Weekly Mail

AN AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE'S EXPE- RIENCE WITH RATTLESNAKES. A correspondent of the 2\tlo York Sun says:— Mrs. William Jacobs, of Sadlersville, Warren County, where she recently went from Reseca, writes to her sister that on the morning of the 15th of July she went down to the cellar to get some butter for breakfast. A rattlesnake lay coiled on the lid of the butter-tub and instantly sounded its alarm and raised its head for fight. Mrs. Jacobs killed the snake with a mop-handle. It was a large black rattlesnake, with six rattles. After breakfast the same morning Mrs. Jacobs went to the wood-pile to get some chips. On the axe blade, bisking in the suo, lay another rattlesnake, which gave every indication that it intended to remain where it was. Mrs. Jacobs smashed its head with a stick of wood. This one was a yellow rattler, with eight rattles. On Friday morning the farmer's wife went down the cellar again for butter. This time she was com- pelled to bring the mop-handle into play again to despatch another rattlesnake. This was a black one, and had eleven rattles. Mrs. Jacobs told her husband that he would have to get the butter from the cellar hereafter. On Saturday morning he went down to the cellar. On the floor, near the butter-tub, lay a third rattlesnake, which was also despatched with a mop-handle. This one had nine rattles. On Saturday afternoon Mrs. Jacobs went out huckleberrying. She came back at three o'clock in the afternoon with ten quarts of huckle- berries, two large rattlesnakes, and a copperhead, or pilot, a deadly serpent, which she had killed in the berry patch.

Tusss. — Msxxiex'# PATXST Svcrxtni«K.— ettet springs no huri paàs. Pansj»»l»t, with tccti Mut.iaia, t,-fr"e,.i¡,C¡'¡.l'IÚat. Bhft.lriah'L PAKKT AND ROCKE'S Welsh Yams are the best. 7985c SKNT FREE FOR THREE STAMPS, TO PAY POSTAGE. —"IFSHVOUS DEBILITY its Causes and Cure; Marriage and its Impediments." Just out. A new Medical Work byDr. E. Haughton and J. Nelson, containing chapters on Health, its restoration, loss of vigour. &c. also over 100 valuable prescriptions for self-treatment of various complaints. Should be read by all who value health, strength, and manhood, and wish to attain a happy old tige.-Address Mr. J. Nelson, Medical Hall, Man- chester. 8695c

CURRENT AGRICULTURAL I TOPICS. BY AGRICOLA" or THE FIELD."] Ju 1886, proved a most dripping month, j favourable for turnips and grass, bad for hay- making, and affecting the grain crops differently in some soils to others, yet, on the whole, nOt adversely, although the ripening of grain and the I adv.;nt. of harvest have been retarded, more especially owing to the low temperature which prevailed in the last week of the month. There can bo no doubt, however, that we owe the salva- tion of the turnip crop of this year to the copious rainfalls which were ushered in with the week commencing on the 11th of July, and which have continued periodically ever since. These rains, on the whole, have been gentle, even when most copious, without being attended by the evils usually resulting when wet weather is experienced in July. Perhaps it may be said that few corn crops were sufficiently heavy to be laid, but even where the highest farming prevails and they are heaviest they have not been battered or twisted about much by fierce winds, nor have there been serious complaints as yet of wheat suffering from rust or mildew- Where deficiencies in the yield are anticipated the circumstance is referable to quite another cause— the thinness of plant on the ground, and its weak- ness of development owing to the prolonged winter and coldness of spring. Barley, on the whole, is expected to prove a better yielding crop than wheat, and many experienced judges set it down as an over-average ODe. Still, both are as variable as they well can be, which result is referable both to differences in soils and manage- ment. On thin stapled, poor soils the straw is very short, and it is on many of these that wheat stands thinnest on the ground. As a rule, not only do the best lands show the heaviest crops this year, but high farming has made its mark in a greater degree than is often manifested. The corn crops are not fully ripened, much less secured yet, and the weather of the next fortnight may make a great deal of diffe- rence in everybody's opinion respecting them. All that appears certain just now is that they are scarcely likely to come up to the standard of last year. We have excellent prospects for an abundant root crop, however, and, such being the case, it seems very strange that the prices of store sheep should not be more generally and fully enhanced thereby. At none of the July fairs was there much animation in the trade, and, although there were some few indications of an advance in rates in some, ti^e movement proved insufficient to form a ground work for trustworthy speculation as to the future. Invariably, since the recollection of the oldest inhabitant, the rates of store sheep have been very much regulated by good or bad keep prospects. Last autumn, in consequence of the very grave deficiency in the turnip crop, sheep of all kinds, fat as well as lean, became a drug in the market, owing to everybody wanting to sell and very few being desirous to buy. They recovered their lost values to some extent after the winter, the chief factor in the account for the change being mutton scarcity, but an anomaly in the development of the trade up to now is certainly the little effect abundance of keep has had on the demand for sheep. Shortness of money in farmers' hands must be the counteracting influence preventing a great uprise in rates from taking place, and the only matter of interest just now to form the crucial inquiry is, Will this heavy dead weight be sufficient to keep down prices as the autumn advances ? I certainly think it will not, because reports on every hand respecting the turnip crop are so very good. In Scotland, notwithstanding their inability to put in swedes to any great extent in May, a bigger turnip crop is anticipated than has been experienced for some years, and if we do not get similar reports from nearly every part of England during the next fortnight I shall be very much deceived. When in September and October the discovery is made that the sheep in the country available for marketing are insuf- ficient to consume the extra root crops and the over-average produce of the season's outcome a great impetus will be given to demand, and prices will be sure to rise by the action of jobbers alone. Probably the chief reason why no greater effect has been produced up to the present lies in the fact that a large proportion of farmers who are usually sheep buyers are compelled to wait until after harvest before they buy sheep. For want of ready cash they have to thrash out a portion of the corn crops early, and convert this into sheep. According tn reports from the bop districts, there is one kind of produce at least which is likely to yield better than in the average of years. The summer, up to the present, has suited hops tolerably well, and although mildew may be slightly prevailing in some districts, as is always more or less the case at the present period of the year, no apprehensions are entertained that any serious effects will be produced thereby on the plant or the abundance of its fruit. Hop prices are, however, just now so very low that, according to general testimony, the returns are not likely to remunerate growers even if they get the very full crop anticipated. Farmers from other counties are sometimes led to envy their brethren in the half-dozen counties which yield hops in having this additional string to their bow. But all is not gold that glitters, and when the costly culture of the crop and its risks are taken fully into consideration probably hop-growers have not much to boast of. Instead of sheep advancing in price, the results of some of the pedigree ram sales which were held last week display very deficient averages compared with those even of 1885. Thus Mr. Brassey's Oxfordshire Down shearling rams only averaged t8 8s. each, against .£14 10s. last year and £17 10s. in 1864. Mr. Â. F. Milton Druce's, of the same breed, sold on the day following Mr. Brassey's sale, averaged £10 lis. 6d. each, but their average last year was £13 19s. 4d., while the previous year they averaged .£19 lis. The Hampshire Down ram sales do not exhibit a similar depreciation of value, and very possibly the falling off for Oxfordshires may be attributable to a temporary falling off in the foreign demand for that variety. German flockmasters and their agents have usually attended these two Bales, as well as many others, to buy rams for the Continental flocks. They are not accustomed to give the highest prices, still the large numbers they purchase of secondary rams must have a great influence on the market Hampshire breeders are accustomed to sell and let their ram lambs, so that they get rid of their crops of rams when the animals are about seven months old, instead of keeping them until they are one year and seven months old. The saving must be quite as groat as that which takes place when wether lambs are fed so boun- tifully from birth as to yield heavy mutton carcases at from eight to ten months old, instead of keeping on the same animals a year longer. Still, it will be seen that the Hampshire breeders make very tolerable prices of their ram lambs. Thus on Monday, July 26, those of Mr. W. Parsons made from three and a half to fifteen guineas to the number of 91, averaging six guineas each, and 60 ram lambs belonging to Mr. J. Fowler sold on the following day at Salisbury for prices ranging up to nineteen guineas, 50 being disposed of at an average of JE7 each. In a discussion which took place at the Surveyors' Institute recently Mr. G. C. Phillips, of Chelms- ford, gave some startling figures as to the cost of tillage husbandry when performed by horses, for which, he said, the prices for agricultural I produce now realised gave a very inadequate return. He said that four horses to every 100 acres are considered requisite ill the I, county of Essex for ordinarv farm manage- ment, and he computed that it would be worth £100, or £1 per acre, per annum to keep these horses. His remedy for this state of things is that of adopting steam cultivation to such an extent that only one-half the number of horses would be required. If he be in the right, however, how do we account for the circumstance of steam cultivation having so greatly declined during the past decade, whereas it made considerable ad- vances in the former one ? The tillage lands of Essex are mainly of a heavy character,and it remains to be seen whether sowing them down to perma- nent pasture would not be the best way of econo- mising the costs of their management, providing the sodding were effected in the right way with the best kind of seeds, and the young pastures abundantly nourished by mauurings. Even in respect to lighter soils, in the existing state of things it seems pre-eminently desirable to reduce the number of working horses on farms I as well as tillage expense* of a.11 kinds, very much, for if corn-growing does not pay, and the farmer has to depend almost entirely on his stock for returns, he ought, as a rule, only to cultivate just enough land to prow corn and roots for his flocks or herds. The best way of carrying out this system on light and medium class soils is to prolong the tenure of the alternate grass sward two or three tin' long as is done at present. This might 1>" i •ted without the land getting foul or the all. :< pastures failing in productiveness if the rial it kind of seeking were effected. When hop :<11" is sown, or even seedsmen's ordinary rye nnd broad clover, the alternate pasture is only fit to remain a single year. but if cocksfoot and timothy were substituted for the rye grass and alsike or perennial red and white clovers for broad clover the new pastures would get better instead of worse with age, and the farmer would only have to return them to tillage when, by sowing down other lands, he finds an insufficient acreage under the plough to raise enough roots, grain, and fodder for his stock in winter. 1 believe that the management of the land in cycles of some half-dozen years' grass grown, and then the same period of tillage, will get very general soon.

