St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 15, Number 50, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 7 June 1890 — Page 6

-*N»> . .» You BY THOMAS B. HOLM 33. I sing my song in pruua of the man, 'I be man with he m msive brain, V ho bends me off at • very turn .And sings this sweet refrain: “You better do this ami von better do that; You ought to do so and so; If you don t do thus you'll make a mistake; Ive been through the mill, you know.” The seasons come and the seasons go; 'I ime rolls on apace; Where'er 1 turn my steps I meet This mnn with the iron face Be speaks to mo in an undertone*, Says he : "You’re going wrong ; I hate to say a word, my boy. But 1 want help to you along.” He chants his song without a skip From early morn till night; He lifteth up his voice as long As any one's in sight And says : “My boy. I'll tell you what It’s best for you to do ; You better follow my advice, I’m an older man than you." I grit my teeth and listen while The man with the massive brain In i soft, seductive undertone Chants his sweet refrain. And when he’s through, I turn away, And without thinking twice I throw his counsel to the wind And take my own advice. —Sonoma Valley Whistle. THE PARSONTdAUGIITER. BY EVA RICHMOND. The young Captain paced the deck restlessly to and fro. This was to be j his last voyage, he promised himself, and he wondered what he would do when he should quit the ocean. Suddenly his mind was recalled from his •dreaming by a child grasping at his hand, and he turned. “Don’t, Harry,” remonstrated a sweetvoiced young girl. “Pardon him, sir. He is not afraid of strangers,” she continued, addressing him. Captain Lefevre stooped down, and took the child up in h’s arms. He had noticed the mischievous little imp before, and his pale companion; but he had given them no second thought. “What's your name?” he asked of the little fellow’. “Harry,” was the ready response. “What’s ’oors?” Victor Lefevre,” he returned laughingly. ■ “This is not your young brother?” he observed, turning to the girl beside him. “No, sir,” she replied. “He is Mrs. Vanstpin’s son, and I am only his nurse, Alice Dornier.” “Where is Mrs. Vanstein?” he asked; “I have not noticed her among the passengers.” “'She is not well, sir. She has not left her cabin since we sailed from India.” “Ah I indeed. I am sorry for the lady. Is she seriously indisposed?” “No, sic; only languid, which she believes has been occasioned by the climate. She is an English lady, the widow of a German gentleman.” “Tell her anything in our vessel is at her disposal,” he answered, and then began to talk to the child. Eight days more passed and yet Mrs. Vanstein did not emerge from her stateroom. During that time the Captain .had become quite intimate with the boy Harry and his young protectress. He felt strongly interested in the pale brown-eyed Miss Dormer; but he believed it to be nothing more than because she was so lovely and, evidently, so sad. He had not fallen in love with her. He could not fall in love with any woman, he said to himself ; and if ever he did marry, it must be a line, magnificent woman, whose beauty would enchain the admiration of every one who approached her; a woman whom he could listen tostrang•ers comment upon with pleasure, in i fact, a woman worthy of reigning as ‘queen in his handsome house on the banks of the Thames at Twickenham. Alice Dormer was not a woman. She was a quiet, shy, sad little girl, with dreamy eyes, but not even pretty. A count y parson’s daughter, she said; “and,” he added to himself, “just as ■sweet and pure as a parson’s daughter oughbto be.” One afternoon, Mrs. Vanstein appeared on deck,Meaning languidly on Harry’s nurse. Captain Lefevre stepped forward, and stood still. He recognized the proud, imperious beauty in her black crape—-recognized her as the being •who had driven him from his home 1 years before. This woman he had loved with a mad sort of worship—a quick, feverish heat a fascination which he was incapable of resisting. She had led him step by step, made him believe that his passion was reciprocated; and then—then her father forbade her seeing Victor Lefevre more! He was too poor a match for his brilliant daughter. At first she pretended to feel the separation as severely as he did; but he soon saw that it was all pretense—she had been playing with him! That knowledge enraged him. / He ran aw ay from his home, and went to sea. Chance drifted him to India, and then to an old uncle that was there. He took a fancy to Victor; he assisted him; and finally beheld him Captain iu one of the large ships that sailed between Liverpool ami I India. Shortly afterwards Ise died, and bequeathed to Victor his great wealth, with only the stipulation that he should leave the ocean forever. “It is too dangerous a life for you, my boy,” he wrote in his letter. I should have offered inducements for you to leave* it before, only I wished to see what stuff you were made of. lam sat- l isfied now. Without any assistance you I would win a fortune for yourself; but in | so doing you would do as I have done — । forego all the pleasure of society, and i wear out your life in toil. You must । not do it. My wealth is sufficient for ! you, and I know you will not waste it. j I have bought, through an agent, the ■ old Lefevre Mansion on the banks of the Thames, and had it handsomely rebuilt and refurnished. I hope it will be your future home, and resound to the i happy voices of wife and children.” All this went through his mind as he | glanced at the superb woman—the era- ! bodiment of his ideal, the love of his youth. He knew she was a widow now, i and—would she recognize him? He stepped forward. He raised his hat respectfully. “I am happy to see that Mrs. Vanstein has recovered her health sufficiently to come out,” he observed courtooua'y.

