.17. PRIQE, TEN CENTS. 
 
 Weekly. By Subecriptioc, $5.20 Per Annum. Entered at the New York Poet Office as Second-Class Matter. April 29, 1893. 
 
 Copyright, 1893, by F. M. Lupton. 
 
 
 
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Rock Ruin ; or, The Dairter of tlie Island. 
 
 By Mrs. AKK S. STEPHENS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Where the coast of Ireland is m dented by one 
 of those lovely bays which creep inland, and are 
 60 sheltered by the hills that you can scarcely see 
 where they find outlet to the ocean, stood a noble 
 old abbey, partly in ru'us, but still vast and im- 
 posing. Its site overlooked the whole bay, and in 
 Lir weather commanded silvery glimpses of the 
 ocean. The monastic portions of this edifice had 
 been allowed to fall into decay, but that, to a po- 
 etic fancy, was the great charm of the place. 
 There was something sublime in the growth of 
 tall elms and oaks from the very altar-stone of 
 what had once been the chapel— something lovely 
 in the sheeted ivy and clinging moss, which had 
 been for years hiding all that had been art, and 
 
 fiving fresh touches of nature to the broken walls, 
 n connection and in harmony with these ruins, 
 many a modern wing and abutment had been 
 built— one in this century, another in that — but so 
 far apart that time had harmonized the soft gray 
 tints, and one scarcely knew which was most im- 
 posing, the ruined chapel, with its great gothic 
 window, filled with a lace-work of rich stone trac- 
 ery, through which soft ivy crept in and out, or 
 the picturesque variety of the inhabited building. 
 Both commanded the outlet of the bay, and both 
 gave you glimpses of the pale green waters be- 
 yond. 
 
 In a chamber of the most modern portion of the 
 building an old man lay upon one of those reclin- 
 ing chairs which restless invalids prefer to the 
 desolate certainty of a sick bed. He was propped 
 up with well-worn and faded crimson cushions, 
 from which a pillow of frost-white linen saved his 
 
 Sale cheek, receiving the scattered locks of his 
 air, which was only of a more silvery tint than 
 the fabric it floated over. 
 
 The invalid was very, very eld— some years 
 above eighty— and so thin that you- wondered how 
 the shrunken chest could bear the folds of that 
 heavy dressing-gown, under which it labored for 
 breath. 
 
 Another old man stood behind his chair, looking 
 down upon the worn face with such wistful trouble 
 in his eyes that you might have pitied him far 
 more than the invalid himself. 
 
 "Do you breathe easier, my lord? The air 
 comes in fresh from the water. It has a smell of 
 violets." 
 
 " Yes— yes. I remember she loved violets bet- 
 ter than anything. I found them pressed be- 
 tween the leaves of her prayer book long after 
 she was dead. It broke her heart when he went 
 away, you know, and she never cared for flowers 
 after that — nothing but dead flowers. You will 
 find them in her book after I am gone. Did I tell 
 you that?" 
 
 " Yes, my lord ; I know." 
 
 "But did I tell you what to do with the book 
 when I have done with it?" whispered the old 
 man, gasping faintly for breath. 
 
 "I think not, my lord." 
 
 " How old are you, Robert ?" 
 
 "Sixty-nine this month, my lord." 
 
 " Ah, that is young— veryl young. You might 
 travel over the world yet, and enjoy new sights." 
 
 The faithful servant wiped his eyes softly, and 
 held his breath, fearful that the sick man might 
 detect his grief. 
 
 "I shall never enjoy anything like being of use 
 to my master," he said, quietly. 
 
 "I know, I know; but you can be of use, groat 
 use to me, long and long after I am gone." 
 
 "If I could it would be a great comfort." 
 
 " Give me your hand, Robert— both your hands, 
 my good, faithful friend." 
 
 The servant surrendered his two hands to the 
 feeble clasp of those thin, white fingers. 
 
 " Robert !" 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 " Are we by ourselves — quite alone, Robert?" 
 
 " Quite alone, my lord." 
 
 "Lock the door.'" 
 
 Robert went to the door and locked it. Then 
 he came back to the patient, looking greatly 
 troubled. 
 
 "Robert, how long is it since that letter came 
 with the news of Ms death ?" 
 
 " Six years ago, my lord." 
 
 "Six years I It seems only yesterday. I began 
 to grow old after that — old and feeble. But they 
 cannot say that I am in my second childhood even 
 yet, Robert?" 
 
 "They cannot say that." 
 
 " Or that my judgment is not sound?" 
 
 " It is clearas ever." 
 
 " You can swear to that ?" 
 
 "I can." 
 
 "And will, if any one dares to question it? No 
 one has been with me so much as you have, old 
 friend. Your opinion will have weight. Every 
 one knows that you have never been an ordinary 
 servant, but have education, taste, and a fin© 
 sense of honor." 
 
 '•Oh, my lord, it breaks my heart to hear you 
 talk in this way." 
 
 " Hush, old friend ; I have a reason. Sit close 
 to me while I talk. This air does me good. I 
 can draw a deep breath ; my brain is clear as 
 crystal. Now liiten. Just after that letter came, 
 saying that my only sou had died in exile, child- 
 less and alone, my nephew suggested— I cannot 
 tell you how it was done, but he led me— that is 
 the word — led me into making a will, bequeathing 
 everything to him." 
 
 "A will, my lord ? I do not understand. In de 
 fault of direct issue, is not Hugh the heir-at-law, 
 both to the title and estate ?" 
 
 " That is what troubles me Robert. That is 
 what has kept me so restless. Why should he want 
 this will ? Time, the entailed property is unim- 
 portant. The great bulk I can give away from 
 the direct heirs, but without a will everything 
 
 Mr;^56i8 
 
'iiOCK num:r ya,' the daughter of the island 
 
 goes to him. Tell me, Eobert, why was he so 
 anxious ?" 
 
 " Perhaps he feared that your old servants might 
 be too liberally remembered if he did not superin- 
 tend the disposal of your estate." 
 
 " No, he knew well what I had resolved on then, 
 and said nothing against it. Robert, a strange 
 thought came into my head yesterday, as I was 
 lying half asleep on the couch in yonder. Per- 
 liaps I was altogether asleep, for my wife was with 
 me. There was a scent of violets such as comes 
 through the sash now, and then the consciousness 
 of her presence. It was a dream, no doubt, but 
 very sweet and real. When remembrances of love 
 come back to an old man of eightj they take him 
 to heaven. Well, when I awoke— if I had really 
 been asleep— a vague anxiety filled my mind. She 
 had wanted me to write or say something, which 
 haunted my mind without enlightening it. At 
 last I thought of the will which ray nephew had 
 almost forced from me in the depths of my grief. 
 The events all come clearly before my mind— his 
 unaccountable anxiety, his want of delicacy in 
 urging a useless act upon me at a time like that. 
 I asked myself these questions : ' Why should I 
 leave that will ? Why did he ask it ? Why was the 
 doubt haunting me so persistently ?' " 
 
 "No wonder you asked these questions," said 
 Bobert, roused to animation. 
 
 " You think as I do, then — that the will was use- 
 less ?" 
 
 " Worse, nay lord. The very fact that it was use- 
 less makes it suspicious. What if my yoang master 
 were yet alive?" 
 
 "Alive? You have thought of that, too I" cried 
 the old man, starting up among his cushions and 
 clutching at his servant's arm for support. 
 
 "Alive, and disinherited by that very will." 
 
 "Robert-Robert!" 
 
 " Be tranquil, my lord." 
 
 " That very thought has troubled mo all night. 
 The possibility is horrible." 
 
 "Calm yourself. You have no strength to 
 spare." 
 
 "I know it— I know it," gasped the old man. 
 "But enough is left to tear that will into shreds. 
 Bring it here." 
 
 "Where shall I search— in the oak cabinet?" 
 
 "Yes— yes; in his prayer book. I laid it be- 
 tween the loaves. Bring the book here— kindle a 
 lamp that will burn the parchment to ashes — then 
 scatter them to the wind ! I cannot breathe till 
 then." 
 
 His state of excitement was painful. It terrified 
 the old servant, and he went at once to bring the 
 book from a heavily-carved cabinet of bay oak that 
 stood in a corner of the room. 
 
 Robert unlocked the cabinet and drew forth a 
 prayer book antiquely bound, and with heavy gold 
 clasps. He took the volume to his master and 
 gave it into his hands. 
 
 The frail wrists bent under the weight of the 
 book, and it fell upon the sick man's lap so heavily 
 that the jar made him tremble from head to foot. 
 He looked up wistfully, and tried to smile away 
 this proof of his helfjlessness. 
 
 " Hold it up while I undo the clasp," he said, 
 panting under the sudden weight. 
 
 Robert lifted up the book, and the old man made 
 a desperate attempt to unlock the clasp ; but the 
 spring was stiff, and resisted his feeble effort ; so 
 after a vain struggle his hands foil away, his eyes 
 cioseid, and one tear after another crept through 
 
 the still lashes and lost themselves amid the fur- 
 rows on his cheek. 
 
 "I am very feeble, Robert," murmured the old 
 man. " Open the book. No hands but mine have 
 ever unlocked the clasp since she gave it to me on 
 her death-bed, but I have no power left ; open it, 
 Robert." 
 
 Robert dropped on his knees, and resting the 
 volume reverently on the massive arm of his mas- 
 ter's chair, opened the clasp and held up the im- 
 prisoned leaves. 
 
 The old man leaned forward and turned the 
 leaves with his thin fingers. A scent of violets fol- 
 lowed this feeble movement, and two or three dead 
 flowers fluttered from the book and fell upon his 
 dressing gown. He picked them up one by one 
 and laid them softly back among the leaves, drew 
 a long breath, and commenced again. From cov- 
 er to cover he turned those illuminated and gild- 
 ed pages— then he paused, holding fast to one leaf 
 of the cover, and looking wildly into his servant's 
 face. 
 
 " It is not here." 
 
 " I see it is not, my lord." 
 
 " Neither the will nor that letter." 
 
 "Nothing is here save the book and these poor 
 dead flowers." 
 
 "I see— I see. Where have they gone? Who 
 has dared to touch this book— his book ?" 
 
 " Is it certain the parchment was left here?" in- 
 quired Robert. 
 
 " I placed it there with' these hands. That and 
 the letter," cried the old man, starting up in fe- 
 verish excitement, which sent a glow of crimson 
 through his wrinkles. "Both have been removed. 
 When— by whom— for what reason?'- 
 
 " He may have feared that you would destroy 
 the will, and so removed it." 
 
 " He— my nephew ! What ! open that cabinet- 
 touch her book ? Yes, it must be so. This is like 
 fraud, Robert." 
 
 " I fear it is fraud, my lord." 
 
 The sick man fell back upon his pillows, faint 
 and trembling. Thus for several minutes he lay, 
 speechless, but troubled with thought. At last a 
 strange illumination crossed his face, and he lift- 
 ed himself on one elbow. 
 
 " Robert, this must be amended. If that parch- 
 ment were burned, I should still dread to see its 
 ashes afloat, lest iniquity might spring from them. 
 There is some evil thing here, close by my death- 
 bed. Some one is robbing me before I am gone. 
 Who is it?" 
 
 " Do not be excited, my master. It is kill- 
 ing you. Only be calm, and all can be made 
 right." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Another will made, as if your son were now 
 alive." 
 
 " Yes— yes," gasped the old man. 
 
 " It will render the stolen parchment null and 
 void." 
 
 "Yes— yes; there lies the remedy. Feel my 
 pulse, Robert. Count it." 
 
 Robert touched the frail wrist reverently with 
 his finger. 
 
 "Oh, my lord, be calm I This pulse is leaping 
 at a fearful rate." 
 
 " I will be calm. There— there 1 give me drink. 
 Lay your hand upon my forehead— force me iuto 
 quiet. I will obey." 
 
 The old man closed his eyes beneath the sooth- 
 ing touch of his servant's' hand. The troubled 
 
ROCK RUIN ; OU, THE liA UGUTEli OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 heave of his chest grew quieter, but hia temples 
 worked with thought, and his brows were drawn 
 downward, as if all his remnant of strength work- 
 ed upon the brain. Whether some life force went 
 forth from the younger and stronger man I do 
 not know. But a clear, light intelligence seized 
 upon the dying man, without impairing the little 
 strength that was in him. He rested, and yet 
 thought actively. 
 
 "Yes, that is the way, Robert. But how? My 
 solicitor is in Dublin, forty miles off. I am nearer 
 to the grave than that." 
 
 "It must be done— it must be done. He shall 
 bo brought and the will cancelled." 
 
 "If I am here," »«,id the old lord, faintly. 
 
 " I will set forth in an hour." 
 
 "You? No, Robert. That would be to take 
 awav my life at once. Send a groom." 
 
 Roberts' face clouded. He knew well that no 
 servant in that dwelling would be considered as 
 belonging to his master, who had been long ill, 
 and ignorant that the old retainers of the house 
 •had been, one after another, dismissed. 
 
 " Why do you start?" inquired the invalid, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 Robert sat directly before the window, which 
 commanded a view of the bay and the inlet which 
 connected it with the ocean. Ho was looking 
 vaguely out, when a graceful little yacht came 
 flitting' about the mouth of the inlet, like a great 
 white bird in search of a shelter. It hovered on 
 the outer waters just long enough to catch the 
 wind, then gave a curving swoop and ran up the 
 channel, displaying her colors clearly against the 
 blue sky and bluer waters. 
 
 " Start ! Did I start, my lord ?" 
 
 " Your hand shakes now. What is it?" 
 
 "The yacht, my lord. Mr. Gerald has come 
 home from his cruise." 
 
 " Gerald— my nephew ? I will not see him." 
 
 " Be cautious, my lord. Command yourself." 
 
 " You will not leave me, Robert ?" 
 
 "No, not if I can help it." 
 
 "And you will send for Hutton ?" 
 
 "Yes—yes." 
 
 " Put the book under my pillow. There, I feel 
 quieter. Go, now, and send the man. Let no 
 one suspect his errand. He will intercede with 
 the saints, and I shall have time. Go, Robert." 
 
 The servant went out, and the old man fell into 
 slumber, calmed by the scent of dead violets that 
 floated over his pillow. So still he lay, that a per- 
 son entering the room suddenly might have 
 thought him dead. 
 
 A Jovial party coming up from the yacht met 
 the Earl's body-servant going toward a little ham- 
 let which formed a picturesque feature around a 
 corner of the bay. 
 
 "Hallo, Robert! All right at the abbey? No 
 change, I suppose ?" 
 
 Robert took off his hat and waited, with his 
 gray hairs in the wind, till his master's nephew 
 came up. Then he answered, gravely, that the 
 Lord was about the same— perhaps a little strong- 
 er-he could not tell, and passed on. 
 
 Gerald MacCrea waited until the old man was 
 out of hearing, and then turned to his friends, 
 laughing. 
 
 " One would think, at eighty, a man would have 
 more consideration. Did you ever hear anything 
 so unreasonable ? Let my yacht atay out as long 
 as she will— weeks or months— it makes no differ- 
 ence. This is always the reply, "About the same ;' 
 
 or, more impudent still, 'A little more comfort- 
 able.' It's too much." 
 
 "Yes," answered a young man who^had been a 
 guest on board the yacht; "Parliament should 
 pass a law forbidding any man, rich or poor, from 
 living beyond seventy. The Bible ought to know 
 when it's the proper season to shuffle off the coil. 
 It's impertinent to keep on beyond the *ime it 
 sets. If a fellow is rich, it's taking advantage of 
 his heirs ; if he is not, it's an imposition on the 
 poor sons." 
 
 "Any way, there's no excuse for a man's wad- 
 ing through eighty years," la^ hed another of 
 the party, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, 
 "especially when the heirs have anticipated his 
 income." 
 
 Another voice joined in : 
 
 " Now, I rather like the old gentleman's spirit. 
 If I was an earl with twenty thousand a year, and 
 no son to inherit, hang me if there wouldn't bo a 
 tussle before I gave it up. Eighty I Why, I'd live 
 to a hundred and fifty, sure." 
 
 "Don't hint at such a thing, or my friend up 
 yonder might catch at the idea, and keep my cred- 
 itors waiting a half century," said MacCrea. 
 
 " You are getting too near the abbey for speeches 
 like that," said one of the party, who had not yet 
 spoken, "if, indeed, there is any place where they 
 would be excusable or safe." 
 
 " Listen — listen ! How the lawyer breaks out in 
 Nelson I" cried three or four voices. 
 
 " Hush !" exclaimed the young man, in one of 
 those deeply-smothered whispers that are so 
 startling at times. He was looking upward, and 
 his finger was half lifted. 
 
 The whole group followed his gesture with an 
 eye-glance, when at the window stood Lord Ern- 
 ruth, the palest and most shadowy being that mor- 
 tal eyes ever looked upon. The sound of strango 
 voices had aroused him from one of those swee; 
 dreams that sometimes make the passing away 
 from earth heavenly as heaven itself. With the 
 wild strength that fright often gives, he had start- 
 ed from his chair, and staggering toward the win- 
 dow, looked forth on a scene he had never expect- 
 ed to see again. He heard, too, the mocking 
 gaiety of his nephew's voice, and gathered some- 
 thing of the conversation, for just then his intel- 
 lect was keenly acute, and a strong will was abso- 
 lutely keeping him alive. He was a good man, 
 this Lord Ernruth ; and now, just at his death, 
 the clear judgment of his youth came back with 
 almost miraculous clearness. 
 
 His eye fell upon the uplifted face of hia nephew. 
 That face had been flushed a moment before, but 
 now it had been fading off to a purplish white. 
 The bold eyes fell, abashed, down, and retreated 
 beneath the heavy lids. If an angel had looked 
 down upon him, he could not have been more 
 thunderstruck. 
 
 " Confusion ! He cannot have heard us, though, 
 nor seen us either. He has managed to creep to 
 the window for a breath of air— that is all. This 
 way, gentlemen, round to the south wing. Thank 
 heaven, the house is large enough to entertain a 
 score of guests without disturbing the' old gentle- 
 man, though I should not wonder if he snatches a 
 new lease of life and comes down among us. After 
 seeing him up and at the window, nothing can as- 
 tonish me." 
 
 MacCrea spoke in a low, hurried voice, and his 
 face was a long time in getting back its color. 
 
 The guests followed his direction, and entering 
 
BOCK BUIN; OB, THE BAUGHTEB OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 a portion of the building remote from Lord Ern- 
 ruth's apartment, were soon comfortably at home. 
 
 MacCrea was right. The mansion was so spa- 
 cious that a much larger party might have been 
 entertained in it without disturbing the master. 
 
 Meantime, Roberts had pursued his course 
 around the head of the bay. It was a lovely walk. 
 The rich, heavy foliage of the shore was stirred by 
 a light breeze, and so bathed in sunshine that it 
 seemed as if light from the water had sparkled up 
 through the trees, leaving flashes of silver on ev- 
 ery leaf. 
 
 The old man paused on a corner of the road, 
 and looked around with that yearning interest 
 which a warm heart feels while gazing upon ob- 
 jects which he has loved a whole lifetime. So far 
 as his' eye could reach along the green shore and 
 out upon the water, every object belonged to his 
 master ; and far beyond that, the broad lands of 
 the estate stretched their luxuriant wreaths, 
 blessing the owner and the working men whose 
 labor had made nature so prolific and so beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 "And all this must go to that bad young man !" 
 thought Roberts, gazing upon the scene till his 
 eves tilled with tears. " Oh, if the young master 
 hiid but lived ! If " 
 
 The old man paused. Some strange feeling 
 checked the words on his lips. He was a shrewd 
 man, and for years every thought of his being 
 had centered in his master's affairs. There was 
 something strange about the letters that had come 
 from America, where the only son of Lord Ern- 
 ruth had gone into exile after the unhappy rebel- 
 lion. Since the old Earl's eyesight had failed, 
 these letters had always been* road to him by his 
 nephew and next heir. Even that which brought 
 the fatal news of the son's death had been read 
 to the bereaved old man, who placed so much 
 faith in his nephew that he never thought to ques- 
 tion the faithfulness of his intelligence. 
 
 But there was something in this which troubled 
 Roberts— a hesitation in the reading, and some 
 haste in putting the letters away, which aroused 
 his attention. With the deferential habits of an 
 . old family servant strong upon him, he had not 
 dared to mention these fears or take any steps to- 
 ward confirming them ; but a suspicion possessed 
 him with greater force everv day, and now it had, 
 as if by inspiration, seized upon the Earl also. 
 The will, so unnecessary if MacCrea was indeed 
 the true heir, so iniquitous if he was not, would 
 be annulled that night, if man and horse could be 
 obtained to carry a message to Dublin. 
 
 This was Roberts' object in visiting the cluster 
 of fishermen's cabins on the opposite shore. So 
 completely had the servants of Lord Ernruth's 
 household been brought under the nephew's con- 
 trol, that the faithful old man dared not trust his 
 message with any of them. But there was a man 
 upon the point lying so grimly in sight, whose 
 faith was undoubted. This man Roberts sought. 
 
 Peter Byrne was sitting in front of his cabin, 
 mending a net and singing at his work. He would 
 pause now and then to look over his shoulder and 
 bandy a word or two with some one inside ; then 
 the loud, rollicking words of his song would break 
 out again, while his fingers shot the wooden needle 
 in and out of his net, knitting the rents together, 
 and making the whole fabric tremble again under 
 his energetic handling. 
 
 A buxom young woman, with a 'kerchief under 
 her chin, came to the cabin door. 
 
 " Come along, Peter. Do yer hear, now ? The 
 praties are knockin' agin the lid of the pot, and 
 just bursting their jackets wid aigerness for the 
 alter." 
 
 " Be aisy — be aisy, Mary, astore. I'm just tyin' 
 up the last slit in me net, darlint. Tumble the 
 praties out in the wooden bowl, and let the jack- 
 ets burst if it plaises 'em. Faix, there's no harum 
 in it— only save some of the mailiest for the pig. 
 But never mind ; the childer'll do that same, any 
 way." 
 
 The smiling little woman went back into the 
 cabin, and directly a curl of steam came floating 
 through the open door, so odorous that Peter 
 dashed through the tangle of his net, looped the 
 twine right and left, tying desperate knots, now 
 here, now there, till at last, after a vigorous pull 
 or two, he bit ofl' a double thread of the twine 
 with his strong white teeth, and spurned the net 
 to the ground with his foot. 
 
 " I've give it a dash an' a promise for the once, 
 Marv," he said, casting up his arms and stretch- 
 ing himself full six feet high from the ground. 
 "Now for the praties— the smell on 'em makes me 
 hungry. Here, give me hold. I'll pale one wid 
 me fingers, while I watch who that is ccmin' for- 
 nenst. Be jabers, but this is a maily one ye have 
 given me. How ilegantly his brown coat has bust 
 open in front, do ye see, Mary?" 
 
 " In coorse, afther the pig, ye'd be sartin of the 
 best, Peter," answered the good wife. " Come in, 
 ye spalpeens ! Who told ye to forget what yer 
 father says? an' he atin' bis supper." 
 
 The children obeyed, making a dart for the 
 bowl of potatoes, leaving their father on the door- 
 stone, watching the approach of Roberts with some 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Mary, astore, come this minute and tell me if 
 that is not Misther Roberts. Mary, I'm afeard the 
 ouid Earl is worse, or something. Look sharp, 
 tell me if it's Roberts." 
 
 The little woman came close to her husband, 
 shading her eyes with one hand aud searching 
 the road. 
 
 "Yes, Peter; sure an' it's Roberts— walkin' 
 quick, too, as if somethin' was the matter." 
 
 "Yer right. It's him, sure enough ; an' walkin' 
 as brisk as he did twenty years agone. Some- 
 thing's amiss, Mary." 
 
 " Oh, Peter, me heart's in me mouth ! I'm all 
 of a trimble. What it the ould Lord was dead an' 
 gone!" 
 
 " Now, be aisy, an' go in to the childher. Don't 
 ye see that he's coming because of the company 
 that landed from the yacht? I see a whole boat- 
 load of 'em goin' up from the shore." 
 
 "I hope it's nothin' worse nor that," answered 
 the wife, shaking her head doubtfully ; "but Mis- 
 ther Roberts doesn't often leave the masther. I 
 have my misdoubts, Peter." 
 
 A cry from the children, who, in the struggle for 
 a particular potato, were rolling o^r and over on 
 the cabin floor, tugging at each other's hair,while 
 the pig demurely swallowed the vegetable in dis- 
 pute, soon took the little woman indoors. She was 
 easily cuffing the little belligerents, right and 
 left, when Roberts came up and accosted her hus- 
 band. ^ , , , 
 
 *' Peter Byrne, I am glad to find you at home. 
 Step this way a moment." 
 
 "I'll do that same," said Peter, tossing away 
 the potato skin, and emptying his mouth with a 
 huge swallow. "Anything goin' wrong over 
 
ROCK BTJIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 there ? Ye look sort o' quare about the eyea, I'm 
 thinkin'." 
 
 " Nothing, Peter ; only my Lord is not quite so 
 well to-day, and he wants to have a friend brought 
 down from Dublin." 
 
 "What! is it the docthor?" 
 
 " No, Peter ; it's a lawyer he wants." 
 
 "What! and young Misther MacGrea to the 
 farm ? That has a bad look. What should he be 
 puttin' up the ould Lord to send afther lawyers 
 for?" 
 
 " It isn't for him, Peter. He knows nothing 
 about it." 
 
 " Oh, ha ! that is a pig of t'other stripe." 
 
 "Lord Ernruth is very anxious that the man 
 Bhould be brought here privately, and at the earli- 
 est moment. That is what sent me here, Byrne. 
 I am afraid to trust any of the servants over yon- 
 der. They do not belong to the Earl." 
 
 Peter nodded his head. 
 
 " So I'm in search of a trusty messenger." 
 
 "An' Peter Byrne's the man for ye, out and out. 
 Only tell him what to do and how to do it, and 
 he'll bring the ould Scratch down here by the 
 nape of his neck, if the masther wanted him." 
 
 " But you will want a horse, Peter." 
 
 " That's thrue for ye, but I'll just borry one of a 
 a friend I have." 
 
 " But you must ride all night." 
 
 "In coorse." 
 
 "And come back to-morrow, after dark." 
 
 " Wid the spalpeen of a lawyer." 
 
 "And remember, not a word of this, Peter, even 
 to your wife." 
 
 " Sorry a word will the darlint get out of me." 
 
 *' Here is a letter. You can read the address ?" 
 
 " Wid a thrifle o' hard spellin'. But I've plenty 
 of time to make it out between this and Dublin." 
 
 " Well, the errand is simple. Deliver this let- 
 ter, and then bring the gentleman down here at 
 once. Come quietly to the abbey, but let it be 
 after dark. I will be at the east portal to let you 
 in ; or, if anything prevents, you will find the way 
 open. Come without hesitation to my master's 
 room. But be cautious about meeting the ser- 
 vants." 
 
 " I understand." 
 
 " Here is money, Peter— enough to purchase a 
 horse, if that prove necessary. Now go in, and 
 set forth at once." 
 
 Peter took the money, thrust it deep into his 
 pocket, and, taking a ragged handkerchief from 
 the crown of his hat, pushed that down over it, 
 much as a soldier of the olden time used to force 
 wadding upon the charge in his musket. 
 
 "Now I'm ready. Let me twist me pipe in the 
 string round me hat, an' it's genteelly I'm fixed 
 for thravelin' to the end of the wurld." 
 
 "Well, Byrne, see that there is no delay. Every 
 moment is important." 
 
 " Never fear. Peter Byrne isn't the boy to let 
 grass grow undher his feet, and the ould Earl 
 wantin' him to be movin'." 
 
 With these words Peter entered his cabin, and 
 the faithful old servant went back to his master. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 There was riot and high wassail in one end 
 of the stately abbey, while death came with still 
 solemnity in the other wing. The company which 
 we have seen coming in from the yacht, feeling 
 secure in the thick walls and ponderous doors 
 
 shut them out from the old Earl's apartments, 
 which gave vent to their high spirits, and grew more 
 convivial than they might have been oh sbipboard. 
 The presence of sickness or death, if it does not 
 sadden, often produces a reckless abandon of hu- 
 man feeling. This sometimes springs fi'om mere 
 nervous excitement, which is, after all, deep feel- 
 ing run wild ; or it may be it has its source m that 
 reckless audacity which smothers all holy sympa- 
 thies as they are trod under foot. 
 
 I do not think, however, that the guests who 
 were at high wassail in the old abbey had any 
 idea how close death was to them. True, an old 
 man, whom few of them had ever seen, lay sick 
 under the roof which sheltered them. But he had 
 been infirm and ailing for years. The illness and 
 afterwards the death of his only sou had broken 
 him down completelv. The most stately and 
 proud old noble in all Ireland was suffering the 
 slow death of a broken heart. But he had been a 
 long time in dying, and some of these people— the 
 nephew particularly — considered this as a per- 
 sonal wrong. Why did the old man hold the deeds 
 of that princely estate, year after year, in those 
 feeble hands ? It was an imposition on the next 
 heir. Indeed, death loses half the solemnity of 
 his presence when he lingers so long, and is 
 watched for as those men were watching. 
 
 This was the subject of conversation as these 
 men sat, late' at night, around the table which had 
 been spread for them on the sly, as one of the 
 guests observed while examining the ruby tints 
 of his wine, as he held the long-stemmed Vene- 
 tian glass, which was but half drained, against the 
 light. 
 
 "Why," said this man, languidly slanting the 
 wine in his glass—" why can't a man give up and 
 go off quietly, when he has outlived the enjoy- 
 ments of life ? It is a swindle on his heirs to hang 
 on after this fashion." 
 
 "I fancy you'd think so," broke in MaCrea, 
 with a bitter laugh, " if you'd hung on the out- 
 skirts of an estate as I have. By Jupiter ! the one 
 up yonder has a good deal to account for." 
 
 "And I fancy his kin may have a good deal to 
 account for when he comes into the estates," said 
 a quiet-looking individual at the foot of the table, 
 who had spoken but little during the whole 
 evening. 
 
 It was generally understood that MacCrea was 
 deeply indebted to this man, and the ho was not 
 less eager than his principal to see the vast es- 
 tates of Lord Ernruth fall into the reckless hands 
 of the next kin. 
 
 The company laughed, even MacCrea himself. 
 
 " Is there not an old firoverb about heirs going 
 barefoot who wait for dying men's shoes ?" cried 
 another of the guests, who had crowded half a 
 dozen wine flasks around him, and was now flank- 
 ing them with crystal dishes full of rich, variously 
 tinted fruit, producing gorgeous confusion on his 
 side of the table, and speaking in a broken . husky 
 way, which explained why the wine, both red and 
 amber, had sunk so near the botton in those 
 
 crowded flasks. "For my part . Well, no 
 
 matter, it will be a jolly time when it comes, at 
 any rate, for the money lenders. But I say, Mac, 
 it must have been dull staying in this grim place 
 waiting for the old man to go off. Hang me if 
 I could! Well, no matter. By Jupiter! what is 
 that?" 
 
 The man started up as he spoke and overthrew 
 a decanter of Bohemian glass, which sent a gush 
 
ROCK RUIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 of wine over the table that settled in the center of 
 the snowy cloth in a lake of purplish red. 
 
 ".What— what?" was the general exclamation; 
 and the guests started up, some steadying them- 
 selves by the table, and others clinging desper- 
 ately to the backs of the chairs they had aban- 
 doned. 
 
 What was it ? Nothing but the pale face of an 
 old man,who looked in on that bacchanaUan revel 
 for an instant and disappeared again. How 
 strangely white and cold ft was, -contrasted with 
 the flushed countenances and misty atmosphere 
 in the room. 
 
 "Ha— ha I How he frightened you ! By Jupi- 
 ter ! that is good ! Sit down and punish the wine 
 for it. Why, it's only the Earl's own man prowl- 
 ing about, as usual. Let him do it. Who cares? 
 The governor is too far gone for me to fear his re- 
 port.'^ 
 
 MacCrea fell into his chair as he spoke, and 
 folding his arms on the table, began shaking his 
 head menacingly at the door. The guests fell in- 
 to place again, and there was a general clash of 
 glasses striking an irregular chorus to a hunting 
 song which some one struck up. 
 
 In the midst of the confusion one of the guests, 
 who had maintained a grave silence all the even- 
 ing, arose and glided from the room. The white 
 face had been turned upon him when it looked 
 through the door, and as it retreated a signal was 
 given, which he obeyed. 
 
 Old Koberts stood in the darkness of a passage 
 beyond the banqueting chamber. It was his face 
 that had startled the revelers. 
 
 The old servant came forward in great agitation. 
 He was shaking from head to foot, and seiijed upon 
 the arm of the stranger with a grasp that made him 
 wince. 
 
 "I have seen you before, sir, in Dublin, when 
 my master was at his town house. You are a 
 lawyer, I know, for it was when the family solicitor 
 was away that you came in his place." 
 
 " Weir I remember the time. But what is it dis- 
 tresses you ? Why did you beckon me out of the 
 room ?" 
 
 "Come with me. The Earl is very ill. I fear 
 he may not live beyond the morning. He cannot 
 rest— he cannot die in peace— until something he 
 wishes is done." 
 
 " Is it a clergyman or lawyer he wants?" 
 
 "First a lawyer— then the priest. Will you 
 come ?" 
 
 The lawyer hesitated. Self-interest would have 
 kept him away, but he was a man far above the 
 level of those with whom he had just been asso- 
 ciated,' and the scenes he had witnessed that 
 evening were calculated to arouse all the gener- 
 ous indignation of a naturally fine nature. He 
 had been brought down to the abbey to transact 
 some loan to be secured upon the estates, subject 
 to the death of the present owner, the principal 
 parties of which sat over their wine in the next 
 room. At first he was ignorant of the condition 
 of the old Earl, and when he learned it from the 
 brutal jocularity of his companions, every fine 
 feeling of bis heart revolted at the task he had 
 undertaken. 
 
 " Yes," he said, after a moment's consideration. 
 " Show me to your master's room ; if he needs me 
 I will help him." 
 
 Koberts withdrew his hand, drawing a deep 
 breath, while his eyes filled with grateful tears. 
 
 " This way, sir. It is in the other wing." 
 
 The two men threaded" their way along many a 
 dim passage and vast room to the apartments in 
 which the old Earl was dying. As he approached 
 the sick room, Roberts trod more and more cau- 
 tiously, and the lawyer subdued his walk and 
 breathed low. 
 
 "Has he come? Did you hear anything of 
 Byrne?" questioned a voice, so feeble that it 
 could not have been heard a yard from the bed, 
 but for the profound stillness that reigned in that 
 part of the building. 
 
 " No, my master ; he has not yet come back. 
 But » 
 
 A low moan broke from the invalid, and he 
 struggled amid his pillows. 
 
 " He must come — oh, Boberts,he must come, or 
 my death will accomplish a terrible wrong !" 
 
 The old man half rose in bed and made a move- 
 ment to get up. His eyes were strangely bright, 
 bis thin face resolute as iron. 
 
 " Help me, Eoberts. Bring pen and ink— parch- 
 ment, too. I will leave at least an explanation 
 and a protest. As I near the gates of eternity my 
 heart turns back, yearning towaid the earth. My 
 son is here— I shall not meet him up yonder —bo 
 is here." 
 
 Roberts went close to the bed and gently put 
 the old man back hpon his pillows. 
 
 "Be content, my master. Byrne may be here 
 yet. But I have found the person you want. You 
 have seen this gentleman before ; he was once a 
 partner in your own solicitor's office." 
 
 Lord Ernruth turned his bright eyes on the 
 man who stood a little behind his servant, and 
 a gleam of satisfaction shone in them. 
 
 "It is well. Bring the parchment. Sit— sit 
 down, sir. I fear we have brief time. Be quick, 
 Roberts, now." 
 
 The Earl settled heavily back and closed his 
 eyes, concentrating his thoughts. A moment of 
 dead silence, and then ho began to dictate a will. 
 He was a strong man, tbis old Irish nobleman, 
 even in his weakness. The vitality of that all- 
 powerful affection, which gives so much of pure 
 romance to the nation, kept death in check. In 
 his eagerness, he arose to his elbow, and sup- 
 ported himself in a half-sitting position, smiling 
 sweetly upon the old servant, who would have 
 helped him, and saying, in a rather strong voice : 
 
 "No-no ; I feel young again." 
 
 Roberts shook his head mournfully, and leaning 
 against one of the great fluted posts which sup- 
 ported the canopy of rich silt, all black with 
 shadows, that rustled its folds over the dying no- 
 ble, he stood in pale silence, watching the law- 
 yer's pen as it ran over the parchment. 
 
 While this scene was going on in one wing of 
 the building, another— ah, how different !— was 
 being enacted in that where the nephew had as- 
 sembled his guests. Amid the general confusion 
 they had not obsei-ved the lawyer when he ghded 
 from the room, but after a few moments an empty 
 chair betrayed his absence, and a clamor arose 
 w^hich sent MacCrao out in search of the missing 
 man. Three or four of the guests rushed out 
 with him, carrying the confused voices and rush- 
 ing steps into the passage beyond the festive 
 saloon. Two dim figures were seen in the dis- 
 tance, moving cautiously through the darkness. 
 They seemed disturbed by the burst of noise and 
 light which came from tho saloon, and paused a 
 moment, looking back. 
 
 "There he is, sneaking oft" before the third 
 bottle !" cried MacCrea. " After him— after him I" 
 
nOGK E¥IN; OB, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 The whole party plunged forward, laughing and 
 riotous, while the two figures in the passage 
 looked about, evidently bewildered, and doubtful 
 which way to move. 
 
 "Well, lead on," said one of these men, impa- 
 tiently. "Whoever these persona are, we care 
 nothing for them. Which of these passages do we 
 take?" 
 
 " Faix, yer honor, I was just axin' that meself. 
 In the daytime there is no fear of me losin' me 
 way in the ould place ; but this darkness bates me, 
 out and out." 
 
 "Then what are we to do?" asked the first 
 voice. 
 
 "Why, yor honor, just hide ourselves nately, 
 till them rapscallions of gintlemen have swag- 
 gered ofi" till their rooms, and then we can try 
 both passages ; an' if one isn't right, sure t'other 
 will be." 
 
 " But there is no place." 
 
 "Just step into this thunderin' big shaddy, yer 
 honor. That chap carries his candle so unsteady 
 that it will go out afore he comes farneant us. 
 Then there'll be a scrimmage, and they'll go back 
 agin for another light, bad luck to 'em." 
 
 But Peter Byrne was mistaken. JSIotwithstand- 
 ing the waving motion of that candle, the only 
 one left in a great silver branch, which MacCrea 
 had seized on leaving the table— notwithstanding 
 that it was sometimes starting one way, then an- 
 other, jerked into sudden perpendicular with the 
 drunken ferocity of its holder, the flame burned 
 on, and much to Byrne's dismay, scattered the 
 shadows in which he and the Dublin solicitor had 
 taken refuge, as the sun breaks through a thun- 
 der-cloud. 
 
 "Ho— hoi here thej^ are! Seize 'em-seize 
 'em 1 No shirking I Seize 'em 1 for there's two, 
 if we are not all seeing double. Lay hold of the 
 traitors and bring 'em in !" 
 
 Amid these exclamations the candle dropped 
 from its socket, and was trampled under foot. 
 Then the noise was renewed, and amid a riot of 
 voices and heavy shuffling of feet, Peter Byrne 
 and Lord Ernruth's solicitor were dragged into 
 the blazing light of the saloon. 
 
 " By Jupiter ! it's Hutton, and— and . Why, 
 
 hound, what business have you at the abbey?" 
 
 These exclamations and questions came from 
 MacCrea, who seized Peter Byrne by the coat-col- 
 lar, and but for the massive strength of the young 
 Irishman, would have lifted him from his feet. 
 
 "What am I doin'? Faix, nothin' atal. Only 
 it's the natur of me to follow the smell of the cra- 
 tlier; and it's mighty strong here, anyway," an- 
 swered Peter, settling himself in his coat and 
 seizing a ponderous candlestick, which he con- 
 verted into a shelalah at once. " Only just take 
 yer grip from mo collar, if ye plase, for I'm mighty 
 ticklish about the neck ; and it's apt to get into 
 me hand, ye see." 
 
 " The man came with me," said the solicitor, 
 firmly. 
 
 "And, by Jupiter! what are you doing in my 
 uncle's house at this time of night, if it comes to 
 that?" exclaimed MacCrea, completely sobered by 
 the discovery he had made. 
 
 " I am here by your uncle's request, and, exact- 
 ly as he directed me, was going to his room," was 
 the grave reply to MacCrea's intemperate speech. 
 
 "And what are you going to his room at this 
 time of the night for, if it is not impertinent to 
 ask ?" 
 
 "It is impertinent." 
 
 " How ? Do you know, sir, who is master 
 here ?" 
 
 " Not exactly, but I possibly shall before morn- 
 ing," said the solicitor, with a grim smile. 
 
 "Indeed! Do you understand that, gentle- 
 men?" cried MacCrea. " This person threatens 
 us !" 
 
 The company were struck dumb. Most of the 
 persons who composed it had lent money to Mac- 
 Crea, on the chance of his succession to Lord 
 Ernruth's estates ; and they understood, in a con- 
 fused way, that the presence of a solicitor, sent 
 by express from Dublin, boded no good to their 
 claims. 
 
 " Mr. MacCrea, will you have the goodness to 
 order a servant to show me the way to Lord Ern- 
 ruth's rooms? I must see him at once," said 
 Hutton, looking around on the group of men and 
 the ruins of the feast with calm contempt. 
 
 " By Jupiter, I will do nothing of the kind ! No 
 man living shall prowl round my uncle's house 
 after this fashion while I am its master." 
 
 "Then we must find the room for ourselves. 
 Lead the way, Byrne." 
 
 Peter turned and marched into the passage. 
 Hutton was about to follow him, but as he reached 
 the threshold the door was flung to with a crash, 
 and he was thrown against the table with such 
 force that a salver and a cluster of delicate Bohe- 
 mian glasses fell to the floor, covering it with a 
 gorgeous storm of broken glass, wine, fruit, and 
 nuts, which were instantly trampled down by a 
 rush of feet. 
 
 In the midst of this confusion a key was turned 
 heavily and jerked from its lock. MacCrea held it 
 a moment, irresolute, when it was snatched from 
 his grasp and whirled out of the open win- 
 dow. 
 
 " By Jupiter, that puts an end to the whole mat- 
 ter!" cried MacCrea, turning a half-frightened 
 look from his companions to Hutton. " It wasn't 
 my work, you know. By .Jupiter, I haven't au 
 idea who sent the key whirling! So now sit 
 down, that's a good fellow, and help us make a 
 night of it." 
 
 Hutton walked to the window and looked down. 
 It was full thirty feet from the ground, and noth- 
 ing to break the descent. He turned away and 
 tried the lock. It was ponderous and strong. 
 
 "There, you see it's of no use," cried MacCrea. 
 " We're a jolly set of prisoners, all in the same 
 box, with plenty of wine in the coolers, and eata- 
 bles enough to stand a dozen crashes like that. 
 Come, Hutton, take the great chair. It's of genu- 
 ine native oak, dug up from the estate, and pre- 
 sented to the Earl by a deputation of the tenants. 
 It's the seat of honor. My friends, give Hutton 
 the great chair." 
 
 " I will take it," said the solicitor, seating him- 
 self, "if it wore only to save it from further dese- 
 cration." 
 
 MacCrea raised a wine-glass and emptied its 
 amber contents into a long-necked glass. 
 
 "Come, be a good fellow, now, and join in. 
 Here's something that will make your eyes 
 sparkle !" 
 
 Hutton leaned forward, his face grave, his 
 manner firm. He sat within the huge chair, 
 looming above him in heavy masses of carving, 
 with one delicate hand grasping the arm, and his 
 spare, intellectual face turned upon bis tor' 
 mentors. 
 
BOCK BVIN; OB, THE BAUOHTEB OF THE ISLAND 
 
 " No," be said, " I will take no wine so offered, 
 under the roof of a dying man." 
 
 "A dying man 1" exclaimed several voices, now 
 scarcely raised above a whisper. 
 
 " Yes, gentlemen. It was because the Earl of 
 Ernruth felt himself to be dying that I was sent 
 for." 
 
 "And what did he want you for ?" cried Mac- 
 Crea, setting down the Venetian glass, for his un- 
 steady hand was spilling the wine. 
 
 " To make his will, I believe," was the cold an- 
 swer. 
 
 " To make his will 1 Now, I like that. It's on a 
 level with what you say about his dying. As if his 
 will wasn't already made ! Do you think the old 
 man would let his title go one way and the estates 
 another ? Then, as to his dying. Didn't we find 
 him at the window iust wheu it was deucedly in- 
 convenient ? That 8 all talk." 
 
 Hutton made no reply, but leaned back in the 
 chair and closed his eyes, hoping that the Earl 
 might indeed be better than he supposed. 
 
 " Well, then, if he will be unsociable, let us 
 drink to his better notion," cried the host, lifting 
 the glass he had filled and drainmg it. " If ho 
 will bring a death's-head to the table, let us 
 drown it in jolly libations." 
 
 Then commenced one of those revolting revels 
 that are so repulsive, from the forced spirits which 
 show their falsehood. The whole party had re- 
 ceived a shock that no wine could dissipate and 
 no forced mirth conceal. Wine flowed more copi- 
 ously than before, but the effect was heavy and 
 revolting. Instead of mirth, the debauches pro- 
 duced only ludicrous braggadocia. 
 
 " Talk about wills," said MacCrea. " What's the 
 use ? The old man took care of all that months 
 
 o. You don't believe it ? Ha I Then look here ! 
 
 hat do you think of that document ?" 
 
 He thrust his hand under his vest and brought 
 out a folded parchment, and shook it open before 
 Hutton. 
 
 " There 1 Do you know that signature ? Is it 
 all in order ? took, gentlemen. Is your money 
 secure, think ?" 
 
 While the parchment trembled in his hand a 
 heavy knock was heard at the door. 
 
 " Itallo ! What is it ?" shouted MacCrea. 
 
 " The Earl is dead— the Earl is dead !" wailed a 
 voice from the passage. 
 
 MacCrea sunk to his chair, white as death. A 
 hush fell upon the room. One man had dropped a 
 flask in the shock, and a gurgle of wine, as it 
 flowed from the neck and formed a blood-red riv- 
 ulet down the center of the table, rose up through 
 the stillness like a chuckle of delight. 
 
 The solicitor arose, and casting a look of stem 
 indignation on the group around the table, walked 
 to the window and Yeaned out. The atmosphere 
 of those men stifled him. 
 
