Title: The Black Cat, Vol. I, No. 5, February 1896
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Black Cat, Vol. I, No. 5, February 1896" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

FEBRUARY 1896 ***



    The Black Cat

    February 1896.

    =The Mysterious Card=,    Cleveland Moffett.
    =Tang-u=,                 Lawrence E. Adams.
    =The Little Brown Mole=,  Clarice Irene Clinghan.
    =A Telepathic Wooing=,    James Buckham.
    =The Prince Ward=,        Claude M. Girardeau.
    =A Meeting of Royalty=,   Margaret Dodge.

    THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO. 144 HIGH ST., BOSTON, MASS.

    No. 5. Copyright 1895 by The Shortstory Publishing Co.



ADVERTISEMENTS


Mason & Hamlin Co.

_The Mason and Hamlin Pianos are the only pianos manufactured containing
the patented Screw Stringer, by virtue of which they do not require one
quarter as much tuning as any other piano made: thus reducing expense of
keeping and inconvenience to a minimum._

_Full particulars and catalogues mailed free on application._

                            Mason & Hamlin Co.
                        BOSTON. NEW YORK. CHICAGO.

       *       *       *       *       *

Free Magic Lantern Book

All about lanterns, stereopticons and views, for Public
Exhibitions—Schools—Home amusement and for everybody How to make
money—265 page illustrated catalogue free.—Send to McALLISTER, 49 NASSAU
STREET, NEW YORK.

       *       *       *       *       *

The 20th Century Head-Light

IS A GOOD THING.

PUSH IT ALONG on your Bicycles and Runabouts.

Betts Patent Head-Light Co., 10 Warren St., N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *

Stock Buyers and Bankers

Take care of money—subject to check—give interest on deposits.

Buy and sell for cash or margin ONLY the securities listed on New York
Stock Exchange

Investors of money

Givers of stock information, by mail or wire.

A member of our firm always on floor of Stock Exchange.

                           Wayland Trask & Co.,
                          18 Wall St., New York.



                              The Black Cat

              A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.

            No. 5.        FEBRUARY, 1896.       5 cents a copy,
                                                50 cents a year.

    Entered at the Post-Office at Boston, Mass., as second-class matter.

      =IMPORTANT.=—The entire contents of this magazine are covered
      by copyright and publishers everywhere are cautioned against
        reproducing any of the stories, either wholly or in part.

       Copyright, 1895, by the Shortstory Publishing Company. All
                            rights reserved.



The Mysterious Card.

BY CLEVELAND MOFFETT.


Richard Burwell, of New York, will never cease to regret that the French
language was not made a part of his education.

This is why:

On the second evening after Burwell arrived in Paris, feeling lonely
without his wife and daughter, who were still visiting a friend in
London, his mind naturally turned to the theater. So, after consulting
the daily amusement calendar, he decided to visit the _Folies Bergère_,
which he had heard of as one of the notable sights. During an
intermission he went into the beautiful garden, where gay crowds were
strolling among the flowers, and lights, and fountains. He had just
seated himself at a little three-legged table, with a view to enjoying
the novel scene, when his attention was attracted by a lovely woman,
gowned strikingly, though in perfect taste, who passed near him, leaning
on the arm of a gentleman. The only thing that he noticed about this
gentleman was that he wore eye-glasses.

Now Burwell had never posed as a captivator of the fair sex, and could
scarcely credit his eyes when the lady left the side of her escort and,
turning back as if she had forgotten something, passed close by him,
and deftly placed a card on his table. The card bore some French words
written in purple ink, but, not knowing that language, he was unable
to make out their meaning. The lady paid no further heed to him, but,
rejoining the gentleman with the eye-glasses, swept out of the place with
the grace and dignity of a princess. Burwell remained staring at the card.

Needless to say, he thought no more of the performance or of the other
attractions about him. Everything seemed flat and tawdry compared with
the radiant vision that had appeared and disappeared so mysteriously. His
one desire now was to discover the meaning of the words written on the
card.

Calling a fiacre, he drove to the Hotel Continental, where he was
staying. Proceeding directly to the office and taking the manager aside,
Burwell asked if he would be kind enough to translate a few words of
French into English. There were no more than twenty words in all.

“Why, certainly,” said the manager, with French politeness, and cast his
eyes over the card. As he read, his face grew rigid with astonishment,
and, looking at his questioner sharply, he exclaimed: “Where did you get
this, monsieur?”

Burwell started to explain, but was interrupted by: “That will do, that
will do. You must leave the hotel.”

“What do you mean?” asked the man from New York, in amazement.

“You must leave the hotel now—to-night—without fail,” commanded the
manager excitedly.

Now it was Burwell’s turn to grow angry, and he declared heatedly that if
he wasn’t wanted in this hotel there were plenty of others in Paris where
he would be welcome. And, with an assumption of dignity, but piqued at
heart, he settled his bill, sent for his belongings, and drove up the Rue
de la Paix to the Hotel Bellevue, where he spent the night.

The next morning he met the proprietor, who seemed to be a good fellow,
and, being inclined now to view the incident of the previous evening from
its ridiculous side, Burwell explained what had befallen him, and was
pleased to find a sympathetic listener.

“Why, the man was a fool,” declared the proprietor. “Let me see the card;
I will tell you what it means.” But as he read, his face and manner
changed instantly.

“This is a serious matter,” he said sternly. “Now I understand why my
confrère refused to entertain you. I regret, monsieur, but I shall be
obliged to do as he did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simply that you cannot remain here.”

With that he turned on his heel, and the indignant guest could not
prevail upon him to give any explanation.

“We’ll see about this,” said Burwell, thoroughly angered.

It was now nearly noon, and the New Yorker remembered an engagement to
lunch with a friend from Boston, who, with his family, was stopping at
the Hotel de l’Alma. With his luggage on the carriage, he ordered the
_cocher_ to drive directly there, determined to take counsel with his
countryman before selecting new quarters. His friend was highly indignant
when he heard the story—a fact that gave Burwell no little comfort,
knowing, as he did, that the man was accustomed to foreign ways from long
residence abroad.

“It is some silly mistake, my dear fellow; I wouldn’t pay any attention
to it. Just have your luggage taken down and stay here. It is a nice,
homelike place, and it will be very jolly, all being together. But,
first, let me prepare a little ‘nerve settler’ for you.”

After the two had lingered a moment over their Manhattan cocktails,
Burwell’s friend excused himself to call the ladies. He had proceeded
only two or three steps when he turned, and said: “Let’s see that
mysterious card that has raised all this row.”

He had scarcely withdrawn it from Burwell’s hand when he started back,
and exclaimed:—

“Great God, man! Do you mean to say—this is simply—”

Then, with a sudden movement of his hand to his head, he left the room.

He was gone perhaps five minutes, and when he returned his face was white.

“I am awfully sorry,” he said nervously; “but the ladies tell me
they—that is, my wife—she has a frightful headache. You will have to
excuse us from the lunch.”

Instantly realizing that this was only a flimsy pretense, and deeply
hurt by his friend’s behavior, the mystified man arose at once and left
without another word. He was now determined to solve this mystery at any
cost. What could be the meaning of the words on that infernal piece of
pasteboard?

Profiting by his humiliating experiences, he took good care not to show
the card to any one at the hotel where he now established himself,—a
comfortable little place near the Grand Opera House.

All through the afternoon he thought of nothing but the card, and turned
over in his mind various ways of learning its meaning without getting
himself into further trouble. That evening he went again to the _Folies
Bergère_ in the hope of finding the mysterious woman, for he was now more
than ever anxious to discover who she was. It even occurred to him that
she might be one of those beautiful Nihilist conspirators, or, perhaps,
a Russian spy, such as he had read of in novels. But he failed to find
her, either then or on the three subsequent evenings which he passed in
the same place. Meanwhile the card was burning in his pocket like a hot
coal. He dreaded the thought of meeting any one that he knew, while this
horrible cloud hung over him. He bought a French-English dictionary and
tried to pick out the meaning word by word, but failed. It was all Greek
to him. For the first time in his life, Burwell regretted that he had not
studied French at college.

After various vain attempts to either solve or forget the torturing
riddle, he saw no other course than to lay the problem before a detective
agency. He accordingly put his case in the hands of an _agent de la
sureté_ who was recommended as a competent and trustworthy man. They
had a talk together in a private room, and, of course, Burwell showed
the card. To his relief, his adviser at least showed no sign of taking
offense. Only he did not and would not explain what the words meant.

“It is better,” he said, “that monsieur should not know the nature of
this document for the present. I will do myself the honor to call upon
monsieur to-morrow at his hotel, and then monsieur shall know everything.”

“Then it is really serious?” asked the unfortunate man.

“Very serious,” was the answer.

The next twenty-four hours Burwell passed in a fever of anxiety. As
his mind conjured up one fearful possibility after another he deeply
regretted that he had not torn up the miserable card at the start. He
even seized it,—prepared to strip it into fragments, and so end the whole
affair. And then his Yankee stubbornness again asserted itself, and he
determined to see the thing out, come what might.

“After all,” he reasoned, “it is no crime for a man to pick up a card
that a lady drops on his table.”

Crime or no crime, however, it looked very much as if he had committed
some grave offense when, the next day, his detective drove up in a
carriage, accompanied by a uniformed official, and requested the
astounded American to accompany them to the police headquarters.

“What for?” he asked.

“It is only a formality,” said the detective; and when Burwell still
protested the man in uniform remarked: “You’d better come quietly,
monsieur; you will have to come, anyway.”

An hour later, after severe cross-examination by another official,
who demanded many facts about the New Yorker’s age, place of birth,
residence, occupation, etc., the bewildered man found himself in the
Conciergerie prison. Why he was there or what was about to befall him
Burwell had no means of knowing; but before the day was over he succeeded
in having a message sent to the American Legation, where he demanded
immediate protection as a citizen of the United States. It was not until
evening, however, that the Secretary of Legation, a consequential person,
called at the prison. There followed a stormy interview, in which the
prisoner used some strong language, the French officers gesticulated
violently and talked very fast, and the Secretary calmly listened to both
sides, said little, and smoked a good cigar.

“I will lay your case before the American minister,” he said as he rose
to go, “and let you know the result to-morrow.”

“But this is an outrage. Do you mean to say—”Before he could finish,
however, the Secretary, with a strangely suspicious glance, turned and
left the room.

That night Burwell slept in a cell.

The next morning he received another visit from the non-committal
Secretary, who informed him that matters had been arranged, and that he
would be set at liberty forthwith.

“I must tell you, though,” he said, “that I have had great difficulty
in accomplishing this, and your liberty is granted only on condition
that you leave the country within twenty-four hours, and never under any
conditions return.”

Burwell stormed, raged, and pleaded; but it availed nothing. The
Secretary was inexorable, and yet he positively refused to throw any
light upon the causes of this monstrous injustice.

“Here is your card,” he said, handing him a large envelope closed with
the seal of Legation. “I advise you to burn it and never refer to the
matter again.”

That night the ill-fated man took the train for London, his heart
consumed by hatred for the whole French nation, together with a burning
desire for vengeance. He wired his wife to meet him at the station, and
for a long time debated with himself whether he should at once tell her
the sickening truth. In the end he decided that it was better to keep
silent. No sooner, however, had she seen him than her woman’s instinct
told her that he was laboring under some mental strain. And he saw in
a moment that to withhold from her his burning secret was impossible,
especially when she began to talk of the trip they had planned through
France. Of course no trivial reason would satisfy her for his refusal to
make this trip, since they had been looking forward to it for years; and
yet it was impossible now for him to set foot on French soil.

So he finally told her the whole story, she laughing and weeping in turn.
To her, as to him, it seemed incredible that such overwhelming disasters
could have grown out of so small a cause, and, being a fluent French
scholar, she demanded a sight of the fatal piece of pasteboard. In vain
her husband tried to divert her by proposing a trip through Italy. She
would consent to nothing until she had seen the mysterious card which
Burwell was now convinced he ought long ago to have destroyed. After
refusing for awhile to let her see it, he finally yielded. But, although
he had learned to dread the consequences of showing that cursed card, he
was little prepared for what followed. She read it, turned pale, gasped
for breath, and nearly fell to the floor.

“I told you not to read it,” he said; and then, growing tender at the
sight of her distress, he took her hand in his and begged her to be
calm. “At least tell me what the thing means,” he said. “We can bear it
together; you surely can trust me.”

But she, as if stung by rage, pushed him from her and declared, in a tone
such as he had never heard from her before, that never, never again would
she live with him. “You are a monster!” she exclaimed. And those were the
last words he heard from her lips.

Failing utterly in all efforts at reconciliation, the half-crazed man
took the first steamer for New York, having suffered in scarcely a
fortnight more than in all his previous life. His whole pleasure trip had
been ruined, he had failed to consummate important business arrangements,
and now he saw his home broken up and his happiness ruined. During the
voyage he scarcely left his stateroom, but lay there prostrated with
agony. In this black despondency the one thing that sustained him was
the thought of meeting his partner, Jack Evelyth, the friend of his
boyhood, the sharer of his success, the bravest, most loyal fellow in
the world. In the face of even the most damning circumstances, he felt
that Evelyth’s rugged common sense would evolve some way of escape from
this hideous nightmare. Upon landing at New York he hardly waited for the
gang-plank to be lowered before he rushed on shore and grasped the hand
of his partner, who was waiting on the wharf.

“Jack,” was his first word, “I am in dreadful trouble, and you are the
only man in the world who can help me.”

An hour later Burwell sat at his friend’s dinner table, talking over the
situation.

Evelyth was all kindness, and several times as he listened to Burwell’s
story his eyes filled with tears.

“It does not seem possible, Richard,” he said, “that such things can be;
but I will stand by you; we will fight it out together. But we cannot
strike in the dark. Let me see this card.”

“There is the damned thing,” Burwell said, throwing it on the table.

