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A . “N‘s.- --.. 4.. -vâ€"‘â€"’â€"v~_â€"â€"â€"/ Ac *, A x i CHAPTER XLIII. “ You knew this gentleman abroad ‘2’ asks Lord Branksmere, who has noted the suppressed indignation that is making the small frame tremble. “You have guessed it, Branksmere. This gentleman and I are well acquainted.” she stops suddenly, as though it is impos- sible. for her to go on. How is she to tell it? Yet she has promised Margery to save this wilful woman, She fiings from her all thought of self, and, stepping more clearly into the moonlight, throws out her hands towards Staines. “ This man," she says, in a clear, thrill- ing tone, “ once did me the honor to seek to dishonor me.” Her face falls forward into her hands. “ Great Heaven ! This is more than one should dare expect of you,” cries Lord Branksmere, in deep agitation. Mrs. Billy lifts her head and looks at Staines for the last time. “ My husband knows all,” she says, the words coming reluctantly from between her teeth. “If you would retain your mis- prahle life, escape from this without de- ay . ’ “ Is this thing true?” asks Lady Brankil- mere, going straight up to Staines, He, is silent. - “ Speak, man ! Answer?” cries she, im- periously, with a stamp of her foot. “ Nâ€"o,” lies the miserable wretch, with falsehood written in the very swaying and bending of his cowardly frame. What she sees convinces her. “ Liar l” she gasps beneath her breath. Lord Branksmere is now close to Staines, who makes a movement as though to de- part, but he lays his hand quickly upon his arm, gives him a wddcn jerk that brings him to the front in a second. “ My good fellow, don’t go until we come to an understanding.” The gallant captain, whose knees seem here to cease to be a portion of himself, mutters something in a weak whisper that as yet is unknown. ‘SWe are waiting for the lover-like state- ments that will declare your desire to take charge of her you love.” . Goaded by this into speech, Staines makes answer: “If you 'understand anything,” he says, “it is, that I desire nothing better than to I spend my daysinsuring the happiness ofâ€"” “Quite so l” interrupts Lord Branks- mere, curtly. “You are then prepared to support her? She is without fortune, you know. There was a certain sum settled upon her by me, but that she does not take with her.” ‘ “ You can not deprive her of it,” cries Staines, hoarsely. “True. But it appears she rejects her husband’s gift, with her husband. Speak for yourself here, madame. Is this so ‘2” “It is so,” returns she, icily. Any little blood that still remains in Staines’ face new flies from it. “ Well, sir ?”queslions Branksmere, “We await your word.” - But still the terrible 'silence continues, Staines, as though compelled to it, once more answers him. His speech is rambling; it grows into a. puerile mumbling at last. “He had not deemed it possible that she would have been so foolish as 1.0â€"” He breaks down ignominiously. “ \Vhat. swindler ! You have not a. penny in the world, eh?” “Not many, certainly,” confesses Staines, recklessly. “ A mendicant, I know your sort 1 think. Your price to clear out of this? Name it.” “ Really,” begins Staines, stammering.’ “ It is all so new to me, you see,” he inutters. “ I had not imagined youâ€"erâ€"-’ would have taken it in this way. I should not, of course, like to drag Lady Branks- inere into alife of povâ€"” “ If you mention Lady Branksmere‘s name again,“ says Branksmere, in an un- pleasantly slow sort of way, “ I shall kill you !” “' Oh, it's not so easy to kill a fellow,” says Staines, beginning to blaster a bit. “ Your price?” says Branksmere in an ominous tone. “ But perhaps,” with asneer, “ you look- ed upon me in the light of a delivererâ€"” “ Your price ?” says liranksmere again, breathing heavily." “ You offer me a thousand; but you should take certain things into considera- tion when miking an arrangement of this kind. Silence on the subject of your wife’s character, for example, andâ€"” “ Damnation !” Almost as the word leaves Lord Branks- mere’s lips he has Staines within his grasp, and forcing him upon his knees, and hold- ing him by the collar of his coat, he' drags him along the ground until he has him at Lady Branksmere’s feet. “ Look at him, regard him well,” he cries, in a low, terrible tone. “ How now, my gay Lothario, where are your winning smiles '2 Take heart. man, all is not yetlost. The equivalent for your disappointment shall be yours to-morrow morning, and now, as earnest- for your money you shall haveâ€"â€" this l” He lifts the hunting-whip, and brings it down with savage force upon the shoulders of the kneeling wretch. Like hail the blows deseend. There comes a moment when Bianksmere ceases to hold him, and Staines, crawling nearer to Muriel, seizes her skirt, and in a tone wild With terror implores her protec- ticn. Lady Branksmere sickens a little at this sight, and lifts both her hands to her head. “ Enough, enough i” she cries, faintly. “ Let him go ! Would you take his life ‘3” She drags Branksmere back with all her might. “ Let him go ; for my sake.” “ Ah for your sake ! You love him still then, swindler, seducer that he is ‘2” “ No, no, believe me. I was thinking of you thenâ€"" “ For the first time, eh ‘2” He pushes her from him, and looks back thirstin to where his adversary had fallen, but that worthy had taken advantage of the interruption to crawl away into the darkness like the reptile that he is. “ Come,” says Branksmerc, once more approaching his wife. “ Where '1” him. “ Back to the house.” “ No ! Oh ! no i” With a strong shudder. “ But 1 say yes,” sternly. “ W hat 1” Aâ€" ..____.._â€"_â€" His Hgiijiss: OR, LOVE IS ALW'AYS THE SAME. \ indfl'erently. with a stamp of his foot. ” \Vould you have this indecent farce go further? I still can rely upon your word that you have» told no one but me of your intended flight.” “ Why should you doubt it '2” asks she, coldly. ” There is no emotion in her tone, no indig ation, only a settled indilierence. “ I do not,” says Branksmere. He struggles with himself for a moment, and then goes on. ‘5 Let that rest, the present has to be considered. I can bear it if you can.” “ True you have shown yodrself forbear- inigé” she says, and shivers a little as if with co . .Not another word is uttered between them until they once more reach the library, where she has mechanically followed him. " You are cold,” he says, abruptly, mark- ing the trembling of her frame ; “ come closer to the fire.” He would have unfasten- ed the lace wrappings round ller throat, but she repels him. ‘ “ Don’t touch me,” she exclaims, in a fierce, miserable tone. “ You never would have gone with him, at all events. If he had refused my terms, if he had addressed another word to you, I would have killed him as I would a dog !” ‘.‘ Perhaps you have killed him,” says she, “, ouch vermin die hard. Let no fears for hi Lianar your rest to'night.‘ The remem- brance of that check he is to receive to- . morrow meining will keep him alive.” Her senses are too benumbizd to permit of her feeling any very- great surprise when she meets Mme. von IThirsk. The Hungarian is leaning eagerly out of the open window, as though in expectation of i something. The sound of Miiriel’s advanc- 7 ing footsteps reaching her at last, she turns l abruptly toward her. 1 It would be impossible to avoid noticing the expression of blank dismay that over- spreads her features as her eyes fall on Muriel. To Lady Branksmere it occurs vaguely, that intense and terrible disap- I pointment is what is most plainly written upon her mobile face. ’ “I have disturbed you, imadame,” she says, coldly. . “ Not at all. I was but looking on the . night,” she answers in a somewhat quaver- ing voice that is hardly so carefully English ‘ as usual. “ A gloomy picture.” on the instant it crosses Muriel’s mind that this woman knew something of her intended flight. Even as she ponders hurriedly on these imaginings, a slightrepctition of the cry that had come to her twice before, startles her into more active thought. Looking round ’ instinctively to madame she‘ finds she has disappeared, and that she isistanding alone .I in the anteroom. Crossing hurriedly to the ’ dowager‘s door she knocks. i 3 It is opened by Brooks ;: the pale, still i woman who had struck Muriel so many : times before as being almost bloodless. | “ Her ladysliip is not well to-night, my ; lady. I think it will be wiser not to excite her with your presence.” “ Has Lord