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X ALL EIGHTS RESERVED. £ I The Inn by the Shore, f | [. A | x BT$ | 4 FLORENCE WARDEN | A (Author of The House on the Marsh," "The Heart of a Girl," Ac.). <> r Ev CHAPTER xrv.—(continued.) €^r 'n 'Lhe court was strained to catch "words, bat, the little -woman ^d° K in a thin, almost shrill voice, Blade a distinct utterance which the ery word carry from end to end of Ulst ^?-?erstan^' madam, that you were the J«la ot^n v'ho is known to have spoken to ^ronep !fi beforo 1113 death?" said the answered Miss Theodora. "I j ° cottage where he lodges as soon of his accident to loam how he the dootr to you himself, I ■'IS £ ir'ie did" j- was very surly to you, was he not?" Bir»* he was rather. He was much anc* said that we should have to JF &0rrie questions to-morrow morning. t})^ /le&0 words every man and woman i:n ''hey stirred to a deeper interest. '"TasT* touching the edge of the mystery liorufp S-n^ you "would be asked some qnes- fcy you suppose him to meajn Wild hardly thought about it. He spoke in a All T He was very angry and excited, feijnbought about was trying to pacify "Jj," j nf] •t occur to you at all that he had amy I'hia ^ing away with himself?" SUrnrj ^^stian evidently took the witness by 'rani- se- Miss Bostal stared at the coroner in fcotiom ^T^leiity. It was clear that the "Kr> new ^er- "y 8*r>" I certainly did not think that. "WSi 110 idea what he meant?" thQ R+ Fjir, I thought he meant to refer to low that has been about—the story of of,rf>i>beries not fair from where he lived. Used to gay he knew who the thief ,kt this •ftf ingenuous reply, which slipped out fcivy. 'Witness's mouth without her having 'Wi of the bombshell she was throwing fciWp: a great sensation shook the listening froin li called forth cries of "Silence!" "flL ° Police. was much excited, yon say? Did he 4did iw, in his usual state? I mean., b as a mam speaks who is in per- Sgjj^th—in perfect command of himself?" Hw+ ^he coroner, much to the dieappoint- of the listeners, who were more inte- ltopT\in the mystery lying underneath tihe "0*i u 151 tbe death of Jem Stickels. • yes; he seemed quite himself. We "A ^^riserl to find him like that." "n.Was ho sober?" "jy i sober, I should say." 1(1 he say anything about the blow lie had ;<lv<?d? j)id 3ie maiJv.e any complaint?" "A^J6 I was there." Attest- t!ow' madam. I must ask yon another won. How far is it from your house to where the deceased was found ?" considered. -tHij J"°'u go by the fields, it must be a-bortt a t)ft-,atid a half. By the road, I should think At ^vo miles." thig -point the superintendent of the ^dded to the coroner, to express his "A j ^his calculation. Jt now tell me, if you please, what time you left the cottage—wihen you "n of the deceased, that is to say?" was about ten rn inn tee pact seven." "j *?w do you fix the time?" hc>Tn lo°ked at my watch when we got back ftj-e ? Q-sradn to see if it was time to light the the dining-room for my father's return e; And it was then, five-an d-twenty ,««tes past seven." 4 r,/1611 you reckon that you did tie walk in of an hour?" +fs- It is about three-quartern of a mile ne way we came over tihe fields." was a snort pause, and the listening I w-T • now more om the alert than ever, 'ted breathlessly for the coroner's next f^ioa. It came in ai rather surprising !n. ^Can you tell me. Miss BoetaL, whether you ^5 Miss Claris remained in each other's •fipany from the moment yrra returned ^J^e until your father's return?" Theodora reflected. "Mot quite all the time," she answered, 'ffer a moment's thought. "I tore my drees Mna.il as I come in throu-li the hack and I iju>ked Miss Claris to make the tea. I ran. up to my room and mended it." 4 how 1OTT<* were you upstairs?" ■> ,A bout a quarter of an Ihcrtsr, I should "Vou have no way of fixing the time?" j. I had no reason to take particular note of fPe time, but I think I remember seeing' that ? ^a.3 between twenty minutes and a quarter wihen I went down, into tihe dining- and lit the fire." MisB Claris there?" She oame in with the tea not long ,rwards." And what time was that?" 800 I cannot tell exactly. But I think ? was T1 after eight." during the time tha.t yon were in the w^lnS-room by yourself, did you hear her about in the kitchen?" bf r don't remember noticing. I was thinkhng "the fire-it wouldn't burn, OT." together, then, I gather from wha.t you Ra/id, quite three-quairters of on howr ^t between' the time you left Miss Claris «. '"he back door and the time she brought in tea?" „^hout that, I Should think." did not see her or remember bearing .curing that time?" certainly did not see her. I don't ^jjj^mber hearing her." "W^re was "her intent pause. "hien you did see her next—when she I j^^Sht in the tea-, that is to say—did she "S. ^t^t'Cd or was she calm?" gbD was very niiich agitated. She had been "ing all the time, I think she told me." yv r jnu.5t thank you for the clear way in you have given your evidence. Onlv rn°.re question. Would it l>e possible, do f°r a person to get. say. to the ^heire the body was discovered and back t,hree-quarters of an hour or a little (j^"G crowd in the court seemed to draw a (V>» hroaith of unanimous consternation, tu t.he witness seemed to ignore the drift of Question. -au;t, would be absolutely impossible, I am .,?■' she answered in surprise. tb,Q,.A.ncl you are Boure t-be time was no more ,.?* three-quarters of an hour?" s sure as I can be, considering that I '"Tn?10 particular note of the time." t-t ^bain^ you. Tha t is all I have to ask you to £ >P89°nt, though it is possible we may have ^'ill you. Gentlemen," he went on, turn- to the jurj-, who were already springing h^t'h tb'Cir questions, "I think it will he ^Ofvf for yon to hear the evidence of the f&Murs before you ask this witness any rpy questions." i leV sat down again, and again there was ,TlZ;: a-nd a hum of excitement in the court, J^eople looked at each other and l>egan to Ola ^^h other whether it was true that Nell ^s had been brought from the station and ether she would be called as a witness? e story was growing more mysterious. he buzz subsided as the doctor, who had OetTN the body before it was moved, took the "Il and gave his evidence. v 110 had noticed nothing to give him a clue the cause of death in the first cursory he was able to make out of (N, afterwards, with the assistance of Dr. ^fffes, made a thorough examination of the "T did." j .Dd you were tflien able to come to some ^jinite conclusion?" Was." jj. I halieve you were able to ascertain that man oame to his orl,"afth by violence?" I -ihere was perfect stillness, perfect silence 11.. t'ha court.. as the doctor answered: ies. In the right, side of the head I found j. small wound, and after probing for some toell** ^OU!n"3 a bullet embedded in the cere* CHAPTER XV. THE VERDICT. t1 'rQ say that you could have heard ru pin °P in the crowded court when the doctor ^de this an.nouncemenit is to under-state the eath-liko silence which fell upon the dense of lifitemsrs. 