Evelyth opened the envelope, took out the card, and fixed his eyes on the
sprawling purple characters.

“Can you read it?” Burwell asked excitedly.

“Perfectly,” his partner said. The next moment he turned pale, and his
voice broke. Then he clasped the tortured man’s hand in his with a strong
grip. “Richard,” he said slowly, “if my only child had been brought here
dead it would not have caused me more sorrow than this does. You have
brought me the worst news one man could bring another.”

His agitation and genuine suffering affected Burwell like a death
sentence.

“Speak, man,” he cried; “do not spare me. I can bear anything rather than
this awful uncertainty. Tell me what the card means.”

Evelyth took a swallow of brandy and sat with head bent on his clasped
hands.

“No, I can’t do it; there are some things a man must not do.”

Then he was silent again, his brows knitted. Finally he said solemnly:—

“No, I can’t see any other way out of it. We have been true to each
other all our lives; we have worked together and looked forward to never
separating. I would rather fail and die than see this happen. But we have
got to separate, old friend; we have got to separate.”

They sat there talking until late into the night. But nothing that
Burwell could do or say availed against his friend’s decision. There was
nothing for it but that Evelyth should buy his partner’s share of the
business or that Burwell buy out the other. The man was more than fair
in the financial proposition he made; he was generous, as he always had
been, but his determination was inflexible; the two must separate. And
they did.

With his old partner’s desertion, it seemed to Burwell that the world was
leagued against him. It was only three weeks from the day on which he had
received the mysterious card; yet in that time he had lost all that he
valued in the world,—wife, friends, and business. What next to do with
the fatal card was the sickening problem that now possessed him.

He dared not show it; yet he dared not destroy it. He loathed it; yet he
could not let it go from his possession. Upon returning to his house he
locked the accursed thing away in his safe as if it had been a package of
dynamite or a bottle of deadly poison. Yet not a day passed that he did
not open the drawer where the thing was kept and scan with loathing the
mysterious purple scrawl.

In desperation he finally made up his mind to take up the study of the
language in which the hateful thing was written. And still he dreaded the
approach of the day when he should decipher its awful meaning.

One afternoon, less than a week after his arrival in New York, as he was
crossing Twenty-third Street on the way to his French teacher, he saw
a carriage rolling up Broadway. In the carriage was a face that caught
his attention like a flash. As he looked again he recognized the woman
who had been the cause of his undoing. Instantly he sprang into another
cab and ordered the driver to follow after. He found the house where she
was living. He called there several times; but always received the same
reply, that she was too much engaged to see any one. Next he was told
that she was ill, and on the following day the servant said she was much
worse. Three physicians had been summoned in consultation. He sought
out one of these and told him it was a matter of life or death that he
see this woman. The doctor was a kindly man and promised to assist him.
Through his influence, it came about that on that very night Burwell
stood by the bedside of this mysterious woman. She was beautiful still,
though her face was worn with illness.

“Do you recognize me?” he asked tremblingly, as he leaned over the bed,
clutching in one hand an envelope containing the mysterious card. “Do you
remember seeing me at the _Folies Bergère_ a month ago?”

“Yes,” she murmured, after a moment’s study of his face; and he noted
with relief that she spoke English.

“Then, for God’s sake, tell me, what does it all mean?” he gasped,
quivering with excitement.

“I gave you the card because I wanted you to—to—”

Here a terrible spasm of coughing shook her whole body, and she fell back
exhausted.

An agonizing despair tugged at Burwell’s heart. Frantically snatching the
card from its envelope, he held it close to the woman’s face.

“Tell me! Tell me!”

With a supreme effort, the pale figure slowly raised itself on the
pillow, its fingers clutching at the counterpane.

Then the sunken eyes fluttered—forced themselves open—and stared in
stony amazement upon the fatal card, while the trembling lips moved
noiselessly, as if in an attempt to speak. As Burwell, choking with
eagerness, bent his head slowly to hers, a suggestion of a smile
flickered across the woman’s face. Again the mouth quivered, the man’s
head bent nearer and nearer to hers, his eyes riveted upon the lips.
Then, as if to aid her in deciphering the mystery, he turned his eyes to
the card.

With a cry of horror he sprang to his feet, his eyeballs starting from
their sockets. Almost at the same moment the woman fell heavily upon the
pillow.

Every vestige of the writing had faded! The card was blank!

The woman lay there dead.

[Illustration]



Tang-u.

BY LAWRENCE E. ADAMS.


Among the most interesting souvenirs that Marston, the naval officer,
brought from the Orient was a curious portrait, evidently the work of a
native artist, painted in brilliant colors on a panel of foreign wood.
More striking than the workmanship of the portrait, however, was its
subject, a small Chinese boy, apparently not more than ten or twelve
years of age, but wearing the uniform of a high Japanese naval officer,
and adorned with a whole string of jeweled decorations.

Here is the history of the portrait:

When the Japanese flagship steamed out of the harbor of Canton on the
day that war was formally declared between Japan and China, it carried
one human being whose name was not on the ship’s rolls,—and he belonged
to the enemy. He became a passenger under the following circumstances:
Just before the ship weighed anchor a small steam launch was sent back
for the commander and superior officers, who had been detained until
late. Among these officers were three Americans, all graduates of the
Annapolis academy, who had been engaged by the Japanese government as
advisers during the coming hostilities. As the little launch wormed its
way through the maze of picturesque craft and sampans,—the curious little
Chinese house-boats,—which crowded the bay, the eyes of the American
officers were riveted by a curious sight. To the top of a wooden stake
to which a sampan was moored a little Chinese boy clung, swaying to and
fro, eyeing delightedly the steam launch as it shot through the water.
In his anxiety to see the fun, however, he had disregarded the weakness
of this reedlike support, which, when a passing sampan collided with it,
suddenly broke off short, plunging the little chap into the water. At
first the launch’s passengers paid slight attention to the accident,
knowing that these little natives are as much at home in the water as on
shore. Indifference, however, gave way to concern when the child’s shrill
cry for help rang through the air, followed by the mad efforts of every
sampan-man within sight to get away from the drowning boy, instead of
to him. It was now evident that the little fellow had become entangled
in a floating coil of rope, and that his drowning was a matter of a few
seconds; yet not one of the Chinese boatmen but watched from a distance
and in silence the small hero’s frantic struggles for life. Indeed, the
little Mongolian was already disappearing in the waters of the bay when
the steam launch, at the signal of the commander, veered in its course,
and a strong arm snatched the little body from the waves. As for the
sampan-men, they watched the rescue with cries of amazement. This was
because of the curious law existing in certain provinces of China that
whosoever saves a life, the rescued one may lawfully look to the rescuer
for support forever after. It is plain that this barbaric edict virtually
puts a premium on death; but the explanation lies in the fatalistic
religion, which holds that whenever a man falls into peril it is by the
express wish and will of the gods, and that to rescue him is to obstruct
their just decrees.

Meantime the officers, who had arrived on shipboard with their protégé
before it had occurred to them to plan for his disposal, were examining
their find as though he had been a new and curious toy. To send him
back to shore was impossible, as they were already steaming out of the
harbor. The only course, then, was to keep him on board, at least during
the voyage to Japan, a plan rendered all the easier by the fact that the
little heathen was, according to his broken Japanese, both homeless and
friendless.

But if the boy had seemed a nuisance in prospect, he was anything but
that in reality. Shrewd as any Bowery ragamuffin, the little fellow’s
alert ways and quick wits were the unfailing delight of the three
American officers. More imitative, even, than the Japanese, he picked
up their language and customs with such incredible ease that in a few
days he was more Japanese than any subject of the Mikado. Indeed, before
many weeks had passed, the entire crew was accustomed to the curious
spectacle of one of the enemy enjoying the most marked attention and
hospitality that the ship could afford.

But, besides his imitativeness and shrewdness, the little Mongolian
had one accomplishment that gained the awe-struck admiration of
his Oriental friends. That was the power of discovering objects at
incredible distances as easily by night as by day, a power due partly to
inheritance, and partly to his profession. The lad was an interesting
specimen of the Oriental class of beings known as rat-catchers. This
means more than the word implies. They are not rat-catchers by vocation
alone, but, strangely enough, they are born to the trade. In addition
to many other talents which he had inherited from a long line of
rat-catching ancestry, little Tang-u,—the “rat,”—as the boy was called,
had the power of seeing his way clearly in almost the dead blackness of
night. Sometimes, indeed, it seemed as though he was endowed with a sixth
sense in this matter, being able to walk straight into a dungeon-like
room and to bring forth any object without the least hesitancy. Courage,
also, he had developed to a rare degree, for the rats in the docks of
China, and in the underground passages from warehouse cellar to cellar,
and sewer to sewer, where he plied his trade, are the fattest and most
savage of the rodent tribe the world over; so large, indeed, that
the skins of two of them will make a pair of gloves, and the carcass
will supply a family with dried _fillet de rodent_ for a week. These
rat-catchers spend days and weeks in the underground passages, and day
and night are almost the same to them.

Now that he could no longer exercise his strange gift in his accustomed
way, Tang-u would often amuse himself by standing for hours on the deck,
peering out through the mist or the darkness in search of things hidden
to common eyes. Indeed, among the Americans he soon became known as the
“kid with the telescopic eye,” while the commander, on various occasions,
allowed him to accompany the men in the lookout, where he discovered
objects often in advance of the field-glass. Even the dark waters of the
ocean were not proof against the vision of the little heathen, whose
bright eyes would detect curious fish as they swam around the ship,
many feet below the surface; while a fog that blinded the ordinary eye
proved no obstacle to his keen sight. Before long every one came to the
conclusion that a boy whose eye was equal to a combined field-glass and
search-light was a valuable addition to a modern warship; and on more
than one occasion during the months of the war the little Chinaman’s
discernment was appealed to as gravely as though he had been thirty years
old and a Japanese officer, instead of a ten-year-old Chinaman.

On one occasion, indeed, Tang-u’s sixth sense made him for five minutes
the ship’s commander.

It was late in the evening before the memorable engagement of Port
Arthur. The flagship, which, having passed unscathed through months of
war, had been recently ordered to this stronghold, had just anchored in
the harbor, and preparations were making for the night’s defense. The
torpedo net had not yet been lowered, but the whole ship resounded with
the bustle and hurry of preparations for what every one felt would be the
most decisive battle of the war. Meantime Tang-u stood alone near the
bow, peering out through the darkness, as was his custom upon arriving in
a strange place, in search of some new and interesting sight. Suddenly,
above the confusion, there rang out a shrill little scream, and Tang-u,
with his eyes bulging from his head, rushed towards the admiral, and,
pointing out to sea, frantically shrieked: “Tor-pee-to! tor-pee-to!!”

Instantly every eye followed the direction of the tiny finger. The sea
looked unruffled. Not a soul on the deck, even by straining his vision
to the utmost, could verify Tang-u’s cry. Yet so accustomed had they
become to relying upon the little fellow’s keen sight that the admiral
gave instant orders to lower the net. In a moment there was a sound of
hurrying feet, a hundred hands were raised to the ropes, and the great
net fell into place. Before the splash of the falling net had died
away, there was a thundering explosion, and a tremendous upheaval of
water, like that of a mighty geyser, shook the huge ship from bow to
stern. It was indeed a torpedo that Tang-u’s keen eyes had detected far
away through the approaching night. But swiftly as it came, the boy’s
marvelous vision had been swifter. The well-aimed missile of destruction,
that in a moment more would have destroyed the flower of the Japanese
navy, had, in coming in contact with the netting, exploded harmlessly,
flooding the deck with water. The great warship with over three hundred
souls had been saved from annihilation,—and by one of the enemy.

A few months later, when Tang-u’s exploit was brought to the notice of
the Mikado, that dignitary conferred upon the little Chinese rat-catcher
the rank of honorary admiral in the Japanese navy.

And it was in this way that a heathen nation furnished the youngest naval
hero in existence.

[Illustration]



The Little Brown Mole.

BY CLARICE IRENE CLINGHAN.


Three years ago, while spending a few weeks in New York, I was invited
to the home of Paul Fancourt, the famous naval architect, whose family
residence is on the shore of the Hudson, and but a short distance from
the city.

I found my old college friend, whom I had not seen for several years,
busily engaged with a set of drawings; but, notwithstanding his
enthusiasm in his work, he looked worn, haggard, and unhappy. On the
afternoon of the last day of my visit I pinned him down to a serious
talk, in the course of which I begged him not to undermine his health by
too close application to his favorite pursuit.

With a flitting smile he exclaimed: “Why, it’s all that keeps me alive!”
After a moment’s thought he added: “Of late years I have been weighed
down by the memory of a dark spot in my life—an unwritten chapter—until
at times it seems as though I must make a confidant of some one.”

Upon my assurance that I would be a most willing listener, he related the
following history:

“Twelve years ago,” he said, “when I was twenty-three, I met a singularly
handsome girl, a débutante enjoying the triumphs of her first season.
It does not speak well for the good sense of either of us, but I am
compelled to admit that within six weeks we had met, loved, married,
quarreled, and separated.

“The trouble between us was incompatibility of temper. This sounds
insignificant, but there was certainly an enormous lot of incompatibility
and much temper! We were very unhappy—at least, I was. We both said
things that could never be forgiven or forgotten. Before the honeymoon
was over I left my wife in this house, with a corps of servants and a
handsome balance at my banker’s, and started on a trip around the world.

“I was absent five years. During that time there was no communication
between my wife and myself, although I frequently heard of her through
correspondence with friends. Her conduct during my absence was most
exemplary. She remained in the place where I left her, but gave up
society. She studied art, making much progress, and I was informed that
her pictures and illustrations were selling for extravagant sums. She
seemed to have struck a popular art note and was playing upon it.

“These bits of information neither entertained nor amused me. Indeed, I
thought myself beyond the point where anything she might say or do could
interest me. Not that I had learned to care for any one else, but simply
because our short association had utterly destroyed my early boyish
affection. Before I had been absent a year her very image seemed effaced
from my memory.

