Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 22 June 1882 — Page 2

MONA SCULLY-

Co 11 tinued From Fir»t Page.

Why do you speak in that tone? Don't you like nim'r' "I think I like no poet half so well. You mistake me," replies he, ashamed of his own surprise at her preference for his lordship beneath the calm purity of her eyes. "But—only—it seemed to me Longfellow would be more suited to you." "Well, so I do lovo him. And just then I was thinking of him when looked up to the sky his words came back to me. You remember what he says about the moon rising 'over the pallid sea and tho silvery mist of the meadows,' and how— •"Silently, otio by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,

Blossomed tho lovely Rtara, tho forgot-mo-notn of tho an/els.'" "Tlint is so sweet, I think." "I remember it, and I remember, too, who wiiti lied all that do youV" ho asks, liis eves lixed upon hers. "Yes Gabriel—poor Gabriel and Evangeline,'' returns she, too wrapt up in recollections of that sad and touching tale to take to heart his meaning: "Moanwhilo, npnrt. In tho twilight gloom of a wiwlow's ombrn«mre.

Sat the lovers,and whispered together.'" That is the part you mean, is it not? know all that poem very nearly by •heart." lie is a little disappointed by the calmness of her answer. "YVs it was of them I thought," he says, turning his head away, "of thc--iovers. I wonder if their evening was as lovely as ouns/"

Mona makes no reply. "Have you ever read Shelley?" he asks, presently, puzzled by the extreme serenity of her manner.

She snakes her head. "Some of his ideas are lovely. You would like his poetry, I think." "What does he say about the moon?" asks Mona, still with her knees in her embrace, and without lifting her eyes from the quiet waters down below. "About the moon? Oh, many things. I was not thinking of the moon," with faint impatience "yet, as you ask me, I can remember one thing he says about it." "Then tell it to me," says Mona.

So at her bidding he repeats the lines slowly, and in his best manner, which is very good: "Tho cold, chnsto moon, tho quoon of heaven's bright Isles,

Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles That wandering shrine of soft yet icy flnme. Which over Is transformed,yet sdll the same, And warms, but not illumined.'"

He finishes: but. to his amazement, and a good deal to his chagrin, on looking at Mona he finds she is wreathed in smiles—nay, ia in fact, convulsed in laughter. "What is amusing you?" asks he, a trifle stiflly. To give way to recitation, and tnen find your listener in agonies of suppressed mirth, is not exactly a situation one would hanker after. "It was the last line," says Mona, in explanation, clearly ashamed of herself, yet unable wholly to subdue her merriment. "It reminded mo so much of that speech about tea, that they always use at temperance meetings they call it the beverage 'that cheers but not inebriates.' You said 'that warms but not illumines,' and it sounded exactly like it. Don't you see?"

He doesn't see. "lrou aren't aiigry, are vnnV" Mona, now really contrite. help it, and it was like it, you know." "Angry? no!" he says, recovering himself, as he notices the penitence on the face upraised to his. "And do say it is like it," says Mona, entreatingly. "It is, the imago of it" returns he, prepared to swear to anything she may propose. And then be laughs too, which nleases her, as it proves ho no longer bears in mind her evil deed after which, feeling she still owes him something, she suddenly intimates to him that he may sit down on the grass close beside her. Ho seems to llnil no difficulty in swiftly following up this hint, and is soon seated as close to her as circumstances will allow.

you?" says

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But on this picture, the beauty of which is undeniable, Mickey (the barbarian) looks with disfavor.' "If he's goin' to squat there for tho night"—air I see ivery prospect of it," says Mickey to himself—"what on airth's goin' to become of me?"

Now Mickey's idea of "raal grand" sencry is tho kitchen fire. I'ays and rocks'and moonlight, and such liko comfortless stuff, would be designated by him as "all my eye an' Hetty Martin." lie would consider the bluest water that ever rolled a poor thing if compared to the water that boiled in tho big kettle, and sadly inferior to such corn water as might contain a "dhrop of the, •craythur. So no wonder he views with dismay Mr. Rodney's evident intention of spending another half hour or so On the top of Carrickdhuve.