-=-=-- GARDENING NOTES. rRY MR. J. Mcm. MARGAM.] LOCAI. SHOWS—These have been very plentiful of late, and there are two very important ones due next week. The first of these is Cardiff, on August j 11, and the other is Aberdare, on August 12 Local shows generally are uncommonly good this year, and. as these are the leading ones in South Wales, they are sure to be excellent and well worthy of special inspection are 129 different classes at the Cardiff Show. The largest of the plant prizes amount to 9E15, £10, and 15. and the subjects for which priz s are offered are so varied tllat nIl who own a plnt. flower, fruit, or vegetfrulé enter into competition with it. Gentlemen not having regular gardeners are well provided for in plant and flower prizes, and cottagers have over twenty classes, with thre' prizes in each. for vegetables alone. The vegetable" in this section are always of great merit, and I have no doubt, as this is an exceptionally good "cason for potatoes, carrots, and vegeta.b1cs gene- rally, this part of the show will be of unusual interest. The classes nt Aberdare number 150 with excellent prizes, and ample provision for ah kinds of cultivators. The open fruit and vegetable classes are much more extensive than at Cardiff, and the good name Aberdare Show has won during the last two or three years is sure to be ehanced next week. The honey classes at Aberdare aie the most extensive in the county, and the exhibition in this section promises to be the best of the seasor in Glamorgan and Brecon, if not in South Wales Mr. D. P. Davies is especially energetic in till department, as. indeed, he is in all ot them, and a general exhibition of unprecedented excellency i" sure to be the result. COLLECTIONS OF VEGETABLES—Since the loca show season began I have received numerous in quiries from your readers as to what would con- stitute the best collection of six, nine, or a dozen sorts of vegetables or a collection of not less than so many varieties. 1 may say I am not in favour of the latter, as, when prizes are offered fo a collection of not less than six distinct kind of vegetables, one competitor may adhere to the six, while another may put down eight, ten twelve, or more kinds. This interferes with th arrangement of the collections, And it ofter induces exhibitors to stage a great many dishes o: inferior kinds, under the hope that quantity will be preferred to quality and this is rarely the case, as six or eight really first-rate dishes of vegetables are more weighty in points and valuable in every way than a large assortment of inferior produce. When the exact number of dishes is stated it places all on the same footing, and is undoubtedly the best way. Cottagers' collections and those from professional gardeners may differ in some respects, as we do not expect to find the same kinds of vegetables in a cottage garden as in the other. A good collection for a cottager would consist of potatoes, onions, carrots, peas, kidney beans, and turnips if extended to nine sorts, cabbage, cauliflower, and leeks, while in going ill for twelve sorts vegetable marrows, parsnips, and broad beans may be included. In the open classes tomatoes, cucumbers, globe artichokes, cden., tc. ought to be shown to make them representative 01 what is grown in large gardens. In all cases quality should be the point to aim at, as it is better to show a dish of one or two dozen fine potatoes than a bushel of inferior ones. and this rule applies to everthing. Healthy young produce, although barelv come to maturity, is preferable to that which is considerably past its best. NEW STRAWBERRY PLANTATIONS.—Now is the time to form these. The majority of cultivators agree that it is not profitable to retain the old piants after they are three or four years old, as the fruit degenerates in quantity and quality after that time. There may be instances where that is not the case, but this is the rule. In forming new beds or plantations the soil should be deeply dug and heavily manured before planting. Light soil is unfavourable to the production of good crops, indeed the soil can hardly be too heavv. The plants are a little longer in establishing them- selves in a stiff soil than in light material, but when once they begin to root in the heavy soil t heir growth is rapid and substantial. The best 01 all young plants are those which have been taken special care of by being rooted into small post filled with good soil. The next best are those which have been rooted into a little square of turf, as the roots penetrate t his and become such a mass that they may be lifted and re-planted without feeling the cliange. Then comes the common way of allowing the young plants to root into the soil between the rowg and lift them from here and plant them in their permanent quarters. Where this is done they should be allowed to root well into the soil before any attempt is made to dig them up; and in lifting them they should be secured with as large a bail of soil to the roots as possible. With Careful attention to this, self-rooted plants soon become as good as those which are more expensively treated. In planting the plants should be given a firm hold of the soil, as they do not agree with merely being placed on the surface. ltt. from row to row. and 1ft. or 15in. from plant to plant is a good distance at which to plant the large fruiting sorts, such as James Veitch, President.Goliath, and others, and those of the Black Prince type may be grown some inches closer. Should the weather be dry immediately after planting, the young plants should be watered unt'l they begin to root into the fresh soil, and should any weeds appear or young growths be formed on the little plants clear them all off. In instances where there are no old plantations from which to draw a supply of young plants, or it is cesired to introduce straw- berries, the best way is to buy in young plants from a nurseryman or market gardener. In this case arrange to have them sent as direct Rnd quid: a. possible, and plant them without delay. BUDDING Ros;s.-Chll.pter8 have been written on this subject, but space wili only allow me to remind those interested in the matter that now is the time when budding may be done moat successfully. The brier is the most common stock on which to bud, and it will generally be found that dwarf ones give more satisfaction tllll.n very tali stems. Only the best sorts should be introduced, and several kinds may be budded on to the same stem, as, for instance, where a very free growing common rose is covering the front of a house or growing luxuriantly any- where buds of Gioire de Dijon. Marechal Niel, and others may be introduced here and there, with excellent effect. In cutting the bark to introduce the bud, be careful not to mutilate .the wood. Di only with prominent well-matured buds. and bind them up very carefully. THE OLD CEIMSON CLOVE CARNATION.—Of late this grand old-fashioned flower has been opening freely, and although there arc many fine blooms produced by various carnations, none are more sweet or pleasing than the large double deep crimson flowers of this variety. Every peison who owns a square yard of land in which to grow flowers should possess it. They ure charming at button-hole flowers, and all who I'ke to possess fragrant flowers are delighted with their bounteou odour. AUTTTMN ROSES.—All kinds of R^SE? Generally bloom in the autumn. The blosscms are not pro- duced so numerously then as in spring or summer, but the autumn blooms arc geneiallv very good, as it is the strong growths recently formed which bears them, and the cool nights and temperate days of autumn are peculiarly adapted to favour the development of finelv-coloured roses. Those nnt well acquainted with roses may, however, easilv ruin their chances of securing autumn flowers, as when their bushes produce long, straggling-like shoots they are ant to think that they appear untidy, and they shorten them back or cut them off, and this ruins all hopes of securing any late flowers. As a substitute for this treatment, let me recommend them to allow every shoot that is produced to grow to its fullest extent, and the few blooms winch will be opened at the end of each will be very acceptable when choice flowers are Ifess 'plentiful than they are at present. Very tall Shoots may be staked and tied with advantage.