Branilsmere given you orders to forbid my entrance here i” . “No, my lady. But believe me it will ’- be wiser not to enterâ€"tonight. It will be better for you to leave this.” “ So I shall when I have seen Lady Branksmere. ” j , “ You can not see her larlyship to-night,” says the woman in a tone of ill-suppressed anger that is curiously mixed with fear. “ Let me pass,” returns ‘Muriel, curtly. For the instant it occurs to her that the woman means to resist her, :buta thin, high, terribly piercing old voice coming to them, checks any further argument. It is the dowager’s. ’ l CH AFTER. XLIV. “Who is there mumbling at that door, - Brooks? Let ’em in ; let ’em in, Isay. Am I to be kept imprisoned here by you, with xno one to give me ever a good-day? Let ’em in, I tell you.” ‘ 5 “It is I, Lady Branksmere.” i “ And who are you, oh ? ch ‘2” demands the old creature, lifting her weird face to \ stare at Muriel, whom she has seen in the i morning. “ You are not the other one, are you ‘3” “ The other?” i “ Yes, yes. The little one in her white : sown. So pretty ; so pretty,” mumbles the gold lady, her head nodding as if gone he- ; yond her control in her excitement. “ Such l a little thing.” ’ Q l “ Hush, madame! You don‘t know what ;you are‘saying,” interposes Brooks, sharp- : ly. “ Sometimes she raves, my lady, and ’ you know I warned you 1she was not well to-night.” ’ l “ You are wrong, Brooks ; wrong. It was ; a white gown ; and there was blood upon it i â€"bright specks of blood. T Eh? Eh? I rec- ! ollcct it all. Eh? Oh ! my bonny' boyâ€"my ; handsome laddie l” Muriel now, having hidden her good-night, she moves toward I the door. As Brooks with her eyes on the l ground holds it open for ‘her, another cry, lvery low and subdued, seems to creep to her through the semi-darkness of the apart- ment. l Muriel lifts her head shjarply. “ There it is again. That was not Lady 1 Branksmere,” she says,1 scrutinizing the woman’s face keenly. But it never moves. “ What is it, my lady ?l’ . “That terrible cry. It sounded like the wail of a hurt animal,” answers Muriel, with a shudder. l “ I heard no cry, my llady,” says the woman, sullenly. “ But they do say this corridor is haunted.” l With a last glance at lier impassive coun- tenance, Muriel steps ftom the room and hurries swiftly out of sight, her head throb- bing, her heart beating wildly. She sinks upon a low stool, and lets her proud head full until it rbsts upon her knees round which her hands are clasped. A for- lorn figure, void of hope. I And now what is left ’er? How can she I endure the daily intercourse with Branks-l l mere -â€"the chance meetings with madame. lThesc last may indeed be avoided, as ma.- brain rushing through the arid plains of past griefs and joys. The dawning of the morn finds her still with her eyes open, staring eagerly for the first faint flecks of light. * § * it I’ The chill soft breeze that heralds the opening day has hardly yet arisen, however and darkness still covers the land. A lire, cloaked and hooded, emerging from the quaint old oaken door on the western side of the Castle, looks nervously round her as she steps into the blackness and tries to pierce it. Moving swiftly and unerring- ly, with light, firm footstep in the direction of the wooded path to her right, she enters the line of elms, and makes for a dense bit of brushwood further on. Arrived at it she pauses, and a low “ cooee” issues from her lips; It is answered presently, and the woman, drawing a tiny lantern from be- neath her cloak, turns it full upon the man who has answered her call. It is Staines, though it is easier to recog- nize him by his clothes than his features. Bruised, swollen, utterly deinoralized in appearance, it is no wonder that the woman on first glancing at him gives Way to an ex- clamation of horror. “ \Vhat is it ; what has happened, then?” cries she, in a low tone. “ I sent for you that I might learn how the affair fell through, but I had not expected this.” Madame points expressivelyat his disfigured face. “ Well, well, well?” she exclaims, impatiently, as he makes her no reply. “ How is it with you ‘2” “ It is all up,” snarls he, hoarscly. “ Nothing now is left but flight.” “ What, you have failed!” hisses she through her