“On my arrival in New York, however, I was irritated to learn that not
a penny of the money I had left at her disposal had been touched. I
believed she had done this for the purpose of annoying me and causing
me to look mean in the eyes of the world,—she, meanwhile, earning
her livelihood by her art. Being abundantly able, I wished to make a
settlement upon her; but, as she absolutely refused to talk with the
lawyer I sent to her, I was compelled, repugnant as the idea was, to seek
a personal interview. To this end I telegraphed Mrs. Fancourt on the
third morning after my arrival, asking if she would receive me at five
o’clock that afternoon on an urgent business matter.

“In less than an hour the reply reached me. I tore open the envelope and
read the one word which comprised the answer, standing alone, naked of
punctuation, on the yellow sheet: ‘Come.’

“‘That means war to the knife,’ I thought, tossing the paper on my
dressing-table. ‘No words wasted.’

“As I made preparations for the trip I caught myself glancing at the
letter now and then. ‘_Come!_’ After all, it had a certain charm of its
own, that word. Like all affirmative expressions, it possessed drawing
power. The more I looked at it, the more alluring it appeared. Then I
examined the signature. It was simply ‘Leila.’ Really, it was almost
coaxing.

“Arriving in this village just at nightfall, I hurried towards the
house which had been the scene of so much unhappiness. To my surprise,
it gleamed with lights, as if for some festivity. As I sprang up the
steps and laid my hand upon the bell the door was suddenly opened by a
maid-servant whose face was strange to me.

“‘Where is madame—Mrs. Fancourt?’ I asked.

“‘In the drawing-room, sir,’ she answered, and then discreetly
disappeared.

“As you know, the drawing-room in this house is connected with the front
hall by an arch, hung with portières. These were drawn. Pushing them
aside, I entered, and suddenly found myself in the warm glow of a big
wood fire which had been lighted in the fireplace. This crackling, cheery
blaze and the waning light of the October day were all that lighted the
room. There in the center she stood, clad in an exquisite gown of palest
yellow, and, as I moved towards her, I saw two hands, instead of one,
outstretched. The next moment I was holding them both, the cool, soft
fingers clinging to mine while she whispered: ‘Paul!’

“For a few seconds we looked at each other silently, breathlessly; then,
obeying that irresistible law that causes the needle to be drawn towards
the magnet, I bent and kissed her.

“All this took place as I have described it; but it would be impossible
for me to account for the feelings that actuated me. I know only that all
my bitterness towards my wife, all my dislike for her, in one revulsion
of mind changed to the most passionate admiration and affection from
the instant her lips touched mine. Dazed, astonished, I could not find
voice to speak, but Leila chatted quite naturally as she led me to a big
armchair on one side of the fireplace, while she threw herself on a low
divan piled with cushions on the other side, putting out a slim little
yellow-slippered foot to the blaze.

“‘It’s such a sorry day that I ordered this big fire, so your home
would seem pleasant after your long absence,’ said she, in her mellow,
vibrating voice. Then, looking at me across the fire, with a winning
smile, she added: ‘Besides, it was so good of you to come out to see me.’

“I looked at her, still amazed. I now saw that she was much changed.
Perhaps she was not so handsome as she had been in her early womanhood;
but what she had gained more than made up for that which she had lost.
She was thinner; her face had grown ethereal, luminous, spirituelle.
Surely, she had suffered, this fiery, savage-tempered girl, for the
hardness and selfishness had melted away from her face and left it
softened, lovely, and changefully brilliant. At first I thought her eyes
were darker; but I soon made up my mind that it was because the pupils
were so dilated. Then I knew she, too, was under the tension of strong
nervous excitement. Her manner, however, gave no suggestion of this. She
talked rapidly and almost continually, saying, apparently, whatever first
came into her mind.

“‘I suppose it seems frightfully dull to be here again. The
merry-go-round has stopped, and here you are at the place from which
you started. The curtain has dropped, has it not, dear? You’ve been
everywhere and seen so much; and now everything is at a standstill and
you feel a bit giddy from sudden lack of motion. It’s much the same with
me, only my merry-go-round isn’t so merry and not so far around. I’ve
just rotated between here and the New York art schools, and lived very
quietly. But I believe I’m doing all the talking. Would you like to
say anything—just a little word? Well, I won’t let you, for I know two
things. You are tired, and no man feels like talking before he has dined.
So not a word until after dinner.’

“In the dining-room another surprise awaited me. A miniature banquet
had been prepared, evidently in my honor, for I was the only guest. The
room was adorned with palms and vines, and the table was gracefully
decorated with roses and ferns, among which gleamed the silver and china.
Over all was the soft, almost moonlight effect of wax tapers. The only
objection I could make to anything was the flowers on the table, which
partially concealed the face which I was now hungry to look upon. It
was what I believe is termed the Celtic type of beauty, quite common
among Anglo-Saxons,—dark brown hair approaching black, gray eyes, and a
complexion of creamy fairness.

“We were long at dinner, talking of everything but the subject I came to
introduce. I became reminiscent of travel; she was easily entertained and
was herself brilliant, serious, and amusing in turn. As we walked back
to the drawing-room at the close of the meal, I whispered, like a lover:

“‘Leila, I came to scoff, but I remain to pray. Can you forget the past?’

“She promptly put her hand over my mouth. ‘The past must remain a sealed
book,’ she commanded.

“And, so it did.

“In the hour that followed, spent before the open fire, I inadvertently
referred more than once to the forbidden subject. But each time I was
stopped by a warning gesture and an impressive, ‘Remember, not a word. We
begin life anew from this hour.’

“With every moment my desire for a reconciliation grew stronger. But when
at length she yielded, it was only on two conditions: first, that I would
never refer to the past; and, second, that our future be consecrated by a
ceremony of marriage.

“I readily agreed to the first condition and took the solemn vow
required; but at the second stipulation I laughed. But she said,
very seriously, that she could be reconciled to me under no other
circumstances. So, yielding to her whim, I ordered a carriage and we
drove to the house of an elderly clergyman in the village whom we well
knew, who, on hearing our story, willingly agreed to repeat the ceremony;
and, lightly, almost laughingly, the words of five years before were once
more said.

“Then followed five months of the most absolute happiness that was ever
accorded, it seemed to me, to human beings. It was an atmosphere of love,
joy, and ineffable content. The beauty of my wife, her changed nature,
and fine intuitions grew upon me day by day. There never was, I am sure,
a woman like her. I lived in her love; and yet I lost it forever on
account of a thing of such infinitesimal importance that it drives me
nearly mad to think of it. This object was no more nor less than a little
brown mole on my wife’s neck, just below her left ear.

“It came about in the following manner: One day, having returned from the
city on an earlier train than I had anticipated, I went to Leila’s room
and found her lying on a couch, fast asleep, her hands clasped behind her
head, and one slippered foot crossed over the other—in fact, the posture
in which Du Maurier’s famous Duchess was wont to ‘dream true.’ Knowing
she was a sound sleeper it occurred to me to softly kiss the little
brown mole to which I have just referred—something I had not thought of
since the days of our first short honeymoon so long ago.

“Carefully I pushed aside the masses of tumbled hair that lay across her
soft white throat, and bent over her. No—the other side—but, surely—what
did it mean? Her round neck of infantile whiteness and smoothness lay
before me, _but the little beauty spot was missing_! Nor was there the
slightest evidence that it had ever existed.

“I went downstairs and smoked a pipe on the piazza to think over this
mystery. But the longer I thought, the less I understood it.

“That evening I said to my wife: ‘Sweetheart, where is the little brown
mole that was just under your left ear?’

“For a moment she looked at me; then she said softly, but with a certain
power in her voice: ‘Have you forgotten your vow?’

“I stared a moment; then recalled my promise never to allude to the past.
Somehow, it impressed me differently now than when I had first taken it.
To be sure, I laughingly begged Leila’s pardon, assuring her there would
be no more lapses from rectitude in that direction. But from that moment
a strange restlessness took possession of me. I felt something impending.
In the morning I would wake with a singular sense of oppression, which
when traced to its cause always arrived at the same starting-point,—the
little brown mole which should have been on my wife’s soft white throat,
but was not.

“It was about this time that I noticed that there was not a likeness of
Leila in the whole house. When I went away there were many scattered
about,—water-color sketches, paintings in oil, photographs, and etchings,
for Leila had always been proud of her beauty. Now not one remained; even
the oil-painting that had been finished, as companion to mine, just,
after our first marriage, had been removed, though mine hung in its
accustomed place. I was about to call attention to this fact and ask the
reason, when I remembered that this circumstance, also, belonged to the
past, concerning which I had promised never to question, and was silent.

“My mind had now become so perturbed that it continually demanded
something on which to focus its attention. For this reason, I turned
my thoughts to my favorite pursuit,—naval architecture,—which had been
neglected for months. Before my trip abroad I had left in a sandal-wood
box in the library some unfinished plans, which I now decided to
complete. But as the box was missing and the servants knew nothing of its
whereabouts, I climbed to the attic to look for it myself.

“After an hour spent in a fruitless search I was turning to leave, when
my eye fell upon a large picture lying on its face among a heap of papers
in the darkest corner. I knew the frame, and the first glance at the
picture told me I had happened on what I was not looking for, but had
wished for,—a portrait of my wife. It was the one that had been painted
directly after our marriage.

“Dragging it from its hiding-place, I carried it to the long, low window,
and, propping it up against an old dressing-table in a position that
would catch a good light, I carefully wiped off the dust and cobwebs and
stood back to view it.

“As I looked I became as a man stricken with death! The face on the
canvas was not the face of the woman I loved and worshiped as my wife!

“How long I stood benumbed by this discovery I do not know. After the
first shock lessened and my senses began to act, I fell to studying the
portrait and comparing it with its living double.

“That there was a remarkable resemblance between the two it is
unnecessary to say; but at the same time there were so many points of
difference that I was amazed that I could have been so easily deceived.
There was, in fact, what might be termed a ‘family’ resemblance such as
often exists between two sisters, who, when together, are not thought
to be remarkably alike, but when seen apart are often mistaken for one
another. In the picture the ears were larger, the mouth smaller, the chin
less decided, the forehead a trifle narrower, and the eyebrows heavier.

“While I stood revolving in my mind this terrible mystery I heard the
sound of hurried footsteps. My wife had returned from her afternoon walk.
I went downstairs, arriving in the lower hall just as she entered. She
came sweeping in with her usual vivacity, her eyes bright, a faint rose
tint on her cheeks, enveloped in that atmosphere of exhilaration that
was like a breath of ozone, and which gave her a charm above ordinary
women.

“Something in my appearance must have startled her, for she paused at
sight of me and waited for me to approach. I went to her, kissed her, and
then, clasping her gloved wrists in mine, looked steadfastly at her and
said, ‘Dear, where is Leila?’

“In a moment her brilliant color faded. Her eyes fell. Then, suddenly
wrenching herself free from me, she moved unsteadily towards the
staircase, pausing with her hand on the banister only long enough to say,
‘You have broken your pledge. Leave me alone until to-morrow. Then you
shall know everything.’

“Then I heard the sound of her garments on the stairs, presently the
closing of her door, and the key turning in the lock.

“All that night I restlessly walked the floor of my room, trying to bring
order out of the chaos of my mind. Fear, love, trust, suspicion, all by
turns possessed me; but in the end my belief in the goodness of the woman
I loved conquered. At early dawn I knocked at my wife’s door. There was
no response. I tried the knob; it yielded and I entered. There was a dim
light in the room; but she was gone. On her dressing-table was a letter
which told me all.

“The first few paragraphs are sacred to me alone. I will begin her letter
where she commenced her own history.

“‘My name,’ she wrote, ‘is Olive Berkeley. I was born in England, the
only child of a retired naval officer. My father had a moderate fortune,
and for eighteen years I lived a quiet, carefree life in a Devonshire
country-house. During my nineteenth year my father’s income was so much
reduced by unlucky investments that we moved to London that I might study
art, with a view to supporting myself. Two years later my father, who
was my only near relative, died suddenly, leaving me less than a hundred
pounds clear of debt. By this time, however, I felt confident of success
in my profession, and, thinking America offered a better field than
England for a self-supporting woman, I came to New York. Here I took a
studio with the intention of giving lessons in drawing and painting.

“‘But the pupils did not come; my pictures failed to catch the popular
fancy; my money was soon spent. Overwork and worry culminated in
illness, and I soon found myself deeply in debt without a friend in the
world to whom I could apply for aid. In this extremity I accepted the
first work I could obtain—a situation as companion to Mrs. Paul Fancourt.

“‘This woman, whose violent temper and moody disposition had driven
her husband to foreign countries before the honeymoon was over, was
the terror of her household. She, I believe, took a dislike to me from
the first on account of a singular resemblance between us, and also
because she saw I was her equal by birth and education. At any rate, she
delighted in humiliating me in every way, as well as in making my duties
as laborious as possible. I hated to touch a morsel of food under her
roof, but my unmet obligations made it impossible for me to resign my
position, as I did not know where else I could obtain remunerative work,
and I had a horror of debt. But, though I outwardly kept my temper, a
volcano of hurt pride and misery burned within me.

“‘One Wednesday night I went to my room more than usually worn and
enraged by Mrs. Fancourt’s caprices. It had been one of her stormiest
days, culminating in the discharge of her butler, and the bitterest
invectives against the other servants. I had just retired, and had hardly
fallen asleep, when the bell over my head rang violently. Springing up, I
slipped on a dressing-gown and went downstairs. Mrs. Fancourt was sitting
in an easy-chair reading a novel. The hands of the clock on the mantel
pointed to eleven. Without looking at me, she motioned to a table not
three yards away, saying insolently, “Bring me that paper-knife.”

“‘“Never,” I answered passionately.

“‘With this she rose and came towards me, striking me full in the face
with the paper-covered novel in her hand.