A AMATEUR DRAMATIC AUTHOR SENT TO PRISON. At Marylebone Police-court on Saturday William Wagsiaff, 21, of uo occupation, living at 25 Hanover-square, wis charged with stealing or the 17i.(i ult. a fish slioe and fork and a silver gilt walch. valued at £3108.. the property of Ada Ling of 31, Kottinghain-place. According to tho evidence, tho prisoner went to the house of the prosecutrix to board and lodge. Unstayed ther* from tne Wednesday to the Saturdayjand left wiin. out giving notice or paying the bill. Subsequentlv the property was missed, and information WfJ" communicated to the police.—Mr. lkker, for the defence, said his client was a young iiian belong- ing to a good family. Hl father was a man of considerable means, and made the prisouer a liberal allowance. His client had written a plav, which was to have been produced on the night when one of the articles was pledgee, but the rehearsal resulted in a failure, and in consequence of that he was temporarily in want of mODCY. The articles were not taken with anv felonious intention, his client meaning to restore them when he got some cash.—The prisoner having pleaded guilty, Mr. Cooke said he regarded thE offence as a serious one. The prisoner was ir receipt of a liberal allowance, and, therefore, hac not the excuse of those suffering from hunge." and poverty. He sentenced him to three months' imprisonment with hard labour.

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REDPOST PARK. BY EDMUND DOWNEY. Author of "Anchor Watch Yarns," "In One Town," &c. XII. I was almost paralysed with terror, not so much through fear of the glistening knife, as from the ftuddennesa of the attack. However, I recovered myself in an incredibly short space of time, and looked fixedly into Signor Viacava's unspecu- lative eyes. Neither of us spoke. He held me— hugged me—with his left arm, while his right hand clasped the knife which was pointed at my heart. No perceptible motion disturbed our bodies. His face had quickly resumed its impassive expression. iaad with a supreme effort to control myself I (pondered what I should say or do. I felt I was dealing with a swaggerer and a coward, but I was :110 match physically for the man. However, I icould lose nothing by delay. Every moment that '■went by travelled in my favour, for there was Ift possibility that a. stranger might arrive on the scene and disturb the plans of Signor Viacava Possibly the same notion occurred to him as soon <&s it occurred to me, for, scarcely opening his teeth he hissed through them," Quick, my friend. jYour answer 1 "lam considering," I replied, with a calmness jxOf utterance that astonished myself. 1 •' You are cool, 'pon my soul," said Viacava, with ^Ift short, rasping laugh. "I did not give you ^credit for so much coolness. But you are fool- ish," he added quickly. If you think I am not • in earnest you are wofully mistaken. Your 'J answer?" I What if it is no ? I "I have told you. See," he cried, nodding •towards the knife, a surgical knife. I shall be compelled to bury it in your breast, and then- well, then," with another of his short laughs, I shall fling you over the cliff." f "You spoke a short time ago of hangmen's topes. Have you no fear of one." ] u Bah. That is the thought which makes you so infernally cool, is it ? A short pause. You dO not answer. Perhaps it IS. Perhaps it is not. j What matter ? Know, my friend, I have con- sidered well my actions. I did not quite expect jyou would have held eut so long, or that you [would have put yourself into such a devilish JUnpleasant position. I was informed you were a Snervous man. Your nerves are of steol. For that U admire you. But if you dare me, as sure as the jiky is above us you shall go over the cliff, with knife in your breast lest the fall should render you uncomfortable. Suicide, the wiseacres will And it, as they found 'natural causes for my wife. ['The odd Doctor'—-you wince at that—has ^committed suicide at last. What can be more (natural? And then there will be a beautiful rider ■to the verdict—' temporary insanity!' See, Doctor, jyou had best be quick. I ask but little, but what 1 ask must be done, or He stopped, shook his head, and tilted it on one tide. his eyes travelling to the edge of the cliff. The lengthy speech he had delivered had evidently cost him an effort, for he panted like one after a quick run. I was affected but little by his words, though I was convinced the man meant everything he had said. Still, life is sweet, and after all I was asked to do but little—merely to deliver a letter. A revulsion of feeling came swiftly over me. I had made a fuss about very little. This was positively the light in which I looked upon the matter. The imminent peril I was in scarce dis- turbed me. I did not underrate the danger, but /that night I was so near death that I had uncon. jsciously braced myself up to despise it. The only fear which possessed me vi as the horror of a struggle; but the thought did not come home to me with full force until I had said I consent." Then, as Viacava slowly unwound his arm, and [taking a leather sheath from his breast-pocket, [slowly placed the knife under his coat, I was sick (almost to vomiting. A dizziness, which I con- [quered only by an enormous effort of will, came over me. Viacava, silently and leisurely, replaced ,the knife inside his coat. He was evidently un- ,8ware of any change in my demeanour, for the first words he uttered were: "You are the coolest man it has ever been my luck to fall in with. I should like to grasp your fcand." I shook my head. I had not yet sufficient Strength to control my voice. You despise me. You are wrong. I am not a '*n&n to be despised; but you are brave, 'pon my soul." A series of short quick laughs shook his big frame. "Now that we are reconciled to each Other I shall take the liberty of placing my letter ^•in your care." ? I rose to my feet, and with a visible tremour vM my voice 1 observed • 1 best continue our conversation on foot. "6 can arrange the little that is to be arranged M we walk back to Broadstairs." I still felt a trifle giddy—an uncomfortable feeling, as if the cliffs palpitated, as if a slight shock of earthquake was disturbing them, was iUpon me; but by the time Viacava had risen to [his feet I had conquered in a great measure the ^unsteadiness in my gait, and I walked inland ^Bomewhat briskly. I I am not a rapid walker," said Viacava, as he quickly overtook me. A little more slowly, if YOU please. You are a wonderful man. Nerves! |Well I'll back the odd Doctor' for nerves against the sturdiest old campaigner living." It horrified me to reflect that I was treating the Blatter so coolly; but I knew my life hung upon !y self-possession. It is said that a nervous timid being can in a moment of deadly peril often succeed in commanding a greater measure of self- jpossession than one who is accustomed to danger, [&nd is naturally brave. I felt the truth of that statement as I walked rapidly alongside Signor Viacava. Another sensation I experienced was an 1ntense desire to fling myself on the dastardly Ruffian and tear his heart from his body. and had I been a stronger man physically, the impulse JOight have mastered me, and my hands might been dyed with his blood. Perhaps this is a strange statement to make. It iBiay seem incredible that, roused as were my Numbering passions, I could restrain myself simply (through fear of danger to my own body, I who •had been so indifferent to danger a few minutes previously. But 1 think I can account for the Jseeming incongruity. I believe my temperament 'to be on the surface a quiet one, but deep beneath jth&t quiet surface there is a fire-sometimes slumbering, sometimes turbulent—which an Extraordinary disturbance may bring to the Surface. I take it that the average man who has been trained to live in peace with his fellow-man is Oiade up—even that nations are made up—of ^.similar materials. Sometimes the fire bursts ^through the veneer-like surface, and changes ^irretrievably the whole nature of the man, just as tremendous eruption of the crust of mother arth changes the face of nature, swallows up great | £ racksof land, and raises new continents where A land had not been known previously. Sometimes the crust is hard and the quickening fire fails to Vhurst through, and rumbles along underneath, Disturbing the surface for a moment, and then all IS quiet and serene once more, and nothing re- 1.+ mains but an uneasy memory of the danger, f Sometimes a safety valve exists and the fire finds quiet and easy outlet; and though the surface is not altered out of recognition, there is an ever- Present danger, the knowledge that another Volcano of devouring, uncontrollable name is nigh at hand. Thus, to my mind, are we like portions cf the earth we inhabit, subject to the same in- fluences, living as the dust into which we shall Return when life is no longer with us. To some, &s to favoured spots of earth, the fire never makes itself known. With some it lies so deep that they i live their lives, if not in ignorance, at least in ^idoubt, of its existence. {B I judge myself to be possessed of that class of mental organism—not by any means the most (ordinary diss, although at first thought it might 'seem to be so—which in times of unusual distur- bance finds a safety valve in passion almost un- controllable. It would, perhaps, in a more youth- ful mind, and with similar disturbing forces, be .wholly uncontrollable, but long standing habits &nd the exercise of powerful restraints sometimes succeed in putting a break on nature herself. To certain, and, of course, a limited extent 1 had [succeeded in tempering the force of that fire which On occasions, rare occasions, it must be admitted, Bought to overwhelm and consume the crust of IPassivity, forming, under ordinary circumstances, mental surface. 