She started. A change crept over her. Her brilliant though soft orbs were lifted quickly to his face, and then as quickly veiled by her heavy, jetty lashes. “ Victor!” “I see you remember nfe,” he said with feigned lightness. “I am happy to meet you after - so many years.” He held out his hand as he spoke, and she laid hers within it. He sat down beside her; he felt the old fascination creeping over him. Time was swept array, the old pain forgotten—this was the Imogen of his happy days! He noticed not the quick pallor, the quivering of the lip, as Alice Dormer turned away—noticed nothing but the beautiful woman before him. From that time he was devoted to her. Not a moment scarcely passed that the Captain was not by Mrs. Vanstein’s oide, until the fellow-pa engers smiled significantly. The widow had made a conquest ! Harry rvas not her own child, she told him. It was the only child of her dead husband. He was a widower when she married him, and she bad only ; been married a year when he died, leaving little Harry to her care, an orphan ; indeed. “I ।missed Mr. Vanstien,” she continued, softly; “but I could not mourn him very much, for I did not love him. People told me that my heart was dead!” She looked into his eyes as she spoke and he knew what she meant to imply. Their veyage was drawing to a close. As yet, he had not said any thing to her which she could construe into a declaration of love, but she was satisfied. She knew he was caught, blinded. One morning he came upon deck rather suddenly, and found little Harry crying piteously. His forehead was bruised and cut as if with some terrific blow. “What has happened?” he asked, quickly. “Mamma ” began the little fellow, but Alice drew him to her quickly. “He got hurt,” she said evasively. “Hush, Harry!” as the child attempted to speak again. Captain Lefevre wondered why she seemed so anxious to divert his attention from the subject, and then noticed how much frailer Alice Dormer looked than when they first left India. “I am afraid tho voyage has not agreed with you,” he said, sympathetically. “Are you ill, Miss Alice?” “Not at all,” she responded; but her looks belied her words, and he was not 1 satisfied, though he tried to dismiss it from his mind. He wondered why a sigh escaped her lips, and longed to comfort her. He was interested in her because she was ( so friendless, he assured himself. At that moment the will >w swept upon ' the deck. She looked first at Alice, and then at Cant. Lefevre; and a scowl , crept for an instant over her face, but was succeeded by a smile. “Take Harry down beUw,” she said; and the nurse obeyed. “Your little boy has been hurt,” he observed. “Was it an accident?” “No,” she returned with a half-drawn sigh. “Alice struck him while in a tit of temper.” “I could not have believed such a thing of her!” he exclaimed, with a shocked air. “1 believed her too kindhearted to act so to a child!” “And so did I,” she responded, sadly. “But you can never trust a pale, inno- I cent-faced girl. They are deceitful.” Capt. Lefevre made no further comments, but he felt strangely hurt within. Could it be possib l "A he had been so deceived in h.a estimate of Alice Dormer ? All through the day thoughts of her pale face haunted him, and the | harder he found it to convince himself that it could really be so. The next morning he passed Mrs. Vanstein’s door. “If you dare to tell, I’ll kill you,” he heard her say to the child. He wondered what it meant. A few moments later, as he sauntered along, I Alice Dormer came up with the child. “I wish to speak to you, Harry,” he said to the little fellow, and nut out his hand. Alice drew the child back. She in- i stinctively knew that he intended to ! question him. “Oh, no, sir!” she exclaimed. “I am master on board