St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 18, Number 23, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 24 December 1892 — Page 7

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CHAPTEK X. D3IAD CR ALIVE? Ghostly fell the snow! Like a curtain, a shroud, it had closed about the devoted form o! Edna Deane that wild, tempestuous night, when the woor child ot destiny had sunk exhausted and despairing at the very threshold of cafety. The siren-hearted DBeatrice Mercer had sped to sunshine, luxury and gold, with no thought of the real fate of the girl whose name she had assumed, whose loyal lover she had determined to win. More merciful than she, the soft snow had drifted gently over the inanimate wanderer, striving to shut out from the rigor of storm and tempest the frail form that had succumbed to the chill of winter like a tender lily. ; Upon that same eventful night another figure braved the storm, and, breasting its fierceness, took his way along the same road, down which Edna Deane’s dumb guide had sSo nearly led her to shelter. | “A night to get housed. I pity the homeless or belatel!” breathed hearly, puffing John Bln'%e, as he struggled through the deep drifts. “Ah! nearly home. There’s the dear old wife waiting to welcome me with a warm supper, I'll warrant.” Farmer John neared the unpretentious cottage that resembled a Laplander's hut, with its eaves hung deep with snow festoons. A doleful neigh from the wagon-shed aroused his humane -heart, however, to turn from his path. He found there the exhausted animal that ha‘ed Edna hither, bestowed the wandering brute in its stall, and started © again for the house.. ‘“Ho, there, my dear!” sang out the bluff, great-hearted old fellow, as he made up a huge snowball and sent it six feet away dashing against the door of the cottage. It opened. An eager, motherly face showed in the lamplight. - “Dear, dear! Is it you, John? I've been so worried. Always a boy, throwing snowballs and singing out like a pi- - rate. Will you never mend:” - “Never while this jolly snow reminds . me of our schoolday sleighrides, and your pretty, blooming face, you dear old” ~ girll” retorted happy John. “Cotne, ~ throw me a broom to beat a path, so I ~ won’t be draggiug the snow all over that ~§:wgowmk‘*m of than you Le Y o Gt oo e eiidevoaeverlt o L 0 & " dustriously sweeping a path to the door. St ‘:"fig}&fifl!“fiflf yanl,g:t come, John?” ~ “Did T just come? Youwagerl haven’t - been promenading around for fun, with - snow chuck two feet down my neck, and that nice warm supper on the table!” “Because I thought I heard some one cry out a bit ago.” : “Pigeons, maybe.” “Ne. It was a human cry for help.” “Pshaw! Fancies. The wind toots iik? an engine-whistle to-uight—lawsyl me!” Farmer John uttered a sharp ecry, stumbled, recoiled. Tbe broom fell from his hand, and there he stood star- t ing blankly down at the ground at his deet. “What now, John?” ejaculated his wife, peering, too. “Something in th path. Bag of oats -—a sheep—no! Jane, look!” He had leaned over toexamine the ©object at his feet. His great, soulful eyes glowed likei iwo stars. Into view he had dragged a human hand, limp and nerveless. A soggy dress-sleeve followed and then a terrible cry rang from his wife’s dips. pOut into the snow she dashed. Down ' beside the inanimate form, disenshroud- | ed from its snowy mound, she knelt. “John! John!” she wailed, peering into the white, cold tface of the inzensible FEdna Deane—"it’s a woman—a young girl. Oh, John! look as the bonny face,” 2nd the quick tears rained down in wild, motherly pity. “Oh,John! dead or alive | —which?” I CHAPTER XI. PLOTTERS IN COUN(CIIL. The false Alice Raiston, the real Beatrice Mercer, went straight to Hope<ale aft-r leaving the home where she ( had found a father and a fortune. She took no risks in her movements. Ralzston did not know of herdestination, had not kunown that she was at the Hopedale Institution throuzh the years Rodoey, the man who had died at the bridge, h's friend, his aivisor, had the sole charge of placing the real Edna at the seminary, for, as Beatrice knew, when father and daughter had parted years before the former was a fugilive irom justice, She hal told the anxious Ralston that ! she would return speedily. She had cecured a large sum of money. She made sure that no one followed her to the train. To Lreak any possible tmil} she changed cars at a large city midway to Hopedaie and made several myterious E purchases at a costumer’s and at a hair dresser’s shop. When the next ‘morning Beatrice i Mercer alighted from a sleeper on the train at the nearest railroad town to ,‘ Hopedale, and took a carriage to her | home, her best friend would not have | recognized her, ; I'or she was completely disguised. | She had come to act a pare, and she had | come fully prepared. In dress and face | =she had effected a marvelous (~h;u'lgo.