11 Not one man in twenty among the crowd la.d. been prepared for this sensational dia- osure. which had, indeed, been communi- 3. to no one but the police and to Hem- j. Tliis new fact threw such a sudden Sht upon the case, thrusting out. as it all possibility of Jem's having come 5^ his death through an accident, that every and woman present needed a moment's reat.hing space to grasp the new view of situation thus abruptly presented. fc:n the meantime the doctor went quietly on .th his evidence, much of which was j^hnical and uninteresting to the majority. jUt the crowd was able to fasten on the ^Portau.t facts that the shot had been fired ^oin behind the man, and from the right side ■' the road, supposing the victim to have "n coming towards Stroan; that the injury £ ?'ild not have been self-inflicted; and that crime had been committed within a very 1UQrt time of the discovery of the body. l Qan you gire tie any opindon, doctor, as to the length of time which must have elapsed between the firing of the shot and your inspection of the body?" "n "My opiillion is that death had taiken place within an hour certainly, and probably within a much shorter period." "Can you give us your reasons for this opinion ?" "The body was still quite waa-m. As it was a oold night, and the body was lying in a very open situation, the cooling process would b9 very rapid." "Cain you tell us the time exactly when, you made this first examination of the body and came to this opinion?" "It was sixteen minutes past eight when I was sont for, amd I arrived at the spot where the body lay at between twenty amd twenty- five minutes past." "And the body had, in your opinion, been lying there about an hour?" "Or considerably less." "You would suppose, then, that death had taken place at about what time? Or is it pos- sible to get a closer estimate than that?" "It is difficult to say exactly, of course. But I should be strongly inclined to put the death at elglht o'clock, or even later." "At, in fact, a few miniates before the body was first discovered by the boy?" "A very few minutes." There was another sensation among the listening throng. "I should have even expected," went on the doctor, "to hea.r tha,t the boy had heard the report of a lire-arm." Everyone looked towards the unhappy boy, Charles Wallett, who, having given his evi- dence, was now sitting in court. On the sug- gestion of one of the jurymen, he was re- called and questioned again. But he main- tained, with hot blushes of confusion at the attention, thus suddenly directed to him, that he had noticed no noise; that he had seen or heard nothing to attract his attention until he came upon the man lying on his face at the side of the road. "At leaso He stopped short, and from crimson became very pale. Th'en. he heard a murmur in the court behind, and he began to look scared and to tremble. "That's right, my boy," said the coroner encouragingly; "think well before you answer, and then tell us everything, even the slightest thing, that came under your notice." "Sir," said the boy, turning red and white alternately, "I did hear something-it was just before I turned the bend and saw the man, but I never thought of it before this m-i-n,ute." "And what was tihat?" "It was wha.t I took for Mr. Wells shooting at the birds, sir. He's always about there with his gun, and so I never give it a. thought." There was truth on. the face of this state- ment, drawn forth so tardily and so unwil- lingly. Hearing, as he said, the firing at the birds so often, the sound had no significance for him, and it had not even struck him as singular that the fanner should have been out. shooting so larte. There was a shade of disappointment in the court at the idea that Jem Stickels might have been shot by accident, after all. in mis- take for a sparrow. But this notion was quickly put to flight by the calling of Mr. Wells himself, who was in. court, as a witness. He waa never out shooting after dark. and on the previous day he ha4 been at Canter- bury, and had not returned home .until past nine o'clock. This new link in the chain of evidence, form- ing as it did an important clue to the exact time of Jem's death, resulted in a little con- versa,tion betweem the coroner a.nd the superintetndemtr of police, and in the casing of Mrs. Mann as a witness. "Your husband told us, Mrs. Mann, that the deceased man passed you on his way to the back door. And we have heard that be aaad he was going to have his pipe and his glass of beer. Now, did you notice in wfcddh. direotiotn he went?" "Yes, sir; I did," answered Mrø. Mann, a. nervous woman, who could Tjot be persuaded to give her evidence except in a whisper. "And did he go in the direction of the rBlnft laon I?" "No, sir." There was another nranmar, quickly sup- pressed. "Which way did he go, then?" "He went into the wash-house end had a. wash, and then he went up to his, room. wMrih the went up by tihe wooden otms as is in tihe wash-b-ouse. Aid I waitched him for fear he should leave his candle a-burnim'. Which he did, and so I goes up a.nd pats it out, so as it shouldn't burn, to waste like." "And how long was he there?" But to this the witness could not undertake to give a stnaigiht answer. "She couldn't 'a.rdly say"; "she didn't rightly know." "It might be a 'a.If-hour; it might he more." She eventually admitted that it could soaredy be less. So that it eeeaned now possible to fix the time of Jem's deatli at a period between ten miwutes to eight, which was about the earliest moment by which he could have reached the spot where he wa", found, and ten, minutes past, which was the time at which the boy Charles Wallett had discovered the body. There was a.n adjournment for luncheon at this point, and afterwards came the supreme sensation, of the day—the appearance of Nell Claris as a witness. Tongues had been; bn?y with her name since the crowd filed out of oonrt. No one oould doubt the import of the questions the coroner had put to Miss Bostal. It was plain that Nell, the only person, except Clifford, who was lrrown to have any cause of ill-will towards the deceased main, now lay under suspicion of being concerned in his death. Perhaps the girl herself, when she came from the magistrates' room into the court, was the only person present who did not realise the position in which she stood. For she alone had been absent when the searching Questions were being put to her friend. Nell made a bad impression from the very first. She was wrapped up to the eyes in a. lrvntr squirrel-lined cloak and a boa of brown S and she wore a large hat, which helped to hide even the outline of her faoe from the crowd in the court beiÑnd her. But from the o-limpse which could lie caught of her features as she moved hurriedly into tbe place pointed out to her it was evident tha.t her faT. famed bea-uty was for a time under eclipse, for her complexion was blurred with crying and her blue eye? looked sunken and colourless. An that seemed to concern her was to hide as much of her face as the could and to give her angers, so that, they should be heard by as few persons as possible. Throughout the whole of her evidence she had to be admonished