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ABYSMAL DEPTHS OR BLINDFOLD ON THE BRINK OF PRECIPICES^ CHAPTER XXIV. Montgomery was alone. His first act was a violation of Itodwell's vuggestion; he drank off what remained in the decanter at a draught. But in his present state of mind the liquor was impotent. Then he tried to think out his situation; he found it a difficult task. He was utterly in Rodwell's power. Once in the hands of the police, what would the story he could tell avail against the word of a gentleman? It would be regarded simply as a malicious forgery, and would only serve to prejudice him in the opinion of his .judge. On the other hand, he shrunk with insurmountable dread from the thought of the hideous crime proposed to him. While thus revolving in his mind his perilous position, he took out his pipe and filled it with tobacco; beneath its soothing influence some lucky thought might arise. Searching in his waistcoat pocket for a match, he felt some smooth, hard substance. It was the locket that Mr. Porter had handed to him, and which he had entirely forgotten. His thoughts were too gravely engaged to give any heed to it now. But in taking it out of his pocket, the better to catch hold of a match that eluded his fingers, his gaze fell upon the back, upon which were engraved the initials F. B. and E. M., joined together by a true-lover's knot. A cry of astonishment burst from his lips; he took it to the window, minutely examined it, passed his hand across his eyes, as though doubting their evidence. Then, with trembling fingers, he tried for the spring. At last he found it. Upon one side was the miniature of a beautiful woman; upon the other, which had once contained another portrait, a lock of dark hair. He sank into a chair, trembling as with an ague fit, and gazing wildly on the miniature. But soon his face softened, the tears gathered in his eyes, and his chest heaved with deep sobs. He kissed the picture and murmured words of passionate love over it. In trying for tbe spring Mr. Porter had bent the case a little. As Montgomery pressed it to his lips the portrait fell out and disclosed, neatly fitted at the back, e scrap of white paper. There was writing upon it; but the characters were so minute that he had great difficulty in deciphering them. At last he Head these words: "The child upon whom this is found is Silas Morant, son of Frances Morant, whose portrait this is, of the Willows, Herts." For some seconds both strength and consciousness deserted him. At i'.rat his thoughts came back broken ana confused. The. portrait of his wife in Mr. Porter's possession! How came it there -- a child of whose existence he was ignorant? Silas Morant--Silas Carston -- and Madame Berne interested in him! Great Heaven! this boy, then, whom he had given up to his bitterest enemies, whose life-long misery he had sealed, whom he was on the brink of consigning to an awful death, was his own son! Back upon his soul like the blast of a trumpet rushed the parting words of Madame Berne -- that vengeance was held by a higher power than that of puny man." For the first time since his childhood days this hardened man of sin knelt down, and prayed to heaven for pardon and for succor. What was to be done? If he could get clear of the house, there would be no difficulty. But he had heard Rodwell lock the "door behind gim. Ah, the window! It was a French one, opening up6n a garden; it was Unfastened; he could see the back door before him. The next moment he was there. He could not open It. "The door's locked, sir," a voice said behind him. Montgomery started. "Will you have the kindness to open it for me?" He'said, in as unconcerned a tone as he* could assume. "Can't, sir," was the answer. "Why not?" "Because master has left me here with the key, to see that nobody passes out whatsomever." "Ah, but of course that does not apply to your master's friends." "Dare say not, sir; but there's the front door; that's where gen'l'men usually goes out, and master's in the front parlor." For a moment Montgomery entertained a desperate idea of trying to tussle for the key, but the powerful build of the fellow, and the thought of the noise it would create, quickly dispelled it. Another and more feasible plan crossed his "Would you like to earn a sovereign, my man?" he said. "I don't mean by letting me out of that door, or by disobeying your master's orders. Will you take a message for me to the telegraph office close by?" The fellow considered for a moment. "Well, I wasn't told anything about messages, so that if you'll stand a sov., I dare say I can get it done for you by somebody." "If I give you a sovereign, there must be no 'dare say' about it. In a word, can you do it, or can you "I y "At once?' > this ; but only chance left. There were writing