Patience has its limits.' Mickey's limit comes quickly. "When five mote minutes have passed, and the two in his charge still make no sign, he coughs respectfully but very loudly behind his hand. He waits in anxious hope for the result of this telling maneuver, but not the faintest notice is taken of it. Both Mona and Geoffrey are deaf to the pathetic appeal sent straight from his bronchial tubes.

Mickey, as he grows desperate, grows bolder. lie rises to speech. "Av ye plaze, miss, will ye soon be Comin'V" "Very soon, Mickey," says Mona, without turning her head. But, though her words are satisfactory, her tone is not. There is a lazy ring in it that speaks of anything but immediate action. Mickey disbelieves in it. "Thin I may go, miss?" says Mickey. "Oh, yes, you may go," says Mona. Geoffrey says nothing. He is looking at her with curiosity, in which deep love is mingled. She is so utterly unlike all other women he has ever met with their pretty affectations and mock. modesties, their would-be hesitations and their final yieldings. She has no idea she is doing anything that all the world of women might not do, and can see no reason why she should distrust her friend just because he is a man.

rrey wicn au nis neait cHvica im IIow she seems to" love it! how it seems to love her! "Mickey, if you are going, you may as well take the dogs with you," says Mona "they will want their suppers. Go, Spice, when I desire you. Goodnight, Allspice dear darling—see how he clings to me."

Finally the dogs are called off, and reluctantly follow the jubilant Mickey down the hill. "Perhaps you are tired of staying here," with compunction, turning to Geoffrey, "and would like to go home? I suppose every one cannot love this spot as I do. Yes," rising, "I am selfish. Do come home." "Tired!" says Geoffrey, hastily, "no, indeed. Who could tire of anything so divine? If it is your wish, it is mine also, that we should stay here for a little while longer." Then, struck by the intense relief in her face, he goes on: "How you do enjoy the beauties of Nature! I)o you know I have been studying you since you came here, and I could see how your whole soul was wrapped in tho glory of the surrounding prospect? You had no thoughts left for other objects—not even one for me. For the first time," softly, "I learned to be jealous of inanimate things." "Yet I was not so wholly engrossed as you imagine. I thought of you many times. For one thing, I felt glad that you could see this place with my eyes. But I have been silent, I know and— and "Ifow Rome and Spain would enchant you," watching her face intently, "and Switzerland, witli its lakes and mount{uns!"

Yes. But I shall never see them." "Why not? You will go there, perhaps, when you are married." "No," with a little flickering smile, that has pain and sorrow in it "for the simple reason that I shall never marry. "But why?" persists he. "Because—because, though I am only a farmer's nioce, I cannot bear farmers, and, of course, other people would not care*for me." "That is absurd," says Rodney "and your own words rofute you. That man called Moore cared for you, and very great impertinence it was on his part." "Why, you never even saw him," says Mona, opening her eyes. "No but 1 can fancy him, with his horrid bald head. Now, you know," holding up his hand to stop her as she is about to speak, "you know you said he hadn't a hair left on it." "Well, he was different," said Mona, giving in ignominiously. "I couldn't care for him either but what I said is true all the same. Other people would not like me." "Wouldn't they?" sr"3 Rodney, leaning on his elbow as tha.mtmt waxes warmer: "then all I can say is, I never met any 'other people.'" "You have met only them, I suppose, as you belong to them." "Do you mean to tell me that I don't care for you?" says Rodney quickly.

Mona evades a reply. "How cold it isl" she says, rising, with a little shiver. "Let us go home.'

If she had been nurtured all her life in tho fashionable world, she could scarcely have made a more correct speech. Geoffrey is puzzled, nay, more, discomfited. Just in this wise would a woman in his own set answer him, did she mean to repel his advances for the moment. lie forgets that no tinge of worldliness lurks in Mona's nature, and feels a certain amount of chagrin that she should so reply to him. "If you wish," he says, in a courteous tone, but one full of coldness and so they commence their homeward journey. "l am £lad V6u have been' pleased tonight," says Mona, shyly, abashed by his sudden silence. "But," nervously, "Killarney is even more beautiful. You must go there." "Yes, I mean to—before I return to England."