 MacCrea left his chair and came to the win- 
 dow. 
 
 " It was only a joke, you know, ' he said, abject- 
 ly. " Besides, it wasn't me that threw the key 
 away. If I'd known how near the end was, I'd 
 have jumped out of the window to let you out." 
 
 "You have done a thing which will embitter 
 your whole life, if you are an honest man," said 
 the solicitor, contrasting the pale refinement of 
 his face against the flushed features of the young 
 heir. " You have crossed the wishes of a "dying 
 man, thus securing your own interests." 
 
 " But how should I know ? He has been on the 
 
 ag 
 Wl 
 
 brink of dying a dozen times. Besides, it's ali 
 nonsense thinking that he wanted you about an- 
 other will. It isn't twenty-four hours since he 
 gave this into my hands, with directions that it 
 should be placed in your keeping. It was for 
 this he sent to bring vou down. I refused to take 
 it from the abbey till you came and relieved me 
 of it." 
 
 "Is this true?" questioned Hutton, searching 
 the face with his keen eyes. 
 
 "Upon my word— on my honor." 
 
 "Then I will take the will." 
 
 "And wait for the funeral and other cere- 
 monies ? Will you do tha-t ?" 
 
 " It is my duty," answered the solicitor, receiv- 
 ing the folded parchment which MacCrea held to- 
 ward him. 
 
 " I shall not forget this, Hutton— never fear. If 
 the old man up yonder was liberal to you, his gen- 
 erosity shan't outdo mine." 
 
 The solicitor bowed coldly ; grave doubts were 
 returning upon him. The words of the heir 
 seemed too much like a bribe. 
 
 While the two stood by the window, silvery 
 gleams came through the gray of the east. The 
 dawn was breaking. 
 
 A little after, one of the gardeners, passing to 
 his early work.was hailed from the window by his 
 new master, and ordered to search among the 
 flower-beds for a key that had been accidentally 
 dropped. This man was a long time searching 
 for the key, while the group of revelers stood to- 
 gether in the soft dawn of the morning, haggard 
 and ashamed. 
 
 At last the door was opened, and they went 
 forth one by one, without lifting their eyes to the 
 solicitor's face, who stood before them in the 
 calm dignity of ms character, in heart and looks 
 a superior being, whose very presence was a re- 
 buke. 
 
 Three days after this, a funeral cortege swept 
 darkly out of the abbey, and wound its solemn 
 course around the curve of the bay, toward a lit- 
 tle chapel which stood upon a ridge of high land 
 overlooking the sea. One standing near this 
 chapel could have seen the funereal train wind- 
 ing its black length in and out, on the sands and 
 among the foliage, till it clustered in a mournful 
 cloud around the tomb where many a lord of Ern- 
 ruth lay sleeping without his coronet. 
 
 When the crimson cofiin was laid in the notch 
 where it was to grow dim and molder into dust, 
 many an old man shook his head and sighed, with 
 a remembrance of the young lord who had been 
 thrown into a strange land to die in exile, and 
 many a heavy heart grew heavier with anxiety 
 when the chief mourner passed from the tomb to 
 his stately carriage. 
 
 At last the old Earl was left alone, like his an- 
 cestors, only in a fresher and brighter cofBn. No, 
 not quite alone ; for Koberts, the most faithful re- 
 tainer that ever a man had, lingered by the tomb 
 till it was sealed up. Then, with his eyes fixed 
 wistfully on the sea, he went slQwly away, but not 
 to the home that had been his master's. 
 
 They gathered in the vast drawing room, to hear 
 Earl Ernruth's will, a few distant relatives. The 
 man who had once been MacCrea, and some of 
 the friends who had held the orgies in the abbey 
 when the Earl was struggling with his death-pang, 
 were present. 
 
 The will was read, confirming only what the 
 law would have given to the next of kin, and the 
 
BOCK BUIN; OB, THE DAUGHTEB OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 nephew was now congratulated as the Earl of 
 Ernruth. 
 
 It was what every one had expected, but those 
 who thought deeply wondered that a man of the 
 late Lord's astute mind should have thought it 
 worth while to leave a document which merely 
 echoed the provisions made by law. 
 
 Among the guests who had remained for the 
 funeral was the lawyer who had been so mysteri- 
 ously called to Lord Ernruth's chamber that 
 night. He seemed very restless during the read- 
 ing of the will, and watched the door with great 
 anxiety, as if he expected some one to enter. But 
 no person came. As the company were about to 
 breakup, he arose and proclaimed that another 
 and more recent will had been made by the Earl 
 on the very night of his death, in behalf of a son 
 whom the Earl pt^rsisted in believing alive and 
 still in exile, though he had been reported dead. 
 The lawyer declared that he had himself drawn 
 up this will, seen it duly executed, and witnessed 
 by Roberts, an old servant, and a woman whom 
 he believed to be the housekeeper. But when 
 called upon by the heir to produce the will the 
 lawyer proclaimed his inability. By the Earl's 
 direction it had been placed in the hands of the 
 witness Roberts, and he was nowhere to be 
 found. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A LONG timber raft was moored by a tall clifiF 
 in one of our great Western rivers. The spot 
 was so picturesque that had the raftsmen been 
 a band of wandering artists instead of rude 
 laborers, they could not have chosen a more 
 lovely position. 
 
 A little above them the river made a sudden 
 curve, and the river was shut in by a stately pile 
 of rocks, covered with verdure and crowned 
 with tall trees, which took in all sorts of capri- 
 cious groupings, many of them bending down 
 their branches as if struggling to dip them in 
 the clear waters beneath. 
 
 Below the cliff, where the raft was moored, a 
 sweep of the blue waters miles down the river 
 was visible, brightened by the rising sun. Great 
 wreaths of mist went floating up, turning to 
 gold in the light, or drifted slowly down the cur- 
 rent, like the sails of some bark lost in the 
 deep shadow which lay along the left hand 
 shore. 
 
 Just where the raft was moored the cliflF swept 
 back from the river's edge for the space of a 
 hundred feet, leaving one of those green, open 
 spots M'hich so often astonish one in a primeval 
 wilderness, smooth as the most carefully shaven 
 lawn, and dotted with great trees, which spread 
 out an expanse of branches totally unlike the 
 close growth in the forest back. 
 
 The men had brought down great branches 
 of spruce and hemlock the night before for 
 their beds, and erected over it a graceful bough 
 house, forming a shelter as comfortable and 
 much more picturesque than any dwelling could 
 have done. 
 
 A great fire of logs was burning near the 
 river's edge, sending up a volume of clear 
 flame and showers of sparks that shone in the 
 pure atmosphere like a crowd of belated fire^ 
 flies. 
 
 Several of the men wore busied about tho fire 
 preparing broakfaat. otherw oecupipd on the 
 
 which no artist could have seen without being 
 impelled to sketch forthwith. 
 
 Certainly, although the viands were of the 
 most ordinary description, no mortal could 
 have seen them frizzling and crackling over 
 the fire in the clear morning air without hav- 
 ing felt that it was to be a feast which might 
 have given the most pampered gourmand an 
 appetite. 
 
 Slices of pork, cut in an artistic manner, 
 were frizzling in a long-handled frying-pan, 
 and rapidly turning to the deep mottled amber 
 brown which proves perfection in the cooking. 
 One of the men had followed up a mountain 
 brook, that came foaming down to the river 
 near the encampment, and had returned with a 
 string of trout, that were now lying in the 
 frying-pan with the slices of {)ork, their red 
 sides swelling out with a seemingly conscious 
 importance, as if they really knew how worthy 
 they were of being daintily prepared. One of 
 the men, skilled in the finer touches of cookery, 
 had volunteered to bake a short-cake, which 
 he was watching with the utmost solicitude as 
 it stood tilted up before the fire on a piece of 
 boat bark. 
 
 Altogether, as I said, the repast promised to 
 be of the most appetizing sort, and the scene 
 was singularly pleasant and striking. 
 
 The men were merry as men who have 
 healthful labor to perform and few cares to 
 trouble them are wont to be, and the old woods 
 rang with laughter and jests, which were no 
 less hearty from their being expressed in some- 
 what ungrammatical language, astonishing the 
 very birds that had always been in the habit 
 of considering the place their own, and exciting 
 the utmost wonderment in the minds of a flock 
 of blue jays, who flew wildly about, chattering 
 and screaming their astonishment in every key 
 and tone possible for the blue jay throat to ar- 
 ticulate. 
 
 Seated at a little distance from the shore was 
 an old man, who evidently did not belong to the 
 party of hardy raftsmen with whom he had been 
 thrown for the time. 
 
 He still clung to the obsolete dress of the 
 early part of the century, and added one more 
 picturesque object to the scene, as he sat lean- 
 ing back against the trunk of a pine, his with- 
 ered hands locked over his knees, and his long 
 white hair falling smoothly down upon his bent 
 shoulders. 
 
 The face was remarkable for its expression 
 of honesty and patient endurance ; he looked 
 feeble, and unfit to bear the exposure of a jour- 
 neylike that ; but one could see how some great 
 resolution sustained him, and enabled him to 
 bear up under the double burden of hardship 
 and old age. 
 
 When the signal was given for breakfast, he 
 rose slowly from the ground^ but a young man 
 called out to him : 
 
 " Sit still— sit still, old gentleman ; you don't 
 look fit for stirring round this morning. I'll 
 bring you a plate of fixin's." 
 
 He hurried up with a tin plate heaped with 
 the most carefully frizzled pork and potatoes, 
 aqd a great mug of coffee, showing a dogree of 
 kindness and solicitude one would hfti'dly have 
 expected to find in one so hn-rdy an4 ffiUgli- 
 
 " That'll put vim into yoii," he m\^i with a 
 
 henrty, rirtgiu^^ \m^\h '''Notyfirsfe geb out^itle 
 
10 
 
 f< /.T/ A : >>/,\ ///, 
 
 rriK IHLA 
 
 of every bit as fast as you can, and be ready for 
 another dose." 
 
 "I am much obliged to you," the old man 
 answered; "you've more thought in ye than 
 many a one of your age." 
 
 "Well, you see, I've got an old father of my 
 own, and that kind o' makes a fellow think how 
 he'd want him treated if he was off on a scam- 
 per like that you've had." 
 
 " It's almost over," murmured the old man, 
 in a voice which did not reach the other's ear ; 
 "almost over; and then, God willing, I can 
 rest." 
 
 His face showed that he was thinking of that 
 long, peaceful rest which puts an end to all 
 suffering and pain ; and thoughtless and unlet- 
 tered as the young man was, ho could not but 
 be struck by the look of patient resignation 
 which settled upon his face, like the reflex of 
 an inward prayer. 
 
 After the old man had finished his meal, he 
 remained quietly in his seat, while the bustle 
 of preparation went on ; and when the raft was 
 ready to get under way, took his place upon it, 
 and ' sat looking intently down the beautiful 
 stream, as he had passed most of the time dur- 
 ing that monotonous journey. 
 
 Tue current was deep' and swift, and soon 
 bore the raft away from the picturesque spot 
 which had been so animated an hour before. 
 The smoke curled slowly up from the smoulder- 
 ing fire, the birds came back to the haunts from 
 which thoy had been startled by the unusual 
 tumult, and the strange, solemn life of the forest 
 began again, as if no human sounds had ever 
 interrupted its tranquil course. 
 
 They must have been strange thoughts which 
 occupied the old man during that long, dreary 
 day. At his age, it must have been startling 
 to find himself in that wild place, with the 
 great ocean between him and his past life. 
 This, of itself, might have been enough to sad- 
 den and bewilder him, without the weight of 
 responsibility and trouble under which he 
 labored. 
 
 " Wal, old gentleman," said one of the men, 
 breaking abruptly upon his reverie, "you're 
 pretty nigh the end of your jaunt, anyhow; 
 we'll see the island by sundown." 
 
 The old man made a little sign, which any 
 Catholic would have understood, but which his 
 companion only set down among the numerous 
 little oddities which ho had wondered at in their 
 passenger during the past three days. 
 
 " And we shall really get there to-night?" he 
 said. 
 
 " I ain't afeard to say we shall, onless some- 
 thing uncommon should happen. The water is 
 deuced high, and along here the current runs 
 as if it was pitching off a hill." 
 
 The old man shaded his eyes with his hand, 
 and looked earnestly down the stream, as if 
 hoping already to see the haven for which he 
 had been searching so long. 
 
 " I can't get over thinking it's funny a man of 
 your age should have got the idee of coming 
 away out into these backwoods," said the man, 
 suddenly. " I don't know as ever I heerd yOu 
 say how long you'd been in this country; I 
 s'pose you must have come a good while back, 
 for I'd hardly know you for an Irishman by your 
 talk." 
 
 Boberta answered evasively, as he had con- 
 
 stantly met all similar questions. He was nat- 
 urally cautious and reticent to a singular de- 
 gree, and the fear of compromising in any way 
 the interests of those for whom he had made that 
 journey, had rendered him so morbidly fearful 
 of opening his lips, that ho would not even 
 question the men as to what thoy might know 
 of the family he was seeking. 
 
 The man essayed several other shrewd in- 
 quiries, but with no better success than had 
 followed i^revious questions without number, 
 and he was obliged, at last, to leave this silent 
 passenger to his meditations without having 
 had the gratification of obtaining the least 
 clue in regard to them or the object of his 
 journey. 
 
 All that day they went drifting down the 
 current, in the midst of varied and beautiful 
 scenery. At times, for miles, the shores were 
 thickly lined with forest trees ; then there would 
 come a break of natural meadow land, or the 
 clearing of some thriving farmer— perhaps a 
 knot of houses, dignified by the title of village; 
 then the forest would suddenly shut in the view 
 again, to give place, in turn, to bold ledges of 
 rocks or broad expanses of prairie sweeping off 
 in the distance. 
 
 As they passed on through the brightness of 
 the afternoon, the river widened, and, added to 
 the extent of the natural channel, the effects 
 of the freshet were more plainly visible than 
 before. 
 
 They reached a spot where a mountain stream 
 came leaping down the rocks and emptied 
 itself into the river ; it was at all times a fair- 
 sized body of water, but the heavy rains had 
 swollen it to an alarming extent, and instead of 
 a sheet of transparent crystal, it came thunder- 
 ing over its bed in huge volumes of foam and 
 turbid water. 
 
 Only those familiar with the rapidity with 
 which such mountain streams can transform 
 themselves into broad sheets of water under 
 the influence of a continued storm, will under- 
 stand the change which had taken place in the 
 mountain torrent. 
 
 Down it rushed over the rocks, flinging logs 
 and great trees into the river which it had torn 
 up in its course through the forest, and dashed 
 onward with a noise that echoed far and wide. 
 On the opposite shore of the river, and not more 
 than half a mile below, another stream emptied 
 into the main channel, and that too was fear- 
 fully swollen, although it lacked the majesty 
 that the other gained in its headlong plunge 
 over the ledge. 
 
 After that the river went rushing and deepen- 
 ing onward, in many places pushing far over its 
 banks, and completely surrounding such stray 
 habitations as were scattered along. 
 
 The men on the raft were kept constantly 
 occupied in pushing off the logs which rushed 
 down the current, and the raft sped on with a 
 swiftness which shook its timbers till they 
 strained fearfully against each other and threat- 
 ened to break from its fastenings. 
 
 Some of the men were anxious to moor the 
 craft and wait until the flood had subsided a 
 little, but they were overruled by their more 
 ardent and inexperienced companion. 
 
 "At least we will go as far as 8tar Island," 
 said the man who had been questioning old 
 Boberta; "we shall reach it in two hours— it 
 
mOK RUIN; OB, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 11 
 
 won't be much after sundown then, and we 
 shall find nice little coves to haul up in." So 
 they rushed on through the strengthening cur- 
 rent, the men growing quiet and grave under 
 the excitement ol" the scene, which was fast 
 deepening into terror, for the current grew 
 more and more swift, the waters more turbulent. 
 Suddenly the sky changed— the sun was setting, 
 casting a flood of lurid" light on the waters, and 
 shining like lines of blood through the tree 
 tops on the shore. The heavy clouds which had 
 been gradually piling up in the horizon swept 
 closer together, forming a dense black wall, and 
 the wind rushed past them Avith a noise like 
 distant thunder. 
 
 "There's a smart chance of a storm coming, 
 Jones," said one of the younger men. 
 
 "Hang the storm! I said we'd reach the 
 island, and we will. We shall be in sight of it 
 when we pass that ledge just ahead, so let her 
 float." 
 
 "Have you forgot the eddy there is beyond 
 that point— if we get into it we can't manage 
 the raft any more than Noah could his ark." 
 
 "I've passed it a hundred times. I guess 
 you can't tell this child much that he don't know 
 about the river." 
 
 "It must be a regular whirlpool now, I can 
 tell you." 
 
 "Maybe you'd better go ashore in a small 
 boat," answered the other ; " a body would think 
 you was in the Atlantic ocean." 
 
 The men all laughed at that, perhaps to hide 
 a little uneasiness in their own hearts. 
 
 On they swept — the ledge was passed— they 
 could see the beautiful island stretched out be- 
 fore them, but between them and its emerald 
 slopes, now bathed in soft gray mist, seethed 
 and foamed the eddy which had become a really 
 formidable whirlpool. 
 
 " There's the island, old chap! " shouted 
 Jones. " Your troubles are about over." 
 
 Roberts rose from his seat, looked eagerly 
 down the river for a moment, then sank back, 
 and those that were nearest saw his lips move 
 in silent thanksgiving. 
 
 " And there's the eddy," called one of the 
 men. " We shall be swept into it as sure as a 
 gun." 
 
 "I can steer clear," returned Jones. "I'll 
 get up close to the bank, and hug it like all 
 blazes." 
 
 "You can't," cried the young man who had 
 before argued with him; "you'll run into the 
 sunken rocks if you try." 
 
 Jones cursed him for a coward, and exerted 
 all his strength upon the long tiller to turn the 
 raft in the direction he desired. The men 
 were all working in silence, but the suspense 
 was of short duration— a dull, heavy blow 
 struck the bottom of the raft — the unwieldy 
 mass of timber swung slowly round — they were 
 aground. 
 
 "Push her off!" shouted Jones, excitedly; 
 "we can do it!— quick about it, or we shall go 
 to pieces ! A long pull, a strong pull, a pull 
 altogether." 
 
 The men worked like tigers ; some of them in 
 their excitement sprang off the raft upon the 
 rocks, others pushing desperately with the iron 
 mounted poles, all the while the raft creaking 
 and laboring as if it knew its own peril and was 
 rying to escape from it, the roar of the wind 
 
 every instant growing louder, the clouds gather- 
 ing heavier, while sharp flashes of lightnitlg shot 
 through them, and the first boom of thunder 
 showed that the tempest was at band. 
 
 A sudden wave aided the men in their efforts ; 
 the raft swung round. 
 
 "We're offl" shouted Jones; "look out 
 there ! " 
 
 The men upon the rocks sprang on to the 
 raft, and with a mighty effort she plunged off 
 into the foaming torrent. 
 
 "The eddy, Jones, the eddy!" called out a 
 dozen voices ; but it was too late— they were 
 already in the current. 
 
 Before any one of the group could move or 
 think they were whirling round and round in the 
 seething waters. 
 
 The lashings of the raft began to strain and 
 leak ; the timbers trembled like living creatures 
 struck with terror. 
 
 "We are lost!" some one called out, "The 
 raft will go to flinders !" 
 
 Old Roberts heard the cry ; he started for- 
 ward, stretching out his arms as if to clutch a 
 hold upon the island that lay so near. 
 
 "No, no," he shouted, "no 1 I am so near the 
 island ! I must reach the island 1 I will reach 
 that island !" 
 
 His hat was off, his white hair streamed out in 
 the wind, his attitude betrayed the most agoniz- 
 ing suspense ; but even in the moment of peril 
 the men saw that it was not fear which had 
 aroused him so. 
 
 " I have it here," he cried, striking his hand 
 against his breast ; "I must give it up— I can't 
 die now 1 Put me on shore, I say— drown me 
 then, but hurl my body on shore." 
 
 "We shan't die!" called Jones. "I guess 
 our lives are safe enough—but the raft is gone 
 to thunder." 
 
 It was true the parting timbers flew round and 
 round till the heads of these stout men reeled, 
 and they crouched down upon the timbers, 
 clutching the logs for support, as each sweep 
 dashed them nearer the island. 
 
 The rain was falling in torrents, but no one 
 heeded that; the gloom was almost impene- 
 trable, save when the flashes of lightning lit up 
 the boiling vortex in which they whirled, and 
 cast lurid gleams across the island and the tow- 
 ering cliff upon the opposite shore, bathing them 
 with blue light. 
 
 "If we are washed against Rock Ruin we are 
 gone !" some one shouted. 
 
 The men started to their feet ; it was the first 
 time that any serious danger to their lives had 
 struck the hardy company accustomed to the 
 rough navigation of the river ; they could not 
 realize the danger till it swept fiercely down 
 upon them. 
 
 There was no outcry ; they possessed all the 
 Indian fortitude which characterizes men who 
 have been bred in the wilderness. The com- 
 ing fate was watched and waited for in si- 
 lence. 
 
 "Master! master!" shrieked old Roberts, 
 throwing out his arms toward the island ; but 
 the roar of the tempest and the booming thun- 
 der only answered him. 
 
 A flash of lightning broke through the fog and 
 revealed men running to and fro upon the island. 
 Their danger had been perceived, but the look- 
 
12 
 
 nOCK RUIN; OB, THE BAUGHTEit OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 era on could only stand and watch the progress 
 of their destruction. 
 
 " Master !" Roberts called out again. " Help ! 
 help, so near ! I must save it I I can't die with 
 this in my bosom 1" 
 
 A few more seconds of mad tumult, then the 
 raft, by some sudden impetus of the waters, 
 was dashed toward the island. They were 
 saved from the death which awaited them if 
 they had been cast toward the butting cliffs of 
 Rock Ruin. 
 
 A sudden plunge, a quick recoil, the raft struck 
 against a rocky mass at the extremity of the 
 island. One heavy blow and the great timbers 
 parted, casting the portion upon wnich the crew 
 •were grouped upon the shore, but a flash of 
 lightning snowed a mass of disjointed fragments 
 drifting down the stream. The old man was no 
 longer visible. 
 
 The men upon the island, who had been 
 watching, rushed to the water's edge, eager to 
 give assistance. 
 
 A sudden sweep of the waves cast a human 
 body upon the shore. It came in with a dull, 
 heavy weight, and was caught in a clump of 
 thorn bushes. A flash of light showed the body 
 of an old man, with his gray hairs entangled 
 among the thorns. 
 
 " There he is !" cried a young man who had 
 been foremost in the island group. "No lives 
 lost, thank God !" 
 
 "He is- dead!" some one answered, bending 
 over him. 
 
 One of the raftsmen approached. 
 
 "It's the old Irishman we brought with us," 
 he said, in a broken voice. " Poor fellow 1" 
 
 "Take him up to the house," cried the young 
 man. " I think he is only stunned." 
 
 The men raised the helpless body and carried 
 it up the path, through the wood, and into 
 the stone mansion which towered up near the 
 extremity of the island, where the raft had been 
 shattered. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 iHILE the raft had been sweeping 
 through the storm toward the isl- 
 and, a boat, several miles below, 
 was struggling to force its way up 
 the stream, undeterred either by 
 difficulty or danger. 
 It was a flat, unwieldy affair, 
 manned by four men, who pulled on the rude 
 oars with all the strength oi desperation. 
 
 In the stem of the boat sat a man covered up 
 in a great cloak, and shielding himself as much 
 as possible from the fury of the storm. 
 
 " We can't reach the tavern," the man said to 
 the person who was steering the boat ; " we shall 
 have to land here." 
 
 " How far are we from the place ?" asked the 
 other, flinging back his cloak and sitting up- 
 right. 
 
 " Only about two miles. Can you walk it ?" 
 " Of course, if you can," he replied. " Put 
 ashore— we are drenched already, and the worst 
 is over— put ashore." 
 
 The helmsman obeyed, and in a few moments 
 they were landed in safety. 
 
 "This is the hardest puU I've seen in one 
 while," said the helmsman, as they stood for a 
 moment to gather breath after their exertions. 
 
 " How far do you say we are from the tavern, 
 Hyatt?" asked the man to whom he bad before 
 spoken. 
 
 " Two miles only ; but it's a deuce of a walk." 
 
 " That's nothing. I've got traps here I don't 
 want to leave. Give a hand, men ; and when we 
 reach the inn we'll have supper. That will 
 make you forget the trouble." 
 
 " Old Mother Ames is the one to get it up," 
 said one of the men. " Here goes, fellows." 
 
 Thev gathered up the knapsacks, and Hyatt 
 and the gentleman preceded them along the 
 rough path which conducted to the shelter of 
 which the^ -were in search. 
 
 " All this must be a sort of revelation to vou, 
 Mr. Gorman," said Hyatt, as they stumbled 
 along, side by side. 
 
 "It certainly is not the sort of thing one 
 meets with every day," replied the other ; but, 
 at all events, it gives one a sensation." 
 
 " I should think so, if you choose to call this 
 infernal rain by that name." 
 
 His companion laughed out with a strange 
 recklessness, as ho answered : 
 
 " You and I have called things by all sorts of 
 strange names since wo met." 
 
 "It's not my fault," grumbled Hyatt. "If 
 a man won't speak out plain it's not my fault, 
 is it?" 
 
 " Wait till we are safe at Mother— what is her 
 name ?" 
 
 "Ames," grumbled Hyatt, upon whom the 
 drenching rain did not seem to have a pleasant 
 effect. 
 
 "Ames bo it," returned the other. "What a 
 
 Elace to find misery in ! I say, Hyatt, you 
 avon't really told me yet what brings you 
 here." 
 
 " Nor you me," retorted the other. 
 
 " Oh, I am in search of adventures," replied 
 the foreigner, with a laugh. " Travelers always 
 are, you know." 
 
 " And I like to buy lumbei- cheap," said Hy- 
 att, with an affectation of his tone. " Traders 
 do, you know." 
 
 " Bah ! " exclaimed the stranger, angrily. 
 
 " So I say," answered Hyatt. "We'll put the 
 adventures and the purchaser together in 
 that." 
 
 The other laughed again, and they walked on 
 in silence through the dark wood. 
 
 "I can see a light, Hyatt," exclaimed one of 
 the men who had approached near to them. 
 
 " That's Rock Ruin tavern, then," he an- 
 swered. " I know I ain't sorrv, for one." 
 
 " I guess we'll all join you there," replied the 
 man, in an ill-natured tone. " It's a great go, 
 when a man has to take a tramp like this with- 
 out a drop to wet his throat with." 
 
 "You shouldn't have got drunk yesterday, 
 Winter," replied Hyatt ; " there'd be half a 
 gallon left, at least, if you had not. Boys can't 
 have cake and keep their coffers, too." 
 
 There was a laugh from the men behind, a 
 few coarse jokes, then they trudged on in a sort 
 of sullen silence, which would have been quite 
 excusable in better tempered men after expo- 
 sure to a storm like that. 
 
 It might have been an hour later when they 
 emerged into a clearing by the river side, and 
 saw a light from the tavern gleaming closer to 
 them. 
 
 " Here we are I" exclaimed Hyatt, recovering 
 
noCK RUIN; OR, THS BAXIQHTEB OF THE l8LA^t>. 
 
 19 
 
 his spirits. " Now, Mr. Gorman, we are sure of 
 supper and a dry bed, at least." 
 
 " I think I shall take to both kindly," he an- 
 swered. Lead the way, and exercise your fas- 
 cination upon Mother Ames in the best style 
 possible." 
 
 They passed up the rude stoop, and Hyatt 
 threw open the door into a small room, where 
 an old woman sat knitting by a fire, which the 
 inclemency of the night made exceedingly agree- 
 able. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Ames," he said, " here we are 
 again." 
 
 " Lord bless us !" exclaimed the old woman, 
 starting to her feet and lifting her spectacles, 
 " if it ain't Mr. Hyatt ! Wal, I declare, who'd a 
 thought of seeing you sich a night I" 
 
 " All the more reason for being glad to see 
 us," he replied. " We are as wet as a washing- 
 day and hungry as alligators." 
 
 " I can mend all that, I guess," she answered 
 with a cheery laugh. " Come up to the fire, all 
 of you. How do you do, Mr. Winter, and all the 
 rest of you. There's somebody I don't know," 
 she continued, looking at Gorman with the curi- 
 osity of one who saw few strange faces. 
 
 " He's a friend of mine," replied Hyatt, as he 
 took off his coat and hung it on a pole stretched 
 over the fireplace. " He's traveling to see 
 things." 
 
 " Rock Ruin ain't much of a place to come to 
 for that," replied the old woman. " I ain't seed 
 vou in these parts for a good while, Mr. Hyatt ; 
 1 was a saying t'other day I didn't know what 
 had become of you." 
 
 " Oh, I always turn uj) in time," he answered, 
 composedly divesting himself of such portions 
 of bis attire as required drying. 
 
 " Like a bad penny I" laughed Gorman, throw- 
 ing off his cloak and taking a chair close to the 
 fire. 
 
 The old woman gave him a quick look. He 
 was plainly, almost coarsely dressed, like his 
 companions, but her faculties detected the dif- 
 ference between them at once. 
 
 " You don't speak like one of our country 
 folks," said she, abruptly. 
 
 " I told you Mr. Gorman was a traveler," re- 
 plied Hyatt. " But, I say, old lady, if you've got 
 anything to drink bring it out, and then give us 
 the best supper you can." 
 
 ■' I've got some fair rum and some prime Hol- 
 lands," she answered. " I can bet on that, for 
 Mr. Conner got it for me. As for supper — wal, 
 •I guess we'll do— there's bacon and eggs, and 
 chickens, and corn bread " 
 
 "A feast for a king!" interrupted Gorman. 
 " Do hurry it up, my good woman." 
 
 " Give us the liquor first," said one of the 
 men. " Sha'n't be content till I'm as wet inside 
 as I am out." 
 
 The old woman bustled away to a corner cup- 
 board, and produ«ed a couple of square bottles 
 and a number of greenish glasses, which she 
 placed on a table near the fire. 
 
 •' There's water in that jug," she said. " Now 
 I'll see about supper." 
 
 "Hang the water!" growled Winter; "I've 
 had enough of it to last me for a lifetime." 
 
 "I guess you never did take to it very 
 nat'ral," retorted the old woman. "Try and 
 make yourselves comfortable ; 'twon't take me 
 long to get up supper." 
 
 She hurriad out of the room, and the men ap- 
 plied themselves to the spirits with great ener- 
 gy, although they seemed to have no effect upon 
 their seasoned frames, while Gorman, after sip- 
 ping a few moutbfuls, returned to his task of 
 drying his clothes, and left the others in undis- 
 puted possession of the bottles. 
 
 It certainly was not more than half an hour 
 before the old woman threw open the door and 
 invited them into the kitchen, where a comfort- 
 able table was spread, about which they gath- 
 ered with the utmost alacrity. 
 
 bhe had found time, beside broiling the chick- 
 ens and preparing the ham and eggs, to concoct 
 a great plate of hot bread, together with such 
 other appetizing things as her skill could in- 
 vent. 
 
 "This is something like," said Hyatt, throw- 
 ing himself back in his chair as his meal was 
 finished. "I say, mother, what can you do for 
 us in the way of beds ? " 
 
 " I guess we can manage," she repled, taking 
 a pinch of snuff, and shaking her head in the 
 operation. "There ain't a night, spring and 
 fall, that I don't have lumbermen here. 'Tain't 
 likely I've kept this tavern nigh onto ten years 
 without knowing how to provide them." 
 
 "That's so, Mrs. Ames," returned one of the 
 men. "It's the only place within fifty miles 
 worth stopping at." 
 
 The old woman finished her pinch of snuff 
 and nodded her head in a mollified way. 
 . " I'll give Mr. Hyatt and the stranger the gar- 
 ret over this," she said, " and I'll put the rest 
 of you over the other. I guess you'll all do — 
 the beds is good, anyhow." 
 
 " No fear of that," returned Hyatt ; " we shall 
 get on splendidly. I say, boys, shall we have a 
 glass of punch and a smoke, and then turn in ? 
 I, for one, am deuced tired. How do you find 
 yourself Mr. Gorman ?" 
 
 "I fancy that I shall be all the better for a 
 night's rest," he answered, rising from the table 
 as ho spoke. 
 
 While Hyatt and he sat by the fire drinking 
 their punch, the other four men occupied them- 
 selves with a game of cards, and soon no sor.ud 
 was heard in the room save an occasional oath 
 from one of the gamblers, or a long yawn or 
 broken whistle from Hyatt, his companion sit- 
 ting on the other side "of the fire, lost in deep 
 and apparently not very pleasant meditations. 
 
 " Suppose you and I stow ourselves away, Mr. 
 Gorman," said Hyatt, at last, " and leave* these 
 fellows to their game ?" 
 
 The other complied at once, and, taking up », 
 light, Hyatt led the way through the bar-room to 
 a small apartment, which was evidently the old 
 lady's beat bedroom. It contained two comfort- 
 able-looking beds, before each of which a strip 
 of rag carpet had been spread ; and although 
 everything was of the plainest description, the 
 room looked so tidy ana neat that, had Gorman 
 been less fatigued than he was, even to him it 
 must have had an appearance of comfort. 
 , "Well," Hyatt said, suddenly, "our journey 
 is at an end, Mr. Gorman." 
 
 "So much the better," he answered — "so 
 much the better." 
 
 Hyatt looked at him thoiightfully. 
 
 " You and I ought to have a clearer under- 
 stftndiQg, Mr. Gorman," he said. " Of course i 
 
14 
 
 MOCK nzrm; on, the i)AnonTER of the island. 
 
 liaven't said a word before the men, but I think 
 we ought to have a talk together." 
 
 "What do Winter and the rest think?" Gor- 
 man asked. 
 
 " I have left them in doubt whether you want- 
 ed to buy lumber or had just come here for the 
 fun of the expedition." 
 
 " That was right Hyatt, (juite right." 
 
 Hyatt puffed away at his cigar for a few mo- 
 ments, then continued : 
 
 " I know it must have been some powerful in- 
 ducement that brought you here. Itou said you 
 might want my help, lou've paid me well.'*^ 
 
 " And will continue to do so," interrupted 
 Hyatt. 
 
 " Nor do I mean that you shall. In a few 
 days, after I fully understand things myself and 
 have looked about me, I will explain to you ex- 
 actly what I want to have done." 
 
 " In the meantime " 
 
 "You are to do what we agreed upon — ap- 
 pear to be occupied in buying up lumber and 
 getting a raft ready to go down the river." 
 
 " Yea, they've seen me in such business before 
 about here, so that won't astonish anybody." 
 
 " It might," retorted Gorman, " if they knew 
 how much lumber had gone down that never 
 was paid for." 
 
 " The man must live," replied Hyatt care- 
 lessly. " I guess, anyhow, my errand would 
 bear'daylight as well as yours." 
 
 Gorman flushed a little at his words, but made 
 no reply. 
 
 " So this Mr. Conner is away from home ?" he 
 said. 
 
 " Yes, as I told you, otf in the Eastern States, 
 and may not be back for a month, and maybe 
 more, Mr. Cforman," he added, suddenly. " I 
 believe you know more about him than any man 
 in this country does." 
 
 " What sort of young man is his son ?" asked 
 Gorman, without appearing to have heard his 
 remark. 
 
 "A splendid young fellow and no mistake," 
 returned Hyatt. 
 
 " He's not the sort of fellow to pass his life in 
 this out-of-the-way place, I am sure." 
 
 " You say he has been carefully educated ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; he was at college down East, and 
 has traveled a good deal ; and the last time I 
 was here he was mad to go to Europe, but his 
 father would not hear of it." 
 
 Gorman smiled, but made no reply. 
 
 " The first thing to find out," said he, " is if 
 that old Irishman has reached here yet." 
 
 " We can do that in the morning. If he 
 bringa news to Conner that you wanted to inter- 
 cept, I wonder you did not overtake him on his 
 journey." 
 
 " Haven't I missed him everywhere?" replied 
 the other, angrily. " No, he must come now — 
 there is no help for it. We can settle him, I 
 think." 
 
 " What 1" exclaimed the other, in a tone of sur- 
 prise. " Do you mean — -' 
 
 He did not finish the sentence, but the gesture 
 with which he accompanied his words was dread- 
 fully significant of their meaning. 
 
 "No— no," reiterated Gorman,with something 
 like a shudder, " nothing of that sort." 
 
 " So much the better," replied Hyatt, care- 
 lessly. "That sort of thing is always danger- 
 ous.'' 
 
 Gorman turned from him with something like 
 disgust. The sight of that bad man was, for 
 the moment, like having his own evil nature re- 
 vealed openly to him, and he shrank from the 
 exposure. 
 
 *' Well," said Hyatt, beginning to undress, "I 
 am your man with this business you have on 
 hand, whatever it may be, if you stick to the price 
 you have named." 
 
 "I shall do that, no fear; Inever go back from 
 a bargain. Of course your companions are to re- 
 main in ignorance until the time comes when we 
 need their services." 
 
 " That's understood. Anyhow, I don't know 
 much myself to tell them as yet." 
 
 "True enough for that," replied the other, 
 turning from the subject with a sort of angry im- 
 patience, as if he did not like to face it himself 
 at that moment. 
 
 " Then I think the best thing a man can dc is 
 to go to sleep as fast as possible," said Hyatt, 
 
 Shilosophically, " and that's just what I mean to 
 0." 
 
 •' Very good. I should think those fellows 
 would all be tired enough to want rest." 
 
 Gorman answered absently ; his thoughts were 
 evidently upon money. Long after Hyatt was 
 sleeping as quietly as an innocent man could 
 have desired to do, he turned restlessly upon 
 his pillow, muttering to himself and resolving 
 the schemes to gain which he was periling 
 everything. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Old Roberts was lying on a bed when he 
 awoke to consciousness, wliile an elderly woman 
 bent over him with restoratives. 
 
 He started up on his pillow and struck wildly 
 at her. 
 
 "Where am I?" he exclaimed— " oh I where 
 ami?" 
 
 " Safe," she replied ; " quite safe." 
 
 In spite of his weakness, he struggled partial- 
 ly up, and began fumbling at his vest with a 
 look of fear. Evidently what ho sought for was 
 safe, for he fell back w'ith a sigh of relief. 
 
 "I have it, master !" he muttered, "I have 
 it ! Thanks to the blessed YiTgin, it is safe !" 
 
 The woman left the bed and went to the door 
 of the next chamber and looked in. A young 
 man was standing at a table bending over a 
 medicine ohest. 
 
 " Mr. Gerald," she aaid in a whisper, "please 
 to come in. I thinlt he's wandering in his 
 mind." 
 
 The young man turned at her words and en- 
 tered the chamber. Roberts started up again 
 at the echo of his step, looking eagerly out like 
 one who hears a familiar sound. When the 
 light fell upon the youn^ man's face he gave a 
 low cry and held out his hands. 
 
 " It's the young master," he whispered— " it's 
 the young master." ,^ , , ^ 
 
 The gentleman did not catch the words, but 
 the wild look and gesture made him believe that 
 the shock had troubled the old man's brain. 
 
 " I want to get off the rest of your clothes, 
 and give yon srmething that will make you 
 sleep," b-> n..! kindly. " Will you let me now ?" 
 
 " It's \ K *TOe voice," muttered the old man. 
 " They all lia^ it. Yea, master ; do with the old 
 I man as you please." 
 
BOCK RUIN; OB, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 15 
 
 *< You will bo moro comfortable, once in bed," 
 continued he, aoothinglj;, and attempting to lift 
 the gray head from its pillow. . , .. , 
 
 As he put out his hand, Roberts seized it and 
 pressed it to his lips with a wild burst of tears. 
 
 " Found— found ! " he exclaimed. ''Master, 
 do you hear ? They're found-they're found ! 
 
 "I think, Mrs. Jordan," said the gentleman, 
 turning towards the woman, "you had better 
 call one of the men up." ^ „ ^ ^ ., ,, , 
 
 "Gall nobody!" cried Roberts, " nobody 1 
 Sond the master here. You are too young. It 
 is your father I want to see. Why don t he 
 come ? Tell him it's me has come. Sure, he 11 
 remember the old man." , -, xu 
 
 "Did you wish to see my father? asked the 
 gentleman. 
 
 "I don't know. This maybe a delusion!" 
 cried the old man. "Tell me your name— for 
 the love of Heaven, tell me your name I" 
 
 "Gerald Conner." 
 
 " Yes— yes ; I knew God would help me. Why 
 don't you send the old master here ?" he con- 
 tinued, frantically. ' ' It's burning into my heart. 
 I want to give it to him." 
 
 " My father is from home," replied Conner, 
 hoping to soothe the poor stranger, and quiet 
 his raving, for he certainly believed that his 
 words were only the purposeless mutteringa of 
 fever. 
 
 "He's not dead!" cried Roberts. "They 
 told me he was alive. Oh, he isn't dead 1 Don't 
 say that I " 
 
 " He is alive and well, but he is absent." 
 
 " Is it for long— for long?" 
 
 " I think not, but I do not know how soon he 
 will return." 
 
 "Send for him— send for him!" continued 
 Roberts, with wild eagerness. " I'm old— I'm 
 old ! Every day drifts me nearer and nearer to 
 the old master." 
 
 " Have you come on business to my father ?" 
 asked Gerald. 
 
 Roberts looked round, saw the woman stand- 
 ing near, and again clasping his hands closely 
 over his chest, tried hard to recover his senses, 
 which had become bewildered by the shock of 
 his fall and the sight of that young face. 
 
 " ru not talk to-night, " he groaned ; " I'm not 
 just clear in my head." 
 
 " I want to put some dry underclothing on 
 you," continued Gerald. "See, it is all nicely 
 warmed. Now, Mrs. Jordan, if you will go down 
 and bring me up some hot brandy, I will have 
 him ready to take it when you return." 
 
 The woman left the room, and Gerald assist- 
 ed the old man in removing his clothing, too 
 full of sympathy to leave him to the care of 
 domestics. 
 
 " Don't touch that !" cried Roberts, angrily, as 
 he laid his hand upon his vest. "I beg your 
 pardon," he added, " but you mustn't touch it." 
 
 The young man humored this caprice, and 
 when he had established his patient in bed, he 
 said, abruptly: 
 
 "Now you can sleep, I think." 
 
 " Wait a minute," said Roberts, hoarsely. " I 
 want to be alone a little. Go out, sir, please." 
 
 Conner complied with his request, and when he 
 heard the door close, Roberts looked about the 
 room to be certain that he was alone, then exert- 
 ed his last remnant of strength to raise up in the 
 
 bed and seize the vest which lay on the counter- 
 pane. 
 
 He took a penknife from his pocket and ripped 
 open the lining, then drew from it a thin packet, 
 enveloped in oiled silk so carefully that it had 
 sustained no damage from the water. 
 
 " Here it is," he whisoerod. " It's safe, master 
 —it's safe 1" 
 
 His excitement was dying away, and he had 
 barely strength to pass the cord which was fast- 
 ened to it about his neck, and button his flannel 
 wrapper carefully over it. 
 
 "I can keep it," he continued. "If I was 
 dead I'd know if anybody tried to touch it. It's 
 safe, master. Yes — yes ; it's safe." 
 
 It seemed as if that one powerful desire to 
 guard his treasure had kept off the fever which 
 burned in his veins, but now he could only sink 
 back on his pillow, with just strength to answer 
 when Conner again entered the room and ad- 
 dressed him. 
 
 " I have brought you some hot drink," he said. 
 " You will sleep, I think, after taking it." 
 
 The old man drained the cup eagerly. Then 
 Conner laid his head back on the pillow and sat 
 by him until his incoherent speech died away in 
 slumber. 
 
 The young man remained by the bedside in \ 
 deep thought. He saw that the stranger's 
 words had not all been caused by delirium, and 
 the veil of half mystery which had always envel- 
 oped his life rendered him quick to seize upon 
 any new circumstance which seemed connected 
 with it. 
 
 " He must have come to see my father," he 
 said to himself, "and he has some secret. I 
 must watch by him myself, for he may say things 
 that ought not to be heard by strangers.^' • 
 
 He saw the wet vest lying on the floor, with the 
 lining freshly cut. He took it up, looked at it 
 for an instant, and then quietly carried it to a 
 wardrobe, placed it therein, and turned the key 
 in the lock. 
 
 "If there is any mystery," he thought, "I 
 have no right to pry into it ; but, at all events, I 
 must keep any one else from even suspecting 
 it." 
 
 While he sat watching the old man in his 
 feverish sleep, Mrs. Jordan opened the door 
 softly and looked it. He went out to meet her, 
 saying : 
 
 "He is asleep. I am going to stay in the 
 room next this, and if he wants anything I will 
 get it." 
 
 "Hadn't one of the men better?'* she sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "No— no," he replied. "They never would 
 wake, if he called at the top of his voice. I will 
 stay myself." 
 
 It was no such unusual thing for Gerald Con- 
 ner to give up his comfort, in order to be of ser- 
 vice to another, as to afford the good woman any 
 astonishment. She said nothing more, but pro- 
 ceeded to satisfy herself that the room was in 
 order, to satisfy her fastidious taste, before bid- 
 ding him a final good-night. 
 
 Gerald went into his own chamber, leaving the 
 doors between the rooms open, so that he might 
 hear the stranger if he required aaaistauce. 
 Several times during the night he was called in 
 by the old man's moaning in his sleep or waking 
 with a feverish thirst and vague words of alarm, 
 as if pursued by some unseen danger. 
 
16 
 
 ROCK RUIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 Conner's voice would quiet him instantly. 
 There was an undertone in it so like a voice 
 that had been the sweetest music of old Roberts' 
 life that had a soothing effect upon him in his 
 troubled slumbers. 
 
 Toward morning he fell into a profound sleep, 
 and then, for the hrsttime, Conner retired to his 
 bed to get a little rest before the early daybreak 
 should tind him at his vigil. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 As the party who had arrived at the tavern 
 the preceding night were seated at breakfast, 
 the raftsmen, who had been kept on the island 
 until the morning, came over to establish their 
 headquarters at the inn during the time it 
 would take to collect and build over their broken 
 raft. 
 
 "Hello!" cried Hyatt, as they came up the 
 bank, " is that you, Jones ?" 
 
 " Yes, it's me, Mr. Hyatt, and I wish it wasn't." 
 
 ' ' Got so far down the river with your raft, eh ?" 
 
 " If you took, the trouble to go over to the 
 island you'd find what's left of her, except such 
 timber as lies high and dry on Rock Ruin." 
 