to "speak up" and to answer at once and straightforwardly, instead of taking time to think out her replies, as she showed a. strong disposition to do. Altogether, she was a bad witness, decidedly the worst of them all. Not even nervous Mre. Mann had given so much trouble If there had been, no breath of suspicion of the eirl before she stood m the Witt's rla.ee, her manner and her answers would ihave been sufficient to arouse the feel- ing in all those who heard and saw her give Ym/or"0the niece of Mr. George Claris, I lelieve? And you wore present when the quarrel took place between the deceased and Mr. Clifford King?" c,.a, "There was no quarrel. Jem Stickels attacked him. He struck Mr. King with a knife through the window. He stabbed him. "And Mr. King struck him back? "No. Yes. At least, he caught hold of him and flung him away," "Flung him to the ground, in fact? "I don't kuiow whether he meant to do that "But as a matter of foot, the deceased did fall to'the ground, and lay there, stunned?" struck his head against the ledge of the window." "Yes. Do you know tho reason why the deceased attacked Mr King? Nell made no answer. "I am sorry to have to press for an answer. Remember, there is nothing whatever dds- creditable to a lady in being the object of jealousy between two hot-blooded young men. I believe it is an undoubted fact that Jem Stickels, the deceased, was jealous of Mr. King, and that it was tho sight of Mr. King a-Tid you together which provoked him to I attack a rival whom he regarded, rightly or wrongly, as more favoured than himself?" Nell blundered into a hasty, incoherent a1"NofVit was not that. He didn't! He couldn't! It wns not that he was jealous. I always hated Jem Stickels. and he knew it. How copld he be jealous of me when I dete-i'cd him?" And for the first and the last time in the course of her evidence Nell's voice was loud enc/rasih to be heard throughout the cowrt as she uttered this terribly damaging speech. When she had spoken, and stood staring at the coroner with wide-open blue eeys, a great the coroner with wide-open blue eeys, a great wave of horror parsed over the court, and the jury to a man felt sorry for her. They had all known the dissipated fisherman; they all felt the gulf of repugnance that must have existed between this refined young girl and him. And while the conclusion was forced in upon their minds that she had taken violent means 'to rid herself of him and his persecution they felt that they would have given a great deal to have been able to hush the matter up. For. while the loathing she so fmmk-l- pressed grave a reason, and almost on e? *u> I for iher orime, on the other hand, her fearless avowal of the feeling now, when it was so greatly to her interest to hide it, seemed to show that she was in a state of mind in which she could hardly be considered respon- sible for her actions. Meanwhile, the inquiry had to go on. "Well. then," pursued the coroner, getting away from the fatal subject, and speaking with extra dryneas to hide his own sympathy, "you went to Colotnel. Bostal's house, and you and Miss Bostal went together to see Jem Stickels at his lodging to Mk how he was?" But here, again, Nell blundered past the opportunity thus given her for clearing her own character. "I. didn't want to go. Miss Theodora made me go," eaid she. "Well, you went, at any rate, amd you saw ,him and spoke to him?" "No; I didn't speak to him." "We1J, you saw him, didn't you?" "No; I would not look at him. I heard •him; that was all." "You heard him tell Ifirs Bostal he was ,going to Stroan ?" Here a frightened look passed suddenly across the girl's face, causing the jurymen, one and all, to look at her more attentively than before. "Yes." The answer was a whisper. "And. of course, you didn't notice whether he seemed in his usual health or not?" "I didn't notice." "Of course not. Then you went back to Colonel Bostal's house witih Miss Bostal?" "Yes." "Did you notice the time at all? Can you tell us what time it was when you reached the house?" "No." n "You can't give any idea?" "No." "Not even within an hour?" "No." "Amd when you got to the house, what did you do?" "I cried." "Where? In the kitchen?" "Yea; I think so; I hardly remember." "Miss Bostal left you to go upstairs and mend her dress. Do you remember that?" "No. Oh, yes, I think I do." "Now, I don't want to worry you, but I want you to think before you answer me. When Miss Bostal left you to go upstairs, what did you do?" "I—I—I went into the kitchen." "And yon cried there?" "Yes." "And can you tell us about how long you sat. there crying?" "No." "Presently yon made teai, didn't you?" A pause. The coroner went on- "Try to recollect. It only happened last night, you know? Miss Bostal eays you brought in the tea—brought it into the dining- room. Don't you remember doing that?" "Oh—oh, yes." "And did you look iait the olock? Do you remember?" "No; I don't remember." "You found Miss Bostal in the dining-room. What was she doing?" "She was lighting the fire?" "Yes. And you-had been in the kitchen I Nell blundered into a hasty, incoherent answer. all the time after 900 left you? Until you took the tea into the dining-room?" "Yee." "Yon had not been outside the house for a moment?" This question Nell answered promptly. "Oh, no." "You are snre of that?" "Quite sure." "Have you, gentlemen, any questions to IUIk. this witness?" went on the coroner, turning to the jury. A stout mcm with grey whiskers leaned for- ward in his seat. "I shouild just like to ask Miss Claris," he said, "whether the deceased had not used certatin threats towards her? He is known to have said that he had used threats." The coroner looked as if he was uncertain, whether he should allow this question; but Nell answered by a movement of her head in I asserot. "He did use threats to you?" persisted the | juryman. "Yes. At least, not to me, but —— "He threatened to tell the police who it was that committed the robberies at your uncle's house? Nell turned very white, and threw at the persistent jurymam a frightened glaince. "Yes; he did say that be knew." "And he threatened to give information?" "I don't think," interrupted the coroner, "that you ought to put it like that. 