“‘Then it was as if all my pent-up self-control snapped. I sprang toward
her, seized her by the shoulders, shook her until my strength was spent,
and flung her from me.

“‘She fell heavily, striking her temple upon a sharp corner of the
fender, where she lay quite still. I hurried forward and spoke to her.
There was no response and I lifted her face to the firelight. To my
horror I found that she was dead.

“‘And what was to become of me? I had killed her in a fit of passion,
I could not deny, though it was by accident. How could I prove my
innocence? I was without friends or money. When my debts were brought
to light, might not theft and the fear of discovery be advanced as the
motive for the crime? If not the scaffold, I saw, at least, prison bars
before me.

“‘Instinctively looking around for something to wrap about me, I caught
up a satin-lined garment of Mrs. Fancourt, and, slipping it on, rang
the bell. Wishing to spare the one who answered it a shock, I met the
housekeeper in the hall.

“‘“What is it, Mrs. Fancourt?” asked the woman very respectfully,
evidently mistaking me for her mistress.

“‘In that instant there flashed into my half-crazed brain the wild idea
that I might personify Mrs. Fancourt for the time being. The death of
the poor, unknown English girl could be of little moment, while the
announcement of the death of Mrs. Fancourt would cause much more comment.

“‘With this idea, I told the housekeeper to come to me in half an hour;
then, with the courage of desperation, I clothed the dead body in one
of my dresses, arrayed myself in one of Mrs. Fancourt’s gowns, darkened
my eyebrows to simulate hers, and let my hair fall about my face in
confusion.

“‘Meantime, I had determined to insure myself against detection by the
three remaining servants by getting rid of them at once, a plan rendered
all the easier by the fact that it simply carried out Mrs. Fancourt’s
mood of the day. In fact, it had been her custom to vent her feelings by
discharging her entire corps of servants in a body and with no warning;
and their comings and goings caused not the slightest comment.

“‘The scheme succeeded to perfection. The other servants, terrified
by the catastrophe, gladly left the house at once, especially as each
was provided with two weeks’ wages in advance. Mrs. Fancourt’s only
sister and near relative was traveling in Europe; her husband was at
the antipodes. Of course there was a coroner’s inquest; but, as nothing
was proven to the contrary, a verdict of death by accident was brought
in. The whole matter passed off very quietly; few outside the household
knew that Mrs. Fancourt had an English companion or that she had died.
Those who did thought it very kind of Mrs. Fancourt to give the companion
burial in her own family lot.

“‘Then I fell sick, and for weeks raved with brain fever. When I
recovered I was but the ghost of my former self, and friends of the dead
woman who came to call after my recovery said they never would have known
me.

“‘As soon as I was able I devoted myself to art, which now, by a freak
of fortune, brought me large returns. I not only paid the debts of my
“deceased English companion,” but supported myself comfortably without
touching the fund left at the disposal of Mrs. Fancourt by her husband.
That I never could have done. I should have been happy but for the grief
I felt at having—though unwittingly—caused the death of another. There
has never been a moment when I would not have willingly yielded up my
life, could it have restored that of my victim. The fact that I usurped
her name and position was due to a momentary cowardice. There was only
one thing belonging to the dead woman that I coveted, and that was her
husband!—and not even him until that night of nights when he came into
my monotonous life and kissed me with that quiet air of ownership and
dominion!

“‘I had dreaded your coming, fearing you, above all others, would
discover the fraud. And when your message reached me, and, on the impulse
of the moment, I sent that fatal answer, “Come,” it had hardly left my
hand before I regretted it. For at once it flashed upon me how impossible
it would be to account for all or to conceal all. But from the instant
that you stood before me I was conquered by another feeling than that of
dread,—I loved you. Love and not fear held me to the lie. And it was my
respect for you and for myself that made me insist upon that marriage
ceremony.

“‘I always knew that should you discover the deceit I should leave
you—not because I felt guilty of crime—for of that I have always felt
morally innocent—but because I won and married you under false pretenses.
I cannot bear to lose one iota of your respect and remain where I can
miss it.’”

Here Paul Fancourt closed his story. I heard the high wind lashing the
trees; darkness was growing dense; the early November evening was closing
in.

“It was seven years ago to-night that I first met her in this house,”
went on Fancourt.

“Surely you have taken measures to find her?”

“I have done everything under heaven. Once in awhile I grow desperate and
try everything over again. But it is useless. And yet I have a feeling
that she will return, and that if she does it will be to this house. So I
am just waiting here, waiting—

“Well, John?”

“A lady to see you, sir,” said the butler at the door.

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know, sir; she wouldn’t give any name.”

Fancourt rose and went towards the door; but before he reached it his
visitor pushed past the servant and stood,—a tall, veiled figure in
black,—clutching nervously at the drapery at the door. Then she threw
back her veil. I caught a glimpse of a marvelous face and hair sprinkled
with snow about the temples, of two dark, beautiful eyes fixed on Paul.

“I—I couldn’t stay away—any longer,” she whispered huskily.

Fancourt rushed towards her with an inarticulate cry. Then, with hands
outstretched, “My wife,” he gasped, “I—”

But what followed I shall never know; for the next moment I had retreated
into the library, where for half an hour I sat diligently reading a book
held upside down.

What I do know, however, is this: All that I have told happened three
years ago; and up to the present time Paul Fancourt’s third experiment in
matrimony has proved a triumphant success.

[Illustration]



A Telepathic Wooing.

BY JAMES BUCKHAM.


Dr. Amsden was utterly and hopelessly in love with beautiful Miriam
Foote. But, in spite of his six feet of splendid manhood—or, perhaps,
because of them—the young doctor was so timid in the presence of the
fair sex, and particularly in the presence of the fascinating Miriam,
that he could no more bring himself to utter a syllable of sentiment to
that young woman than he could walk up to the venerable and dignified
president of the State Medical Association and tweak his nose! The two
things seemed equally preposterous and impossible.

At this juncture of affairs, curiously enough, there fell into the hands
of Dr. Amsden a book that offered a magical solution of the problem that
perplexed him,—viz., how to make love to the woman who had ensnared his
heart, without being conscious of doing it. This book was called “The Law
of Psychic Phenomena,” and its central theory was that the “subjective
mind,” or soul, of any person, by a process of auto-suggestion, may
enter into communication with the subjective mind of another person,
at any distance whatsoever. A condition of sleep, either cataleptic or
natural, is induced by the agent in himself; but previously to falling
to sleep he must concentrate his whole mental energy and will-power upon
the determination to convey a certain image, or message, or both to the
subjective mind of the person with whom he wishes to communicate. Then
away goes his spirit—his phantasm—while he is buried in unconscious
slumber, appears in his very image to the person designated, and delivers
the message with his very voice and manner. Truly, a marvelous theory,
and of untold significance to timid lover’s and bashful solicitors of
every kind.

According to this theory, Dr. Amsden, in order to make telepathic love
to Miriam Foote, need simply drop to sleep, on a certain night, with a
strong determination to send his phantasm to the young woman with an
eloquent plea of affection. That was all. It was not even necessary for
him to furnish the general substance, introduction, or any portion of
this glowing address. He need simply specify that it should be passionate
and rich in verbal color,—ordering a proposal much as he would a dinner
at a first-class hotel, with perfect confidence that at the proper time
it would be served in proper form. To be sure, this method of wooing was
not in strict accordance with the traditional etiquette of such affairs.
It might even be considered that this proposal by a sort of phantasmal
proxy was hardly fair to the object of the experiment. A ghost is, after
all, but a ghost, whether it be attached to a bodily tenement or be
simply a spirit at large, and even the most heavenly minded young woman
might cherish a prejudice in favor of a fleshly lover. On the other hand,
however, the choice lay not between two methods of wooing, but between
this and none at all; and how easy, how delightful a method of making a
proposal of marriage. It could all be performed, like a painful surgical
operation, during merciful sleep. Then the lover when next he met the
lady in his every-day person would know by her manner whether she had
accepted or rejected him. The more Dr. Amsden considered this fascinating
project the more trivial seemed his scruples against its fulfilment.
Indeed, he asked himself judicially, was it not a fundamental doctrine of
metaphysics that only the soul was real, and so-called matter was simply
the shadow cast by the spirit? This being the case, his vulgarly named
ghost was in reality no ghost at all, while his bodily presence was the
real phantasm.

Having arrived at this comfortable, though to the lay mind slightly
abstruse, conclusion, Amsden wavered no longer. “I will do it,” he said,
jumping to his feet. “I will do it to-night—or—no, a few days must
be given to subduing the flesh and concentrating the energies of the
subjective mind. On Saturday evening, at the time of my regular weekly
call, I will make an end to this painful uncertainty. Though I cannot but
hope that she looks upon my suit with favor, I shall never dare to broach
the subject of love openly in the flesh. My ghost—or, at least, what is
vulgarly known as a ghost—shall speak, and I will abide by the result.”

On his return from dinner that evening Dr. Amsden locked all the doors
and darkened all the windows of his apartments. Then, after smoking a
meditative cigar, he went to bed. It was barely eight o’clock in the
evening when his head touched the pillow, but, as he had planned to send
his image to Miss Foote at precisely nine o’clock, before that young
lady should have retired to her chamber, he wished to have ample time to
get himself to sleep. Besides, he was really tired and drowsy, which was
certainly a favorable condition for his experiment. He had feared that
he would be excited and nervous; but already the suggestion of sleep
which he had been constantly reiterating for the past hour was beginning
to tell upon his brain. The formula, “I am about to go to sleep, I am
becoming sleepy, I sleep,” was having a most magical effect.

Dr. Amsden dropped into the misty chasm of slumber in less than fifteen
minutes after getting to bed. But that fifteen minutes had been spent in
strenuous command, on the part of the objective mind, that the subjective
mind should go, at precisely nine o’clock, to the home of Miss Foote,
present itself in the exact and correct image of the lover, and make an
ardent appeal to the affections of the lady.

In about two hours Amsden awoke, bathed in perspiration, and feeling
thoroughly exhausted. He was not conscious of having dreamed at all,
and yet it seemed to him as if he had just shaken off a most horrible
nightmare. He arose, lit the gas, and consulted his watch. It was just
ten o’clock. “Thank heaven,” he cried, “I did not wake before the time!”
He went back to bed, and fell instantly into the deep slumber of complete
exhaustion, from which he did not wake until late the next morning.

For two days he did not see Miss Foote. Then he summoned up courage to
call upon her. She came downstairs looking pale and anxious, and the
moment that Amsden’s eyes fell upon her his heart began to throb with
suffocating violence. Undoubtedly his experiment had succeeded as far
as the proposal was concerned—but should his attitude be that of the
accepted or rejected lover?

Hardly noticing his stammering expressions of solicitude for her altered
looks, Miriam led the way into the drawing-room, and, motioning him to
a chair, seated herself in a dim corner at the other side of the room.
Then, with her blue eyes lowered and her fingers twisting nervously, she
said:—

“Dr. Amsden, I owe you an apology. When you called two nights ago and
asked me to be your wife I was too much agitated to answer you. To tell
the truth,” she continued, reddening a little, “the eloquence of your
words, their poetry and melody, so surprised and overcame me that I could
not answer as you deserved. When I left you and walked to the other side
of the room it was only that I might gain possession of myself, and when
I looked up and found you gone—”

“Gone!” exclaimed Amsden, groaning audibly.

“Yes, gone like a spirit (here Miss Foote paused, while Amsden clutched
at his chair, feeling as though his whole body were turning to sand and
dribbling down upon the floor) without a word of good-bye, I feared that
I had mortally offended you and that you would never come back to—”

“Then you were not angry because my ghost—because I left like a ghost?
You wanted me to come back? But why?”

“I—I think you ought to know,” said the girl, blushing.

And the next moment Dr. Amsden was kneeling at her feet.

“I did it in a dream—no, I don’t mean that—I mean this is a dream. I
ought to explain.”

“No, don’t try. I understand,” said Miriam softly.

The girl’s head sank forward on his shoulder. She was crying a little,
but she suffered her lover’s arms to slip around her waist, and into his
trembling hand she pressed her own.

It was done, the impossible, the inconceivable! And even Amsden felt in
his heaving heart that he had never done anything so easy and so utterly
delightful in his whole life.

It was true that Miriam did not understand, but Amsden felt that at such
a juncture any explanations would be not merely out of place, but even
indelicate.

To his credit be it said, however, that on one occasion before his
marriage he attempted to confess to Miriam all the circumstances of his
proposal; but while he was still struggling with his introduction she
stopped him with a peremptory gesture.

“I don’t understand a word about subjective and objective minds,” she
said, in a wounded voice. “All I know is that you made me the most
beautiful proposal I had ever heard—I mean imagined—but of course if you
want to take it back by saying that you were not responsible at the time—”

Whereupon Amsden was obliged to consume two delightful hours in assuring
his sweetheart that he was a blundering fool, and that his metaphysical
nonsense, translated, meant that it was his best self that had made that
eloquent proposal, and that he was only afraid his every-day self was not
one tenth good enough for her.

[Illustration]



The Prince Ward.

BY CLAUDE M. GIRARDEAU.


The hospital was almost finished, but, as there were several wards
still unendowed, the board of managers gave a reception. Ostensibly, to
enable a curious public to inspect the building; in reality, to obtain
benefactions. Among the visitors was a Mr. Prince, a Southerner, and
reputed wealthy. He seemed greatly interested in the hospital, and
selected for endowment a single ward on the second floor, department of
surgery. It was at once completed at his expense and christened with his
name.

Its first occupant was his wife. She looked like a dying woman to the
superintendent, but he entered her case on the new books without comment,
and she was examined by the surgeons in charge. They advised an immediate
operation as the only hope—and that a slight one—of saving her life. In
fact, they knew she could not recover either with or without it; but the
operation would be an interesting one.

“I did not think I was so ill,” said Mrs. Prince pathetically, as the
nurse took her back to her room.

