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“That extract. is really very funny." said George, critically. “But don’t look depressed Anne; I am only {going to trouble you with one more dated a year or so later. Listen: "‘I have several times seen the man you sent me; he is a fool and contempt- ible in appearance, and, worst of all shows signs of falling in love with me; but, if you wish it, I will go through the marriage ceremony with him, poor little dupe! You will not marry me yourself, and I. would do more than that to keep near you; indeed, I have no choice, I must keep near you. I went to the Zoological Gardens the oth- er day and saw a rattlesnake fed upon a live rabbit; the poor thing had, ample room to run away in, but could not, it was fascinated and sat still and scream- ed. At last the snake struck it, and I thought that its eyes looked like yours. He took up a second letter, and began to read a marked passage. “ ‘The die is cast, I will come; I can no longer resist your influence; it grows stronger every day and now it makes me a murderess, for the shock will kill him. And yet I am tired of the sameness and smallness of my life; my mind is too big to be cramped in such narrow fetters.’ 27?“: I saw her." i After all,'there are few more com- “Very 800(1- I mean to marry her, fortable places than an inn; not a huge and you must mm it for me.” London hotel, where you are known as Lady Bellamy at quite still, and N0- 48. and have to lock the door at mule no men. vyour call when you come out of it, and “You will now,” continual Gnome, te- ‘doliver up your key to the warder in “and to find _thn_t he hid not; provoked the W1; ha ,3 gld-faghmned gountry _ _L_LI2-L_._ _ ,_ L “011. very well. You saw Angela Careefoot, Philip's daughter, here yest- 01-day?” “Yes. I saw her.” “Very good. I mean to marry her, end you my“. mange ig‘forge.” too great a coward to executé yourâ€" nelf. Out with it; I know you too well to be shocked.” “A favor: You mean that you have some wickedness in_ hand that» you are I am as helpless as that poor animal, and you are much more cruel than the snake. And yet my mind is infinitely stronger than your own in every way. I cannot understand it. \\'hat is the source of your power over me? But I am quite reckless now, so what does it matter! I will do anything that does not put me within reach of the law. you know that my husband is dead. I knew that he would die; he expired with my name upon his lips. The child, too. I hear, died in a fit of croup; the nurse had gone out, and there was no one to look after it. U‘pon my word, I may well be reckless, for there is no forgiveness for such as you and I. As for little Bâ€"-â€", as I think I told you I will lead him on and marry him; i at any rate, I will make his fortune for him; I must devote myself to mething and ambition is more absorbing than anything elseâ€"at least, I shall rise to something great. Good-night; I don’t know which aches the most, my head or my heart.’ “No. no, my dear Anne, that pr0p~ arty is too valuable to be parted with except for a consideration.” Her attempt frustrated. she dropped back into her chair. Here she suddenly sprung forward and snatched at. the letter. But George was too quick for her; he flung- it into the safe by his side, and swung the heavy lid to. Lad-y Bellamy did not move, she sat; trembling a little, her face buried in? her hands. - g “There is more of the same sort," remarked George, coolly. “It affords a. most interesting study of mental ana- tomy, but I have no time to read' more of it. “'0 will pass on to another." “NOW. that extract would be inter- estigg reading to Bellamy. would it not " me; I recognized my evil destiny. How you discovered my fascinations. how you led me on to evil, you best know. I am no coward, I do not wishl to excuse myself, but, sometimes I think that you have much to answer for, George. Hark, I hear my Laby crying, my beautiful boy with his father's eyes. Do you know I believe that the child has grown afraid of me; it beats at me with its tiny hands. I think that my very dog dislikes me now. They know me as I am; Nature tells them; everybody knows me except him. He will come in pre- sently from visiting his sick and poor. and kiss me and call me his sweet: wife, and I shall act the living lie. Oh! God. I cannot hear it much longerâ€""’ lass I was before I married; how they worshiped me in my old home! “Queen Anne” they always called me. Well, they are dead now, and pray God they sleep so sound that they can neither hear nor see. Y‘s, a year and a half "3 Year of happiness, half