teeth. “ With the game in your hands you have lost ! Ach !” she gives way to a free curss or two in her own language, and stamps her foot with irre- pressible passion upon the ground. “ ()li ! to have toiled, and lied, and work- ed forâ€"this l” cries she, wildly. “ How I have labored to place that woman under my feet that I might trample on her, crush her, and nowâ€""to be entirely balked of my revenge, and all through .your imbecility.” “ Hers rather. Had she not told Branks- inere of her determination to leave him, she would have been well out of your path by this time. He would gladly have been rid of her, I believe, but she misunderstood him when she supposed he would make no fight for his honor.” “ \Vell, you have lost your money,’ she. “\Vliy !no. It appears she had made up her mind not to touch a penny of it.” “ Hah 1” She comes nearer to him and examines his features (uhich look rather mixed) in a curious way. “So that was why you did not make a greater stand,” she cries. “When the money failed you, you cried off! You have been false to our bar- gain. Her frame trembles with passmn. She goes nearer to him still, and turns the lamp, with an insolent air, on his bowed figure, and the generally craven appearance that marks him. “ So he beat you!” she cries exullantly. “ Beat you before herâ€" your ideal 2 Achâ€"the brave fellow !” She breaks into a loud, derisive laugh. “ Go home, you she-deVil, before I inur- oer you,” breathes Staines, fiercely. 3 says CHAPTER XLV. “ \Vell !” exclaims Mrs. Billy, in a heart- felt tone. She sinks into a chair and looks round herâ€"the very picture of misery, “ What acruel shock to him, poor fellow. 1 assure you the news has made me feel just ' anyhow. Such a thing to go and happen to him.” “ It is a beastly shame,” says Dick in- dignantly. “ What is? \Vhat’s the matter?” asks Mr. I’aulyn, sauntering into the room at Angelica’s heels, with whom it is quite evi- dent lie is not now on speaking terms. “,Why, haven’t you heard ‘3” asks Mrs. Billy, with tears in her eyes, “about poor Curzon? The failure of that Cornish mine has ruined him.” “ Bless my soul l cries Tommy. ' “ 'What a horrid thought ! \Vhere is be? “7110 told. you? It’s a lie most likely.” “ No such luck,”returns Billy dejectedly. “It’s only too true. Poor old chap ! I had a line from him about an hour ago, and Peter has run down to him to bring him up here. He can’t be left by himself, you know.” “ So that young man has come to grief, hey ?” calls out a gruff old v3ice from the hall outside. “ Never thought much of him myself,” Sir Mutius by this time has entered the room. “ Fools and their money soon part.” Mrs. Billy casts a glance at her husband, after which they both break into untimely mirth. “ Ah 1 you can laugh, can you,’ growls Sir Mutius, “when your chief friend is so sore smitten l Poor comfort he’ll get from you, i’ faith, in spite of all your protesta- tions. Well, I’m glad I never professed af- fection for the young man, I’ve the less trouble now. How about you, Margery? He was a bean of yours. Eh ?” “A fortunate thing now. Margery, as things have turned outâ€"hey? If you had engaged yourself to him you might have had some difficulty in getting out of it, and marriage with a beggar would hardly suit youâ€"eh ?-â€"ha !â€" Oh ! Good-inorrow, Bel- lcw ; good-morrowâ€"l” “ You are right, Sir Mutius, marriage with a beggar means only misery,” says Curzon calmly, who had entered the room during the old man’s speech.’ “ It is quite true, then, Curzon? Is there no chance for you?” asks Angelica, who has run to him, and thrown her arms round his neck to give him a loving kiss. “ None whatever,” bravely, “ in the way you mean. it this morning, and it appears when all is over and done J. shall be left with about £400 a year. Nothing can be done,” says Curzon, turning round again. “ I’ve thought it all out,’an(l in time I shall be reconciled to it. I shall forget it allâ€"that is”â€"-looking :lown â€"â€"-“ nearly all ! And one can work, yon know; and there’s many a fellow hasn’t even £400 a- year.” " “ No, by Jove,” aequiescesi Dick heartily, who hasn’t a penny beyond what his brains will bring him. ‘ “ I dare say to some, therefore, that amount might mean riches,” goes on Curzon , I ' dame for the last week of; two has elected in! pleading his own CMISG bravely. “ though I l dine in her own rooms, stating as her pre- text that tlie dowagcr is failing fast ; to at: tend whom is evidently ' dejected during this fortnight. l No sleep comes in her this night. i n arduous task, as asks she, shrinking from,madame has grown smgularly wan and y _ "Broad awake, she lies, hour after hour, with her eyes \ride in the darkness. and her tired agree with you, Sir i\liitius”-â€"looking at him with a kind smileâ€"“ that it really does mean heggary. But that is the result of one’s training.” “ No, no, don’t mistake me,” says the old baronet.â€" “ There is great scope fora young man’s intellect when backed up with a little _ . __ _.._ ._. __ _ __'__. .__- __.__..__. I went up to my lawyer _ about sense of exampleâ€"a fine opening thereâ€"or to Aus- tralia, or to Canada.” “Or to the deuce !" supplements Billy cheerfully. “ But after ell, perhaps, none of us, however lucrative the post, would hardly care to see him there." “ You are flippant, William,” growls Sir Mutius, frowning. “ What Sir M utius means,” says Curzon boldly, though his lips turn very white, “is, that he would be gladto see me well out ofgthis country because of Margery. “ I am very glad to hear it from your lips too, although I knew it before. My niece, sir, is a young woman of sense. She wil, marry well, if she marries at all." “ That is quite true !” The voice is Mar- gery’s, and a sudden silence falls upon the room as she speaks. She has risen from her seat, and is looking with her beautiful eager eyes full at Bellow. “ I shall do well in- deed if I marry Curzon. Will you have me,” she asks him softl'y. _ “ Noâ€"no,” cries liellew, pressing her back from him. “ I understand the sacri- fice, myâ€" Don’t make it so hard for me Margery; you are all so kind, so tender, and”uow, this from you lâ€"mybest friend no. , “ Ah !*-murmurs' she piteously, in a very agony of distress. “ \Vhyâ€"don’t you know?” she covers her face with her hands. “Take me away from this,” she whispers, faintly. . “ Yes, go. Into the gardenâ€"anywhere ! believe herâ€"believe cVery word she says,” cries Mrs. Billy, pushing them both to- wards the door.” "Let me speak,” cries she distractedly. “ Oh ! Curzon, there is somethingâ€"a small thingâ€"just one thing that I must tell you.” “ That you never really cared for me! Why I knew that, my love,” replies be rather wearily. , “No. Oh ! no.” She stands back from him. and glances at him rather shameiaced- 1y. Then comes a step nearer. “It is onlyâ€"that I do love you so 1” she cries suddenly, the tears running down» her cheeks. “ VVon’t you have me for your wife, Cur- zon ‘?” she whispers treinulously, and then in a moment she is in his embrace, their arms round each other, their eyes look long, as though each would search the other’s heart, and when at last their lips meet, ruin and trouble and possiible poverty are forgotten, and a breath from heaven is theirs. “ How much you have borne from me,” she murmurs softly. “I have thought it all out long ago, you see, but I never was certain of myself until to-day.” “ Until I told you that I had lost every- thing ‘2” “ Yes.” “ Then 1 am glad that mine failed,” says this foolish young man, simply and truly, and from his heart. “That isn’t a very wise thing to say, is it?” murmurs Miss Daryl, thoughtfully. “And yet, do you know, I myself don’t feel sorry.” “Of course, says he ruefully. penury.” “It is opulence,” gayly, “with the love we can throw in.” “How I love you,” he breathes, rather than speaks. She laughs softly, and the dawn of a blush breaks upon her cheek. “I know that,” she says saucily. “ If you don’t trust me, you see I trust you. Bun-of one thing I warn you, Curzon, that I am not married to you yet. There is many a slip, you know.” “Not when one is fairly caught.” “Caught !” stepping daintin behind a rose-bush. “Who said that word? Am I caught, think you ?