“Guess she hasn’t looked in a glass lately,” was the attendant’s unspoken
comment.

“She looks for all the world like a starved cat,” she said to another
nurse, later on, “with her big green eyes and her black hair. Won’t I
have a sweet time combing all that hair? It’s about two yards long. She’s
more hair than anything else.”

The morning of the operation found Mrs. Prince cold with nervous terror.

“Do you think I will suffer much?” she inquired of the nurse tremulously.

“Oh, no, indeed,” replied that functionary, with professional
cheerfulness, plaiting away at the endless lengths of hair. “If I was
you, I’d have about half of this cut off.”

Mrs. Prince looked at the long, heavy plaits, then up at the nurse, her
gray eyes darkening.

“If you cannot take care of it,” she said quietly, “I will tell the
superintendent to send me another woman.”

The nurse colored.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said awkwardly.

When the toilet of the condemned was completed Mr. Prince came in with a
huge handful of roses, smiling genially as his eyes fell on his wife.

“Why, P’tite, you look like John Chinaman in that funny shirt.”

She smiled in return, but wanly.

“I suppose I do look absurd.” She held out her arms; he filled them with
the roses, and sat down by the narrow bed. She turned aside her head to
hide the sudden tears. He drew her plaits of hair from neck to heel and
bent to kiss her cheek as the doctors came in to administer ether.

“Madame Kanaris is here,” he said softly, “and begs to see you. May she
come in?”

“Madame Kanaris!” She stared up at him with dilating eyes. “When did she
come to B⸺? What is she doing here?”

“The nurse said I might come in for one little moment,” said an
exquisitely melodious voice at the door directly facing the sick woman.

The men all looked up. A woman, young, beautiful as the day, stood on
the threshold, her tender deep blue eyes fixed upon the patient with an
expression of the liveliest emotion.

Her radiant hair, her dazzling complexion, her superb figure enveloped
in furs, and the indescribable grace of her attitude made the sick woman
appear grotesquely skeleton-like and ghastly.

It was Life confronting Death. Death raised itself upon an emaciated arm,
and spoke to Life:—

“I cannot see you now, madame. The physicians have just come in, as you
see. I beg that you will go away.”

Prince sprang to his feet and approached the visitor.

“I did not know the physicians would be here,” he murmured. “Shall I take
you downstairs? Will you wait for me in the parlors?”

While he was speaking to Madame Kanaris his wife motioned to a surgeon.
“I am ready. But, O doctor, are you sure it will make me quite dead? Are
you sure I shall not be just iced over, with a frightful consciousness
underneath? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” said the surgeon pityingly, stealing a glance at the
figures in the doorway. “You will be blotted out of existence during the
operation. Do not be afraid.”

He took her cold hand into a warm, compassionate palm. In a few seconds
she was carried past her husband and Madame Kanaris, who were still
talking in the corridor.

Prince was startled as the procession of doctors and nurses came out of
the room.

His companion glanced at them, and her brilliant color faded.

“Do not leave me,” she gasped, holding him by the arm. “Take me away. I
should not have come.”

Prince hesitated. The stretcher was being carried into the elevator. He
turned to the beautiful, agitated woman beside him, drew her hand through
his arm, and they went downstairs together.

The operation was long, difficult, and dangerous, taxing both nerve and
skill. The operating-room was very hot. One of the nurses fainted, and a
young doctor, sick at heart and stomach, helped her away, glad to get out
himself.

The operating surgeon, a keen, self-possessed practitioner, looked at the
patient when all was over, with a deep breath of relief.

“The very worst case of its kind I ever saw,” he remarked to a colleague.
“It will be a miracle if she recovers, although I would give one of my
ears to make it possible.”

After three days of delirium and torture the woman died.

It was the twenty-eighth day of February.

Madame Kanaris came into the ward alone, and stood for a few moments
looking down at the face on the narrow pillow.

“She could never have recovered in any event?” she said questioningly to
the nurse.

“I don’t see how she could,” was the calm reply.

Madame put out a flashing hand.

“May I see?” she said with delicate curiosity.

The nurse lifted a layer of batting.

The beautiful visitor gave a cry of dismay and clapped the hand to her
face.

“I thought it would make you sick,” said the nurse quietly. “I guess you
had better go to the window.”

Madame stood with her lace handkerchief pressed to her lips and gazed
upon the ice and snow without.

Presently she said:—

“Mr. Prince desires the hair of his wife. Will you kindly cut off the
plaits close to the head.”

“It does seem a pity,” observed the nurse, snipping at the plaits
stolidly, “to take the only thing from her she seemed to care much about.
I guess they can bury my hair with me.”

“She is not to be buried,” replied madame softly, still gazing upon the
whiteness without. “It would be a pity to burn such splendid hair, would
it not?”

“Oh!” said the nurse, “I see. Going to send her to the new crematory?”

“Are you a New Englander?” gently inquired the lady, turning her dark
blue eyes upon the inquisitive attendant.

“I guess I am. Why?”

“I have always heard that New Englanders asked a great many questions.”

The nurse colored and snapped the scissors vigorously through the last
strands of hair. The thick, short locks stuck out stiffly behind the dead
woman’s ears. The nurse held out the snakelike braids to Madame Kanaris,
who drew back a little.

“Please put them in this box for me,” she said quickly. “Mr. Prince will
send for it.”

In leaving the room she touched the dead forehead lightly with a finger,
crossed herself, and murmured something in a strange tongue.

“Catholic, I guess,” sniffed the nurse, watching her as she went down
the corridor, with that mingling of envy and unwilling admiration that
the beautiful Greek always succeeded in implanting in the bosoms of her
less-favored sisters.

In a few days’ time Prince and Madame Kanaris returned to the hospital
with a picture they desired hung in the ward. It might have been
an idealized portrait of Mrs. Prince,—the face of a saint against a
background of sunset, or the head of a martyr dark against flame, as the
imagination of the beholder should suggest.

The frame was oval with an inscription below the head. It was also heavy,
of plaited bronze, with a boxlike backing. It was the work of a finished
artist, however, and, being idealized, the portrait was beautiful. It was
hung above the bed, as the other wall spaces were occupied with cheerful
landscapes.

Madame Kanaris laid a loose bunch of pomegranate flowers on the
pillow beneath it, and she and Prince left B⸺ the next day—as they
thought—forever.

       *       *       *       *       *

The new hospital was a popular one, but for some reason the Prince Ward
remained vacant. There was nothing mysterious about this; it had been
bespoken many times for patients, but a change of mind would occur so
naturally that at first nothing was thought of it. In a year or so,
however, the continued vacancy began to be a subject of remark among the
nurses. But they were too busy and too practical to regard it in any
other light than that of a provoking pecuniary loss to the establishment.

One night in January the night nurse of the second floor, at one end of
which was the Prince Ward, sat drowsily waiting for medicine periods or
the sound of bells from the various rooms.

It was the last night of her watch, and she was worn out from a month’s
sleeplessness.

Toward midnight the tinkle of a bell roused her. She went from door to
door trying to place it. As she neared the Prince Ward it sounded again.

She paused at the door.

“Very strange,” she thought; “surely there is no one in here?”

But to make sure she went in. The room was icy cold.

A low moan came from the narrow bed.

“Water!” murmured a voice inarticulately. “Water!”

“Wait until I turn on the light,” said the nurse, going towards the
chimney-place. She stepped on something, tripped, would have fallen;
caught at the bed and grasped a long thick rope of hair. She lifted it
and laid it alongside the figure it evidently belonged to.

“Water, water!” moaned the inarticulate voice again, close to her ear.
The nurse went out, much puzzled, and returned with a glass. Two icy
hands touched hers as she held it to the lips.

“How cold you are!” she exclaimed, “and this room is like a frozen—frozen
tomb,” she added. “You must get warm.”

“No, no!” said the voice, ending in a low, wailing moan.

The nurse looked curiously down at the face on the pillow. Scarcely
anything was visible but two large dark eyes and two immensely long
snake-like plaits of hair.

“Did you come in to-night? Are you waiting for an operation?” asked the
perplexed nurse.

“Yes.” The voice was inarticulate again.

“How strange the day nurse or the head nurse did not tell me. I don’t
know what to make of it, at all. You are sure you do not want any light
or heat?”

The reply was so inarticulate that she bent down to listen. A faint odor
turned her quite sick. She went out hastily into the corridor, leaving
the door ajar. She was worried; nay, more, she was conscious of a feeling
a trained nurse has no excuse for. She had a crawly sensation along her
spine.

“I must be dreaming,” she said to herself angrily.

She went back to her chair and table, and, in spite of heaviness and
sleepiness, listened for the bells with a qualm of absolute fright
whenever the sound came from the end of the corridor.

At last, just before daybreak, the bell she was straining her ears for,
rang again.

She plunged her head into cold water, took a glass in her hand, and
approached the Prince Ward. For a second she paused at the door; a wild
impulse to dash down the glass of water and rush shrieking through the
corridor almost overpowered her for a heart-beat. Then her training
reasserted itself; she smiled satirically in her own face and went in,
leaving, nevertheless, the door wide open behind her. She paused beside
the bed.

“Thirsty again? I have brought some water for you.”

She slid a hand to lift the head. She bent over the pillow with a steady
glass.

The bed was empty. It was not even made up. There were no sheets on it,
no pillow-slip.

The room was like a frozen tomb. The glass dropped from her hand,
deluging the mattress with its contents.

She rushed from the room. Fortunately, her felt slippers made no sound.
The door swung to noiselessly behind her. She fled up the corridor, and
flattened her back against the wall at its furthest end, shaking as with
a mortal chill.

There she remained until the gray light of a snowy day crept through the
window at her side.

When the day nurse, rosy and refreshed, came to relieve her, she said,
eying the night nurse a little curiously:

“I guess you’d better tumble into bed as soon as you can, Miss Evans. You
look as if your month’s work had about finished you.”

The nurse whose turn came next was the one who had been with Mrs. Prince.
The last night of her watch was the twenty-seventh of February. She had
had an unusually hard month’s work, and was exceedingly tired and not a
little cross when, at midnight, a bell rang which she could not locate.

“Some plaguey wire out of gear again,” she said, provoked, after a
second, fruitless search for the elusive tinkle. She had turned at the
end of the corridor, and stood just by the Prince Ward. The bell rang
sharply.

“Well, I want to know!” she said aloud. “If it isn’t in this ward!”

She went in immediately and would have turned on the light, when she was
stopped by a curiously familiar, though indistinct, voice.

“Water—water!”

“For the land’s sake,” ejaculated the Down-Easter, going toward the bed.
“What’s this?”

Her foot slipped on something; she tripped and came near falling. She
stooped and lifted from the floor a long, heavy plait of black hair. She
stood stupidly, holding it in her hands, staring down at the bed.

“If I was you,” she said mechanically, “I’d have about half of this cut
off.”

Two large dark eyes stared up at her.

“Why!” she stammered, too stupid to know when she was frightened, too
trained a nurse to understand, “Why, you died!”

A low laugh echoed in the room.

“How cold you are in here,” the nurse went on. “What will you have?”

“Water,” said the thick voice inarticulately.

The nurse went out. As she closed the door behind her she was seized with
a sudden cold shaking.

She went to the room of the head nurse and woke her.

“Say, Mrs. Waxe, who’s the patient in the Prince Ward? Why wasn’t I told
about her?” Mrs. Waxe was wide awake instantly.

“Prince Ward? There’s nobody in the Prince Ward, Miss Hall.”

“Yes, there is, too. I’ve just seen her and spoke to her. Seems to me
I’ve seen the woman before. But the one I knew died after the operation.”

“What?” asked Mrs. Waxe keenly. She had been in the hospital only six
months, but she was a personal friend of Miss Evans. “Who was she?” Miss
Hall gave a brief account of the case.

“What was her name?” inquired Mrs. Waxe, sitting up, large and alert.

“Why, it was Prince,” said the night nurse. “She was the wife of the man
who endowed the ward.”

Mrs. Waxe gazed for a moment into the stolid face before her.

“I think you have had a dream,” she said calmly.

“I don’t sleep on duty, whatever the others may do,” retorted Miss Hall.

Mrs. Waxe lumbered out of bed, untying her cap strings.

“Go back to the floor,” she said quietly. “I’ll be coming to you after a
bit.”

She dressed quickly and presently waddled into the corridor.

“Now, you go and get to sleep in my room, Miss Hall, and I’ll be taking
your place to-night.”

The hospital was filled to overflowing with grippe cases. The epidemic
was raging in the city, and the Prince Ward was the only vacant spot in
the place. Its defective register had prevented its use. It could be but
insufficiently heated from the fireplace.

Mrs. Waxe went to it at once and turned on the electric light. She then
stripped the bed of everything except the springs, carried the small
table to the other side of the room, put out the light, took up the hand
bell, and locked the door as she went out.

She then sat down at the table in the corridor, opened a Bible, and began
to read.

She had read perhaps fifteen minutes when a bell tinkled. Her long
experience enabled her to locate it almost immediately. She went to the
ward adjoining the Prince.

No; the patient there had not rung for her, but was awake and sure the
bell next her on the right was the one. It had rung before.

The Prince Ward was on the right. As Mrs. Waxe stepped into the corridor
the bell sounded again.

It was in the Prince Ward. The Englishwoman was convinced that an ugly
trick was being played.

Thoroughly indignant, she unlocked the door and stepped within. A low
moaning and a peculiar unpleasant odor arrested her progress towards the
electric button. The first turned her ruddiness pale; the second made
her sick. Her foot slipped; she stumbled, twisted her ankle, and, being
a heavy woman, she fell on her knees, catching at the bed-rail. A hand
crept upon her shoulder, striking cold through her gingham dress.

“Water!” breathed a hoarse voice at her ear inarticulately. “Water!”

In spite of the strained ankle, the head nurse got upon her feet. She
staggered out of the room, followed by the moaning cry of “Water—water.”