a year of hell; happiness whilst I did not know you. hell since I saw your face. \Vhat secret spring of wickedness Hid you touch in my heart? I never had a thought of wrong before you came. But when I first set eyes upon your face. I felt some strange change come over CHAPTER XX Lâ€"Continued. " ‘Do you know how old I am toâ€"day? Nineteen and I have been married a. year and a. half. Ah! what a happy “under- ; "Get up, Anne, and don’t talk sen- ;timental rubbish. Not but that," he Iadded, with a. sneer, “it is rather amus- iqg i0 hear you pitying your successful ru'a ." ; “011, George, George!" she cried. in z a broken voice, “ have some little pity; [do not force me to do this unnatural thing» Is your heart a stone, 01‘ are ‘you altogether a devil, that by such 'cruel threats you can drive me into becoming the instrument of my own shame? I know what I. am. none bet- ter; but for whose sake. did [ become so ‘1 Surely George, 1 have some claim on your compassion, if 1 have none on “your love. Think again, George; and, ,if you will not give her Up. ohoosw some other, means to compass this poor girl's i ruin. ' She sprung to her feet, all the soft- ness and entreaty gone from her face, 11 hich was instead now spread with he1 darkest and most vindittive look. ' “I pity her!” she said. “1 hate her. Look 3,011 if I have to do this my only consolation will be in knowing that 11 hat I do will drag 1113 SUCLBSSOI‘ down below my own level. I sufl'm , she shall suffer more; I know you're a fiend; she Shall find a whole hell 11itl1 30u; she lis gurer and better than [have ever been; soon 3ou shall make her worse ;than I have dreamed of b1i1.1g Her '11urit3 shall he dishonmed her lov 1 he- t1a3ed her life reduced to such chaos that she shall cease to believe even in he1 God, and in return for these things I 11ill give herâ€"3011. Your new play- thiflg shall pass through 1113' mill, Geo- Ilge Caresfoot, before ever she comes to ;3ours; and on her I 11111 repay withl in- iterest all that I haVe suffered at your hands; ” and, exhausted with the fierce- ness of. her own inveetive and the viol- ence of conflicting passions. she sunk 3 hack into her chair. 1 .__.__...-.. -.._.....___.__-â€"-â€".._ -â€"._....â€"â€"-â€". -_...._.â€" 1..-- __ E The dog cart that Arthur had hired .to take him aawy belonged to an old- fashioned inn in the parish of Rewth- .am situated about a mile from Hawth- ‘ “You need- not fear, George; I shall Inot: murder her. I do not belixwe in iviolence; it is the lust resource of; fools. .If I did, you would not be alive! now.” ? George laughed a little uneasilyi ‘ “Well, we are good friends again, so ' there is no need to talk of such! things,” :he said. “The campaign will not be by any means an easy one-«there are many obstacles in the way, and Idon’t 'think that my intended has taken a particular fancy to me. You will have to work for your letters, Aime; but first of all take a day or two to think it .over, and make a. plan of the cam- a. ruined woman, and all that you have toiled and schemed for for twenty jyears will be snatched from you in an ginstant. If, on the other hand, you do :not refuse, and 1 cannot believe that :you will, I will on my weddings-day burn these uncomfortable records be- 'fore‘your eyes, or, if you prefer it, you shall burn them yourself.” as “Old Sam," was an ancient hostler who had been in the service of the Bewtham King’s Head, man and boy, for over sixty years, and from him Ar- thur collected a good deal of inaccurate information about the Caresfoot family, including a garbled version of the death of Angela's mother, and Philip's diai-nheritanpe. if see very clearly that I shall not.be able to do so without your help. With ’y'our help the matter will be easy; for no obstacle, except the death of the. girl herself, can prevail against your iron ldetermination and unbounded‘ fertility Tof resource." I -"And if I refuse ?" ' “I must have read those extracts to ‘very little purpose for you to talk about refusing. If you refuse the pangs of conscience will overcome me, and 1 shall feel obliged to place these letters and more eSpecially thus} referring to himself in the hands of your husland. Of course, it will, for my own sake, be unpleasant to me to have to do so, but I can easily travel for a year or 'two till the talk has blown over. For lyou it will be different. Bellamy has no cuse to love you now; judge what he will feel when he knows all the Ttruth. He will scarcely keep the story to himself, and, even were he to do so, it could easily be set about in. other ways, and, in either case, you