this vessel,' Miss Dormer,” he said, sternly, as he ; took the child, and walked away from I her. She stood still. She dare not follow ■ him. He looked at her, and believed it : was the fear of being exposed that ' troubled her. “How did you hurt your face, little j one?” he asked, gently. “I dare not tell,” he cried. (i Mamma I says she’ll kill me if I do!” “I won’t let mamma hurt you,” lie re- | turned, reassuringly; “I will give you something nice if you will tell me.” “Will you?” he cried, eagerly. “I will tell. Mamma called Alice bad names, and then took a glass to throw at her, and I put my arms round her neck, and it hit me! Alice thought I was dead!” Captain Lefevre was literally thunderstruck. “You love Alice?” he asked. “I love Alice —she’s good!” the child answered, in an impressive manner. “She don’t strike me like mamma.” He pressed the child to his bosom for a moment, and then took a large golden j medal from his pocket, which he had I intended for the boy, and gave it to j him. j “Go back to Miss Alice,” he said ! softly, as he released him. He sat still when he left him; the mist was swept from his eyes iu time, and he was thankful. An hour passed, and then Mrs. Vanstein appeared. She went over to speak to Harry, and the Captain followed her. She sat down; | but he did not follow her example. He i stood before her, with a singular ex- | pression flitting over his handsome face. “We shall arrive in Liverpool tomorrow,” he observed. “So soon?” she faltered. i “Yes. I intend to give up the charge of this ship then. I shall never go to ; sea any more.” i “Is that true?” she asked, anew glow | flitting into he. - ey*s. Captain Lefevre j intended to propose now! “Yes,” he resumed. “I shall go <ai- I

j rect to London, where I have a nome on the Thames awaiting me.” “And keep bachelor’s hall?” she I asked with a winning smie, and a quick dropping of her eye-lashes. “No; not if Miss Dormer will go there as my wile?” he returned, calmly. “What is my answer, Alice?” turning to I her. A soft light flickered in her face. “Do not be afraid to answer me,” he said, gently. “1 love you, Alice. I have loved you ever since wo met here. My infatuation for another is over!” Mrs. Vanstein arose, black, angry, scowling. “Dastard!” she muttered, as she hastened to her cabin, knowing that she was foiled—the golden piize had slipped through her lingei *. She did not make her appearance again until the steamer arrived at its destination; then she came out closely veiled. Captain Lefevre stepped over to her. “If I hear of you ill-using Harry,” ho observed, sternly, “I shall appeal to the law to have your guardianship trans- : ferred to another.” She made no reply, hut passed on. A ictor never regretted meeting the parson’s daughter, or that he had found out in time the true chai actor of his once beloved Imogen. Lived A Hundred Years. Lewis Cornaro, a noble Venetian, had been a professed epicure and libertine till he entered the fortieth year of his ago. His constitution was so far reduced by the colic, rheumatic pains, fever, etc., that his physicians at length assured him that ho could not survive much longer than two months; that no medicine whatever could avert the catastrophe, and that the only possible means of preserving bis life would bo a regular adherence to a frugal diet. He punctually followed this advice, perceived symptoms of convalesenee within a few days from the commencement of his plan of reformation, and after the lapse of twelve months, was not only completely restored, but found himself in a better state of health than he had ever been during any period of his life. He resolved, therefore, to confine himself to a still more parsimonious regimen, and to take nothing but what he judged to be absolutely