| and when she rcached the Hopedale | hotel and ordered a suit df rooms, no | one formerly familiar with the trim, ! neat figure and rather attractive face of the half-pay school teacher of Hopedale Seminary, about the village, would for a moment have suspected the true ideniity of this new Beatrice Mercer. | She had come hither with an object, | a definite object. She had ccme to seek a trace of the man she had loved, Ray-

. : Aye, 88, AL JIRSTT mond Marshall. She had resolved to win his love. Ruthlessly she had striven to destroy his faith in Edna Deane, as ruthlessly she had covered the trail of | the young girl, when she disappeared, she had robbed her trusting friend of name, father and fortune, and now she would steal her loyal, broken-hearted lover from her. -This was her plot, and her spirit never quailed at the upbraidings of an outraged, hardened conscience. “He shall be mine! Wealth is nothing without him,” «he had told herself, and forthwith she set herself at work to consummate her designs. She had money—that could buy information, cooperation. She had an ally in reserve, I and atter remaining in her room to rest | until noon, she dispatched a messenger for Dr. Raphael Simms. | This man was a physican who resided near the village. He was a hard, coarse-featured man of about 40, and her only living relative in the world. He had a very small practice, for people generally disliked him, but he combined with his profession a mortgage loaning office, and cared very little for anything execept money. A half cousin of Beatrice’s father, these two had | rarely met cne another, but Beatrice | knew the man fully, and comprehended | that she could rely on his secreey anc I co-operation where there was moneyed | reward assured him for his services. At about 2 o’clock in the afternoon Doctor Raphael Simms was ushered into the parlor of the suite of rooms at | the hotel occupied by Beatrice. He | evidently supposed he had been sent for | by a patient, for bowing awkwardly to | her, he looked somewhat puzzled, asl he said: “You are the lady who sent for me?” “Yes, Doctor,” rcsponded Beatrice. “You are ill—some friend——" “No. I want your persenal services, not your professional advice. You do not knovy me? Look!” ‘Her visitor started violently as Beatrice removed the false front of hair | Izmd her glasses for the first time, re- | vealing her tiue identity. “Beatrice Mercer!” he ejaculated in’ genuine surprise. ~ “Your cousin. Yes. *I need aid. I do not know a person in the village Il can trust but you. First, I desire com- | | plete secrecy. Next, certain informu-} i t'on you can glean for me. Perhaps a | week’'s attention off and on will do. For all this I will pay you $500.” | “You—will—pay— ~!” gasped the petrified doctor, wonder ng if the friendless girl he had known as . dependent at the seminary had taken leave of her senses, “Five hundred dollars. ‘re not my words plain enough?” “Where would you get that sum of | money?” His ineredulity nettled Beatrice. “Out of my pocket-book! Five one-hundred-dollar bills. Count them. Take them; they won’t burn you. I pay you | in advance.” ; - She had extended the amount in ques-{‘ munificence of the reward, {fairly stunned the Doctor. “1 can’t understand how you come to have so much money,” he began. “Don’t try to,” interrupted Beatrice, impatiently. “Briefly, I have come into possession of several thousand dollars. l I choose to spend the money as I like. | I offer you SSOO to help me. Do you' agree?” “Yes, indeed!” i I “First, my identity and plans are to 3 be a dead secret between us, now anl | hereafter.” | l “Trust me for that.” l “Next, you are to obey me implicitly.” “With such pay for my cervices, I am. | your slave!” i “Very good. First and foremost; I | wish you to go now, and at once, and | learn all you can about the whereabouts | of Raymord Marshall.” ‘ “Eh!” ejaculated the Doctor, with a | start. “I don’t think he is in the vil- | i lage.” : | “Thken ascertain where he is.” l STI vy l “Next, find out about the whispered financial complications in the affairs of | his father, Col. Marshall.” | “That is more easy.” { “And report progress to me as soon as | { You can.” ‘ “There shall be no delayv.” f Dr. Simms departed. DBeatrice