'Threaten' is hardly the word. He said he would give information, did he not?" "Yes," said Nell almost inoudibly. The juryman, offended at what he con- sidered a snub. sat back and looked at the ceiling. Another of the jurymen leaned for- ward. "Are you engaged to Mr. King?" asked he. "Eeally, gentlemen, we must keep to the point," protested the coroner. But Nell answered this question in a louder voice. "I am not, engaged to him." she said firmly. "That will do, I think," said the coroner, who siaw that there was a strong tendency on the part of the jury to eartiefy their curiosity on points quite outside the subject of inquiry. And Nell was allowed to retire from her promisient position. Miss Bostail was waiting for her,,and with a gentle hand she dragged the girl into a seat beside her, where little could be seem of her now flushed and frightened face. "There is now only one more witness," went on the coroner, addressing the jury. "It is the second medical main who helped at Idle post-mortem. "Is not Mr. King to be called?" asked one of the jurymen. "He is unable to attend. I have a doctor's certificate to that effect. But after the evi- dence which has been given, I think his presence is hardly material." "Now, I think it very material," objected a juryman. "He is known to have quarrelled with the deceased "It can be proved thbt he was in bed at the time of the death," answered the coroner. "He was so much injured that he was watched from the moment he fell down, faint- ing, after flinging the deceased off." "Well, but I submit that we ought to have proof of this in evidence. When a man is found dead, with a bullet in his head He stopped short, his attention arrested, like that of every other person in the court. by a cry, a movement, on the part of Nell Claris. Springing upon her feet, she gave a moan, a gasp, and then, looking round her with one quick, frightened stare, sank down into her seat. There was a buzz of whispering, which War checked by the lottd cry of "Silence!" as the second doctor was called and sworn. His evidence was only an echo of that of his colleague, and was hardly listened to by the crowded court, who were occupied with a stronger sensation. The coroner's address to the jury was a very short one, amd indicated more doubt in the mind of the coroner than existed in. that of his hearers. When the jury had retired, the murmurs rose higher amd higher, and the excited dis- cussion of the probable verdict, although repressed a little by the presence of Nell, who sat like a statue by Mi-ss Bootal's tide, .had grown into a loud roar long before the jury returned into court. When they took their sea-ta the roar of the crowd had suddenly given place to a linsh, in which the voice of the coroner, asking if they had agreed upon a verdict, was distinctly heard. In a few minuites the news had spread from the court to the crowd in the market-place outside that the verdict was—"Wilful murder by some person or unknown." (To be continued.)

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LAUGH & GROW FAT HUMOROUS PARS FROM EVERYWHERE First Boy: Your father must be an awful mean man. Him a shoemaker, and makin' you wear them old bootg! Second Boy: He's nothin' to what your father is. Him a dent-itst, and your baby only got one tc,,oth! Small boy, trying to make up his mind which profession he would adopt. "When I grow up, I think I shall be a soldier, or a ,-ailor, or an Archbishop, or an organ-grinder." Little sister, with decieion: Be a married man, like father! Dolly: Mr. and Mrs. Smasherton. are going! to celebrate their motor wedding. Polly: I've heard of gold, silver, and wooden weddings, but what is that? "They have just run over their twenty-fifth victim without being arrested." Mother: Now, Harold, whom do you love mcfit, your father or me? Harold (aged five): Father. "But yesterday you gaid you loved me most." "Yes, but I've thought it over since, and 'decided that we men must 6tick together." A youngster, a.fter enjoying himself at a. party, was going away, when the hosteas offered him a bun. "No, thank you," said the boy, "I couldn't ea.t any more." The hostess told him to put it in his pocket. "I can't," replied the youngster, "it's full already, but the next time I come I'll bring a. basket." Miss Edith (blushing prettily): Oh, I say, papa, on Monday night George said some- thing to me, and I asked him to see you, and since then-" Papa (briskly): Oh, that's all right. George came to see me, and I borrowed a five-pound note from him. Miss Edith wonders if that is why George has not been back since. A pale-faced woman came staggering up on deck as the ste.a.mer ploughed through the storm. "Oh, captain," she exclaimed, "did you ever see worse weather than this?" The captain Laughed. "Take an old sailor's word for it, madam," he said; "the weather .ig never very bad so long as there are ladies on deck inquiring about it." They had just finished breakfast, and the woman of the future was about to start down town, when her husband arose from the table, placed his arms about her neck, and kissed her. "Dearest," he murmured softly, "I love you more than words can tell." "Oh, you do, eh?" she rejoined, suspiciously. "What is it now—a new silk hat or a pair of trousers." HUSBAND'S ANSWER. A young man in the North, who had not been married very long, went home to his dinner one day, and said something-it not being cooked to suit him. "Well." said his wife, "if tha.' doemlt like it, the,' mon cook it thisel'. Tha' didn't wed a cook." The same night his wife awakened him and whispered: ".Jack, will ta' get up; Aw think there's burglars in th' house?" "Nay," replied Jack ,"tha' mon get up thisel'. Tha' didn't wed a policeman." WAITING FOR A YAWN. Two young men, not much experienced in driving, went for a. drive. During the ride the horse happened to yawn, and the bit fell out of its mouth. Two hours later another man passed them, and discovered both of the young men waiting with their conveyance by the roadside. "What on earth is the matter with you? I paesed you when I was going out, and now when I come back, you're still hesre. What's the matter?" "Oh," replied one of the young men, "we're waiting for the horse to yawn again, so we can put the bit in." HARD WORK. A ladies' committee. the object of raising money for a charitable purpose, decided that all its members should earn five shillings each. On the money being paid the women were asked to state what the work wag that had brought in the five shillings. One had baked cakes, another had knitted socks; a third had painted a picture. "How did you earn your money?" was asked of one woman. "I got it from my husband," she replied. "Oh, that won't do; there was no hard work about that." The woman smiled a weary smile. "Oh, wasn t there? You don't know my husband!" NOT TO BE HAD. A certain^mall youth from the East End of London had just been deported into the country for a week's holiday under the auspices of one of the benevolent societies which now exist for that purpose, and on the morning after his arrival he stood in the main street of thfe rural town, watching the local pair-horse 'bus r.5 it drove up from the railway station. Hi. sonny," shouted the driver, as he brought his team to a standstill. Just catch hold of that horse's head, will you?" Which 'orse?" queried the, lad. "The,off 'un," said tbe driver. Horphan," said the Lad, in disgust; "'ow d'ye think Hi knows which ov 'em's a I horphan? Gam, you, don't kid me that way," and he walked away with an air of supreme contempt. DOMESTIG TROUBLES, The screams that were issuing from the little house were truly heartrending. It seemed as if a terrible tragedy must be in progress, and an anxious knot of people gathered in front of the house, and wondered why the others had not sufficient courage to enter and reooue the victim. At last an un- concerned youth came out of the front door, whistling, and one of the spectators button- holed him. "What's going on in your house?" he asked. What s the meaning of those awful screams?" "Eh?" said the youth. "Oh"—as a marrow-freezing wail floated down the summer breeze—" Oh, that's Willie! You see, while be was playing in the pantry this morning, he knocked the jar of black treacle off the shelf on to his head, and now mother's combing hair—that's all!" "NOT SO BLACK AS THEY PAINT YE." Scene: A motor-car on a hill on the out- skirts of Tippera.ry. The proprietor is busy in search of a puncture, and not in the plea. santest frame of mind. An old lady approaches- "Is it puffed, sir?" "Yes." "And can ye mend it, sir?" "Well, I am trying." "Tell me, now, sir, r.