_ Well, a last chance then ! If you catch me before I reach the yew-tree over there, I’llâ€"” _ Most unfairly she starts away across the velvet sward, straight for the desired liar- bor, giving him har‘lly time to understand her challenge. But love has wings, and be- fore she has reached the aged yew she is in his grasp, and once for all she owns him conqueror. * * -k i * * * we shall have something,” “But £400 a year! It is CHAPTER XLVI. Mme. v -n Thirsk has fallen asleep. A glorious flood of October sunshine stream- ing into the library reveals this fact. She looks anything but her best ; to look that, one must be happy, and grief and she appear to be on friendly terms. Lady Branksmere, who has entered the room in her usual slow, lifeless fashion, so lightly as to fail to disturb so heavy a sleep- er, draws near to her through a sort of fas- cination, and standing over her, stares down upon, and studies the face, so impenetrable as a rule, but now laid bare and unprotected in its unconsciousness. For a long time she gazes upon the wo- man, when something catches her eye, rivets her attention immovany and puts an end to her idle examination. After all it is only a key. key of a. very ordinary type. Lady Branksmere’s lips pale, and her eyes grow bright. Not for one moment does she hesitate. Taking up a pair of scissors lying on the table near, she cuts deliberately the silken cord, and possessing herSclf of the key leaves the room. Not once does her heart fail her. And when she stands before madame’s door and fits the key into the lock, and throws it open, and at last crosses the threshold of the forbidden chambers, no sense of fear, no desire to draw back whilst yet there is time, oppresses her, only'a longing to solve the problem that for so many days has been an insult to her. She throws up her head, and it is with a positive triumph that she steps into the first room and looks around her. Muriel takes it in ata glance, and hastens toward the door opposite to the one she has entered. It leads to a room, small, and A well-sized evidently meant as a mere passage from the . room left beyond, the door of which is par! tially open. Muriel has half crossed this ante-chamber, when a soft musical sound, coming apparently from some place'near at hand, causes her to stand still. The voice of one singing. Yet hardly singing, either. The sound is sweet, and pathetic, and young! Muriel’s heart begins to beat tumultuous- ly. A voice here, a woman’s vowc, and Mme. vou Thirsk asleep down-stairs ! What can this mean '3 She‘ pushes open the half- closed door, and steps lightly into the room. At the far end of it, seated on aprie-dieu, With her lap full of flowars, sits a girlâ€"a pale, slender girl-â€"dressed all in white. Her eyes are lowered, and she is capital. You mightgo to New Zealand, for a curiously absent way with the blossoms _ amongst ’ which her fingers are straying aimlessly, and is singing to them in that strange monotone that had startled Muriel. Now she looks up. She stares straight” at Muriel. and her eyes are a revelation. They are blue, but such an unearthly blue, and what is the cold dull gleam in. them? And are they looking at Muriel, or at some object beyond her? Her fingers still play idly among the flowers, whilst these strange eyes of hers are wandering vaguely. “ Come in, come in,” she murmurs eag- erly, so eagerly that Muriel ponders within herself as to whet-her she and this white, smiling girl may not have met before under different circumstances. That she betrays uo agitation, no awkwardness at thus com- ing face to face with the hostess who has not invited her to her house, is strange in- deed. She is looking un'concernedly at Mur-n iel, with a smile upon her lips. “ More ; have you brought more?” asks the pale girl anxiously, leaning forward, the eternal smile still upon her face. It seems to Muriel that she would be almost more than beautiful but for the nameless something that mars her expression. She waves her hand about the room blithely, and Lady Branksmere following her gesticulations, seesthattheapartment is littorally crowded with flowers, of all kinds and all hues, save one. No crimson, red, or scarlet blossom lies among them. - She brings back her glance again to the girl, and now regarding her more fixedly, perceives that the face is not so young as she had at first imagined. She creeps closer to Muriel and whispers slyly. “ Do you know whose birthday it is ‘2" “ No,” in a frozen tone. “ No? \Vhy it is his ! That is why the flowers are here, the