looked | excited, suspenseful. j “The ball set in motion —oh! with a | trusted ally and unlimited wealtk, 1] canrot fail in the scheme I have | t adopted.” f | She counted the hours until late in | the afternoon. Her face underwent | vivid changes of color and expression | as there was a knock at the door finally. | “Come in!” ; It was her ally, Dr. Simms. He looked tired and excited. ! ( “Weall?” she demanded imperiously. | “T’ve had an atternoon of it.” | “You have found Raymond Mar- | shall?” | “He returned home this morning,” { “From where?” ' “From a fruitless, heartbroken quest for that girl he was spoony on at the seminary—the one who disappeared so mysteriously.” i “Edna Deane, you mean?” E “Yes; that’s the name. He's been "'searching for her everywhere, neglect- | ing business, growing so thin and pale that they say he is fast breaking down.” | “And his father?” : “Added trouble there! Dark rumors ! }say that his business integrity is at | | stake, that a financial crash threatens. | ! T made circums=pect but close inquiries. He is at the office of the lawyer now, striving to adjust affairs. You see———" “You need not tell me more,” interfruptcd Beatrice, impatiently. “I know | | more than you do, probably, about that. | At the lawyer’s office?” she continued, ; arising an putting on her wraps. “Rei port to me here aboit eight o’clock this | evering.” ! “You are not going?” i | “To the lawyer’s office myself.” ; | She left the hotel alone. In ten min- { utes she entered the outer room of the | offices of the lawyer her informant had | referred to. . i She sank to a chair near to the half- | | open door of the compartinent marked | ; “Private,” adjoininz. Then she bent | | her ear und listened eagerly. 1 | Voices soundel quite clearly. Her j eyes glowed with satisfaction as sl | | realized that accident had enabled bar |

e e e e ™ to enter tne office and linger unper< ceived. Her heart beat quicker as she recognized the broken, pleading tones of Colenel Marshall, Raymond’s father, and the words he uttered were: “Ten thousand dollars! Impossible! I tell you that unless I have time, unless those documents are suppressed or destroyed, I am a ruined man!” “Just in time! I shall win. Everythings favors me!” fell in a baleful, triumphant murmur from the lips of the confident Beatrice Mercer. A CHAPTER XIL S\VED. | Beatrice Mercer drew nearer to the| half-open door, as those ominous words ’ sounded forth: “Unless those documents are suppressed or destroyel, I am a ruined man!” A strong man spoke them, but the voice, while mourntul, bore a token of pleading, despairing agony. : } The listener knew that, the speaker was the father of Raymond Marshall. What she already knew of his business complications had brought her to Hopedale. It was through the father that she relied upon reaching the son. ‘ l There was the rustling of papers, ani | then the lawyer's voice reached herl ears: “I am very sorry, Colonel Marshall, ‘ but I have my orders to act.” “You can defer action.” “I would violaté my duty t> my clients if I deferred it a day longer.” : “Then——" “To-morrow I go into court and submit these document. They represent a personal indebteduess of $38,000. They represent your indorsement for $2,000 | more. The distressing feature of the | latter amcunt is that the alleged maker i of the note deniea its validity. In other I words, it is a forgery.” i | A groan rang from the lips of the un- ! happy man. ‘ “You are right,” he murmured in a hollow, broken tone of deep despair, E “My personal indebtedness’does not wor{ry me. I should never have been called | upon to bear it, for I never personally | contracted a dollar of it. However, penury, destitution myself and fam:ly might honorably endure, but dishonor, never! If that two-thousand-dollar claim is presented in court——" “You will be accused of forgery.” | “Which I never committed!’ cried the | Colonel. “You belicve me?” | “I certainly do, but will a jury? Those { documents go in as evidence, on thei i face showing you are responsible fox‘ | them.” | “But I have explained to you! That | ’ scoundrel of a partner of mine drew out ‘ of the firm a few months since on the | | pretense of ill-health. He took nearly I all the ready cash, and not until after | he had got safe in a foreign land did I { learn taat the alleged valuable asscts | he had left as my share of the business were only waste paper. Worse than the burden of debt, he left those forged notes. I hypothecated them. Now I am accused of uttering them!” | “Can you not take them up?” insinuated the lawyer. : j “Impossible! I have vainly tried to borrow. My son, a dependence usually, ] has lost all interest in business and wanders about half-crazed over the dis- | appearance of a heartless jilt. No, l'qin | stares me in the face—worse, the pris-on-dock; dishonor, death!” ' “T am sorry for you.” That was all the lawyer could say. |TO BE CONTINUED. | ) A man, a woman, and a baby—lt man and woman on a trievele and I the baby sleeping in a basket swung i from two arms in front of the ma-l l chine-—weregoing up the west drive in | { Central Park yesterday morning, says f the New York World. Several packages were strapped to the machinei i and the man and woman were dressed | tas if for an outing. It was quite i early, not yet 6 o'clock, as they came ' up Kighth avenue and entered the | l park at. 59th street. The few people i who were on the street turned to | igazo at the queer outfit, and smiled | as they caught sight of the infant in | its swinging basket. Above the i basket was a canopy like that of a ' baby carriage. At the entrance to| ! the park the man stopped to tighten { the straps on a package. He was 2 l sun-burnt, athletic-looking young fel- | low with pleasant gray eyes and @ s | full dark beard. IHis wife, who sat | ' behind him, looked pale and thin and % | was dressed in blue flannel. “Yes,”| |he said, in answer 1o an inquiry, | | had this machire made te order. | My wife’s health has not been good | ' lately and we decided to take our va- i { cation in this way, and,” turning tOI { his wife with a smile, “of course we! | couldn’t leave the youngster behind. | | Wife said he would have to go too, so | f I had the basket rigged up for him. | i No, we shall not camp out. We ex- | pect to travel morning and evenings | | and rest in the middle of the day | when it is hot, and at night we shall | put up at some farm house or country ! hotel. We expect to be gone about ' two weeks, and have no particular des- | | tination, but shall travel about in a | . leasurely sort of away and try to get | | back my wife's health. Name? Oh, | ' no, never mind that; but don’t youg ' think it is a good idea?” | Moorish Locusts Feed Man and Beast, | . The British consul at Mogador, whiia | on an exeursion inland, about a day’s journey from Mogador, met flights of | locusts. He cays it was an astonishing | and interesting though painful sight, | the air being in some parts so thick | with them that they formed a dense liv- | ing brown foz, through which he could | hardly find his way, while they so com- | | pletely covered the ground that the ut- | most caution was necessary in walking, | as he could not tell whether be was | treading on soft sand, hard, slippery | rock, or what. i | Many birds feasted on the insects, in- l | cluding large flights of gulls from the | sea, and beasts evidently enjoy their | share, for in the middle of the densest I swarm he saw a fine red fox dancing { about in the most frantic manner, leap- | ing and snapping up dozens of locusts | | in the air, until, seeing the stranger, he ‘ . suddenly dropped on all fours and quick- | { ly vanished in the live fog. Not only did ! . the banbel get their share of the novel | i food (the consul used the locusts suc- ' : cessfully as bait for them) but soms of rthe fish of the Atlantic were found ! i gorged with locusts which had been | blown off the land by easterly winds. . As usual, they were extensively eatern ' by the native population, both Moham- | wedan and Jewish, |

- ! 'THE NEW YEAR.

’LUSTY babe with winter’s dare, - The winds thy lulg laby; - With outstretched hands eager to share A bright or frowning sky. We welcome, thee, glad baby year, A throne is thine to - grace; We give theelove »nd happy cheer, +“On thee a crown we place.

{ What budding hopes thy hands do hold, What bloom is thine to shed; How pure and white thy lilies fold, How decp thy roses red. | Again shall lips the story tell, { Beneath thy Lending skies; The story that they know so well, Os love’s sweet sacrifice. Again shall hearts with anzuish throb, Sweet prayers ascend to God; i Again the rich the poor shall rob, ‘ With blood be red the sod. i Oh. bring us more of love than hate, And mcore of sun than shade; | Lead us toGod's fair garden gate, The beauty Ile hath made. ~Good Housekeeping. Y YIQT Y ONE CHRISTMAS GIFT.

SNOWBALL struck the cabin door—a genuine Christmas snowball, white as ' milk,crispas pearl I lakes, and it jan‘;gled the fastentings of the great oaken barrier ‘with a musical, i‘metullic sound v that suggested 7&ollristmns bells vand Christmas " melody.