requisite for his support. Thus, during sixty yerrs. he confined himself to exactly twelve ounces of food a day (bread and other nourishi ments included,) with thirteen ounce i of beverage. It should be also observed F t dur- ■ ing this long period he carefully uvoide I violent heat, cold, passion, and extremes i of every kind, and by rigidly and unii formly adhering to this moderate diet, ■ not only his body, but his mind also, i acquired so determined a tone that no common incidents could affect them. At a very advanced age ho lost a law--1 suit which involved pecuniary concerns of great importance, and on account of . which two of his brothers died of broken hearts; but he still retained his usual health and tranquility. His carriage was accidentally overturned and dragged along by the horses, in c“usequence of which his arms and legs were dis- ; located. He caused them, however, to be re lueed again, and, without taking any medicines, was in a short time restored. He died at the age of 100. * Mcdb‘al Classics. Wouldn't Hurl the 1r: ins. Tourist Operat >r B >gardu , known to telegraph operators in every city of importance throughout the l nited States, was in the city yesterday. “Bogy,” as Lie is familiarly called, has traveled all ! over Qiis country and Europe, and ■ mostly on tne contributions of his I brother key pounders and the passes of l persistently importuned railroad ofi ficials. “Bogy” hasn't dor^a stroke of i work for an interminable length of time, simply because nomadic life is preferable. He was yesterday on his way to Memphi-’, with the avowed intention I of actually going to work at the key board. Hundreds of stories are told of I ‘Bogy’s” persistency in applying for ; railroad passes. The best of these per- ! haps, his importunate demands for a j pass from Genera! Manager Williams lof the Cincinnati, Hamilton and Day- | ton road. After declining at three or ■ four successive visits, Mr. Williams in- ' dignantly told Bogardus never to call ।at his office again for a pass. An hour ' later “Bogy” popped his head into the ; general manager’s office and remarked: “Mr. Williams, I haven't called for a I pass; 1 just want one of your time cards. | I’ve concluded to walk, and I want a I time card so as to keep out of the way I of regular trains.” Mr. Williams bit his lip to suppress | an incipient smile, and ordered his clerk Ito write out a pass for the persistent applicant.—Ch attanooga. Times. A Lesson in Manners. That the manners of our fathers are not ours is well enough understood, and the phrase “of the old school” has come to be used rather as a reproach to the degenerate present generation. An old lady who belonged to the times when courtesy was perhaps more general, as it certainly was more elaborate, titan it is now, administered rather neatly a rebuke to a lad who did not come up to her ideas. She had known the boy’s father when he was in Harvard, as now was the son, i and as the latter could hardly rememi ber his parents who died in his infancy, I he was always eager to learn all he could about them. The youth was invited to call upon the old lady, who is now beyond the term set by the Psalmist lor man’s life, at a country place one day last summer, and had an interview with I her upon the wide veranda, where she was sitting when he arrived. He lifted ‘ his hat, and then, replacing it upon ! his head, went on talking with the old dame, who regarded him with looks of disapproval. “Do I look like my father?” the young man asked at length. “I cannot tell,” the old lady replied, dryly. “I never saw him with his hat i on when be talked with a lady.” I When lovers are separated they usi j the mails, When they are togethe I they express their affections directly t { each other.— Burlington Free Pre^.