She starts perceptibly, which is balm to his heart. "To England!" she repeats, with a most mournful attempt at unconcern. "Will—will that be soon?" "Not very soon. But some time, of course, I must go." "I suppose so," she says, in a voice from which all joy has flown. "And it is only natural: you will be happier there." She is looking straight before her. There is no quiver in her tone her lips do not tremble yet he can seo how pale she has grown beneath the vivid moonlight. "Is that what you think?" he asks, earnestly. "Then for once you are wrong. I have never been—I shall hardly be again—happier than I have been in Ireland."

There is a pause. Mona says nothing, but, taking out the flower that has lain upon, her bosom all night, pulls it to pieces petal by petal. And this is unlike Mona, because flowers are dear to her as sunshine is to them.

At this moment they come to a high bank, and Geoffrey, having helped Mona* te iqount it, jumps down at the other aide, and holds out his arms to assist her, to descend. As she reaches the ground, and while his arms are still r6und her, she says, with a sudden eff6rt, and without lifting her eyes, "There is very good snipe-snooting here at Christmas."

The little pathetic insinuation is as perfect as it is touching. "Is there? Then I shall certainly return for it," says Geoffrey, who too much of a gentleman to pretend to understand all her words seem to imply. "It is really no journey from this to England." "I should think it a long journey," says Mona, shaking her head.

r'Oh.

Even as Geoffrey is looking at her, full of tender thought, one of the dogs, love me? Dh, as though divining the fact that she is times I have thought so, and yet again being lwt somewhat alone, lays its big 11 have feared you do not love me as—as head upon her shoulder, and looks at I love you!" her with large loving eyes. Turning to "You love me?" repeats she, faintly, him in response, she rubs her soft cheek "With all my heart," says Rodney, slowlv UD and down aarainst his. Geof- ferventlv, And. indeed, if this be so.

no, you won't," says Rodney,

absently. In truth, his mind is wandering to that last little speech of hers, and is trying to unravel it.

Mona looks at him. How oddly he has expressed himself! "You won't," he said, instead of "you wouldn't." Does he then deem it possible she will ever be able to cross to that land that calls him son? She sighs, and, looking down at her little lean, sinewy hands, clasps and unclasps them nervously. "Why need you go until after Christmas?" she says, in atone so low that he can barely hear her. "Monaf Do you want me to say?" he asks, suddenly, taking her hands in his. "Tell me the truth." "I do," returns she, tremulously. "But why?—why? Is it because you

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Mona! If it is that! At

THE TERRE HAUTE WEEKLY

sne may weu count ner3eir in UICK, Decause it is a very good and true heart of which he speaks. "Don't say anything more," says the girl, almost passionately, drawing back from him as though afraid of herself. "Do not. The more you say now the worse it will be for me by and by when I have to think. And—and—it is all quite impossible." "But why, darling? Could you not be happy as my wife?" "Your wife?" repeats she, in soft, lingering tones, and a little tender seraphic smile creeps into her eyes and lies lightly on her lips. "But 1 am not lit to be that, and "Look here," says Geoffrey, with decision. "I will have no 'buts,' and I prefer taking my answer from your eyes than from your lips. They are kinder. You are going to marry me, you know, and that is an about it. I snail marry you, whether you like it or not, so you "may as well give in with a good grace. And I'll take you to see Rome and all the places we nave been talking about, and we shall have a real good old time. Why don't you look up and speak to me, Mona?" "Because I have nothing to Say," murmurs the girl, in a frozen tone— "nothing." not be selfish "Do you mean you will not marry me?" asks he, letting her go, and moving back a step or two, a frown upon his forehead.

xlien, passionately, "I will i. I will not do this thing."