= ;t ouit ye much on the rough roads?" "Only a little, ma'am." "And does yer h -.art be yer mouth?" "Sometimes." "Thank ye, sir, for tellin' me all that, but there's one other thing I would like to know, if ye'll tell me." "Certainly, ma. :un; what is it." "Now, tell me, sir, betune ourscrl's"—she draws the proprietor gently aeide—"do you ever run over a ben now?" "Never, madam." "Yer not so black ai- they paint, ye, then- good-morrow, sir."

THE BLIND WITNESS* S Many years ago there lived in a village which has since become a tolerably large and populous town a man named Luke Chapman. He was about 40 years old at the time of this story, and occupied by himself a little house story, and occupied by himself a little house in one of the three short, narrow streets which then forme-d the village. He was a rather curious-looking individual, surprising-iy tall, with a ragged, swarthy lace, black eyes, deep-set and heavy under jaw. His frame was solid, as though hewn out o! a block of granite. He had been a. blacksmith, and was reputed to have collected a sufficient sum of money at that calling to enable him to live without having to labour. The house facing his was inhabited by a woman who pursued the occupation of dress- making. She had commenced in a very humble way, taking at a modest price .what work her neighbours chose to give her. She got a name, however, before long as a singularly dexterous needlewoman. Some of the families in the neighbourhood heard of her, and gave her employment. She pleased them so well that more work was given her than she alone could get through. In consequence, she procured from an adjacent town the assistance of two girls, who took up their abode at her house. The name of one of these two girls was Kate Matthews. That of the other does not signify. Our business is with Kate. She was undeniably a very pretty girl, with fine brown eyes, an abundance of brown hair, a delicate complexion, a Roman nose, and soft, red lips. She had a good voice, and as she sat at the open window, in view of the soft summer heaven, working, it would pour forth flute-like notes. It was a pity this charming creature's heart was not as pure and innocent as her voice and the piquant little songs she sang. In an evil hour she saw the robust form of Luke Chapman. She had, indeed, observed him once or twice before, but inattentively. He had then struck her as an old man. But on this occasion he sat reading at the open window. The mellow light of the declining eun illuminated his strong, rugged face. Though by no means prepossessing, she remarked he was a fine man—something vastly superior to anything the village had as yet offered her-and she resolved to amuse herself with him. So she began. But her first efforts resulted in something very much resembling a failure. She was gazing steadily at him, and, without ado, lie moved at once from the window and closed it. She gave a, little laugh. He will come again," she thought. Not that day, however, but next morning he showed himself. He raised his eyes to hers; she gave him a coy, fascinating look, then hung her head, with a little pink on her cheek. Luke seemed surprised. He went on read- ing; she continued working. Presently he took a prolonged stare, and she observed with a secret laugh that when his eyes reverted to the book they did not raise and fall to the pages like one who reads, but remained fixed as those of one who thinks. One evening when taking a stroll by her- self she met him. He coloured when she saw him, like a school-boy would. His walk took an irresolute air; he appeared as if about to pass her. Suddenly he halted, and, with an awkward bow, wished her good- evening. He offered to walk with her, saying ho must not be so rude as to keep her standing. And she gave him permission to do so, though with a pretty demure air of protest that imparted to the privilege conferred ten times the magnitude it would otherwise have pos- sessed. That walk and the conversation, the glances, the half tones and light blushes it involved, sealed Luke's fate. He parted from her at the top of the street madly in love. Kate had no conception how much he was in love with her. Luke was one of those undemonstrative men whose nature has to be interpreted from its hiute and implica- tions, for it never absolutely expressed itself. She continued playing with Luke, making him sink deeper into the unfathomable emotion, under the impression that he had not yet passion enough to satisfy her. Had she known the truth—had she been conscious of the world of fierce passions and hopes she had called into being—she would have shrank long before from her profitless amuse- ment with terror. At last she grew rather tired of this sport. She cared at heart no more about Luke than the man in the moon. She got tired of trying to excite him into those ardent protestatione of love which her vanity imperatively demanded as food. About this time there came to reside at Hatfield a young, rather well-looking fellow, to learn farming. His name was Martin Sherrard. In the libera-1 sense of the term he was good- looking. He and Ka.te got acquainted. Probably their introduction had been brought about by some such process as had procured her introduction to Luke Chapman. Their intimacy became the talk, but not the scandal, cf the town; for Martin Sherrard had not scrupled to avow (has Jove for Kate in language remarkable for its matrimonial colouring. One evening Luke Chapman left his house to take an accustomed walk. His brow was dark, and he was under the influence of a feverish passion that made his heart burn in his bosom. About a mile from the village, at the side of the road Luke Chapman was traversing, lay a large, deep, stagnant pool of water. It was protected from the roadside by some rude rails. The pool was lrn-own-is still well known—as the -t>iaek Pond. When Luke came to this piece of water he leaned upon the rails and looked into it. The thought of suicide was strong within him. Suddenly he was startled by hearing the sound of voices. Desirous of remaining un- observed, he slunk away and stood under the shade of the trees. Two figures came along the road and paused directly opposite the Black Pond. I tell you," saad a. woman's voice that thrilled Luke Chapman through, that I shall dance with Walter James as often as I like." Against my wishes?" said her companion —a man. You are not yet my master." Why do you epeak so