will be am House, which had just passed into the hands of the Bellamys, and two from Bratbam Abbey, and thither Ar- thur had himself driven. IHis Jehu, known through all the country round AAA. 1 m “Bravo, Anne! quite in your old style. I dare say that the young lady will require a. little molding, and she could_not by in better hands; but mind Lady Ecllamy. as she heard these words. rose from her chair and [lung herself on the ground before him clasp- lng his knees with her hands. She rose and went without another word; but all necessity for setting about her shameful task was soon post- poned by news that reached her the next morning, to the effect that Geo- rge Caresfoot was seriously ill. I never was so much in earnest, in 11157 life before» 1 am in love with her, 1 tell you; as much in love as though‘ I had known her for years. What hap- pened to you with reference to me has happened to me with reference to her, or something very like it, and marry her I must and will.” no tricksâ€"J am not going t6 be cheat- edgut of my bride." I 1 never was so muc life before; 1 am i tell you; as much i: had known her for .â€"“‘You have only' seen this girl once; 33 1t possible that you are in liflfDCSt Ingmhmg to marry her: 2”_ i ‘I ‘ "D0 3071. think {but lshould g0 Ehrough this scene by way of ajoke'? gying that girl _at yy'hatgvef CHAPTER XXII. THE DURHAM CHRONICLE. December 23. 1897. ,, and By ten o'clock that morning. Arthur his dog, and his portmanteau. had all arrived together in front of the Abbey House. Before his feet had touched the moss-grown gravel. the hall-door was flung open. and Angela appeared to welcome him. looking, as old Sam the hostler forcibly put it afterward to his helper. “just like a hangel with the wings off.” Jakes. too, emerged from the recesses of the garden. and asked Angela. in a tone of aggrieved sarcasm. as he edged his way suspi- ciously past Aleck. why the gentleman had not brought the “rampingest lion from the Zoologic Gardens" with him at once? Having thus expressed his feelings on the subject of bull-dogs. he shouldered the portmanteau. and made his way with it up-stairs. 'Arthur fol- lowed him up the wide oak stairs. ev- ery one of which was squared out of a single IQ. stopping for _a while on And on many an every-day, and in many another place. the book of his life would reopen at this well-conned page. and he would see the dim light in the faint. flushed sky, and hear the song of the thrush swelling upward strong and sweet. and rememler his prayer and the peace that fell upon his soul. Thinking thus, Arthur made his way to bed. The excitement of the day had wearied him, and for a while he slept soundly, but, as the fatigue of the body wore off, the actLvity of his mind as- serted itself, and he began to dream vague, happy dreams of Angela, that by degrees took shape and form, ti.ll they stood out clear before the vision of his mind. He dreamed that he and Angela were journeying, two such hap- py travelers, through the green fields in summer, till by and by they came to the dark entrance of a wood, into which they plunged, fearing nothing. Thicker grew the overshadowing branches, and darker grew the path, and now they journeyed Joverwise, with their arms around each other. “But, as they passed along they came to a place where the path forked, and here he stooiied to kiss her. Already he could feel the thrill of her embrace, when she was swept from him by an un- seen force and carried down the path before them. leaving him rooted where he was. But still he could trace her progress as she went, wringing her hands in sorrow; and presently he saw the form of Lady Bellamy. robed as an ligyptian SONIOI‘PSS. and holding a letter in her hand. which she offered to Angela. whiSperieng in her car. She too}; it. and then in a second the let- ter turned to a great snake, with George's head. and threw its units around her and struck at her with its fangs. Next the darkness, of night rushed down upon the scene. and out of the darkness came wild cries and mocking laughter and the choking soun'is of death» 'And his senses left When sight and sense came back. he. dreamed that he was still walking down a wooded lane, but the foliage of the overhanging trams was of a rich- er green. The air was sweet with the summaté. lAt least, so thought Arthur, as he sat in the private parlor smoking, his pipe and reflecting on the curious vicissi- tudes of existence. Now, here he was, with all the hopes and interests of his life utterly changed in a single space of six-and-twenty hours. .