleading manner. Don't notice me if 1 talk or Took aa I ought not. 1 loee myself sometimes. without knowing it and 1 suppose I lost myself just now. It means nothing, Uncle Joseph—nothing indeed."

Endeavoring tbiw to reassure the old m«n, she again altered the position of her chair, no aa to place her back toward the part of tbe room to which her face had been hitherto turned.

Well, well, It Is good to hear that, Mid Unole Joseph "bat speak no more about the past time, for fear yon should lose yourself again. Let us bear about what Is now. Yea, yes. glre me my way. I*are tbe Long Ago to me, and you take the present time. I can go back through the sixteen years aa well a« yon. An! you doubt it Hear me tell you what happened when we last met—bear me prove myself in three words: you leave your place at the old house} you run away here you stop In hiding with me, while your master and his servants are hunting after you you start off, when your road is clear, to for ur lltlr^ as far away from

Cornwall as you can get: I beg and pray yon to stop with me, out you are afraia of your master, and away you go. There! tbat is tbe whole story of your trouble tbe laat time you came to this bousf. Leave it so and tell me what is the causs of your trouble now."

The past cause of my trouble, Uncle Joseph, and the present cause of my trouble are the same. Tbe Secret—" "What! you will go back to tbat?"

I mnst go back to It." And why Because the Secret is written in a letter—"

Yes and what of that?" "And the letter is in danger of being disoovered. It is, Uncle—it is! Sixteen years it haa lain hidden and now, after all tbat long time, the dreadful chance of its being dragged to light has come like a judgment. The one person in all the world who ought never to set eyes on that letter is the very person who la most likely to find it!" "So! so! Are you very certain, Sarah How do you know It?"

I know it from her own lipa. Chance brought us together—" "Us? us? What do you mean by us

I mean—uncle, you remember that Captain Treverton was my master when I lived at Portbgenna Tower?"

I had forgotten his name. But no matter—go on." When I left my place Miss Trevertoi was a little girl of five years old. She is a married woman now—so beautiful, so clever, such a sweet, youthful, happy face! And she has a child as lovely as herself. Oh, undo, if you could see h«-r! I would give so much if you could oiily see her!"

Uncle Joseph kissed his hand ami shrugged 1 i*i shoulders, expressing, ly the first action, homage to the iau.\'s beauty, and. by the second, resignation under tho misfortune of not being abi to see her. "Well, well," he said plnl osophlcally, "put this shining woman Wy, and let us go on."

Her name is Frankland now," said Sarah. "A prettier name, I think. Her husband Is fond of her—I am sure he Is. How can he have any heart at all, and not be fond of her?" "So! so!" exclaimed Uncle Joseph, looking very much perplexed. "Good, il he is fond of her—very good. But what labyrinth are we getting into now? Wherefore all this about a husband and a wife My word of honor, Sarah, but your explanation explains nothing—it only softens my brains!" "I must speak of her and of Mr, Frankland, undo. Porthgenna Tower belongs to her husband now ind they are both going to live there."

Ah we are getting back into the straight road at last." "They are going to live in tho very house that holds the Secret they are going to repair that very part of it whet• tbe letter is hidden. She will go into the old rooms—I heard ner say so she will search about in them to amuse lier curiosity workmen will clear them out, and she will .stand by, in lier idle hours, looking OTI."

But she suspects nothing of the Secret God forbid she ever should!"

And there are many rooms in the house? And tho letter in which tho Secret 19 written is hiddt-n in one of the many? Wh^should she hit on that one?

Because I always say the wrong thing! because I nlw«ys get frightened and lose myself at the wrong time! The letter is hidden iu a room called the Myrtle Room, and I was foolish enough, weak enough, crazed enough, to warn her against going into it

Ah, Sarah S irah! that wa3 a nilstake Indeed." "I can't tell what possessed me—1 seemed to lose mv senses when I heard her talking so "innocently of amusing herself by searching through tho old rooms, and when I thought of what she might find there. It was getting on toward night, too the horrible darkness was gathering in the corners and creeping along the walls and I didn't dare light the candles for fear she should see how anxious and frightened I was in my face. And when I did light them it was worse. Oh, I don't know how did it! I don't know why I did it! could have torn my tongue out for saying the words, and yet I said them. Other people can think for the best other people can act for the beat other people have had a heavy weight laid on their minds and have not dropped un der it, as I have. Help me, uncle, for the sake »f old tlnies when we were happy—help me with a word of advice!"

I will help you live to help you, Sarah No, no, no—you must not look so forlorn yeu must look at me with those crying eyes. Come! I will advise this minute—but say in what only say in what."