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| “Hello, there! Wake up, John { Ridgely! Ten in the morning, day before Christmas, and you promised to be ready on time,” rang out a theery, challenging voice, and the door opened at the call. “I've been waiting for over an hour——” began this same John Ridgely, appearing at the threshold, but a second sudden sphere cut short the sentence. He made a dash for his two mischievous visitors, athletic young fellows, just approaching manhood, and then, flushed, laughing and skaking the spattered snowflakes from head and shoulders, the jolly trio entered the cabin. .+ “I say, what a rare old den of bach Lblor comfort you've got, here, John:” tpoke one of the visitors. “Talk libout the fancy rugs and carpets up |at the house and then look at that | warm, sleek deer's skin, and those l great mats made from "% bear robe! 'As to the larder—l say, Hal! what | would mother or Nellie say to get itheirpick for a holiday feast from such 4 roy AL ; e “ Joh gely’s eyes glowed with pride at this praise of his domestic equipment; then, flushing quickly, he bent over his cartridge belt to ihide the shadow of pain upon his !facc. { Nellie! The name was enshrined in | his innermost soul. It brought back lthe past with all its brightr- —it haunted thie bleak, unproniising ipros--nr. His visitors wcre her | brothers—old-time comrades, home [for the holiday vacation from col(tege, and bent on- a hunting expedition. He was glad when he saw them engrossed in admiring this and that trophy of his sportsman skill. It afforded him time to ccnceal his surging emotion. ! Life had not dealt fairly with John Ridgely—love, as well, had been a cruel taskmaster—he realized it every time his mind went back aver | the past two years. | Somewhat longer ago than that he ‘had to come to visit his uncle at { Hillsdale, ere starting out to fight | the battle of life. Old Abner Ridgely | was his one living relative in the Iworld, a sickly, miserly old man tot- ! tering on the verge of the grave, and [just subsistiL: in the rude apology { for a shelter taat had since been his ' home. | The very day of John’s arrival, his i uncle had suffered his second stroke {of paralysis, and John became his ]nurse. Duty and anxiety had enslaved him to the old man’s whims. He could not leave him to die alone, and the months rolled by and found { him a fixture in the rude cabin. { “Don’t leave me, John!” more than ionce had the old man quavered. i “You shall not be sorry. Some day I will die, and then——you shall be my ,’ lieir.”

Heir to what? John had smiled ' satirically as he looked about the wrecked hut. Impatiently he thought of the great pulsing world outside, waiting to reward just such high ambitions as those he entertained, and then, one day, onec royal, golden June morning, a vision crossed his dull path in the woods that i'- ' lumined the green arcades with ’ glory, and held him chained anew to Hillsdale by bonds he could not f break. | . Nellie—bonny, Wwinsome Nellie Linden! She flashed across his ldestiny like a star of promise and - beauty. Oh! the rare days of summertide, the walks, the boating, love expressed in glance and smile, though never spoken, and then, a dark void in life. She, the daughter of proud, well-to-do Robert Linden, merchant, the sister of his two present, visitors, left home without a parting word to him, and all the sunlight of life seemed suddenly dashed out. Once only since then had he heard of Nellie. She was visiting a wealthy spinster aunt in the city, who seemed to have but two objects in life—to make Nellie her heiress, and marry ber te tbe son of a favorite {riend.