THE PARTING AT THE GATE. BY JOHN DE WITT. When the train is almost going, Ami you hurry lest you're late, Have you ever uutclud a parting, Someone jmrting at the gate? You can scarce suppress your laughter, Such a feeing some create, While at times a tear will glisten Al some parting at the gate. There's the old maid with the bundles, a Who will prate, and prate, and prate, Who will ask the gateman questions, While she makes t he rest all vait, Till you see his brows contracting, lu his eyes a gleam of hate, As he hurries up lu r parting, While she hustles through the gate. There’s the mother with the glasses, Who’ll get left as sure as fate. Just arriving with her daughter The last minute at the gate. And the matron with the children ; Let us count them. There are eight; She has little time for parting, She must got them through the gate. There’s a doctor ami a lawyer, Coining near in deep debate. Who express regret at parting Ina niannor most sedate, Then a school-boy with his satchel, And a school-girl with her slate ; See them wave a cheery parting To some friends without the gate. Tli re's the gay commercial trav’ler, With a look that seems to state, I'm tho owner of this railroad ; Milage takes him through the gate, While a maiden, daint y fairy, Whom ho watches through the gate, Smiles a very pleasant parting Back of mother at tho gate. Then two actors playing heavies Come with Henry Irving gait. From tlie w ay they keep a yawning 1 should sav th.'v U sat up late. And limy look around in anger When they hud that they must wait On the man who has the tickets That will pass them through the gate. Then a shy and bashful daughter Comes with father bald of pate, And looks back a tender parting At the lov< r at the gate. While the newly married couple, Looking most affectionate. Clasp their hands and kiss at parting, As they linger at the gate. Then an old decrepit father, On whom years have laid their weight, Totters up. the while a leaning On the son so tall and straight. And ho looks so fondly at him ; Will that boy pnne an ingrate? And forget that loving father, And the parting at t *.e gate? Then a wife who takes a journey, How she hates to separate From that husband, tender, loving, Who has been nnfortnnato. How the heavy circles gather 'Neath those eyes w ith fear dilate. Ah ! she has a tearful parting, Calling "Mizpah” through the gate. And the thought comes sally to me, Thinking of our future state. W ill we have to part w ith loved ones As wi- stand without the gate? Not w ith Jesus, bb'ssed savior. Ah ! th ■ Mast, r s lave is great. Hand in Land we 11 tract I with him; He will pass us tin..ugh the gate. JANET LEE — oH — 1 • ■ In the Shadow ci the Gallows. DY DAVID LOWRY. ( HAI’TEK I. THE INN NEAK SALEM.

HE -Ign swiuging ^in front of the j (1 lobe Inn creak- I ed dismally. The I wind tugged at it. I as if it would j wren I: it from its stout fisieniugs. The gale rose, shrieked, sobbed fitfully, sank into moi otonons mur- I mms, seemingly I gat h’riug streng h iu the intervals for renewed violence. Il was a night to excite tho -- fears of thesupery^stitiousas theyrei called stories of

raiivu ui disembodied spirits revisiting the earth. The landlord paced the floor with bent head and han Is crossed behind him The tire was low. but either tho landlord w s oblivions of the fact or the necessity for replenishing it was not apparent. The sanded floor was clean. The room looked very bare. It served the doable purpose of tap-room and parlor, but just now there was nothing to be tapped; no sitters, and but little prospect of any that night. A woman well advanced in years, olderlooking than the landlord, pa-sed through the room. She cut ed a light, and when opening and closing the doors shielded it with her hand. The landlord cast gloomy glances at the fire, but it wae plain his thoughts were far away. The fiercest blasts failed to excite more than passing interest. He was brooding over some p st or impending evil. At toe end of half an hour, possibly more, he sat down heavily in a chair, placed his elbow on a table, and, leaning his head on his hand, gazed steadily in the fire. He was thus occupied when the woman re-enter-ed. Sh 1 looked at him grimly, in silence, then, as a blast threatened to blow the roof off the house, turned to her husband: “Pray God our boy is not on the sea a night like this.” “Aye, aye. The Lord knows if he be alive. I sometimes think it has fared ill with him.” “It is four months since be ran away, Daniel—four weary months since he left Salem." The landlord s wife placed the light on the table. “If we had not been so hard on the boy he would not have run away.” “Mayhap, mayhap. We could not tell. And the sea catches so many foolish boys. The wisest lose their sons. How' were we to know?” “He would be a comfort to us in our old age.” “He might have been a help; but it’s past now, Grizzle. Nobody stops at the Globe now. The new inn takes all the custom.” The landlord spoke bitterly. “If I had a matter of a hundred pounds besides what would pay my debt for the boy's misdoings I’d put a new face on the trade. I’d not et Matthew Dean have it hrs own wav. “Where is the up talking," said his wife. “I dare s>y wtf will h ,ve a messenger from William Ayer on the morrow. 'Tis the last day. It wen wiser if we prepared to move. An’ you take my advice you’ll put the best face on it when the naessenger comes, instead of sitting here till the stool is pulled from under you. I wish we had left early’ in the week. It would leave less to the grace of our creditor. N’ one could have said, as plenty will, that we are ptnched.for time.” “Peace, wiaun!” said ths landlord.