She shut the door behind her and crept along the corridor, holding to the
wall; then called one of the private nurses and bade her light up the
Prince Ward. The woman did so, remained in the room a few moments, then
came back leisurely.

“Well?” said Mrs. Waxe.

“Well,” returned the nurse, “I opened the window. Did not know the ward
had been used lately. Pretty bad case, wasn’t it?”

“Bad case?” repeated Mrs. Waxe, a light shining through her nostrils to
her brain. “Yes; perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” repeated the private nurse satirically. “I guess I ought to
know by this time. I should say there hadn’t been much left of that case
to put under ground.”

She went back to her case, wondering at the stupidity of the English
generally and in particular.

Mrs. Waxe put her aching foot into hot water and meditated.

       *       *       *       *       *

The twenty-eighth of February dawned dark, for a blizzard from the
northwest was blowing. It was the worst storm of the last half of the
century.

Men were lost and frozen to death in the streets while going from their
business houses to their homes.

A lady attempting to alight from a carriage at one of the railroad
stations, in order to make an outgoing train, slipped, or was blown down
upon the icy pavement. She was taken up insensible and carried to the
nearest hospital.

“I do not think we have even a corner vacant,” said the superintendent;
“but of course she cannot leave the building now.”

She sent for Mrs. Waxe.

“The Prince Ward is unoccupied?”

The head nurse glanced at the stretcher and hesitated.

“Yes; but it is next to impossible to heat it, you know, doctor.”

“Do the best you can,” replied the superintendent. “The woman should have
been taken to the Emergency, but you see what the weather is.”

Mrs. Waxe divested the traveler of her velvet and furs, her lace and
linen, the bag of diamonds secreted in her bosom, her long perfumed
gloves, her silk underwear, her jeweled garters and hairpins. She left
nothing on her but the black pearls in her ears and the magnificent rings
on her fingers; then slipped a hospital shirt on her fair body, and
tucked her shining curls into a cap. The fall had fractured the bone of
one leg and several ribs.

The ward surgeon, entering, started at the sight of the beautiful face
on the narrow pillow. Instantly the scene of two years before renewed
its living colors on the sensitive film of memory. He even recalled the
name of the woman before him, so deeply had that scene and her beauty
impressed him.

“It is Madame Kanaris,” he said.

The patient opened her dark blue eyes.

“I am Mrs. Prince,” she corrected; “I wish to send a telegram to New York
at once.”

She turned white; fainted again. The broken bones were attended to with
expedition.

Before night the telegram was sent. There had been some delay of letters,
some misunderstanding that had sent Mrs. Prince to B⸺ by mistake.

That lady’s brilliant eyes examined her surroundings.

“I am in the ⸺ Hospital, in the Prince Ward?” she said presently.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Waxe, disturbed by the coincidence of names.

“I selected the fittings and furniture for it,” Mrs. Prince went on
softly. “But I did not think, at the time, of myself.” She looked at the
picture above the bed.

“You must have that picture taken down for me, Mrs. Waxe. I do not
like to have anything ‘hanging over me,’ even if it is the counterfeit
presentment of a saint.”

An ugly sneer disfigured her delicate lips for a moment.

“I will have it taken down as soon as possible,” said the head nurse;
“but it cannot be done immediately, my dear. We have sent out all the
nurses we can spare, and extra beds have been put in nearly every
ward. I am too heavy to risk myself on a ladder, but I will see the
superintendent about it after a bit. It is well fastened up, I assure
you.”

Towards night, not hearing from Mr. Prince, madame grew nervous, then
feverish.

In a sick-bed for the first time in her life, strapped immovably to
its narrow confines, her head beginning to throb with agony, she lay
suffocating with impatience, suspense, and apprehension, she,—the spoiled
darling of every good fortune.

The raging storm shrieked unceasingly about the House of Pain like a
legion of infernal spirits.

There were so many others more critically ill than herself, and the
number of nurses was so reduced, that she was of necessity left alone
much of the time.

Just before midnight Mrs. Waxe came in, weary, but the embodiment of
strength and kindness.

“I think,” she said coaxingly, “you must try and get to sleep. I shall
give you something to quiet you, and then turn off the light, and I hope
you will soon drop off. I shall be near you in the corridor. If you want
anything just tinkle the bell. Close to hand, you see, my dear.”

She administered a draught, straightened the pillow, then bent down
impulsively and kissed the lovely, disquieted face maternally. Two
beautiful arms closed about her ample neck, and the patient was sobbing
on her generous bosom.

“Come, come, you must be brave. They did not want me to tell you, but
a telegram came half an hour since for you. Your husband will be here
sometime toward morning. Will you go to sleep now, like a good child? Ah!
I thought so.”

She turned off the light and went out, leaving the door half open. After
making the round of the corridor she dropped into a chair. Her head fell
forward on the table before her. In all her experience as a nurse she had
never done such a thing before,—she fell asleep at her post.

She was roused by the sharp, continued ringing of a bell. She sat up,
dazed, rubbing her eyes.

The superintendent, the resident physician, and a stranger were coming up
the wide staircase. The bell had never ceased its imperious, insistent
summons.

Without stopping to think, the head nurse ran, ponderously but swiftly,
to the Prince Ward. As she stepped within the threshold the bell suddenly
ceased, but the air was vibrating. She ran to the mantelpiece, reached
up, and turned on the light.

The three men were at the door, the fur-clad stranger, a tall and
handsome apparition, carrying a huge handful of roses. They all stared at
the figure of the head nurse.

Petrified in position, her fingers on the key of the electric bulb, she
stood with her usually florid face, now paper white, turned over her
shoulder, her starting eyes fixed upon the bed.

Mr. Prince entered quickly, then drew back with a loud cry of fear and
horror. The roses fell from his hands upon the edge of the bed and over
the floor.

The heavy picture had dropped like a stone from its anchor in the
cornice. Its edge had struck the sick woman on breast and forehead, but
it had fallen painting upward. From beneath it uncoiled on either side
two immensely long, ropelike plaits of black hair, between which the
painted face smiled upon the white faces by the bedside.

The superintendent was the first to recover his wits. He sprang forward,
lifted the picture, wondering at its weight. As he did so, the back,
loosened by the fall, fell to pieces; a heavy bronze jar rolled from
the face on the pillow, scattering a thin, fine, dust-like ashes that
powdered the luxuriant curls, and floated above the stiff, stripped
figure in a fine, impalpable cloud.

Then the ashes settled slowly upon the lifeless body, upon the scattered
roses on the floor, and upon the splendid furs of the man who shrank
against the wall and put up his hands against the dreadful sight.

[Illustration]



A Meeting of Royalty.

BY MARGARET DODGE.


It was not according to the schedule that the special train, consisting
of a locomotive, an empty baggage car, and the regally equipped private
car, Priscilla, should stop for three quarters of an hour at Mayville
Junction. Indeed, in his instructions, the Great Man who was the car’s
sole occupant had provided for a wait of only five minutes. It is a
matter of record, however, that for forty-five minutes the official
train waited at the lonesome little station on the Indiana prairie. What
happened in those forty-five minutes is now for the first time given to
the public.

After the Great Man—who was no other than the president of the A. M. &
P. Trunk Line, which joins the Atlantic Ocean with the Great Lakes—after
the Great Man had taken a perfunctory turn about the little station and
had asked a few stereotyped questions of the station agent, he went back
to his seat in the Priscilla’s white-and-gold drawing-room, and sat down
to a game of solitaire. Being a very young president—not over forty—the
Great Man was not specially fond of solitaire. But he was still less fond
of the thoughts engendered by a two weeks’ solitary tour of inspection
through the flat, drab, malarial country of the middle West. After
prolonging his luncheon to the latest possible hour, and extracting all
the comfort to be obtained from a single mild cigar, he found himself
longing to exchange his gold-and-white grandeur for even the plebeian red
velvet of a day coach, where he could observe the vagaries of country
bridal couples, and invite the confidence of smudgy small boys with prize
packages of magenta lozenges.

It was while the Great Man was indulging in these vain visions, much to
the detriment of his success at solitaire, that he was startled by these
words, spoken in a shrill little voice, apparently just at his back:

“If you please, sir, are you the king?”

The moment that elapsed before the Great Man could whirl about in
the direction of the voice was long enough for several detached bits
of “Alice in Wonderland” to flit through his brain. What he saw,
however, when faced around, was simply a very solemn, very pale little
girl who stood with one thin hand on the door knob, and one small
scarlet-stockinged leg well advanced, while her hazel eyes gleamed at him
anxiously from under a fuzzy brown hat.

“Really,” said the Great Man, good humoredly, “I don’t know—why, yes, now
that you speak of it—I suppose I am a sort of king. At least, I believe
newspapers call me a railroad king. Won’t you come here and sit down?”

The small girl shut the door and slid to his side in a gait that combined
a hop and a glide. “I suppose it isn’t just the thing to sit down in—in
the presence of royalty,” she said, as she perched on the edge of a big
tapestry-cushioned Turkish chair. “But, you see, I am a princess myself—a
fairy princess,”—she added, with an emphatic shake of her fluffy yellow
locks.

“Indeed.” The “Alice in Wonderland” memories suddenly revived. “That’s
very interesting, and I don’t like to doubt the word of a lady. But all
the fairy princesses of my acquaintance have had wings and spangles, and
carried star-tipped wands—and—and all that,” concluded the Great Man
vaguely.

“But that was because you saw them during the performance,” said the
small girl, clasping her thin little fingers over one scarlet-stockinged
knee. “I wear wings and spangles and carry a wand myself, in the
evenings, and at the Wednesday and Saturday matinées. I’m the Princess
Iris,” she explained, “in the Golden Crown Opera Company; and if I wore
my fairy clothes all the time my wings would fade and the spangles would
wear off.

“But you know,” said the small girl, “you don’t look a bit like the kings
of my acquaintance. They all wear gilt crowns and velvet and ermine
robes, and carry scepters. And, besides, you are a great deal too young.”

The Great Man laughed. “I am afraid you have me there; at least, I
mean, I suppose you are right,” said he, leaning back in his chair and
regarding the Princess Iris with twinkling eyes. “I don’t look my part.
But, then, I am not performing now myself. We are in the same boat—that
is—”

“Oh, you needn’t bother to explain,” said the small girl, “I understand
slang. Only I don’t talk it myself, now, except when I forget, because
the Queen doesn’t like it.”

“So there is a queen, too, is there?” said the Great Man, the merry lines
around his blue eyes growing deeper. “Dear me, we shall soon have the
entire royal family.”

“Yes, there is a queen, and she is not to be laughed at,” said the
child gravely. “In fact, it’s partly about her I’ve come. I—I wanted an
audience.”

“Well, really,” said the man nervously, “I should like to accommodate
you, but”—looking at his watch—“my train leaves in about one minute, and
I don’t see exactly how I can.”

“Oh, my!” said the small girl, “can’t you even make your own train wait
while a princess talks to you?”

“Well, since you put it that way, I suppose I can,” said the Great Man,
pressing an electric button. Then, as the black porter appeared, listened
deferentially to his whispered order and glided out again, the royal
personage continued:

“Very likely I don’t get half the fun out of being a king that I might.
You see, I sometimes forget the extent of my power.”

“Ah! yes, that’s the very thing I’ve come to speak to you about,” said
the child. “I—I hope you will excuse me if I hurt your feelings,” she
went on gently, “but sometimes it’s necessary, you know.”

Upon her hearer’s assurance that he would endeavor to bear up under
censure, the small girl continued:

“It’s like this: I s’pose you’ve such a big kingdom you don’t get a
chance to straighten out all the things that go wrong.”

“And something has gone wrong, now, has it?”

“Yes, as wrong as can be. But,” reassuringly, “of course I understand you
couldn’t have known about it. It’s the train to Washita. It was put down
on the time-table, you know, to go at four this afternoon, and we all
came down to the station to get it. And now they say it may be two hours
before it arrives; so, instead of getting to Washita at half-past six, it
will be long after nine, and we’ll be too late to give our performance.
And that will be a very d-r-eadful loss to the Queen.”

“How’s that?” said the Great Man. “One night can’t make very much
difference.”

“Oh, but this is Saturday night, and the whole house was sold long ago.
Washita’s the best show town in the State, you know, and the Queen was
counting on the money.

“You see, it’s been a dreadfully poor season in the profession, and even
the Queen has lost heaps. And just now when she found out we’d be late,
her face got all white, and she hung onto my hand, oh, so hard, and said—”

Here the child stopped suddenly and, digging her little fists into the
chair, blinked very fast and caught her breath. Then,

“It quite upsets me to think of it,” she said in a muffled little voice.
“The Queen said that she was afraid that the company would have to
disband now, and the season’s hardly begun.”

Two great tears rolled down the white little face.

The man stirred uneasily. There was a deep line between his eyebrows.

“That is hard luck!” he exclaimed. “But, then,” with an affected
hardihood, “after all she’s only a play queen, you know, and I presume
she’s—well—roughed it before. Anyway, you’ll probably all find nice
engagements soon, and be just as well off as you are now.”

“How can you say that?” the child flashed out. “Of course we can’t be so
happy with any one else. There never was any one half so sweet, and kind,
and beautiful as she is. And we all love her dearly. And, besides, if the
rest are make-believes, she isn’t; she is a real queen all the time!”

The child had risen. Her shabby hat had fallen to the floor and her big
hazel eyes blazed angrily out of her pale little face. The next moment,
with a shame-faced lowering of her head, she slid nearer to the Great
Man’s side.

“I—you must excuse me if I hurt your feelings,” she said humbly. “The
Queen wouldn’t like it if she thought I’d done that, and on her
account, too; but, you see, I really couldn’t bear to have her called
a make-believe. And now,” she continued, “I think I’ll go back to the
station. My auntie and the Queen will be wondering where I am.”

“Wait a minute,” said the man, drawing the child to his side. “I want to
know more about this real Queen. You know they say all the royal families
are connected, and she may be a relative of mine.”