9 The first introspective vision which had been s Vouchsafed to me, the first peep I had been gran- ted of the slumbering fires within me—was when eyes had first lighted on a corpse in the dis- tlacting room. I had instantaneously experienced Q savage glow of satisfaction as I beheld the knife cutting through the dead, yellow flesh; and this had so overwhelmed me, so wrought J?Pon my nervous organisation, that had I not 'ainted I should have seized the first lethal weapon At hand and hacked the body mercilessly. When t had recovered from my fainting fit there was Qothing remaining of that savage desire but a vague and awful memory. When the first great aorrow and despair, which had cast a shadow over III. part of my life, came to me, in my anger I could Scarcely restrain myself from wreaking vengeance 4 °n the man who had basely come between me and woman who, for his sake, had spurned me; j«8-nd with horror I can still recollect the plans and ■l>lot8 I had brooded over and revelled in while jp the wild passion of revenge held sway in my and then as the fever-fit of revenge van- ished what agony had been mine at the memory ?' my thoughts and desires! For years I had been hattnted by that memory; and the dread of myself, fierce effort to keep my slumbering passions control, had left its mark upon me, made the morbid creature that I had been until my llltercourse with Mr. Brabazon had lifted a corner (If the shadow from me—until I had felt assured Jbat the fires were dead within me, that, I had foolishly weak in supposing I should again t 0Se control over myself. | 1 have alreadv endeavoured to describe the which my initial effort to close the doors the memories of the past had upon me. Per- it cannot truly be called an effort, for at first had no fixed attention of resuming intercourse the ordinary kind with my tellow man but ben I plainly saw that my presence was welcome Redpost Park, the determination had seized me try and make one final struggle against my k a???1 °' reserve, which had almost grown to be %cond nature, and to go forth into the world with the conviction I possessed a fairly sound mind in a fairly sound body. It may be remembered that I had succeeded beyond my expectations in this resolution. I am confident that I should have gradually and steadily have grown to be one of the most ordinary and commonplace of mortals, purged from passion, relieved of memories and of the fearful anticipa- tions which had so long weighed me down and made me the eccentric Ir,illerable creature I had been. But little time was allowed me bv remorse- less fate. The tragedy in the park, the strange and awful death of the woman who had ravished my senses, had proved that my self-confidence had been misplaced. Madeline's death-cry was a light- ning flash which rent asunder the walls which held the fire, and I still shudder as I remember the inhuman desires that seemed to consume me in that moment which elapsed between her death- cry and the fainting fit which succeeded it. Then nature again had been merciful, and the long torpor in which I had lain had restored and revivified me. Though my body was weak after my illness, my brain had grown stronger, and I knew that the right had triumphed once more. The only disturbing element was the memory of what had passed; dread of the future did not exist as had formerly been the case but when I read and heard many of the stories of the devilish orgies which were said to have taken place at Redpost House while Archibald Brabazon and Dr. Bletsoe resided there, I grew uneasy as I thought that had I, like Dr. Bletsoe, fallen into the hands of a masterful and diabolical mind such as Archibald Brabazon must have possessed, I might have grown as reckless and as diabolical as the erst physician in Redpost House. I might have become a murderer's pliant tool, a murderer, perhaps. I might have hanged myself from a tree as Dr. Bletsoe bad banged himself. The struggle with the worser half of my nature had raged within me as I sat on the cliffs with Viacava, his knife against my breast, and my better nature had conquered, but in the struggle it had grown weak, and as I started to walk towards Broadstairs with Viacava I was merely an animal —human passions, the higher aspirations of man. had scarcely a place within me the animal desire to strike at my foe was chained down by the dread, the purely animal dread, of destruction. This has been a long digression, unpardonably long, I fear but perhaps my actions might be wholly unaccountable if my mental mechanism was not laid bare for examination. As I walked on, scarcely heeding what Viacava said to me, I felt that I was quickly relapsing into my ordinary frame of mind. The know- ledge cheered me, but at the same time I knew I should have to keep watch and guard over my actions and sayings, for if I exhibited any traces of my normal timidity I would have had but a poor chance with Signor Viacava. It was my coolness which had saved my life. He had been cowed by it. If I had been weak and falter- ing I should have been hurled over the cliff with his knife in my breast, The man, I judged, was one of those abnormal beings who delight in murder for murder's sake, but who are more easily cowed than the most cowardly of beasts. If you run from a snarling mongrel it bites; if you stand firmly it slinks away. Signor Viacava, finding I was not now in a mood for conversation, kept his peace for a while and puffed vigorously at his cigar. While the silence lasted I was speculating on the untoward chain of circumstances which had sent this man across my path, and I was trying to account to myself for the existence of such a nature as his. I am a strong believer in the effect of hereditary tendencies. Of course, I am not singular in this respect, but I have a belief that heredity has a more marked influence over mental and physical conditions than is ordinarily accredited to it. If I am specially interested in a patient's ills I make minute inquiries into the habits and diseases, so far as information of an accurate character can be obtained, of his parents. My experience, limited though it has been, has convinced me that too much reliance is placed upon the accepted theory that hereditary tendencies are transmitted more markedly from the maternal than from the paternal side. Espe- cially in the case of diseases which affect the intellect I have found that such diseases are more readily transmitted from father to son than from mother to son. The same rule I would apply to idiosyncracles which can scarcely be dignified with the term disease, and I have observed that there is often a tendency in the son to exaggerate the peculiarities of the mental or physical con- stitution of his father. Hysteria plays a part so important in the comedy or tragedy of woman's life that I have never been able to satisfy myself thoroughly where the effects of heredity in woman stop and where hysteria steps in. Quite suddenly I felt I could account for most of what was strange and hitherto unaccountable in the character of Viacava. He was the product of at least two generations of men who had held human life—not their own miserable life, for he who is reckless of the lives of others is usually possessed of the instinct of self-preservation in an accentuated degree—in contempt. I suppose it will be deemed absurd that I should hastily arrive at important conclusions respecting the character and antecedents of Signor Viacava. I knew but little of the man. My acquaintance with him was scarcely an hour old; still, my mind was made up. Had a stethoscope telegraphed the physical condition of his heart I could not as a fairly competent physician doubt my ability to read aright the message telegraphed to me. I did not doubt my ability to read the message which had been mysteriously telegraphed to me while his arm had held me in its close embrace on the cliffs. More than once in moments of extreme nervous tension had I endeavoured to project my spirit into the mental organism of another. The effort had always been a supreme effort, and when the momentary excitement had died away I had in- variably tound myself in a weak and tremulous condition of body and mind; but the conviction had always remained that my efforthad been at least partially successful. With a mind of stronger fibre than my own I could, I knew, have little or no chance of success; but Signor Viacava was, I doubted not, mentally as weak as he was physically strong, and, there- fore. the conviction now remained with me that I had been successful in attempting to read aright the message mysteriously transmitted from him to me. The silence was growing irksome. My com- panion was, however, the first to speak. I have been deceived in you, Doctor," he said. Quite deceived. And for that reason I think it would be better that we should come to a clear understanding about many things. I do not like to be deceived in my estimate of a man." You have my word about your letter. What more do you want. Do you doubt me ?" Not in the least, my good sir. Not in the least. But," he emphasised the word, I wish to tell you more of myself than you already know." I have no wish to hear anything concerning you." Although I could not help saying this— Viacava's patronising manner irritated me to an umeasonahle extent-yet in