'The day’e not over, Grizzle." And, as if to verify his words, the door opened and a visitor entered. A large man, with rugged features and massive frame. He carried a stout stick, which he laid aside upon entering. “Good evening to you, Master Hobbs,” said the landlord, rising. 'The landlord’s wife bowed, trimmed the light, and retired. The visitor sat before the fire, and, shrugging his broad shoulders, said: “A vety bad night for trade, Mr. Meade, I fear.” “Trade!" Daniel Meade, replied, scorn, fully; “there’s little trade comes to Globe Inn now. 'The new inn has caught the people s fancy. But, if misfortune did not press me, I’d tell Mr. Dean another story. 1 was sayina to Grizzle awhile ago how easy it would be to bring the custom back. I’d have the best—aye, ns good as you’ll find in Boston. The Globe is not such a bad stand, Master Hobbs. I’ve been disappointed in money • —and, well, jou know the other ha’f of the story.” “I can say I am sorry for you,” Master Hobbs replied. “There’s plenty knows the story. I’ll take some punch—that wind goes through a mnn." The landlord prepared the punch, and Mr. Hobbs sipped it slowly, while the landlord bustled about and replenished the tire. As he moved about, he looked askance at his visitor; then he placed his hands on the table between them, and, looking down at him, said: “You have come from William Ayer, I dare say.” “I have, and I have not. I came this way to give you timely warning. The time is up to-morrow—as you must knowvery well.” “We will see what the morrow will bring," the landlord answered. “I am obliged to you.” Then in a hesitating tone: "I suppose William Ayer will be wanting it all—there is nothing to be gained by offer ng him less.” “There, I think you do him wrong. If you could give him half—well ” Master Hobbs’ face was concealed behind his steaming mug of punch. When he looked at the landlord again, there was n kindly look in his eyes. “In that case I might manage it. But I cannot promise. I am. as you know, the hand of the law.” “I know, I know. If y-ju put me out to-morrow, ’tis not Master Hobbs—’t s the law. ’’ “Aye, for William Ayer, who but asks his own." “It is very hard. But you must do yonr duty if 1 do not satisfy William Ay. r tomorrow. As though gold grew on bushes. We’l, well.” The landlord shook his head and sighed, “We will see what the morrow will bring.” The Marshal of Salem sipped his punch and lema tied silent. It was not for him, lie retie ’ted, to add to the landlord’s discomfort. His duty was performed. He had proved his friendship by giving timely noti'o. <t that moment another visitor eni tered ■ a man who I owed ceremoniously to both. The new-<onier was tall, with dark hair, a muddy skin, aquiline nose, and piercing black eyes. “I d d not think to find such goodcomP !> ny as Master Hobbs,” said the newcomer. “Nor did I think I would meet you,” the Marshal replied, nodding. “Sit you down and let the tire warm yonr blood.” The new- om r seated himself opposite the Marshal, and, addressing the landlord. snd: “You may give me the same comfort Master Hobbs relishes the hotter the l etter. Ih id business further down the road, else you would not see me here such n night as this.” The lan ilord brought him his punch, I and Giles Ellis was in the act of lifting the mug to h s lips, when the door was blown open. The blast blew out the ! light mid vfiiirled the sparks in eddies in j ; the wide fireplace. The landlord uttered I nn angry exclamation as he r< lit the soli- I tary ligh', and then the Marshal and । Giles Ellis behel I a young man both knew well standing near. “\ ou might learn how to open a door,” said the landlord, sullenly, as he turned to iho hist comer. “It was the wind,” said the young m in, I as he shifted his feet and looked from one to the other, apologetically. His wavering bb e eyes seemed to shift continually. '• hey never met the eves of the person he addressed. They were either upon the ground, or glanced sideways. The owner of these shifting eyes appeared to be at a loss to know what to do with his hands and feet. The latter were lifted and placed across each other I alternately; his hand fumbled with his garments, plucked at his buttons, or were rubbed against each other. The landlord waved a hand to a s it. “You may as well take your comfort, Ezra Easty. Is ther'e aught I can do for yon?” Instead of seating himself, Ezra EaYv advanced to