e o el ee T TR That settled it as far as John| Ridgely was concerned. She was probably engaged to her new lover by this time—she had undcubtedly forgotten all about him long since. Then old Abner Ridgely died, and just that that day John had concluded arrangements for selling the cabin and its land, intending to leave permanently the scene of an experience that had aged his heart and deadened all the active impulses of his ambition. “Ready, boys!” he announced, with a painful effort to appear cheerful, shouldering his gun, whistling to his I dog, and leading the way from the cabin. ; Hal and Vincent chatted volubly as they followed him along the snowy paths leading into the woods. | “Oh, John!” exclaimed the former abruptly, “I've a message for you.” ' “A message?” - faltered John, vaguely. “Yes, from mother. She says you must come up to the house this afternoon. They're going to have a Christmas tree for the little ones this evening, and you're to select the nicest one you can find and take it up to her early, and stay with us until to-morrow. “I’'m afraid I can’t—can’t spare the time,” stammered John, with a glance at hisrough attire. “Oh! youwll appear in disguise, John,” laughed Vincent. “In disguise?” “Yes, mother says you'd make a famous Santa Claus, and in that rare | old bearskin coat of yours, and your coon cap back at the cabin, you would deceive old Kriss Kringle himself. 1 You’ve got to come, John. Pity that ‘ | Nellie won’t be there, but we got a ! letter saying that aunt was sick, and ! ‘| she might have to stay with her during the holidays.” John gave a reluctant assent tothe arrangements suggested. At noon I he left his companions, whe, hot for ‘ sport, after seeing him bring down a | turkey, insisted on continuing the | hunt alone. He threaded the lonely paths leading back to the cabin. Motherly Mrs. Linden received 4 him with a glowing smile of wel- | come, as later he appeared at the ‘big house on the hill and tendered | the turkey as a Christmas gift, and ‘ ' vainly tried to creep out of appearing at the evening's festivities. | John Ridgely tried to look brave ‘| and happy and cheerful as he re- | turned to the Linden home that | evening. He had provided the pret- | tiest evergreen the forest afforded. '| He could sce it now gleaming with ‘| lighted ca dles through the bright.‘ panes, he could hear the merry voices of little ones at play. “I'll go through with it for their sakes,” he murmured; “I’ll try not to think of Nellie. ll’ll leave the letter I have written her, the story of all my hopeless love for her, the expression of my wishes for her happiness with a luckier wooer, then to-mor-row, a new life far away, the past covered over, if not forgotten.” ‘ e Lbwas almost forgotten amid the | festivities of the ensuing hour. What | | heart, unless, indeed, formed of flint ‘ or ice, could resist the warm, ex-! | hilarating influence of such a cheery i Christmas eve? And he was its center of attraction! The great f | bearskin coat made him stand out | like a holiday picture; and the little | { ones stared in awe as John handed | | them their gifts from the dazzling! | tree. | ' ! His heart sank again, heavy as i 'ilc:ul, however, as he found himself “talone. Upon the tree, in pursuance |of a family custom, hung yet the | gifts designed for its <lder members. | | Here was a neat little package sug-f | gestive of a tiny timepiece, marked ' “Hal, from Mother;” a second similar | parcel directed to Vincent, and John | Ridgely’s eyes grew tender and moist, ; .| as he discerned a pretty silk-embroid- ' ered handbag, bearing a strip of pa- ] per marked “Nellie, from Little Cora, | her Sister.” A quick impulse actu-‘ , | ated him. Stealthily he drew forth | | the letter he had written to Nellie | that day. He slipped it into the | hand bag. It was safe for delivery | - when the girl he loved came home. | || Then in a mournful reverie he sat, l '{waiting till the juvenile feast was | | over in the next apartment, when he i was to resume his role and lead the | | sports for the evening. | There was a great shout from the ! i 1 youngsters and the jangling of merry | - | sleigh-bells outside. John noticed it ‘ only as a part of the general babel. | Suddenly the door flew open. Exl i cited little Cora Linden dashed into { the room.

l “Where is it?” she breathed, with sparkling - eyes. “Where’s Nellie's | present I worked for her? Oh, here b isi? ; She grasped the hand-bag from the tree, making the candles blink and shiver in nervous dread of a general | tip-over, and danced out of the room | again like a very sprite. John read the fickle impulse of a novice at gift-making in the action. Cora was bent on showing her handiwork on the pretty silken bag to some new visitor, probably. His let- | ter was not likely to be unearthed. | He started violently as a hand 'i touched his shoulder ten minutes { later. Little Cora was standing by ‘ his side. { She bhad entered the room noisei lessly, and her face showed grave | concern and excitement commingled. i “Have you got your present yet John Ridgely?” she demanded, with pretty imperiousness. “My present?” smiled John, view- | ing the little lady, amusedly. “Oh, | yes! My present is your happy smile,” “No!” and the persistent challenger shook aer golden head sagely. *"Your real, true Christmas present? DBecause—l’ve got one for you.” “Bless you! Have you now?” echoed John. “Yes. Hold out your hand!”