cruelly?" "Yon asked me to go with you. I want to enjoy myself; and I say that I found a dance with Walter James necessary to my enjoyment." But you are betrothed to me, Kate. Surely the wishes of the man you mean to marry ought to weigh with you." If I am not allowed to dance with whom I please, all I can say is that I am very sorry I ever accepted you." Your sorry need not lost long," he replied in an offended voice. Oh, you give me my liberty again! T am obliged to you. It's a pity, though, you should have made a fool of me and of your- self, too, before you knew your mind. Walter James would not act like you." Since you prefer Walter James to me, have him." Very well, Mr. Sherrard, and now, please, leave me." I must see you home." No, you have made me hate you. Go! Rather than have you walk with me, I'll sit here all night?" She crossed to the edge of the Black Pool and actually seated herself. Martin Sherrard looked at her with an air of irresolution. "Go away!" she cried scornfully. Without a word Martin turned upon his heel and marched off. "Will you let me see you home?" Kate started with a scream. The apparition of Luke Chapman was wholly unexpected. His deep voice gave a startling significance to his large, muscular form as he stepped out of the shadows and stood before her. "Will you let me see you home?" he repeated. She rose, and, in spite of herself, shrank from him; but with forced gaiety replied: "I have declined the offer of one lover; I must not accept another." He approached her close and stared into her face. "One lover!" he exclaimed, passionately." Did you break my heart only that you might fling me over and crumble my life into ruins!" Her effort not to appear frightened made her pert. Nobody asked you to be my lover," she said. You encouraged me." It pleased you to faJl in love with me. If you hadn't cared about it all that I could dÓ wouldn't have made you—Oh! What—what She tried to articulate, but the fierce grip of his massive hand upon her throat stayed her voice and rapidly turned her face back. For him his whole aspect had changed. His face was crimson, his huge form seemed to dilate with passion. She tossed her hands wildly, her delicate form writhed strongly in agony; but the remorsaleses pressure of his hand never lessened. His frightful rage wa.s fed by the spectacle of her sufferings. Her struggles presently ceased and her head fell on one side. He raised the lifeless form in his arms a.nd tossed it over the rails into the Bla.ck Pond. The sullen splash of the body in the water made a weird and awful echo. Luke Chapman stood like one fascinated, watching the circles of the tide die in eddies upon the margin of the pond. What sound was that?" said a voice from behind. The criminal started and turned as though he had been shot. An old man, leaning on a stick, stood before him. "I am blind," said the old Titan, "but r there is someone here." I am here," replied Luke. Ra! was that you fell in the water just now:" "•No; I was leaning against the pailings, and one of the rails fell in." The blind man shook his head. 'Twas pummat heavier than a rail." said he. A rail wouldn't make such a noise as that." Luke was trembling. The effort to control his voice made it singularly harsh. I tell you it was one of the rails. They're old and rotten, and my weight broke 'em down, and one fell into the water." "There's naught broken there?" the old man exclaimed. A sudden mistrust- seized Luke. He turned and without a word sped rapidly home. Kate Matthews was missed. It was known she had accompanied Martin Sherrard, and he was applied to for information respecting her. He answered sullenly, and with an air of indifference, that he did not know where she was. They had quarrelled, he said, near the Black POJId. She had offended him by some impertinence, which had resulted in the breaking of their engagement. She refused to allow him to accompany her home and he had left her there. The matter was taken up by the local authorities. Suspicions of foul play were excited. The country was scoured. Martin Sherrard's reference to the Black Pond made them drag it, and there they discovered the c-orpse of the girl, and took it upon a stretcher into the village. The spectators shuddered as the procession passed by. There she lay, her long brown hair, entangled with slimy green stuff, streaming wildly about her; her features distorted, her hands clinched; and with a livid mark upon her slender throat. Simultaneously with the discovery of the corpse Martin Sherrard was apprehended, and a coroner's jury quickly assembled. One of the very first men summoned to sit on the body was Luke Chapman, and by the general consent of his fellow-jurors he was elected foreman. The room in which the remains lay was crowded; the jury collected near the body; fronting them was the accused, Martin Sherrard, guarded on either side by a con- stable. His statement was received with incredulity. It was certain he had quarrelled with her; that he had been the last person with Her; that their quarrel had taken place at the side of the Black Pond, in which she had met her death, and that from the desperate appearance of the girl's face and the marks on her throat she had not committed suicide, and that &he had been strangled. A spasm contracted the features of Lnke Chapman when he saw this old blind man, whom he recognised at once. He had some evidence to tender. He was walking from. Chorley to Hatfield, and when he came near the Black Pond he heard the splash of some heavy body thrown into the water. On reaching the spot, to which he had been ¡ directed by his hearing, which was extra- ordinarily keen, he became sensible of the presence of some person near him. He accosted him, and the person replied. Whoever that person was he was the guilty man. His evasions, his statement that it was one of the rails tha.t had fallen into tho water, and his subsequent escape from any further interrogatories, confirmed the sus- picion. On one point the blind man was confident. Ho had heard the prisoner's voice, and he was net the man. How did he know? By the voice? Could he remember the voice? Ah, if he heard it. Could he describe it? He attempted a des- cription, but his representation was vague and confused. Indeed, the voice he tried to describe might as well have belonged to Martin Sherrard as anyone else. The blinij man's testimony was of no use. i The jury consulted, and were unanimous in pronouncing a verdict of "Guilty" against the prisoner. It fell to Luke Chapman, as foreman, to deliver the verdict. He shrank from the con- sequence of speaking before that keen, blind listener, but speak he must. With a voice as steady as he could make it, he pronounced I a verdict of Wilful murder against Martin Sherrard." He had ha.rdly spoken when the blind man sprang up. There stands the man who did the deed," he cried, pointing in the direction of Luke Chapman. The blood rushed to the face of the former, then left it ghastly as that of his dead victim. He hid his face in his hands, shuddering and groaning. All was confusion. Strong hands were laid upon him, which he did not resist. All he said was, the truth. bursting from him in his horror and terror; I did it! I did it!" He was hurried off to priÆO<m, where he made a full confession of his crime, was tried and sentenced to death. But on the day before his execution he was found lifeless in his ceil. Disease of the heart had forestalled the executioner.