“thy, six- and-twenty houzs ago, he had never met his respected guardian. nor Sir John and Lady Bellamy, nor Philip and his daughter. He could hardly believe that it “as only that morning that he had first seen Angela. It seemed weeks ago. and, if time could have been measured on a new principle, by events and not by minutes, it would have have been weeks. The wheel of life”. he thought revolves with a strange ir- regularity. For months and years it turns slowly and steadily under the even pressure of monotonous events. But. on some unexpected day, a tide comes rushing down the stream of beâ€" ing. and spins it round at speed; and then tears onward to the ocean called the Past, leaving its plaything to creek and turn to turn and creak, or wrecked perhaps and useless. .um . tu‘guide, to guard, and to Eon? glaring as] “Well. Heigham. so you have made up your mind to brave these barbar- ous wilds, have you? I am delighted to see you; but I must warn you that, be- yond a pipe and a glass of grog in the evening. 1 have not much time to put at your disposal. “'e are rather a curious household. I don't know whe- ther Angela. has told you, but for one thing we do not take our meals to- gether, so you willhave to make your choice between the diningâ€"room and the nursery, for my daughter is not out of the nursery yet." and he gave a little laugh. “0n the whole. perhaps you had better be relegated to the nursery; it will, at any rate. be more amusing to you than the society of a morose old fellow like myself. And. resides. I am very irregular in my hab- its. Angela. you are staring at me again; Ishoul be so very much obliged if you' would look the other way. 1 only hope Heigham. that old Pigott won't talk your head off; she has got a dreadful tongue. Well. don't let me ; keep you any longer; it is a lovely day ‘ for the time of the year. Try to amuse yourself somehow. and I hope for your sake that Angela will not occupy her- self Awith‘ you u_lh_e doe; with me. by Jakes did not submit to the indigni- ties of unbunkling purtmanteaus and having his legs sniffed at by bullâ€"dogs for nothing. Not by any means pleas- ed by suggestions so unpleasant. Ar- thur took his way down-stairs deter- mined to renew the coffin-stool ques- tion with his hast. He found Angela waiting for him in the hall, and mak- ing friends with Aleck. Arthur assent-ed and she led the way into the study where Philip always sat. the same room in which his father had died. He was sitting at a writ. ting-table as usual, at work on farm accounts. Rising he greeted Arthur civilly, taking, however. no notice of his daughter, although he had not seen her since the previous day. “Can’t do so; they be part of the furniture. they lie â€"stand here all hanâ€" (15' for the next one tea, may be you;” and he vanished with a sardonic grin. “Will you come in and see. my father for a moment before we go out?" “Don’t you think," insinuated Ar- thur gently ‘that you had better take them a“ 33'?" "Brought to put the last as slept in that. 'ere bed on. and stood ever smve." he re? This spacious hut sumexvhat gloomy apartment. was hung round with por- traits of the Caresfoots of past ages. many of which bore a marked resem- blance to Philip, but amongst whom he looked in vain for one in the slight- est degree like Angela, whose handi- work he recognized in two large bowls of flowers placed upon the dark oak dressing-table. Just as Jakes had finished unbuck- ling his portmanteau. a task that he. had undertaken with some groaning. and was degrarting in haste. lest he should be asked tn do somethEng else. Arthur caught sight of the trestles. “Coffin-stools." was the abrupt reâ€" ply. “Coffin-tstcnlsi” ejacuiated Arthur. feeling that it was unmeasant to have little details connected with une's lat- ter end brought Lhus abruptly into no- tice. “What. the deuce are they doing His room was the largest upon the first landing, and the same in which Angela's mother had died. It had nev- er been used from that hour to this. and, indeed, in a little recess or open spate between a cupboard and the wall. there still stood tWo trestles, draped with rotten l;~lam{ cloths that had or- iginally been brought there to rest her (-offin on. and which Angela had over- looked in getting the rcozn ready. “What aré those?" he asked cheerâ€" fully. that hung so that it looked through the large window facing it. right across the park and over the whole stretch of the Abbey lamb and to wonder at the deep-graved inscription of “Devil Caresz‘fout,” set so conspicuously Le- heath. Ayer’s Cherry Pectorai. ms w Cherry Pectoral would include the cure of every