“No, she isn’t,” said the small girl, leaning a little shyly against the
royal shoulder; “because she told me once that she had no relations left
since her father died. You see, she used to live in a big palace in New
York in the winter and a stone castle in Newport in the summer, and she
had horses, and carriages, and diamonds, and—and all those things. But
she wasn’t a queen because she had them, you know, but they belonged to
her because she was a queen.

“Well, one day her father died, and they found he’d lost all his money,
and some that belonged to other people besides, so the Queen had to go on
the stage and get some money to take care of herself and to pay back what
he—he borrowed, you know. And that was four years ago, and now she’s paid
back all Mr. Denbigh’s debts except two thousand dollars—”

“Mr. Denbigh!”

“Why, what’s the matter?” said the child half turning. “Ain’t you feeling
well? Your arm trembles so.”

“Oh, yes; quite well. Only I felt so sorry for your Queen.”

“I knew you would,” said the child enthusiastically. “Well, as I told
you, she paid it all back except just that two thousand dollars, and this
season she expected to finish it. And that made her so happy, because she
doesn’t like being a make-believe queen, and it was only on her father’s
account she did it.”

“You’re sure it was only that? She didn’t care to be famous, after all?”
said the Great Man, clutching the tiny hand hard.

“Why, how queer your voice sounds,” said the little girl in a motherly
tone. “I’m sure you can’t be feeling well or you wouldn’t say such
things. I should think that being a king yourself you’d know that when
a person’s been a real queen once she wouldn’t care about being a
make-believe one.”

“But that’s just like men; they never do understand. Now there was one
that the Queen knew. She told me just a little about him one day when
things seemed very make-believey to her. She put it in a kind of story,
you know, but I liked her so much I knew who it was about.

“Do you know, he thought just what you did, because she wouldn’t marry
him instead of going off for what he called a—a ‘career’? And he’d known
her ever since she was a little girl, too, and ought to have known
better, oughtn’t he?”

“Yes,” said the Great Man huskily, “I suppose he ought. But you see the
Queen didn’t tell him about—about the money she was paying back. And she
was a great deal younger than he, and beautiful, with a voice that people
said would make her famous, and he thought that she really cared more to
be a stage queen than anything else.

“Tell me, dear, has she still the ring that he gave her when she was a
little girl?”

“The teenty little forget-me-not ring that she wears on a chain and often
kis— But—how did you know?” stammered the child, twisting around and
staring up into his face. “I never told you the rest, and your eyes are
so strange—”

But the Great Man had risen and was striding rapidly up and down the car.
“And Alice really cared for me—she cares for me still,” he murmured.
“While I, who ought to have stood by her have only hindered her. And now
she needs help, and I with all my money haven’t the right to help her.
It’s too late—I can never make up for the time I’ve lost—”

“I hope you don’t mind,” said the small girl who stood as if petrified
just where he had left her; “but you spoke so loud I couldn’t help
hearing the last. And if you mean the train to Washita, it isn’t too
late. If you could get it here in fifteen minutes—and I s’pose that’s
easy, for a king—we could give the performance, even if the curtain did
ring up late.”

“Train to Washita,” murmured the Great Man—“Why, yes; of course! How
stupid of me,” as he pressed the electric button. “Let’s see, how many
are there of you?”

“Twenty-two now,” said the child, “but I don’t quite—”

“And you haven’t had the best of fare in the hotels?”

“Well, it hasn’t been very bad, but yesterday and to-day we’ve pretended
we didn’t want any lunch, because we knew how things were with—”

“Never mind,” said the man with something like a groan, “I only wanted to
know on account of the orders.”

Then, to the porter, “Ask the conductor to step here.”

“The Golden Crown Opera Company have been delayed here,” he said, when
that official appeared, “and I want them to take this special train to
Washita. Put the whole party in my private car. Tell the engineer he must
make extra time to get them there at six-thirty. Telegraph ahead for a
clear track, and to Casstown for supplies, so that dinner may be served
in this car. When the train is ready to start step over to the station
and tell the company that the train for Washita is waiting. And be sure
that everything is done to make them comfortable. I will follow on the
regular express.”

As the conductor withdrew, the Great Man found himself suddenly caught in
the embrace of what seemed a small-sized tornado. “You really mean it?”
cried the child, half sobbing. “We’re not going to disband, after all!
Oh, I was sure from the beginning that you were a really, truly king,
even if you didn’t wear a crown and velvet robes. But,” with a sudden
clouding of her face, “you won’t go away just when the Queen’s coming?”

“Well, you see, the fact is,” said the Great Man, setting the Princess
carefully in the depths of the Turkish chair, “these meetings with
royalty are so unusual for me that I feel hardly prepared for another one
the same day. So I think I’ll follow in a common car. And in the morning
I’ll ask for a private audience with the Queen.”

[Illustration]



ADVERTISEMENTS


Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral CURES Coughs, Colds, and Diseases of Throat and
Lungs.

Gold Medal at World’s Fair.

_FIFTY YEARS OF CURES._

       *       *       *       *       *

PEARS’

“And fast by hangs this pendant to the world”—=It’s Pears’=—The soap
that, like a rich jewel, brightens even beauty’s charms—Matchless for the
Complexion—Luxurious for the bath—and cheapest, for it lasts longest.

All sorts of people use it. All sorts of stores sell it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thousands

OF SUFFERERS from KIDNEY, LIVER, and URINARY TROUBLES have

Lost Their Lives

because they failed to use the only medicine which will positively cure
these disorders, and which for

Over 40 Years

has been recommended by the foremost doctors, has been used in the
leading hospitals, and has SAVED LIVES in every part of the globe. That
medicine is

HUNT’S REMEDY

Correspondence with our Consulting Physicians (_free of charge and
confidential_), solicited.

                            HUNT’S REMEDY CO.,
                             PROVIDENCE, R.I.

       *       *       *       *       *

Au Chat Noir.

“A Black Cat in the House Means Money.”—_New England Tales._

A Daugherty-Visible Typewriter In the Office Means Money Saved.

PRICE $75.00.

Rapid, Durable, Efficient. Not as Old as Many, but BETTER than ANY.

Gold Medal at Atlanta for Merit.

Machines sent on trial. Send a reference.

THE DAUGHERTY TYPEWRITER CO.

                         Factory: Kittanning, Pa.
                        140 Dearborn St., Chicago.
                       15 Sixth St., Pittsburg, Pa.
                         112 So. 6th St., Phila.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ladies

we are making a Lamp different from all others and much superior. It will
not =smoke=, =smell= nor =explode=—no “outs” about it.

Send =$1.20= for a lamp, without the glassware—=$1.75= with chimney and
shade—delivered free, or postal for Catalogue telling all about it.

                          Bridgeport Brass Co.,
                            BRIDGEPORT, CONN.,

or 19 Murray St., N. Y. City.

       *       *       *       *       *

SPARKLING Londonderry Lithia SPRING WATER

LONDONDERRY LITHIA SPRING WATER _Nashua, N.H._

There’s Health in Sparkling Londonderry.

Copyright, 1895, by Londonderry Lithia Spring Water Co., Nashua, N. H.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BOSTON HERALD.

New England’s Greatest Newspaper.

The New England advertising field is the best on this continent.

In this great field The Boston Herald stands supreme. Its circulation,
character, and influence make it the ideal newspaper.

Its Purchasing Power is Unequalled.

       *       *       *       *       *

IF YOU’RE A PIPE SMOKER

A TRIAL WILL CONVINCE THAT GOLDEN SCEPTRE IS PERFECTION

SEND 10cts FOR SAMPLE PACKAGE—PRICES 1lb 1.30; ¼lb 40cts. POSTAGE PAID,
CATALOGUE FREE. SURBRUG, 159 FULTON ST., N.Y. CITY.

       *       *       *       *       *

Consumption

AND ITS CURE

TO THE EDITOR:—I have an absolute remedy for Consumption. By its timely
use thousands of hopeless cases have been already permanently cured. So
proof-positive am I of its power that I consider it my duty to _send two
bottles free_ to those of your readers who have Consumption, Throat,
Bronchial or Lung Trouble, if they will write me their express and
postoffice address. Sincerely, T. A. SLOCUM, M. C., 183 Pearl St., New
York.

In writing please say you saw this in The Black Cat.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Imperial Hair Regenerator

NO MATTER HOW GRAY YOUR HAIR IS—OR BLEACHED—OR SPOILED BY DYES—MAKES IT
BEAUTIFUL, NATURAL, HEALTHY.

=Restores= Gray Hair to its Original Color.

=Regenerates= Bleached Hair.

Gives it new life and vigor, and makes it any color desired.

It is guaranteed by court tests absolutely harmless—and genuine. There
are many substitutes. Refuse to take them.

    No. 1.—Black.
    No. 2.—Dark Brown.
    No. 3.—Medium Brown.
    No. 4.—Chestnut.
    No. 5.—Light Chestnut.
    No. 6.—Gold Blonde.
    No. 7.—Ash Blonde.

PRICE, $1.50 and $3.00.

Send a sample of your hair, and we will restore its color free of charge.

                        IMPERIAL CHEMICAL MFG. CO.
                       292 Fifth Avenue, New York.
              Between 30th and 31st Streets. Take Elevator.

       *       *       *       *       *

Money For Story Tellers.

    $100.00—For a Ghost Story.
    $150.00—For a Story of Adventure.
    $200.00—For a Story of Mystery.
    $500.00—For a Detective Story.
    $1,000.00—For a Love Story.

For such short stories as the publishers of THE BLACK CAT desire they
pay promptly, on acceptance, a higher price than is paid by any other
publication anywhere. But they want only the most fascinating stories
that can be told,—stories that both in plot and handling are outside of
the beaten path of fiction,—stories so full of incident and movement and
so cleverly handled as to interest every one,—stories tersely told, which
never, either in whole or part, have appeared in print before, and which
are free from padding, foreign phrases, and attempted fine writing. No
dialect stories, poetry, or translations will be considered.

To receive attention, all manuscripts must bear the writer’s full name
and address, together with the number of words, which may range from
fifteen hundred to five thousand, but must in no case exceed the latter
number; they must be very legibly written, sent unrolled, and accompanied
by addressed and stamped envelopes for their return. Manuscripts will
be received and returned only at the writer’s risk. All stories will be
judged purely on their own merits, and the writer’s name or reputation
will carry no weight whatever. Payment for accepted manuscripts will be
made—not according to length, but according to the editor’s opinion of
their worth. Manuscripts will be paid for on the day of acceptance.

                      THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO.,
                       144 High St., Boston, Mass.

Copyright, 1895, by The Shortstory Publishing Co.

       *       *       *       *       *

Columbia Bicycles

Nearer Perfection THAN EVER.

Would you know all the delight of silent gliding bicycle motion? Then
secure one of the 1896 Columbias. The price is $100 to all alike.
Standard bicycle, standard price.

Beautiful Art Catalogue of Columbia and Hartford Bicycles is free if you
call upon any Columbia agent; by mail from us for two 2-cent stamps.

The Columbia Desk Calendar should be in the possession of every busy man
or woman. By mail for five 2-cent stamps. Address Calendar Department.

                          POPE MANUFACTURING CO.
              Factories and General Offices, Hartford, Conn.

Branch Stores and Agencies in almost every city and town. If Columbias
are not properly represented in your vicinity let us know.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DIFFERENCE.

=One= agrees with even the weakest stomach, digests your food, nourishes
your nerves, and feeds your blood—that’s Heather Blossom Pure Old Malt.

=The others= excite even the strongest stomach into an unnatural
appetite, hinder digestion, starve your nerves, poison your blood—these
are the hundred and one other kinds of whiskey.

THE REASON

Heather Blossom Pure Old Malt differs from all other whiskeys as flour
differs from sand. It is made under different conditions. It is made by a
different process. It tastes different. Its effects are different.

THE RESULT.

The result is that all physicians who have tested and analyzed it use and
recommend Heather Blossom Pure Old Malt.

Our pamphlet, “=Whiskey Wisdom=,” contains “Facts about the Drink that
Kills and the Drink that Cures.” which every man and woman ought to know.
A copy free by mail to all who write for it.

If your dealer won’t supply you with =Heather Blossom Pure Old Malt=, let
us know and well see that you get it.

                         B. H. R. DISTILLING CO.,
                        No. 451 South Main Street,
                            Providence, R. I.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cameras at Half Price

All new and in perfect condition. Send for Special Bargain Price Lists.
The number is limited.

The Scovill & Adams Co., of N. Y. ...

                        60 & 62 East 11th Street,
                                NEW YORK.

Send 35 cents for a copy of _The Photographic Times_, containing about
100 handsome illustrations.

       *       *       *       *       *

IF YOU WANT THE BEST GARDEN

in your neighborhood this season

PLANT OUR FAMOUS

SEEDS AND PLANTS

all of which are described and illustrated in our beautiful and entirely
=New Catalogue for 1896=. A new feature this season is the =Free=
delivery of Seeds at Catalogue prices to any Post Office. This =“New
Catalogue”= we will mail on receipt of a 2-cent stamp, or to those who
will state where they saw this advertisement, the Catalogue will be
mailed =Free=!

                          PETER HENDERSON & CO.
                     35 & 37 Cortlandt St., New York.

       *       *       *       *       *

Every reader of “The Black Cat” should read the very remarkable Novel,

A SINGULAR LIFE,

the Last and the Greatest Story by ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS, author of
“The Gates Ajar,” “Jack the Fisherman,” etc.

Miss Lilian Whiting says: “No American novel since ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’
has approached ‘A Singular Life.’”

Price, $1.25. Sold by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, by

                         HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.,
                        4 Park St., Boston, Mass.

Send for a circular containing what the Press says about this wonderful
story.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A Thrilling Detective Story!_

=THE MARCHBURN MYSTERY.= By A. MAURICE LOW.