A FATAL MISTAKE. Sitting in tihis quiet, gloomy house alone this evening, I, a solitary, grey-hadred, old woman., arm keeping the melaIroholy anniver- sary of the event which cast a blight on my whole life. Years ago I was the idolised child of the kindest- of -fathers. Sir Hugh Luxmore, my widowed father, was reputed to be the wealthiest man in the county of Wicklow, a.nd to me, Margaret, his only child, in my lovely home of Eagle's Nest, the time flew by in a golden dream. The Luxmores were a handsome race, and after so many years I can say, without conceit, that I did not prove an exception to my ancestors in this respect. My good name and wealth attracted many suitors to Eagle's Nest, but among these I will only describe the two who were at once we happiness and misery of my life. I was sitting a-lone, one summer evening, in a grotto by the lake, my favourite retreat, when suddenly a. hand laid lightly on my arm caused me to turn, and I beheld Gaston Lay standing before me. I oould not go away without peeing you once more, my darling Margaret!" began he. The hope that you might retract your cruel words has held me here, day after day. Say that there is one small ray of hope for me!" Mr. Lay, I intended my answer, given you a week ago. to be final. I expressed then, as plainly as was in my power, and I repeat it now, that I do not love you, and can never be your- wife. The continual renewal of this subject is most painful to me, and if longer persisted in, my friendship for you will be turned into positive enmity." "I would not offend you for worlds, Miss Lux-more, and now my last hope has crumbled to aelbes, I will relieve you of my very obnoxious presence. But in parting will you answer me one question ?" If reasonable, yes." Is any other maji so fortunate as to gain that precious love which is not for me?" Perhaps it will strengthen what I have already said to tell you that I am not quite heart-whole, Mr. Lay." Is it Captaih DynooourtP" I can gratify your curiosity no further on this subject. But it is growing late, and I oannot remain out longer. Good-night, and good-bye for the last time, Gaston" Two months ago the passionate, despair- ing way in which this man -covered my nand with kisses at parting would have excited my strongest sympathy; but during the past few weeks his persistence in declaring his love, which I never reciprocated, had made him almost an object of abhorrence to me. Our families had been friendly for many years, and as a child I was fond of Gaston Lay, but nothing more. During the past season a new star had arisen in my firma- ment which eclipsed all previous ones. This star was my secretly betrothed husband, Geoffry Dynecourt. After leaving me in the grotto that sum- mer evening, Gaston Lay betook himself to his club to see some friends before his departure for America. Finding the reading, room empty, he took the opportunity to write a few urgent letters. This occupation finished, he learned back in his chair and buried his face in his hands. His medita- tions were finally interrupted by the entrance of the cause of his unhappiness, Geoffry Dyneoourt. Dynecourt," he began, abruptly, in three days I leave this country, for ever, probably. For three years I have cherished the idea, that Margaret Luxmore would one day be my wife, but now, after a fnal under- standing, I find I have spoken too late. Her heart is another's, and though I have no word of hers as proof, yet I feel certain that you, Dynecourt are the happy possessor of what I considered my prize. I envy you more than tongue can express, but I bear no malice, and desire that we part friends." I cannot express my sympathy and astonishment at hearing this, Lay. I never supposed that yours *was more than an ordinary friendship for Miss Luxmore. Your candour on the subject invites my confidence, which is this: With inexpressible pride I can say that Margaret Luxmoore loves me— loves me, and has promised to be no other man's wife. This is the bright side of the picture; hear the reverse, which I impart to you in the strictest confidence. In our family, on my mother's side, there is a streak of insanity. There is no proof that it still exists, but in one instance, many genera- tions back, it has proved hereditary. Sir Hugh Luxmore knows this, and, therefore, has refused me the hand of his daughter, and forbidden all intercourse between us. Were it not that Margarat loves me devotedly I should feel it my painful duty to fly from the allurements of her lovely face, but she encouraged me to stay, in the hope that her father may become "reconciled to our mar- riage. It is a hard verdict that he has pro- nounced over us, but my darling has sworn to be true to me. We have occasional stolen meetings in which to discuss our prospects, whjoh at present look gloomy enough." 1 Nevertheless, you are the happiest man on earth, for you have the certa-imy of Margaret's love. I will keep your secret inviolable, Dynecourt. But thia oonversadaoa is too painful for both of us, so it had bettor cease. I shall be off soon now; if you evec car-a to hear of me again this is my address in Now York." And Gaston wrote a few words on ao caafc Which Geoffry placed with the otbers in IdI card case. No-it, good-bye, old fellow. I ghall not see you again probably, as I must spend ray last days in the old oountry with my raïa, fives in Clare, and shall go directly troa there." Good-bye, La.y! Be assured of my best wishes for your welfare on the other side 04 the water." After a few more words at parting ffieg# two men separated never to meet again is this world. The day after the occurrence ntarmted I was again alone in my favourite grotto. thinking, as was my wont, of Geoffry Dyne- court. What happiness could be oma cc-uld my father's prejudice be over-ruled. I should never know a. moment's peace, if I married without his blessing, but'cert-ainSy my present life knew no elements of repoee. I was incurring my father's anger on every occasion that I met Geoffry, yet each day that passed without this meeting was one long, dreary blank for me. At this point my reflections were inter- rupted by a shadow falling across the entrance of the grotto. The next instant Geoffry Dynecourt seized both my hands is his and smothered my exclamations of delighted surprise by a shower of kisses. I have had another proof of my darling's constancy," he began, and them he described tho interview with Gaston Lay. Bat, Margaret-, I have many gloomy forebodings that you may regret discarding a handsoro* young fellow like Lay for the sake of an unhappy wretch such as myself, branded, it were, with the curse of his ancestors, Margaret., the thought that you may one day blast my happiness for