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confess I do not un-

stanil you." "Try, U-y to understand me," entreats she, desperately, following him and laying her hand upon his arm. "It is only this. It would not make you happy— not afterwards, when you could see the difference between me and the other women you have known. You are a gentleman I am only a farmer's niece." She says this bravely, though it is agony to her proud nature to have to confess it. "If that is all/' says Geoffrey, with a light laugh, laying his hand over the small brown one that still rests upon his arm, "I think it need hardly separate us. You are, indeed, different from all the other women I have ever met in my life, which makes me sorry for all the other women. You are dearer and sweeter in my eyes than any one I have ever known! Is not this enough? MonaT are you sure no other reason prevents you from accepting me? Why do you hesitate?" He has grown a'little pale in his turn, and is regarding her with intense and jealous earnestness. Why does she not answer him? Why does she keep her eyes—those honest telltales—so obstinately fixed upon the ground? "Why does she show no smallest sign of yielding? "Give me my answer," he says, sternly. "I have given it returns she, in a low tone—so low tnat he has to bend to hear it. "Do not be angry with me do not—I 'Who excuses himself, accuses himself,' quotes Rodney. "I want no reasons for your rejection. It is enough that I know you do not care for me." "Oh, no! it is not that! you must know it is not that," says Mona, in deep grief. "It is that I cannot marry you!" "Will not, you meanl" "Well, then, I will not," returns she, with a last effort at determination, and the most miserable face in the world. "Oh, if you will not," says Mr. Rodney, wratnfully. "I—will—not," says Mona, brokenly. "Then I don't believe you!" says Geoffrey, angrily. "I am positive you want to marry me and just because of some wretched fad you have got into your head you arc determined to make us both wretched."

have nothing in my head," says Mona, tearfully. "I don't think you can have much, certainly," says Mr. Rodney, with the grossest rudeness, "when you can let a few ridiculous scruples interfere with our happiness." Then, resentfully, "Do you hate me?"

No answer. "Say so, if you do: it willbehonester. If you don't," threateningly, "I shall of course think the contrary."

Still no answer. "I think you had better come home," says Geoffrey, deeply angered with her. "You must not stay liere catching cold."

A little soft woolen shawl of plain white has fallen to the ground, unheeded by her in her great distress. Lifting it almost unwillingly, he comes close to her, and places it round her once again. In so doing he discovers that tears are running down her cheeks. "Why, Mona, what is this? You are crying! My darling girl! There, lay your head on my shoulder, and let us forget we have ever quarreled. It is our first dispute let it be our last. And, after all," comfortably, "it is much better to have our quarrels before marriage than after." "Oh, if I could be quite, quite sure you would never regret itl" says Mona, wistfully. "I shall never regret anything, so long as I have you!" says Rodney. "Be assured of that." "I am so glad you are poor," says Mona. "If you were rich, or even well off, I should never consent—neverl" '*No, of oouse not," says Rodney, unblushingly "as a rule, girls nowadays can't endure men with money."

This is "sarkassum but Mona comprehends it not. Presently, seeing she is again smiling and looking inexpressibly happy, for laughter comes readily to her lips, and tears, as a ride, make no long stay with her—ashamed, perhaps, to disfigure the fair "windows of her soul" that are so "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue." "So you will come to England with me, after all?" he says, quite gayly. "I would go to theworldTs end with you," returns she, gently. "Ah11 think you knew that all along."' "Well, I didnt," says Rodnev. "There were moments, indeed, when I believed in you but five minutes ago, when you flung me over so decidedly, and refused to have anything to do with me, I lost faith in you, ana began to think you a thorough going coquette like all the rest. How I wronged you, my dear love! I should have known that under no circumstances could you be untruthful."