 " Met with a shipwreck, have you ? I hope you 
 won't lose much timber." 
 
 " Not much, I think ; but there's our work to 
 do over again, not to mention the loss of time — 
 we are two days behindhand now." 
 
 " That is rough, upon my word." 
 
 " I guess you d call it by another name if it 
 had been your luck," grumbled Jones. 
 
 " But you all came ofif safe— nobody hurt ?" 
 
 " None of my men, but an old man we had on 
 board came near getting drowned." 
 
 " The deuce he did ! Who was he ?" 
 
 " Now you ask me too much," replied Jones. 
 We took him on board up at Marvin's ; he 
 wanted to come down to the island to find Mr. 
 Conner, I suppose." 
 
 Gorman had left the breakfast table, and stood 
 by the window lighting a cigar. At these words 
 he dropped the match he had just ignited, and 
 gave one quick start, but restraining himself 
 with a great effort, stood listening with an air of 
 apparent unconcern to the conversation. 
 
 " He's a queer old duck," said one of the other 
 men; "beyond asldng a few questions about 
 the Conners, he hardly opened his lips all the 
 way." 
 
 "What do you suppose he's after?" asked 
 Hyatt, carelessly, more by way of keeping up 
 a conversation than from any interest in the 
 matter. 
 
 " God knows," replied Jones ; "he seemed to 
 me about half cracked, muttering and praying 
 to himself. I believe he brought us our bad 
 luck." 
 
 "He was about as fit for such a ioumey as a 
 baby," continued another. " I tell you he was 
 the funniest looking old chap, with his knee 
 breeches, silk stockings, and buckles on his 
 shoes. I never could look at him without a 
 grin." 
 
 " He's from the old country, I conclude," said 
 Gorman, speaking for the first time. 
 
 " Oh, he 8 an Irishman, or English, or some 
 sort of a foreigner," replied Jones; " btit he 
 didn't seem quite like the common lot of 'em 
 emigrants, either." 
 
 A^fter a few more careless questions Gormau 
 
 down to the river bank, and once secure from 
 observation his forced calmness gave way. 
 
 "So he is here," he muttered, clenching his 
 hand ; " he is in my reach after all. Conner is 
 gone— Roberts will never give that will to the 
 young man, or even mention it— I know his 
 caution well enough for that. I must get it from 
 him— but how ?— but how ? Confound the luck 
 that drifted him that side !" 
 
 The man who called himself Gorman walked 
 up and down the bank in deep reliection, his 
 darkened face betraying the evil thoughts whir' 
 filled his mind. 
 
 " If I can get it I need trust no one, not even 
 this soundrel Hyatt," he said, at length, not 
 in words, but to his own plotting heart. 
 
 After a time his reverie was broken by the 
 sound of laughter, and looking toward the house 
 he saw that several of the men had come out 
 upon the steps. Hyatt was among them, and 
 wnen he caught sight of Gorman he strolled 
 leisurely down and joined him. 
 
 " I think I see my wajr clearly now, Hyatt," 
 Gorman said, in a low voice, " but I want your 
 help." 
 
 " I promised you that," he replied. 
 
 " And you will be well paid ; if I succeed you 
 shall not say I don't keep my part of an agree- 
 ment." 
 
 "All right; but what is it you want me to 
 do?" 
 
 " You know this young Conner, and are in the 
 habit of going over to the island when you are 
 here ?" 
 
 " Certainly ; I am going over there to-day." 
 
 " Good ! that is what I want exactly. You must 
 find out for sure the room where this old man 
 sleeps— how to get at it, and everything of the 
 kind!." 
 
 " That's easy enough ; but what the deuce do 
 you want of this old man ?" 
 
 "Don't you understand that he is the very 
 person I have been searching for ?" 
 
 Hyatt gave a prolonged whistle, and then 
 laughed outright. 
 
 " Upon my word, you go a long way to meet 
 one another," he exclaimed ; "but you ve got the 
 old coon up a tree now, anyway." 
 
 " Never mind that ; I have found him at last ! 
 Now I want a conversation with him at once, 
 and nobody must know of it." 
 
 " Can't you bring him over here ?" 
 
 " You heard that man say he was in bed, and 
 could not get up. I tell you I must see him 
 alone ; no one must know that I have been near 
 him." 
 
 " You only want to talk to him ?" 
 
 " That is all— there is no risk to you. Just go 
 and find out all you can, and leave the rest to 
 me." 
 
 " Blessed if it isn't Greek and Latin, to say no- 
 thing of the Hebrew, to me !" muttered Hyatt. 
 
 "No matter, so as you are well paid. The 
 whole thing is easier than I expec4ied." 
 
 " Very well, I'll do my share. But I say, Gor- 
 man " 
 
 " Well?' he returned, impatiently. 
 " There'll be nothing, then, to make a disturb- 
 ance, no reason for a fellow's making himself 
 scarce ?" 
 
 " Not the (slightest. If things turn out as I 
 wish, I shall go away at onoe \ o&o ^t the Wen 
 
 caa take lae duwa tl*e riYor?*' 
 
ROCK RUIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 17 
 
 " You see we came here ourselves about a little 
 affair— but no matter," he continued, breaking 
 off abruptly. " I won't trust him any more than 
 he trusts me," he muttered angrily. " Well, I'll 
 go over to the island now, and bring you word 
 how the land lies." 
 
 " Do BO, and be very exact, Hyatt." 
 
 " Never fear. I am not one that bungles over 
 any sort of a commission. You can't teach me 
 anything." 
 
 He turned and walked back to the house. Gor- 
 man seated himself upon a log and sat waiting. 
 He saw him come out of the house, go down 
 to the place where the widow kept her boat 
 moored, and watched him as he pushed off and 
 rowed up the stream toward the island. 
 
 Still Gorman sat there. He had no love for 
 the beautiful scene spread out before his eyes ; 
 the whirl of bad thoughts in his soul kept him 
 blind to the picturesque loveliness about nim. 
 
 He was so deeply occupied that he hardly had 
 time to think of the strangeness of his position. 
 Hereafter, that place, and all connected with it, 
 would seem to him like a dream— something to 
 be looked back upon as one might regard the 
 vision of a fever. 
 
 It is not probable that he reflected upon the 
 wickedness of the project which had brought 
 him upon that long and uncertain journey. The 
 aim for which he had toiled, for which he was 
 willing to peril both body and soul, seemed now 
 within his reach ; and from his earliest youth his 
 life had been too constant a course of vice and 
 treachery for any surplus of conscience to trou- 
 ble him at that time. Nay, so peculiar was the 
 man's nature, in many respects so visionary and 
 impractical, that after a season his thoughts 
 wandered from the terribly engrossing theme 
 upon which they had dwelt', and in his mind he 
 was planning an alteration he would make in 
 a certain suite of rooms in the old castle. Even 
 with crime, perhaps murder, so near his soul, 
 he could turn and dwell complacently upon a 
 trivial thing like that. 
 
 The men had all disappeared from sight, there 
 was nothing to disturb nis reflections, and so he 
 sat there in the brightness of the early morning, 
 revolving his plans, and feeling a fierce exulta- 
 tion that the end was so near at hand. 
 
 The sound o^ oars in the water roused him. 
 He looked up and saw Hyatt just landing the 
 boat. He did not rise and go down to meet nim ; 
 he sat there quietly, with hardly a look of eager- 
 ness in his face, save the restless glitter in his 
 deep set eyes. 
 
 "Here you are yet," was Hyatt's salutation, 
 as he sat down on the log by him, and began to 
 fan himself with his hat. " It's a deuced hard 
 pull, this warm morning, I can tell you." 
 
 " What have you heard?" asked Gorman. 
 
 " The old man is there, sure enough— in bed." 
 
 " Did you see him ?" questioned Gorman, more 
 eagerly ; " were you in his room ?" 
 
 "Yes, I was. He lay in bed, asleep. Mrs. 
 Jordan — that's the housekeeper — gave me a peep 
 at him. They have sent to the town for a doc- 
 tor." 
 
 "Is he sick— in danger?" 
 
 " Young Mr. Conner thinks not, only exhaust- 
 ed by his journey and the shock of his bath." 
 
 " What did young Conner say about him ?" 
 
 " No much \ I doubt if ho knows anvthiug. He 
 fes-icl that ho watitf^-^ '■■■ --■-- ^-- *""hor/' 
 
 " Did he know where he came from ?" 
 
 " He said not ; I asked him that." 
 
 " So !" muttered Gorman. " That is all well. 
 How is his room situated?" he muttered, 
 aloud. 
 
 "It's on the second floor— a back room. 
 There's a winding staircase leads to it from the 
 porch ; it's one of young Conner's apartments, 
 and that was a fancy of his." 
 
 " It is easy of access, then?" 
 
 " Of course it is— go up the stairs; open the 
 glass door, and there you are. Doors are never 
 locked in this region." 
 
 Gorman sat silent and thoughtful. 
 
 " Why don't you go up to the house as if you 
 went out of curiosity ? We'll get to talking to Mr. 
 Conner, and ask him to let us up." 
 
 " I tell you nobody must know of my entering 
 that room," replied Gorman, in an irritated 
 tone. 
 
 " Very well ; then you can manage as I said. 
 The old man is alone most of the time, but I 
 should think yoji run much risk of danger— he'll 
 be startled at seeing you." 
 
 " Leave me to manage that," was the answer. 
 " Did you speak of me to the young man ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and I said you were a lawyer from one 
 of the Eastern cities ; that you werehere to hunt 
 up some old claims and that sort of thing." 
 
 ' ' All right. Nothing more ?" 
 
 " He said I must bring you over to the house. 
 Oh, he's a very civil young chap ; mighty high 
 in his notions, I guess, but very free and easy 
 after ail. The old gentleman is as proud as Lu- 
 cifer ; you'd think he was king of England in 
 disguise. I tell you what, whoever he was in his 
 own country, he's got what you foreigners call 
 good blood in his veins, that's certain." 
 
 Gorman smiled bitterly, but made no reply. 
 He had caught up a long pine branch, and was 
 threshing the grass with it in an absent man- 
 ner. 
 
 " I've got my eye on that lumber," said Hyatt, 
 after a pause. " Jones is so discouraged 1 be- 
 lieve I could buy that raft for half what it's 
 worth. He's sick with the ague, and wants to 
 get home to his wife." 
 
 " What are you saying?" asked Gorman, turn- 
 ing toward him ; " who is sick?" 
 
 " Jones ; I am talking about the raft. . I believe 
 a fellow could make a spec in buying it." 
 
 " Wait till to-morrow,^' said Gorman. " Talk 
 to me about it then ; if you want the raft, we can 
 manage it. To be frank with you, though, I did 
 not suppose you ever bought lumber." 
 
 " Oh, sometimes," he replied, carelessly, 
 " honesty is a good policy occasionally." 
 
 Gorman looked contemptuously at him, but 
 Hyatt was whistling in a low tone, and staring 
 up the river, so the scorn expressed in his com- 
 panion's face, which was full of contempt for his 
 petty villanies, was quite lost upon him. 
 
 " When do you mean to go to the house ?" he 
 asked, at length. 
 
 " The sooner the better. Can it be managed 
 to-night, do you think ?" 
 
 " Better wait till to-morrow evening after the 
 doctor has been, and everything gets quiet again. 
 You see I can row up tlieni in the evening, and 
 see how the coast lioH, and then take yon over 
 after tho peoplo ^t to bed ; wo c^n |fOt off with- 
 out anybo<^'§ bemg tho wlsor*" 
 
18 
 
 Kot'K nm,'; ()i,\ nil'. n.\ r/z/irri: or mi: i:-i,akd. 
 
 " Very well ; to-morrow night bo it. I shall 
 go to the inn now. I have letters to write," 
 
 " And I shall hunt up the boys ; I guess they're 
 on a hunting expedition. Won't you go along V" 
 
 " Not to-day, not to-day," replied Gorman, im- 
 patiently ; and without more words he walked 
 rapidly toward the tavern. 
 
 Hyatt looked keenly after him, and shook his 
 head. 
 
 "I don't know who you are, but you're a 
 mighty bad man, I'll lay any wager. I wouldn't 
 give much for that old man's life if he stands in 
 that fellow's way. However, it's none of my 
 business ; each man for himself ; the boys and I 
 are getting well paid ; and into the bargain, I 
 don't believe we'll leave this spot again with- 
 out a sight at the silver tea-pots and tureens 
 this very old Conner has stored away in his 
 vault." 
 
 And with these words he' commenced his 
 whistling again, and strolled down to the store 
 to join his companions. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Therk do not exist spots of ground upon the 
 earth that so nearly approach what we think of 
 paradise, that sorrow or sin seem impossible to 
 them. Star Island was one of these places. Even 
 in its wildest state there was such wonderful 
 beauty in its greenness, and its graceful undu- 
 lations, that the Indians would paddle their 
 canoes dreamily around it with a vague idea that 
 it was sacred land, on which their prophets 
 alone must dare to hunt. The appearance of a 
 white doe with its fawn cropping the rich grass- 
 es on its banks, might perhaps have aided this 
 idea at first. Certain it is, no game was ever 
 killed by the Indians on Star Island, and the 
 light waters of the river in which it lay were 
 never disturbed by spear or line, though the 
 finest fish in the world inhabited its waters. 
 
 But we are not describing the island in its 
 wilderness state ; civilization has crept along 
 the banks of the river in which it lies, girdled 
 with silver waters. Forest trees are grouped 
 over it in abundance, but art has been at work 
 with nature so long that it is a glimpse of para- 
 dise you see from the distant bank. Groups 
 of weeping and golden willows mark the in- 
 dentures of the shore, clumps of magnificent 
 elms rise from the level ground of the meadows. 
 Wild flowers, crab-apples and dogwood trees, 
 shut out the green glades in one direction, bow- 
 ers of wild grape vines baffle the eye at another 
 point. 
 
 The island is long and broken, picturesque in 
 places, and ending northward in a rocky bluff, 
 covered with a wild forest darkened by pines, 
 hemlocks, grand old oaks and gum trees. The 
 forest is full of deer. The white doe, which In- 
 dian superstition held sacred, has left many a 
 graceful descendant in the woods, and great 
 dun-colored bucks, with bounding antlers and 
 almost human eyes, roam at large in the hemlock 
 shades. 
 
 On the southern slope of Star Island, stood a 
 large stone mansion, not exactly castellated nor 
 altogether Elizabethan in its style, but with an 
 old country aspect that startled the imagination. 
 Heavy stone balconies— broad steps and ballus- 
 trade of hewn stone, areal windows arranged 
 to command the finest views, were strange ob- 
 
 jects in that remote place, but not more strange 
 than the wonderful cultivation of the grounds 
 and beautiful artistic eifects produced at every 
 point where art could possibly aid nature. But 
 the wonder occasioned by a building of this 
 magnificence in the far West, was increased by 
 the marks of age, which had softened everything 
 about the mansion. It was easy to see that a 
 huge creeping willow, which swept one wing of 
 the building, had attained its full growth since 
 the foundations of the house were laid. A 
 tulip tree that had been a sapling then, now 
 toward sixty feet from the ground, mingling its 
 dark green foliage with the plumy branches of 
 the willow— clumps of horse-chestnuts and elms 
 broke up the noble slope of the lawn, which 
 covered the whole south end of the island with 
 a soft emerald carpet, sometimes sloping off into 
 the very waves of the river, again broken on the 
 banks by clumps of wild fruit trees over which 
 the frost grapes were allowed to clamber at 
 will. 
 
 Back toward the centre of the island, lying be- 
 tween that and the wilderness, lay a noble apple 
 orchard; towering pear and spreading peach 
 trees, always richly beautiful, whether in blos- 
 som or fruit. 
 
 Looking up or down the river, the views were 
 of almost magical beauty, yet varying so much 
 that it struck the beholder with awe to mark such 
 diverse scenery in so close a proximity. 
 
 Below the island the river widened, and a suc- 
 cession of green plats spread out on either side, 
 with here and there a tree-crowned knoll, above 
 which rose a line of misty blue hills in the dis- 
 tance, sufficiently near to wear all sorts of chang- 
 ing aspects during the long summer days. 
 
 The waters ran sparkling and laughing along, 
 as if delighted at their escape from the shadow 
 of the gloomy cliffs higher up, and glad to find 
 themselves once more in the sunlight. 
 
 But, above the island, the lofty ledges of rock, 
 of whiSh I have before spoken, swept down to the 
 very edge of the waters like great battlements. 
 Upon the left-hand shore, and nearly opposite 
 the island, rose a clifi" of such height and singu- 
 lar shape that it was the marvel of the whole 
 region. It shot up in the air several hundred 
 feet in height, a square, perpendicular mass of 
 rock, looking like some medi»v^ tower, such as 
 one sees along the Ehine, the relic of those 
 feudal strongholds where the bold barons of 
 history and romance held their brigandish 
 sway. 
 
 Green vines crept in rank luxurianoe almost to 
 the top, hanging down in rich festoons, and 
 seemingly seeking to cover the bold outline of 
 the cliff. 
 
 Mountain eagles built their eyries upon the 
 summit, and very often wolves and bears made 
 their lairs in the narrow passages at the foot, 
 which had been worn during long conflicts with 
 the elements. 
 
 The raftsmen had named this spot Rook Ruin, 
 for it was not far below the great whirlpool, and 
 in seeking to avoid that they often shattered their 
 rafts against it, and it had become well known 
 by that deserved name. 
 
 The scant population in the vicinity, and the 
 hardy lumbermen who worked in the forest back, 
 avoided the place as much as possible. It had 
 gained an evil name, although perhaps no one 
 could have exactly told why. There was a sort 
 
BOOK RUIN'; OB, TAe DAUaHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 19 
 
 of ill-luck attached to it ; several raftsmen had 
 lost their lives there ; a hunter, astray in the for- 
 est, had forced his way to it, and was found dead 
 at its foot weeks after. Altogether, it was a place 
 of ill- omen ; and there it towered up solitary and 
 terrible as if it had a sort of stubborn pride in 
 its inaccessibility and the dangers which sur- 
 rounded it. 
 
 There seemed to be no caverns of any extent 
 in it. One or two hunters and young Conner 
 had several times attempted to explore it, but 
 found only small cavities, large enough for the 
 dens of wild beasts, so that the general opinion 
 was that it stood there an almost solid mass of 
 rock, a sort of natural foi-tress, which, if it had 
 stood in other lands, might have been the origin 
 of legends and romances innumerable. But the 
 hard-working pioneers in that region had found 
 no time to indulge in such fancies ; there was 
 enough of actual peril connected with it, so they 
 had no need to look about for fancied dangers 
 that might have invested it with a poetical in- 
 terest. 
 
 Twenty-five years before had the owner of that 
 beautiful island left his native land an exile, to 
 seek, under an assumed name, a home in this 
 land where so many of his persecuted country- 
 men have a place of refuge. 
 
 His means, of course, were ample, but dis- 
 gusted with everything connected with the 
 world, ho sought the most retired spot that 
 was to be found in which to establish his new 
 home. 
 
 He was a noble, ambitious man, and though as 
 years went on he grew hard and stern, mingled 
 with a strange melancholy, as he reflected upon 
 his thwarted life, he retained, under that re- 
 served demeanor, a wealth of tenderness, which 
 was felt by all about him, although even to his 
 own son he was undemonstrative almost to cold- 
 ness. 
 
 Five years after his settlement in this country, 
 his wife died, leaving him one child, and since 
 that time he had lived on in that retired spot, 
 working out of his life the utmost usefulness to 
 his fellow-men that circumstances permitted. 
 
 The great energy and force of his character 
 needed some outlet, so he had turned his at- 
 tention to business, and had toiled as earnestly 
 as if it had been necessary for him to amass a 
 fortune. 
 
 In that place the youth Gerald had been born 
 and reared, save during the years when for pur- 
 poses of education he had been sent for several 
 years to an Eastern city. 
 
 Of his father's true position he knew literally 
 nothing, except that he was a political exile. Of 
 the destiny that might one day await him across 
 the sea, he never so much as dreamed, and his 
 father had acted wisely in keeping such knowl- 
 edge from him, as it could only have rendered 
 him discontented with life, as he was forced then 
 to accept it. 
 
 He was a noble, generous young man, endowed 
 with fine, natural talents, which had been highly 
 cultivated. His love for his father was almost 
 idolatry ; it had, perhaps, been deepened by that 
 intuitive knowledge which comes to a child that 
 his parent suffered, and even as a little, lisping 
 boy he would strive- with all the art that his baby 
 mind could invent to cheer him in those hours 
 when despondency settled most heavily down 
 upon the mind of the exile. 
 
 Gerald now connected the visit of the old 
 stranger with the troubles which had forced hia 
 father to quit Ireland, and he was elated with 
 the hope that this man might be the bearer of 
 joyful tidings. Still, with his scrupulous ideas 
 of delicacy and honor, nothing could have in- 
 duced him to question or seek to penetrate the 
 mystery ; his only duty wag to prevent any one 
 around" from supposing there could be a secret 
 connected with the stranger's journey, and await 
 his father's arrival for such further solution of 
 the enigma as he might think proper to give. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 In and out through the clustering trees on 
 the upper 9nd of Star Island flashed a tiny 
 stream, now stirring the violet-tinged slopes of 
 a meadow, now sleeping in the shadows, and 
 again leaping into the sunshine, laughing and 
 eddying on its way till the very pebbles in its 
 bed seemed to join in the liquid riot of sunbeams 
 and water dancing merrily over them. After 
 making its way in this coquettish fashion through 
 the island, the stream lost itself in the river. 
 In the dense shadows of the grove, the rivulet, 
 like a playful child subdued by solitude and 
 darkness, crept softly under the trees with a 
 timid, whispering murmur, and seemed abso- 
 lutely checking the sparkle of its waves as they 
 rippled under and through the gnarled roots of 
 the oaks that stretched themselves into the bed 
 of the stream, and lay coiled under the water 
 like a nest of huge serpents petrified or asleep. 
 
 But there was one spot, a few fathoms deep in 
 the wood, where the rivulet flashed out in its 
 sparkling wilfulness again, and bent like a silver 
 bow around an old log cabin, so completely 
 overrun with honeysuckles, wild roses, and 
 creeping plants, that but for a rude angle peep- 
 ing out here and there the very timbers might 
 have seemed built of flowering shrubs. The 
 trees had been thinned aroung this dwelling, 
 that necessary sunshine might nourish a flower 
 garden which lay glowing around it, and one 
 stately tree falling over the roof gave a pictur- 
 esque shelter to the humble spot. From the 
 window of this cabin might be seen the wind- 
 ings of the river, and the glades of the forest, 
 where troops of deer lay slumbering or stalked 
 calmly over the rich sward. 
 
 One morning this cabin was occupied only by 
 a young girl, busy as a butterfly in her house- 
 hold affairs. The day was yet early, and it was 
 a pleasant thing to see the form of that lovely 
 girl passing to and fro by the open window, 
 while gracefully performing* the household task. 
 
 Lucy Jones filled a humble station in the 
 world. Her father was only a sort of head far- 
 mer, and she his only child and housekeeper. 
 With all her beauty— and Lucy was very beauti- 
 ful — she had no aspirations beyond her humble 
 lot. No aspirations, did I say ? Ah, there I was 
 wrong 1 Lucy was a woman, a sweet-tempered, 
 warm-hearted young creature, just in the flush 
 of life and hope, and at times her pure heart 
 would beat and her cheeks would burn with 
 thoughts of another cabin nearer the great house 
 where the old gardener had left a son to mourn 
 his loss and inherit his place— for valley, forest, 
 and river', as far as the eye could reach, was the 
 property of one man. Now and then, as Lucy 
 proceeded with her work, she would pause by a 
 
20 
 
 ROCK RUIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND, 
 
 window looking upon the stream, put back the 
 dew-laden vines with her hand, and look toward 
 the river as if she expected some one to appear 
 upon the bank. But all was solitude. The 
 bright sunshine playing upon the sward, the 
 damp leaves and the sparkling waters, alone 
 met her gaze. Then she would draw a tremulous 
 breath, which was not quite a sigh, and turn 
 away, to come back again at the slightest noise, 
 and peer forth as before. 
 
 At last her watchfulness was rewarded by the 
 sight of a manly youth coming down the shore, 
 with a fishing rod in one hand and a basket on 
 his arm covered with flowers, such as Lucy, with 
 all her skill, could not have persuaded to bloom 
 in the sunniest nook of her little garden. 
 
 Ah, Lucy Jones, Lucy Jones ! it was a tell-tale 
 blush that rose to that cheek as those soft, brown 
 eyes fell on the youth and his fragrant burden. 
 One could almost count the pulsations of the 
 little heart fluttering beneath that pretty, white, 
 short gown, by the color that came and went so 
 like the tints olfsunset on that round and dimpled 
 cheek. The smile, too— how it brightened and 
 played around that little roguish mouth ! The 
 sunshine twinkling among the wet rose-buds out- 
 side the window was not half so beautiful. 
 
 And now the voung girl draws back from the 
 window, thougn it were difficult to detect her 
 among the thicklv clustering leaves. She blushes 
 and smiles, and her heart gives a pleasant 
 bound, for upon the greensward she hears a 
 quick footstep. Across one of her flower beds 
 she sees a shadow fall. That pleasant sound 
 and sight makes her blood glow and nerves 
 thrill. 
 
 The footsteps draw nearer, and sound with a 
 sort of ringing music on the threshold stone. 
 There is a rustling of vines as the fishing-rod is 
 leaned against them. How the color gushes 
 afresh to Lucy's cheek ; and with her little em- 
 browned hands she seizes the churn-handle, and 
 falls diligently to work, as if every thought were 
 intent on dashing the milk that her busy hands 
 were agitating. 
 
 Lucy heard the latch lifted, and knew by the 
 fresh gust of perfumed air sweeping in that the 
 door was opened ; but she did not turn her head, 
 or seem to heed it in the least, till a pair of 
 brown hands were placed on each of her shoul- 
 ders, and a voice whispered something in her 
 ear which we will not repeat, though her bosom 
 it made swell again and brought a swarm of dim- 
 ples to that rosy little mouth. 
 
 Those dimples, those ripe lips I Strawberries 
 bathed in sunshine were not half so tempting ! 
 They were enough to provoke an anchorite, and 
 John Manson was no hermit. 
 
 " Oh, Lucy, forgive me ! I have not seen 
 you in five days ; remember that," said John 
 Manson, his fine face all aglow and assuming 
 a half deprecating, half triumphant, look. " See 
 what I have bi ought you." 
 
 John Mansson dropped upon one knee, set 
 his basket on the floor, and parting the flowers, 
 revealed a mass of luscious cherries glowing 
 underneath. 
 
 " Oh, John 1" said Lucy, lifting her finger. 
 
 " No, no ; they are from my own tree at the 
 end of the cabin— that which shelters the little 
 bedroom window," said John, earnestly, " but 
 never bore fruit till this year. Before another 
 comes around, you shall gather the cherries 
 
 yourself from the window. I was thinking so 
 this morning as I stripped the boughs for you. 
 Ob, Lucy, how happy we shall be !" 
 
 The smile grew softer upon the lips of that 
 young girl, and her brown eyes were flooded 
 with love-light as they fell upon the upturned 
 face of her lover. 
 
 She did not answer his full-hearted appeal, 
 but bent down and began to remove the flowers 
 from the basket to an old-fashioned china vase 
 which stood on the window seat close by. 
 
 But John saw that her long, black eyelashes 
 were moist, and that her hands grew tremulous 
 as they wandered amid the blossoms, and these 
 signs of feeling made her heart swell more than 
 words could have done. 
 
 The flowers were crowded into the capacious 
 vase ; the cherries lay glowing upon the table, 
 in a dish of cut crystal, impaired by a slight 
 fracture in the edge', which defect had sent the 
 vessel from the manor-house to the cabin, where 
 it became a boast and an ornament ; and there, 
 amid the commingled perfumeof fruit and blos- 
 som, the lovers sat down together. 
 
 " Now tell me," said Manson, looking through 
 the window, and toying uneasily with a cluster 
 of cherries which he had taken from the dish, 
 "what has happened during my absence? what 
 —what visitors have you had?" 
 
 "None that were welcome," said Lu^; and 
 her face took a serious expression. "He was 
 here twice in one day, but I would hold no con- 
 versation with him ; indeed, but for my father's 
 command, I would have left the house the mo- 
 ment he entered it." 
 
 Manson arose and again began to pace the 
 floor. 
 
 " Why will your father insist on making us 
 miserable ?" he said, with some bitterness. 
 
 " Will he forever remain blind to the charac- 
 ter of this bad man ?" 
 
 "Has a few hundred dollars sealed his eyes 
 so thoroughly that nothing will open them ?" 
 
 " I do not know," replied Lucy, and her eyes 
 filled with tears ; " but he seems to have cast a 
 spell on my poor father. It is not his money, at 
 least I thmk not. There is something else- 
 some influence that I cannot fathom — makes 
 my father his friend. Do you know, John, I 
 sometimes suspect him of instigating discontent 
 among work-people ?" 
 
 " And I, too," replied Manson, with energy. 
 " Whoever heard people cavil about their wages 
 until he came among us ? Even your father, 
 Lucy, has become discontented since this man 
 got possession of his ear. There will come trou- 
 ble out of this— trouble to us all ; I have fore- 
 seen it a long time. This morning I feel more 
 certain of it than ever." 
 
 "Let us hope for the best," replied Lucy, 
 placing a hand upon her lover's arm as he came 
 near her again. " Of one thing, you are certain : 
 whatever influence this man may obtain over 
 my father, it shall never reach me. With my 
 whole heart aTTd strength I love you, John ; not 
 even death could force me to encourage an- 
 other !" 
 
 "God bless you for saying that!" replied 
 John Manson, with hearty warmth, and tears 
 sparkled in his fine eyes as he took Lucy in his 
 arms and held her close to his heart. " Heaven 
 knows I have never doubted you, Lucy ; yet it 
 is a comfort to hear this promise from Ups that 
 
ROCK nvm; on, thu daughter of tse island. 
 
 21 
 
 never yet deceived me. Let the wretch prowl 
 about ! While we love each other so much what 
 harm can be do ? Yet I sometimes long to pitch 
 at him for daring to lift his eyes this way ; I al- 
 ways feel the blood tingling at my finger's end 
 whenever he crosses my path." 
 
 " Let him alone ; he is quiet and subtle as a 
 rattlesnake, but all the more to be feared for 
 that. Let him alone, John ; he will be no 
 straightforward enemy such as you can fight 
 with. Let the man take his course ; he cannot 
 shake our faith in each other. He cannot rob 
 us of our love. Why, then, should we care 
 about him ?" 
 
 '• I know— I know," said Manson, impetuously ; 
 " still, I cannot help it. I hate him, and always 
 shall, so long as he dares to look upon you with 
 hope. Oh ! if your father could but be brought 
 to see him in his true light 1" 
 
 " Perhaps you had better allow Thomas Jones 
 to think a little for himself," said a voice at the 
 window. 
 
 Lucy clung to Hansen's arm, who walked 
 straightway to the casement, and dashing aside 
 the vines, stood face to face with two men sta- 
 tioned close to the opening, one leaning with 
 an air of insulting languor against the logs, the 
 other, a middle-aged man, short and stout, hold- 
 ing on to his gun with both hands, which he had 
 planted so hard in the ground that the stock 
 was buried in the flowery turf, while his chin 
 rested upon the muzzle. The face of this man 
 lowered with a stern and angry cloud ; his heavy 
 brow drooped over two coal-black eyes full of 
 angry fire ; and the fingers with which he clasped 
 the gun worked nervously about the muzzle, as 
 if he could hardly refrain from lifting the weapon 
 to his shoulder. 
 
 " Lucy — gal, I say— take your hand from that 
 young man's arm." 
 
 The voice trembled with anger, and loosing 
 his grasp from the fowling-piece, he lifted a 
 finger threateningly toward the young creature, 
 who, in the first impulse of surprise and terror, 
 had clung to her lover for protection against the 
 frowning glances bent upon her. 
 
 " Oh, father, don't be angry with us," said the 
 poor girl, sinking beneath the gloomy scowl that 
 grew darker and darker upon his face. " John 
 only came to bring us some cherries from his 
 own garden — see I and the flowers, too. Ho had 
 been away nearly a week ; so it was natural he 
 should think of us the first thing." 
 
 " And it was natural that he should come and 
 urge an old man's child to rebellion, was it? I 
 tell you, girl, this fellow must leave my house 
 and never enter its doors again. I have seen 
 enough, heard enough ; you can't deceive me 
 now ; I will be master under my own roof. Let 
 it be cleared." 
 
 "Your roof shall be free of my company at 
 once," said John Manson, in a voice that trem- 
 bled more from wounded feeling than anger at 
 this rude treatmei^t from his old friend. "It is 
 the first time I ever stood beneath it without a 
 welcome — it will be the last ! As for that man," 
 continued the outraged youth, pointing sternly 
 at the younger person who stood by the window, 
 with a sneer on his lip and in his eye, " as for 
 that man, let him beware how he crosses my 
 path ! He has come between me and my father's 
 old friend — he has dared insult the girl that 
 shall yet bo my wife with his unwelcome love- 
 
 talk 1 He is, I solemnly believe, engaged in 
 practices that will bring him yet within the 
 clutches of the law 1 I warn you against him, 
 Thomas Jones I Look on his face— see how pale 
 my words have made him ! His mouth, his eyes, 
 he cannot control them always! Once more, 
 Thomas Jones, I warn you against that man I" 
 
 The energy with which Manson spoke, the 
 lightning flash of his eyes, had its effect. The 
 old farmer looked first at the excited speaker 
 then at the man by his side, and a shade of 
 surprise, not unmingled with suspicion, swept 
 across his features. 
 
 Manson took Lucy's hand within his, and 
 wringing it convulsively, turned to leave the 
 cottage. 
 
 " See— young man I" exclaimed Hyatt, for that 
 was the name which the old man's companion 
 bore, " do not attempt to sneak off"! Before this 
 good man and his daughter I will force you to 
 take back your insolent words 1" 
 
 Hyatt spoke evidently with desperate effort. 
 His black eyes gleamed unsteadily, and he 
 turned them from side to side, while his lips 
 trembled and grew white, either from suppressed 
 rage or cowardly fear — perchance both com- 
 mingled to give his features that fiendish and 
 yet half-craven expression. 
 
 Manson cast a fierce glaHce at him and smiled 
 disdainfully. 
 
 " It will give us more knowledge of the man," 
 he said. 
 
 Again the pallid look came over Hvatt, but the 
 old man's eyes were upon him, and he rallied 
 again. 
 
 " The man is desperate with fear of losing 
 your daughter," he said, with a sneering smile ; 
 " and who can blame him ?" he continued, cast- 
 ing a glance at Lucy that made her shrink closer 
 to Manson's side. 
 
 " I have no fear of losing her," said Manson, 
 casting a powerful arm around the young girl. 
 " She is my promised wife ; I neither doubt her 
 or fear you. The day will come when Thomas 
 Jones there will know you as you are I God for- 
 bid that it will then be too late to save his old 
 heart the trouble you are preparing for it I" 
 
 " We have had enough of this talk," said the 
 old man. " Leave my house, John Manson ; I 
 and my friend here want a mouthful of pie and 
 cheese to eat. I will not darken the door until 
 you have passed through !" 
 
 " You shall not tell me to begone twice," said 
 Manson, in the same proudly sorrowful tone that 
 he had maintained throughout while addressing 
 the old man. "Good-by. Lucy, it looks Uke 
 a dark day for us now ; but have a good heart, 
 they cannot keep us apart long. Good-by." 
 
 " Good-by, and do not fear for me," said Lucy, 
 returning his grasp, while her eyes filled with 
 tears. "My father's doors will not be long 
 closed against the son of his old friend." 
 
 " I never expected to see it !" cried the young 
 man, dashing his hand across his eyes and set- 
 tUng his hat as if the motion had been prompted 
 by that intention ; then, without turning his face 
 again toward the two men at the window, he left. 
 The moment he was gone Jones and Hyatt came 
 round to the front of the cabin and entered it. 
 
 They found Lucy striving to suppress the tears 
 that had burst forth on her lover's departure, 
 but without seeming to heed her distress, the old 
 man bade her bring out eomething to eat, oij- 
 
^2 
 
 nOfjK HTJJN; OR, THE DAXTOnTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 aerving that he should not be at home to dinner, 
 and perhaps might be absent until late at night. 
 
 Lucy could not suppress a sigh, and her tears 
 began to flow again. Never till the arrival of 
 Hyatt in the neighborhood had her father spent 
 any of his evenings from home. Punctual in all 
 things before, since that time his entire habits 
 had changed — irregularity at meals, late hours, 
 and a general neglect of his work, had begun to 
 mark a life hitherto exemplary and almosit pa- 
 triarchal in its simplicitv. 
 
 It was, therefore, with a new weight at her 
 heart that Lucy brought forth the provisions 
 that her father had commanded. 
 
 Without any particular reason that she could 
 have defined to herself, the young girl had 
 learned to dread the unpropitious change in 
 her father's habits. Still, she allowed some of 
 her feelings to become manifest, but arranged 
 the little table in silence. In order to make 
 room for the repast Lucy lifted the dish of cher- 
 ries and was bearing it to the window seat, when 
 Hyatt coolly reached forth his hand, attempting 
 to help himself to a portion of the fruit. 
 
 Lucy drew back with burning cheeks, and 
 ])lacing the dish in the window, cast some loose 
 flowers that had been left there over it, and mo- 
 tioned the unwelcomo. guest to place himself by 
 the table. 
 
 A disagreeable smile gleamed on Hyatt's face 
 as he sat down, and he muttered something be- 
 tween h'ia teeth. 
 
 " Take away this dish-water and give us some- 
 thing fit to drink !" cried the old man, disdain- 
 fully pushing aside the cup of milk that, till of 
 late, had been his favorite beverage. "I do not 
 see why we should not have brandy to drink as 
 Avell as those who call themselves our betters." 
 
 " Yes, with wines of the reddest," said Hyatt. 
 " What is drink for one man is drink for another. 
 Were I on the island its owner should drink no 
 wine which did not wash my lips too." 
 
 Jones looked round at Lucy somewhat un- 
 easily, and touched his companion's foot under 
 the table. 
 
 " Hush !" 
 
 Hyatt nodded his head and answered : 
 
 " All right ; keep that Manson from her, and 
 she is too fair a girl not to feel her own rights 
 and the value of her own beauty." 
 
 This was said in an undertone, and, as he 
 spoke, Hyatt cast a sidelong glance at Lucy, 
 who had seated herself near the door, and was 
 looking out as if to a,void any conversation with 
 the hateful guest her father had brought home. 
 
 She was indeed very beautiful, with that sad 
 expression of countenance, those large brown 
 eyes, mournful and yet sparkling with recent 
 excitement, and her rich hair escaping in wavy 
 tresses from the braid that confined it at the 
 back of her head. 
 
 Jones glanced toward her, and a smile of pa- 
 rental vanity broke over his face. 
 
 " She'll do well enough," he said ; " her moth- 
 er was a handsome woman ; but we mustn't put 
 high-flown notions in her head." 
 
 "Or she may have very high fancies now," 
 said Hyatt. "I heard over at the tavern that 
 the young man up at the house yonder had cast 
 an eye upon her, and that you, friend Jones, 
 were over fond of putting her in his way." 
 
 " You heard a lie, then !" cried Jones, striking 
 his clenched hand on the table with » yiolence 
 
 that made the plates rattle. ** She never sees 
 him only by accident." 
 
 " Well, well, it's all talk, I suppose," said the 
 other, softly ; "or, perhaps, the young man may 
 have spread the idea himself. These snobs 
 have little regard for the character of a poor 
 girl like your daughter." 
 
 "The villain 1" exclaimed Jones, through his 
 Rhut teeth, and clenching the handle of his knife 
 fiercely. " If I thought he had said such things 
 I would break every bone in his body !" 
 
 " Better nreans than that may be found to 
 punish him i" Hyatt replied, still in that sub- 
 dued voice. " But come over to the tavern with 
 me now ; I want you to see Mr. Gorman." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ■ The doctor, who had been sent for from the 
 
 nearest town, to visit old Roberts, decided that 
 
 he had been attacked with rheumatic fever from 
 
 the effects of fatigue and exposure. 
 
 "You must not feel any uneasiness what- 
 ever," Conner said to him when he saw the 
 anxious, almost frightened look which passed 
 over his face ; " there is no danger, and you will 
 
 Srobably suffer this severe pain only a few 
 ays." 
 
 "Is it danger or pain that I mind!" he ex- 
 claimed, indignantly. " If anything should hap- 
 pen to me before the master comes I" 
 
 " I shall be writing to my father to-day," Ger- 
 ald said ; " do you wish me to tell him you are 
 here ?" 
 
 " Will the letter get to him and no other per- 
 son ?" he asked, eagerly. 
 
 " There is not the slightest doubt of it. Who 
 shall I tell him is here ?" 
 
 " Just say Roberts, it you please. That'll be 
 enough if it's him," he muttered to himself. 
 
 " Is there anything you would like to say to 
 me this morning?" Gerald asked. 
 
 Roberts' face wore its eager look again, but it 
 died away, and he shut his lips hard. 
 
 " I'll just hold my tongue, no offense to you, 
 sir," he replied. " I'm only a poor Irishman - 
 the iriaster 11 know what to do with me when he 
 comes, but I'm ashamed to see the likes of you 
 tending on me." 
 
 " That you are my father's countryman is rea- 
 son enough," Gerald answered. " You must be 
 perfectly easy in your mind ; no one will troubln 
 you or try to find out anything that you may not 
 wish to tell." 
 
 There were tears in the old man's eyes— Ger- 
 ald saw them as he turned his head upon the 
 pillow. 
 
 " I know I'm not mistaken," Roberts whis- 
 pered t© himself; " he's the very model of the 
 old master. But I'll not speak yet— no, I'll not 
 speak till I have every proof." 
 
 He pressed his hands hard against his chest-- 
 a gesture learned since he had carried that 
 paper hidden so near his heart. He lay for some 
 time with a troubled look upon his face, his fin ■ 
 gers locked over that sacred trust, his even 
 sometimes wandering about the room as if in 
 search of some object which he could not find. 
 
 " Sir," he said at last, " I'm ashamed to trou- 
 ble you, but if you'd unlock my bag that they've 
 brought up, and give me the little prayer-book 
 out of it, rd take it very kindly." 
 
 Conner did as he requested, and placed the 
 
 worn volume on the pilfow beside him. 
 
HOCK RUTN; OR, THE DAUQIITEU OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 23 
 
 " I will leave you for a while now," he said ; 
 " shall I have Mrs. Jordan come up and sit with 
 you ?" 
 
 " "If you'll not think me impertinent, sir, I'd 
 rather be alone," he replied, humbly. " Please 
 tell them not to come in for an hour." 
 
 " No one shall intrude upon you," Conner an- 
 swered, and having arranged his pillows and 
 placed some cooling drink in his reach, ho left 
 the room. 
 
 Roberts waited till the eoho of his footsteps 
 died on the stairs, then he raised himself feebly 
 on the j)illow8, and taking up the prayer-book, 
 pressed it to his lips, offering a broken appeal 
 for assistance. 
 
 After a time, and with much effort, for his 
 limbs were stiff and swollen, he managed to 
 raise himself and get out of the bed. He could 
 hardly walk, but he crept slowly toward a great 
 chair that stood near the foot of the bed, shut- 
 ting his lips closely to keep back the groans 
 which every movement of his tortured limbs 
 forced up to his white lips. Slowly, and with an 
 effort which only the most violent exercise of 
 will could have accomphshed, he managed to 
 tilt the chair back against the wall. Then he 
 looked round like a wild animal that is trying to 
 conceal its young— saw that the curtains were 
 drawn— no human being watching him. 
 
 He picked up his knife, which had fallen upon 
 the carpet near the place where he was crouch- 
 ing, and carefully made a small rent in the lin- 
 ing at the bottom of the chair. Ho drew from 
 his bosom the little packet, folded it in a still 
 smaller compass, and forced it carefully into 
 the incision he had made, pressing it as far as 
 he could reach, in spite of the pain to his poor 
 withered hands. He had just strength enough 
 left to puU the chair forward to its proper posi- 
 tion, then he sank back quite helpless, the great 
 drops of perspiration rolling down his face, 
 while his whole frame shook with the violent 
 exertion he had made, which had ended in an 
 agony of pain. 
 
 "It's safe there, master," he muttered; "be 
 easy, master, it's quite safe—you showed me in 
 my dream where to put it— I know it's safe." 
 
 It was some minutes before he was able to 
 crawl back and get into bed again. He lay 
 writhing for a while in terrible pain, but the 
 agony passed away, and the very exertion he 
 had used, which was excruciatmg torture at the 
 time, helped to bring him relief. 
 
 While he lay there in the sort of stupor which 
 succeeds the cessation of acute suffering, he 
 heard the door open gently, and the house- 
 keeper looked into the room — ^behind her stood 
 a man, but Eoberts paid no attention to the in- 
 truder. 
 
 " He is asleep," Mrs. Jordan whispered ; "don't 
 go into the room." 
 
 " No, of course not ; he looks pretty well done 
 up, doesn't he ?" 
 
 She nodded her head expressively, closed the 
 door without noise, and they went away» 
 
 Old Roberts had only completed his task in 
 time ! 
 
 " It's safe anyway." he kept repeating to him- 
 self, as he lay with his eyes nxed upon the chair ; 
 " I can sleep easy now — it's better than many a 
 more secret hiding place." 
 
 Then he fell asleep muttering of old times — 
 he wa» at home in the castle attending upon hie 
 
 lord — i)eering over the pleasant days of his 
 youth, with no recollection of the after trouble 
 Which had struck him through his idolized mas- 
 ter, no thought of the great responsibility with 
 which in his old ago he had left his native land, 
 and which had bowed and wasted him more than 
 all these long, weary years of trial and devotion 
 in his dead master's service had been able to do. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 NiOHT had come on dark and still; a few 
 stars were in the sky, the low sigh of the spent 
 breeze died away in the forest, but save that 
 and the tireless rush of the water, there was 
 no sound to break the stillness. 
 
 Gorman stood by the window of his room in 
 the tavern looking moodily out on the wat«»r with 
 the blackness of a restramed tempest upon his 
 face. 
 
 The httle tavern was perfectly silent ; if the 
 men who made up his party were engaged over 
 their customary game of cards, they were unu- 
 sually quiet— not a single word of their voices 
 reached the chamber, and for that night at least 
 old dame FUnt could congratulate herself upon 
 a more undisturbed rest than often fell to her 
 lot when her house was filled with the rough 
 visitors who usually frequented it. 
 