materials in the room he had just left. He hastened back, and upon a sheet of paper wrote -- addressed to "Jonathan Rodwell, Morley's Hotel," etc -- the following words: "If you wish to see your granddaughter alive, lose not a moment in going to - Manor House, Essex (John Rodwell's house)." As a double security, he would send another to Bow street police The second telegram ran thus: "The young girl for whose discovery £100 have been offered is at- Manor House, Essex (near Epping). She is in imminent danger -- lose Ho sealed these up in separate envelopes, and went back to the man. A youth, looking like a stable lad, was by his side; this was to be the messenger. Montgomery placed 25 shillings in his hand, and instructed him what to do. He must go out at the front door, the groom said, as the garden door must not be opened. Again and again Montgomery impressed upon tbe lad that Mr. Rodwell must know nothing of this, looking carefully around at the same time to see if any one were watching. No person was in sight. The lad departed upon his errand, and Montgomery returned to his room. The next thing to be thought of was his own course of action -- or, rather, what answer he should give to Rodwell when he returned, must feign to assent to his diabolical proposition -- a difficult task in the present agitation of his mind, but the only one. But would Rod-well implicitly trust in so sudden a but I'll get it done for And amidst all these racking doubts and fears of the present there rose up images of the past-- bright, beautiful, gloomy, and sad. Let us photograph some of these pictures, connecting them by links that have dropped out of his memory, and adding many details of which he is ignorant. He is one-and-twenty, wild, and somewhat dissipated, but not vicious, just returned from college to his stately home. But a great change has come over that home since he saw it last. His noble, loving mother is dead. A long, painful illness necessitated change of climate; Geneva was the spot chos- ous, she breathed her last. His father has returned to the Willows about a fortnight; but not alone. Two strangers -- ladies -- have accompanied him from Switzerland -- Madame Berne and her daughter. It was at the house of the former that his mother resided during her last illness. She is a rigid, austere fanatic, acting up in all things to the letter of her professions, but denying the existence of any good beyond them; all virtue and holiness are confined within limits of her creed -- beyond it all is sin and death. She has acquired a powerful ascendency over Mr. Mor-ant's mind, weakened as it is by the affliction of his beloved wife:s death. He has brought her home to fill the position of housekeeper, and in a short time she reigns absolute and undisputed mistress over him and the household. From the moment she is first introduced to Edward Morant she conceives a hatred for him. The gay, light, mischievous bearing, even subdued a3 it is now by the sorrow of his mother's death, is repulsive to her gloomy soul, into which no ray of sunshine ever penetrates. The young man, on his side, is possessed by an equally hostile impression. There is soon open war between them. But Edward is no match for his powerful adversary. His father, under the proselytism of Madame Berne, has become as gloomy a fanatic as herself; all gayety of heart, done him--savagely reckless from vagabondage he sinks intc crime, becomes implicated, through his associates, in a robbery, and is condemned to three years' penal servitude. In the meantime, a child has been born to him, of whose existence, probable existence, he is ignorant, sad life is that of the mother. Frances' only consolation was i infant son; Madame Berne would have deprived her even of this, stigmatizing it as a weak clinging ' the remanant of her sin, had i Mr. Morant interferred, and for 01 carried his point. At the end three years the poor girl died of lingering decline. When, at the end of his term imprisonment, the unfortunate husband, now thoroughly vicious and hardened, came back to the Willows to claim his wife, a funeral proc< sion stopped the way. An awful scene ensued; not even the sacred presence of.the dead could check the wild tempest of passion that b from the wretched man's lips, knelt down and cursed the wor the cause of all his sufferings. From that time he was utterly lost; remorse, conscience, every better feeling was crushed out of his nature. After the mother's death, the child --against whom Madame Berne felt a virulent hatred, only exceeded by that which she felt for the father -- spite of a weak opposition on the | part of Mr. Morant, was banished to the care of a nurse. Two years af-I terward the poor little unfortunate was consigned to the guaradianship j of the Reverend Mr. Porter. I Madame