my heart I could not repress a desire to ascertain if my estimate of his character would be confirmed by his own admis- sions. Probably not, but I desire to impart the infor- i mation, It will convince you—if there does exist in your mind any lingering doubt as to the earnestness of my purpose, and the dangers which would hourly lie in your path if you decided here- after to thwart my purposes—it will convince you that I am a very ugly customer to deal with." You do not impress me, signor; but if you are anxious to convince me of your diabolical prowess my ears are open to hear your tale." Flippant, Doctor. Flippant; but charming. Your coolness amazes me. I am interested in you —I may go farther and say I admire you. We should work well in double harness." Bah I exclaimed with unrestrained disgust. "If you have nothing better than this to tell me it were wiser to hold your tongue." Patience, Doctor. My thoughts come slowly. I' Have I not told you so ? But to business." With a sudden show of energy, he flung his cigar away, and buried his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. I told you my name was an assumed name. I shall tell why I changed it. My father commit- ted an act—or rather it was committed for him— which covered with shame a name that had never smelt over sweetly in the nostrils of good people. He was found one day dangling from a tree, with a rope round his neck." The statement sent a spasm of horror through me. Again I felt that I was growing faint and sick; but fortunately I succeeded in controlling my emotions before Viacava had time to observe me. He had stopped abruptly as ho told me pithily this horrible story, and for a few minutes neither of us showed any inclinatioh to resume our walk or conversation. An unpleasant reminiscence, Doctor," he said cheerily. It was now too dark to observe the facial gestures which accompanied his words, but I knew his white teeth were grinning at me. Very unpleasant," I observed. But let us resume our walk. It is growing late." Again we went forward, and there was silence for some minutes. My father," he said abruptly, was found to have committed suicide. Twelve intelligent jury- men decided he was temporarily insane. Be did not commit suicide. He was not temporarily insane. He was murdered. How do you know ? On the face of it, it seems probable that when a man is found hanging from a tree he has committed suicide. A mur- derer usually does not hang his victim. In the first place, it would be a very dangerous proceed- ing on the part of the murderer-" "You are excited, Doctor." interrupted my com- panion. "But listen a little longer to me. My father was not an ordinary man his murderer was not an ordinary man the scene of the hang- ing was not an ordinary place the murderer was a little erratic in his views of human life—so was my father, for a matter of that—so am 1, for a matter of that. The murderer was eccentric, I have said. He had already put into practice a very ordinary and clumsy method of disposing of a person who stood in his way. In fact, near the spot where my father was hanged he had struck his brother on the head with a hatchet and buried him." T "Good God!' I exclaimed, "you are referring to Dr. Bletsoe and Archibald Brabazon! I am, Doctor. Now we have roused the gentle Dr. Emmanuel, have we. So—so. Dr. Bletsoe was my father. Archibald Brabazon probably drugged him first, but he certainly hanged my father." I cannot go further with you—leave me, for heaven's sake! You will kill me with horror! It would not suit me to kill you—now. You will be useful to me." Bury your knife in my heart! I cried, fiercely tearing open my coat and standing in front of Viacava, but do not tell me you wish to make me useful to you. I would sooner die now than live, with the knowledge that you, you, were to cross my path again. A triumphant leer was in his face as I stobd before him in my agony. Pish, Doctor I" he said. You are odd. We should be friends, brothers." "I cannot, I will not listen to you," I cried, placing my fingers in my ears. And then 1 sank to the ground, a. surging, sickening noise deafening me. (7 be continued.)

lNOW FIRST PUBLISHED.] I I HER HUSBAND'S SECRET. BY CYRIL SEYMOUR. CHAPTER XVII. IN THE WINTER GARDENS, BARMOUTH. And so you think that a mere monetary pro- vision is all that you need make in my behalf?" It is Laura North who is speaking, and she is addressing the owner of Honeysuckle House, who has come over to Barmouth to meet her this after- noon, in accordance with his appointment by letter of the previous day. They are seated in a deserted corner of a prome- nade in the Winter Gardtas, wherein is situated the theatre at which the lady is appearing nightly with, according to the local press, almost unpre- cedented success. "I trust, Laura," he answers quietly," that you at least credit me with good intentions. The events of the past have set us forever asunder. On that point my determination is unalterable. but in every other matter, 1 am ready to respect your wishes and fulfil your desires to the utter- most of my power." You can deal very calmly with our affair. I suppose I have passed altogether out of your life ? This was what I expected. I did not, however, anticipate that you would be prepared with such cold-blooded business proposals." Yes, Laura, I am calm, but you forget the years that have gone. Till but a few months ago you were to be only a memory of the past. I had long forgiven your broken marriage vows. How could I harbour hatred againstone I believed dead ? Why speak thus ? I can do no more than I now offer. Why add to the bitterness of this miserable meet- ing ?" And if I reject your terms—if I declare my determination to proceed against you for a judicial separation and maintenance on the ground of desertion—if it is to be war to the knife between us—what then ?" You would not dare to do it," he replies. Laura North's eyes are gleaming with passion. She had come prepared to throw herself at Arthur's feet and beg to be taken back to his heart; but he has passed unheeded every suggestive look and word and now a very devil is raging in her soul at the thought that, having divined her purpose, he is laughing her love to scorn behind the impas- sive mask he has maintained throughout the inter- view. Thus, when she speaks again, her worda are wild and reckless. Dare not do it ? You shall see," she hisses in his ear. What do I stand to lose but this paltry pittance you promise ? Then, who will believe your story I I am prepared to run all risks, and that you shall soon see." Arthur is apparently as cool and collected as ever. "Listen, Laura," he goes on—"listen to reason. You may not believe me; but I'll tell you solemnly that I am ready to do all that honour permits on your behalf. Honour will not, however, allow of our re-union. I am willing to give vou one-half of my present income. I can do no more. If you accept, this, I will have a deed drawn directly making the money payable to you for life but if not-if you are sat absolutely against such an arrangement—I will leave the country at once and forever. Do not imagine that you are dealing with the weak and foolish boy who was once your sport." The decisive manner in which these words are uttered is not without an effect upon Laura. The hopes of her heart have been dashed to the ground a second time, and the blow is a hard one to bear. Yet, fierce as is the emotion surging in her breast, she cannot but realise that her course is suicidal. The intentions of her companion are evidently sincere, and if she rejects his offer all will be lost. But woman was never ruled by logic. Were I to accept your terms, what guarantee have I that you will keep your word ? Twice you have eluded me hke a shadow in the night, and may you not do so again ?" t'l may and will if you continue in this mood." Then there is silence. When Arthur Hunt speaks again there is a warmer flow in his words, as though his feelings were breaking the bonds he had imposed upon them. Do not let us part in anger, Laura. I do not blame you for it, but the misery that has followed this marriage of ours is almost more than I can bear. There need be no fear for the future. I will carry out my promise to the letter." Edward!" The word is uttered in an old familiar way, and the sound of a name to which he has so long been a stranger startles him curiously. What, Laura ?" "I cannot part from you, Edward," and ehe turns tearfully upon him—" I cannot part from you. Only say that you will forgive me—onlv give me a place in your heart once more—and I will obey you with a dog's devotion!" Her blue eyes are swimming with tears, and she casts herself down upon tne ground at his feet, grovelling in the dust. For a moment Arthur Hunt's courage and reso- lution utterly fail him. The sight of the beautiful agonised face before him moves his very soul. He raises her tenderly to her seat again. Her humiliating attitude and entreaty are rending-his heart. "Forgive you, Laura—forgive you? You have long been forgiven. But it cannot be. If is impossible that we can ever be other than strangers hereafter. "Impossible ?" she sobs aloud. Impossible Laura, impossible." But, Edward, if you forgive me, who else shall forbid it ? Who else can come between us ?" Fate, Laura—destiny." Why these cold words of mystery which to me have no meaning ? They shall not cleave our love in twain for ever." She speaks almost fiercely; but there is now no passion in her heart against Arthur Hunt. Laura, we must never meet again after to- day. Never ?" she echoes in