 At last Gorman's quick ear caught the sound 
 of oars— his senses wore so quickened by sus- 
 pense that he could hear it distinctly through 
 the rush of the current. 
 
 He stepped quietly out of the low window 
 which opened upon the rude porch and walked 
 quietly down to the river. 
 
 " Well, Hyatt !" he said, in a suppressed voice, 
 as the man pushed the boat up to the shore. 
 
 " All right, get in and let's be off— there'll bo 
 a thunderstorm in less than half an hour." 
 
 " I don't see any signs of one," Gorman said, 
 as he took his seat in the boat. 
 
 " You would if you knew this region as well as 
 I do. Don't you feel how close it is — see those 
 clouds yonder, there — now comes a flash of 
 lightning sharp enough, I reckon." 
 
 " Can I get into that room without trouble?" 
 Gorman asked, without paying any attention to 
 his companion's words. 
 
 " Yes, I went up the stairs before I came 
 away ; the old man was asleep, and so is every- 
 body in the house by this time. We'll go up to 
 the upper end of the island and on through the 
 woods, so if any one should happen to be up, 
 we sha'n't be apt to meet them." 
 
 They rowed on in silence past the island and 
 into the shadow that Rock Ruin cast over the 
 water. A sharp flash of lightning shot across 
 the Ruin and lighted up the cUff with lurid 
 brilliancy, followed by a low, heavy peal of 
 thunder that echoed ominously among the 
 hills. 
 
 " I told you we should have a storm," said 
 Hyatt. " Thank fortune there's an old shed en 
 the bank where I want to land the boat ; I can 
 go back there and wait, after showing you the 
 way up to the house." 
 
 Gorman made no answer — he heard nothing 
 of the words — even the sullen boom of the thun- 
 der had not aroused him from his black, terrible 
 thoughts. Another flash of lightning revealed 
 that face to Hyatt, pale and scowling, the fea- 
 tures set with a fienaisU reaolve. 
 
24 
 
 ROCK BUIN; OR, THE BAUGIITEB OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 " Good heavens 1" he exclaimed, with a shud- 
 der that he tried to turn into a laugh ; " I won- 
 der if my face looks hke yours by this lightning 
 —if It does, it's hot the sort of way I should 
 choose to have my portrait painted in." 
 
 " Folly !" returned Gorman, speaking impa- 
 tiently through his teeth, but he did not speak 
 again until the boat swept into the little cove 
 where Hyatt intended to land. 
 
 " A fellow has to go a good deal by the sense 
 of feeling," he said. "It's lucky I know the 
 place pretty well, for it's as dark as pitch." 
 
 A vivid flash of lightning almost blinded him 
 as he concluded his words ; again the thunder 
 boomed out loud and terrible, echoing and loom- 
 ing over Rock Ruin with mighty reverberations. 
 The first heavy drops of the storm came patter- 
 ing down upon the leaves. 
 
 " Hurry along," said Hyatt, "or we shall be 
 wet to the skin ; the lightning'll show you the 
 path back plain enough." 
 
 Gorman followed him in silence along the 
 winding walk, and as they emerged from the 
 wood the lightning revealed the house close at 
 hand. They passed on to the porch and stood 
 for a few moments listening. The rain was fall- 
 ing heavily and the thunder claps came with 
 such incessant cannonading that, if people had 
 been stirring in the house, their footsteps could 
 not have been heard. 
 
 " You're lucky in your night," whispered Hy- 
 att. *' Go straight up these stairs— you see the 
 light up there, and the window's partly open, 
 too— that's all fortunate." Then he caught Gor- 
 man's arm as he made a motion to ascend the 
 stairs. " Slip oft your shoes," he said, *' you'll 
 go like a cat then." 
 
 The man obeyed in silence, and passed on up 
 the winding staircase. He set his shoes down 
 upon the porch and crept up to the window. A 
 night-lamp was burning on the table, and by its 
 dim radiance he could see the form of the old 
 man lying in bed ; his eyes were closed and 
 there was no watcher in the room. 
 
 A scowl of deadly hate darkened his face as 
 he gazed in at the sleeper, then he pushed the 
 window softly open and stepped over the sill- 
 he was in the chamber. 
 
 Hyatt stood below watching, but when he saw 
 the man disappear he turned and went rapidly 
 down the path toward the river. 
 
 " It's no good for me to be prowling about," 
 he thought ; " if anything happens I am better 
 out of the way." 
 
 There Gorman stood, and almost within reach 
 of his arm lay the man who was the only living 
 thing between him and the realization of his 
 most ardent hopes. For a few seconds he re- 
 mained motionless, gazing down upon the old 
 man with a look so full of menace that it seemed 
 as if the sleeper must be aroused by it to a sense 
 of his danger, but there was no movement save 
 the regular breathing, which proved how pro- 
 found was the slumber of exhaustion into which 
 the old man had fallen. 
 
 Gorman crept stealthily toward the bed and 
 bent over him for an instant ; his fingers knotted 
 themselves convulsively together — the desire to 
 wreak his vengeance upon the faithful old ser- 
 vant was, for the second, the paramount idea in 
 his mind. He startod back euddonly— tb© sleep- 
 er had stirred. He orcniohBd down at tbo foot 
 of \h^] bed until ai«kur©d tbftt h^ was q^iet agaiu? 
 
 then he arose and crept to the valise that stood 
 in a corner of the room. A portion of the old 
 man's garments hung on a chair by it. Gorman 
 sought eagerly in all the pockets, found the key, 
 and opened the trunk. There was the humble 
 store of clothing, neatly folded, but no papers, 
 except two or three unimportant letters ; beside 
 these, a miniature, which Gorman threw down 
 without opening— he recognized it only too 
 well. 
 
 Nothing there ; the old man had thwarted him 
 still 1 His baffled passion rendered him desper- 
 ate then, and he began to search the room over 
 with reckless haste. Ho found the waistcoat in 
 the wardrobe, saw the rent that had been made, 
 and understood at once what had been secreted 
 there. 
 
 " He must have it about him," was his thought, 
 " or Conner has got it." 
 
 He returned to the bed and again bent over 
 the old man. He passed his hand across his 
 breast ; there was nothing concealed under the 
 thin flannel covering. He looked once more 
 around the room; there was no place that had 
 not been searched thoroughly. 
 
 He forgot the common instinct of safety ; his 
 passion so blinded him that his chief thought 
 was to put an end to the life that had thwarted 
 his own. He flung the sheet over the old man's 
 head and pressed his fingers savagely upon 
 his throat. 
 
 The old man awoke, strangling. With that 
 heavy weight upon his breast and that iron 
 grasp at his throat, he could do nothing but 
 struggle with a blind instinct of self-preserva- 
 tion. He exerted all his poor force, striving to 
 cry out, but could emit no sound beyond a groan 
 like that of a nightmare ; indeed, his brain was 
 so bewildered by the narcotics which he had 
 taken that he coald not be sure it was more 
 than a horrible dream. 
 
 " Where is that will ?" hissed a voice in his 
 ear. " Give it up, or you are a dead man !" 
 
 The old man struggled more violently, loos- 
 ened the clutch upon his throat, and started up- 
 right with a cry that rang through the house. 
 
 Gerald Conner had been writing until late in 
 one of the lower rooms, and was ascending the 
 stairs when the terrible shriek awoke his ear. 
 He rushed in, threw open the door, and saw the 
 old man gasping and struggHng feebly upon the 
 bed, but there was no one in the room. 
 
 He sprang to the bed and lifted the old man 
 from his pillow, calling his name, but Roberts 
 was so completely exhausted that he could not 
 answer; a low moan broke at intervals from his 
 lips, and that grew fainter and fainter. Gerald 
 brought some water and wet his forehead and 
 his lips. 
 
 " Drink a little," he said ; "you will be better 
 then." 
 
 The old man swallowed a few drops with dif- 
 ficulty, and his scattered senses began to return. 
 
 " Has he gone ?" he gasped. " Has he gone ?" 
 
 " There is no one here," replied Gerald ; " you 
 have had a terrible nightmare, that is all." 
 
 " I tell you I heard his voice," he cried wildly ; 
 " he was choking me— look at my throat." 
 
 A faint streak of red was visible upon the 
 wrinkled skin, but it escaped Gerald's notice ia 
 the dim light. 
 
 "There was no one horo," ho said; "looh; 
 rOttijcWnothiug bab boeu luovud in the roofflu'* 
 
ROCK RUIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF TEE ISLAND. 
 
 25 
 
 Robfirta stared wildly about— even in his own 
 mind he could not be certain. The reality of 
 that dreadful struggle was vivid, but so hadJaeen 
 his dreams many a time since that will came 
 into his hands. 
 
 " I heard him," he groaned ; " I felt his hands 
 at my throat I He was here I Oh, why don't 
 the master come ?" 
 
 " Try and go to sleep again," urged Gerald. 
 
 " Don't leave me," pleaded the poor old fel- 
 low, grasping the young man's hands in his, 
 shaking both. "I'm not afraid to die, but you 
 must guard me till he comes." 
 
 " I will sit by you," Gerald answered, kindly, 
 taking a chair by the bedside. " There, keep 
 hold of my hand— you will sleep more quietly.'^ 
 
 The old man lay motionless for a few mo- 
 ments, but the horror of that struggle came 
 back more vividly, and he could not be con- 
 vinced that it was only a fantasy of sleep. 
 
 " He was here I" he cried. " I know he was ! 
 He will murder me, but he can't get that parch- 
 ment—he can't !" 
 
 " Who was the man you thought was here?" 
 Gerald asked. 
 
 Roberts would not answer ; he only writhed 
 about in nervous agitation, muttering wildly. 
 
 "You are mistaken," continued Gerald; "I 
 ran in when you cried out I If there had been 
 a man he could not have escaped. You have a 
 high fever, and the morphine made you deli- 
 rious—I have often seen my father so when he 
 was sick." 
 
 " Are vou sure it was a dream ?" pleaded Rob- 
 erts. "It was very real— I felt his hand mov- 
 ing over my heart— oh, I couldn't breathe !" 
 
 "No one could get in here," said Gerald. 
 " We are at the back of the house, and the dogs 
 are sure to bark ferociously if anybody came 
 near the premises at night. It was only a dream 
 — don't think of it again !" 
 
 He succeeded at length in partially reassuring 
 the old man, and he again fell asleep, although 
 until almost morning it was a broken, feverish 
 slumber, which brought him little rest. Many 
 times he woke in wild afiright, from which only 
 the touch of Gerald's hand, and the tones of that 
 voice, which seemed so familiar, could recover 
 him. { 
 
 During a portion of the conversation Gorman 
 had been crouched down upon the porch, lis- 
 tening eagerly to every word. He was armed, 
 and more than once his fingers played viciously 
 with the heft of a revolver, concealed under his 
 vest; but for the noise of a report he would have 
 fired through the window. Could either the 
 poor. sick man or his companion have seen him 
 they might almost have believed that it was 
 some evil spirit, evoked by the tempest, glaring 
 in upon them, so terrible was the face that looked 
 in through the window amid the lurid flashes of 
 lightning. 
 
 At length he crept quietly down the stairs, put 
 on his shoes, and hurried toward the boat. It 
 was more by chance than from taking any notice 
 of his course that he found the path. The fury 
 of the storm was vet ucabated, but he was not 
 even conscious that his garments were wet 
 through and through during that rapid walk. 
 Several times, after a flash of lightning had 
 blinded him for an instant, he rushed against a 
 tree, or fell over the fallen branchea that the 
 whirlwind had scattered about, but ho did not 
 
 heed the pain, was hardly conscious of it beyond 
 the muttered curse at the delay. 
 
 Hyatt had taken refuge in the old shed, and 
 when he heard Gorman running past, he held 
 out the dark lantern, which he had lighted, and 
 gave a low v/histle. 
 
 "Where the deuce are you going?" he ex- 
 claimed, as the other paused. " You'd have 
 run bang into the river in a moment." 
 
 " Let us be off," said Gorman, hoarsely. ^ 
 
 " Wait till the rain holds up a little. Come in j 
 here." ( 
 
 Gorman entered the shed and sat down in sul- 
 len silence. 
 
 "What's the matter with your hand ?" asked 
 Hyatt ; " it's covered with blood." 
 
 " I hurt it against a tree, I suppose," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 "There's been no rough work up there, I 
 hope ?" said Hyatt, with a suspicious look. 
 
 " Don't be a fool— no 1" 
 
 " Did you get what you wanted?" 
 
 Gorman replied with a deep, bitter execra- 
 tion, 
 
 "I should have killed him, I do believe I 
 should," he said. " I wish I had ; there would 
 have been some satisfaction in that, any way." 
 
 "Then you are all at sea again about the 
 papers you wanted ?" asked Hyatt. 
 
 "Completely; but I can't talk just now; wait 
 till we get back to the house." 
 
 " Take a sip of this brandy," said Hyatt, pass- 
 ing him a small flask ; "you'll find it good." 
 
 Gorman put it back, almost rudely. 
 
 " My blood is on fire now," he said ; "I don't 
 want to heat it any more." 
 
 Hyatt bore the slight philosophically, put 
 the flask to his own lips and took a copious 
 drink. 
 
 " The rain's holding up a little," he observed ; 
 " since you are in such a hurry we will go ; you 
 are as di-enched as you can be now ; and I don't 
 mind a wet jacket, so come on." 
 
 They went down to the boat and were soon 
 under weigh, floating rapidly down the current. 
 The storm cleared as suddenly as it had came 
 up, and by the time they reached the tavern the 
 rain had ceased and a few stars were out ; only a 
 mass of black clouds hanging over Rock Ruin 
 remained to give evidence of the violence of the 
 tempest. 
 
 They entered their room through the window, 
 and Hyatt forced his companion to change his 
 clothes. He made a pitcher of cold punch, and 
 after filling the glasses, seated himself opposite 
 Gorman at the table, saying : 
 
 " Now we can talk comfortably." 
 
 At another time the man's familiarity would 
 have ott'ended the haughty patrician, but his 
 mind was too deeply engrossed in his plans to 
 pay any attention to a lack of respect or cour- 
 tesy. 
 
 " I must talk to you now," he answered ; 
 " there is no help for it." 
 
 " Well, you know I am to be trusted " 
 
 " Bah !" Gorman interrupted. " I can buy your 
 aid and silence ; I never trust any man farther 
 than that." 
 
 Hyatt laughed carelessly. 
 
 " You have a lofty idea of the human race," he 
 said, puffing away at his cigar with the utmost 
 tranquility. 
 
 They began to converse ; Gorman talked ex- 
 
26 
 
 HOCK imiN; OH, TEE DATTOHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 cifcedly but with groat clearness, and as he lis- 
 tened, Hyatt's face grew eager and serious, and 
 the questions he asked were to the point, such 
 as an astute lawyer might have put. 
 
 " He has either hidden the will or given it to 
 young Conner," Hyatt said at last. 
 
 "I don't think he would give it up." 
 
 "I'll wager anything it is locked up in the 
 vault where the old chap keeps a store of plate 
 and papers," he said, and there was a sudden 
 gleam in his eye which the other did not notice, 
 but would have revealed to a less occupied per- 
 son that the man had some plan of his own to 
 further while carrying out the project of his fel- 
 low schemer. 
 
 " Then the next thing is to get into that vault," 
 said Gorman. " Of course, young Conner keeps 
 the keys during his father's'absence." 
 
 " Yes ; he is going away in a few days ; then 
 they will be left with James, or Bradley, or old 
 Jones." 
 
 Gorman rose from his seat and walked up and 
 down the room in deep thought. 
 
 " I must go back to my old plan," he said, as 
 he returned to his seat. " You told me that old 
 Jones' father had a pr^-emption, or something 
 of that kind, on a portion of the land, and that 
 Conner bought it very cheap ?** 
 
 " Yes, and I " 
 
 " It's through him we must act," interrupted 
 Gorman. " I know you are friends with him and 
 crazy after the daughter ; if we succeed you 
 shall take a fortune with her." 
 
 " What do you mean to do first ?" 
 
 "You must make old Jones believe that his 
 grandfather was cheated; tell him there are 
 papers proving it ; we will help him. Hint Con- 
 ner's secret closet. He must understand that I 
 am a lawyer, and ready to help him on your ac- 
 count." 
 
 He explained hia plan clearly, and Hyatt ap- 
 proved warmly. 
 
 " You ought to have been a lawyer," said he ; 
 " your head is clear as a bell." 
 
 Gorman smiled disdainfully. 
 
 " Can you manage this ?" h« asked. 
 
 " I think so ; the old man is weak-headed as 
 a child ; I can wind him round my finger." 
 
 "Your men must have something to do," 
 continued Gorman ; " otherwise some curiosity 
 might be aroused by our presence. You see 
 Jones to-morrow and buy that raft. Getting it 
 in order will give them occupation. I'll supply 
 funds." 
 
 " We shall have to hire men to do the work," 
 said Hyatt; "those chaps won't turn a hand 
 themselves." 
 
 ' "Do it, then; at least they can direct the 
 workmen, and seem to have business here. 
 That's enough." 
 
 Those two bad men sat weaving their plans 
 until almost morning, and before they retired to 
 rest the whole plan of villainy was laid out and 
 ready for speedy execution. 
 
 Long after Hyatt was asleep Gorman sat by 
 the table lost in thought ; and when the first chill 
 gi-ay of morning crept in through the windows 
 he threw himself upon the bed without undress- 
 ing, and forgot for a time his hopes and fears 
 in that deep slumber which visits the thorough- 
 ly hardened and purely innocent alike, strange 
 as we may think it. 
 
 He awoke more coutident and determiuecl tbau 
 
 ever. He would have offered his soul in return 
 for the possession of that will. There was no 
 depth of crime into which he was not ready to 
 plunge in order to secure his desires. He had 
 plotted too many years, lost himself in too ter- 
 rible a depth of sin to relinquish his purpose, 
 now that liate seemed to have brought him so 
 near to the consummation of his purpose. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 Sevekal days had passed since Hyatt had 
 succeeded in producing the difficulty between 
 old Jones and John Manson ; and during all 
 that weary time, which had seemed almost in- 
 terminable to her, poor little Lucy had not * 
 once met her lover. 
 
 It was almost the first trouble she had known ; 
 added to that, the gradual change in her father's 
 habits and manners tilled her with groat unea- 
 siness. He went nightly over to the tavern, and 
 although he had forbidden h«r to sit up for him, 
 she could not sleep, and very often it would be 
 almost morning before she heard his step on the 
 stairs ; once or twice it had sounded so halting 
 and uneven that the heart sunk in her bosom, 
 for she could not understand its disgraceful 
 meaning. 
 
 All the sunshine had gone out of the poor 
 child's life. Her sources of happiness had been 
 very limited, although they had hitherto proved 
 sufficient to her mnocent mind. The society ot 
 her lover and the affection she bore her father 
 comprised her life ; now she was deprived of the 
 first, and her father was growing so irritable and 
 sullen that she fairly shrunk from his presence. 
 
 Lucy had no companions of her own age ; th«) 
 only female friend she had ever possessed was 
 Mrs. Jordan, and to her she owed a great deal. 
 The old lady was a fairly educated New England 
 woman, with delicate and womanly tastes, and a 
 great fondness for books, and all those habits 
 she had instilled into Lucy's mind. 
 
 Mr. Conner's library was large and well chosen, 
 and Lucy had always been allowed free access 
 to it ; thus she had acquired a degree of cultiva- 
 tion one would hardly have expected to find in 
 persons of such parentage, and reared in that 
 retired spot. 
 
 Her mother had been dead many years, and 
 even as a little girl Lucy had kept her father's 
 house, gi'owing up under Mrs. Jordan's coun- 
 sels and instructions a most accomplished house- 
 keeper. She had great talent for embroidery 
 and all sorts of needlework, and the same good 
 friend had raked up all her own knowledge, of 
 the art for the girl's benefit, so that the little log- 
 house was filled with specimens of her skill, 
 which helped to adorn its rude simplicity, and 
 converted the log-cabin into something like a 
 rustic bower. 
 
 Lucy had not seen Mrs. Jordan since that un- 
 happy night ; the first approach of soitow had 
 made her shrink into herself for a time, like a 
 sensitive plant that has been too rudely handled. 
 But that afternoon her own home seemed so sol- 
 itary and desolate thair she put on her bonnet 
 and started for the great house, carrying with 
 her a number of books, which her conscience 
 reproached her for not having returned earlier, 
 possessing in that matter a degree of delicacy 
 and care which many higher born females would 
 (io weU to imitate, 
 
110 ex RUIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF THE LHLANI). 
 
 27 
 
 She found Mrs. Jordan seated in her own 
 pleasant room, that opened on a small flower 
 garden, which was her own special possession, 
 and cultivated by her own hands. The old lady 
 was enjoyinj^ an hour's quiet after the fatigues 
 of the morning ; not that with her much repose 
 meant idleness, by no means — she held her 
 knitting work in her hands, and her practiced 
 fingers shot the needle in and out of the worsted 
 till they emitted little gleams of light at every 
 motion of her hands. She had a book open on 
 the little stand before her and was reading, but 
 at Lucy's quiet knock at the half-open door she 
 pushed back her spectacles and called out pleas- 
 antly, while taking a seam stitch : 
 
 " I know who that is— come in, come in ! Why, 
 Lucy, child, what have you been doing with 
 yourself? I was just thinking about going down 
 to yoiir house to see if you were lost." 
 
 Lucy laughed a little, gentle laugh, but her 
 heart was too heavy for much merriment. She 
 entered the room and took her favorite place on 
 a low chair by the old lady's side, whereupon a 
 pet cat jumped immediately into her lap, the 
 only spot that suited his imperial fancy when 
 the young girl was in the house. 
 
 " Nap has missed you dreadfully," said Mrs. 
 Jordan; "I declare,' I've half a mind to scold 
 you or be offended in downright earnest." 
 
 " I hope you won't be either," Lucy said, try- 
 ing to smile, but there was a gravity in her voice 
 which Mrs. Jordan had not noticed before. It 
 made her look up anxiously from her work. 
 
 " Have you been sick ?" she asked. " It seems 
 to me you look a little worried. Nothing much 
 the matter, is there ?" 
 
 " I am very well ; I have stayed in the house 
 too much— I guess that is all." 
 
 " Something troubles you then," said Mrs. 
 Jordan; "I can see it in your face. What is 
 the matter, Lucy ?" 
 
 It only needed the kindness and sympathy in 
 her voice to unsettle Lucy at once ; she laid her 
 head against the arm of the chair and cried for 
 several moments as if her heart would break, 
 repeating again and again : 
 
 " I know it's foolish, but I can't help it, indeed 
 I can't." 
 
 Mrs. Jordan kissed her and smoothed her 
 hair, and tried by her caresses to restore the 
 girl's composure, but, like a sensible woman, 
 she waited until the first burst of grief was over 
 before she asked a single question. 
 
 " There, I feel better," said Lucy at last, lift- 
 ing her head and brushing the tears from her 
 eyes. " I've been wanting to cry all day, but it's 
 so lonesome doing it at home with nobody 
 near." 
 
 " Now you must tell me what your trouble is," 
 said Mrs. Jordan. " Have you and John been 
 having some Uttle difficulty ? A lover's quarrel, 
 ha !" 
 
 Lucy shook her head. 
 
 " I haven't seen him for three days." 
 
 " He has been on the mainland up in the 
 mountain at work, but he has come back this 
 afternoon— he ran in and spoke to me a few mo- 
 ments ago. Surely you are not feeling so bad 
 just because he's been away ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, no, I'm not so silly as that," and then 
 her cause of distress burst forth with fresh out- 
 bursts of tears, and the old lady learned that 
 her father had quarreled with Manson, and she 
 was suffering in consequence. 
 
 " It will all pass over," Mrs. Jordan said, after 
 they had discussed the matter. " You know your 
 father is a little crotchotty, but he'll come out 
 right in the end." 
 
 " Father is very determined," Lucy answered, 
 " and if he gets angry with a person he's a long 
 time forgetting it." 
 
 " I am sure he will make up this quarrel when 
 he sees how unhappy it makes you. Would you 
 like me to have a talk with him about it ?" 
 
 " It wouldn't do any good yet," Lucy replied ; 
 " he would only blame me for telling you ; it al- 
 ways makes him angry if I repeat anything that 
 happens at home." 
 
 fiven to her best friend Lucy could not hint 
 the other trouble which weighed so painfully at 
 her heart ; she could not bear to admit that she 
 feared her father was getting into intemperate 
 habits, and faithfully hoping that when Hyatt 
 left the neighborhood he would go back to his 
 old ways, she delicately kept his secret. 
 
 But a long talk with Mrs. Jordan comforted 
 her in regard to her more personal cause for 
 unhappiness, and after a time she could talk 
 quite cheerfully upon other subjects. 
 
 "Mr. Conner has sent Mr. Gerald a package 
 of new books," said Mrs. Jordan, " and he told 
 me I was to read them and lend them to you ; 
 so, you see, we shall have plenty of amusement 
 for the long autumn evenings, which are not so 
 far off, for this summer goes like the wind." 
 
 "I shall be glad when winter comes," said 
 Lucy, " if only that it will keep that Hyatt away." 
 
 " You seem very bitter against this man, 
 Lucy ?" 
 
 " I do dislike him so ! I don't believe he's a 
 good man ; his voice is so soft and his ways so 
 hatefully smooth," Lucy exclaimed, with a pas- 
 sion she seldom showed. 
 
 " That don't seem a fair reason fur blaming a 
 person so severely," said Mrs. Jordan, laugh- 
 ing a little at her energy. " I guess he likes 
 5'ou a little too well, isn't that it ?" 
 
 "I can't bear to sit in the room with him," 
 continued Lucy ; " I always run away now when 
 I hear him coming. But father seems to Uke 
 him. How anybody can, I don't understand. 
 He talks such nonsense- as if I cared for his 
 compliments ! He acts as if he thought I was 
 one of those girls in a novel, that believed all 
 the foolishness anybody chose to talk." 
 
 "You are right iaot to be intimate with him," 
 Mrs. Jordan said; " nobody here knows much 
 about him, but I am sure his manners are very 
 good, and he is always extremely polite." 
 
 " Well, I don't like him," said Lucy, decided- 
 ly. "I believe he made the trouble between 
 father and John. Indeed, I almost hate him." 
 
 "Oh, you must not get unjust suspicions in 
 your head, Lucy ; that is not just to yourself." 
 
 Lucy colored a little, but she did not relin- 
 quish her opinion. 
 
 " He has bought Jones' raft, he and his part- 
 ners," Mrs Jordan said. "They have got men 
 at work putting it to rights." 
 
 " So father told me, and there's a lawyer or 
 something came up with them. I can't help it 
 if it is wrong, but I know when these people are 
 here there is more drinking and trouble among 
 the men, and old Mrs. Flint says the same 
 thing." 
 
 " Then old Mrs. Flint had better not be so 
 ready to sell them liquor," retorted Mrs. Jor- 
 
28 
 
 ROCK RTIIN ; OR, TRE DAUGHTER OF TEE ISLAND. 
 
 dan, who held the tavern-keeper in low esteem 
 for her gossiping habits, and because she kept 
 a bar, Mrs. Jordan having very strict ideas on 
 the subject of temperance. " I hope you don't 
 go there much, Lucy— a bar-room always full of 
 lumbermen is no place for a young girl." 
 
 " Oh, I hardly set foot in the place from one 
 month to another, but she comes to our house 
 sometimes." 
 
 " Our old man seems to get a little stronger," 
 Mrs. Jordan said, feeling that quite time enough 
 had been spent on old Mrs. Flint. 
 
 " He is a very old man to have come out here 
 from across the Atlantic," returned Lucy. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Gerald says he knew his father years 
 ago ; I dare say he is poor, and came to find a 
 home." 
 
 "And he will." 
 
 " Yes, indeed. Why, Mr. Gerald watches him 
 and takes care of him as if he were a duke," said 
 Mrs. Jordan, calling on uer novel-reading rem- 
 iniscences for a comparison. " Our Gerald is 
 the best young man !" 
 
 Then the good lady went oJT into a short eu- 
 logium upon the young man, fur in her eyes Mr. 
 Gerald was without a peer. 
 
 So they passed the afternoon in pleasant femi- 
 nine talk, both keeping their fingers busily em- 
 ployed the while. If I have given more of their 
 conversation than seems at all necessary, it is 
 because life is made up of those quiet, gentle 
 scenes in its general features. Incidents of 
 pain and sin are in almost every human exist- 
 ence — the exception, as we have ten days of 
 Btorm to one of sunshine. 
 
 It was sunset before Lucy returned home, 
 having waited to drink tea with Mrs. Jordan, 
 as her father had been sent by Mr. Gerald down 
 to the neighboring town upon business, and 
 would not return until late. 
 
 Lucy walked along through the pleasant fields 
 and shadowy groves with a lighter heart; she 
 was so far encouraged by Mrs. Jordan's kindly 
 advice that she felt at least resolved to wait pa- 
 tiently for a time, and see if her father did not 
 overcome the sudden prejudice which he ap- 
 peared to have conceived against Manson. 
 
 Just as she gained the outskirts of the last 
 
 frove and was looldng down upon her quiet 
 ome, she heard a footstep benind her, and 
 turning suddenly, found herself face to face 
 with Hyatt. She could not repress a shudder of 
 absolute loathing, and with a cold bow was pass- 
 ing on, but he called out : 
 
 "Why, Miss Lucy, you are not going to treat 
 an old acquaintance in that way, are you ?" 
 
 " It is getting late," she answered, " and I am 
 in a hurry— father will be home and waiting for 
 his supper." 
 
 " I saw you leave the house, and I came after 
 you, so that you need not have a lonesolme walk, 
 but mistook the path." 
 
 " I am accustomed to walking alone all over 
 the island," she replied, coldly. " Nobody could 
 lose me." 
 
 " How did you find our friend Mrs. Jordan ?" 
 he asked, walking along by her side with an air 
 of easy assurance. 
 
 " Quite well," she answered, almost sharply, 
 thoroughly wearied by his importunity. " Don't 
 let me take you out of your way, Mr. Hyatt ; I 
 really am in great haste.*" 
 
 He bit hjs lips angrily, but beyond that and 
 
 the flash in his black eyes, betrayed no irrita- 
 tion. 
 
 " Why do you treat me so coldly ?" he asked, 
 in a grieved sort of tone. " What have I done 
 to ofiend you, Lucy ?" 
 
 " I am not offended, only anxious to get home," 
 she replied, still walking rapidly on. 
 
 " Will you let me talk with you for a few mo- 
 ments ?" 
 
 "I can't ^ait, Mr. Hyatt," she replied, reso- 
 lutely, roused by his persecution to a pitch of 
 firmness that would have astonished herself in 
 a calmer moment ; " I told you so before." 
 
 " Let me go on to the house with you, then," 
 he said ; " I can talk to you there." 
 
 " My father is not at home," she replied. 
 
 "A moment ago you thought he would be 
 there." 
 
 " Did I ? It is uncertain— I don't know." 
 
 " But it is you, not your father, 1 wish to see." 
 
 "Mr. Hyatt, you are very unkind, to say the 
 least," she exclaimed. " Will you let me pass ?" 
 she demanded, angrily, for ho' was standing di- 
 rectly before her. 
 
 " Only hear me first," he pleaded, m that 
 strangely musical voice, which would have done 
 him admirable service as an actor. 
 
 " You certainly can have nothing of very great 
 importance to say ; I saw you only yester- 
 day." 
 
 " It seems ages ago !" he said, mournfully." 
 " Indeed, I have something very important— to 
 me at least." 
 
 " Then it must wait, for I want to go home. 
 To-morrow my father will be here— you can talk 
 to me when he is by." 
 
 " Your father knows what I want to say— he 
 has seen what my feelings are just as plainly as 
 you have done." 
 
 " I never thought you had any feeling," burst 
 indignantly from her lips ; then she colored crim- 
 son at her rudeness, and said, quickly : "I beg 
 your pardon, Mr. Hyatt. You had much better 
 let me pass— I am not feeling at all amiable ; if 
 I stay I shall certainly say things which I may 
 regret." 
 
 " I would rather you treated me harshly," he 
 exclaimed, " than to pass me m cold indiffer- 
 ence." 
 
 "I have no msh to be rude," she answered, 
 beginning to feel a vague sort of alarm at his 
 earnestness and the bold look in his eyes. 
 " Please to let me go on, Mr. Hyatt." 
 
 "One moment, Lucy; I only ask one I" he 
 said, passionately. " You know that I love you. 
 I have shown it ioo plainly for you to be blind. 
 
 She interrupted him passionately. 
 
 " Mr. Hyatt, I cannot hear this language." 
 
 " Surely there can be nothing offensive in an 
 avowal of honest affection," he returned. 
 
 " If it is sincere I am sorry," replied Lucy, 
 " for I cannot even listen." 
 
 " Am I so hateful in your sight ?" 
 
 "You interpret my words to suit yourself; I 
 said nothing of the sort." 
 
 " Give me a little time— at least, let me plead 
 my cause ! Let me show you by my devotion 
 how truly 1 4ove you." 
 
 He raised her hand and pressed it to his 
 mouth. Lucy's anger gave her strength, and 
 she snatched it, with desperate loathing, from 
 
ROCK RTIIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 29 
 
 his lips, although she could not release it from 
 his grasp. 
 
 " Tfiis is unmanly !" she exclaimed. " Let go 
 my hand, Mr. Hvatt ; you take a poor way to 
 touch any woman s heart." 
 
 He dropped her hand. 
 
 " I beg yonr pardon," he said ; " I forgot my- 
 self." 
 
 " I hope you will not do so again," ehe replied, 
 haughtily. " Good-night, Mr. Hyatt— I will not 
 stay here any longer." 
 
 She hurried on along the footpath, but he still 
 kept his place at her side, pouring out a flood 
 of sentimental nonsense, which might have 
 struck an ordinary girl in Lucy's position, but 
 for once novel reading had been of some ser- 
 vice. In the really good books which Mrs. Jor- 
 dan had lent her, Lucy had read the same sen- 
 timents much better expressed, and it seemed 
 so unnatural, so unlike anything real, that if it 
 had not been for her anger and fear she would 
 have laughed outright. As it was, she sought 
 refuge in silence, hurrying on more rapidly and 
 not ever looking toward him. 
 
 They reached the doorstep of her house, and 
 Lucy's impulse was to enter and close the door 
 in his face, but before she couldjaccomplish her 
 purpose he had again taken her hand. 
 
 "Let go my hand !" she exclaimed, passion- 
 ately. 
 
 He replied only by another flood of extrava- 
 gant language, and while she was struggling to 
 escape from him, John Manson came up the 
 path. He heard her indignant remonstrance 
 and went up to the spot. Without a word he 
 snatched Lucy's hand from that of her perse- 
 cutor, and stood confronting Hyatt with a fierce- 
 ness which the suffering of the past few days 
 made more dangerous. 
 
 " How dare you treat any young woman in 
 this manner ?" he exclaimed. 
 
 " I would advise you not to come in my way, 
 young man," hissed Hyatt, growing livid with 
 passion. 
 
 " Then take yourself off," cried John. "No- 
 body but a coward would detain a girl against 
 her wishes." 
 
 " I am invited here by Mr. Jones," returned 
 Hyatt; " whereas, I heard him turn you out of 
 the house only three nights ago. You have no 
 business here, at any rate." 
 
 " I sha'n't account to you for my actions, Mr. 
 Hyatt. I have to thank you for making trouble 
 between me and Lucy's father. There never 
 was a hard thought until you came prowling 
 about here." 
 
 " At all events, as Mr. Jones' friend, I have a 
 right to order you away from this place." 
 
 " You'd better try it, that's all !" exclaimed 
 Manson, folding his arms over his broad chest, 
 and giving him a nod of such significance that 
 Hyatt involuntarily retreated a step. 
 
 " The other night you were ready to quarrel 
 with her father, now^ it is with me," he said. 
 " Some day Lucy will have her eyes opened, and 
 know you better than she does now." 
 
 " She doesn't need any information from you, 
 at all events," retorted John. " Your best plan 
 will be to take yourself off, Mr. Hyatt." 
 
 The young man's face showed such angry de- 
 termination that Lucy was frightened ; she laid 
 her hand gently upon his arm ; the very move- 
 ment increased Hyatt's passion. 
 
 " You are protected," he sneered ; " you are 
 safe to be insulting." 
 
 Manson made a movement, but Lucy clung to 
 him. 
 
 " Mr. Hyatt," she said, " [ ask you to go away, 
 and not to come here till my father is at home. 
 John, if you have a quarrel here I never will 
 forgive you." 
 
 She spoke very firmly in spite of her agitation, 
 and the two men controlled themselves a little 
 at her command. 
 
 " Good-night, Miss Lucy," said Hyatt, sudden- 
 ly ; "1 hope, when I see you again, you will 
 have thought over the matter of which we were 
 speaking.' 
 
 He gave a parting glance full of baffled rage 
 and malice toward Manson, and slunk into the 
 path that led toward the mansion house. 
 
 When he had disappeared, Lucy sat down upon 
 the doorstep and cried bitterly, so completely 
 overcome by the excitement of the last hour 
 that she was weak as a child. 
 
 " Lucy, Lucy, don't cry so !" pleaded John. 
 
 " I can't help it," she sobbed. " I know that 
 man will make us more trouble in some way." 
 
 •' If he comes between us he shall repent it !" 
 
 " You must not quarrel with him," returned 
 Lucy ; " it would only make father more angry 
 with you, more cruel to me." 
 
 " But what have I done to make him disUke 
 me ?" demanded Manson. 
 
 " I don't know ; it's all that man's work, I am 
 sure ; we shall never have peace until he is 
 gone." 
 
 " Why, I've known your father half my life," 
 he said ; " and will he let a man that he has not 
 seen more than half a dozen times, and that not 
 more than a fortnight together, make a misun- 
 derstanding between us ? 
 
 " Father is never like himself when he is 
 here," said Lucy, sadly, wiping away her tears. 
 " I can't see how he has got such influence over 
 him." 
 
 " I came here to-night to see your father," re- 
 sumed John. " I want to talk this thing over." 
 
 " He isn't at home ; he's gone to the town for 
 Mr. Gerald." 
 
 " I can wait till he comes back," he soon re- 
 plied, almost sullenly. 
 
 " You mustn't, John ; indeed, you mustn't." 
 
 *' Do you mean that you don't want to see me 
 here ?" he demanded, with a man's jealousy and 
 quick suspicion. 
 
 "Don't say such things to me !" cried Lucy, 
 
 Eressing her hands hard together ; "if you speak 
 arshly to me it will break my heart ; I have all 
 I can bear now." 
 
 He put his arm around her waist and drew her 
 up toward him. 
 
 " I didn't mean it, Lucy, you know I didn't; 
 but all this trouble is so new it turns my head." 
 
 " We can only wait," said Lucy ; " it peems to 
 me it must end before long." 
 
 " But why shouldn't I see your father, and ask 
 him to tell me honestly why he is angry with 
 me ? If he thinks I have done anything wrong 
 he ought to tell me so." 
 
 " Don't do it yet," urged Lucy ; " Mrs. Jordau 
 says it will be better to wait." 
 
 " Wait !" he repeated ; " we are both breaking 
 our hearts I What right has anybody to say 
 ' wait' ?" 
 
 " It would be of no use while Hyatt is here," 
 
30 
 
 JiOCK HULN ; OR, THE DAUGHTKfi OF TFIE IHLANl), 
 
 Lucy answered. " Oh, John, you don't know 
 what influence he has over father 1" 
 
 " I've seen it growing for some time past. A 
 bad man that is, very bad !" 
 
 " I believe so, too ; I fairly tremble to hear 
 his voice," Lucy went on ; "but father likes him, 
 and you know how set he is. Oh, if he only 
 would keep away from that man and from the tav- 
 ern. I couldn't "say it to anybody else, not even 
 to Mrs. Jordan, but he goes there too much." 
 
 " I know that, Lucy ; it's always so when Hy- 
 att comes here." 
 
 " Sometimes he isn't home until almost morn- 
 ing," and Lucy, in her impotent weakness, had 
 no resource but lior tears. " He won't let me 
 say a word to him. He is no more like himself 
 thiiu if he had changed his whole nature." 
 
 "It's too much !" cried the young man. "I 
 wish Mr. Conner were at home. 
 
 " Why, father even talks about him in the 
 strangest way. Only last night he went on about 
 something I could not understand at all ; any- 
 body would have thought that Mr. Conner had 
 been cheating him." 
 
 " We'll get all right when that Hyatt is gone," 
 John said, soothiugly, although in his own mind 
 there lurked a fear that these irregular habits 
 might fa:^ten themselves so strongly \ipon this 
 poor girl'h father that ho could not shake them 
 off. 
 
 " I hope so," returned Lucy ; " I am sure be 
 will." 
 
 " But what are we to do ?" John asked. " Must 
 I keep away from the house and hardly see you, 
 because that villain has been at his black work V" 
 
 " Don't quarrel with him, John, whatever hap- 
 pens ; promise me that you won't," she pleaded, 
 growing pale at the terrible ideas her fancy con- 
 jured up. 
 
 "I promise you that," he answered; "keep 
 
 ur mind easy, Lucy, I won't quarrel with him. ' 
 
 "He'd just 'like that, because it would turn 
 father still more against you." 
 
 " Then he sha'n't have the gratification, that's 
 all ! You know you can trust me when I give 
 my word." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I am not afraid now." 
 
 She sat down again upon the doorstep, looking 
 so worn out and utterly miserable, notwithstand- 
 the gleam of animation which was dying from 
 her face, that it wrung John's neart. 
 
 " They can't turn you against me !" he ex- 
 claimed. " I am sure of you, any way, darling !" 
 
 She only answered by a look, but it was more 
 eloquent than a volume of words would have 
 been— so eloquent was it, so full of faith and de- 
 votion, those best and noblest feelings which 
 form the leading traits in the character of every 
 true woman, no matter what her station maybe. 
 
 They talked there by the humble threshold- 
 stone, sharing their first sorrow, until it grew 
 qiiite dark, a ad the plash of the waters upon the 
 shore sounded like sad voices through the still- 
 ness. 
 
 " You had better go, John," Lucy said, at 
 length ; " father will be back soon, and I know 
 he would only be angry at seeing you." 
 
 " I wouldn't do anything to make the breach 
 wider, you may be sure of that," he replied. "I 
 shall see you to-morrow morning — I must ! I 
 sha'n't have any strength or hope without !" 
 
 "I will see you, John; I don't believe it's 
 wrong." 
 
 youri 
 
 They parted sadly, each feeling that the dark- 
 est hour of their troubles had not yet arrived, 
 although neither would have pained the other 
 by the acknowledgment. 
 
 After he had gone, Lucy sat a little longer 
 alone in her sadness, but fortunately her duties 
 called her from that sad and profitless medita- 
 tion. 
 
 She went into the house, kindled the fire, and 
 began preparations for her father's supper, try- 
 ing to compose herself, so that she might meet 
 him as cheerfully as possible when he returned. 
 
 Supper was ready and waiting before she heard 
 his steps upon the path. She did not run out, 
 as she would formerly have done, to meet him ; 
 he had changed so much in his conduct toward 
 her that she was grov mg fearful of receiving 
 unkind words from the parent who a year before 
 would not for the world have given her a re- 
 proachful glance. 
 
 He came in looliiug tired, but Lucy found a 
 pleasanter expression in his face than he had 
 worn of late, and ran joyfully up to meet him. 
 
 "You look completely worn out, father," she 
 said ; " how very fate you are." 
 
 "Yes; it was hard pulling up the river," h'- 
 replied, " and I am both tired and hungry." 
 
 " Supper is all ready," she said, kissing'him, 
 " I have been waiting'for you evei' so long." 
 
 She talked pleasantly to him while he got 
 ready for the meal, and he appeared much morr 
 cheeVful than usual. They were nearly doc 
 supper before anything arose to change hi. 
 variable mood. 
 
 "What have you been about all day?" li! 
 asked. 
 
 " I have been with Mrs. Jordan all the after- 
 noon." 
 
 He frowned, and muttered something unin- 
 telligibly. 
 
 " When's Conner coming back?" he in- 
 quired. 
 
 "They don't know; it may be some time 
 yet." 
 
 " Small loss," he grumbled. 
 
 " Oh, father ! and you used to be so fond of 
 him !" 
 
 " I'm a gettin' my eyes open, gal," he said ; 
 " I've been blind as a bat these few years back." 
 
 "I would rather be blind than lose all faith 
 in my friends and those who had been kind to 
 me." 
 
 "Kind! Wal, I should think I'd earned my 
 way," he exclaimed, bringing his hand heavily 
 down upon the table, and working himself into 
 one of the angry fits which had become so. cus- 
 tomary with him. " I know what you mean by 
 that talk about old friends ; you was a thinking 
 of that John Manson. Have you seen him to- 
 day?" 
 
 " Yes, father ; he came here to see you." 
 
 "The sneak! after my ordering him out of 
 the house !" 
 
 " Father, why do you talk of him in this 
 way?" she asked, speaking as gently as she 
 could. " You used to like him so much." 
 
 "Never you mind about that," he returned; 
 " just be satisfied to do as I tell you." 
 
 " But I am not satisfied to have my own hap- 
 piness destroyed in this way. You permitted 
 me to engage myself to him ; and now, when I 
 love him dearly, and it's quite impossible, you 
 order me to think no more about him." 
 
BOCK RTJIN; OB, THE DAUaHTJEB OF THE ISLAND, 
 
 U 
 
 " Now don't be coming round me with your 
 fine book tallc. I don't understan4 nothin' 
 about it, and you'd be just as well if you didn't. 
 I won't have him about me. He was sassy to 
 me the other day, and I'll make him pay for it." 
 
 "But you won't always be angry at him?" 
 she pleaded. 
 
 " Wal, wal, don't fret ; let things alone." 
 
 "But I can't, father; it is making me very 
 miserable." 
 
 " He hadn't no business to come here." 
 
 "He came just at the moment to save me 
 from the persecutions of that hateful wretch, 
 Hyatt I" she exclaimed, indignantly. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" he asked, sharply. 
 "Now don't tell lies 'cause you don't like the 
 man. At the same time, if he does anything 
 that ain't right, I'll^ — " 
 
 " He followed me home, and insisted on talk- 
 ing to me. He caught hold of my hand, and 
 wouldn't let it go ; and just then John came up. 
 The man is a pitiful coward." 
 
 Her father looked at her in astonishment. He 
 had never seen his gentle child betray so much 
 excitement in her whole life. 
 
 " The man ain't to blame for being fond o' 
 you," he said. "There's many a gal would 
 think twice afore she'd throw a rich man like 
 liim over for John Manson." 
 