Berne determined that Ed-j ward Morant should never know of j its existence, neither should the child : be made acquainted with its parentage. Before it left the care of the nurse, however, the maid-servant, whom we have mentioned as the friends of the lovers, and who frequently paid a secret visit to the child, sewed up in its frock a locket containing its mother's portrait and a lock of her hair; adding thereto the scrap of writing which Montgomery -- or Morant, as we should call him -- had now so strangely discovered. The locket had been given her by poor Frances on death-bed. It was all she could do --dared do. Slight as was the link, it might one day prove useful to the boy in establishing his identity. When, after his death, Mr. Mor-ant's will was opened, Madame Berne was discovered to have inherited his estate and fortune; but attached was a codicil of a very recent date, making chargeable upon the same an annuity of five hundred pounds a year to Silas Morant, known as Silas Carston. This led to the advertisement from which had arisen so many complicat- ed r ults. The unlocking and opening of the door aroused the dreamer, calling him back from ghosts of the past to the horrors of the future, in the person of Mr. John Rodwell, whe that moment re-entered the rooi "Well, you have emptied the bi dy bottle, X perceive, "^SKfiXe * well's first words: 'Thave you fo illumination in the contents?" "When a man has such a deed consider as the one you have proposed, I think a little stimulant is necessary." "Bo you consent?" "Needs must when the devil drives," answered Montgomery, sullenly; he feared to change his tone too suddenly. "By the bye," he added, "I am forgetting all about the Corinthian. I am duo there -1 r five." ;The British public will certainly be deprived of your brilliant talents this evening," sneered Rodwell. "What time, then, am I to start upon my expedition?" inquired Montgomery. "We shall start about ten. "We?" "Yes, we; you do not suppose that I would trust vou to go alone after what has passed? The night air might affect your delicate conscience had i friend by your t for c lie- all- powerful attraction, he would have quitted it long ago. That attraction is Frances, Mad-tne Berne's daughter, a beautiful, melancholy girl of sixteen. He loves her passionately, possibly because is so entirely opposite to himself; and she loves him, possibly for the same reason. As a matter of course, their love is a secret confined to themselves and one confidante, the late Mrs. Morant's maid, whose services, but not affections, have been transferred to the new In the course of time, ardent and impulsive Edward prevails on Frances to consent to a clandestine marriage. Mr. Morant being suddenly rmoned to London by law busi-i, in transacting which he requires the assistance of Madame Berne -- he can do nothing without now -- presents the desired opportunity. Edward procures a special license, and by the train which follows the one which carried Mr. Morant and - his housekeeper, he, Frances and the confidential maid speeding up to town. They are quietly married at a suburban church, and return to the Willows the same night. A fortnight afterward, yielding to the prayers of his young wife, Edward declares his marriage to his father. The old man is willing to forgive the act, but Madame Berne is furious. Her daughter shall not be delivered over to the Satanic influences of this vicious man. Very soon ho falls into vagabondage, and gnawed by the burning sense of the wrong that has been "But "who will carry out the second part of your scheme? Who will be your messenger to your uncle?" "Would not a telegram serve the purpose?" Montgomery started. Was it a stray shot; or was he discovered? He had but little appetite when he sat down to dinner. He poured out a tumbler of claret from a decanter, and drank it off; his mouth was parched, and, until after he had swallowed it, he did not observe the peculiarity of its flavor--it was bitter, nauseous. Before the dinner was half over, a strange, drowsy sensation began to stal over him. Ten minutes more, and he had fallen senseless from his chair on to the floor. "Case of an overdose of brandy," said Mr. Rodwell to the servant who was waiting, coolly continuing his meal. "I thought how it woui* be when he began to mix it with wine. Lay him gently upon the couch, and then tell John to put the mare into the dog-cart. I'll drop tne gentleman into his home as I go along. I shall drive myself, and shall not require any one with me." About nine o'clock, Montgomery, still insensible, was lifted into the dog-cart. Mr. Rodwell took the reins, and drove away. But not in the direction of Camden Town; on the contrary, he made toward the open country, taking the same road that Montgomery had traversed in the