anguish. "Oh, Edward, has your heart hardened into flint to shut out my love?" "Laura, it can never be—never, never, never. From this day we must be as dead to one- another." "But at least there is hope? We may meet again. I could not consent to such terrible con- ditions." Of what avail could any other be if, as I have told you, the past be irrevocable ? Our meeting or even our correspondence would only serve to heighten miseries which can never pass from our memories. Let it be as I wish. I cannot find words to express even a tithe of the agony I am now enduring." As he ceases speaking, Arthur Hunt sees a sud- den change come over his companion. H6r pallid face grows whiter still, and her large blue eyes, dilated with excitement and glistening with tears, quiver and close. She has fainted. But the attack is only momentary, and even as he is leaving her side and passing down the prom- enade she recovers. Edward." He turus back at the sound of the low, tremu- lous voice. I am better now. You are right. I am wrong. It is, as you say, impossible. How can 1 hope to regrin what I have tossed to the winds? Will you please see me to the end of the promenade and call a cab ? I would go back to my apartments." They pass quietly along the deserted path. side by side; but Laura does not take the arm offered for her support. Outside the Winter Gardens is a stand whence Arthur summons a conveyance for her, and enter- ing she gives Arthur her address, which he in turn I transmits to the driver, observing to her as the vehicle starts off," You shall hear from me on Wednesday"—a remarks which falls upon un- heeding ears, for she has fallen back in her seat in apathy of despair At last it is over—the terrible trial is over. But there are no feelings at all akin to exultance in Arthur Hunt's breast as he turns off towards the station. He had started upon his mission hope- fully, nay even cheerfully; but never for one moment had he imagined the course the interview would take. He had come fully prepared for the encounter, to bribe an unworthy woman, ay, if need be, even to defy her power, to tell her to work her worst against him. But of what worth were weapons of steel against tears and humiliation such as had been shed and displayed before him ? Even a harder nature than his might have melted but he was upborne by other than ordmary determination, something else than a heart clad in armour against its betrayer. The thought of the inmates of that quiet little cottage down away by the riverside had sustained his soul. Not for the world, however, would he again risk such an encounter. Laura and he had met and parted for the last time. In the earlier part of their interview she had sought earnestly to wrest from him the secret of his present whereabouts and the circumstances of his life since that fatal day at Sandburgh of five years ago. But on these points he would not speak one word. Plainly she was in utter ignorance of these matters. She believed that their meeting in Easterleigh had been purely accidental, and he fostered the belief with no little verbal ingenuity but withal, it was plain that to continue longer in Littlethorpe would be most perilous. Yes, there was nothing for it but for him to tear himself from the associations and friends that during those happy days had entwined themselves around his heart. And whither should he seek refuge and rest? Ay, whither indeed ? The question found no answer as he was whirled awav inland from the sea towards Easterleigh, nor was he any nearer its solution when he stepped from the hansom which had carried his weary body from the railway station and crossed the threshold of Honevsuckle House. A strange silence seems to pervade the interior of the cottage as he enters. There is no wifely welcome awaiting him in the hall; but this of course is nothing. Florence has not expected him so early, and no doubt is resting snugly in her little sitting room looking out upon the lawn and the still frozen river. So without a word t. the girl who appears, he passes straight Into the apartment. I It is empty, and the maid, following him with- out speaking, now peers through the dusk at the doorway. I will bring you a lamp directly, sir. Mistress went out with baby and has not yet returned. There is a letter on the mantlepiece for you." Arthur looks at his watch. It is nearly six o'clock. Then his eye catches sight of a bulky white envelope, addressed to him in Florence's handwriting and pushed into the comer of the mirror over the fireplace. The simple sight sends a shudder to his souL

CHAPTER XVIII. AT LAST. A letter about that property at Easterleigh." These were the words with which Arthur had hoped to hide the truth from Florence, and they had succeeded completely he supposed. Had he. however, seen the awful alteration that came over his poor wife's countenance as she crept away to her room under the crushing sorrow of her suppositions he would not have started off so light- heartedly that afternoon for Easterleigh to post his letter of appointment with Laura, But he was ignorant of it all. Nor did he discover anything amiss with Florence in the evening when he returned home and tried to cheer their hearth by a display of forced gaiety which, for very different reasons, was dismal and full of hollow mockery in both their eyes. Florence had no reproaches to heap upon his head. In the solitude of her room before his return she had sobbed out her very heart and soul, and when he sought the reason for the weary traces her grief had left in unmistakable imprint upon her white face, she sought refuge in the same false and feeble fiction which had done duty in the case ot her attendant—a sick head- ache. Arthur accepted her statement implicitly and sought by a display of tenderness to soothe her weariness and pain; but he was not successful, and soon she once more sought the refuge of her room, to lie awake all the long, dark, and dreary night in the depths of a misery that could only, she was sure, be allayed by death itself. But the morning broke again, and the light of day shone broadly, coldly, and unconcernedly upon her sorrow. During breakfast, over which he sought in vain to commence a conversation, Arthur, full of depression and doubt as to what the day would bring forth, sets himself to prepare Florence for his absence at BarmOiith, for which a train startl at noon. I am going up to Easterleigh this morning, Florence, to see if I can conclude arrangements about that little property." That little property Oh that he should think fit to cloak his waning love in this way. If he but knew how useless was his deception. But still she had no wild.worda of reproach and indig- nation to hurl at his head as his dark eyes peered across the table through their mask. the god of her adoration had been shattered into frag- ments but she would not openly complain. She had no right to set up an image upon earth for worship, and she was being rightly punished. So she simply answered, Well, Arthur." I shall not be home till five o'clock, dear." She parted with him at the door as he went his way, and with his kiss fresh from her lips, walked into the sitting-room to take up the Sentinel and turn to the advertisement which had fascinated her eye on the previous day. Yes there it wa. Theatre Royal, Barmouth. Great success of The Syrens.' Grand popular night. New songs and dances." And by the side of the paper there lay the local time-table, left carelessly there by Arthur, who had picked it up from a shelf in the corner where it lay in company with a county directory, a Bradshaw, and two or three other volumes of reference. A page was turned down at the place where the information concerning the Barmouth branch of the local railway service was given. She had no need for further proof of his falsehood. Yes it was there. As she took up the time-table to replace it upon the shelf whence it had been taken, a sheet of notepaper fluttered from between its leaves. Stooping to replace it she found it to contain a letter addressed to her husband. Its Opening terms interested her, and she read on. It was Mr. Philip Foulger's precious epistle to Arthur which has been put before the reader, and it is not necessary to re-produce more than the passage over which Florence is now fixed like some statue of stone. I have no wish to stir up an ugly scandal- nobody knows better than you how awful that scandal would be—and no doubt we will both agree that at all events it should be kept from the ears of Mrs. H. She would not care to learn that she only holds her place on sufference-that in reality it is filled by another lady—nor would it be wise to let that lady know that you have a wife in the rural retreat of Littlethorpe." Surely had she need for further testimony it is here. The brutal words before her completely confirm her worst fears. This, then, is his terrible secret. His love has passed away from her to another. Death cannot come to her too soon, for she has lost at one fell stroke all that was dearest to her upon earth. Her child is Florence's next thought. She has still that joy left, and she hurries away upstairs to the nursery fearful that even it may be hers no longer, and, finding it tottering merrily about the room in care of the maid, she lifts the child into her arms and steals swiftly away with it to her room as though apprehensive of a conspiracy to rob her of her chubby darling, which roars with delight at finding itself so suddenly in its mother's embrace. Husband she has now pone, and without his love this once happy home is a hateful