Have I not told you ?"?*$ No you have not told mo a word y*l"

I will tell you now—' She paused, looked away distrustfully towara the door leading into the shop, listened a little, and resumed "I am not at the end of my Journey yet, Uncle Joseph—I am here on my way to Porth-

Soora—on

mna Tower—on my wav to tbe Myrtle my way, atep by step, to tbe place where tbe. letter Ilea bid. I dare not destroy It I dare not remove it but run what risk I may, I must take it out of tbe Myrtle Room."

Unole Joseph said nothing, but be shook hia head despondingly. I must," she repeated "before Mr*. Frankland gets to Portbgenna, I must take tbat letter out of the Myrtle Room. There are places In the old house where I may bide it again—plaaes that sbe would never think of—places that sbe would never notice. Only let me get it out of the one room that ahe la aure to search in, and I know where to hide it from her and from every one forever.

Uncle Joseph reflected, and abook his bead again, and then said: •'Oneword, Sarah does Mr*. Frankland know which Is the Myrtle Ro®m?" 1 did my beet to dertrov all trace of that name when I bid tbe letter I hope and believe she does uot. But ahe may find out—remember tbe words I was erased enough to speak: tbey will set ber seeking for tbe Myrtle Room tbey are sure to do that." "And if sbe finds it? And if she sees the letter?" it will cause misery to Innocent people: it will bring death to me. IXinH posh your ohair from me, uncle! It is not saameftil death I apeak of. Tbe worst Injury I have done Is injury to myself: tbe worst death I have to fear is the death that releasee a worn out spirit and cures a re ken heart."

Koongh—enough so," said tbe old man. "1 ask for no sscret, Sarah, that Is not yours to give. It Is all dark to me —verv dark, very confused. I look a way'from it I look only toward you. Not with doubt, my child, but with pity, and with sorrow, too—sorrow tbat ever you went near that bouse of Porthgenna—sorrow that you are now going to itagftin."

I have no choice, uncle, but to go. If every step of the road to Porthgenna took me nearer and nearer to my death, I must still tread It. Knowing what I know, 1 can't re*t, I cacft sleep, jay

very breath won't oome freely, till I have got that letter out of tbe Myrtle Room. Bow to do It—oh,Unole Joseph, how to do It, without being suspected, without beit-g disoovered by any body —that is what I would almost give my life to know 1 You area man you are older and wiser than I am no living creature ever asked you for help In vain —help me now 1 my only friend la all the world, help me a little with a word of I advice!"

Unde Joseph rose from his chair, and folded bia arms resolutely, and looked his niece full in the face.

You will go?" he said. "Cost what i! it may, you will go? Say, for the last time, Sarah—is it yes, or no "Yes I For tbe last time, I say, Yes." I

Good. And you will go soon I must go to-morrow. I dare not waste a single day hours oven may be precious for any thing I can tell."

You promise me, my obild, that the hiding of this secret does good, and that tbe finding of it will do harm "If it was the last word I had to speak I in this world I would say, Yes I"

You promise me also that you want S nothing out to take the letter out of the Myrtle Room, and put it away somewhere else?"

Nothing but tbat." And it is yours to take and yours to put? No person has a bettor right to touch it than yon

Now that my matter is dead, no person." Good. You have given me my resolution. I have done. Sit you there, Sarah and wonder, if you liice, but say I nothing." With these words. Uncle i: Joseph stepped lightly to tbe door leading into the "bop, opened it, and called to the man behind toe counter.

Samuel, my friend," he 9aid. Tomorrow I go a little ways into the country with my niece, who is this lady, 5 here. You keep shop and take orders, S and be just as careful as you always are, till I get back. If any body oomes and asks for Mr. Buschmann, say he is gono a little ways into the country, and will be back in a tew days. That is all. Shut up the shop, Samuel, ray friend, for the night and go to your supper. I wish you good appetite, nice victuals, and sounasleep.'

Before Samuel could thank Ills-master the door was shut again. Before Sarah could say a word, unole Joeeph's band was on her lips, and Uncle Joseph's handkerchief was wiping away the tears that were now falling fast from her eyes.

I will have no more talking, and no more crying," sai 1 the old man. "I am German, and glory in the obstinacy of six Englishmen all rolled Into one. Tonight you sleep here, to morrow we talk again of all this. You want me' to help you with a word of advice. I will help you with myself, which is better than advice, and I say ao more "ill I fetch my pipe down from the wall there,and ask him to make me think. I smoke and think to night, I talk and do to morrow. And you, you go up to bed you take uncle Max's music-box in your haud, and you let Mozart sing the cradle song before you go to sleep. Yes, yes, my child, there is always comfort in Mozart—hetter comfort than in crying. Wry cry so much? What is there to cry about, or to think ^bout Is it no great a wonder that I will not let my sister's child go alone to make a venture in the dark I said Sarah's sorrow was my sorrow, and Surah's joy my joy and now, if there in no way of escape—if it must indeed be dono—I also siy, Sarah's risk to-morrow is Uncle Joseph risk to morrow, too ,J 1 [TO BE CONTtNCKD.]

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