ever by sharing your father's opinion concerning me drives me almost wild at times. I believe tliat the curse of insanity died ou tof our family genera-tioat ago; but you have no proof of this, and your father may convince you that his judgment is best." lyia, Geoffry, how can you distress me so by these suspicions. How often musJt I tell you that you are the light and happiness of my life, and I would ra-ther die than give yoa up? It is hard to be content with these short, stolen, visits, but brighter days will dawn for us, I am sure. When words of miu forbids your presence here you may know tfcat I have succumbed to my father's wflij till then, trust me, will you not?" I will for ever." But just then the sound of footsteps rrat an end to our conversation, and, with a hurried farewell, Geoffry left the grotto. I then new to meet my father, who had jost returned from a three weeks' visit in the North of Ireland. The delight of seeing him again put all thought of Geoffry out of my mind for the present, and we went back to the house cilatting merrily. The next evening was dark and gloomy, with unceasing rain. I was sitting alone art my window, gazing out at the very cheerless prospect, When a'servant brought in a sealed envelope addressed to me in a hurried harnt which I eupposed to be Gooffrys, but. on opening it I discovered a card bearing tõe name Ga.ston Lay," with a foreign address written underneath. Scratched hurredly on the back were the words: My Darling,—I am called suddenly away. Will you risk a few moments' delay for a parting word with you? When and when can I see you? Answer immediately. My first and only impression on reading this was one of extreme anger and disgust. I knew perfectly well that Gaston Lay was on the eve of his departure for America. We had a, full understanding with each other that evening by the lake, and had agreed that our parting then and there should be final. It was the height of insolence on his part to renew the subject again, in such direc,t opposition to my wishes. Fired at the thought- of his impertinence, I hastPy enclosed the following lines in a blank envelope, to avoid detection:— From this time forth our destinies sundered. Our parting in the grotto was sufficient. I cannot see you again, and I sincerely thope that change of scene may induce you to forget MARGARET LUXMORB. This note I despatched Tby the messenger who had brought the card, little guessing the effect of my hastily written words. The following day passed without accustomed visit. This did not surprise me; but when day after day elapsed with no tidings of him I became seriously alarmed. At the end of a week I heard from a friend that Captain Dynecourt had left Ireland for a year's residence on the Continent, after which he intended to join his regiment in India. The news struck me with stunning force. Geoffry gone without a word! What did it all mean? With such thoughts cours- ing wildly through my brain, it was so wonder that I became inisensible. For many long weeks I lay ill of e violent fever, from which I jecovered only to lears that during that time there had been no tidings of Geoffry. I finally began, to realise in a duil, despondent way, that he was either cruelly perfidious or really insane. I seemed to grow years older as the months went by, and I settled down into a gloomy apathy which was painfully disturbed by the deatk of my fathe(r. Shortly before he died he called me to him and expressed contrition for his harsh treatment of Geoffry. But tJM< confession came too late to awaken a. ray of happiness in my desolate 'heart. After my father's death people said tbaII Margaret Luxmore was in a rapid decline, and I sincerely hoped they were not mis- taken. Such was the state of things when I received the following letter, which flooded my desolate heart with light and happiness: My Dearest Margaret.—It is possible the explanation I -have to make may effect a reconciliation between us, therefore I beg that you read and consider this carefully before replying. During my last interview with Gaston Lay he left me his card, with this written address in New York; this card I carelessly placed among some of my own in a card-case. A week ago I had occasion to refer to this address; and on looking through my card-case, Gaston's card proved to be missing. This circumstance sur- prised me very much, as I remember that I had opened the case on only one occasion since—when I took out a card to write yoa, asking for a parti ng word before going on an -unexpe,-t-ed journey The cold, scornful answer I received from you in return filled me with a mixture of astonishment, rage, and despair. I went-as you bade me go— and felt that the real approach of the supposed insanity, for which you discarded me, would be n.y greatest blessing. From that time my life became a weary burden. almost too hea-vy to bear. During the last month I had resolved to visit America, and wrote to Gaston Lay on the subject. It was just before sending this letter I dis- covered the loss of Gaston's card. I can account for its disappearance-in only one way, which is that on that dark evening, a year ago, I must in my hurry have written on Gaston's card instead of my. own. The words were scratched by the dim light of a carriage lamp, and the mistake was quite possible, though my culpable carelessness merits the punish- ment I have undergone during the last year. Naturally, under the circumstances, such a message received from Gaston would be offensive to yon, and would have prompted the angry message I received. If my sup- position be true, that the estrangement between us is all a misunderstanding, answer by the mess-eng-er that brings this letter, and I will be with you in a few hours. GEOFFRY DYNECOURT. What a tide cf blissful thoughts burst upon me at reading these linesi It was even as he supposed—our mutual misery of the past year was all owing to an appar- ently trivial mistake—and Geoffry was true to me! I tried to express my joy in a letter to him, but my hand trembled too violently to write more than the word Come." The hour spent waiting for his return soemed an eternity, but my impatience was finally relieved by the clatter of horse's hoofs in the avenue. Almost wild with excitement, I flew to the door in time to see Geoffry'a horse gallop past riderless. A chill stole over me; with a cry of terror I flew out into the night, calling for the servants to follow with ligihts. I rushed wildly through the avenue, and by the lodge gates discovered the object of my search. Goffry Dynecourt lay on the grass apparently dead, from a wound on the temple, caused by being thrown from his horse against one of the stone etatuee at the gate. He was carried into the lodge, and every- thing done that medical aid coula suggest, but all to no effect. My darling did not survive the night, and my papers and sup- plications were fruitless. His last expiring breath was spent in the fa-int articulation Too late." It is thirty years to-night sinoe Geoffry died, yet the dreary pain gnawing at my heart now is as keen as my suffering then.