 " I wouldn't marry him if he were a king !" 
 she exclaimed, passionately. "You need have 
 no hope of that, father. You may separate me 
 from John, but nothing shall ever induce me to 
 marry that man. I would beg, starve, throw 
 myself into the river first !" 
 
 " Don't go on so like a crazy body. I'll fling 
 every book I find into the fire, if you don't look 
 out. There's where you get sich idees," he said, 
 angrily. " Any how, there ain't no talk about 
 your marrying^Hyatt, nor anybody else. Who's 
 that ?" he added, as some one ca'me toward the 
 door. 
 
 " Hallo, Jones !" some one called. 
 
 The old man went to the door, and saw 
 Winter, one of the men who had accompanied 
 Hyatt. 
 
 " Good evening," he said. "Wont you come 
 in ?" 
 
 "No; it's getting late. Hyatt wants you to 
 come over to the tavern." 
 
 " Wal, I do' know," he said, hesitatingly ; 
 " I'm amazing tired." 
 
 " Oh, father, don't go !" Lucy exclaimed. 
 " It's bed-time now, and I'm so lonesome here." 
 
 " He wants to talk to you about that busi- 
 ness," said the man in a lower voice; "you'd 
 better come over." 
 
 " I guess I will ; hold on till I get my coat," 
 he said, turning back into the house. 
 
 "Are you going, father?" Lucy asked, tear- 
 fully. 
 
 " Yes, yes— don't worry me I There won't any- 
 thing happen to you," he added, more gently. 
 " Bo a good gal and don't fret ; I'll be back in 
 an hour, and if Mother Flint's got anything nice 
 in her store I'll bring it to you— maybe a new 
 dress." - 
 
 "If you would only stay at home," she re- 
 peated. 
 
 "But I must, Lucy; I've got some business 
 with them gentlemen ; I can't lose the chance 
 of making some money." 
 
 Bhe said nothing more, and he went away, 
 displeased with himself, but unable to resist. 
 
 It was very late when he returned, but Lucy 
 was awake. She had gone to bed, but sleep 
 would not come, pray for it as she might ; even 
 after he came she could only lie wakeful and 
 anxious, and with her heart aching under its 
 new load of care. The poor chij^d was just wak- 
 ing to a consciousness of what woman's Ufe only 
 too often is ; even with the most prosperous and 
 happj^ there are trials and mai-tyrdoms, of which 
 men, in their arrogant bhndness, do not even 
 think, and perhaps the hardest part of the 
 trouble is that the worst anguish of her life is so 
 freq^uently inflicted without a consciousness of 
 having given pain. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 Three men sat late in the evening on which 
 Lucy sat watching for her father's return, 
 upon the banks of the river ; when the moon- 
 light shone out, it revealed Gorman, Jones and 
 Hyatt. 
 
 "And so you have searched carefully what 
 papers you possess ?" Hyatt asked. 
 
 " Every one of 'em, and that ain't many, but 
 nothing of the sort can I find." 
 
 "Still you know that your uncle once owned 
 a portion of this island?" Gorman said, trying 
 hard to throw off his haughty manner, which 
 was particularly offensive to the sturdy back- 
 woodsman. 
 
 "Yes, but I always thought, till you told me 
 better, that it was sold to the old gentleman 
 over yonder." 
 
 " No, no; there was a debt, a mere trifle, and 
 your uncle knew nothing of the laws ; this Con- 
 ner took advantage of his illness and ignorance, 
 and swept his boundaries around the whole." 
 
 "But the deeds," said the old man; "I 
 haven't got a scrap of paper to show that my 
 uncle ever owned the land— you see I was living 
 in another state then. Besides, Mr. Conner is 
 rich, and I've got no money to fee you lawyers 
 with." 
 
 " As for that," interrupted Hyatt, bending his 
 eyes to the earth and casting a ' sidelong glance 
 at the old man through his dark lashes ; " as 
 for that, there can be no trouble. The mo- 
 ment I am Lucy's husband, and thus have a 
 claim hereafter on the land, all that will be 
 managed. Besides, my Mend Mr. Gorman has 
 promised to assist me with his legal knowl- 
 edge." 
 
 The haughty man bit his lip at this familiar 
 appellation, but only said : 
 
 " The deeds ! If we only had the deeds, all 
 would be easy enough." 
 
 " But how are they to be found? Where can 
 they be ?" asked the old man, becoming more 
 and more earnest. 
 
 " The moment I got an inkling of the claim," 
 said Hyatt, " from papers that were placed in 
 Mr. Gorman's hands, I thought you must have 
 the papers." 
 
 "I should like at lp,st," added Gorman, " to 
 see justice done an honest, man." 
 
 " But what is to be done ?" asked the old man, 
 dejectedly; "I don't know no more than a 
 baby." 
 
 "It is a great disappointment to Hyatt," pur- 
 sued Gorman, tapping his boot with a stick he 
 had picked up in the woods. " They tell m© 
 
82 
 
 noCKBVlN; Oli, THE DAmtiTEM OF THE IBIAND. 
 
 your daughter is very lovely, and his business 
 IS prospering. With his savings and yom- farms, 
 you might have set up as landholders your- 
 selves." 
 
 "Jones!" exclaimed Hyatt, earnestly, "you 
 must find those deeds." 
 
 "But how — where am I to look?" cried he, 
 with a gesture of impatience. "They are not 
 at my house." * 
 
 " But I have seen a memorandum which con- 
 vinces me of their existence," said Gorman. 
 
 Hyatt lifted his hands as if some sudden idea 
 had struck him, and exclaimed : 
 
 " At Conner's house— they must be there." 
 
 The old man's face brightened. 
 
 " How stupid of me not to think of that be- 
 fore," he said, with animation. " Of course the 
 deeds are in his house. I've seen up in a closet, 
 where there's a lot of silverware kept, 9, tin box 
 labeled ' important papers.' But then, how are 
 we going to get a sight at 'em ? Mr. Conner 
 ain't goin' to give us leave to rummage his 
 papers." 
 
 Gorman gave Hyatt a glance which he under- 
 stood. The color came and went on the young 
 man's cheek, and he began to uproot a cluster 
 of wild flowers with the heel of his boot. 
 
 The thing which he had to propose was so 
 important that even his audacious self-posses- 
 sion gave way, and for a moment he stood there 
 in silence. He caught Gorman's commanding 
 look again, and said in his insinuating way : 
 
 " The old gentleman is away, and of course 
 his son could give no j^ermission for the search. 
 But in looking for that which is your own why 
 should you ask permission of any one ? As head 
 farmer Vou have charge of the whole place." 
 
 "And if I have," cried Jones, bluntly, " do 
 you think I would abuse my trust ?" 
 
 "Do you think," interposed Gorman, "that 
 this Conner will, of his own accord, render up 
 papers that will curtail one-fouith of the richest 
 portion of his property? Yet the papei's are 
 yours and you haA'e a right to them. If he will 
 not deliver them up— and who expects this of 
 him— how are they to be seen ?" 
 
 " Sure enough, I have a right to my own prop- 
 erty," muttered the old man. 
 
 " And have a right to search for it wherever 
 it is unjustly detained," said Hyatt, still busy- 
 ing himself with the broken tutt of blossoms. 
 
 " Why, yes," saidthe old farmer, half reluct- 
 antly ; "yes, I haven't no doubt of that— but 
 still "^ 
 
 " But still you cannot break the bondage this 
 aristocrat has placed you in with his European 
 ideas," exclaimed Gorman. " You are afraid of 
 his displeasure, and so give up a rich inherit- 
 ance rather than take the only means left of 
 securing it to yourself. I have lived many years 
 abroad, but I never expected to see such a spirit 
 in a citizen of this free country." 
 
 The old man's cheek blazed, and his whole 
 fiery spirit was aroused by this speech. Hyatt 
 marked the signs of his anger— the clenched 
 hands, the swelling ch^t, and the fierce trem- 
 bling of his lips. 
 
 "Mr. Gorman did not mean to offend you," 
 he said. 
 
 "No," returned the other, "I did not. But 
 this thing requires the courage to do ri^ht, and 
 I am disappointed in not finding it in your 
 6-iend." ^^ 
 
 " I am not afraid to do anything that is hon- 
 est," said Jones ; " I am not afraid of anything 
 or anybody." 
 
 "Courage is beautiful when honorably ap- 
 plied," said Gorma.n, very gravely. " This is a 
 case of the plainest justice. The proofs of your 
 inheritance lie in yonder house, almost within 
 your reach." 
 
 " But young Conner, I tell you, never would 
 allow it.' 
 
 " He told me," said Hyatt, carelessly, " that 
 he should have to go down the river very soon. 
 When he is gone the house will be in your 
 charge." 
 
 " No it won't ; you're mistaken there," rephed 
 the old man ; " I have charge of the island^ and 
 the farms, but not of the house." 
 
 Hyatt started, and the color left his face, while 
 Gorman gave him a furious look. 
 
 " Indeed, 1 thought it was otherwise," he said, 
 in a voice that shook in spite of Mis efforts to 
 appear m different. 
 
 " Mrs. Jordan allers has the keys to the house, 
 and John Mansqn keeps the ones to the closet 
 where they've got all that silver and them pa- 
 pers stowed away. John has been with them 
 sence he was a boy, and they set great store by 
 him." 
 
 The old man advanced a few steps to take a 
 look at something he saw in the river, and Gor- 
 man whispered to Hyatt : 
 
 " So you have been on the wrong track all tho 
 while— the other was the one to deal with— thia 
 infernal luck I" 
 
 " I'm not 80 sure of that," returned Hyatt, in 
 the same tone ; " have a little patience, we shall 
 see." 
 
 They walked on to the spot where Jones 
 stood, and Hyatt said, carelessly : 
 
 " It's a pity he wouldn't leave the keys with 
 you. That Manson is so stubborn that all hopes 
 of obtaining access to the keys through him 
 would be useless. We may as well give up the 
 property at once. It's a fine independence— and 
 Lucy— ah, she ought to be rich ! Well, well, it 
 can't be helped." 
 
 " If the keys had been left with you," added 
 Gorman, " we might have just searched quietly, 
 to be sure the documents were there, and then 
 have demanded them of Conner." 
 
 " Then you didn't mean to take the deeds 
 away ?" demanded the farmer, eagerly. 
 
 "Take them away! My good fellow, where 
 would your fancy lead to ! No, no, only let me 
 be assured they are' in his possession, and all 
 the rest will be easy enough. Of course you 
 will come forward and demand them in the 
 name of the law. Now, he might deny their ex- 
 istence ; but, after you have seen them with 
 myself and Hyatt for witnesses, this denial 
 would not answer." 
 
 " So all we want is a sight of the deeds ?" 
 
 " That is all." 
 
 " But as you never have the keys," cried 
 Hyatt, "what's the use of talking about it, 
 especially as neither of us are good friends with 
 Manson ? He would not oblige us now, though 
 our object is perfectly honorable and very im- 
 portant." 
 
 " Perhaps I should not ask him," saici the 
 farmer, with a shrewd smile, which the darkness 
 concealed. " If I once make up my mind to do 
 
TtOCK tttlN; OR, THE DAVOHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 33 
 
 the thing, it could be done without John Man- 
 son's leave." 
 
 It required all Gorman's self-control to sub- 
 due his exultation of heart as these words were 
 uttered; but a gleam or two flashing beneath 
 his half-closed eyelids, as the moonlight fell 
 upon him, was all that he suffered to appear of 
 the triumph which he felt. 
 
 Hyatt's face was turned away, but there was 
 a look of cunning upon it, which might have 
 astonishad Gorman had he discovered its mean- 
 ing, an* made him wonder if the man was only 
 his tool in these knaveries." 
 
 " Come over to the tavern with us, Jones," he 
 said ; " we'll have a little drink or so, and you 
 and Mr. Gorman can talk the matter over more 
 clearly — come along." 
 
 The old man demurred a little, but he could 
 not resist the influence which Hyatt had ac- 
 quired over him, so he allowed him to pull him 
 down to the shore, while Gorman walked on in 
 advance, lost in deep thought. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A FEW days passed, and still old Jones' scru- 
 ples in regard to searching his employer's pa- 
 pers had not given ground, and the men began 
 to be doubtful whether the principles of honesty 
 which had guided him through life would not 
 prove too strong for their sophistries and art- 
 ful persuasions. 
 
 Gorman was perfectly furious at the delay, 
 and it was with difficulty that Hyatt could keep 
 him from committing some rash act that would 
 have compromised them all. 
 
 Every day was of vital importance to him 
 now ; he could not teU when the master himself 
 might' return, and if he once met that old man, 
 then there was an end to all Gorman's hopes ; 
 he would have plotted, schemed and rendered 
 himself a criminal for nothing. 
 
 He hardly left his room now ; the excuse of 
 illness which he gave did not appear without 
 reason, for the constant strain upon his mind, 
 and the war of feeling going on within, told 
 plainly in his face. 
 
 Hyatt and his comrades appeared to find con- 
 stant occupation, and not the slightest remark 
 had been occasioned in the neighborhood. Even 
 the appearance of the stranger excited no sur- 
 
 Erise, as he came in their company, and Hyatt 
 ad, with his usual craft, given a plausible rea- 
 son for his stay. 
 
 But the will, the will ! Time was gliding on, 
 and he was no nearer the accomplishment of his 
 purpose. He would not be baffled in that way 
 — he swore it with a terrible oath — he repeated 
 it again and again. He regretted now that he 
 had not at least finished his murderous work 
 xnat stormy night— he would have been rejoiced 
 to know that the old man was dead. 
 
 While he was meditating these things in his 
 room, or wandering up and down in the sohtude 
 of the forest, maddened by the idea that the 
 toils laid for others had gathered in a snare 
 about himself, and that he was entrapped in his 
 own meshes, young Conner was preparing for a 
 hasty journey. 
 
 Some business had to be transacted at a town 
 several days' journey down the river, and he 
 hoped that by the time he was ready to return, 
 his father would have arrived at the place on 
 bis way back. 
 
 He went himself to announce this journey to 
 the invalid, to whom he had shown much kind- 
 ness, but the old man was so greatly agitated 
 that for some time he could not oe quieted. 
 
 " Going 1" he exclaimed, raising himself on 
 his pillows; "going! no, no, young master — 
 wait, only wait till he comes." 
 
 " I would if it were possible," Conner replied ; 
 " but if I don't go, it will occasion a heavy loss 
 to my father, and just now we cannot well afford 
 it." 
 
 " He will not need it," muttered the old man, 
 "with aU those broad lands he will not need 
 it." 
 
 Conner did not comprehend his w«rds, of 
 course, supposing only that they applied to the 
 possessions about them. 
 
 "I will make every arrangement for your 
 comfort," he said; "you shall not bo neglect- 
 ed." 
 
 " My comfort is nothing," he moaned; "it's 
 not that I'm thinking of." 
 
 " I will have John Manson, that young man 
 you liked so much, stay with you," continued 
 Gerald ; " he has very little to do now, and if 
 he is with you, I shall feel perfectly easy." 
 
 " You're very kind to the old man," he said, 
 " very Mnd I It's in the blood— oh, I'm not mis- 
 taken, I am not." 
 
 Conner was growing accustomed to those 
 strong words which he so often repeated, but 
 his many mysterious allusions always perplexed 
 him. 
 
 "I cannot understand what you mean," he 
 said ; " are you sure that it would not be better 
 to talk openly with me before I go away ?" 
 
 " I swore an oath !" cried the old man, begin- 
 ning to tremble with excitement; "I must do 
 this work just as I promised him— I can't tell 
 you, I can't." 
 
 " Then you must keep yourself quiet as possi- 
 ble," returned Conner; "don't think about 
 your business, whatever it may be. My father 
 will probably accompany me back, then you can 
 speak freely." 
 
 "Yes, then, then I Bring him back— oh, if 
 you only knew— but I can't teU you— not a word 
 until I finow it is indeed himself— that was the 
 master's order, and I swore an oath to obey." 
 
 He lay back on the pillows, faint and ex- 
 hausted, and Conner tried to turn his attention 
 to other things, for any allusion to the mysteri- 
 ous business which had brought him there al- 
 ways left him so feverish and excited, that ho 
 dreaded its effect upon him in his weakened 
 state. 
 
 That afternoon, Conner took his departure 
 From the window of the little inn, Gorman and 
 Hyatt watched the boat pass down the river, 
 rowed by two stout men. They did not speak 
 for several minutes after it had disappeared. 
 When it melted away in the blue distance, they 
 turned and looked at each other till Hyatt's 
 eyes fell under the strange look in those of his 
 companion. 
 
 "His father will come back with him," were 
 the first words Gorman spoke ; " to-night, every- 
 thing must be settled." 
 
 "I will see Jones at once," Hyatt said; "I 
 know he is not at work to-day, so I shall find him 
 at home." 
 
 He turned to leave the room, but Gorman laid 
 a hand upon his arm. 
 
34 
 
 BOOK BTIIN; OH, THE DAnQHTEE OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 "One moment," he whispered; "if he will 
 not consent we will wait no longer— remember 
 that." 
 
 "I know; I think we can find means to get 
 into the house," he said, a little uneasily. 
 
 " If the will cannot be discovered," continued 
 Gorman, in the same low, unnatural tone, 
 "those men when they come back, they must 
 find only a corpse up in that room— you under- 
 stand ?" 
 
 Hyatt shrunk at those words ; he was a cow- 
 ard in his villainy, very unlike the bold man to 
 whose aid he had lent himself. 
 
 " That's a serious business," he muttered. 
 
 "Bahl Don't old men die suddenly?- he 
 may have had a fit— any reason ! Are you going 
 to desert me now ? Beraember the money — you 
 will be a rich man the hour I find that will, or 
 haar of his death." 
 
 Hyatt's greed overcame his cowardice, and 
 before they separated he had bound himself by 
 an oath to carry out the other's wishes. 
 
 " I will go and find Jones now," he said; "I 
 don't despair of fetching him round." 
 
 "Bring him over here with you," returned 
 Gorman ; " we will both talk to him." 
 
 " All right ; I have a good excuse," said Hy- 
 att ; "I want his opinion about some of that 
 lumber, so come he shall ; and once here we 
 won't let him off until we have his promise." 
 
 Hyatt took the boat and went over to the 
 island. As he approached the log house he saw 
 Lucy sitting on the doorstep occupied with her 
 needlework. She looked up as he drew near, 
 and when she saw who it was, an expression of 
 mingled aversion and terror shot over her face. 
 Hyatt caught the glance and ground his teeth 
 between his lips. 
 
 " If ever I get you in my power you shall pay 
 for these acts !" he thought, then composing his 
 face he walked up to her, saying, in his silky 
 voice : *' You look as quiet as a bird in her nest, 
 Miss Lucy." 
 
 She only bowed— her father's commands had 
 been that she should treat him with civility, but 
 just then she could not have spoken pleasantly, 
 no matter what the consequences might be. 
 
 " Is your father at home ?" he asked. 
 
 " He is out in the wood-house," she replied, 
 coldly ; " he is busy chopping wood." 
 
 "I want him to go across the river and give 
 me a little advice about that raft," he said, 
 pleasantly; "I would rather have his opinion 
 than any one of my partners." 
 
 "You will find him there," she answered, 
 ] shortly. 
 
 He stood looking at her, but she went on with 
 her work without even raising her eyes. 
 
 " You cannot forgive me ?" he said ; " I am 
 sorry I have offended you so deeply, Miss Lucy." 
 
 " We will not talk about that, if you please, 
 Mr. Hyatt," she replied. " It can do no good to 
 rake up unpleasant subjects." 
 
 "KI could do anything to make you think 
 more kindly of me," he went on, sadly. " I 
 would give my life only to have your friendship 
 and esteem." 
 
 " I will tell father you are waiting to see him," 
 sh» said, rising quickly. Her breast was too full 
 of bitterness that day to endure his presence. 
 Only that morning her father had reproached 
 her for her disobedience, and spoken so harshly 
 of her lover, that she could not remain quiet in 
 
 the society of the man who had been the origin 
 of all her trouble. 
 
 " You wish to avoid me," he exclaimed ; " you 
 detest me so utterly that you cannot bear even 
 to see me." 
 
 " You form your own conclusions," was her 
 answer. 
 
 " They are forced upon me," he replied. " I 
 should be blind indeed not to see it.'*" 
 
 " Please do not talk in that way, Mr. Hyatt," 
 she said, beseechingly ; "it is very unpleasant 
 to me." 
 
 "I will relieve you of my presence, Lucy; 
 some day you will know me better and judge me 
 less harshly." 
 
 She moved away without making any answer, 
 opened the back door, and called : 
 
 " Father, Mr. Hyatt wishes to see you." 
 
 The old man stuck his axe into the log he had 
 been chopping and entered the house, his face 
 wearing that doubtful, troubled look which had 
 become so common to him of late— a look utterly 
 unlike the frank, cheerful expression which had 
 formerly characterized his features. 
 
 He answered Hyatt's greeting in the same pe- 
 culiar way ; one felt that in his heart he shrunk 
 from the man, but yet was unable to withstand 
 the influence he had acquired over him. 
 
 When Hyatt told him his errand he hesitated 
 a little at first, but finally consented to go. 
 
 "I hain't got much to do, that's a fact," he 
 said ; " wal, yes, I guess I'll go." 
 
 "Will you be home to tea, father?" Lucy 
 asked. 
 
 " Oh, sartin ; long before. Good-by, darter." 
 
 He went up and kissed her with something of 
 his old manner, as if he wished to make amends 
 for his harshness of the morning. Lucy's eyes 
 filled with tears at the caress ; she was so trou- 
 bled and anxious that little things affected her 
 now more than they had formerly done, and she 
 was growing so morbidly sensitive that no change 
 in the manner of the persons about her was dis- 
 regarded. 
 
 She answered Hyatt's parting words with per- 
 fect civility, but with sucn coldness that he bit 
 his lip angrily, while a hot flush shot up to his 
 very forehead. 
 
 " Now you see we must make up our minds at 
 once, Jones," he said, as they rowed across the 
 river. " If anything is to be done about hunt- 
 ing up those papers of yours, it must be while 
 the young chap is away." 
 
 Jones moved uneasily in his seat. 
 
 " Somehow I can't make up my mirud to do it," 
 he said; "it doesn't seem honest to unlock a 
 man's chest and pry among his papers, even for 
 what's your own." 
 
 " I can't understand such scruples," replied 
 Hyatt. " I hope I'm as honest as most men ; 
 but I shouldtft hesitate about searching for 
 what would prove my title to a handsome prop- 
 erty." 
 
 " It does seem a little hard that a man should 
 be cheated out of what's his own," he said. 
 
 "You hear Mr. Gorman talk," said H;^att; 
 "he's a sharp, clear-headed lawyer; it isn't 
 likely he'd advise you to do anything that would 
 get you into trouble." 
 
 " I know he talks very smooth, and it may be 
 all right," rephed Jones, " but I hate to do it. 
 Anyhow, he must expect to be pretty well paid 
 
BOOK BXTm; OR, THE DAUGBTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 33 
 
 II I j.',ot anything; it ain't likely a man's going 
 10 hi'lp a stranger for nothin'." 
 
 " He is my friend," said Hyatt ; " he will do 
 anything for me ; and he wants to see you righted 
 because he knows I love your daughter." _. 
 
 "Yes, yes; but I don t like to do it," said 
 Jones, thoughtfully shaking his head. " It ain't 
 like anything I was ever at afore." 
 
 Hyatt ceased talking about the matter, and 
 left him to his own reflections until they reached 
 the tavern. 
 
 Once made to listen to Gorman's seductive ar- 
 guments, the foolish old man gradually forgot 
 his scruples, and when they described to him 
 how happy he might make his daughter when 
 in possession of tne property of which he had 
 been defrauded, he could not resist the flatter- 
 ing hopes. 
 
 " You see," Gorman said, " this Conner never 
 will let the matter come to a trial. When he 
 finds that you have a knowledge of the matter 
 and copies of the papers, he will compromise 
 the affair and pay you down a handsome sum to 
 settle it." 
 
 " And," added Hyatt, " I can show you how to 
 invest that money bo as to double it in five 
 years." 
 
 They stood one on each side of the old man, 
 and urged their scheme upon his ignorant mind 
 till it was fairly bewildered, and all his old ideas 
 of right and wrong quite staggered. 
 
 " Anyhow, I must go home now," he said, at 
 last. 
 
 " But the matter must be decided at once," re- 
 turned Gorman. "I am anxious to oblige you for 
 the sake of my friend " — one could see how his 
 haughty lips hated to frame the word— "but I 
 cannot remain here much longer." 
 
 " Say it's a bargain," Jones !" cried Hyatt. 
 " Come, man, have courage enough to claim 
 your rights— do !" 
 
 " Come down to the boat-house this evening," 
 said Jones, suddenly, and, taking an abrupt 
 leave, he hurried away. 
 
 " It's all right now," exclaimed Hyatt; " he'll 
 do it this time." 
 
 " There has been delay enough, in all con- 
 science," returned Gorman; "if this does not 
 succeed— but it shall— by Heaven, it shall !" 
 
 He went away to his own room, and Hyatt 
 strolled out of the house. 
 
 " After all, you are more my dupe than I 
 yours," he muttered, with an unpleasant laugh. 
 " I wonder how you will look when you find why 
 I was so anxious to get into that room ? I must 
 find Winter and the rest of the boys— this time 
 it really looks as if we were near success." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 It might have been the next day but one after 
 this interview when Hyatt rowed up the river, 
 while its waters were all gold and crimson with 
 the reflection of a golden sunset, taking with 
 him his gun, as if in search of belated ducks. 
 
 But once beyond all danger of detection, he 
 made straight for the cliff they called Rock Ruin, 
 landed his boat, and threaded his way round the 
 base of the peak to the opposite side. 
 
 The man seemed familiar with the place, wild 
 and desolate as it was, for making his way cau- 
 tiously among the rocks that cumbered the earth 
 everywhere ; he lifted a heavy pine bough that 
 
 concealed a rent in the wall and made his waj 
 into a small cavern, which was completely dark, 
 save a single gleam of light tliat fell from som'i 
 crevice above him and struck upon what seemed 
 a sort of natural staircase in the rock. 
 
 He went stumbling along, trying to find hia 
 way up the ascent ; but at length, when some 
 imprudent movement sent a shower of loose 
 stones rattling about him, he called out in a 
 voice of mingled rage and fear : 
 
 " Hello, there ! Do you want me to break my 
 neck in this dark hole ? Why the deuce don't 
 you bring a light ?— you hoard me whistle." 
 
 " Shut up !" said a voice from the top of the 
 rocks, while a ruddy gleam shot downward over 
 the rugged steep, and the pale countenance of 
 the man who had sprung to a point higher up, 
 and with his hands clinging to a vine that had 
 forced itself through an opening in the side, was 
 trembling from hand to foot. 
 
 " Why, confound it, man ! with this thunder- 
 ing of the stones and shouting you might be 
 heard a mile off! Suppose anybody was going 
 down the river?" 
 
 " Hold the light nearer, I say— nearer yet. I 
 never attempted this infernal pass in the dark 
 before. Come down, I say, and give me your 
 hand!" 
 
 " There," cried the other, with a compassion- 
 ating sneer, descending a step or two and reach- 
 ing forth his hand, which Hyatt eagerly grasped. 
 " Why, how the fellow shakes ! and all because 
 a few stones have rattled down into the cave. 
 Come, pluck up courage now ; you were never 
 born to break your own neck, that's certain." 
 
 Hyatt made no answer, but sprang upward 
 with a desperate leap and stood upon the plat- 
 form with nis jeering friend, who held the light 
 to his face and chuckled softly at its whiteness. 
 
 " Oh, you city fellows are cowards, after all !" 
 he said ; " good for nothing except to plot things 
 that bolder men must carry out. Come on— 
 Blake and Harrison are both in there." 
 
 With these contemptuous words the man crept 
 through the narrow opening and a small recess, 
 and another aperture, and emerged into a large 
 chamber, followed by Hyatt. 
 
 The place looked fairly like a room in some 
 ruined tower, except that the walls were cov- 
 ered with stalactites of the most fanciful forms, 
 through which the torchlight flitted like moon- 
 beanis. Here the other two men sat upon a 
 block of stone that had fallen from overhead. 
 They were playing cards by the light of a pine 
 knot, but they left their game as Hyatt and the 
 other entered, and while one shuflSed the cards 
 idly in his hands, the other took his handker- 
 chief from a stone where he had laid it, and 
 passing it across his face gave it a flirt, which 
 extinguished the lamp held by Hyatt's guide. 
 
 " Now don't look crusty about it, old boy," he 
 said, quietly placing the kerchief in his pocket. 
 " We needn't kindle a beacon for any straggler 
 that happens to stray by in a boat or come down 
 from the woods. Come, sit down, these pine 
 knots give light enough for us to talk by." 
 
 " Well, Hyatt," asked Smith, sitting down near 
 the others, "what news is stirring? Just re- 
 member, we have been two days cam{3ing out in 
 the woods by way of making people think we had 
 occupation." 
 
 " Are you ready f*P business?" asked Blake. 
 
ROCKBTIIN: OB, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 *' I think we have been waiting long enough for 
 this one job." 
 
 " Yes,'^ said the third, " and so do I. Oamp- 
 ing out is all very well, but I don't want to spend 
 my natural life at it." 
 
 " Well, well, you won't have to wait much long- 
 er," replied Hyatt, as soon as he had found suf- 
 ficient breath, and they gave him an opppor- 
 tunity to answer their questions. 
 
 " What do you mean?" they all asked atones. 
 
 " Have you got your boat here ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " And you've all got your pistols and knives, 
 if anything did happen?" 
 
 The older of the men smiled and thrust his 
 band into his bosom with a gesture so signifi- 
 cant that words would have been superfluous. 
 
 "What time is it now?" asked Hyatt, coolly 
 proceeding to light a cigar, as if he had a pleas- 
 ure in irritating by way of return for the laugh 
 that had been raised against him. 
 
 Harrison drew a watch from his pocket, and 
 bending toward the lantern pronounced the 
 hour to be almost nine o'clock. 
 
 " It is earlier than I thought," said Hyatt, 
 
 Euffing out a cloud of smoke. " So much the 
 etter ; we shall have more time to arrange our 
 plans." 
 
 " Then it really comes off to-night ?" said the 
 elder, and his small gray eyes kindled up with 
 eagerness. 
 
 "Within two hours, if we don't break our 
 necks in getting down from this black devil's 
 nest," replied Hyatt. 
 
 " Good, good," pronounced the two younger 
 men. 
 
 "But you needn't abuse the place," said 
 Smith ; " it has served us many a good turn, 
 and will yet." 
 
 " No doubt of that, and there's no danger of 
 its being discovered ; nevertheless, I think I 
 shall employ a rope-ladder the next time we 
 have business likely to bring us in this region." 
 
 "Oh, a spice of danger adds zest to the thing," 
 returned Smith ; ''there's a sort of satisfaction 
 in riskmg one's neck." 
 
 " You are the last man who has a right to cheat 
 the hangman in that way 1" retorted Hyatt, sar- 
 castically. 
 
 " Like enough," replied the other, good na- 
 turedly, joining in the laugh that rose against 
 him. " As for you, you learned craft and policy 
 enough in your den at the lawyer's office to teach 
 half a dozen rough, honest rogues like me." 
 
 This gentle compliment brought a well-pleased 
 and subtle smile to Hyatt's lip. 
 
 "You shall find that I have not mismanaged 
 the affair in hand," he said, " though it has 
 been a troublesome one enough. Everything 
 is ready ; you have but to row over and help 
 yourselves, I can tell you, and that without the 
 aid of pistols and crowbar." 
 
 Harrison threw down the cards, which he had 
 been carelessly shuffling all the time, and roused 
 himself to a new interest in the conversation. 
 
 " Now this looks like earnest," he said. " If 
 we are to commence operations at once I sha'n't 
 think this headwork of Hyatt's so bad after all. 
 For my part, I was about giving up the job alto- 
 gether. These little beauties," and he pointed 
 to the cards, " area safer way of making money, 
 and I prefer civilization to these woods, unless 
 
 I, too, could find a cabin with a pretty girl in it 
 to make love to." 
 
 " So you have been spying after mo ?" answered 
 Hyatt, while a faint red shot over his forehead. 
 
 " Not at all," replied the other, with great cool- 
 ness. " But while we were at the tavern I heard 
 of your conquest and of John Manson's jealousy. 
 It is astonishing how a little innocent country 
 life sharpens one's appetite for this sort of game. 
 I had half a mind to try my own luck with the 
 pretty creature." 
 
 " Oh, you shut up !" interrupted Smith, with a 
 contemptuous sneer. " Let us to business." 
 
 " So I say," joined in Blake. "What have we 
 to do with country girls, except when they can 
 be used as tools to the trade ?' 
 
 "I should think we had trifled away enough 
 time," said Hyatt, dryljr. 
 
 "Well, now* for the job in hand," exclaimed 
 the others, and the three men drew round Hy- 
 att and listened to the plan he had arranged 
 with keen interest. As he proceeded, exclama- 
 tions of warm approval, sometimes in the form 
 of an oath, broke from the listeners, and even 
 in the dim li^ht their faces might be seen to kin- 
 dle up with fierce expectation. 
 
 When he concluded there was a slight bustle 
 of preparation. Each of the party examined 
 his firearms, and a sterner expression lay upon 
 every countenance as it was revealed in the 
 gloom. 
 
 A moment after and the four men were creep- 
 ing down the descent by the light of a lantern 
 which Smith, who came last, carried in his hand. 
 
 Very soon there was a sound of muffled oars 
 beating out from the river, and through the 
 gloom the two boats could be seen dimly gliding 
 swiftly down the current. 
 
 CHAPTEB XV. 
 
 On the same evening Jones was wandering 
 like an unquiet spirit about his little cabin. For 
 half an hour he sat on the river's brink, shaded 
 by a clump of hazel bushes, and watcliing his 
 daughter with an eager, cat-like gaze. Then he 
 left his shelter, stole softly along the garden 
 fence, and still continued his guard. 
 
 At length some manifestations of unrest seem- 
 ed visible in the sweet girl who sat so beautiful 
 and angol-like by the open window. As the 
 moon rose she began to exhibit signs of keen 
 expectation. She would arise and walk about 
 the room, then steal back to the window, and 
 lean out with her head bent on one side, as if 
 her ear thirsted for the sound of a footstep 
 crossing the turf. But all was still, and at length 
 she leaned back in her chair, and leaning her 
 cheek on the palm of her hand, fell into an at- 
 titude of languid disappointment. 
 
 The moon was up broad and full, flooding the 
 sweep of greensward, Lucy's little flower gar- 
 den, and the beautiful river, with a glory that 
 seemed half bora of the dew, so bright and fra- 
 grant was the herbage. 
 
 It was past the hour when Manson had prom- 
 ised to be on the river's bank. Yet with all her 
 anxious watching no shadow or sign of his pres- 
 ence could be detected on the shore. Ho would 
 not come to the house, she was certain of that, 
 but he knew that her father would be absent 
 that evening, for slie had sent him word, and it 
 was very singular that he had not kept his prom- 
 ise. These thoughts were enough to make the 
 
ROCKBXIIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 37 
 
 young girl sad, combined as they were with 
 fears and apprehensions of another kind, so she 
 fell into the attitude we have described, and 
 tears stole softly down her cheek. It seemed as 
 if everything she had- ever loved was deserting 
 her that evening. 
 
 Her fattier saw all this, and he, too, was dis- 
 satisfied, but there was excitement and anger 
 blended with his disappointment ; for the first 
 time in his life he was angry with his child for 
 not having acted counter to his orders. That 
 night she was to have been the decoy bird to 
 draw young Manson away from the Mansion 
 house. Two days before Jones had spoken 
 openly of his intended absence that night, fully 
 persuaded that Manson would never allow his 
 opportunity for an interview with his daughter 
 to pass unimproved. But now the evening was 
 drawing to a close. Eight, nine, ten o'clock 
 sounded from the tall clock in its heavy walnut 
 wood case, and still his daughter sat there mo- 
 tionless and weeping, but so silent that he could 
 not detect her grief. 
 
 Now the hour had come, and at all risks he 
 must depart. Cautiousljrand like a thief, the 
 old man stole from his home, and striking into 
 the forest path, walked toward the great house. 
 "We believe his errand was a just one— that the 
 expedition on which he was bent might be pro- 
 claimed before men and angels without a blush, 
 and yet the old man started at each sound and 
 held" his breath with a thrill of guilty fear if a 
 rabbit started in its thicket, or a bird was dis- 
 turbed for an instant in the tree boughs over his 
 head. The old man's head had been led astray, 
 but his heart, that fresh, honest heart, was right 
 all the time, and it kept warning him back at 
 every stop, as if it foretold how much misery 
 that night's work would bring on him and his. 
 But the head was wilful in its newly acquired 
 ideas, and so he walked oh to meet the destiny 
 he was preparing for himself. 
 
 There was a broad lawn before the house, and 
 a magnificent chestnut shaded the front door. 
 The lawn was dotted with flowering shrubs, and 
 eloped so gently into the glowing beds of a 
 flower garden, that one scarcely knew where 
 the verdure and bloom were first blended to- 
 gether. 
 
 As Jones issued from the woods his eyes fell 
 upon the beautiful scone. The old house, with its 
 gables, its chimneys and broad porches throw- 
 ing down a massive shadow on the picturesque 
 garden through the silver moonlight, till the 
 flower beds were lithographod, as it were, with 
 another old building, softened and idealized to 
 a degree of dream - like beauty that no pencil 
 could have approached. 
 
 As the old man gazed on this scene, so beau- 
 tiful and tranquil, his heart misgave him. The 
 entire stillness was oppressive ; it seemed to 
 bring him nearer to the Almighty than he had 
 ever been before. He felt as if the shadow of 
 some great crime had crept between his soul 
 and the stars that were looking down upon him. 
 Filled with these sensations, the old man paused 
 and began to meditate. What had seemed easy 
 and right in the broad daytime, with the bustle 
 of life around him, and tbo tempter by his side, 
 took a more and more important asp'ect in the 
 still night, when he was left alone with the good 
 and his natural self. He pondered, hesitated, 
 and turned to retrace his steps, thinking of his 
 
 daughter as of an angel sitting by the portals oi 
 heaven, ready to welcome him back with such a 
 smile as he had often worshiped on her mother's 
 lip. 
 
 Filled with these bitter thoughta, the old man 
 turned to obey his good angel, and walked swift- 
 ly forward, eager to reach the shelter of his own 
 roof. But scarcely had he advanced a hundred 
 pacesHnto the woods when the figures of two men 
 
 flided through the trees and drew close to him. 
 ones paused, and a quick revulsion of feeling 
 made his breath come sharply, for a beam of 
 moonlight falling through the branches revealed 
 the face of Hyatt and Mr. Gorman. 
 
 "Punctual always," said Gorman, fn a low 
 voice. •' I hope you got the keys without trou- 
 ble." 
 
 •' Not yet — I— I— that is, I have not been after 
 them." 
 
 " What 1" cried Hyatt, in a voice of alarm ; 
 " surely you won't let this opportunity for recov- 
 ering your property pass by 1" 
 
 "I don't know," replied the old man, doubt- 
 ingly, but turning down a by-path, in obedience 
 to Hyatt, who softly insinuated his arm under 
 that of the half- repentant man ; " I am begin- 
 ning to think that a thing which must bo done 
 secretly, and at night, ain't jest what an honest 
 man ort to lend himself to." 
 
 " Oh, I see 1" returned Gorman ; " the old scru- 
 ples coming up— tho European, serf-like feeling 
 this man has ground into ail of you till it speaks 
 louder than justice itself. You are mistaking 
 all this for conscience, and so fling away the 
 only opportunity that will ever occur of regain- 
 ing your own rights. Why, what harm can there 
 be in a search after those papers ? we won't take 
 them away." 
 
 Jones began to waver again ; the voice of the 
 tempter was so gentle, his sophistry so plausi- 
 ble, that it seenaed to charm away all the scru- 
 ples which had beset him a moment before ; be- 
 sides, the presence of these men destroyed the 
 holy influence which the profound stillness of 
 night is calculated to produce. 
 
 Gorman saw that his eloquence was taking 
 effect, and was urging him with fresh arguments 
 when the sound of rapid footsteps approaching 
 made the plotters draw close to the trunk of a 
 tree to conceal themselves. 
 
 " It's Manson going to my house," said Jones, 
 with a sort of feverous bitterness in his tone. 
 "I thought that he would not let me stay 
 from home one hour without contriving to see 
 Lucy ! I've a great mind to follow the scoun- 
 drel !" 
 
 " Secure the keys first," insinuated the soft 
 voice at his side. " Why throw away the chance 
 ot a fine property merely to chastise a man who 
 will be hero after to-night, and always to be 
 found ?" 
 
 " So be it ; but he'd better look sharp !" said 
 Jones, following the tall figure of Manson with 
 a wrathful glance as it disappeared in the shad- 
 ow. " Wait here for ten minutes ; I'll fetch the 
 keys in that time if that critter hain't took 'em 
 with him." 
 
 "Which all the saints I know of forbid !" said 
 Hyatt, seating himself at the foot of a tree. 
 
 Gorman moved restlessly up and down, with- 
 out paying the least attention to his companion, 
 and did not appear to notice even when hia 
 name was called. 
 
BOCK BUIN; OB, THE DAUGHTEB OE THE ISLAND. 
 
 There, in the sliado-w, Hyatt sat, with a vicious 
 smile upon his lips, as he watched his confeder- 
 ate, and once he muttered to himself: 
 
 " After all, you're as much my dupe as the 
 other ! Won't you rave, my would-be-lord, when 
 you find out everything !" 
 
 Then he sank back against the oak, silent and 
 motionless, and but for the sharp glitter of his 
 eyes, that seemed to cleft the darkness, might 
 have been incorporated with the shadows that 
 blackened everything around him. 
 
 Meantime, the old farmer, now fully excited 
 to the performance of his errand, passed across 
 the lawn, turned an angle of the house, and 
 plunged into the flowery labyrinths of a garden 
 chat required both caution and time in crossing, 
 for it covered a broad space of sloping ground, 
 and the moonlight trembled over it full and 
 clear, until the most tiny blossom seemed bowed 
 to the earth with a weight of liquid silver. 
 
 Down where those flowery paths lost them- 
 selves in the woods, stood a little house, which 
 had originally been intended as a place for be- 
 stowing lumber and garden tools, but which 
 had since been altered, and during the summer 
 months, when the house was very full, Manson 
 and his mother had their sleeping apartments 
 there. 
 
 Up to this little house came the old man, creep- 
 ing through the carnations, the heliotrope and 
 verbenas tangled along the path, with the feel- 
 ings and the crouching attitude of a thief. Twice 
 he lifted his hand to the latch, but that hand, 
 hard with toil and brown with the sun, had never 
 been raised in a doubtful act before, and the 
 tough nerves trembled as they felt the cold 
 iron. 
 
 The door was fastened. It seemed at first a 
 relief to the old man ; but he thought of those 
 two waiting for him in-fbe wood, and looked 
 around for some other hieans of access. There 
 was a bedroom at the end -the single lattice 
 sheltered by a cherry tree. Jones stood beneath 
 the tree, whose laden branches drooped heavily 
 around him, and looking up through the clus- 
 tering fruit, saw that the windows were partially 
 open. Planting his foot in a fork of the young 
 tree that bent beneath his weight, he Ufted him- 
 self upward, flung the sash open, and stepped 
 into the room. 
 
 Perhaps five minutes elapsed ; then he came 
 through the window again, and parting the 
 branches, let himself cautiously down, without 
 so much as shaking a single ruby cluster to the 
 earth, or breaking a twig of the richly-fruited 
 tree. 
 
 When he came into the moonlight the old 
 man's face was pale as death. Grasping two 
 heavy keys in his hand, he fled across the gar- 
 den like one pursued by an avenging spirit. 
 On he went, trampling through the flowers, and 
 feohng at each step as if the iron which he 
 grasped so tightly was burning into his palm. 
 He neared the 'house— then his speed was 
 checked; and, resuming a crouching attitude, 
 he stole around a corner and peered up at the 
 windows. 
 
 The house was in darkness, save one win- 
 dow, whence issued a feeble light. Jones knew 
 that this was the chamber occupied by the old 
 Irishman. Mrs. Judsou had retired, so he felt 
 safe. 
 "Are you ready '?" whispered Hyatt, springing 
 
 to his feet as the old man came through the 
 trees, pale and laboring for breath. 
 
 " Come !" was the sharp reply. "Where's Mr. 
 Gorman ?" 
 
 "Here I am," answered the foreigner, in 
 an undertone, approaching them. "Let us bo 
 ofl!" 
 
 " \/e will leave you down stairs," said Hyatt, 
 " as I settled, and I will help Jones." 
 
 They moved forward without speaking, and 
 followed Jonos, as ho proceeded swiftly but with 
 caution toward the house. 
 
 "Hush!" said Jones. "This door is never 
 locked— turn into this passage." 
 
 With these directions, ^iven in a tremulous 
 tone, he pushed open z door that opened under 
 a stone balcony to the garden. The two men 
 followed with noiseless tread, and entered a 
 dark passage leading to the kitchen. During 
 perhaps fifteen minutes they stood in the pas- 
 sage waiting for the last faint noise, aa the 
 various inmates retired for the night. Then 
 they stole cautiously forth, treading many pas- 
 sages and darkened rooms, lighted only by the 
 moonbeams that streamed hero and there 
 through the window-blinds, until they reached 
 the main entrance hall. Here the light was 
 shining full and broad over the black walnut 
 floor, and lighting up some antfque ornaments 
 upon the wall that had been brought from over 
 the seas. 
 
 "It was arranged that we were to let our- 
 selves out at this door, you know," whispered 
 Hyatt, placing his lips close to the old man's 
 ear. " Suppose you draw the inner bolts, in case 
 anything should happen." 
 
 Jones complied ; then they led Gorman along 
 to the library, where he was to remain while 
 they sought the chest of papers. He remained 
 there, crouching down in the dark, his heart 
 beating rapidly as he thought how near he had 
 reached the reahzation of his hopes. He had no 
 dread of failure now ; half an hour more, and 
 the will would be in his own possession— the 
 next night would see him beyond the reach of 
 danger. 
 
 Hyatt and his companion crept softly up the 
 staircase, clinging to the carved work of the 
 oaken balustrade, and treading close together, 
 each holding his breath and longing to chide 
 the other for allowing his heart to beat so 
 loudly. 
 