At his words, a glad light springs to life within her wonderful eyes. She is so pleased and proud that he should so speak to her. "Do you know, Mona," says the young man, sorrowfully, "you are too good to me—a fellow who has gone racketting all over the world. I'm not half worthy of you." "Arent you?" says Mona, in her tender fashion, that implies so kind a doubt. Raising one hand (the other is imnrtanned^. she draws bis face down to

Sarling,

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her own. "l wouldn't nave you anorat in any way," she says, "not in the smallest matter. As you are, you are so dear to me you could not be dearer, and I shall always love you, with all my heart and soul." "My sweet angel!" says her lover, pressing her to his heart. And when he says this he is not so far from the truth for her tender simplicity and perfect faith and trust bring her very near to he a $

-.. .-«• CHAPTER VI. "Is it very late?" says Mona, awakening from her happy dreams with a start. "Not very," says Geoffrey. "It seems only just now that Mickey and the dogs left us." Together they examine his watch by the light of the moon, and see that it is guite ten o'clock. "Oh, it is dreadfully late!" says Mona, with much compunction. "Come, let us hurry." "Well, just one moment," says Geoffrey, detaining her. "Let us finish what we were saying. Would you rather go to the East or to Rome?" "To Rome," says Mona. "But do you mean it? Can you afford it? Italy seems so far away." Then, after a thoughtful silence, "Mr Rodney "Who on earth are you speaking to?" says Geoffrey. t*.' "To you!" with surprise.' "I am not Mr. Rodney Jack is that. Can't you call me anything else?" "What else?" says Mona, shyly.

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"Call me Geoffrey." "I always think of you as Geoffrey," whispers she, with a swift, sweet, upward glance "but to say it is so different. Well." bravely, "I'll try. Dear, dear, dear Geoffrey, 1 want to tell you that I would be as happy with you in Wicklow as in Rome." "I know that," says Geoffrey, "and the knowledge makes me more happy than I can say. But to Rome you snail go, whatever it may cost. And then we shall return to England to our hqpie. And then—little rebel that you are—you must begin to look upon yourself as an English subject, and accept the queen as your gracious sovereign." "I need no queen when I have got a king," says the girl, with ready wit and great tenderness

Geoffrey raises her hand to his lips. "Your king is also your slave," he says, with a fond smile.

Then they move on once more and go down the road that leads towards tlie farm.

Again she has grown silent, as though oppressed with thought and he too is mute, but all his mind is crowded with glad anticipations of what the near future is to give him. He has no regrets, no fears. At length, struck by her persistent taciturnity, lie says, "What is it, Mona?" "If ever you should be sorry afterwards," she says, miserably, still tormenting herself with unseen evils—"if ever I should see discontent in your eyes, how would it be with me then?" "Don't talk like a penny illustrated," says Mr. Rodney, in a very superior tone. "If ever you do see all you seerri to anticipate, just tell yourself I am a cur, and despise me accordingly."

At this they both laugh heartily, and Mona returns no more to the lachrymose mood that has possessed her for the last five minutes.

The moon has gone behind a cloud, the road is almost wrapped in complete gloom, when a voice, coming from apparently nowhere, startles them, and brings them back fiem visions of im-

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ossible bliss to the present very possiworld. "Hist, Miss Mona! hist! s-vsj this voice close at Mona's ear. s: starts violently.

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"Oh, Paddy!" she says, small figure, unkempt, and only clad, creeps through the hedge stops short in her path. "Don't go on, miss," sr boy, with much excitement. Vs ye. I see ye comin', an', no matt fc they do to mejl says to meself. -irn her surely. They're waitin' agint below, an'maybe they ii stake ye for some one else in th( an' do ye some harm." "Who are they waitin' ." asks Mona, anxiously. "For the agint, miss. O.i.you tell on me now they'll kill me. i.Iaxill, ye know me lord's agint." "Waiting—for what? Is it to shoot him?" asks the girl breathlessly. "Yes, miss. Oh, Miss Mona, if ye bethray me now 'twill bo all up wid me. Fegs an' intirely, miss, they'll murdher me out uv hand.' "I won't betray you," she says. "You may trust me. Where are they stationed?" "Down below in the hollow, miss—jist behind the hawthorn bush. Go home some other way, Miss Mona they're bint on blood." "And, if so,what are you doing here?" says Mona, reprovingly. "On'y watehm', miss, to see what they'll do," confesses he, shifting from one foot to the other, and growing palpably confused beneath her searching gaze. "Is it murder you want to see?" asksshe, slowly, in a horrified tone. "Go home, Paddy. Go home, to your mother." Then, changing her censuring manner to one of entreaty, she says, softly, "Go, because I ask you." "I'mioff, miss," says the miscreant, and, true to his word, darts through the hedge again like a shaft from a bow, and, scurrying through the fields, is soon lost to sight. "Come with me," says Mona to Rodney and with an air of settled determination, and a hard look on her usually mobile lips, she moves deliberately towards the hawthorn-bush, that is aoout a quarter of a mile distant:. "Mona," says Rodney, divining her intent, "stay you here while I go and ex-