flowers he loves so well.” Muriel stares at her. Branksmere’s passion for flowers had not come beneath her notice. “ To-night, is his festival, and we shall keep it merrily! Listen !” She holds up one forefinger, and advances upon Muriel, as Muriel instinctively recoils with horror from her touch. “ If you wish it, you shall be invited too! I’ll get him to ask you ; don’t let Thekla know. Thekla, little cat I We shall outw1t her,” she cries. “ We?” “ Ay. You and I and he. “What is Branksmere to you '3" cries Muriel sharply. “Do you not even know that? Whyâ€" my husband l” returns the stranger, with a peculiar little jerky wave of her hand. A low cry breaks from Muriel. “To-night, to-night you shall be made known to him 1” goes on the girl lightly. She laughs. To her dying day Lady Branksmere never forgets that laugh. “You will come, you pale thing I” she asks. eagerly, “and we’ll sing to him, you and I. Her voice now is slightly raised, her manner excited. “And we’ll dance, too.” She lifts her feet one by one in a jerky fashion, and sways to and fro in a very ecstasy of delight. “Join inâ€"join in !” she calls to Muriel, and twirls herself round and round with a terrible speed, and laughs again. A Wild laughter this time, that ends in a wilder shriek. (TO BE CONTINUED.) How He Got His Start- “I got my start in a. queer way,” remark- ed a man of evident wealth, as the drum- mer finished his story. “How was that ‘2” enquired the drum- mer. “Twenty-five years ago,” continued the successful Citizen, “1 was travelling with a side-show, and the business went to pieces, leaving me its creditor for wages to the amount of $100. My share of the stock-in- trade was an anaconda about 18 feet long, and as big around as my body. It wasn’t fat though, I think, for air was about the only thing it had to live on for several weeks before the failure. I took the snake and started for St. Louis, where I proposed to exhibit it. “I had him in a box in the baggage-car, and somehow he got out and started through the train on an exploring expedi- tion. Just ashe was crossing the platforms of the second and third coaches the coup- lings came loose, and there’s no telling what would have happened, for we were going up a heavy mountain grade, if the snake hadn’t twisted himself around the brake-rods and railing, and hung .on. It was a big strain on him, but he stuck to it, and I’m a lawyer if he didn’t hold that train together for two miles, and no doubt saved the lives of all the passengers in the rear coaches. They thought so, anyhow, and made me up the purse of $500.” The drummer coughed. . “What became of the anaconda ! he en- quired casually. . _ “He gave me my start,’ replied the nar- rator. “You see, the $500 wasn’ta drop in the bucket; but when we got the snake loose the strain on him had stretched him out 2) feet longer, and I went into St. Louis with a snake that no other exhibitor could hold a candle to, and if you don’t believe me I can show you that snake stud- ed and hung up in my ball at Denver.” The drummer got up with the air of a man who was uneasy. “You ought to sell, it for a telegraph pole,” he said, reproachfully, and then Went out. f___.__â€"â€"â€"â€"â€"-â€"I One Boy’s Ambition. A young man who had been tramping through Europe for several years returned to New York the other day. He went to call upon his married sister and found the babv in arms he had left when he started upoh his journey had grown to be a smart youngster nearly five years old. “ This is your Uncle Dick,” said mamma. “ Now, say you are glad to see him.” “ Wliere’d ’u come from?” blurted out the youngster, staring hard at his new found uncle. “ Oh, I’ve been ’way, ’way across the sea,” replied Uncle Dick genially. “You’re a fine little fellow,” he continued; patting his nephew upon the head. “ What do you want to be when you are grown up -?” “ Well,” thoughtfully replied the boy, kicking a train of toy cars into the corner, “ I think I’d like to be an orphan.” A Valued Playmate. Little Johnny ; “ I’m awful sorry your parents is goin’ to move.” Neighbour’s boy : “ Is you ‘2” Little Johnny : “ Yes. Now whenever playing in I break a window or anything, I can’t tell mamma you did it.” w A". f I ‘ ""‘fi ,4. -' f3 WITH . . . ..’_"“"“