_A Startling Society Story!_

=ELEANOR STEVENS’ WILL.= By ISABEL SCOTT STONE.

_An Up-To-Date Ghost Story!_

=TO LET.= By ALICE TURNER CURTIS.

_A Love Story Without Diagrams!_

=OF COURSE—OF COURSE NOT.= By HARRY PECK.

The above stories and other stories that ARE stories,—all original, all
complete, all fascinating, and all for five cents,—will appear in =_The
Black Cat for March, 1896_=.

The Black Cat is sold by newsdealers everywhere at five cents a copy. If
yours hasn’t it, and won’t get it for you, _get another newsdealer_. If
you haven’t a dealer, send us five cents for specimen copy or fifty cents
for a full year’s subscription.

             The Shortstory Publishing Company, Boston, Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

40 VALUABLE BOOKS FREE!

Read this Gigantic Offer by an Old-Established and Reliable Publishing
House!

=Two Dollars’ Worth of Splendid Books Absolutely Free to All!= During
the next three months we are determined to double the circulation of
our large and handsome illustrated literary and family paper, =Good
Literature=, and to accomplish this object, regardless of expense, we
now make to the reading public of America the most astounding offer ever
made by any reliable publishing house in the world. =Good Literature= is
one of the most charming family papers published. Each number consists
of 16 large pages, 64 columns, of the most delightful reading matter
and beautiful illustrations; it is filled with charming Serial and
Short Stories, Sketches and Poems by the most popular authors. Useful
Miscellany, Fancy Work, Household, Humorous and Juvenile Departments,
etc., etc. Everybody is delighted with =Good Literature=, and those who
are once subscribers are always subscribers, hence for the purpose of
introducing this charming periodical into new homes we can afford to
lose money upon each subscription at the outset. To secure, therefore,
immediately, 200,000 new subscribers to =Good Literature=, we now make
the following _special, limited and extraordinary offer: Upon receipt of
only_ =Twenty-five Cents= _in postage stamps, silver or money order, we
will send_ =Good Literature= _for_ =Six Months=, _and to every subscriber
we will also send_, =Free= _and post-paid_, =Forty Valuable Books=, _as
follows_:

    _How to Make and Save Money on the Farm._ A valuable compilation
      of useful facts, hints and suggestions for farmers and gardeners.
    _Wonders of the Sea._ A description of the many wonderful and
      beautiful things found at the bottom of the ocean. _Illustrated._
    _Manual of Etiquette_ for Ladies and Gentlemen. A guide to politeness,
      giving the rules of modern etiquette for all occasions.
    _Winter Evening Recreations_, a large collection of Acting Charades,
      Tableaux, Games, Puzzles, etc., for social gatherings and evenings
      at home. _Illustrated._
    _The Road to Wealth._ A practical work, pointing out a way by which
      all may make money, easily, rapidly and honestly.
    _Famous Detective Stories._ A collection of thrilling narratives of
      Detective experience and adventures.
    _Humorous Sketches_, by Josiah Allen’s Wife. Comprises some of the
      most laughable sketches ever written by this popular author.
    _The Home Cook Book and Family Physician._ Containing hundreds of
      excellent cooking recipes and hints to housekeepers; also telling
      how to cure all common ailments.
    _Guide to Needle Work, Knitting and Crochet._ Containing designs for
      all kinds of Fancy Needle Work. _Illustrated._
    _Dialogues, Recitations and Readings_, a large and choice collection
      for school exhibitions, public and private entertainments.
    _What Gold Cannot Buy._ A Novel. By Mrs. Alexander.
    _Missing—a Young Girl._ A Novel. By Florence Warden.
    _Maiwa’s Revenge._ A Novel. By H. Rider Haggard.
    _A Troublesome Girl._ A Novel. By “The Duchess.”
    _Moat Grange._ A Novel. By Mrs. Henry Wood.
    _The Story of a Wedding Ring._ A Novel. By Charlotte M. Braeme,
      author of “Dora Thorne.”
    _Her Manifest Destiny._ A Novel. By Amanda M. Douglas.
    _Clouds and Sunshine._ A Novel. By Charles Reade.
    _The Lawyer’s Secret._ A Novel. By Miss M. E. Braddon.
    _The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid._ A Novel. By Hardy.
    _Two Kisses._ A Novel. By Charlotte M. Braeme.
    _The Sorrow of a Secret._ A Novel. By Mary Cecil Hay.
    _Sir Noel’s Heir._ A Novel. By Mrs. May Agnes Fleming.
    _The Pearl of the Orient._ A Novel. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
    _From the Earth to the Moon._ A Novel. By Jules Verne.
    _Mildred Trevanion._ A Novel. By “The Duchess.”
    _An Island Pearl._ A Novel. By B. L. Farjeon.
    _Wall Flowers._ A Novel. By Marion Harland.
    _The Last of the Ruthvens._ A Novel. By Miss Mulock.
    _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde._ A Novel. By Robert
      Louis Stevenson.
    _Falsely Accused._ A Novel. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
    _A False Scent._ A Novel. By Mrs. Alexander.
    _A Modern Cinderella._ A Novel. By Charlotte M. Braeme.
    _The Dream Woman._ A Novel. By Wilkie Collins.
    _Caramel Cottage._ A Novel. By Mrs. Henry Wood.
    _The Poison of Asps._ A Novel. By Florence Marryat.
    _The Little Old Man of the Batignolles._ A Novel. By Gaborian.
    _Under the Lilacs._ A Novel. By Charlotte M. Braeme.
    _Her Last Throw._ A Novel. By “The Duchess.”
    _Hollow Ash Hall._ A Novel. By Margaret Blount.

The above books are published in neat pamphlet form, many of them
handsomely illustrated, and they are printed from clear, bold, readable
type on good paper. Each book contains a complete, first-class novel
or other work by a well-known and popular author, published in the
handiest and most convenient form for reading and preservation. It is
not a large number of novels or stories bound together in one book, but
_forty separate and distinct books_. And we agree to send to you—not
one, or five, or ten, but _the whole forty splendid books absolutely
free_, by mail post-paid, if you send us twenty-five cents for a six
months’ subscription to GOOD LITERATURE. Our regular price for these
books is _five cents each_, or two dollars for the set of forty. In
the catalogues of any of the popular “Libraries” or “Series” you will
find the same books listed at 25 cents each. But taking them at our own
low price we actually give you, _absolutely free, two dollars’ worth
of splendid books_ to induce you to become a trial subscriber to GOOD
LITERATURE. This is the most gigantic, the most startling offer ever made
by any responsible and reliable publishing house in the world. We lose
money on every subscription, but this we are willing to do, because we
believe that those who take advantage of this offer will become permanent
subscribers to GOOD LITERATURE, and our profit will come in the future.
This offer comes to you from one of the leading publishing houses in the
United States—a house that has been established over twenty years, and
has a national reputation for honesty and reliability. It must not be
compared with the fraudulent offers of irresponsible parties. We refer
to the Mercantile Agencies and to all the leading newspapers as to our
reliability. We guarantee perfect and entire satisfaction to every one
who shall take advantage of this offer—more than that, we guarantee that
_if you can conscientiously say that you are not perfectly and entirely
satisfied, we will return your money and make you a present of both books
and paper_. This is a _special limited offer, good only until May 1st,
1896_; take advantage of it before that date. For one dollar we will
send five subscriptions, with the forty books free to each; therefore
by getting four of your neighbors to subscribe you will get your own
subscription and books free. Address: =F. M. LUPTON, Publisher, 106 and
108 Reade Street, New York=.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Terrific Struggle

to meet the requirements of modern civilization is attested by strikes,
failures, robberies. To be honest, faithful, easy, successful, the nerves
should be balanced to a hair. Brain steadiness, calm judgment equipoise,
win the battle. In the midst of the contest gain strength by taking

                            Pabst Malt Extract
                           The “Best” Tonic....

You will have mental acuteness, good memory, keen wit, power, will and
ruddy health. At druggists.

MILWAUKEE BEER IS FAMOUS

PABST HAS MADE IT SO

GOLD MEDAL AND DIPLOMA, CONSTITUTING HIGHEST AWARD, MUNICH INTERNATIONAL
EXPOSITION, 1895. AN UNPARALLELED VICTORY IN THE VERY HOME OF BREWING.

THE ART OF BREWING WAS DEVELOPED BY THE GERMANS

SUPREME AWARD WORLD’S FAIR

       *       *       *       *       *

Houghton, Mifflin & Co.’s HOLIDAY BOOKS.

=_Works of John Burroughs._=—A beautiful edition of Mr. Burroughs’
writings, in nine volumes. Printed on cream-tinted laid paper, and bound
in a simple, elegant style. With several portraits of Mr. Burroughs, and
engraved title-pages. Limited to 1000 sets. Price, $13.50 _net_ per set.

=_Standish of Standish._=—By JANE G. AUSTIN. With twenty exquisite
full-page illustrations by F. T. MERRILL. Carefully printed and bound.
Two volumes. 12mo, $5.00.

The most popular of Mrs. Austin’s historical novels of the Old Plymouth
Colony, admirably illustrated.

=_Mrs. Jameson’s Works on Art._=—In five volumes, crown 8vo, finely
printed from new plates. With nearly one hundred illustrations to each
volume, and portrait of Mrs. Jameson, and biographical sketch by Miss
ESTELLE M. HURLL, the editor. Price, $3.00 each; $15.00 the set.

=_A Victorian Anthology._=—Representative Poems by the authors discussed
in “Victorian Poets.” Selected and edited by E. C. STEDMAN. With brief
biographies of the authors, a fine portrait of Queen Victoria, and a
vignette of the Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey. Large crown 8vo,
$2.50; full gilt, $3.00; half calf, $4.50; full levant, $6.00.

=_Robert Browning’s Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works._=—=Cambridge
Edition=, like the Cambridge Editions of Longfellow and Whittier. With
biographical sketch and notes, a new portrait, and vignette of “Asolo.”
A wonderful piece of book-making that compresses all of Browning into a
single volume, printed from clear type, on firm, opaque paper, and bound
strongly yet flexibly. Crown 8vo, $3.00; half calf, $5.00; tree calf, or
full levant, $7.00.

=_Complete Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes._=—=Cambridge
Edition=, Printed from large type, with a portrait and vignette of the
“Gambrel-roofed House,” biographical sketch, and notes. Crown 8vo, $2.00.

=_The Last Poems of James Russell Lowell._=—An artistic volume, with new
portrait, rubricated title and initials. Exquisitely bound in polished
buckram. 12mo, $1.25.

=_Later Lyrics._=—Selected from the latest volumes of poetry by THOMAS
BAILEY ALDRICH. A gem of a book, like Mr. Aldrich’s XXXVI. Lyrics and
XII. Sonnets, and Friar Jerome’s Beautiful Book. 18mo, vellum or cloth,
$1.00.

=_Mr. Rabbit at Home._=—A sequel to “Little Mr. Thimblefinger and His
Queer Country.” By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS, author of the “Uncle Remus”
Books. With twenty-five illustrations by OLIVER HERFORD. Square 8vo,
$2.00.

                _Sold by Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, by_
                     HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., BOSTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

_It cures from head to foot._

Puritana

Trade Mark Registered.

Nature’s Cure

For diseases of the

    Stomach
    Liver
    Blood
    Kidneys

And for

    Weak Lungs
    Starved Nerves
    Fagged Brain

It cures after everything else has failed. It cures cases that have been
given up as hopeless. It cures pleasantly. It cures positively. It cures
permanently.

_It cures from head to foot._

Puritana is the prize formula of Prof. Dixi Crosby, M.D., LL.D., for over
30 years at the head of Dartmouth Medical College.

If you are a sufferer, get of your druggist this great disease-conquering
discovery (the price is $1 for the complete treatment, consisting of one
bottle of Puritana Compound, one bottle of Puritana Pills, and one bottle
of Puritana Tablets), or write to the undersigned, and you will bless the
day when you heard of Puritana. The Puritana Compound Co. Concord, N. H.

The Story of Puritana.

Prof. Dixi Crosby, M. D., LL. D., who for thirty-two years was at
the head of Dartmouth Medical College, belonged to the famous Crosby
family of physicians, which for several generations has furnished more
distinguished medical men than any other family in America. His father
was Dr. Asa Crosby, of Dartmouth, who procured the charter of the State
medical society, of which he was for thirty years a conspicuous member;
one brother, Dr. Josiah Crosby, invented the invalid bed and the method
of making extensions of fractured limbs by adhesive strips; another
brother, Dr. Thos. R. Crosby, was chief surgeon in Columbian College
Hospital during the war, and later professor of animal and vegetable
physiology at Dartmouth College; while Dr. Dixi Crosby himself was the
inventor and discoverer of various important improvements in medicine and
surgery, including a new and unique mode of reducing metacarpophalangeal
dislocation, opening of abscess at hip-joint, etc., etc.

At the early age of twenty-four his extraordinary skill and success in
overcoming disease had already attracted the attention of medical men
throughout the world, and won for him the highest honors. His greatest
achievement was the discovery of an original method for perfecting
and compounding in permanent form what has become known as his “prize
formula,” and which, under the name of Puritana, is legally protected.

The foundation of this remarkable medical discovery consists of simple
New England roots and herbs, and the original family recipe for it has
descended to the long line of Crosby physicians from their Puritan
ancestors. Its peculiar vegetable composition rendered it necessary to
brew it whenever needed in the early days of its history, and after
the scattering of the Puritan families to remote localities, where the
necessary ingredients were not to be found, many attempts were made to
put it up in permanent form, all of which failed until Dr. Dixi Crosby
discovered means and methods, the result of which is: Nature’s Cure
compounded in the laboratory of Common Sense.

       *       *       *       *       *

USED EVERY WEEK DAY

SAPOLIO

BRINGS REST ON SUNDAY.

Armstrong & Co. Boston, Mass.



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Black Cat, Vol. I, No. 5, February 1896" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.