ostulate with these men. It is late, and their blood is up, and they may not listen to you. Let me speak to them." "You do not understand them," returns she, sadly. "And I do. Besides, they will not harm me. There is no fear of that. I am not at all afraid of them. And I—must speak to them."

He knows her sufficiently well to refrain from further expostulation, and iust accompanies her silently along the lonely road. "It is I—Mona Scully," she calls aloud, when she is within a hundred yards of the hiding-place. "Tim Ryan, come here: I want you."

It is a mere guess on her part—supported certainly by many tales she has heard of this Ryan of late, but a guess nevertheless. It proves, however,to be, a correct one* A man, indistinct, but unmistakable, shows himself on the top of the wall, and pulls his forelock'

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••wnat are you doing nere, rimrsays Mona, bravely,calmly,"at this hour, and with—yes, do not seek to hide it from me—a gun! And you too,Carthy," peering into the darkness where another man, less plucky tlran llyan, lies concealed. "Ah! you may well wish to shade your face, since it is evil you have in your heart this night." "Do ye mane to inform on us?" says Ryan, slowly, who is a man of a villainous countenance, laying his hand impulsively upon his gun, and glancing at ner and Rodney alternately with murder in his eyes. "You should know better than to apply the word 'informer' to ona of my blood," she says, coldly, speaking to Ryan without a tremor in her voice. "I know that," says Ryan, sullenly. "But what of him?" pointing to Rodney, the ruffianly look still on his faco. "The Englishman, I mane. Is ho sure? It's a lite for a life, afther all, when everything is towld." "Tim," she says, "what have I ever done to you that you should seek to make me unhappy?" "I have nothing to do with you. Go your ways. It is with him I have to settle," says the man, morosely. "But I have to do with him," says Mona, distinctly.

At this, in spite of everything, Rodney laughs lightly, and, taking her hand in his draws it through his arm. There is love and trust and great content in his laugh. "Eh!" says Ryan while the man whom she has called Carthy—and who up to this time has appeared desirous of concealing himself uom view—now presses forward and regards the two with lingering scrutiny.

Why, what liave you to do with her?" says Ryan, addressing Rodney, agleam of something that savors of amusement showing itself even in his ill-favored face, for an Irishman, under all circumstances, dearly loves "a courting, a bon mot, and a broil." "This much," says Rodney, laughing again "I am going to marry her, with her leave." "If that be so, she'll make you keep from splittin' on us," says the man. "So now go we've work in hand tonight not fit for her eyes."

Mona shudders, and seeing further talk is useless, slips her hand into Rodney's, and leads lum down the road.

But when they have turned a corner, and are quite out of sight and hearing, Rodney stops short, ana says, hurriedly: "Mona, can you manage to get home by some short way by yourself? Because I must return. I must stand by this man they are going to murder. I must indeed, darling. Forgive me that I desert you here and at such an hour, but I see yqu are safe in the country, and five minutes will take you to the farm, and I cannot let his life be taken without striking a blow for him." "And did you think I was content to let him die?" says Mona, reproachfully. "No! There is a chance for him still, and I can lead you by a cross-path to the Ballavacky road, by which he must come, and, if we overtake him before he reaches that spot, we can save his life. Come do not delay!" excitedly.

She turns through a broken gap into a plowed field, and breaks into a quick run, rushing on like a light-footed deer, on over high banks, across stiles—still on, lightly and swiftly, without faintness or despondency, or any other feeling but a passionate determination to Bave a man's life.