opposite direction a few hours before. He stopped at a wooded solitarv spot about half a mile off the roadway, and about three miles from the Manor House, unharnessed the mare, took out a saddle and a bridle that he had concealed in the boot, and, by the light of a bull's-eye lantern, put these upon her. Then he dragged out his helpless companion, threw hin front of the saddle, leaped into the seat, and after casting a look at the vehicle, which was ensconced under a tree and quite hidden by the darkness, he galloped away (To Be Continued). No i i strong that he does A FARMER'S LIFE. If some of the farmers who are discouraged because they have not made a fortune off their farms, and who feel inclined to envy their brother toilers in the city, imagining that life in the city is more desirable than theirs, easier and filled with plenty of leisure to enjoy all the pleasures with which the rustic imagination gilds and glorifies those distant scenes and activities, they need only try to find out their mistake. "Far fields are green," and lose much of their attractiveness To the city man of ordinary means and opportunities, who, like the ordinary farmer, has a bank account to fall back upon in cases of emergency, life is one "grind," and without the soothing influences of nature that surround the farmer, to quiet the fever and unrest with which the struggle, competition and turmoil around him keep his nerves on the rack day after day. As a rule, such men are not their own masters, but must order their speech, demeanor, and inclinations to please the powers that have control over their daily doings, in order to keep bread in the mouths and clothes on the backs of both themselves and their families. The farmer, if he does not feel well can rise in the morning at whatever hour it pleases him to do ; for an hour or so, or a day or two, does not make much difference in his affairs except at the most critical periods of planting and harvesting. He can have his own opinions, and voice them too, in politics and religion, and all the stirring questions of the day, without fear of antagonizing the powers that be, who can "sack" him if his views and opinions do not happen to coincide with those of his master or "overlord" (the boss). That the farmer is a hard worker nobody can deny. Tilling the soil is not easy work. Since God gave the command to man to "earn his bread by the sweat of his brow," the farmer's life has been a life of toil. It taves some strength and effort to dig a living out of the ground. It is not easy to earn a living, much less a fortune, without effort, and the farmer is net the only one who "sweats." Brain workers have no sinecure, although some ignorant persons imagine that all they have to do is to sit at a desk and add up figures, or to twiddle a pen in their fingers. The life of a salesman behind the counter is wearisome and otonoua. The beautiful days of spring go by, the birds are singing they build their nests, the flowers _ i blooming in the valleys and on the hillsides, and the grass is grow-greener and greener in the meadows ; yet never a glimpse does he of the beauty of the bright world except when he can take a car > of an evening, or on a Sunday holiday. A grocer's clerk works re hours and harder, than the average country boy, who can go he "corner" and pitch quoits or gossip with his cronies, when the ty young man is just getting home om work ; and as for the man who delivers milk in the city he has even harder work and longer hours. At i the morning and even earlier, waggon is heard in the streets, and himself racing from top to bot-of the high apartment buildings in the cold and sleet of a mid-win-; morning, or in the enervating heat of summer. At break-neck ipeed he goes, and one could almost imagine that his life depended upon getting through his rounds in due season. Competition is so great that lust neglect nothing, and always be pleasant and obliging to the t unreasonable of customers, for fear of losing one. There are the en carrying 50 pounds and often 100 pounds of ice up four flights of itairs, which is no easy task, and is it is not skilled labor, the pay s probably not more than it should >e, considering the amount of ilrength expended. Hard as the vork is, and moderate as is the lay, no man can afford to lose his ob ; so he has to be very, careful lot to antagonize his employers in sumptuous living, but it may be comparatively comfortable o This cannot be said of all sorts occupations. There are Industrie and honest men in all trades, who are so hampered by circumstances that they cannot do so. Competition, strikes, union complications, and what not, interfere with their opportunities, and they are powerless. A farmer can raise most of what he eats, and clothing is so cheap in thfce days, that unless