 At last they paused before a door of massive 
 oak, heavy with iron knobs. Jones hold up his 
 keys in the moonlight, and selecting one that 
 fitted the lock, slowly turned the bolt. The 
 room which they entered was small and dark. 
 There was but one window, high up in the wall, 
 and that was guarded by a lattice- work of iron 
 bars, that answered all the purposes of a shut- 
 ter without entirely obstructing the dayUght, 
 though the paler moonbeams failed to penetrate 
 beyond a few faint struggles. 
 
 Hyatt put a hand in his pocket, and then the 
 glow of a match revealed a small room lined 
 with shelves and drawers containing coffers 
 and boxes, with some valuable articles of silver- 
 plate standing loose upon the shelves. 
 
 "There, get the box of deeds and let us go 
 down into the library," said Hyatt, holding a 
 small lamp that he had taken from his pocket, 
 and which, until the top was unscrewed, had 
 every abearance of a common inkstand". 
 
ROCK nUUT; OB, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 39 
 
 Jones took a box from one of tho shelves, 
 while Hyatt held up the tiny li^ht, to bo certain 
 it was that of which they were in search. 
 
 "This ia it," he whispered. "Here is the 
 label." 
 
 "Blow out the lamp and lock the door," re- 
 turned tho old man, in the same tone. " I can't 
 do it with the box." 
 
 The ligbt, as it went out, revealed a crafty 
 smile that stole over Hyatt's lip. He had cal- 
 culated all those movements before, even to the 
 minutest thing. So, as Jones went out of the 
 room with the box of papers in his arms, Hyatt 
 closed the door, and made a little more noise in 
 seeming to lock it than he would have ven- 
 tured upon had the attempt been real. Jones 
 waited until the key had been placed in his 
 hands again, for he was resolved to be very 
 cautious, and then moved softly down the 
 stairs. 
 
 The library was a vast room, heavy with oak 
 carvings and crowded with heavy bookcases, 
 through which the gilded bindings of a valuable 
 collection gleamed out with peculiar richness, 
 though the tiny lamp that Hyatt had kindled 
 served only to give the faintest glimpse of the 
 apartment. But this was little heeded by either 
 of the persons present. After one keen glance 
 round, to be certain that no unguarded evidence 
 would betray their presence, Hyatt put his lamp 
 down on a table that stood in a recess, and Gor- 
 man started forward, snatching the box with 
 such eagerness from the old man that he was a 
 little started. 
 
 "Curse the thing!" he exclaimed fiercely; 
 " it is fastened with a padlock." 
 
 " Then we may put it back," said Jones, in a 
 tone of relief, " for we've no key to fit it." 
 
 "Fool!" muttered Gorman, pushing the old 
 man back when he would have taken the box ; 
 but at a warning remark from Hyatt, he re- 
 strained his violence. 
 
 Hyatt took the box, and with a dexterous mo- 
 tion of the hand, which concealed some instru- 
 ment unnoticed by Jones, reversed the staple 
 and opened the coffer. Gorman sprang toward 
 it, and began pulling out the papers and parch- 
 ments with which it was filled, while Jones 
 stood leaning against the table, pale an death, 
 and exhibiting increased excitement after the 
 box was opened. 
 
 Again that peculiar smile crept over Hyatt's 
 lip. He seated himself quietly in an easy chair, 
 and watched alternately the frightened old man 
 and the eager stranger, as he pulled out the pa- 
 pers with reckless haste. 
 
 "Was this the only box of papers?" asked 
 Gorman. 
 
 " The only one," replied Hyatt. 
 
 Gorman paused »n his task for an instant, and 
 wiped the great drops of perspiration from his 
 forehead. If the will should net be there I The 
 horrible fear made him sick and faint. Then 
 he recommenced his task, muttering to himself, 
 while Jones crouched lower and lower under 
 his oppression of guilty feeling, and Hyatt's 
 face lost its false, sneering smile. He ceased 
 to watch his companion. Gradually his coun- 
 tenance grew anxious, and he seemed more 
 earnest in listening for any sound that might 
 arise from within the building than in searching 
 for the deed. 
 
 Everything was still in the old mansion— so 
 
 still, that the faintest rustle of the paper 
 sounded audibly, making the stout nerves of 
 John Jones creep through his whole frame. 
 Gorman was muttering to himself, his face 
 growing livid, and an expression of almost 
 fiendish despair taking place of the wild, exult- 
 ant look that had been in his eyes when he first 
 grasped the coffer. 
 
 Hyatt's face grew more troubled. All at once 
 he started in his chair, his hand began to shake, 
 his head was turned partly on one side, and in 
 spite of his evident exertions to appear indiffer- 
 ent, no one could doubt that every faculty was 
 absorbed in listening to a sound that crept al- 
 most imperceiJtibly toward him from the first 
 staircase. 
 
 "What is that?" cried Junes, in a sharp 
 whisper, grasping Hyatt's chair, and turning 
 his white face toward the door. " It's a step — 
 there's somebody coming !" 
 
 " Lock the door !" exclaimed Gbtman ; " I will 
 not be stopped !" 
 
 "It's nothing of the sort," whispered Hyatt, 
 his face assuming an expression of indescrib- 
 able relief. "At first I thought it was some one 
 coming, but now I am sure it was only a nest of 
 rats. These old houses are always full of strange 
 noises. Go on with your work, Mr. Gorman ; 
 there is plenty of time." 
 
 "Hush !" said Jones, starting again. "I am 
 sure there was the creaking of a door." 
 
 " Don't be a fool !" exclaimed Gorman, rough- 
 ly, resuming his task. 
 
 "You are frightened, man," said Hyatt. "I 
 tell you there is nothing of the kind. You al- 
 ways hear footsteps while you are listening for 
 them." 
 
 As he spoke, Hyatt caught up one of the 
 parchments from the table, and began to unroll 
 it with a noise that overpowered any other 
 sound, real or fancied, which had terrified that 
 unwilling accomplice. 
 
 Jones sat down, and planting one elbow on 
 the table, remained gazing on Gorman's face, 
 as it was bent over the papers. He could not 
 tell if it was his own terror, or if the dreadful 
 expression on his features was real. The old 
 man could not find resolution to touch one of 
 the papers himself, and as he thought of the 
 peril of their position, the risk of shame which 
 detection was sure to bring, he began to re- 
 gard this work with absolute loathing. 
 
 In numberless ways Hyatt managed to delay 
 tho task. Once, by a careless movement, he 
 upset many of the papers upon the floor— then 
 the light was extinguished; and though Gor- 
 man cursed terribly, he bore it all with perfect 
 equanimity, apologizing with unusual earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 The bottom of the coffer was nearly readied, 
 when Jones started to his feet again. ' 
 
 "I tell you somebody is coming! Hear 
 that!" 
 
 Hyatt started, and his face grew white, for a 
 sharp sound, as of something faUing upon tho 
 stairs or striking against them, sent terror to 
 his heart also. Gorman drew a little back from 
 the table and thrust his hand into his vest, 
 where it grasped a pistol. Any one entering 
 would have had little chance, in the almost 
 frantic state which he had reached. Hyatt had 
 lost all his cooloPHs, and the unhappy old man 
 trembled from head to foot. The glow of the 
 
40 
 
 HOCK TtmN; on, the DAXTaHT:B:R OF THE ISLAWD. 
 
 lamp was enough to roveal the varied expression 
 of each face, and that was all. Another sound, 
 less startling than the first, which seemed to be 
 the cautious closing of a door, followed, and 
 all was still again. 
 
 "It's nothing,, after all," whispered Hyatt, 
 with a forced smile. " We are frightening our- 
 selves. But ain't tou most done, Mr. Gor- 
 man ?" 
 
 "Be quick!" added Jones. "I won't stay 
 five minutes longer. This is foul work, or it 
 couldn't make such a coward of me. I'm 
 trembling like a thief! Shut the box, and let's 
 go 1" 
 
 " Infernal fool !" hissed Gorman. " I will not 
 go without that paper ! To be foiled now !" 
 
 "What's the paper to youV" returned Jones. 
 " I say I will go ! I'd rouse the house rather 
 than stay five minutes longer !" 
 
 " Try it ; but it will bo your last move !" 
 
 As Gorman spoke, he drew the pistol from his 
 breast. Hyatt sprang toward him and thrust 
 the weapon aside. 
 
 "You must be mad!" he whispered. "Wo 
 can come again ; it's better to go now." 
 
 "Go without the will!" returned Gorman. 
 " Have you been fooling me? Be careful." 
 
 "I swear to you I have not. But we must go 
 now ; I can get the keys myself next time. 
 There must be another box of papers." 
 
 " Go after it," returned Gorman. 
 
 " If he does, I'll call out and rouse the house," 
 said Jones, who heard the last words. "I say 
 we must go, and we will." 
 
 Hyatt crowded the papers back into the cof- 
 fer, and closed the lid, while Gorman stood for 
 a moment perfectly paralyzed by the sudden 
 shock. Suddenly he roused himself to new vio- 
 lence, which, after a little, Hyatt succeeded in 
 calming ; he had a new plan to propose. 
 
 " The deeds are not here," he said, as Gorman 
 turned away in sullen silence; " the old fellow 
 has destroyed them." 
 
 " Thank "^ God for it, if he has!" exclaimed 
 Jones ; " they would have been a curse to me, 
 I know ; for since they were mentioned I haven't 
 had a minute's peace*" 
 
 With hands that trembled more from eager- 
 ness to depart than from fear, he helped to 
 gather up the papers, and held down the cover 
 of the box while Hyatt pressed the staple into 
 the padlock in a way that concealed the injury 
 which it had sustained. 
 
 Hj^att now seemed as anxious to go as the old 
 man himself. They went out cf the library, 
 and, without a word, Gorman hurried through 
 the hall, and left the house in a state of excite- 
 ment that bordered upon insanity. 
 
 Hyatt and the old man passed on up the 
 stairs, entered the little room, deposited the 
 box in its former position, and then stole out, 
 locking the door softly behind them. 
 
 Everything was quiet. They descended the 
 stairs and passed out of the house, without hear- 
 ing a sound. 
 
 " Now go and put the keys back where you 
 found them," said Hyatt, when they reached the 
 shrubbery. " I'll wait for you where we met 
 this evening." 
 
 " I will," he answered ; " and mark me, young 
 man, this is the first and last job of the kind 
 John Jones is ever engaged in." 
 
 He waited for no answer, but struck across 
 
 the lawn and took his way back to the cot- 
 tage. 
 
 Hyatt saw him depart, and a quiet sneer stole 
 over his face. 
 
 " So be it, honest old fool," he muttered ; " it's 
 not likely you can ever be made so useful again. 
 As for the other, he'll be raving. Confound the 
 will !— it would be a fortune to me if we could 
 find it ; and when he hears the whole of this 
 night's business, he'll mistrust me. But he 
 shall have the will ; I never was foiled yet." 
 
 Three minutes' walk brought Hyatt to a din- 
 gle in the woods, in an opposite direction to the 
 one where he had proposed to wait for Jones. 
 Here he found two men crouching among the 
 fern ; one of them started up and came a pace or 
 two into the open wood. 
 
 "Is that you, Smith?" said Hyatt, drawing 
 close to the man. 
 
 " Yes— yes. Is all snug up yonder ?" 
 
 " Sound asleep as so many dormice. But what 
 a noise you made !" 
 
 "All owing to some confounded cups Blako 
 would insist on crowding into his pocket, 
 though we all had enough to carry," Smith re- 
 plied. 
 
 " Blake will always be a fool," I'ejoined Hy- 
 att. " His obstinacy came near spoiling the best 
 job we ever undertook. I had a great ado to 
 keep that old mule from breaking loose at the 
 noise." 
 
 " Well— well, all is safe now. Do you go with 
 us over there ?" 
 
 "No,«I can't. You must take charge of that 
 among you— see everything safely stowed away. 
 Ifshall go over with Gorman. But those cups- 
 are they gold or silver?" 
 
 " One of gold, the other two silver." 
 
 "Let me have them ; I will account to 'the oth- 
 ers, but they will serve a fine purpose. I can't 
 exiilain now, but get the cups." 
 
 Smith went down into the dingle, where his 
 companions lay, and brought three richly-chased 
 drinking cups in his hand. Hyatt concealed 
 them about his person, and after a few more 
 words of consultation, walked away toward the 
 spot where he had promised to join the old man. 
 He found him waiting. 
 
 "Well, has everything gone safely, Jones?'* 
 he asked. 
 
 "Yes. Bless the Lord, it's all over!" said 
 Jones, wiping the perspiration from his fore- 
 head. " The keys are in their place, and there's 
 no harm done. " Now good-night. It'll be one 
 while before I go deed-hunting again, let me tell 
 you.'' 
 
 " Yes, we had better get home," said Hyatt, 
 reaching forth his hand, which the other took 
 coldly, " and then we'll talk the matter over. I 
 don't despair of finding the papers yet." 
 
 " It must be in open daylight, then," returned 
 Jones, sturdily. "I've done with this creeping 
 work." 
 
 " Well— well, we'll talk over it soon. Go home 
 now. I will take this way; my boat is up the 
 island." 
 
 Half an hour after Hyatt stole out from among 
 the vines that sheltered the building where John 
 Manson slept, and slunk away toward the river, 
 where he found Gorman rushing to and fro like 
 a wild animal. 
 
 We must now pass over a few days. Very full 
 of sorrow were they for poor Lucy, and with ter- 
 
nOGK RUIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF TEE ISLAND. 
 
 41 
 
 ror for many others. Where guilt had been lit- 
 tle expected— where, on the contrary, confidence 
 had always been reposed, the imputation of a 
 foul crime now rested. Ay, and all believed the 
 tale. 
 
 John Manson was in the county jail on a 
 charge of burglary. The proofs were strong 
 against him. With the keys intrusted to his 
 care, ho was said to have entered his oaiploy- 
 er's dwellmc, and taken therefrom plate aud 
 jewels to a lurge amount. The proofs against 
 him were fearfully strong. He alone had access 
 to the missing treasure. Some of the plate, an 
 inconsiderable portion, but enough for evidence, 
 had been discovered. Buried under a grape- 
 vine, near the door of the building where he 
 slept, had been found three valuable drinking 
 cups, which Mrs. Jordan recognized as belong- 
 ing to her master, and which had evidently just 
 been buried. 
 
 ilia examination before the magistrate had 
 been brief, bat conclusive ; so John Manson 
 was cast into the nearest prison, there to await 
 liis trial. 
 
 One night— a single night of darkness and 
 solitude — during which the prisoner writhed in 
 agony such as he had never droamed of be- 
 fore ; and the sweet morn found him feverish 
 and overwhelmed, body and mind, with the 
 calamity that threatened him with ruin and dis- 
 grace. 
 
 But in the morning his cell was opened, and 
 a fair young creature glided in. Her garments 
 were stained with night dew, for she had rowed 
 many miles down the river, and her soft eyes 
 were heavy with that suppressed grief which 
 eats so noiselessly into the heart. She looked 
 weary, too, *nd her cheek was very palo. 
 
 John Manson was seated on his rude bed, hie 
 feet manacled together, and his face buried up- 
 on one arm, with the clenched hand prcssinr; 
 against his temple. Lost in agony, stupefied 
 by the horrors oi his position, he heard the door 
 of his prison open without heeding it. The face 
 of man had grown hateful to him. If the keeper 
 had come to bring him more food it was alto- 
 gether useless ; there was c pitcher of -Neater 
 and a loaf of coarse bread still upon the table 
 close by, unbroken and untasted. jo, thinking 
 it was the turnkey with more food, the prisoner 
 neither looked up nor moved. 
 
 And there, with her limbs trembling; and her 
 heart full, the young girl stood gazing on him. 
 She saw the iron on his ankles, the terrible mis- 
 ery expressed by his attitude ; her lips began 
 to quiver, her eyes filled. Softly, and with the 
 gentle action of a young mother stealing to the 
 sick bed of her child, Lucy Jones took off her 
 cloak and bonnet, and laying them down, stole 
 forward, seated herself by the prisoner's side, 
 and took the hand that lay clenched upon his 
 knee between hers. 
 
 He started up. His eyes fell upon that angel 
 face, tears rushed into them, and he reached 
 forth both his shaking hands toward her. 
 
 "Lucy — Lucy!" 
 
 She, too, reached forth her hands, and her 
 alender fingers clung to his. There was holy 
 light glowing through the tears which blinded 
 Vier— teudernese, love, everything that goes to 
 lit.ake up the glory of a good woman's couute- 
 Siance, beamed in ner look, 
 
 ^'A siDgle woi'4» tTyUu, \i^^^^ you tftke me to 
 
 your heart forever— one word— are you inno- 
 cent?" 
 
 " So help me God and all His angels, I am in- 
 nocent!" 
 
 She fell upon his bosom— her happy sobs filled 
 the prison room. 
 
 " I knew it —I knew it !" she murmured, cling- 
 ing to his bosom. "And now, John— my John — 
 the God of the innocent is with us. All will go 
 well. Take courage, John, and all will go well 
 with us." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Gloomy and deserted was old John Jones' cab- 
 in three nights after the arrest of young Man- 
 son. A faint glimmer of embers only shone on 
 the hearth, sending a few pale gleams out upon 
 the pine floor, and leaving the rest of the room 
 in darkness. The sky was burdened with clouds, 
 and the moon lay buried among them, giving no 
 light through the windows, and rendering all 
 things gloomy and oppressive. 
 
 Just as the' old clock tolled forth the hour of 
 nine from its dark corner, the door was pushed 
 open, and John Jones entered his dwelling. 
 
 He had been walking about the island and the 
 neighboring shore with reckless haste, rowing 
 far down the river with all the strength of his 
 stalwart arms, and his garments were soaking 
 with dew. Drops of perspiration stood upon 
 his upper lip and streamed from his forehead, 
 and as he took off his hat, the hair beneath' lay 
 matted and wet upon his massive head. 
 
 The old man glanced toward the faded em- 
 bers, and seeing that they had not been stirred 
 since he left them, turned away and sat down 
 near the window ; but the close air seemed to 
 oppress him, and flinging up the sash, tlie un- 
 happy old man folded his arms on the sill, and 
 thus smothered the groan that burst from his 
 lips. 
 
 After a few minutes, Jones lifted his head and 
 cast a haggard look around the room. 
 
 "She will come again— she cannot have left 
 her old father forever," he said, and the rough 
 tones of his voice were broken with anguish. 
 " I have deserved it all— but my child, my only 
 child, she should not have left me !" 
 
 Again the old man buried his face upon the 
 window-sill, and it was plain to see, by the 
 heaving of his chest and the broken sobs that 
 struggled to his lips, that tears had at last been 
 wrung from his stout heart. They did him good, 
 those warm, blessed tears. The moment he al- 
 lowed them to flow freely his grief was relieved. 
 So ho indulged in them awhile, and then arose 
 to his feet, calmer than he had been for many 
 hours. 
 
 " She may come back even yet," he said, gaz- 
 ing toward the hearth, and moving close to it, 
 began to rekindle the fire. "She will be tired 
 and hungry, poor thing ; and I— oh, if she only 
 comes back! — I shall be hungry, too, once 
 more I" 
 
 He bent down and began to blow the coals 
 with his lips. Thfere was a noise— the light 
 sound of a footstep approaching the door. 
 
 The old man's heart leaped within him. He 
 started, and bending forward on his knees, with 
 one broad hand pressed upon the hearth, looked 
 toward the door. The light from the kindling 
 piuo-wood gleamed over it, revealing a world oi 
 
42 
 
 ROCK BUm; OR, TTTE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 strong emotion busy with his features, as he held 
 his breath and listened. 
 
 It was a footstep, faint and unsteady with 
 fatigue. The old man sprang up, opened the 
 door, and reached forth his arms *-a sound, half 
 sobs, half laughter, broke from him. His child 
 was there, her arms around his neck, her cold 
 lips upon his cheek, but so weary that she could 
 Kcarcely stand. 
 
 " My child— Lucy, darling ! I thought you had 
 left your poor old father forever and ever! 
 Come in— come in, and tell me where you have 
 been. You don't know, Lucy, what I felt, nor 
 how I missed you. I haven't slept an hour or 
 tasted a mouthful since you went away. What 
 did you think I could do without my child? 
 Where have you been ?" 
 
 " Where should I have been, father, but to 
 him V" said the soft, low voice of Lucy Jones. 
 " I thought you would know where I was with- 
 out telling." 
 
 ".But it was such a long, lon^ row for you to 
 undertake ! I didn't think of it, Lucy ; I only 
 thought you couldn't love your poor old brute 
 of a father ever again, and so had gone away to 
 let him. live and die alone." 
 
 " Oh, father 1 father ! surely you did not think 
 that ! fie was in prison ; I could not rest and 
 know it. It was a loDg way, but I did not think 
 so when I was going or coming back again. Let 
 us go in, for I have good news to tell. John is 
 innocent ; the charge they bring against him is 
 false ; he told mo so with his own lips." 
 
 "I know it is— I know it from the first," re- 
 plied the old man, turning his face aside, for the 
 light now shone brightly from the fireplace, and 
 the large soft eyes of his daughter were lifted 
 earnestly to his. "I believe, before Heaven, 
 that you, Lucy, ain't more innocent of crime 
 than *^John Manson. He's been a victim— the 
 
 victim of a stupid old fool, and— and But 
 
 come in, Lucy, come in ; the right will come 
 out. Now that you've got back, I shall be strong 
 enough for anything. Come and set down in 
 your mother's chair and rest a while. I'll warm 
 up some milk for you, just as you used to like 
 when you was a little gal." 
 
 Lucy did not answer, for completely overcome 
 with fatigue she sank into the chair, and had 
 scarcely strength to untie her bonnet when her 
 head fell on one side and her eyelids closed. 
 
 " Poor thing ! poor thing ! it's enough to kill 
 tier l" cried the old man, stopping as he passed 
 the chair to kiss her pale forehead. " Oh, if her 
 mother was only here !" 
 
 The poor man paused at that name, and his 
 countenance fell ; then he continued, in a tone 
 of bitter self reproach : 
 
 " And if she was here, wouldn't she ask who 
 had brought her child to this ? Wouldn't she ask 
 if the hard-heartednesa of her own father hadn't 
 dono i-)? No, no ; I'm glad her mother ain't by 
 to fire my own heart agin me." 
 
 Lucy neither moved nor seemed to breathe as 
 the old man bent over her from time to time, 
 when he went to the cupboard for brandy, sugar, 
 and nutmeg, which he mixed with the pearl- 
 white milk that frothed and foamed in the cup 
 upon the coals in the fireplace. 
 
 When it was ready, the weary girl remained 
 in v" repose so profound that no noise seemed 
 capable of arousing her. The old man spoke to 
 her aloud, raised her head with his hand pressed 
 
 against her cheek, and at last shook her gently. 
 Her eyes were unclosed at last, and with a faint 
 smile she rose from her chair. Taking the prof- 
 fered spoon in her trembling hand, she languid- 
 ly tasted the frothing beverage. 
 
 A few mouthfuls seemed to revive her, and 
 the old man's eyes began to sparkle as he saw 
 that the nourishment he had prepared was 
 bringing back the color to her cheeks and lips, 
 while the tired creature partook of it with m- 
 increasmg relish. 
 
 *' Father, you are looking sick and tired as 
 much as I am," she said, at length, lifting her 
 eyes to him as he stood by her with his arms 
 folded and watching with satisfaction every 
 mouthful she took. 
 
 " No, no ; I never was better in my life." 
 
 "And I — how strong this h'as made me I I 
 must have been very hungry, father," said the 
 poor girl, looking around with renewed bright- 
 ness in her face, " very hungry to have forgot- 
 ten that you are standing all the time, and that 
 there was neither dish nor spoon for any one 
 but myself." 
 
 " No matter," replied the old man, passing 
 his hand over his head ; " I hadn't any appetite 
 till now ; I'll have a bit of cold meat in a minute. 
 Just lean back in your mother's chair, Lucy, and 
 toll me ali. that has happened since you went 
 away, while I'm taking a bite." 
 
 The old man brought a plate of cold meat and 
 bread from the cupboard and sat down near her 
 to eat with something like his old appetite, while 
 Lucy leaned back in her chair and related all 
 that had passed during her visit to John Man- 
 son. 
 
 " And now, father," she said at the close, " I 
 am promised to him ; I believe him' to be inno- 
 cent—knowing him to be friendless, the pledge 
 which i had given becomes more binding and 
 more sacred. Though the courts call him guilty, 
 I will be his wife. If he suffers disgrace, I will 
 share it. " 
 
 " Heohall not suffer I" cried Jones, vehement- 
 ly. " I have sworn it, and my oath shall be per- 
 formed, though I bring poverty and disgrace 
 upon mysolf. You shril be his wife, Lucy, and 
 there shall be no disgrace to troubleyou, either." 
 
 "Father, whai do you mean? What do you 
 know oi this afiair? How can you help John 
 Manson V Toll mb, I'ather, I beseech you toll 
 me, what hope ohero x in store for us ?" 
 
 " I will tell you, Lucys or ':. want somebody to 
 talk with, and now that your mother is gone, 
 who else can I trust except her child ? I will tell 
 you everything that has happened, and then we 
 can consult and act together, I won't have no 
 other friend, and you won't blame me too much, 
 for I am humbled enough in my own eyes al- 
 ready. You won't blame me too much, will you, 
 Lucv ?" 
 
 " Oh, father !" cried the girl, and tears sprang 
 to her eyes, " Did she ever reproach you ?" 
 
 " No, no ; and she didn't have no cause ; no 
 such cause as the present, at any rate ; but I've 
 been a fool, a dupe— everything but a villain, 
 Lucy, and that he couldn't persuade me to be ! 
 Oh, Lucy, Lucy, if I'd only took your advice and 
 kept clear of that oily-tongued scoundrel !" 
 
 The old man started from^his chair and began 
 to pace the room. 
 
 " I know who it is you mean," said Lucy, in a 
 
BOCK RUIN; OR, THE DA UOTITER OF THE ISLAND, 
 
 43 
 
 faiut voice; "he ig even now helping the law- 
 yers to lind evidence against Manson. ' 
 
 " He is ! he is I the hound !" cried Jones, and 
 his footsteps fell fierce and heavy upon the floor. 
 
 " He has already forced himself into Manson's 
 prison," said Lucy, " but John refused to speak 
 before him. You know Mr. Conner has em- 
 ployed him a great deal on business, and he 
 pretends to act as a sort of agent for him." 
 
 " He's a villain— a double-dyed villain I Oh, 
 if I can only prove it as well as say it ! .But I 
 will ! God can help me, and the very stones 
 ought to find a voice to help me in this thing ! 
 I may bring disgrace on an honest name, but 
 the innocent shall go free— the guilty shall suf- 
 fer — I have sworn it !" 
 
 Lucy gazed on the excited old man ; his unu- 
 sual energy seemed to have swept all traces of 
 fatigue from her face ; she sat upright and 
 grasped hj*r1iand between both hers. 
 
 " Oh, father, tell me all ! Tell me how his 
 innocence can be made clear !" 
 
 The old man paused, covered his face for a 
 moment, and then drawing close to his child, 
 told her aU-his weakness, all the experience of 
 that time when he was so completely under the 
 influence of young Hyatt and his more danger- 
 ous employer, Gorman. She heard him, though 
 now growing as pale as death, again flushing red 
 with shame for the hallucinatioa which seemed 
 to have possessed her parent. 
 
 " And are you convinced," shfe said at length, 
 " that this story of the deed — the claim on the 
 estate— was all a fancied one ?" 
 
 " From beginning to end 1" cried the old man, 
 almost fiercely. " I was a dupe, a fool — but it 
 is all over now— ho shall find me as cunning as 
 himself. I'll track them like a pointer day and 
 night— early and late they shall find me on the 
 scent !" 
 
 "And I," said the young girl, while her soft 
 eyes kindled and her form dilated with noble 
 resolution, "I can, perhaps, do something. Oh, 
 father, this will all turn out well ; I felt it from 
 the first— now I am sure of it I" 
 
 *' I've been out to-night," said the old man, 
 glaneing at his damp clothes, " dodging about 
 the tavern like a hound. They sh'a'nt move, 
 look, or speak, that I won't know it all. I'm 
 going out agin, and jou'd better go to bed, 
 though it is early." 
 
 Lucy did not attempt to detain him, but throw- 
 ing her arms about his neck, kissed his weather- 
 beaten cheek. 
 
 " Good-night," she said ; "good-night, good- 
 night, and God bless you I I shall not be so 
 tired that I cannot pray for you and him. To- 
 morrow we shall both be strong again." 
 
 " To-morrow ! Perhaps everything will be set 
 right by that time," said the old man cheerfully, 
 and taking his rifle from a corner. 
 
 As he reached the door he met Mrs. Jordan, 
 who had grown so anxious about Lucy that af- 
 ter sending a variety of messengers, she had 
 come herself to learn if Mr. Jones had received 
 any news. 
 
 " She's here I she's here !" he said, in answer 
 to her hurried inquiries. " Come in, come in." 
 
 Lucy sprang to her friend with a glad wel- 
 come, and after watching their hearty embrace, 
 the old mar. furtively wiped hia eyea and went 
 his way. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 It was now somewhat after nine o'clock. The 
 sky was still heavy with clouds, and but for his 
 knowledge of the place, John Jones could 
 hardly have found his way through the bushes 
 to the place where his boat was moored. 
 
 He rowed across the river and landed his skiff 
 a little distance above the tavern. He drew 
 cautiously toward the public-house, and sitting 
 down under the shelter of a clump of alders, 
 with his gun planted between his knees, kept a 
 vigilant watch upon one of the windows, through 
 which a light was streaming. He had sat there 
 perhaps three-quarters of an hour, when the 
 light was extinguished. The window was softly 
 opened, and Jones' eyes were now so accustomed 
 to the darkness that he saw a man leap lightly 
 over the sill upon the porch. 
 
 Directly after the figure came creeping through 
 the darkness, and passed the watchful old 
 farmer so near that a hand stretched forth to 
 grope its way pushed aside the gun barrel, evi- 
 dently mistaking it for the branch of a tree. 
 The old man held his breath and allowed the 
 gun to sway in his hand when it received this 
 unexpected thrust. But after the figure had 
 advanced a pace or two, he arose very cautious- 
 ly and strode after it down the circuitous path 
 to the river. 
 
 The man removed a small boat hidden among 
 the bushes, and as soon as he had shot out into 
 the stream, Jones leaped into his own and start- 
 ed in pursuit. His wild life had taught him the 
 art of paddling silently as an Indian, and he 
 could easily follow the night adventurer by the 
 noise made with his oars. 
 
 The two boats passed rapidly on up the steam 
 until Jones caught the outline of Eock Kuin 
 looming up through the shadows. The foremost 
 boat put ashore just under the tall cliff. On 
 the instant a wild hope sprang up in the old 
 man's heart. He landed his boat likewise, and 
 followed the figure as it moved along the rocky 
 path, a muttered oath as the man stumbled over 
 a rotten stump assuring him of what he had be- 
 fore been almost certain — it was Hyatt whom he 
 followed. 
 
 He stole away through the loose fragments of 
 rock close to the base of the cliff, and looking 
 up, was transfixed with astonishment to see 
 gleams of light shining through some crevices, 
 and half smothered laughter, mingled with 
 the metallic ringing of drinking cups in violent 
 motion. 
 
 Hyatt passed along the cliff and stooped down 
 before an opening which Jones had not yet per- 
 ceived. There was a sharp oath as ho struggled 
 in the gloom, answered by a shout^om within. 
 Then the aperture was illumined by a glare of 
 light, and through the crevice, to which his eye 
 was fastened, Jones could look in. 
 
 He saw a small cave, at one end of which was 
 a sort of natural staircase, evidently leading to 
 an inner chamber, and upon the uj)per platform 
 stood Hyatt's three confederates, bearing the 
 lights, and evidentlyexcitedby the strong drink 
 furnished for the night's carouse. 
 
 Jones could see each man of the group dis- 
 tinctly. The tall one bonding downward with a 
 hght, the other two holding together as if to 
 keep from staggering off" the platform, and 
 laughing with a drunken ohuckle at the new 
 comer, who crept slowly forward toward the 
 
44 
 
 MOCK nnm; on, the daxtquteb of the island. 
 
 broken rocks, which, as I have said, proved a 
 sort of natural staircase, at the top of which they 
 stood. 
 
 The light streamed full upon his person, as ho 
 mounted- the ascent, and with a glow of keen 
 satisfaction, the old man recognized to a cer- 
 tainty young Hyatt, writhing himself like a ser- 
 pent along the broken masses of stone. He 
 saw the young villain reach the platform, when 
 the tail man clapped him triumphantly on the 
 back. The others seized him each by an arm, 
 and bending down, forced their way through 
 another opening, and the whole group disap- 
 peared, leaving only gleams of light shooting 
 through the crevices, and the sound of their 
 voices, by which the old man could judge of 
 their exact position. 
 
 The stout old explorer had no patience to wait. 
 Scarcely had the others disappeared, when he 
 began to climb the same difficult pass which they 
 had taken. Jones was a courageous man, cool 
 and deliberate, and a hardy life had added to his 
 great natural strength. He tried every step be- 
 fore his foot was firmly planted, and fastened 
 his hard fingers into the creeping vmes, which 
 proved a sort of balustrade along one aide of the 
 rocky wall. 
 
 At length he stood upon the platform, and 
 stooping down, looked through the opening. 
 Close to him was a sort of narrow recess, then 
 another aperture loading into a large chamber, 
 from whence issued the drunken voices of these 
 brigand revelers. He crept into this dark pas- 
 sage, and getting close up to the wall, with the 
 wary motions of a snake, found a crevice in the 
 rock through which he could watch everything 
 that went on within the room without the slight- 
 est fear of discovery. 
 
 A strange scene was going on in -bkat cavern 
 chamber— so strange that, had the old man come 
 upon it without warning, he must have believed 
 it all the delusion of his fancy. Upon points of 
 the projecting rock, and along the wall, half a 
 dozen lamps of chased silver were swinging. 
 One, of the purest alabaster, with a network of 
 the most exquisite g^d filagree, swayed to and 
 fro upon a festoon of some wild vine that fell 
 down from the ceiling, kindling up the stalac- 
 tites upon the wall, until the place glowed with 
 supernatural glory. 
 
 At one end cf the room a fire had been light- 
 ed, and great steaks of venison smoked upon 
 the coals, flanked by wild pigeons, trout, and all 
 the delicacies which the forest and mountain 
 streams of the neighborhood furnished in such 
 abundance. 
 
 Beneath the center lamp several broad slabs 
 cf stone hadrfUfeen piled up to form a table, upon 
 which two of the men were beginning to place 
 the supper. A service of heavy plate was scat- 
 tered about, a heap of drinking cups lay on the 
 table, and as the silver and gold caught the re- 
 flections from the shining walls, they flashed like 
 flame. 
 
 To add addilional interest to the place, the 
 other end of the room had only a wall for part of 
 the distance— the eye looked down into an im- 
 penetrable darkness, and the roar of waters far 
 below showed that it was a deep abyss, with 
 some underground stream forcing its way along 
 at the bottom. 
 
 And now around this table, so nidely magnifi- 
 cent, sat the three robbers, with Hyatt standing 
 
 in their midst. Astonishment, anger, and ap- 
 prehension were all depicted in his pale face, 
 as he looked upon the scene ; and he refused to 
 sit down, though the younger members of the 
 band were both attempting to force him toward a 
 block of stone placed at the head of the table. 
 
 "Are you crazy ? Has success driven you all 
 insane?'^' he asked, turning fiercely upon the 
 men who had hold of him, and shaking them 
 rudely off. " What fiend possessed you to drag 
 all these things from'their hiding place, and to 
 light up this chff like a watch tower ? You, at 
 least, Smith, should have known better." 
 
 "It's no fault of mine. I knew nothing of the 
 matter till the eatables were here. After all, 
 where is the danger ? We have choked up every 
 crevice which threatened to let out the light, 
 and there's nobody likely to bo prowling around 
 Bock Buin at this hour." 
 
 Hyatt was about to make some sharp reply, 
 but Blake seized his arm. 
 
 "Come — come, my fine fellow," he said, "no 
 grumbling. We came to have a night of it ; sour 
 faces won t frighten us. Here we are all cap- 
 tains, you know. Sit down and take a pull at 
 this." 
 
 Hyatt pushed the fellow away, as he lifted one 
 of the silver pitchers and held it toward him, so 
 violently that he sent the crimson liquor over hia 
 dress, drenching it terribly. 
 
 "I want nothing to drink," he said, sternly. 
 
 " What nonsense !" returned the other. " Why, 
 the stuff comes out of old Conner's cellar. 
 Here's wine, if you prefer it, mellow and soft as 
 a woman's kisses." 
 
 " I don't care for its mellowness, nor how it 
 came here," said Hyatt. " We met on business, 
 not on a drunken frolic." 
 
 "Why, hang it, old boy, I can see no great 
 harm in the matter," said' the other young man, 
 taking the pitcher from Blake and applymg it to 
 his own ruddy mouth. "Ripe drink never 
 comes amiss, nor a good friend, either. Blake 
 and I have managed this blow-out, and we 
 won't go home till morning." 
 
 "You see," persisted Blake, "you see, old 
 boy, wo had a fancy for a supper in style, once 
 in our lives. We wanted to make a dash with 
 our gold and silver before it's knocked into a 
 lump for the receiver ; and we will— that's set- 
 tled." 
 
 "I thought we had come here to divide the 
 plate," said Kyatt, turning toward Smith. " We 
 can't undertake the risk of a meeting here often, 
 I can tell you." 
 
 Smith drew him on one side, close by the wall 
 where the old farmer was listening, and whis- 
 pered a few words in his ear*. 
 
 " I tell you it's better to let these fools have 
 their share. They're getting keen after a full 
 share of the spoil. Once blinded with drink, we 
 can settle things with them in our fashion. Don't 
 you understand ?" 
 
 Hyatt smiled, and turning toward the others, 
 said', in a cheerful tone : 
 
 "Well, boys, as you have taken the trouble, we 
 must run the risk. Carve away, Blake, while I 
 fill the goblets. Here, take the head- we are 
 only guests." 
 
 " That's something like," said Smith, " Come, 
 draw 'round, and let us hear how real plate can 
 jingle. A breast of that partridge for me. AU 
 right ! You aro the prince of carvers, Blake." 
 
llOGK nVW; OR, TH^ DAmHTM OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 45 
 
 "A fellow ought to eat off half a dozen ijlates 
 at once, with a nigger behind him. This ian't 
 the thing, aftei* all." 
 
 "Nothing could be better," cried Hyatt, who 
 seemed to enter heart and soul into the scene. 
 " Here's to old Conner's health." 
 
 "All right !" cried thev in chorus. 
 
 " How does Gorman feel now?" Smith asked. 
 
 " He is raving," replied Hyatt. "He swears 
 he wfll give us up to justice for stealing the 
 plate, but there is no danger of that — we iiave 
 tim about the papers." 
 
 "Let him fret," returned Blake. "He can't 
 do us any harm." 
 
 "Yes, but I want to find that paper. It 
 would be worth a fortune to all of us, I can tell 
 you." 
 
 "And old Jones really thought it was for him 
 you took all that trouble ? Oh, it's too much I" 
 and Blake laughed a loud, drunken crow, till the 
 tears ran down his cheeks. 
 
 This scene of craft and riot continued for two 
 hours. Then Hyatt left the table and insisted on 
 
 Eroceeding to business, but though Smith joined 
 im, the other two absolutely refused to enter 
 into any division of the spoils that night. It was 
 too late, they said— another time would do as 
 well. Drink had made them obstinate, and 
 neither Smith nor Hyatt felt that it would be 
 prudent to risk a quarrel. 
 
 "Well," Hyatt said, "to-morrow you can 
 come back to the tavern. You've had time to at- 
 tend to the timber business I'm supposed to 
 have sent you about. We must get away from 
 here soon, but I want one more search for that 
 paper first." 
 
 All this scene the old man had witnessed. 
 His eager eye had marked every gesture— his 
 ear had not lost a word. Excitement had ren- 
 derd him fearless, and he descended the dilapi- 
 dated steps without heeding the dangers of the 
 passage. He was certain that he could again 
 find the place of entrance, and groping his way 
 out, hurried down to his boat and rowed swiftly 
 toward his homo. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Lucy Jones slept deeply all night, for her fa- 
 tigue had been so great that even anxiety had 
 failed to overpower it. But the first breath of 
 morning aroused her, and after that sweet mo- 
 ment of prayer which seems holiest when taken 
 from the tirst hours of the day, she went down 
 to her household duties blooming and refreshed. 
 
 The massive old tea-kettle was already steam- 
 ing and hissing over the fire, and Lucy was 
 upon her knees, shading her cheek with one 
 hand while the other held a slice of half-toast- 
 ed bread before the embers when her father 
 came in from the wood-house, where she had 
 heard the soundof his ax for the last half-hour. 
 Never had she seen his step more buoyant or 
 his eye more bright. 
 
 " A mouthful of breakfast, child." he said, 
 stooping to kiss the fair face uplifted to him 
 with an inquiring look, " and then get out my 
 Sunday clothes, for I am going away. Didn't I 
 say the innocent should be righted ?"" 
 
 " What have you seen, father? what has hap- 
 pened?" cried Liicy, lifting the plate of toast 
 from before the fire with her now trembling 
 bands. " I can see by your eyes, by your whole 
 
 face, that something has happened. What is it, 
 father ?" 
 
 " What should you say," returned the old 
 man, " what should you think if I had seen 'etn 
 all, with that young villain a-leadin' of 'em, feast- 
 ing with wine and venison ofl" Mr. Conner's 
 plate. What would you think of that, Lucy ?" 
 
 "But where, father— how did it all happen- 
 where could you have seen this ?" 
 
 "Didn't I say I'd bo a hound on their track ? 
 I watched Hyatt's window last night, and I fol- 
 lowed him in his boat up to Rock Ruin, and 
 there I seen him and the three others with all 
 the plate," 
 
 Lucy was breathless with astonishment. 
 
 "And that Gorman ?" 
 
 " No, no ; he warn't there ; it seems he warn't 
 a regular thief— he's after papers or somethin' 
 — that's the reason they fooled me so ; but I'll be 
 even with 'em. I'm a goin' down to the town to 
 see the lawyers. It'll all be right, Lucy— jist 
 let Mr. Conner get here, and we'll have John 
 back in his old place, while them villains take a 
 turn at the jail." 
 
 " Oh, father, and you will have done this— you 
 will have set him free— his honest name clear of 
 reproach— his faith in aiust Providence stronger 
 than ever ! This is happiness ; the sweetest, dear- 
 est I ever knew." 
 
 And with the bright tears rolling down her 
 cheek, so unlike the scalding drops she had 
 shod but yesterday, Lucy flung her arms about 
 the old man, and kissed his forehead and brown 
 cheek. 
 
 "Not yet, Lucy ; don't thank me yet ; the work 
 ain't only half done," returned the old man, 
 cheerfully, patting her head with his large hand. 
 " Wait till Manson is out of jail and that voung 
 villain in, and then, Lucy — why, then, we'll have 
 a day o' thanksgivin' and a weddin' day all in 
 one." 
 
 You should have seen how beautiful Ljicy 
 Jones was as her father uttered these words — 
 how her cheeks bloomed out beneath the tears 
 that trembled over them like drops upon an 
 almond flower. You should have seen all this— 
 the quick drooping of her white eyelids, the red- 
 dening of the lips, and the pleasant little tremor 
 into which she was thrown, only to have had the 
 faintest idea of the lovely picture she would 
 have made while leaning upon the shoulder of 
 that stalwart old man. I only wish that instead 
 of this weak pen I had Tompson's pencil to lay 
 in the tints for you. Half an hour before, Lucy 
 would not have blushed at the mention of John 
 Manson and her wedding day, she was all too 
 anxious for those sweet emotions that only 
 evanesce from a happy heart like the sparkle 
 from an overwhelmmg goblet. But now that 
 she had fair hopes that her lover's peril was 
 over, the heroine went out from her soul. Her 
 modesty, so becoming— her blushes, so glowing 
 and bright— all came back, and she would have 
 found it much easier to have stood up by Man- 
 son's side on his trial than to look fer one mo- 
 ment into her father's eyes. 
 
 So without a word of reply the young girl stole 
 away to her work again, and was marvelously 
 busy in the pantry, and around that ponderous 
 old tea-kettle that sat upon its nest of flame, and 
 kept singing on like a Phoenix rejoicing over the 
 ashes that had given it birth. Marvelously busy 
 and exeeedingly beautiful was Lucy just then. 
 
4G 
 
 no OK Bum; OB, THE DATIQHTEB OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 The old man glauced occasionally at ber from 
 under his heavy brows, and a pjrim smile stole 
 over his lips. At last he rose briskly and went 
 into another room to change his clothes, which 
 bore many a rough testimony to the adventures 
 of the preceding night. "When he came forth 
 again, Lucy had prej)ared a package of bread and 
 cheese which she placed in his ample pocket, and 
 saw him depart with tearful eyes that blended 
 sweetly with the smile which hope and gratitude 
 sent every moment from her warm heart to the 
 glowing lip. She stood a moment hesitating, 
 trembling, then with a glow that flushed her face 
 like a rose, ran through the honeysuckle lattice 
 and overtook her father as ho Vas hurrying 
 toward the bank. 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 The old man turned and looked kindly upon 
 her. 
 
 " You— you will see him ? He is so depressed, 
 so miserable 1 If you could only bring yourself 
 to " 
 
 " No, no ; I must not tell him all till we are 
 quite sure of ketchin' the rogues. I might lift 
 his hopes to disapi^'int him," said the old man. 
 
 " It wasn't that, father ! But— but if you ^wuld 
 only say your own prejudices are removed— that 
 cleared or condemned, you will give your child 
 to him ! Oh, father, it would be such a comfort 
 in his prison 1" 
 
 Lucy began to cry as she spoke ; her hands 
 were clasped, and in that pretty attitude she 
 looked so earnest and lovely that the old man 
 could not have denied her request had ho wished 
 it, so softened and changed was his heart toward 
 her, 
 
 "Yes, yes; don't doubt; I'll say everything 
 you ask ! He's a fine follow, Lucy ; I was an old 
 brute to treat him as I did. Now give me a kiss, 
 child, and stop crying. God bless you! I'll come 
 back with good news." 
 
