time the red flag should be hung out and the auctioneer's hammer resound through the deserted home.

The fashionable crowd came, mixed with a multitude of speculating merchants. Cold, curious eyes inspected the appointments of parlor, bedroom, and boudoir; carping comments were made; men and women, especially women, smiled, sneered, and then turned business-like to bid for bronzes, bric a brac, or whatever they liked. What mattered it to them if the once great millionare, Maclean, had stepped down and out, out of the world, and his frivolous, feeble wife so soon followed!

She was always such an arrogant, stuck-up sort of a woman; and as to the girl, she was pretty enough, but so ridiculously spoiled."

However it may have become a by-word that the heathen Chinee was peculiar, Ah Sin was not more so than women are in criticising and commenting on their friends. They are the cannibals of society, and devour each others' reputations with as much savage gout as the Fiji Islanders would a choice collection of white men.

So New York went on in its wonderful way, its strong surging current of life setting steadily and forever onward, scarcely more than a ripple moving it when the Macieans were wrecked and went down.

If Lily had been dead, she could not have been more utterly ignored and forgotten, and by the selfsame people who had once offered their adula tion and sycophantic flattery to the society bele, and moreover the prospective heiress of a fortune fabulously magnified into mythical millions.

Across the sea, Albert Arnet was writing, working, waiting, hoping, and for a while unconscious of the change and sorrow that had come to Lily Maclean. He wrote a long letter to her, and then ventured another. No answer came came to either, and his strong heart grew very heavy as days and weeks passed, while hope grew faint and dim. The solution of his disappointment and perplexity came at last in a letter from his friend, Harry Harman; that, after following an erratic course, and being much delayed, finally found him at Frankfort sûr Meine.

After announcing his intended marriage to Miss Stephens, the Helen of classic contour noted at the ball, he proceeded to state in somewhat slangy masculine fashion the following:

"By the way, Bertie, I've bad news to tell about old Maclean, our bewitching Lily's paternal. The old fellow was an awful swell; but he's gone up,' not to heaven, my dear fellow, I don't think his contemplations turned that way; but up the spout,' dead broke of course. They got him cornered in stocks; he was in too deep, and wasn't sharp enough to get out; stuck to the 'bulls' and got clawed by the bears,' collapsed, caved in, and finally quit this sublunary terre. By Jove! his paper didn't pay ten cents on the dollar. I felt really shocked, a most unusual sensation for me, and was half resolved to throw myself and purse, bonds and bank stock into the bargain, at our lovely Lily's little feet. our lovely Lily's little feet. I was nearly spooney enough for the sacrifice to her fascinations and sympathy, but recovered and concluded the spec' wouldn't pay.

"Helen holds me now in bonds; but they will bring gold interest, if she is, it must be confessed, of the cucumber style-cool. But she's handsome enough in her way to look well at the head of one's table and general ménage. Of course I made a point of calling and leaving my card for the Macleans; but at such times, you know, its not the correct thing for people to receive.

"About two weeks afterwards I was absolutely shocked out of an excellent appetite for one of our best club breakfasts, by seeing announced in the Herald's death list, the exit of Maclean mère. It was chaos, confusion, universal crash. I thought myself threatened with concussion of the brain; and the next news was that a lot of country cousins had come to the fore, gobbled poor, dear little Lily up, and carried her off to some terra incog nita impossible to discover, as nothing more has been seen or heard of her since. Sic transit gloria mundi!

"Your European letters and other articles are having a splendid run; they take tremendously. Everybody reads and admires them; they think you a second Junius. I am acquiring quite a literary taste, and enjoy them hugely; but shall be glad to see you back again before I'm Benedick, the married man.' Now, by-by, my dear Bert, and write soon to Yours, HARRY H." After reading this letter, Arnet's first impulse was to return at once to America, trace Lily to her new home, and win her, if he could, to come back with him, his wife. But there were on the other hand strong suggestions of sober reason that

he could not overlook or set aside simply for a matter of feeling; the strong, wild impulse, the mad yearning of passionate love. Heart and head struggled for the mastery, and fought a bitter battle against each other; but reason conquered. His literary engagements were imperative; business contracts must be complied with. Fame and fortune for the future hung in the balance. It might be "filthy lucre," but it was the great controlling power that moved the world; and he was not rich enough yet to put aside the golden promise of the present. He wanted a fitting shrine for the wife he hoped to win; a choice casket for his jewel. So he put self resolutely aside, determined to do his duty first; finish the work before him, and then seek the woman he loved for his reward.