he must be dressed in the latest style, what he wears need not cost a great deal. He need be under obligations to no one--a beatific condition, if he only realized it. Providence is only master, his helper, and friend. He depends on Him i after he has sown his grain, planted his vegetables and his and then waits for the productive influence of the sunshine and the showers to do their part of the work. If he is "up-to-date" he strive to improve his methods, content to plod along in the old way, but ever ready to take advantage of the new ideas of this progressive age, using the helps and aids to be found in the best farm journals he can get, and not toe proud or too stubborn in his ideas to make use of all the light he obtain. If there should happen and the ; he c - his any < old clothes until he can afford better, and live upon oatmeal and beans if need be, and whose business is it ? But there is no reason why farmer cannot live as well, and dress and educate his children as finely, as the average city man : and he does. He lives better, as a general thing, for there need be no scrimping in his larder. The good things of life--cream, butter, eggs, vegetables, poultry, etc.--on a well-managed farm, arc abundant in their supply. In the city a man needs a full purse in order to use these things freely and have them of the best quality. He has to practi" self-denial there. And there is always hope ahead for the farmer. If he doesn't have good luck this year, he may the next. There is always a chance that there will be a better yield crops, and a better price in market. The element of uncertainty adds zest to life, which a settled amount of wages from month to month and from year to year cannot give ; and he is always sure of enough to eat on the farm, of some sort or another. One of the most discouraging features about farming is the drought which so often comes to wither both the farmer's hopes and his crops. To see the land that has been so faithfully and carefully worked, and the young crops that look so promising lying parched under the bun rays of the sun and getting drier and drier in the hot winds, while be watches day after day in vain for the refreshing showers is almost heartbreaking. The only hope for the farmer in such a case is irrigation. This often seems impracticable, and entails too much expense, but if one were wise enough to sometimes utilize those natural advantages close at hand, he would receive a surprising benefit at a little cost. I have in mind a section of country --a long stretch of farm land lying at the foot of a mountain, or range of wooded hills, for more than two miles--good productive soil, but often drying up in summer because of drouth. On the mountain were springs--never-failing -- and after quarries had been opened up there, there were great ponds or reservoirs filled with the draining of the quarries, which if the farmers had been enterprising enough to lay the pipe | necessary to carry the water down j the slope, would have furnished en-■ ough water to save their crops, and ! to water their cattle which had to be driven long distances to drink. The time is coming, and is not far distant, when the farmer's life will be looked upon as the ideal life, by many of the world-weary toilers of the crowded cities. Even now, the one bright dream of many a drudger in the stores and offices, if of a happy time coming when he will have a farm--a home of his own in the country, where he can rest his tired brain and nerves as he sits beneath his own vine or fig (or apple) tree. Whoever despises a farmer's life is a fool ; it is the most independent life on earth.--Country Gentleman. who does business on a his own boss, to do the great- small scale and probably finds it a living, for he h er part of his ow sometimes not hireling, who is at least. a poor farmer, who and has good health, cannot make at least a living himself and family. It may not [profitable season D well off as his re of his wages Mrs. Newma -- "Oh, I wisk you could see Mrs. Winkler's baby. It's perfectly lovely! Such a delicate, sweet little creature as it is. It's a perfect cherub, with the Toveliest eyes, the sweetest little mouth, the cunningest little nose and eyes of heavenly blue. It looks as if it had just dropped from heaven and every tiny feature had been fashioned by the angels." Mr. Newma -- "Is it as nice as our baby?" Mrs. Newma THE WAY NOWADAYS. Lawyer--The pedestrian has the law on his side. Injured Man--Yes ; and the automobilist on his Oacki THINGS COUNTRIES LOVE THE MANY PET TREASURES OF NATIONS. Russia's Most Prized Trophy and France's Treasured Arch.. Considering what close friends France and Russia are to-day, it is rather amusing to consider that the most prized possession of the latter country is the gigantic trophy of