Rodney's breath is coming more quickly, and he is conscious of a desire to stop and pull himself together—if only for a minute—before bracing him-

self for a second effort. But to "Mona. TOOTHACHE, with her fresh and perfect health, and lithe and lissome body, and all the rich young blood that surges upward in her veins, excitement serves but to make her more elastic and with her mind strung to its highest pitch, and her hot Irish blood aflame, she runs easily onward, until at length the road is reached that is her goal.

Springing upon the bank that skirts the road on one side, she raises her hands to her head, and listens with all her might for the sound of wheels in the distance. But all is still.

Oh, if they should be too late! But hark! What is that greets her ear?— The ring of horses' feet upon the quiet road!

The girl clasps her hands passionately, and turns her eyes on Rodney. "Mona, it is—it must be he!" says Geoffrey,' taking her hand and so they both stand, almost breathless, on tke high bank, listening intently.

Now they can near the sound of wheels and presently a light tax-cart swings round the corner, drawn by a large, bony bay mare, and in which sits a heavy-looking, elderly man, in a light overcoat. "Mr. Maxwell! Mr. Maxwell!" cries Mona, as he approaches them and the heavy man drawing up, looks round at her with keen surprise, bending his head a little forward, as though the better to pierce the gloom. "Miss Scully, is it you?" he says, at length: "and nere at this hour?" "Go back to Bantry," says Mona, not heeding his evident surprise, "at once— now. Do not delay. There are those waiting for you on the Tullymore road who will take your life. I nave run all this way to warn you. Oh, go back, while there is yet time!" "Do you mean that they want to shoot me?" says Maxwell, in a hurried tqpe. "Yes, I know it! Oh^do not wait to ask questions, but go. Even now they may have suspected my purpose, and may be coming here to prevent your ever returning?' "But who are they? and where?" demands the agent, completely taken aback. "I can tell you no more I will not and you must never ask me. It is enough that I speak the truth, and that I have been able to save your life." "How can I thank you?" says Maxwell,

tLfor

all

"Some other day you can do that. Now go." says Mona, imperiously, waving her hand.

But Maxwell still lingers, looking first at her, and then very intently at her companion. "It is late," he says. "You should be at home, child. Who am I, that you should do me so great a service?" Then,

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and Geoffrey, are once more alone beneath the "earnest stars." "Take me down," says Mona, wearily turning to her lover, as the last faint ring of the horses' feet dies out on the breeze. "You are tired," says he, tenderly. "A little, now it is all over. Yet I must make great haste homeward. Uncle Brian will be uneasy about me if he discovers my absence, though he knew I was going to the Bay. Come, we must hurry."

So in silence, but hand in hand, they move back through the dewy meads, meeting no one until they reach the little wooden gate that leads to her home.

Mona lays her hand on Geoffrey's arm. "Promise me you will not go back to Coolnagurtheen to-night?" sno says, earnestly. "At tho inn, down in the village, they will give you a bed." "But. my dearest, why? Thero is not the slightest danger now, and—and my horse is a good one, and I shan't bo any time getting "I won't near of it!" snys Mona, interrupting hiin vehemently. "You would have to go up that root?"again," with a strong shudder. "I shall not go in-doors until you give me your honor you will stay in the village'to-night."

Seeing the poor child's terrible fear and anxiety, and that she is eompletely overwrought, he gives way, and lets her have the desired promise. "Now that is good of you," sho saysr gratefully, and then, as he stoops to kiss her, she throws her arms aroundi his neck and bursts into tears. "You are worn out, my love, my sweetheart," says Geoffrey, very tenderly, speaking to her as though she is in years the child that, in her soul, she truly is. "Come, Mona, you will not cry on this night of others that has made me yours, and you mine! If this thought made you as happy as it makes me, you could not cry. Now lift your head, and let me look at you. There! you have given yourself to- me, darling, and there is a good life, I trust, before us so let us dwell on that, and forget all minor evils. Togotlier we can defy trouble." "Yes, that is a thought to dry alt tears," she says, very sweetly, checking: her sobs and raising her face, on which is dawning an adorable smile. Then, sighing heavily—a sigh of utter exhaustion—"You have done me good," she says. "I shall sleep now, and you, my dearest, will be safe. Good-night, until to-morrow!" "How many hours there are in the night that we never count!" says Geoffrey, impatiently. "Good-night, Mona! To-morrow's dawn I shall call my dearest friend,