R R R R R RRRRRRRRRI RO E., - John obeyed Als capriclous comd panion. = : : i “Now, shut your eyes!” ¢ “Eh? This is getting very mysterious, little one!” , “You mind me, John Ridgely, shut both eyes. . You're peeking!” “No lain’t,” asserted John stanchly, screwiag up his cheeks till they were regular crows’ feet. : “Honest? You won't look one little bit?” ; | “I promise you.” . “All right. Now, then, keep your eyes tight shut and keep your hand wide open, and don’t stir, nor breathe, nor move, until I say, now!” “Till you say now,” recited the accommodating John, “I'll be patient as an owl and blind as a bat.” He was faithful to his pledge. He could hear the little creature speed across the room and there wa a fluttering whispering at the door, t© suspicious swish of a silken robe. “Hold tight;” spoke Cora’s voice once more. “John Ridgely, these are the Christmas presents she told me ta bring you. Now!” Into his hand crept a contact soft as silk. He thrilled at a warm, tremulous touch. He opened his eyes. Little Cora was just disappearing through the door of the next room, but his hand still clasped the “present” she had placed there. Ha looked up. Oh! was he dreaming? Was this but a part of the reverie of the hour? A woman’s hand lay within his own, a woman's face, coy, shrinking yet tender, looked down at him—his “CHristmas gift,” Nellie! ' Yes, it was she. Read the mystery | as he might, he could surely trace in l that blushing face the truest, deep est love. “Nellie!” 3 I His soul seemed rocking between extremes of hope and dread. { She never faltered in her trus, { womanly glance. She never took hez hand away, only with her free one she held into view—his letter! “Little Cora brought it to me in the hand-bag, and I read it, John,” whispered Nellie, softly. “I came home at the last moment unexpectedly., I have quarreled with my - aunt. She wanted me to marry hez favorite, when my heart—oh, John! John! how could you doubt me? How could I love another when my heart was here—here!” Here, close to his own—here, in all fealty and tenderness, under the shelter of his great, cherishing caress. He folded her to his heart witk ‘ one sob of joyand gratitude saprems. the happiest soul in all wide Christems dom. “John! John Ridgely! Oh! coma here, quick!” : From the happy paradise- ot love those two were summoned abruptly by the excited voice of Hal Linden. “Oh! but we made a find!” echoed ‘ Vincent Linden, bursting unceremoniously upon the lovers, and fol- | lowed by half the wonderimg—howse— — | hold. “You told us where to find ' game when you left us to-day. Re- | member?” ' “Yes,” nodded the mystified John. | “And Hal and I cornered some rare | shots. Justat dusk, right zear the ‘cabin, we ran a fox to cover. Hal i insisted on digging for him, becauss | he thought it a shallow knoll, ang I not his den. Wedug, and found-—" | “This!” interpolated Hal, quite as | excitedly. | He dragged into view a small pine | box. Ice and frozen dirt clung to it | still. He pushed off the cover. { “Money—gold!” gasped John incoherently. “Lots of it, heaps of it, over twc thontsand dollarsl” shouted Vincent. “Don’t you understand, John? It’s ! part of your uncle’s fortune, the fortune he left to you, the fortune you could never find!” Clink, clink! The golden coins gave forth a joyful sound as they | were emptied out upon the carpet. | Outside a happier echo took up tha { mellow refrain. : | “The Christmas chimes!” murlmured happy Nellie Linden, nest- | ling closer to the man she loved. | Her eyes met those of John in a tender glance as she spoke. l And both knew that the silvery | tones were a harbinger of wedding ‘bells later on that would signalize | the victory of loyal hearts reunited, | made happy while life should last, | upon that glorious, beautiful Christ- | mas eve. PAUL INGELOW. ! About the Mistletoe. | The mistletoe is a shrub whichk ! grows orlives on certain trees, such ‘as the apple, pear, and hawthorne. It is found also on limes, poplars, firs, 1 and sycamores, and, more rarely on | oaks—contrary to the popular belief. l The white berries are full of a thick, | l clammy juice, by which the seeds ara | fastened to the branches where they itake root. The mistletoe has been | the object of a very special regard for centuries, and traces of this high esteem still survive in the well-known Christian custom. One variety of this practice has it that each time a | kiss is snatched under the mistletoa | a berry is picked from the bush, and | that when the berries have all beea | removed 'the privilegs ceases. Tha | Druids thought that the mistletoa ‘ which grew upon the oak possessed | magical virtues, and they valued it f accordingly. One of their priests in | a white robe cut off the precious bush ! with a golden knife.—Little Folks. : Christmas Petitions. | A little boy in Georgia who wrota ! to Santa Claus for a pony was wisa | enough to add: “Poscrit. If he is 3 | mule, Ples ty ais behine legs.” | In a petition to Santa Claus a smax ! boy in Troy wrote: Wont you pleas { bring me for crismas a nice torchlita ‘ procession on horseback so I can ride { myseolf.”