cannon lost by the French in their terrible retreat from Moscow in the winter of 1812. This trophy consists of between eight and nine hundred cannon, which are piled in front of the arsenal, which lies within the limits of the Kremlin or citadel of Moscow, says London Answers. As for the Frenchman's most treasured national possession, this is equally modern. The Arc de Tri-omphe was begun by Napoleon in 1806, but not finished till thirty years later. IT COST $2,000,000. The arch is 152 feet high, and has a breadth of 137 feet. The relief carvings on it commemorate the arrival and departures of Napoleon's great army, which performed the extraordinary feat of practically conquering all Europe. The average Briton certainly prizea the "Victory" abovo any other of our many national heirlooms. Even she dates barely a century back. The Battle of Trafalgar, in which she was Nelson's flagship, was fought on October 21st, 1805. Tho fine old vessel, which, as she lies at Portsmouth, looks as good as ever, has been repaired so much and so'~ often that--of her upper works, at least--there is probably nothing of the original vessel left. Even the piece of timber marking where the great admiral fell has been REPLACED MORE THAN ONCE, To Philadelphia the citizen of the United States makes his way to view the most treasured heirloom of his country. Though the States- is, comparatively speaking, a brand new country, yet this relic dates back to 1776. It is the Declaration of Independence, which was first read in Philadelphia on July 4th, 1776. Equally famous is the Liberty Bell, which is enshrined at the old State House in Philadelphia. It is a curious fact that it was our present King who gained for this emblem the honored position it holds to-day. When ho visited the States forty years ago he saw the bell lying in a dusty corner. Being told its story, how it rang to call the Continental Congress together, he at once said, "That bell should bo your greatest treasure." To-day it shares with the ancient parchment of the Declaration the honor of being the United States' most cherished national possession. The Spaniard, though his posseB-the New World have disap- with him in v' land the bonea of his greatest explorer, CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. Columbus died at. Valladolid, in n May, 1506, and was buried lame city. In 1513, however, his body was transferred to Seville. Again, in 1536, the bones were moved, and, together with those of his , Diego, carried across the Atlan-to the country of his discovery, San Domingo. There they were por-tted to lie undisturbed for two hundred and sixty years, when they again disentombed, and buried afresh at the cathedral at Havana, _n Cuba. Now, once more the poor remains have crossed tho Western Ocean, and lie enshrined at Granada. Germany, as it is at present, is „oo new an empire to possess national heirlooms. But the Kaiser himself preserves several articles hich he believes bring him luck, and ne of these is regarded with con-derable reverence by his subjects. ,o is a spur lost by Charles XII. at Poltawa. There the "Madman of tho North" met his first and last defeat, and fled to Turkey. The Fisherman's Ring is something !ore than even a national heirloom. ; is the most prized treasure of the Papal executive. On certain morn-ngs of the week, His Holiness re-._ :eives the Cardinal Secretary of State to sign documents, and when the papers issued from the Vatican are placed before him, he puts the ring upon the first finger- of his right hand. With THE FISHERMAN'S RING the Pope stamps each document, and the Cardinal also signs and stamps ;. The famous ring has engraved upon it a lamb and a fish, and is held to have been the ring of St. Peter. The Greek Government is most nxious for us to give back to her the Elgin Marbles. Greece wishes to restore the Parthenon to some semblance of its former glory. The Parthenon, or Temple of Athene, is the most perfect specimen of Greek architecture in existence, and re-i almost perfect condition 1687, when it 'was used as a Turkish magazine, a shell from a Venetian mortar burst inside it. The Parthenon is the centre of the Greek world, and by far the most prized of any of their many national memo- A "WEIGHTY" CLUB. A society of some weight has just been established in Marseilles under tho title of the "Cent-Kilos de Mar-lle." The main condition of msm-^•ship is that no, one shall ba eligible whose weight is less than 100 kilos (about 250 pounds). Tho officers, it need scarcely be added, have been elected by weight also.-The president turns the scale at 145 kilos, the secretary at 138. With a weight of 136 kilos it would appear easy task for the treasurer to decamp in a hurry with any of the society's funds. So far the roll of membership runs to about thirty.