[The remaining chapters of this romanc will be found in tbe Saturday issues of the GAZETTE. Rack iiumlx XF can be obtained at this office.]

catarrh,

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RHEUMATISM, DIPHTHERIA, VEJJRALGIA, JOUK THBOAT, SOIIE EYES, FACEACIIE,

BUMS, SCALDS, BRUISES, PILES, INSECT BITQB FEMALE COMPLAINTS,

nwcTC

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Ac.

Chicago.—" I hftToracelTed

rellaf from use of the Extract." (InflammatorydtaeaM.) St^lCKl II. JAMES, Bchenoctady. N-

T.—"A

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necessity In rnj family.» »1 JC8T1N D. rJlTOll, ». 0., Brooklyn, N. Y.-" Profta tisoir to bo necessity in my home.1'

CantkM.—POND'S EXTRACT is sola only IM bottles with the name blown in tbo glass. 4ST It Is nnsafe to Use other articles with oar irections. Insist on having POND'S SXTBACC Kefacfl Ml imitations and substitutes.

vjtLAJL.ITY UNIXPORM. ?rlces, OOo., $1.00, $1.75 at all respectablo Druggists. Prepared by POND'S EXTRAOVCO* 1* West Fourteenth Street, York.

BUTTS

DISPENSARY.

XitabMtd 1847 at 12 IT. 8th Street, ST. LOOTS, UO.

THE

Phynicians in charge of this old and well knows institution are regular graduates in medicine an4 surgerv. Years of Xirperlenee in tbe treatment i| Chronlo Disease* bave made their skill and abilitj iractitionc& on through

so much superior to tbat of the ordinary practitionc that they have acauired a national reputation tl their treatment of complicated eases,

1111

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I have not

turning quietly to Bodney, the pleasure or your acquaintance, sir," he says, gravely: "but I entreat you to take Miss Scully safely back to the Farm without delay." "You may depend upon me," Bays) Bodney, lifting his hat, and respecting' the elder man's care for the well-being of his beloved, even in the midst of his own immediate danger. Then, in another moment, Maxwell has turned his horse's head, and is soon out of sight.

The whole scene is at an end. A life

Product ing a(

tions of the blood, vkln or bones, treated with suet eess, without using Mercury or Poiaonoua Medicines. and those of middle age who art. suffering from the effects of victims for business or Marriage rmanentlr cured, it moderate expanse.

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One Dollar

The Beet Paftrli the West 49 eotesun Steal and ehotovly-Mlectedreadiiic nutUr, printed large, plain type. Iraed "Weekly, aud Mailed ta lr*« la the United Statea, poetace paid, fei •Uara Tear. Every new^abeoriber i«ts a

af eti

Sead for aata GHICAOO KM. Cfct«a«e. PI.

I JESSE JAMES

Complete Life of these Bold Highway •n. Also ot the Ymuumr Brothers. an other bold outlaws of the border. Fall/ Hlaa»

^"rMOpagw.

FTMF

Cw» ft*

Term* liberal. AMEMTS WAJrtBBk FOBSHKl MCKAKUT, CioosUwatl OhiM

Watches, (ten wfod*r*&.M. Wbite metal floatlerCaae It. Imitation (aid $6. s«IM(oU|lt Cheapest and best' 4 for year own tutt or speculative perpeece. Valuable cat-', slog Be free. TUOTBO.iaca. mSaesaaSt. gewTerk.

Dr. W. H. Hall,

Office 124% Lafayette Street, .. TKBKEHAUTE, ISD. iVNervoas Diseases a specialty."®*