 The old man went his way, and Lucy returned 
 to the house, blessing her father, who now 
 seemed fully restored to her in her heart of 
 hearts. « 
 
 The old man had along and tiresome row, and 
 disappointment met him at the end of his jour- 
 ney. When he entered the town where Manson 
 was awaiting his trial, and sought the lawyer who 
 had taken charge of the case, he found that prac- 
 tical personage incredulous of the story he came 
 to relate. But there was something so earnest 
 about the old man that, notwithstanding the 
 marvelous nature of his tale, the lawyer could 
 not wholly reject it ; and at last, after much so- 
 licitation and a promise of ample payment from 
 the witness, he consented to return home with 
 the old man, and aid in searching Rock Ruin for 
 the stolen treasure. 
 
 After a hasty visit to the jail, where he left 
 hope and tunshine behind him, the lawyer ac- 
 companied Jones to his boat, and the old man 
 rowed homeward with a lightened heart. 
 
 They were fearful of being seen upon their 
 errand and exciting the suspicions of the men at 
 the tavern, so they left their boat some distance 
 below it, and took a sort of road through the 
 woods, cut for hauling logs, and which led di- 
 rectly back of Rock Ruin. The walk was a 
 fatiguing one, but the old man had always been 
 accustomed to rough ways and hard work, and 
 the lawyer was one of those persona capable of 
 
 enduring anything for the sake of attaining an 
 object he had in view. 
 
 Late in the afternoon they came out by tho 
 base of the cliff, and found among the broken 
 branches and crushed ferns some slight evi- 
 dence of the nocturnal visit. Faint as these 
 traces were they served to strengthen the confi- 
 dence which the lawyer was beginning to feel in 
 the singular narrative of his companion. 
 
 He followed Jones through the opening and 
 stood in the first narrow passage looking up at 
 the sort of staircase in tne rock, so steep and 
 dangerous in the half daylight, that it made the 
 lawyer and the old man almost shudder as he 
 reflected how carelessly he had descended tho 
 night before. 
 
 The walls on every side were rugged and 
 broken, the clefts choked up with moss and 
 fringed with creeping plants. Through several 
 larger apertures higher up, that looked like loop- 
 hole windows in some half-ruined tower, rich 
 masses of vines had forced themselves and 
 streamed down the sides a host of emerald ban- 
 ners, rusthng and swaying in the chilled wind 
 that swept down from the inner cavern. 
 
 " Can you go up ?" Jones asked. 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so," replied Harvey; "but it 
 looks a little ticklish, don't it ?" 
 
 "That's a fact; but I got up safe last night, 
 and I guess we can now— that ere vine'll do for 
 a bannister." 
 
 " All right, go ahead, but don't fall back on 
 me." 
 
 The old man, whose courage never wavered, 
 turned from time to time in order to aid or direct 
 the footsteps of his more timid companion, who, 
 nevertheless, reached the platform somewhat 
 pale and ready to abuse himself, and more es- 
 pecially his guide, for the pei'il of his condition. 
 
 The opening through which Jones had crept 
 was closed up with a huge fragment of rock, but 
 after some effort he succeeded in rolling it 
 away, and the lawyer peered curiously into the 
 recess. 
 
 " It does look as if you hadn't dreamed it all," 
 he said. 
 
 Q*' Dreamed it !" returned the old man, indig- 
 nantly. " Do you think I'm a fool, or in mv sec- 
 ond childhood ?" 
 
 The lawyer laughed a little, saying : 
 
 " Go ahead, let's see what we can find." 
 
 They made their way through the recess and 
 emerged into the large room beyond. The law- 
 yer looked about him in astonishment. It was 
 a beautiful cavern, with its stalactites glittering 
 in the dim light which forced its way through 
 the crevices and broken top, but he turned with 
 a shudder from the yawning blackness which 
 met his eye upon one side, and the roar of the 
 hidden water had something strangely ominous 
 in it. 
 
 " I never knew there was anything but little re- 
 cesses in this cliff," the lawyer said in wonder. 
 
 "Nor anybody else except these rogues," re- 
 plied Jones ; " years ago I've chased foxes in be- 
 low there many a time, but never found anything 
 except contemptible httlo holes you couldn't turn 
 round in." 
 
 " Well, now, let us see what we can find," said 
 the lawvQi" ; " we ought to have some sort of re- 
 ward after this clamber." 
 
 The room was entirely empty, except masses 
 of rock thathau fallen from overhead, and huge 
 
ROCK ETIIN; OR, THE DA UGIITER OF THE IHLAjSI). 
 
 47 
 
 fragments of stalactites, which had detached 
 themaelvos from the sides, and lay like great 
 piles of half-finished gems upon the floor. Not 
 a vestige of the table, plate, or anything pertain- 
 ing to the revel of the previous night, was to be 
 detected. 
 
 They searched in every corner, lifted the 
 stones, and investigated each nook or crevice 
 large enough to conceal a goblet, but all in vain. 
 No trace of the stolen plate presented itself. A 
 broken twig of the vine which hung down from 
 the top, a few scorched leaves, where the lamps 
 had hung, were all the proofs which the disap- 
 pointed old man could point out that his story 
 had not been a sheer fabrication from beginning 
 to end. But these were something to a man 
 whose life had been spent in tracing important 
 facts from almost impalpable evidence; and 
 once upon the scent, this old hound of the law 
 was not easily driven from the chase. 
 
 "Let us search— let us search, friend Jones," 
 he said, with great animation, pushing aside the 
 heavy vines, hoping to discover some nook in the 
 wall. " This fairy tale of yours ought to end iu 
 a golden treasure. Don't leave a hole undis- 
 covered, but be careful not to disturb things so 
 as to make these fellowsfsuspect anything when 
 they come again." 
 
 " We won't go till wo have hunted every cor- 
 ner," replied Jones, and he was as good as his 
 word. But when the rude stones were disman- 
 tled and their naked age exposed, it was only to 
 result in disappointment. No hiding place was 
 found— nothing to direct the search or excite sus- 
 picion. 
 
 Still the two resolute men would not be dis- 
 couraged ; they went from nook to nook, from 
 corner to corner, of the great chamber and the 
 outer recess, till all the upper part had been 
 thoroughly explored; but nothing met their 
 eyes save the moonhght glitter of the stalac- 
 tites; no sound disturbed the stillness except 
 their own footsteps and the sullen roar of tne 
 water underneath, save when an eagle hovered 
 over the top for an instant, and flew away with a 
 shrill scream at the sight of the intruders. 
 
 They crept down the rocks which they had as- 
 cended, peering into crevices and examining 
 everytiiing as they went along, for, in his eager- 
 ness, the lawyer had grown almost as fearless as 
 the old man, until they reached the ground. 
 The earth was lumbered with fragments of rock 
 that had fallen from above, great branches of 
 withered vines and huge stones, and all the ac- 
 cumulated litter of centuries seemed to defy 
 their search. 
 
 Still, they began laboring among the appalling 
 mass, heaving aside great fragments of rock, and 
 penetrating into each cavity that presented itself, 
 till the night came on. 
 
 They found nothing but the empty lairs of 
 wild beasts and the deserted nests of forest 
 birds now, when every foot of the way had been 
 thoroughly examined. 
 
 Disheartened, but not altogether in despair, 
 the two men abandoned their search, and took 
 their way back through the forest, gloomy with 
 the crimson haze of twilight, to the spot where 
 they had left their boat. The)^ rowed up the 
 river, keeping on the opposite side of the island 
 from the inn, although it was now so dark«rjia,t 
 there was little fear of being observed ; and not 
 
 long after Lucy.Jones was startled by the ap- 
 pearance of itf>r alther and a strange guest. 
 
 In his conversation with Mr. Harvey, Jones had 
 been faithful to the confidence of his child. Not 
 a word had crossed his lips of the mutual attach- 
 ment that existed between her and the prisoner ; 
 but the old lawyer was a quick observer, both by 
 nature and habit ; and while he sat in the far- 
 mer's easy-chair, apparently lost in; a fit of mus- 
 ing, but in truth watching every look and motion 
 of the beautiful girl, his conclusions were speed- 
 ily drawn. He could not be deceived in the 
 rising blush, the look of keen interest, and the 
 involuntary start that followed each mention of 
 the prisoner's name, or the deep pallor and pain, 
 too mtense for tears, that spread over her face 
 when informed of the complete failure of their 
 expedition to elucidate any proofs that might 
 help him or give truth to hor father's story. 
 
 " Hem 1" mused Mr. Harvey, " so here lies the 
 secret of it all 1 This pretty girl loves the hand- 
 some young robber; my stout old friend, here, 
 doats on the girl; and so this fine story has been 
 invented between them. Upon my word, I have 
 been playing day laborer in that old cavern to a 
 
 {)retty purpose ! I dare say the little minx is 
 aughing at me in her heart all the time, demure 
 as she looks ; but they shall pay for it. By Jove, 
 I will strip the old fellow's stocking of every dol- 
 lar he has hoarded in it I If this story is made 
 up, he shall suffer for it, or my name isn't Har- 
 vey I" 
 
 Still, the old lawyer was not quite sure. The 
 girl looked so innocent, so touchingly lovingly, 
 that it was hard even for his suspicious nature to 
 judge harshly of her ; and there was the old 
 father, with fetern passions written over his face, 
 but honest in every lineament. It was no easy 
 matter to believe either of these persons capable 
 of falsehood and fraud; still, the farmer's story 
 was a very marvelous one, and the proofs of its 
 truth very- meagre indeed. 
 
 " And so, my pretty girl," said the lawyer, 
 drawing up to the table to partake of the repast 
 which Lucy had prepared, and helping himself 
 deliberately to a slice of fragrant bacon with a 
 golden egg reposing lusciously upon it, " and so 
 there seems to be a pretty fair chance that these 
 crabbed laws of ours will give your lover a good 
 ten years in state-prison." 
 
 Lucy started at the abrupt and seemingly un- 
 feeling speech, meant not in unkindness, but as 
 a probe to her very heart's core ; and her cheek 
 blanched, while her father looked up with stern 
 reproof in his countenance. 
 
 "i trust not. Indeed, I hope you don't think 
 they will condemn him," said Lucy, in a tremu- 
 lous voice. " The laws do not punish an inno- 
 cent man— that is impossible !" 
 
 The old lawyer smiled; the simplicity with 
 which that young creature acknowledged her 
 connection with the prisoner quite disarmed his 
 suspicion. 
 
 '• The laws are not always so considerate as you 
 seem to think," he said ; " people must not only 
 be innocent, but prove themselves so. Tut, tut, 
 my girl, you need not turn so white— we shall do 
 our best to get this handsome young follow off. 
 Perhaps something may be made of this adven- 
 ture of last night. It looks visionary enough 
 now, but still evidence does sometimes spring 
 up in stranger places." 
 
 Jones looked at his visitor and instantly do • 
 
48 
 
 BOCK RUIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 tected the lialf-doubting expression of his face 
 when he alluded to their expedf .'-owto Bock Ruin. 
 For a moment a ruddy glow gathered around the 
 ©Id man's eyebrows, and it was with a struggle 
 that he kept down the indignation that swelled 
 in his heart with the thought that his word was 
 in anything doubted. 
 
 " His innocence shall be made as clear as the 
 sun at noonday ! I will stand up in court and 
 take oath to every word that has been said to 
 you !" he exclaimed, with emphasis. 
 
 "And they will shut you up as a lunatic for 
 your pains," was the reflection Mr. Harvey made, 
 but he only answered, " We must think about 
 that— we must think of it. That part of your 
 story about abstracting the keys and entering 
 the house would bring you into trouble if the 
 court should give it the least credit. No man is 
 bound to criminate himself." 
 
 "But this young man is the son of my old 
 friend, and I say he shall be cleared of this ere 
 thing no matter what happens to me." 
 
 " All wrong— all wrong ! It would be a legal 
 suicide, I tell you," replied the lawyer, helping 
 himself to a slice of bread with great deliberation. 
 " Besides, my impetuous friend, they would only 
 set you down as an accomplice, so do not venture 
 on that ground without good legal advice." 
 
 '* I will tell the truth," replied Jones, reiso- 
 lutely, "the hull truth, and nothin' but the 
 truth, and they can make the most of it." 
 
 " Very well, very well, I have not the least ob- 
 jection. If you have a fancy lor prison life, or 
 for being lynched, for that might easily happen, 
 it is all the same to me —only what is to become 
 of this young girl when her father and lover are 
 both without the power to protect her." 
 
 The farmer looked up at nis daughter, and his 
 firm lip began to quiver. 
 
 " If they went to prison she would find some 
 means of being near them ; if they were brutally 
 murdered, as you suggest, God would give her 
 strength to endure," replied Lucy, drawing close 
 to her father and laying a hand upon his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 The old man turned his eyes from that fair, 
 young face to the lawyer, and the latter remarked 
 that they were full of tears. 
 
 " Well, well," he said, rising to conceal the 
 moisture that crept over his own sight, " we must 
 not let things come to that pass ! Now, Miss 
 Lucy, if you will show me where I am to sleep I 
 will think the matter over after I get to bed. I 
 trust we shall yet untangle the mystery." 
 
 Lucy took up the light, and leading the way to 
 a bedroom that opened from the kitchen, un- 
 closed the door for her guest. 
 
 " Good night," said the lawyer, turning to re- 
 ceive the lamp and pressing the little hand 
 warmly that presented it. "I shall be off at 
 peep of day. Your father must have a sharp 
 lookout for those scamps over at the tavern yon- 
 der, and come to me the moment he has any 
 news. Keep a good heart, my girl, keep a good 
 heart." 
 
 With those cheering words the lawyer shut 
 himself in the neat little room which was ap- 
 propriated to him for the night. 
 
 "Upon my word, a charming little house- 
 keeper!" he mused, glancing at the muslin cur- 
 tains and the pure white bed., with its snow- 
 driffc-like sheets turned down to roo«ive him. 
 
 ''' Ancl the okt aiaa, t'OQ--fea^ ia a wiW story «- 
 
 but I can't look him in the face and believe it all 
 a sham, for the life of me. Now, if we could but 
 delay the trial till after the rendezvous which 
 he says the robb^.rs made— were the story more 
 probable it might be done — but the court is 
 nearly over and they are bound to bring the trial 
 00 this term. Hyatt has that letter from Con- 
 ner placing the matter in his hands. Upon my 
 word it is a singular case, and I can but make 
 the best of it for the sake of that lovely child, if 
 nothing more." 
 
 While these reflections were passing through 
 the lawyer's brain, he wound up his watch, 
 placed it carefully under the snowy pillow, and, 
 
 Eroceeding to take off his garments, stepped into 
 ed. Before Lucy Jones had breathed her even- 
 ing prayer in the little chamber under the roof, 
 their guest was sound asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The court term had nearly expired, and the 
 trial of John Manaon was orderedperemptorily. 
 Hyatt, as the lawyer had stated, had produced 
 a letter from Mr. Conner placing the matter 
 in his hands, and, as he had several times acted 
 as a sort of agent for Jbim, the affair excited no 
 suspicion. 
 
 Mr. Harvey had succeeded in having the trial 
 so far put off, but no longer delay could be ob- 
 tained. 
 
 The hoiir at length came, and the court room 
 was crowded, for the amount of the robbery, the 
 high character which the prisoner had hitherto 
 borne, with his firm denial of guilt, had excited' 
 more than tbe ordinary degree of curiosity elicit- 
 ed m such cases. 
 
 Through this crowd of people young Manson 
 was brought, and arraigned before the open 
 court. Nothing could be more proper than his 
 demeanor. It blended all the dignity of inno- 
 cence with that keen distress which the igno- 
 miny of his situation was calculated to excite. 
 His cheek was pale ; now and then his fine eyes 
 would sink beneath the broad gaze of the multi- 
 tude ; but this natural embarrassment had no 
 shadow of guilt about it ; and when he was called 
 upon to answer " guilty or not guilty ?" those 
 eyes were turned full upon the jury, and his 
 voice sounded full and clear through thei whole 
 room, "Not guilty!" and so the prisoner was 
 put upon his defence. 
 
 It seemeJ as if nothing could save him. The 
 proofs of guilt appeared so overpowering, as link 
 after link was added to the chain of evidence 
 that seemed to coil around him like a serpent, 
 and threaten utterly to envelop and crush him. 
 
 The prisoner's cheek grew still more nallid as 
 the appearance of his guilt accumulated. His 
 own friends, tho'^e who had known him from in- 
 fancy, seemed destined, against their own will, 
 to accomplish his condemnation. 
 
 Old Mrs. Jordan wept like a child as she testi- 
 fied to his anxious and hurried manner when she 
 went to consult him regarding some household 
 affairs on the night of the robbery. J- he busi- 
 ness upon which she desired his advice occupied 
 them some time," she said ; " and from the be- 
 ginning he seemed unusually restive and absent- 
 minded, making more than one effort to depart, 
 and seeming greatly annoyed when she contin- 
 ued to detain him." 
 
 He baa left the house rather kte in the csvea^ 
 
BOCK BUIN; OB, THE BAUGHTEB OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 49 
 
 ing, sne testified, and that was the last account 
 ehe could give of his movements that night. She 
 testified that the prisoner always had the keys to 
 those rooms not mhabited during their master's 
 absence, and that no other person could obtain 
 access to the closet where the plate was kept 
 without breaking through the door. 
 
 Two of the house servants corroborated this 
 testimony, and one of them added that, instead 
 of going to the building where he slept, as he left 
 the house, the prisoner had gone in an opposite 
 direction, He knew this, because the night being 
 'very beautiful, witness had been tempted to walk 
 forth after the prisoner took his leave at the door. 
 The man asserted that, while sauntering about in 
 the moonlight, he had seen Manson walk rapidly 
 across the lawn and enter the woods. The wit- 
 ness, without any definite reason, followed in 
 the same direction ; and after wandering about 
 among the trees, was turning his steps home- 
 ward, when he was startled by the sound of 
 voices in an adjoining hollow. The sound' was 
 hushed as he approached the spot, but he had 
 distinctly counted the figures of three men glid- 
 ing away through the trees. 
 
 The man continued to relate that he should 
 have been startled by the appearance of so many 
 persons near the house in the night time, but 
 that he supposed them to be some friends of 
 Manson among the raftsmen who had been 
 waiting while he was up at the house. " This," 
 the man said, "accounted to his mind for the 
 anxiety Manson had manifested to get away, and 
 he thought no more of the matter till after the 
 robbery. Then he made inquiries among the 
 men stopping at the tavern, and the neighbors 
 on the shore, but nobody had been over to the 
 island that night, nor had any person seen Man- 
 son at the tavern," 
 
 All this bore fearfully against the prisoner ; his 
 case grew more and more hopeless. He felt that 
 all around believed him guilty. He could not lift 
 his eyes without meeting the reproachful glance 
 of some old friend. It was worse than the bit- 
 terness of death ! 
 
 He was innocent, and yet his courage gave way. 
 Big drops started on his forehead, and he turned 
 despondingly around in search of one familiar 
 face which would not accuse him. 
 
 It was there ! With her veil thrown back, and 
 her blue eyes bent tenderly upon him, sat Lucy 
 Jones, the noble girl who was pledged to become 
 his wife, oven though all the multitude around 
 should join in branding him as a felon. How pale 
 and anxious she looked, and yet how full of reso- 
 lution were those soft eyes ! Everv lineament of 
 that beautiful face beamed with holy compassion 
 and confidence, so pure that an angel might have 
 worn the expression without impairing the glory 
 of his countenance. 
 
 And there stood the old farmer, resolute but 
 anxious, with a thrill of the keenest anguish now 
 and then sweeping away the stern composure of 
 his countenance. His eyes were turned at inter- 
 vals upon the prisoner, and his fingers at such 
 times would take a firmer grip on his stout walk- 
 ing-stick, which vibrated to the emotions that agi- 
 tated him. 
 
 When Manson saw these two beings standing 
 there in the court, and thought that they were 
 the only persons among the multitude who be* 
 liftvod him innocent, hisi firmneas gave way ; aud 
 
 dropping hiu forebeftd upoa hie looked naocls, 
 
 he wiped away the tears that were unmanning 
 him. 
 
 That moment, the man who had slept in the 
 same building as Manson was brought to the 
 witness stand. The people whispered that some- 
 thing startling was to be developed, or the pris- 
 oner would not have been so agitated all of a 
 sudden. The man had but little to say, and that 
 he spoke with great reluctance. 
 
 " Manson had left him soon after nightfall," he 
 said, "and he saw no more of him till the next 
 morning. He slept on the ground floor, and went 
 to bed early, but remained awake, thinking that 
 Manson would return. He had been in bed per- 
 haps an hour when a noise in the chamber above 
 surprised him. It lasted but a moment, and then 
 he distinctlyheard a rustling in a cherry-tree near 
 the window.,ja.nd the sound of cautious footsteps 
 stealing from the house ; but though he got up 
 and looked, he saw no one. Some time after, it 
 might be an hour, or perhaps two, he heard Man- 
 son come in through the outer room and go up- 
 stairs. This was all he could tell of the prisoner's 
 movements." 
 
 Then came the persons who had found the 
 pieces of plate buried beneath a vine that over- 
 run the prisoner's cottage ; and here the coun- 
 sel for the State rested his case. 
 
 Poor Manson ! he had scanty evidence to offer 
 in opposition to this array of facts. What was 
 his previous good character against the appear- 
 ances thickened darkly around him ? Who could 
 he call upon to prove that the intervals between 
 leaving the house and retiring to his room had 
 been spent in hurrying to Jones' house to keep 
 tryst with its lovely inmate, and to find the place 
 shut up, and darkness all around ? Who would 
 prove that the time he had spent in attempting 
 to rouse the fair girl, and in wandering along the 
 edge of the woods, for the mere pleasure of 
 gazing upon the roof that sheltered her? 
 
 He had told Lucy of this, and she believed 
 him ; but who else would be found to place 
 faith in the statement of an accused man ? His 
 heart grew faint as the time approached for his 
 defence. He could not find courage to look 
 upon the sweet face constantly turned toward 
 his. It was a moment of terrible depression ; 
 his consciousness of innocence seemed but a 
 poor support then. In agony of spirit he groaned 
 aloud, yielding himself up to the bitterness of 
 despair. 
 
 The sound of his agony smote upon Thomas 
 Jones' heart. The cane shook more violently 
 between his hands, and forcing a passage to 
 the old lawyer, who seemed about to rise, he 
 whispered, 
 
 " Now— now I can't keep silent any longer ! I 
 will speak!" 
 
 " Go back to your place, poor old fool !" was 
 the quiet answer ; " wait till you are called for. 
 It is a wise man that knows when to speak and 
 when to hold his tongue. Just this minute, 
 Jonea, you are anything but a wise man." 
 
 While he was saying this, the lawyer had not 
 changed his position or looked upon the agitated 
 old man. No one would have thought he was at 
 all interested in what was passing. 
 
 " But," persisted Jones, 
 
 "But," repeated the other, calmly twisting a 
 piece of tap^ arouud soma papers. " Go baclc 
 to youf seat m^ hold yoiif tongue, or I shall 
 
50 
 
 ROCK RUIN; OR, THE U AUG II TEE OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 have a fancy to knock you clown in the court- 
 room." 
 
 The farmer did not quite obey this good-na- 
 tured rudeness, but he submitted to the most 
 important injunction, that of holding hia tongue, 
 and kept his place in restive silence. 
 
 The lawyer seemed in no hurry to open his 
 case. It took him a long time to arrange his 
 papers and turn down the leaves in his sheep- 
 skin books. At last he ai'ose, took out bis watch, 
 smiled a little on finding it later than he had 
 supposed, and opened his address to the court. 
 
 Nothing so irrelevant had ever fallen from his 
 lips before. He talked about everything but his 
 case ; grow poetical, then prosy ; then dashed 
 off in a display of wit that seeme'^d quite uncalled 
 for in so grave a case, but which kept all around 
 in a state of delighted attention. A, shrewd ob- 
 server would have said that the old lawyer had 
 a purpose of his own and carried it. It was late 
 when he sat down, and the court had no time 
 to hear the evidence, which he professed to have 
 in abundance to offer for the defence. 80 the 
 trial was adjourned over to the next day. 
 
 " There," said the lawyer, turning to John 
 Jones, with a smile, as the prisoner was carried 
 out, " you see that it reqmres wisdom to know 
 when to speak. They have got enough of it this 
 time, I fancy." 
 
 A look of keen intelligence shot over the farm- 
 er's face that a moment before had worn an ex- 
 pression of contemptuous dissatisfaction. 
 
 " Oh, it is getting through that thick head of 
 yours at last, is it ?" said Harvey, gathering up 
 his hat and cane. " But this is no time for non- 
 sense. You say your daughter is going to stay 
 in town to-night— after dark you and I must row 
 to Rock Ruin for the rendezvous with our friends 
 there." 
 
 Jones started erect, and his eyes flashed be- 
 neath their heavy brows. 
 
 " We shall find them ! Oh, that long speech of 
 yourn— jist to think I was cursing it in my heart 
 all the while for the craziest mess ever heard. 
 Why, it will be the salvation of poor Manson af- 
 ter all." 
 
 "Of course it will; but bestir yourself. I have 
 a posse of men ready, and as soon as possible 
 we must be under way— give Hyatt a chance to 
 go on first. You see ' I place all credit in the 
 robbers' post, though others might think it 
 smacked more of humbug than my speech it- 
 self." 
 
 "God grant the scoundrels are there," cried 
 Jones. " They will be— the Lord is helping us." 
 
 " He has just found out the heavenly beauties 
 of that speech, though I think the judge would 
 be puzzled to do it," muttered the lawyer, laugh- 
 ing quietly as he walked out of the court-room. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 An hour after this conversation, the lawyer 
 and John Jones were on their way to the boats, 
 where the constable and his men awaited them. 
 
 Mr. Harvey had to call at his office first, and 
 as they approached the steps they saw two men, 
 who had just halted there. In the proud, stately 
 bearing of the elder both recognized the master 
 of Star Island. 
 
 Harvey hurried forward to meet them, and 
 they entered his ofBce, where Jones followed a 
 little shylv, oppressed by the thought of the con- 
 fession wnich he must make his employer. 
 
 " What is this I hear?" demanded Connor, at 
 once. " A robbery at my house ! Manson arrested 
 —on trial, and I in ignorance of it ! How is this, 
 Mr. Harvey, how is this ?" 
 
 " The trial proceeded at your orders, sir," re- 
 plied the lawyer. ' ' I saw the letter you wrote 
 Hyatt placing the matter in his hands." 
 
 " I never wrote him a line in my life, sir," was 
 the prompt reply. 
 
 " Then he forged it." 
 
 "Most likely,^' replied Mr. Conner, dryly. 
 " But now lot me hear the whole story — it is per- 
 fect confusion in my mind at present." 
 
 "Tell me first, Jones," cried Gerald, "if the 
 old Irishman is safe and well ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," he answered, stilL avoiding Con- 
 ner's eye ; " but he can't move about yet." 
 
 Conner gave a look of intelligence to his son, 
 and then motioned the lawyer to proceed. 
 
 Mr. Harvey told the story clearly from begin- 
 ning to end, and John Jones revealed his share 
 of wrong-doing with a contrite simplicity which 
 proved that he had suffered enough already for 
 his obstinacy and folly. 
 
 " There is more here than you understand," 
 Conner said at last, smiling a little, then giving 
 a sigh of pain. " You say, Jones, that the man 
 who calls himself Gorman is still there ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and I believe he is the worst of the 
 lot." 
 
 " I wonder if he is only a thief like the others," 
 mused the lawyer. 
 
 " He has been playing for a great stake, and 
 has lost." 
 
 They were soon ready to start on their expe- 
 dition, and Conner and his son accompanied 
 them in the boat which had brought them up 
 the river. 
 
 It was long after dark when they passed Star 
 Island, and lights gleamed out cheerfully from 
 the mansion as they came opposite it, but the 
 master and his son made no pause ; only the 
 boat containing their baggage halted there'; the 
 others pushed rapidly on to Rock Ruin. 
 
 Conner did not once address his son after they 
 passed the island ; he sat upright and still, look- 
 ing sadly down upon the waters. With so many 
 memories of the old life tugging at his heart, he 
 had no room for words, mingled with hopes such 
 as never until then had he been able to indulge 
 during all those long years of exile, kept him al- 
 most solemnly still. 
 
 The day had been cloudy, and there was no 
 moon, so the night had come on unusually dark. 
 All waited in breathless anxiety, and every eye 
 was bent upon the chff that loomed up before 
 them m the darkness, dark and grim as a feudal 
 town. 
 
 " See, see !" cried Jones, grasping young Con- 
 ner's arm. " There is the hght !" 
 
 Sure enough, at that instant a faint glow 
 beamed through the heavy vines half way up 
 the rock, and for a yard around the leaves 
 seemed bathed in gold. 
 
 " Not yet, not yet," said the lawyer, when the 
 whole party would have started forward. "It 
 would be folly to surprise them till they have had 
 time to unearth the spoil. Hark, they are on the 
 ground floor among the stone. It was impossi- 
 ble to search that place thoroughly." 
 
 In truth, the stillness was so profound that the 
 watchers could all distinctly hear the crash of 
 huge stones falling back on each other, mingled 
 
ROCK BUIN; OB, THE DAUGHTEB OF THE ISLAND, 
 
 ol 
 
 with the jingle of metals and a faint hum of 
 voices. 
 
 "Now," whispered the lawyer, "now. There 
 is only a light from the upper crevices. Move 
 forward, one and all, but softly — these fellows 
 have keen ears." 
 
 Cautiously, and without breaking a twig or 
 branch in the way, the group moved forward, 
 and one by one crept through the entrance into 
 the lower cave. All was dark there, and they 
 gathered around around the entrance, while 
 Jones crept softly up the stairs. He reached the 
 platform in safety, and turning the bright side of 
 a pocket lantern, with which the lawyer had sup- 
 plied him, lighted the rugged pass for the rest 
 to ascend. 
 
 One by one they crept along the threatening 
 height, till one half the number stood upon the 
 platform, headed by the two Conners, while the 
 rest, under the guidance of the lawyer, concealed 
 themselves so as to guard the entrance below. 
 
 Mr. Conner bent his eye to the crevice which 
 ^ Jones had found so convenient on another occa- 
 sion, and looked into the room. Two men were 
 sitting upon some fragments of stone in the cen- 
 ter of the apartment, and two others knelt by a 
 heap of plate and other valuables which they 
 were dividing into separate parcels. 
 
 One of these men held a lamp, which, added to 
 the glttter from the precious metal, threw a 
 broad light on his face, and though the others 
 were watching him keenly, the arch rogue con- 
 trived to slide several of the smaller articles into 
 his pocket without detection. 
 
 "Now, fellows," Hyatt was saying, "you must 
 all three be off with your share before morning, 
 or Gorman will be upon us as sure as you live. 
 He is furious at not finding the will, and we are 
 in a mighty ticklish situation so near him." 
 
 " I say. Smith, neither you nor Hyatt have a 
 right to these goblets," cried one of the men, 
 without heeding this speech, " so just put them 
 on the other heap. Blake and I are both sober 
 ar8 judges to-night, so you needn't expect to 
 overreach us." 
 
 " I have made a fair division," said Smith, 
 holding the goblet irresolutely in his hand, and 
 looking ai Hyatt, who turned angrily around. 
 
 "None of your black looks," cried the man. 
 "We brought four of those goblets from the 
 old house, just one apiece. If you and Smith 
 chose to bury yours under that young fellow's 
 grape-vine in order to send him to prison, it was 
 no affair of ours. You had your motives and 
 , must pay for them. Those two goblets fall to us, 
 I say; so pitch them on the other heap and it will 
 save trouble." 
 
 " What do you mean, you scoundrel !" cried 
 Hyatt, turning fiercely upon the speaker. "How 
 dare you talk like that 1 
 
 "Hush!" said Smith, forcing Hyatt to his 
 knees again. "Let them have the cups; we 
 won't quarrel among ourselves." 
 
 " But we may quarrel anyhow," said Blake. 
 "I tell you, Hvatt, we may'join you willingly 
 enough in the robbery of a rich man, but when 
 L it comes to sending an innocent, first rate fellow 
 to prison, or allowing him to be lynched for our 
 follies, it's a little too rough." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" cried Hyatt, turning 
 white with rage. " I've sent no man to prison— 
 \ want nobody lynched." 
 
 "No," replied the other, with a bitter laugh ; 
 
 "you didn't wheedle us out of the cups tofatiton 
 guilt on John Manson ! You didn't sow suspicion 
 against him, and forge a letter from old Conner 
 placmg the affair in your hands I I saw the poor 
 fellow m court to-day, and that pretty girl with 
 her mournful eyes. It was enough to make an 
 honest man of me. By the Lord, I'd half a mind 
 to quit the concern altogether, come out like a 
 man and tell the whole." 
 
 " You were ?" said Hyatt, and his eyes began 
 to gleam more fiercely ; " you were, eh ?" 
 
 " Yes, I was, and may yet, if you put on that 
 air too often. I am not to be bullied, my friend, 
 I can tell you that to begin with." 
 
 Hyatt sprang upon the young man like a tiger, 
 but Smith seized him with both powerful arms, 
 and dragged him back to the floor. 
 
 "None of this; Hyatt was not in earnest; he 
 didn't intend to strike you, Blake. There, take 
 the goblets and be friends." 
 
 Smith flung the goblets on Blake's share of the 
 spoil, and bending down to Hyatt, whispered in 
 his ear. Hyfttt started up and ofiered his hand 
 to Blake. 
 
 "You are right— the cups all belong to your 
 portion— let the matter drop." 
 
 Blake still remained sullen, and rejected the 
 proffered hand. Smith and Hyatt exchanged 
 glances. 
 
 " Well, well, we shall be better friends before 
 the next rich job presents itself," said Smith. 
 " Now let each take his share and be off." 
 
 " He will betray us," whispered Smith, as 
 Blake and his companion were loading them- 
 selves with plunder. 
 
 " If he lives to do it !" and Hyatt hfted his ser- 
 pent eyes with a look that made even the stout 
 robber recoil. It was but a momentary glance, 
 and then Hyatt began like the others to gather 
 up his share of the valuables. 
 
 He was interrupted by a voice from below, call- 
 ing his name in a loud, commanding tone, from 
 below : 
 
 "Hyatt! Hyatt!" 
 
 " That's Gorman," he said, " curse him 1 How 
 did he find out we were here. Shove the things 
 out of the way." 
 
 While the others were obeying this order, he 
 passed through the recess, and held a light out 
 over the platform. The rays fell upon Gorman 
 as he stood in the lower cavern, but no other 
 human form was visible, although near enough 
 to have touched him were crouched the lawyer 
 and his party. 
 
 The crafty old lawyer had heard the sound of 
 ■oars in the water, and had plenty of time to give 
 his companions above notice to keep perfectly 
 still in their retreat, while he concealed himself 
 and the men under his charge behind a great 
 rock at one end of the lower cavern. 
 
 So Hyatt looked down and saw only that man, 
 although when he recognized the smothered pas- 
 sion in his face, white and terrible in that strange 
 light, he would almost rather, perhaps, have met 
 justice itself, for like all bullies, he was a coward 
 at heart. 
 
 "Is that you, Mr. Gorman?" he asked in a 
 tone of surprise. 
 
 " Yes— why , not ? Did you think I couldn't 
 find my way to your rat's den?" 
 
 Hyatt did not answer the question, but asked : 
 
 " Will you come up hero ?'^ 
 
 " Of course I will— hold the light lower down." 
 
52 
 
 ttoOK ntfiM; on, Tim dauoiitjer of the Island. 
 
 Hyatt chafed under the tone of insolent com- 
 mand, but obeyed without a word. 
 
 " Shall I come down part way and help you?" 
 he inquired. 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, Mr. Hyatt, but I fancy 
 that I shall get up quite as rapidly without help," 
 sneered the other, commencing the ascent with 
 reckless haste. 
 
 If a look could have flung him to the bottom, 
 that man had never reached the platform ahve. 
 Just as he reached the most dangerous place, 
 Hyatt artfully moved the lamp so that the dan- 
 ger was partially hidden, and a single misstep 
 would have consigned him to an instant and 
 horrible death, but Hyatt had to deal with a 
 spirit that knew no fear. 
 
 Gorman caught hold of the vine, and bal- 
 anced himself, calling out in an easy tone : 
 
 " Mr. Hyatt, if you don't hold that light so I 
 can see, 1 shall have the pleasure of wringing 
 your neck when I reach the plaiform." 
 
 There was a laugh from Blake within which 
 chafed Hyatt beyond endurance, but he changed 
 the position of the light, and in a moment Gor- 
 man stood in safety by his side. 
 
 " Pass on," he said, curtly, and Hyatt crouched 
 through the recess and he followed. 
 
 Once in the chamber, Gorman looked keenly 
 round, taking in every object with that keen 
 gaze. 
 
 " So I have heard the truth, Mr. Hyatt," he 
 said, '• you are preparing to leave this place ?" 
 
 " Not at all, not at all," stammered Hyatt, 
 " we only met here to settle our own affairs'" 
 
 " Blake," called out Gorman, " you are going 
 to-morrow, are you not ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," ho answered. 
 
 Hyatt gave him a venomous scowl, which 
 Blake repaid with a look of defiance. 
 
 "I knew you lied !" said Gorman, quietly. 
 
 " You're a bold man to come here and talk in 
 this tone I" hissed Hyatt, unable to control his 
 rage. 
 
 "Bah ! I know you are a coward!" returned 
 he; "moreover, if you raised your hand, I 
 should have at least two of your men on my 
 side," and he pointed to Blake and Hinson. 
 " You see, Mr. Hyatt, I am quite a match for 
 you." 
 
 " So they are the traitors !" snarled Hyatt ; 
 "they told you of this place. Never mind, it 
 will be my turn next 1" 
 
 " You have kept me hero with false promises," 
 continued Gorman; "you have lied without 
 stint. You never meant to help me to find that 
 will— you only wanted to steal that silver, like a 
 beggarly thief, as you are !" 
 
 " I'd "as lief steal silver as a will !" retorted 
 Hyatt. 
 
 " I was in search of what is rightfully my own," 
 replied Gorman. " I only made the mistake of 
 employing such a pitiful knave as you. I made 
 you an offer, which would have been a fortune to 
 you, but you could not resist your natural trick- 
 ery. If I had trusted these men instead of you 
 I should have succeeded." 
 
 " That's true," said Blake ; " but he meant to 
 keep all the money himself— that's what he calls 
 being fair with comrades." 
 
 Hyatt chafed and snarled like a wild beast ; for 
 an instant it seemod as if he would have sprung 
 upon Gorman, but a second glance at that stal- 
 
 wart form, with the right hand clutching a re- 
 volver, restrained him. 
 
 "Smith," be cried, " do you mean to see me 
 stand alone ?" 
 
 "Oh," returned Smith, coolly, "you haven't 
 been exactly on the square with us. You know 
 Mr. Gorman has been paying you large sums of 
 money all along, and nary red has ever come our 
 way; indeed, we knew nothing about it until after 
 the night wo were up at Conner's house." 
 
 " These men," pursued Gorman, " would have 
 dealt honorably by me ; they would not have run 
 the risk of involving me in a robbery when I was 
 ready to pay them more than they could gain by 
 it." 
 
 " I did my best for vou," said Hyatt. " I could 
 not tell where the will might be any more than 
 you. It may not be too late yet— we may find it." 
 
 " Tush ! ' Conner will be here very soon, and 
 you know it." 
 
 " Why not try to-night," suggested Smith. " It 
 I had my way I should go into the old man's 
 room and choke his secret out of him. Ten to 
 one the will is hidden under his mattress or the 
 carpet ; he'd choose just such a place ; but he'd 
 give it up sooner than be throttled till the breath 
 was quite out of his body." 
 
 " Will you do this ?" asked German. 
 
 " I'll try it if I'm paid." 
 
 " And we'll help him," added the other two. 
 
 " Name your own sum," said Gorman, " and 
 when the will is in my hands it is yours." 
 
 " I am quite ready to make another trial," said 
 Hyatt ; " I have never refused." 
 
 Gorman made him a bow of ironical respect. 
 
 " I really must decline your valuable assist- 
 ance, Mr. Hyatt," he said; "I have had quite 
 enough of it." 
 
 " And do you suppose I'll let you go without 
 me ?" retorted Hyatt. 
 
 " I don't fancy that you will have any choice 
 in the matter," replied Gorman, coolly. 
 
 " And who'll hinder me ?" 
 
 " I shall !" he replied, with the most danger- 
 ous calmness. 
 
 With a terrible oath Hyatt sprang forward and 
 closed in with him. There was an instant's ter- 
 rific struggle, during which both fell to the floor ; 
 but before the three men could separate them, a 
 loud voice from without pronounced the word : 
 
 "Now!" 
 
 In an instant the room was full of men, and 
 blazing with light from the lanterns they had 
 kindled as they entered. 
 
 Hyatt released his hold of Gorman, who sprang 
 to his feet, and stood at the further side of the 
 cavern, his eyes blazing, his right hand grasping 
 his pistol, and looldng like a mad animal at bay. 
 
 "Let me seothis man !" cried Mr. Conner, ap- 
 proaching him with a light. " It is as I sup- 
 posed—my evil-liearted cousin !" he exclaimed, 
 as the light fell upon his features. " Worthy of 
 your father— leagued with felons — a criminal 
 yourself!" 
 
 The man sprang forward with a cry of insane 
 passion— there was murder in his look, and 
 several of the men started forward to seize him. 
 
 Gorman started back, snarling viciously. His 
 face was ghastly, his white teeth glistened be- 
 neath the half- uplifted lip. He vibrated upon the 
 very edge of the abyss unconscious of his awful 
 danger. 
 
 A warning cry broke from the horror-stricken 
 
BOOK RUIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND. 
 
 53 
 
 men. He heard it, and half turned his white face 
 to look back at the danger, and with a howl of 
 fear attempted to plunge forward, but terror had 
 paralyzed him— his arms were flung out, but his 
 feet were powerlessly sliding from under him. 
 One fearful lunge, a wild grasp in the air, and a 
 slow, sullen plunge, followed by a shriek so aw- 
 ful that the human souls that heard it never for- 
 got the sound, and the evil man was gone— the 
 darkness had engulfed him. The sullen roar 
 of the waters came up from the cavernous depths 
 where he had been hurled, like the far-off howl 
 of wild animals quarrelling over their prey. 
 
 Slowly, like a troop of ghosts, that group of 
 men crept to the brinK of tne abyss, and flashed 
 their lanterns down its impenetrable darkness, 
 but the cry was not repeated— only the sullen 
 roar of the unseen waters alone met their ears ! 
 
 The four robbers atood motionless and white 
 as death, each pinioned between two men white 
 and horror-stricken as himself. Not a word was 
 spoken, not a breath was audible— the profound 
 stillness seemed more awful than the shriek 
 had been. 
 
 Cautiously and tremblingly the men let them- 
 selves down that fearful descent, captors and 
 criminals aiding each other, like friends in mu- 
 tual peril. 
 
 In silence they abandoned Rock Ruin ; now 
 and then the constable gave an order under his 
 breath, but this was all. 
 
 They rowed slowly down the river, oppressed 
 by the awful scene they had witnessed, and at 
 the island the two Conners landed, accompanied 
 by the lawyer, while the other boats swept on 
 down the stream, bearing the wretched criminals 
 to justice. 
 
 Before they reached the house the news of the 
 master's arrival had reached it, and' the domes- 
 tics stood grouped in the hall, after the fashion 
 of his early home, to receive him. 
 
 While he was speaking to the housekeeper, a 
 voice of wild pathos sounded from above the 
 stairs. 
 
 " Master, have you come ? Master ! master !" 
 
 " It's the old Irishman," Mrs. Jordan said ; 
 " he heard you were here, and is trying to drag 
 himself down-stairs." 
 
 Conner sprang up the stairs, followed by his 
 son, and half the household followed, oppressed 
 by a sudden sense of misery. 
 
 The old man was crouching, partially dressed, 
 against the bannisters, and as Conner ap- 
 proached he put his hands above his eyes and 
 stared down at him with a countenance so full 
 of devotion, so strangely eloquent, that it seemed 
 more than human. 
 
 " Robert !" Conner exclaimed in wonder. " Is 
 it you, Robert?" 
 
 The old man gave a low, joyous sob, and fell at 
 his master's feet, embracing his knees with his 
 old, trembling hands. 
 
 "I have found him ! I have kept my oath! 
 The will is here — the will— master— master, you 
 are Earl of Enruth now !" 
 
 And all that while the mutilated body of the 
 poor wretch who had dared so much for worldly 
 
 gain, floated down the unseen waters, looking 
 mournfully against the underground rocks, while 
 the band of robbers, of whom he had been at 
 once master and dupe, wore borne swiftly on to 
 a just and sure retribution for their crimes. 
 
 You should have heard the shout that went up 
 in the court room when John Manson was de- 
 clared " not guilty." You should have seen John 
 Jones standing there pressing the young man's 
 hand in his with the grip of a vise, while the hot 
 tears went streaming down his cheeks like rain 
 upon the embrowned leaves of autumn. You > 
 should have seen that lovely girl, Lucy Jones, 
 with her blue eyes shining like humid violets, 
 and those bright lips all in a quiver of holy joy ! 
 
 Then again you should have been up at the 
 great house on the wedding-day, for tne earl 
 would allow them to be married from no meaner 
 place. Such a day ! It seemed made on pur- 
 pose for them. Never were flowers so bright as 
 those that caught the breeze that morning. You 
 might have found violets on the river's bank, 
 that scented everything about till the very grass 
 that hid them was bathed in fragrance. 
 
 The spicy breath of the honeysuckles came 
 sweeping in from the open windows, and moss 
 roses, with their delicious fragrance, just such as 
 Mrs. Jordan rifled the bushes of to make a gar- 
 land for Lucy's head, and there they bloomed 
 among those beautiful tresses, with the faintest 
 blush slumbering at the core, as if the moss had 
 caught fire and was just beginning to kindle. 
 
 The old lawyer stood rubbing his hands to- 
 gether when the lovely girl came forth, with her 
 bridal dress relieved with ribbons of the faintest 
 rose color, and the prettiest blush coming and 
 going on her cheek. 
 
 Altogether it was a day worth remembering, I 
 can assure you. As for Manson, his fine face was 
 all in a glow of happiness ; and the old lawyer's 
 heart was so mellowed and warmed up that be- 
 fore the company dispersed he slipped a little 
 parcel into Lucy s hand, which on opening she 
 found to contain exactly the number of gold 
 pieces which had been paid him for that long 
 speech ; and this being the first instance, within 
 my knowledge, of a lawyer relinquishing a fee 
 once obtained, I feel, in duty bound, to give it 
 honorable record. 
 
 Altogether it was one ot the pleasantost wed- 
 dings that it has been my good fortune to chron- 
 icle, of that I am perfectly satisfied. 
 