the landlord, and whispered to him: “I come, Master Me ade, to tell you a > customer is near. I overtook him on 'he | road. If my master was not so hr/4 to | please, I might have staid with my aunt j till the morrow. I have come a long way ■ since 4 o’clock—had I known what 1 i learned on the road," he held up his hat | andp.ssed his lingers through his wet i hair, “an’ I’d made master’ - time my ; time till the storm was over “What like is this custom./?”thelandI lord inquired, coldly. I “A sailor, I’ll be bound, by his talk, lie is coming from Marblehead, I think. There's talk of a terrible wreck. This ' be one of the crew, I / ire say. He asked : me where he could ge« quiet lodgings', not j in the heart of Salem; he was of a quiet ' kind, he said—wh’.:h, considering he was ; in drink, Ido n r -: doubt. ‘Master,’ said ; 1. ‘you'll be Weil and truly served nt Globe Inn.’ 'I hen I made sure he was ' well on the road, and made excuse to get I on before him. Hark! how it blows. I’ve | heard no such wind before. And now," | Ezra Easty added, “I’m in a condition for a warming cup—something to keep up one’s spirits on a terrible night.” The landlord served him promptly, and, unnoticed by the others, thrust back into L e hand the coin extended hitu. The door opening the same time, Ezra Easty s words were verified. A man with long hair and uncut bear! stalked into the inn, closing the door alter him very deliberate y. His face and hands were brown with exposure to sun and wind. Looking around him, he advanced to a vacant seat, sat nown, drew up another chair beside him, and iu a deep voice said; “Good evening to all here.” Then, perceiving Ezra, he addressed him directiv: “Are not you thj lad that spoke me on my way here?” “The same,” Ezra replied, but wffhout looking at the stranger. “Landlord, a jorum for the lad and another for me. What matters if he has his comfort—it is a thick skin—aye, better seasoned than mine that is not bettered with savory cheer a night like this. But yours. I’ll be sworn, is good cheer. The worst, I say, would be welcome now. I want something to wash this keen ' Massachusetts wind out of my throat.” The landlord quickly poured out the liquor, mixed it, and handed it to tb.e otrauger. A* the aailor—it was plain to ,

all he was a sailor—lifted his mug, he nodded to the young man, cast a side glance nt the landlord, and, saying, “Your good healths,” swallowed half the contents before he removed the mug from his lips. The Marshal of Salem observed his movements narrowly, as did Giles Ellis, but neither manifested the slightest interest in the newcomer. “You are a stranger?” said the landlord. “Yes, call me a stranger. It’s iong since 1 set foot in Salem.” At that the Marshal and Giles Ellis turned and looked at the sailor deliberately. Ihe sailor looked at them with equal gravity. i “This is the Marshal of Salem," said the landlord, “and this is Giles Ellis, as well known iu Salem ns the Marshal." The sailor nodded to each in turn, then tinned to tho landlord. < “If they will do me the honor”—he extended a hand to the mugs—“fill up. As for me," he lauehed, “I come from a country where Marshals are unknown.” "You have been in strange parts,” said the Marshal. “Many years,” the sailorreplied. “Three of them where no white man is ever seen.” “Ay. That must be a great distance.” Giles Ellis leaned near the sailor. “It was in Africa.” < Tho sailor unbuttoned his jacket, shrugged his shoulders, pushed the sleeves'of his jacket up, displaying unconsciously strange figures on his arms in various colors, and leaning toward the others, said, deliberately: "1 said Africa. I was one of three saved out of seventy-seven. I’d not cared lor that. Since I left American soil three ships have gone down under me. One was in the Mediterranean, one was in the British Channel, the other on the coast of Africa. I tell you, I’ve been in | places where hell is brewed.” Ezra Ensty recoiled. The others sat erect. The landlord made a pretense of trimming the light, and replenished the | fire once more. There was a lull in the storm. “Ay, I call it brewing hell where human beings are maimed and drowned and sold.” “Oh,” said Giles Ellis, greatly relieved, “ho is talking of slave ships.” Then the Marshal settled himself comfortably iu his seat again. The sailor smiled. “You did not t<ke me for a pirate. Have I a pirate's jib?” Ezra Easty shrunk into the corner closer. “Mutes,” added the sailor, “if I were minded to relate what I’ve seen it would make your blood runco'd. But that’s my affair, l ive years of life with hell in sight—three years in hell itself. My two mates that v^ere saved out of the wrecx on the African coast—well, no matter. The devils spared me. Maybe I was not palatable. I was in a fever when 1 found myself where a white man never w’as before. Then I lived like the rest, till I made n” escape in a great battle, got back to i. coast, and here I am, tough as—why don’t you drink?” 