So the matter was mentally adjusted, the struggle ended, and Arnet set himself sternly to his work, pursuing his purpose with indomitable energy and determination.

Months passed by; everywhere he wandered, and of everything he wrote; pouring on paper the wealth of his brain with most wonderful versa. tility, sending forth descriptive sketches, spicy criticisms, notes of events, poems, or romantic legends; all rich, racy, and original, which the reading world approved and applauded, patronized and paid for.

And the author was courted and caressed, sought in select circles, beamed upon by the sunshine of society's smiles, while fame wreathed his brow, and fortune brought her fickle favors to lavish on the favorite of the hour, as his bank account increased steadily, and was successfully invested.

So a year had gone by, his engagement was drawing to a close, and the arrangements for his return already made. He was eager to go, fretting at delay like a fiery steed at the restraining curb; longing to carry his gold and laurels to lay them at Lily's feet.

He would find her, that he never doubted, if he had to go to the end of the earth.

The cup of joy seemed so near his lips he was thirsting to quaff its intoxicating nectar; but how often human hopes and expectations fail!

girl, Lily Maclean; and the fact is, I have an uncomfortable way of thinking of her too much myself. Entre nous I was further gone there than I thought. She might have made a better man of me, but quien sabe? Helen don't bother me, but she is rather insipid. I wouldn't object to hysterics for excitement and variety sometimes, though we don't interfere with each other, and get along pretty much like every one else in Gotham. You were always impenetrable, Bertie, but I thought you were struck more than you showed with Lily's distracting fascinations. Poor dear child, she was too tender to be so hardly dealt with by fate. After you had worked off this tour I fancied you would come back to look for her. But she was so good and lovely the angels wanted her; and Charlie Vinton told me yesterday that when he was coming down from the Lakes the train was delayed at some village, where he picked up a local paper; and among its items, just think of it, Bertie, was the death of our beautiful Lily.

"It was her name in full, Charlie said, no mistaking it, but he hadn't time to make further inquiries before they got off.

"Did you ever know anything so sad as the fate of that family! I've got the blues terribly just thinking it over. It would be no good trying to find out anything more of poor little Lily's fate when she is dead.

"I must stop this scribbling, for my tandem team is waiting at the door-two new bays that cost a rousing round sum.

"The English drag you selected for me is just the nobbiest thing out. I shall try to drive off the blues, for those horses pull like steam engines, and take an expert to handle the lines. "Come home soon; I want to see you awfully. Addios, HARMAN."

CHAPTER VII.

"GOD pity him, and God pity us all,

Who vainly the dreams of youth recall, For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these-it might have been." Holding the fatal letter in his hand, Arnet sat

reading his own death warrant. He was struck

physical pain; paralyzed by a blow dealt in the

had been writing, but sat there still and stony, with clenched hands and set teeth, his face blanched to the pallor of death. The only precious hope his life had ever held was blasted, when the radiant dream seemed nearing the threshold of reality. His love had been sudden and passionate its end was quick and violent.

the cup was empty. There was but one alternative for him now: it was work, or go mad,

So he renewed his engagements, and set off on a more extended tour of travel. Into the burning heart of Africa he went with Stanley, seeking Liv ingstone, and striving to satisfy his illimitable unrest. Wandering amid savage tribes, exploring

He fairly cursed himself for the mercenary motives that had prompted his fatal delay. If he had only gone back at once and sought her out, found her, indeed, she might not have died, she might have been! Oh, what indescribable, illimitable agonies are comprehended in the possibilities those little words, "might have been," contain. There had been disappointments, sorrows, struggles in his life, fierce wrongs and bitter hatred, but only one love. His heart had fixed itself upon this girl with all the strong passion, all tlie ardent avarice of affection.

And now that Death had inexorably divided them, the iron entered into his soul; its burning agony scorched his brain, blighting, blasting every thought and feeling. And while he sat there, still and fixed in his despair, the evening sun gloriously bright, sending its beams through a window near, shone down in cruel mockery upon his bowed head, as it shines alike upon the happy and the unhappy, the just and the unjust.

At last the tension of his strained nerves gave way, and rising from his seat he walked the floor wildly a moment, and then threw himself upon a lounge with one fierce cry to God, which at such times will burst from profanest lips, even when cursing in their hearts the power that has snatched away the treasure. Burning tears, that seemed wrung like the life blood from his heart, forced themselves from his eyes, and saved him at last from the menacing madness of that horrible hour.