form of disease which affects the throat and lungs. Asthma, Group, Bronchitis, Whooping Cough and other similar complaints h a. v e (w h en 0 t h e r medicines failed) yieided to MERITS OF THE .'though she wished to'éx'mf- braina u_n_1_ backbone. Good- sight. She laughed as she answered; "The only witchery tint I use in kindnele.” “This is Jack. you see: I expect that Jill is busy sitting on her eggs. Fly away Jack and look after your wife." She clapped her hands, and the great bird. giving a reproachiul‘ crouk. Spread his wings anrl was gone. “You have a strange power over an- imals to make those birds so fond of “Do you think so? It is only because I have. living as I do quite alone. had time to study all their ways, and make friends of them. Do you see thut thrush there? I know him well; 1 fed him during the frost last winter. It you will stand back with the dog. you Arthur hid himself behind a. thick bush and watched. Angelo. whistled again. but in another note. with a curious result. Not only the thrush in question. but quite a. dozen other birds of different sorts and sizes. came flying round her. ' ° feet. and one. a little robin. uctuelly _â€" â€"â€"â€"â€" ‘râ€"vâ€"‘ru “I don't know; 1 have not seen very much of them for the last week or two. They have made a nest in one of the big trees at the back of the house. and I dare say that they are there, or perhaps they are hunting for their foodâ€"they always feed them- .selves. But I will soon tell you," and she whistled in a soft. but penetrat- ing note. Next minute there was a swoop of wings. and the largest raven, after hovering over her for a. minute. lit up- on her shoulder. and rubbed his black heagi_ against her face. "Where are your ravens 10-day? askgd_ Arthur presently. U _ â€" c 'â€"â€"- â€"â€"v all of a sudden his father-my grand- father. you knowâ€"whose picture is on the stairs, died. and within a day or two my mother died. too, that was when I was born. After that he broke down. and became what he is now. For. twenty years he has lived as he does now, pouring all day over kooks of ao- counts, and very rareiy seeing anyâ€" body. for he does all his business by letter, or nearly all of it, and he has no friends. There was Some story about his being engaged to a tady who lived at Rewtham when he married my mother, which I dare say you have heard; but I don't know much about it. But Mr. Heigham"â€"andhere she drapped her voiceâ€""there is one thing that I must warn you of ; my father has strange fancies at times. He is dreadfully superstitious. and thinks that he has communications with be- ings from another world. I believe that it is all nonsense. but I tell you so that you may not be surprised at anything he says or does. He is not a happy man. Mr. Iieigham." “Apparently not. 1 cannot imagine any one being happy who is supersti- tious; it is the most dreadful bon- dage in the world." “Don't Ire angry with me. or I shall be miserable. I really was not laugh- ing at you; only, it you knew what wonderful eyes you have got. you would not ask such ridiculous ques- tions about them. Your father must he a strange man to get such ideas. I am sure I should be delighted if you would look at me all day long. But tell me something more about your father; he interests me very much.” Angela felt the tell-tale blood rise to her face as be praised her eyes, and hit her lips with vexation, it seemed to her that she had suddenly caught an epidemic of blushing. “I cannot tell you very much about my father, because I do not know much; his life is. to a great extent. assoon as they were fairly outside the dqqr.’ ‘atput your staring fit him": an “Mean!" ahsv‘s;éredv_b09fVAi188~1â€"ll. who looked as though she were gains to gry. “_I wish I_ could tell _you; all 1 He scrutinized their depths very 910591)? so closely indeed. that pre- sently she turned them away agent with a. blush. “Well." she said. “I am sure youheve lodged long enough. Are they differ- Ent '0 f'Very different." replied the oracle. “"Qi enthusiasm. “Well. theyâ€"the ' are 131' or." “Is that all?" 3 3 :And they are deeper." Emperfthnt is nothing. I want know is that he cannot bear 11.10. to look at him-he is always complaining of it. That is why we do not take 9111‘ meals togetherâ€"ac least. I to- heve it is. He detests my being neu’ hun. I am sure I don't know why; It makes me very unhappy.- I Clam“? 5‘38 anything different in my eyes from anybody else's. can you?" and she tug-n- ed them, swimming as they were With tears of mortification. full upon Al'- thur. 7‘tlme," She ”id. at more cumous things 'that y our