'J his to Ezra Easty, who was edging away from the sailor. Ezra made a pretense of gulping down his punch, and whispete I to the landlord, “That was the diamond fields he was in," Whereupon the hmdlor I looked at the sailer keenly, echoing involuntarily, uuiDr his breath, “Diamonds!" “Y<.s; he told me on the road he came from the country where they grew.” "A strange life," said the Marshal es Salem. “You must be stout of heart.” “Or I'd not be tit for a sailor. L< ndlord, another jorum. ” “Xo, no,” said the Marshal. “No more to-night. ” “Nor for me,’’said Giles Ellis. “Enough’s I as good as a feast." “You are wjlcome," said the sailor, slapping his breast. “I’ve plenty, and to spare; aud—hark, ye—if I sut here two hours, mv wits would be as tight bound as theie’s need for. It’s so long since I’ve breathed the air of Christians, I feel at home with them all. I’ve all a reasonable man wants so: the balance of my life, landlord. I’ve that here,” striking his b east again, “that would make you o] en your eyes.” 3he landlord's wife, coming in unobserved, looked quickly from the sailor to her husbvid on hoarin < this speech. The lund'/ru’s face paled. He inclined his ear tc Ezra Easty again, casting a frown upon his wife. Ezra whispered: “Sail I not so he means the diamonds. I’ll be bound they are sewed in I his jacket. But see the purse.” The sailor had produced a curious purs j. As he opened it, he said: “I ve ca’/ied this seventeen years—twice it was a* yood > 8 lost-it’s mine yet. There’s »//ie like it. save one. iu all the world. Here, landlord, pay v ourself, and give me lodging." “Is it true there is a wreck off Marblehead?” the Marshal asked, as he rose. “Aye. The ship Eliza has made her I last \oyage. I'd no hand in it. She was i bringing me home—me and ten other j ship-wrecked sailors. I don’t count this i among my wrecks—nor would there have ' been a wreck if the crew had kept from the rum. But when they stove the casks —the worst were the shipwrecked sailors, mind you, just back from the gates of death—well, then I knew it would be short sailing for all of us." “And were many saved?” the landlord’s wife asked. She was thinking of her son. Perhaps he was one of the men who invited .death the second time. “Some. I don’t know how many. Y'ou ; see, there was a tight after we got on j shore- later on—young blood boils easily. I had no hand in it. I can drink, and I i can let it alone. Another jorum, landI lord—what, yon are nil going? I’m for use, not the abuse. Your good healths, and unless I change my miud I'll bo stowed in bed before any here. ” Apparently all the liquor this man drank had little effect upon him, unless, possibly, it made him blighter and more companionable. “It’s time I was goue,” said Ezra Eastv. ’eaving his corner and eying the sailor with saucer-like eyes. “Good-night, Master Hobbs; good-night, Master Ellis.” He opened the door and was I gone on the instant. The M irshat buti toned up his coat; Giles Ellis did the j same, and together they took their leave. “It’s long since I’ve laid in Christian bed,” said the sailor. “I think I’ll enjoy mine to-night. I'm ready, landlord, whenever you say the word.” The landlord gave him a light and led | the way up-stairs. When they were in tho room the landlord pointed to the window. “If you want more a r the window opens inward. There is the hook I made / myself. Good-night. ” ,i The sailor examined the window, and observing a breadth out of the leads, looked about for something to place in the bole. Then he stuffed his handkerchief in the opening and began to disrobe. There was n bench on the side opposite the window. The sailor sat down on this, placed his clothes near him, carefully concealed his purse and a silk band that was wound over his shoulders and under his arms under the pillow. > Then he blew the light out and iavi down. r.xa as continued.!