Yet even while the sable wings of the grim raven Despair were fluttering over his head, and a tempting voice told him life was a burden, end it at once-what was there to live for, work for now-he roused himself resolutely; for only cowards are suicides, and he was brave. Death had no terrors; it was living his life out he shrunk from. Looking down the dim vista of the future, how blank and barren it seemed! The charm was gone, the champagne had ceased to sparkle,

heeding nothing, only to forget. Back again to America he came at last, after two years had passed, to recruit his somewhat shattered health, to receive an ovation from the public, and warm greetings from his friends.

They thought him changed, they called him cy. nical and unsocial; women said cold, for to them he was an enigma; but neither his friends, nor the world, nor the women knew the why or wherefore, though he was the more admired because ne was not understood. Being incomprehensible and mysterious always fascinates. How many of us carry graves in our hearts, of which the external tablet of flesh bears no record, except perhaps a few deepened lines, a shade, a lock, a tone, that might tell the psychologist their story.

He was weary of wandering, for he had left no world-wonder unexplored, no gem of art or Nature unseen; but restless as the waves, the return to his native land brought no "kind nepenthe" to his soul; for home he had none.

The associations with New York City were painful and unpleasant to him, stirring again the strong sorrow he was striving to suppress. He had spent his happiest days there; but he had loved and he had lost.

It was now summer time, and the city was going to the country; society was out of town. Every one was seeking sylvan shades and rural retreats to rest, except the crowds that thronged the watering places and other fashionable resorts.

Arnet went off to the Adirondacks hunting, fishing, exploring, with no company but his guide, sometimes walking from one point to another, where the country permitted. In the grandeur and beauty of the scenery surrounding him he experienced something more nearly akin to pleasure than he had for a long time felt.

Into the deep recesses of the primeval forest he penetrated; frowning cliffs, dark caverns, savage gorges did not stay his daring steps until he wearied of their rugged beauty. Then coming back to the more inhabited portion of the country, he

followed the irregular roads, or at times turned from them to linger over a frugal lunch carried in his pocket or satchel, beside some cool mountain brook, lovely lakelet, or graceful waterfall. At night he found shelter in the woodman's cabin, or the simple farmhouse. With no encumbrance but his satchel, sketch book, and geologist's chisel, this wild, free life in the woods well suited him. One day he had been clambering among rocky boulders visiting one of those beautiful spots made sacred by romantic legend, and turned towards the clear country again as the afternoon came on, feeling somewhat fatigued.

It so chanced that he had idly followed the course of a pretty stream, winding its way through a lovely forest glade, its mossy banks gemmed with bright flowers.

At the cottage where he had spent the previous night, he had been told that this same little stream led out towards a point he was seeking; and as the shadows lengthened, he quickened his steps, noting that the forest grew more open, indicating the approach to a clearing.

Suddenly he heard the report of a gun not far distant, then the baying of a dog, and through the trees his eyes caught the gleam of something white fitfully gleaming amid the lights and shadows of the forest. With vague curiosity to see what the white object could be, he quietly approached, keeping the huge trunks of the trees between himself and the person, or creature, whatever it might be, so as to be himself unseen while making obser

vations.

Having drawn quite near, he stopped behind a great oak to see what the vision might prove that seemed spiritlike in this wild woodland haunt, so still and secluded. From beneath a mossy bank, amid the gnarled roots of a superb tree, gurgled a sparkling stream, sending its wavelets dancing down to mingle with the stronger tide of the neighboring stream.

Beside this delicious spring, on a low, rustic seat of woven boughs and vines was the white figure that had looked so like a wreath in the distance-a female form, slight, graceful, and so still it seemed the very incarnation of repose. All about her was at rest but the bounding, babbling brook.

Albeit women were not generally interesting to him, the scene, the surroundings made Arnet watch this one with intense interest. Her face VOL. XIV.-9

was turned from him, and shaded by the widebrimmed sun hat, so it was impossible to see the features, while she leaned against the tree in an attitude of rest.

The hair, half disheveled, hung in loose curls over her shoulders, and catching the stray sunbeams that shimmered down through the dusky foliage tangled them in the bright tresses, till they looked like burnished gold; and altogether the statuesque beauty of the figure in its picturesque repose, its graceful immobility, was an artistic study; he stood there abstractedly admiring. And when there was a slight motion, Arnet actually started.