place, She must quit it this very hour, never to set eyes upon it or him again. Four hours after Arthur's departure, Florence, with the desperation and despair that inspire her not altogether absent from her pale face, in stepping into an empty first-class compartment of a fast train bound for the North. She carries her baby in her arms, and bursts into a paroxysm of grief as the door is banged behind her and she takes what she believes to Be her last look at Easterleigh and bids happiness fo. jver farewell. Thus it is that Arthur Hunt on his return finds Honeysuckle House silent and deserted. His wife has fled, and this letter staring at him in the rosy light of the lamp which the servant has brought into the room, is to announce the fatal news. He takes the missive in his hand, and, ignorant though he is of its import, a strange nervousness overcomes him as he runs his finger along the top of the envelope and withdraws and unfolds a stiff and crackling sheet of paper filled with Florence's handwriting, and strangely blurred and blotted in several places. Before he turns his eyes to it, he walks across the room, and pouring him- self a tumblerful of spirit unsteadily from a de- canter, drains the glass. Then he reads. Dear Arthur,—I write to bid you forever fare- well. I have learnt the truth, and know that I am no longer anything to you. But for our child I would not have been alive. We shall never meet again. It will be entirely useless tor you to attempt to discover me, even should you wish to do so. I have gone far away from Easterleigh, and you will never hear of me more. I have no living friends from whom I can seek sympathy in this terrible trial; but Heaven will sustain me. Farewell, though my heart is broken, I have no words of reproach to leave behind for you.—FLORENCE. This, then, is the end of all the scheming into which he had entered to keep unclouded the hap- piness of his home—the bright life of the innocent woman who until that day had scarcely known even a care Of the cruel world. All his woful work has gone for naught. His puny hands and troubled brain have been but working against the wind. He is utterly vanquished at the moment when, in his folly, he was venturing upon the highest of his hopes. Justly punished! The verdict against himself is wrung out of his soul as he sinks into a seat by the glowing wood fire sparkling and spluttering in merry mockery of his misery. Yet, great heaven, what an experience has been his. Is he some modern Cain branded with a curse and predestined to bring misery to all those with whom he comes into contact ? He is aroused, after some time, from his stupor by the entrance of a servant. Her master unheeds her words, and she makes a pretence of stirring the fire. The noise causes him to look up. There is a person in the hall who wishes to see you, sir," she says. What? Arthur asks, mechanically. The. girl repeats her announcement. Who is it i' He was here some time ago, sir. His name is Foulger, I think." Yes, Arthur's visitor is the redoubtable Foulger. For some reason or other the usual weekly post- office order made payable to that gentleman had not reached its destination on the previous morn- ing. It had been despatched as usual, but it had not come into the hands of the occupant of the dirty little room, heretofore mentioned, at No. 19, Garret-row, Easterleigh, and Mr. Foulger, emboldened by strong drink, dares again to enter the lion's den to ask the reason why. He had always received the welcome order on the Friday morning, and he could badly brook even the day's delay, but when Saturday night's last delivery had been made and there was still no letter, he could put off no longer, and so, obtaining a glass of whiskey on the strength of credit that had hitherto always been good at the end of the week, he has sallied forth, to personally seek the remit- tance, not, however, be it said, without some slight misgiving as to the manner of his reception nt Honeysuckle House. "Show the gentleman into the study," Arthur observes quietly. Then, as she turns to do bis bidding, he speaks again. "Is Jane in, Mary?" No, sir, she is down at her mother's in the village." "Ah, would you oblige me by going along to Brown's and asking him to get those leggings ready for Monday afternoon ?" Brown is the village shoemaker, who adds to his income by dealing in and repairing fishing tackle, and letting out pleasure boats in the summer season. Further, he is a young man who has a decided inclination for Mary Ann's society, and thus this young person is not likely to return rapidly from her errand. "And after you have shown the visitor in. go at once to Brown's, so that he may get forward with what I want." Yes, sir." Mary Ann dutifully departs, sees Mr. Foulger seated in a chair in the study, after having carried a light into the apartment, and then, slipping on her hat and ulster, sets off to the village. Arthur Hunt does not proceed directly to attend upon his visitor. He remains seated by the fire until the girl has had time to get off the grounds of Honeysuckle House, after which he walks out into the hall, takes a stout riding whip from a recess in the wall, and, with it in his right hand, retraces his steps and enters the room wherein Mr. Foulger aits expectant. (To be continued.)

OUT IN THE FAR WEST. The following strictly authentic story was related to me by a youthful American surgeon, who last year came to London to study at one of our great Metropolitan hospitals, he being desirous of perfecting his knowledge of certain diseases of the eye, and learning our English method of treating the same. The facts of the story struck me as being remarkable and worth telling to a larger audience than that the young doctor com- manded. The relation, if told as happening in this country, would have been listened to with incredibility, for here deeds of lawlessness and violence can rarely be done with impunity, and mysteries that would seem to involve crime seldom, or never, are permitted to remain undis- covered. There are, however, on the American Continent vast tracts of territory that social and criminal State laws are not far-reaching enough to cover, and Judge Lynch is often their sole repre- sentative, taking the law into his own unscrupu- lous hands, and being swift in the execu- tion of that wild sort of justice which we call vengeance. Even when life is the forfeit, cognisant authorities will often wink at this summary settlement of wrongdoing and of the wrongdoer. The crime may be worthy of death, but in England the criminal must be tried and sentenced in orthodox fashion, which, in public opinion, makes all the difference between justifiable homicide and murder. But to my story, told in the American's own words:— In the year 1880 I was engaged in the practice of medicine in a far-lying district near a town in Western Texas, Hookerville by name, and here at the same time congregated a large gang of navvies occupied in constructing a line known as the Gulf of Colorado and Santa Fe Railway. At the date I speak of the camp was stationed at a very desolate, wooded Spot, and the large num- ber of operatives was made up of men of almost every grade and class. Some few were refugees from the more civilised parts of America, but the majority were desperadoes of various nationalities, ready for any deed of violence or lawlessness that presented itself, and utterly reckless of conse- quences. Needless to say, the entire body was feared and shunned by the inhabitants of the dis- trict, and when the choice of several lines of route lay before travellers they in- variably selected that where their dangerous neighbours were unlikely to be encountered. All persons kept a respectful distance, and were careful not to provoke hostility, and though the sound of loud brawls and fierce contentions often reached the ears of those whose dwellings were within sound, and Upon whose property frequent raids were made, still, in fear of worse, the ruffians and marauders were not interfered with, but it was with an unmixed sense of relief that the in- habitants at length witnessed the completion of the line near, and the consequent ever-increasing distance between themselves and the dreaded invaders. Very grave known offences had signalised their presence, but the greatest terror and consternation prevailed when, just after the departure of the navvies, two newly-niade graves were found in a spot close to where part of the an had been located. It was a most desolate place, covered with coarse scrub and a heavy growth of larger trees also, whose interlacing branches overhead made a sort of semi-obscurity around. A settler seeking a lost cow stumbled, by merest chance, on this seeming evidence of crime. The site of the graves could not have been better chosen forooncealment,and the purest accident alone revealed it. The startled finder soon spread the news of his uncanny discovery, and those to whom he communicated it were not slow to as&ociate the graves with their late neigh- hours, for it was evident the burial must have taken place very recently. Care was taken not to interfere with the graves, for the gang was not so very far away, and any meddling might bring down speedy reprisal. The generally accepted belief was that some unfortunates had been robbed and murdered, and then summarily disposed of. Others inclined to the opinion that a fierce encounter between the roughs them. selves had ended in the death of two, who had then been hurriedly interred, the guilty ones reasonably expecting the result of the fray would never