She stooped, dipping one slender white hand into the spring,,and scattering a shower of crystal drops upon a heap of ferns and wild flowers that had been carelessly tossed on the turf at her feet. Then the cool, wet, white fingers were pressed to her brow.

He leaned further forward to see better, as a bird amid the branches warbled a wild, sweet song and flew away. Springing quickly to her feet, the rapid motion made the hat fall back from her head, as she turned and looked up to watch the bird's swift flight away into the blue ether.

Had a ghost crossed his path, that his sunbrowned face should blanch to such deathly pallor! that with one fierce bound his heart should seem to stop its beating! And in another instant the hot blood had flushed his dark cheek, and gone leaping madly through the veins, with all of that inexpressible delirium that is part rapture, part pain.

Was it not some dazzling vision, incarnate of the sunbeams and the summer breeze, that was binding him with i's radiance? or had a hand from heaven wrought the strange, sweet miracle, and brought back again the face he had thought gone from him forever? '

Catching his breath in short, strong gasps, he stood transfixed, striving to realize he was not asleep, not dreaming, not deceived, nor enthralled by some mystic enc antment. No; he felt it was reality. And then, with iron will mastering his wild emotions, he moved from behind the tree, and walked slowly, steadily towards her.

Startled by this sudden presence in the sylvan solitude where she thought herself alone, there was a slight tremulous motion for a moment, as if

she were inclined to turn and fly. There was something unearthly in the marble beauty of her face, only the deep-blue eyes burning themselves black in their intense look of sudden, startled, absolutely bewildered recognition. And so for one supreme moment she met his gaze, vivid, eloquent, intense. Then as he drew nearer she stretched out her hands with mute, impetuous joy, and with passionate eagerness they were caught and held within his close, warm clasp.

There are moments that come sometimes in our lives when the world seems strangely like heaven; for we are told that "Heaven is love."

Upon the rustic seat they rested together until all had been explained, while the birds in the branches trilled riotous songs of joy, and the grand symphony of Nature around them whispered its wild harmony. At their feet the ferns and wild flowers nodded coyly, and the leaves, like those of Dodona, were "speaking sweet oracles."

The shadow had passed, sorrow was gone, a great joy had come, and in his glad, brave face

there was a wonderful brightness as he spoke softly and tenderly:

"How many lives have been made miserable by mistakes! My letters did not reach you after your change of residence. I heard nothing from you. So we have both suffered."

"And my cousin's death was mistaken for mine, as our names were alike. Uncle named her for my mother. It was natural your friend should

think it was me."

"And no wonder I could not find you," he said, looking long and lovingly down into the clear depths of her beautiful eyes; and clasping the slight form more closely and fondly to his heart, he whispered, eagerly, "But Lily, darling, you are living yet, thank God! and you will be my precious wife?"

Her gaze met the passionate appeal of his eyes with a look so softly, surely steadfast in its love and trust, so purely perfect in its joy, that the answer was given. And in the rapture of happiness, her face was a fairer picture than Raphael ever painted, a sweeter book than poet ever dreamed. And so those two were found faithful.

X.

THE Wabash River, the classic stream of Indiana, as it runs through the suburbs of Logansport, forms a modest little island, the home of the Hon. Horace P. Biddle, a judge of consider able repute, and an author, in prose and verse, of no little distinction. This island has been Mr. Biddle's home for so many years that it is known, wherever it is known, as Biddle's Island. The residence itself, a roomy, old-fashioned building, crowning the tallest ridge of the island, is one vast library, filled with choice books, rare and antique, together with many curious documents out of reach of the masses. Its occupant has been fortunate in having ample leisure for study. He has especially cultivated his literary taste. If his poetry, of which there are several volumes extant, has any one particular fault, it is that it is too exact and mechanical in its conformity to

poetic measure.

Still he has written much that should and doubtless will live.

Although acquainted with our current literature, the judge is neverthless liable to be imposed upon, as many famous literary lights before him have been. Not long ago a friend addressed to him an appreciative letter, in the delicate handwriting of a lady, styling himself an admirer, and submitting some verses, purporting to be original, for his criticism. To this letter he signed the name of a lady acquaintance in Florida. The judge was very much pleased with the verses, and sent them to a home paper the next day for publication, ac companying them with the following note:

"To the Editor of the Pharos:- inclose you some verses sent me in MS. by a lady from Florida. I have no express permission to have them published, nor am I forbidden to do so; but they are so much superior to the ordinary run of poetry