be heard of. The authori- ties, though informed of the discovery, did not interfere, and the nine days' wonder soon sub- sided, The dead in their unhallowed graves were left to uninterrupted solitude, The superstitious naturally avoided the spot, as also those who remembered and dreaded the lawless rufftans, out of whose ranks the mysteriously buried were sup- posed to have fallen. The navvies were not yet very far off, and summary vengeance might be taken on any officious meddler who tried to solve the secret embodied in those quiet graves, About a year after the discovery, wishful to increase my knowledge of anatomy, and finding it exceedingly difficult in that quarter of the world to procure subjects for dissection, I suddenly bethought me of the existence of those secluded graves, and, my curiosity being also spurred, I decided to rifle them of their contents, and, by so doing, not only provide myself with the desired skeletons, but, if possible, discover the mystery attending the burial. If murder had been committed the evidence of a bullet wound or knife thrust would surely be found. The risk attending the project I fully recognised. Americans may hold life cheaper than Europeans do, but the desecration of graves is considered an abominable offence, even by the most lawless, and anyone committing this sacrilege might reason- ably fear the worst at the hands of self-constituted guardians of the dead. After some deliberation I took two trusty friends into my confidence, and asked their assistance but I had some difficulty in persuading them to join me. Both declared their readiness to help me in any other sort of enterprise, however fraught with danger, but visibly shrank at the mere men- tion of dragging the dead even from unhallowed graves. Superstition lay at the root of the ob- jection, I knew. Though by no means lacking sense and courage, I was aware that both H and G— believed in the near presence of an invisible world and in unseen forces, both beneficent and malig- nant, whose influence on more material lives was often distinctly traceable. I had some trouble to combat their superstitious fears, but I finally gained their consent to accompany me, and they promised me all the assistance in their power. We agreed to carry out our plans on the first dark night which was not too calm, and, provided with sacks and cer- tain implements, ride to our destination and accomplish the business as rapidly as possible. Enthusiast in profession as I was, and fully convinced that there was nothing really wrong in the deed I meditated, I confess I was not entirely at ease now that the whole thing was really under weigh. There was no going back, however. The feeling I refer to did not arise from cowardice, nor from dread of consequences. It was due to no assignable cause, and 1 shook it off as best I could, believing myself infected by the indefinable fears of my prospective companions. The next night but cne was just suited to our purpose. A storm was evidently brewing. As the light-black clouds scudded over the young moon's disc strange, weird shadows chased each other across our path. The soughing of the night wind was portentous. The branches of the trees rustled ominously, as they often do before a storm. There was every sign of a coming atmospheric disturbance, and the shadows assumed still more fantastic shapes as the moon momentarily escaped from the obscuring clouds, to be again quickly overshadowed. Lurid flashes of lightning struck athwart the sky, continually showing up plainly the blackness of the cavernous heights above. The thunder, meanwhile, kept up an ominous and continual roll, infinitely more awe-inspiring than the loudest intermittent peals. Obstructed in our course by the almost un- natural darkness, we stumbled on as best we could, often not seeing a foot in advance. For safety's sake we left the highway, and kept plunging through tangled grass and matted brush- wood, and over the rough, loose stones, that threatened many a fall. None of us spoke; each seemed afraid to trust his own voice, but presently H 's horse stumbled badly, nearly bringing his rider to the ground, and H gave vent to a smothered oath. For God's sake, don't swear, H said G in an alarmed voice, only answer being another oath, this time hurled at his friend. I began to feel not a little uncomfortable. My practised ear detected, in these unwonted execrations, a degree of nervous tension that I had not expected either of my men to exhibit. I drew out my brandy fiRsk, and was about to offer it to H——, when the lightning struck a tree above our heads, and a large branch fell with a crash, right in front of us, presumably, but the darkness was so great in con-I trast to the sudden illumination that we could not see where the severed limb lay. H—— lost all control over himself, ana ottered a scream of terror that seemed to curdle our rexrj blood. I, too, was suddenly awakened to the danger of having two panic-stricken comrades to deal with, in addition to the original perils of the situation, and began to wish most heartily that I had yielded to impulse and remained at home. I could now see that H 's superstitious fears had turned him into an abject coward, who imagined that heaven itself was opposed to an intended viola- tion of the tomb. •• Back," he said in a terrified whisper," let us go back. Go back if you please," I cried," I am going forward; come along G Ashamed of his terror, now that the shock had passed, H rode after us. Once I caught a glimpse of his face, the eves dis- tended with horror and the skin ashen hued. Take some brandy," I said cheerily, it's a!l right. Nasty crash that, but the storm is abating, and we are close to the place now." He drained the flask to the last drop, and I saw G pull heavily at a bottle in his own keeping. With the Dutch courage thus imported, and the fury of the storm having passed, we could see our way better, and gathered courage as we went. Sooner than we expected we reached the scene of our intended labours, and without giving my companions time to think or speak I tied my horse to a tree, stripped off my coat, and, seizing a tool, was soon throwing up the earth from the nearest grave. Stimulated by my example, and still more by the brandy they had taken, H— and G— soon set to work, and apparently ashamed of their former manifestations of fear, threw out the soil right and left with a will. I soon saw that the grave was not so long as it appeared from the position of the two small planks set up at head and foot, and perceived that it took the form of a hole, sloping at the sides and narrowing rapidly to a centre. Evidently there was no corpse here. Surprise and curiosity caused us to re-double our efforts, and soon one of the picks struck something more solid than earth, and, for a second, the idea •f a coffin to be revealed re-established itself, but, instead of a receptacle for human bones. G and 1 soon hauled up a strong and heavy box, about a foot and a half in depth, as also in diameter, and, on the lid, roughly cut, were the letters, "E.H." With the aid of a pick we quickly wrenched off the lid, and found a canvas bag underneath, tied securely with a piece of buckskin. This I cut readily with my knife, and lo! out tumbled a mass of Bhining dollars—not magician's currency, but sterling coin of the realm. We were dumb with amazement, and no wonder, at this unexpected result of our exertions. I do not think anyone spoke, but we were soon all at work stripping the other mounds, with full assurance that further treasure was therein concealed, nor were we disappointed. Very soon we unearthed another, and this time a larger, box, on which were traced the initials G. H. 0. thus indicating separate ownership. We rifled both receptacles speedily, and found our booty represented by 750 dollars found in one bag, and the larger sum of 1,262 dollars in the other. By common consent we tumbled the coin into the sacks we had brought for another purpose, and, without stopping to fill in the sup- posititious graves, made off with our prize at the top of our speed, keeping the high road this time, and never drawing rein till we reached my door. Soon afterwards I found it convenient to throw up my practice in that part of America, and my two friends likewise "made tracks inanother direction We divided the spoil between us without scruple. As to the righteousness of the distribution, H and G- were both reluctant to take their por- tions, declaring they would never have had a chance of doing so but for me. In this I fully agreed, but I knew if my old friends had persisted in re- turning neither they nor I would have been any the richer. Persons with nice opinions respecting the laws of meum and tuum may count ours an act of dishonesty. We thought differently. Probably the coin was first stolen from some hap- less traveller, and the hiders of it may have perished at the hands of each other, or by the knives of their brutal comrades. Under any other assumption it seems unlikely the buried treasure would have remained unclaimed for the space of over a year. Anyway, we profited by the discovery, wrong or right. In conclusion I may say it was my first and last attempt to despoil a grave, for I was so well satis- fied with the success attending my first projected body-snatching that I never intend to tempt Fortune again in the same way. And, though still an enthusiast in all that concerns my profession, I confess that, now as then, I find more solid satis- faction in a handful of dollars than I should in a sackful of bones. MABSELAS.