 After awhile, when the Earl of Enruth had 
 taken possession of his inheritance in the old 
 land, John Manson and his jewel of a wife be- 
 came favored tenants of the house on Star Isl- 
 and, and a right pleasant home it was, so pleasant 
 that when the young heir married a high-born 
 lady of his own land, the couple took a long 
 bridal trip over the Atlantic, and far away down 
 that Western river. So far as matrimonial rec- 
 ords have come within my knowledge, there 
 never has never been a happier honeymoon 
 than that which they spent on Star Island, with 
 our friend Lucy for a hostess, and Rock Ruin 
 frowning upon tnem from the distant shore. 
 
 [the end.] 
 
The Widow s Son. 
 
 By Mi?s. EMMA D. K. K. SOUTHWORTH. 
 
 Ye fearful souls fresh cottrage take ; 
 
 The cloud ye so much dread 
 Is big with mercy, and shall break 
 
 In blessings on your heml.— watts. 
 
 H, dear ! what has 
 become of my 
 
 Furse ? Where did 
 leave it? I am 
 sure I had it when 
 I left Dr. Bald- 
 win's," exclaimed 
 Mrs. Sherbourne 
 in trepidation, as 
 she hurriedly 
 searched her pock- 
 her caba, and 
 her muff without 
 finding the lost 
 treasure. She had just returned 
 from making a morning call. 
 
 " Where have you been ?" in- 
 quired her sister Mary. 
 
 "Oh! nowhere at all but to 
 Dr. Baldwin's. Oh ! dear me ! 
 where coTild I have dropped my purse ?" 
 she repeated, in much distress, renew- 
 ing her search. 
 "Was there much in it ?" inquired Mary, in 
 alarm. 
 
 "Only sixteen dollars; but the purse, oh, the 
 ■purse. I would not have lost it for double the 
 amount of money it contained." 
 
 " Was it so valuable, then, my dear?" in- 
 quired Mrs. Martin, an old lady who was mak- 
 ing a morning visit. 
 
 " Oh ! dear me, yes, Mrs. Martin, it was inval- 
 uable to me. I loved that purse as if it had 
 been alive." 
 
 " Oh ! was it that most elegant green and gold 
 one I have seen you with— the most beautiful 
 purse I ever saw in my life." 
 
 " Oh, yes, that was the one, and I liked it for 
 its rare beauty ; but I loved it because it was the 
 work of my dear, dear Nelly Moreland, who knit 
 it for me before she went to California with her 
 husband. I would not have taken its weight in 
 precious stones for it. Ohl my poor, dear 
 purse," said the lady, with the tears springing 
 into her eyes. 
 
 " Are you very sure that you did not leave it 
 at Dr. Baldwin's," asked Mary. 
 
 " Absolutely certain. I always carry it hang- 
 ing across my glove, because I love to look at it 
 — it is such a beauty, and then it was dear Nelly's 
 work, And I remember, now, perfectly, admir- 
 ing its effect hanging over my drab glove as I 
 came down Seventh Street. And that is the last 
 that I remember of it. Oh dear ! I would give 
 anything I possess only to see it once more; 
 how could I have been so careless with my 
 beauty of a purse ?" 
 
 '• Well, my dear, you will have to advertise 
 it, that is all," said Mrs. Martin. 
 
 "Oh, of course, I do intend to advertise it; 
 but, dear me, I have very little hope. People 
 scarcely over get back their lost things that way, 
 or any other way, except accidentally." 
 
 " Providentially, " said the old lady. 
 
 " Well, providentially, then ; but at any rate 
 I will advertise, as it is the anly chance." 
 
 And so, without stopping to rest, the lady 
 tied her bonnet strings, drew her shawl around 
 her, and went down to the office of the Intelli- 
 gencer to have the advertisement of the lost 
 purse put in. Then she returned h^ome and 
 awaited the result. But day after day passed, 
 until a month had gone by, without any intelli- 
 gence of a purse found. At length the lady took 
 the advertisement out of the paper and gave up 
 all hopes of its recovery. 
 
 About this time there was a very poor widow 
 with two children, a boy of twelve and a girl of 
 eight. The name of her son was Charley and 
 that of her daughter was Bessie. They lived in 
 an old broken down house on Seventh Street. 
 The poor widow tried to support herself and 
 children by eewing ; but needlework is very 
 tedious, and seamstresses are never half paid 
 for their labor, and little as their pay is they 
 often have to wait for it even when they are in 
 great need., And so you may be sure that Mrs. 
 Norton was frequently in great distress for the 
 common necessaries of life. Thus it was with 
 her now. The winter was excessively cold ; 
 wood was eight dollars a cord, flour was twelve 
 dollars a barrel, meat and vegetables were at 
 famine jji-ices. Even the rich felt the pressure 
 and complained heavily. How much more, 
 then, must the poor have felt it? And how 
 much must this destitute widow and her chil- 
 dren have suffered ? Work was very scarce, pay 
 was very low, and was long in coming. The 
 poor widow and her children grew thin, and 
 pale, and weak from cold and hunger. 
 
 On this Saturday, in particular, the day was 
 piercingly cold. The snow was two feet deep on 
 the ground. The Vidow was sitting at work in 
 her room without a spark of fire on the hearth 
 or a mouthful of food in the cupboard. She often 
 had to stop and blow and clap her hands to 
 keep them from freezing, while they were so 
 numb that she could scarcely sew the buttons on 
 the shirt that she was finishing. 
 
 Little Bessie was ill in bed, and Charlie was 
 standing watching his mother with tears in his 
 eyes, and waiting to take that work home. His 
 clothes were very old and patched all over, but 
 they were scrupulously clean. His shoes were 
 so worn out and broken that his toes came 
 through. Poor Charlie was ill protected against 
 the j5iercing cold and deep snow that he would 
 have to brave. And he so thin and pale, too. 
 
 "What's the matter, Charley ?" inquired his 
 mother, when she saw the tears running down 
 his cheeks. 
 
THE WIDOW'S SON. 
 
 "Oh, mother, I can't help crying to see you 
 wt>rk 80 hard, and see little Bessie bo ill, and 
 think how I can't get anything to do to help either 
 of you." 
 
 " It is of no use to cry, Charlie. We must bear 
 euiiering and do the best we can, and trust in the 
 Lord to send us better times. Here, now, take 
 this work and run home with it to Mr. Taylor. 
 Ask him to pay you the four shillings he owes us, 
 and then, when you get it, run around to the 
 lumber yard, and ask Mr. Wood please to be so 
 accommodating as to sell us a wheelbarrow of 
 
 f)iue, as we cannot spare the change to get a 
 arger quantity. Then go to Mr. Baker's, and 
 get a shilling's worth of corn meal, and a six- 
 pence worth of salt herring, and half a pound of 
 rice, to make a pudding for little Bessie. And 
 make haste home, my boy, for you, too, need 
 food and warmth," said the widow, as she fin- 
 ished roiling up the bundle and gave it to her 
 son. 
 
 Charley took it, and ran as fast as he could to 
 Mr. Taylor's clothing store, and asked for the 
 master. 
 
 Mr. Taylor came forward. 
 
 " Here is the work finished, sir. Mother says 
 she hopes you'll like it." 
 
 Mr. Taylor unrolled the parcel, looked at it, 
 and said : 
 
 " Hump ! it will do ;" and threw it to one of 
 the shop boys to put away. 
 
 " Mother says will you please let her have the 
 money, sir, as she has nothing in the house ?" 
 
 " No ; I never pay my work people until their 
 wages run up to five dollars. I cannot be both- 
 ered with small accounts. Your mother ought 
 to have known that." 
 
 " But she didn't, sir ; this is the. ^rs^ work she 
 ever did for you, and you never told her." 
 
 "And it shall be Xholast work she will ever do 
 for me, if I am to be badgered this way," said 
 the merchant, turning off to wait upon a cus- 
 tomer, who was just entering. 
 
 Poor Charley was too retiring and modest to 
 urge his mother's just claims ; and so, with a 
 downcast look and a sinkiag heart, he turned 
 away from the shop. 
 
 It was now the middle of the afternoon. The 
 snow had been cleared from the pavement, and 
 stood piled up along its edges like a miniature 
 range of mountains. The bricks were dry, and 
 though it was still bitingly cold, the pavement 
 was thronged with passengers— men wrapped 
 up in comfortable great coats and mauds ; ladies 
 enveloped in cloth and velvet and furs, and 
 children covered with merino, and swans' down 
 and chinchilli — everybody well defended against 
 the freezing atmosphere, excepting only Char- 
 ley and one or two other unfortunates like him- 
 self. 
 
 He walked along with his bare hands tucked 
 into his empty pockets, his heart sinking with 
 disappointment and grief, and his frame half 
 fainting with cold and hunger. He could not 
 bear to go home empty-handed to his poor 
 mother and suffering little sister. He resolved 
 to walk about and seek some job of shoveling 
 off snow, or putting in coal or wood, or anv- 
 thing, in fact, that he could find to do. He 
 turned off the gay avenue into Seventh Street, 
 that was comparatively quiet, and where the 
 snow still lay upon the pavement, with only a 
 foot-path beaten through it. As he walked slow- 
 
 ly up the street he stopped at various stores to 
 inquire if the proprietors wanted snow shoveled 
 from before their doors ; but he was always 
 either answered "No," or bluntly told to go 
 about his business. So he walked on out Sev- 
 enth Street until the houses grew scarcer and 
 the sidewalks more deserted. 
 
 At length, on the snow path stretching before 
 him, he saw some brilliant object glittering in 
 the sun ; it looked like some bright-scaled ser- 
 pent coiled up, or some beautiful plumagcd 
 bird fallen there. He quickened his steps, 
 reached the spot, and snatched it up. 
 
 Merciful Heaven 1 he nearly fell with aston- 
 ishment and joy. 
 
 It was a heavy purse of green and gold, with 
 broad gold coins glittering through its meshes. 
 
 Charley hugged it to his bosom and cast a 
 frightened look all around him, fearing that 
 some one might even spring up out of the earth 
 and snatch it from him ; then he was afraid of 
 waking up and finding it all a dream ; thon ho 
 set off at the height of his speed, and never 
 stopped or looked behind him until he reached 
 his mother's house. 
 
 He pushed open the door, ran in, and stood 
 trembling, with his heart beating so that he 
 could scarcely speak. 
 
 "Charley! Charley! What is the matter? 
 What haxie you done? Is any one after you?" 
 cried the mother in affright, while poor little 
 Bessie raised herself up in the bed and gazed 
 at her brother in fear and distress. 
 
 " No, no ! nobody's after me— I haven't done 
 anything wrong," said the boy, in a choking 
 voice ; " but -but I've found a fortune !" 
 
 " Found a fortune ! What do you mean, boy ?" 
 
 " I— I've found a purse chuck full of money 
 and doctors, and medicines, and jellies, for 
 poor,' dear little sissy, and— and— green tea and 
 loaf sugar, and— and mutton broth, and— and 
 lots of things for you^ mother— oh, dear ! oh ! 
 boo-hoo-oo I" cried the boy, overcome by his 
 feelings, bursting into tears, and sobbing as if 
 his heart would break. 
 
 As for the poor mother, she really feared that 
 her boy had lost his senses. But after he had 
 had his cry out, and felt more composed, ho 
 calmly told her everything that had happened 
 at the clothes store and on his walk home, and 
 then he took out the purse and showed it to h(5r. 
 
 Oh, what a temptation it was to that poor 
 woman 1 
 
 There lay her sick child upon the bed without 
 food or medicine. 
 
 There stood her cold and hungry boy looking 
 into her face, not doubting that the purse was 
 their own. 
 
 Night — a winter's night — was coming on ; there 
 was no wood, no food, no money, except this, in 
 the house. 
 
 What a temptation ! 
 
 She poured the money out and counted it ; 
 from one end ot the purse came two eagles and 
 ahalf eagle— twenty-five dollars ; from the other 
 end came a dollar and seven shillings in. silver 
 change. " Twenty-six dollars and eighty-seven 
 and a half cents," said the widow, conteniplating 
 the treasure before her. 
 
 " That will buy a cord of wood, a barrel of 
 flour, a ham, a pound of tea, a loaf of sugar, and 
 shoes and clothes, and ever so many nice things 
 for you and sissy, and leave ever so much money 
 
66 
 
 THE WIDOW'S SON. 
 
 behind. Quick, mother, give me one of the 
 tens, and let me go and order the wood, so that 
 they can send it in this afternoon, and I can 
 pitch it all in the cellar before night. And while 
 they are carting it up, I can run 'round to the 
 grocery store and to market, and we'll have such 
 a fire, and such a supper 1" said Charley, eag- 
 erly. 
 
 Oh ! such a look of more than mortal heroism 
 that mother gave that son. 
 
 " This money is not ours, Charley. We must 
 not spend one cent of it," she said tirmly. 
 
 And then the expression of dismay and chagrin 
 with which the boy heard her wortls. 
 
 "Not snend a cent of it ! "Why, didn't I find 
 it, mother? and don't we want it ever so badly, 
 and doesn't it seem just as if the Lord sent it to 
 us ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes, you found it, but then the owner lost it ; 
 we do so want it, but then we have no right to 
 use it ; the Lord sent it to us, truly, but Ho sent 
 it as a test of our honesty. Wo will be faithful 
 to the trust. We will be faithful unto death !" 
 
 "Oh, mother, mother, look at little sister." 
 
 " I do. She is in the Lord's hands." 
 
 " Well, but, dear mother, if we cannot use it 
 all, can't we use a part ? Surely the owner, 
 when we find hira, will reward us ; can't wo take 
 just a little of the reward beforehand? This 
 loose silver change, now— it is a dollar and 
 eighty-seven and a half cents. I know the owner 
 would give me more than this for finding the 
 purse ; can't we use this ? It would get us a 
 supper and fire, and wood and food for to-mor- 
 row, also." 
 
 " Would my boy be a thief?" 
 
 '* Thief! oli mother! I only thought of using 
 beforehand the reward I should be sure to get 
 for finding and restoring this beautiful purse." 
 
 "Would my Charley take money as a reward 
 for being honest ?" 
 
 The boy, who had taken the purse in his hand, 
 now threw it upon the table. 
 
 "Would that be wrong?" he asked. 
 
 " Very wrong, Charley," replied his mother. 
 
 " Oh, how hard it is to be good." 
 
 " Very hard, Charley ; but great is the reward 
 of God's approbation. He is watching us now. 
 Angels are watching with interest to see how we 
 will bear this temptation. Let us bear it, 
 Charley." 
 
 " Yes, we will, mother ; oh f little sister— oh ! 
 little Bessie, must you faint for want of food ?" 
 
 "If I die, angels will carry me to the Lord, 
 and I will ask Him to send down help to you and 
 mother, Charley," said the sick child. " Come 
 and kiss me, Charley. I am going to sleep." 
 
 Charley went and kissed the little one very 
 tenderly, and smoothed the pillow under her 
 head, and drew up the bed clothes around her, 
 and sat and held his hand upon her fair fore- 
 head until she wont to sleep. 
 
 Was the struggle with temptation over then ? 
 and was the victory gained once and forever? 
 
 Ah, no! the battle between principle and 
 privation was to be fought over and over again. 
 
 That afternoon the little family were reduced 
 to the greatest straits. It was absolutely neces- 
 sary to provide for the night and for the Sab- 
 bath, when they could not work ; but how ? 
 
 At length the widow thought of one thing 
 about the house that might be turned into 
 suoney ; jl was aaoia bfett^fed eilver taWobpoon 
 
 —a sole relic of more prosperous times. She 
 sent it to the silversmith, who gave six shillings 
 for it as old silver. 
 
 With this they purchased a little wood and 
 groceries that lasted them for a few days, until 
 the mother could get more work. 
 
 But then the rent had to be paid, and the 
 landlord was impatient and threatened them 
 with expulsion. There was another severe 
 temptation to satisfy his claim with a portion of 
 the money in the purse. But they resisted it, 
 ana sold their stove to pay the debt. 
 
 Each week they grew poorer. Each we^k 
 some portion of the scanty furniture had to be 
 sold to satisfy some craving necessity of hunger 
 or of cold. Each week the temptation to use 
 the money in the purse waxed stronger ; but 
 with the bitterness of their hardships and the 
 strength of their trial, the might of their virtue 
 seemed to increase. 
 
 They could not afford to pay for advertising 
 the lost purse, and they took no newspaper, and 
 therefore would not see the advertisement for 
 it. But they lot their poor neighbors and friends 
 know that they had found a purse of money, and 
 that the owner mighi have it by coming and 
 proving property. Still no one appeared to 
 claim it. 
 
 And it had remained for a month upon their 
 hands, when one day Charley brought home a 
 bundle of work from the store for his mother. 
 When she had unrolled it, he took up the paper 
 in which it had been wrapped and began to 
 read. 
 
 It was a paper three weeks old, yet so poor 
 was Charley in reading matter that he was glad 
 to have even that. While ho was reading the 
 advertisements he suddenly made an exclama- 
 tion—" Oh ! mother, mother, here is the purae 
 advertised." 
 
 " What ! do tell me ! read it, it may be a mis- 
 take," Said the mother. 
 
 " No, it isn't a mistake, listen : 
 
 " * Lost.— On Seventh Street, between New York 
 and Pennsylvania Avenues, on Saturday afternoon, 
 a green and gold purse, bordered with a wreath of 
 forget-me-nots in their natural colors, and contiiia- 
 ing sixteen dollars in gold and silver. The finder 
 may retain the contents by returning the purse at 
 this office.' " 
 
 " Yes, it is the purse," said the widow. " You 
 must go and restore it, Charley." 
 
 "But, mother, the conte^rts ; this purse that I 
 found contains twentv-six dollars ; the adver- 
 tisement speaks of only sixteen." 
 
 "For all that it is the same purse ; it proba- 
 bly belongs to some rich person who had been 
 shopping or paying workmen, and did not know 
 exactly how much money was left in it. Eun, 
 Charley, and restore it." 
 
 The boy picked up his hat, and, with his face 
 all aglowj ran to the Intelligencer ofi&ce. 
 
 That night when Mrs. Sherbourne was sitting 
 in her comfortable back parlor, waiting tea for 
 her husband, Mr. Sherbourne entered, and 
 handing her a folded paper, said, " Mv dear, 
 here is a note that was left at my store for you 
 this evening." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I suppose it is some new charita- 
 ble association that somebody wants to engage 
 mo in ; let it wait until we have had our tea. 
 You look worn out, dear% Wli&t kept you so 
 
TSE WIDOW'S SON. 
 
 57 
 
 " Oh, that boy Jenkins." 
 
 " Your youngest salesman ?" 
 
 " Yes ; he has put his lingers in the till ! I 
 only discovered it this afternoon." 
 
 " Oh, how shocking I and that is the second 
 boy you have had to dismiss for pilfering." 
 
 " Yes ; you see the temptation is very strong 
 to boys who are not confirmed in good prin- 
 ciples." 
 
 " What will you do ?" 
 
 " I don't know, I am sure. If I could only 
 get a boy whom I could fully trust, I would 
 make his fortune." 
 
 " Well, it's a pity ; but cast care aside for the 
 present, and take your tea," said the lady, as 
 tbe waiter placed the steaming silver urn upon 
 the table. 
 
 While the master of the house was sipping his 
 " imperial," the mistress opened her note with 
 an exclamation of joy. 
 
 " What is it ?" inquired the gentleman. 
 
 " Oh, my purse, my purse is found ! and has 
 been left at the Intelligencer office." 
 
 " Indeed 1 I congratulate you. We must go 
 to-morrow morning and get it." 
 
 Accordingly, the next morning Mr. and Mrs, 
 Sherbourne called at the Intelligencer office to 
 reclaim the purse. 
 
 "But it is full of money," said Mrs. Sher- 
 bourne, " and I think you must have under- 
 stood my directions to give its contents to the 
 finder. And, by the way, who was the finder?" 
 
 " A very poor boy, madam ; the son of a des- 
 titute widow, but one who firmly refused to take 
 any reward for being honest." 
 
 " And he poor 1" 
 
 ** Very poor, indeed, madam, I should judge 
 from bis pinched looks and patched raiment.'^ 
 
 " But why did you not insist ?" 
 
 " I did, madam ; but he was firm, and finally 
 blushed with shame at the idea of being paid 
 for honesty." 
 
 The lady's face was all aglow with admiration. 
 
 "Mr. Sherbourne, do you hear that?" she 
 said, in trembling tones. Then turning again 
 to the clerk: "Where does this boy live?" she 
 
 " Fortunately, I asked his address : he lives 
 at No. — Seventh Street." 
 
 "Come, Mr. Sherbourne, let's go to him; he 
 must be rewarded," said the ladv, as she took 
 her husband's arm and left the office. 
 
 A bi-isk walk of ten minutes brought them to 
 the widow's door. 
 
 That morning the widow was sitting over a 
 handful of coals and working as hard as ever, 
 for she had not yet earned tbe five dollars that 
 she was obliged to earn before she could receive 
 any money from her employer. 
 
 Little Bessie lay siififering patiently in bod. 
 Charley was sitting upon a cricket netting a 
 seine, for which he expected to get a dollar 
 when finished. 
 
 There was a rap at the door, and, to the wid- 
 ow's "Come in!" entered Mr. and Mrs. Sher- 
 bourne. The lady held the purse in her hand. 
 And the widow and her family understood at 
 once why she came. 
 
 " 1 am the one who lost this purse, and this 
 is the youth, I think, who restored it, and re- 
 fused to accept any reward," said the lady, ad- 
 vancing and oflfering her hand to Charley, who 
 blushed ingenuously as ho took it. 
 
 " There was no reward merited. The finding 
 of the purse was accident. The restoration of 
 it was duty," said the widow, as she arose and 
 handed chairs to the visitors. 
 
 " And you will not suffer me, then, to comply 
 with the terms of the advertisement ?" asked 
 the lady. 
 
 " I cannot permit myself or my son to be paid 
 for doing that which not to have done would 
 have been criminal," said the widow, with a 
 mild dignity that constrained respect. 
 
 The lady cast a beseeching look at her hus- 
 band, who, understanding her meaning, in- 
 quired of the boy : 
 
 " Charley, have you been to school ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, to the free echool." 
 
 "Can you write a fair hand and keep ac- 
 counts ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir." 
 
 " Madam," said Mr. Sherbourne, turning to 
 the widow, " I am in want of a youth to assist 
 me in my store. If you are willing that your 
 son should take the situation, I should be very 
 glad to secure his services at once at a salary of 
 sixteen dollars a month. If he likes the busi- 
 ness, and remains with me, his salary shall 
 be increased in proportion to his usefulness. 
 Come, what say you ?" 
 
 " I say that the Lord is good, and I praise 
 and bless Him first and you next, sir — you 
 next. God bless you !" cried the widow, burst- 
 ing into grateful, happy tears. 
 
 "And what say you to this arrangement, my 
 son ?" said the merchant, turning to Charley. 
 
 "Oh, dear sir, I thank you more than I can 
 ever express, and I only fear that I shall never 
 be worth sixteen dollars a month to you or any- 
 body, though I would do my very best— indeed 
 I would !" 
 
 " And if you do that your value would be be- 
 yond price," answered the merchant. 
 
 "Charley, Charley !" said a little plaintive 
 voice from the bed, " ask the dear gentleman to 
 come and kiss me." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Sherbourne went immediately 
 to the bedside and kissed the snow-white fore- 
 head and crimson cheek of the little suflTerer, 
 who return ed their caresses. 
 
 " What is the matter with her ?" asked the lady. 
 
 " A sort of decline, madame," answered the 
 poor mother, with the tears springing to her 
 eyes. 
 
 " I think it is the want of pure air and proper 
 nourishment, and sufficient warmth ; but all 
 this can be supplied now," said the lady. 
 
 They then advanced to Charley a month's sal- 
 ary to fit himself out, and soon alter took their 
 leave. 
 
 There is little more to be said. The widow's 
 family soon moved into a beautiful little white 
 cottage, with green window bhnds and a new 
 garden, and which was furnished neatly and let 
 to them at a low rent by Mr. Sherbourne. 
 
 Mrs. Sherbourne supplied the mother with as 
 much family needle- work as she could do at a 
 very fair price. 
 
 Little Bessie, with the comforts oflifeaboutj. 
 her, soon got well. 
 
 And as for Charley, he so grows into the favor 
 of his employer that Mr. Sherbourne confidently 
 looks forward to the day when he shall take him 
 into partnership. 
 
The Missing Link, 
 
 By CIaARENCK m. boutkllk. 
 
 The through express was late that night. 
 
 Fifty miles an hour, hour after hour, it had 
 rushed along, with only an occasional stop, and 
 with hardly a slackening of speed at the smaller 
 stations. The night was a bad one : moonlight 
 at times, with the blackest of shadows, strange 
 and fantastic, lying in cuts and along curves, 
 seeming like threats of danger, and just where 
 danger might be feared, at least, if not expected ; 
 then scattering clouds, hurried by the autumn 
 wind, shutting out all light from the sky, at 
 limes, and usually when it was most needed or 
 would have been most welcome. Malcolm Bar- 
 nard looked straight ahead, never taking his 
 gaze from the shining lines of steel, under the 
 light his engine cast into the night of darkness 
 or of shadows ; but there was a frown on his fine 
 face, for he felt that he was losing time and 
 could not help it. 
 
 The night went on. 
 
 The through express went on. 
 
 At every station at which it stopped, it was 
 possible there might be orders to wait. But, at 
 station after station, the telegraphic orders, 
 which were actually waiting the train's coming, 
 were to go on. 
 
 An hour late at one station ! Midnight then, 
 with the full moon almost on the meridian, and 
 the clouds flying faster than ever from the strong 
 south wind. 
 
 Forty-five minutes late at the next station ! 
 One o'clock now, with the moonshine shut away 
 and the clouds victorious. Malcolm Barnard 
 smiled grimljr. 
 
 "We've gained fifteen minutes in an hour's 
 run," he said, half to himself and half to the 
 fireman. " I wonder how much time we'll gain 
 in the next fifty miles ?" 
 
 " The fireman did not take it upon himself to 
 answer. But, as the train slowly pulled out 
 from the station, and Barnard fixed his gaze on 
 the track again, the fireman shook his head ;. he 
 seemed gloomy and depressed ; possibly he be- 
 lieved in presentiments. 
 
 Malcolm Barnard had not been married forty- 
 eight hours. He was a fine-looking fellow, but 
 he didn't look much like a bridegroom just now. 
 There wasn't enough happiness in his face to 
 warrant. a guess that he was one. He was wor- 
 ried about the train losing time. But when he 
 reached a straight, smooth track, which he did 
 directly, and a mile began to fall behind them 
 for every minute, he seome*^. tn rally. 
 
 " I suppose I ought to be glad," he said to him- 
 self; "Ihope lam. As for fear, I don't think 
 I know what it is. But this doubt of her— oh, it 
 is horrible ! What did the man mean ! If I only 
 knew— if I only knew." 
 
 The moon broke through the clouds for a 
 moment or two, as though to take a last look at 
 the world of that night, and to see that every- 
 thing was all right, or as near all right as things 
 
 can be, in a world of sorrow and of sin ; a world 
 in which some fall, many fail, and all die. The 
 wind had increased ; its sound was harsh and 
 mournful ; a spiteful dash of rain swept in at 
 the open window, and fell on Barnard's cheek ; 
 whatever the night had been, the coming morn- 
 ing seemed not unlikely to be one of wildnesa 
 and storm. 
 
 Tall spectral-looking trees almost touched 
 the train as it dashed on. Huge rotten logs, 
 half buried in the slimy moisture of the swampy 
 land seemed to start out of the darkness men- 
 acingly, and then to withdraw with a monstrous 
 sullen malice into the blackness again. It was 
 the loneliest place on Barnard's whole long run. 
 
 They came out of the swampy woodlandj; the 
 way was rougher now, with scattered hills and 
 occasional outcropping rocky ledges. Just ahead 
 was a curve, with a long stretch of almost level 
 and straight track again beyond it, running 
 along the crest of a narrow ridge. A dangerous 
 place, but one over which Barnard had gone in 
 safety for so many times, that he had for it the 
 contempt which familiarity breeds. He hardly 
 slackened speed at all as he approached the 
 curve. 
 
 " I must try to find out, T suppose," he said, 
 wearily, to himself; "though God only knows 
 what I shall find out. It may be the most ter- 
 rible " 
 
 He did not finish the sentence. A wild 
 " Hillo I" ahead, repeated again and again, in 
 tones of mortal terror and warning, made his 
 heart stand still for a moment. Simultaneously, 
 the train rounded the curve. And there, dimly 
 Been in the fitful light, but not so dimly as to 
 leave any of the hope which doubt sometimes 
 gives, was the most horrible sight which Mal- 
 colm Barnard had ever seen. 
 
 He had been startled once or twice during his 
 ten years of experience as a railroad man, and 
 had gained a reputation for quickness and cour- 
 age in averting danger. But now it was to be 
 seen whether he could go, open-eyed and firm- 
 handed, down to the gaping dcors of death, un- 
 flinching and in silence, because he had some 
 hundreds of lives behind him who had no hope 
 left, save in him, though they did not know or 
 guess itr-and because it was his duty. 
 
 Heavy timber, railroad ties, and beams which 
 were even larger, had been piled on the track. 
 Barnard's first thought, so strangely trivial will 
 thought sometimes be, even in the face of death 
 itself, was a vague wonder as to how they could 
 have been placed there ; how many men must 
 have agreea in the horrible conspiracy of train- 
 wrecking, and how long it must have taken them 
 to do it. A grim smile of admiration for them 
 flashed over his face as ho sped on toward the 
 trap which had been set for the train. The work 
 had been very thoroughly done— very thoroughly 
 indeed. 
 
THE MmSING LINK. 
 
 59 
 
 In front of the pile, but to one side, wildly 
 waving bis arms, was wbat seemed a tramp, one 
 of those men who may be found everywhere and 
 at all times, but whose coming is a mystery and 
 whose going is as strange. He had found this 
 barrier to the train's safety some two or three 
 minutes before the engine appeared, heard the 
 thunder of its approach, and had given his warn- 
 ing cry. Let us not pause to aek why he did as 
 he did ; let us not ask whether it was some in- 
 nate goodness in the man, some feeling which 
 had grown up in his soul when he was a pure- 
 hearted child or an honest man, and which all 
 the years of his outcast life bad not sufficed to 
 blot out, or what it was. Lot us only remember 
 that another one might have stood aside, instead 
 of running at full speed up the track, and shout- 
 ing at the top of his voice. 
 
 Barnard saw the tramp before he saw the ob- 
 struction on the track. Not long before— not 
 many seconds ; but long enough for him to have 
 applied the air-brakes, and to have taken his 
 resolve to do bis best, though he died for it. 
 Not long ; bat long enough to make all the dif- 
 ference between what might have happened and 
 what did. 
 
 Barnard applied the brakes ; the sharp hiss 
 of the imprisoned air, finding its eager way out, 
 served as a warning to the wakeful ones on the 
 train of a danger which suddenly frowned upon 
 them. For the sleeping ones, there was no 
 warning, no time for any. 
 
 The brakes worked well. One could not have 
 expected them to work better. But the fireman, 
 svho had had no lack of experience, saw that a 
 collision was inevitable, and he delibcra,tely and 
 intelligently chose what ho regarded as the best 
 and safest plan, when he sprang from the engine. 
 He sprang, leaving Barnard to face the peril 
 and responsibility alone. He had thought that 
 Barnai'd would follow. But he did not esti- 
 mate him at quite his full value ; he did not 
 quite understand the sort of a man he had with 
 him at the post of duty and danger. 
 
 The motion grew slower — slower— slower. 
 But it was still terribly swift. Motions are rela- 
 tive, and a train may greatly slacken speed 
 from sixty miles an hour, and still go perilously 
 fast. 
 
 It was not long— a few seconds, a few heart- 
 beats — before Barnard knew that he could no 
 more stop his train before reaching the piled-up 
 fabric of murder on the track before him, than 
 he could stop the thunderbolt when half way 
 down the sky. They would go into it, over it, 
 and then 
 
 He shut his eyes and shuddered. Then, with 
 a quick thought how to lessen the danger to the 
 passengers, he pulled open the throttle-valve. 
 
 His engine sprang forward as though alive. 
 The connection between engine and train parted. 
 And then 
 
 He did jump now. He had done all he could. 
 
 It was over in a few seconds. The engine 
 struck the ties and timbers, and scattered them 
 to right and left. It almost cleared the track, 
 but it was at the sacrifice of itself. It left the 
 rails ; it rolled down the embankment, cutting 
 and crushing stout young trees on its way, and 
 lauded, bottom up, in a half-dozen feet of water. 
 The cars came to rest only when half the train 
 had passed the place where the obstruction had 
 been. One or two cars had left the rails, but all 
 
 remained right-side-up and on the road-bed. 
 Malcolm Barnard, aided by some nameless waif 
 of the threatening night, had saved half a thou- 
 sand lives. Malcolm Barnard had proved him- 
 self true and loyal. He had laid his life on 
 the altar of duty and he had escaped without a 
 scratch. 
 
 But, when the passengers came thronging out 
 in the gray stormy dawn, asking more questions 
 than engineer and tramp could answer, they 
 found the fireman a little way off, unmarked by 
 wheel or rail, but dead. Better had he staid 
 and faced his duty. 
 
 11. 
 
 It is hard to say whether the passengers ex- 
 pressed more thankfulness to the heroic engi- 
 neer who had saved them, or to the tramp, 
 whose timely warning had made Barnard's suc- 
 cessful action possible. Each man was modest, 
 the engineer because of his gentlemanly in- 
 stincts, and the tramp because of long habit. 
 Meantime, the conductor had the dead fireman 
 placed in a berth in the sleeping car, and sent 
 brakemen both up and down the track to give 
 warhing of the disaster to any approaching 
 train. He also dispatched men' to the nearest 
 station to telegraph for help. 
 
 The passengers took up a liberal collection, 
 entrusting a large sum of money to a commit- 
 tee, selected from among their number, for the 
 purpose of purchasing a gold watch and chain 
 to be presented to Mr. Malcolm Barnard ; while, 
 to the tramp, they gave a good amount of cash, 
 though, under any other circumstances, their 
 dimes would have been slow in his behalf. Cix- 
 cumstances do alter cases, don't they"? 
 
 The morning was growing more and more 
 stormy. The wind was rougher and wilder. So 
 the passengers withdrew into the cars after a 
 little. There, with true American spirit, they 
 framed and passed certain fine-sounding reso- 
 lutions, after which they naturally separated 
 themselves into three parties. One-third of 
 them discussed the danger and escape, and 
 added to the discussion most marvelous tales 
 of danger they had experienced or known of; 
 another third growled at the necessary delay 
 and discomfort, and the rest sought out as com- 
 fortable places and positions as possible and 
 went to sleep. 
 
 Then Barnard and the tramp, as though with 
 one accord, withdrew a little from the train, sat 
 down on one of the heavy beams which had 
 wrought such mischief, and commenced to talk 
 and smoke. 
 
 I don't think either noticed the wind and the 
 rain. One of them had been used to a vaga- 
 bond life, in all sorts of weather, for too many 
 years, to leave it likely that he would be partic- 
 ular or critical now. The engineer v^as only 
 thankful that he was not in the sleeper, beaide 
 the fireman ; with life, strength, and whole 
 limbs, he did not mind the wet. And the glow 
 at his heart —the memory of what he had done 
 —kept him warm. 
 
 Barnard spoke first. His manner was abrupt; 
 his question was pointed. 
 
 " VVhat do you know of this ?" he asked, point- 
 ing to where the barricade had been built across 
 the path of safety. " Somehow, I have a sus- 
 picion that you can tell me." 
 
60 
 
 I 
 
 THE MISSING LINK, 
 
 "Well," lowering his voice, "I— I suppose I 
 have something to tell. I don't know ; it mayn't 
 have anything to do with this ; but I think— I 
 think — '-" 
 
 " That you can throw some light on this acci- 
 dent. Is that it ?" 
 
 The tramp took his pipe from his lips; he 
 looked musingly and meditatively away into the 
 forest. 
 
 "That is it," ho said. "I think I can toll 
 something about what has happened." 
 
 " You thmk you know who set this trap here ?" 
 
 The man looked steadily over to where the 
 trap had been. 
 
 " I think so. Not by name, but by sight. I 
 think I can tell the authorities where to look 
 for them, and what sort of men they are to look 
 for." 
 
 "And why ? Do you think you know why ?" 
 
 The tramp answered slowly. 
 
 " I think 1 know why," ha said. 
 
 "Money?" 
 
 The tramj) shook his head. 
 
 "No, sir," he said, firmly; "I don't think 
 that." 
 
 "Ah !" and Barnard drew in his breath qjjftrp- 
 ly ; " for God's sake, toll me : what do you 
 think ?" 
 
 " I think," replied the tramp, with a dolioora- 
 tion almost maddening to so anxious a man as 
 Barnard ; " and, remember. I can't use a strong- 
 er word than that I think it was a trap set for 
 some one— some one only." 
 
 Barnard sprang to his feet. 
 
 " You— you think that?" ho cried. " Tell me 
 why ?" 
 
 " Well, yesterday afternoon I heard some men 
 talking. ' We'll fix him,' said one. 'And per- 
 haps a hundred others,' said a second. 'They 
 must take their chances,' said a third, with a 
 laugh. I didn't give much attention to what 
 was said, for I didn't understand what they could 
 mean. I was lying in a box-car trying to get a 
 little sleep, and I'm ashamed to have to say that 
 I didn't even get up to have a look at them." 
 
 " Then you couldn't identify them ?" 
 
 " Not exactly— unless by their voices. But I 
 guess I have other evidence, which will be more 
 of a help than that." 
 
 " Good. When did what you had hoard begin 
 to make an impression on you ?" 
 
 " When I found the obstruction on the track." 
 
 " You believed, then, that you understood to 
 what they had referred ?" 
 
 " Certainly. I had no doubt of it." 
 
 " Nor have I. Now, tell me what other evi- 
 dence you have." 
 
 " This, that I saw three men— the same num- 
 ber as those Avho talked outside the freight-car 
 — leave town on horseback, early in the evening, 
 coming this way. They were armed with shot- 
 guns, and " 
 
 "Can you describe them?" 
 
 " Fairly well : two common - looking men, 
 poorly dressed, and " 
 
 " Never mind them. What of the other ?" 
 
 " He was a handsome fellow— tall and dark, 
 with keen eyes, white and even teeth, a mouth 
 which was tirm and strong, a heavy black mus- 
 tache, pointed sharply at ihe ends, and " 
 
 " Wait," said Barnard, taking out a pocket- 
 book, selecting a photograph from several which 
 
 it contained and passing it to the tramp. " Did 
 he look anythinec like that ?" 
 
 " Did ho"^?" cried the tramp. "Did he? How 
 did you get his picture ? He is the very man." 
 
 " You are sure?" 
 
 " As sure as I am of my own life." 
 
 " I guess, then, that the trap— the trap " 
 
 " Was set for you ?" 
 
 "I— I fear so." 
 
 " I think so, too," said tho tramp, with quiet 
 emphasis. 
 
 "And now, what else do you know?" asked 
 Barnard. 
 
 " Not much. But still I think I'll teU you," 
 he said, in a very low and guarded voice. " I've 
 done you service enough to make it right to ask 
 two things of you. Is it not so ?" 
 
 " It is. What are the two things ?" 
 
 " That you'll keep what I tell you to yourself." 
 
 "Agreed." 
 
 "And that you won't ask me regarding what 
 I don't tell ?" 
 
 " Yes. I presume that will be harder; but I 
 agree to it." 
 
 " Very \Yell. You would call me a tramp, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 Barnard laughed. 
 
 " I suppose I should tiave to, if you'll pardon 
 my frankness," he said." 
 
 " You fancy I look like a tramp. Do I talk 
 like one ?" 
 
 "I think not." 
 
 " I think not, too— though I've been with them 
 enough to have lost the most of all I ever knew 
 or ever was. Do I look likeoi wealthy man ?" 
 
 Barnard laughed again. 
 
 " No, you don't," he replied. 
 ^ " I suppose not. And yet I was wealthy- 
 very wealthy — ten years ago. I would be wealthy 
 now but for the terrible wickedness of a man I 
 trusted. He was my partner, and the active 
 member of tho firm. I put in the money, he 
 put in his time. Slowly but steadily we lost ; 
 venture after venture swept away my money, 
 thousands of dollars at a time. 6ne night the 
 end came. I got a telegram that all was gone, 
 and that my notes for large sums were due and 
 unpaid. I pitied my partner- -pitied him even 
 more than I pitied myself; for I was alone in 
 the world, while he was about to marrv a beau- 
 tiful young woman. I went home to Boston to 
 our place of business, to see if there was not 
 something which could be realized, in spite of 
 the general wreck. I found there was nothing 
 to be done— nothing." 
 
 " But what has all this to do with the matter 
 in hand ?" 
 
 " Everything. Don't think that I am wander- 
 ing from the subject, for I am not. One night 
 I got a hint that my partner had defrauded me. 
 It was too astounding to believe. But it came 
 in so startling a way that I was forced to follow 
 the hint to its legitimate conclusion, even against 
 my own will. I did it. I studied my books — 
 the books of the business. It took me many 
 days and nights. Everything had be^n done 
 with cunning care. I don't know whether every- 
 thing had been done with enough attention to 
 legal form to have made it impossible for me to 
 have punished the traitor, could I have shown 
 the world exactly what he had done ; I am not 
 sure that he could not have kept his ill-gotten 
 money, even after I had proved exactly how he 
 
TEE MISSING LINK. 
 
 61 
 
 had obtained it. But I could prove nothing; 
 the work had been too artfuHy dope lor that, 
 though the story the books told confirmed my 
 bint, my fear, my belief; my partner was rich, 
 while I was worse than a beggar. And he had 
 robbed mo, as certainly as though he had 
 stopped me on the street some dark night, re- 
 volver in hand, and given me the choice be- 
 tween parting with my money or my life. The 
 difference between the crime he had committed 
 and so vulgar a crime as highway robbery, was 
 
 great ; he had taken hundreds of thousands of 
 ollars ; he had done it safely ; he was a gentle- 
 man through it all." . 
 
 " Do you mean that for truth ?" queried Bar- 
 nard. , , , 
 
 " Truth ? Do you doubt it ? What I have told 
 is wonderful ; I don't blame you for doubting 
 it. But it is nothing compared to the strange 
 talo left to tell." 
 
 " Please let me hear it." 
 
 "I weut to my partner. I told him what I 
 had discovered. I informed him I had had a 
 hint to help me in my work, though I did not 
 tell him where ur how I had obtained it." 
 
 " And what did he do ?" 
 
 " He laughed at me. Though he was careless 
 enough to say that it would have been easy to do 
 that of which I accused him, and to cover one's 
 tracks before any danger of discovery—' or at 
 least of proof,' he added, quietly." 
 
 " And then?" 
 
 " And then I almost went down on my knees to 
 him, and urged him to let mo have enough to 
 pay the indebtedness for which 1 was responsi- 
 ble, and to keep the rest. But he laughed and 
 jeered at me. He would confess to no rights on 
 my part ; he would make no amends on his. 
 My mifh in mankind was gone. 1 became what 
 you see me now. I have not slept in a bed since 
 then, and that was ten years ago." 
 
 The tramp aroae to his feet. He looked away 
 down the track, and took two or three lagging 
 steps that way. 
 
 "Let luj go away from you for a little while," 
 he said, "Perhaps j^ou don't believe what I 
 have said. But what is to come is far more in • 
 credible. Now, I want you to have time to con- 
 sider whether you dare believe what I have yet 
 to tell. And, God help me, I want to think it 
 all over calmly by myself ; I want to be certain 
 that I believe it, too." 
 
 " Believe 1" said Barnard, bitterly, to himself; 
 "believe! As though I were not ready, after 
 this night's experience, to believe anything." 
 
 He took a letter from his pocket, as he spoke, 
 a letter he had received less than an hour before 
 he had given his name and protection to the 
 woman he had chosen, from out all those he 
 had ever met— chosen, albeit his acquaintance 
 with her had been brief. An anonymous letter. 
 One, too, which might be relied upon to keep 
 its own secret, since it had been prepared on 
 a typewriter. 
 
 He went up to one of the cars, and stood 
 where the light from a window fell on the sheet. 
 Then he read it as though he were hopeful of 
 getting some new meaning, or some little com- 
 fort of some sort, out of it. 
 "Mr. Malcolm Baknakd. 
 
 " Deak Sik: I understand you are about to marry 
 Ethel Etten. Let me give you a little friendly ad- 
 vice— Don't. 
 
 " You are going to marry her at once, without tiie 
 presence of her relatives, because she is an orphan, 
 Her guardian will be present, because he is a fool. 
 
 " 1 know her quite well, and I'm free to say I don't 
 understand why you want to marry her. Perhaps 
 if I had the honor of an equally intimate acquaint- 
 ance with you, I could write her a letter of advice 
 filled with the same frank candor as characterizes 
 this one ; as it is, I can't do it. I have made some 
 inquiry regarding you, and perhaps 1 don't wonder 
 she wi'll many you. I have seen you once ; you are 
 not a bad looking fellow. But really, you ought not 
 to do it. I would be glad to write more strongly, 
 and say that you shall not do it. What do you 
 know of her family? her friends ? her past? herself? 
 Do you know more than that you let impulse speak, 
 that she was moved by an equal impulse, and that 
 —I think I wrote that once before ; yes, I did— her 
 guardian is a fool? 
 
 'Mr. Malcolm Barnard, Ethel Etten doesn't love 
 you. You are young and happy ; you cannot afford 
 to throw your life away. Never say you didn't 
 know ; never blame me, nor anyone else. You've 
 had good and suillcient warning Now be wise, or 
 —or 
 
 " I won't write it. 
 
 "But let me come back to the beginning of my 
 letter and end there. Don't.'' 
 
 Barnard put the letter in his pocket. 
 
 "Believe! believe!" he moaned, as he cov- 
 ered his face with his hands. " After this night's 
 experience I am ready to believe anything !" 
 
 " So am I," said a voice at his elbow. 
 
 The tramp had returned. 
 
 "Well," said Barnard, wearily, " let me hear 
 the rest of your story." 
 
 " I will. I will tell you where I got my hint. 
 I looked in my partner's eyes for it." 
 
 " In his eyes?' 
 
 "Yes! And there I read his thoughts. Not 
 exactly as you read a book, for I did not see the 
 words ; not as you listen to spoken language, for 
 I heard nothing ; not as you feel, in darkness 
 and in silence, for I was too far away to reach 
 and strike him. But I can give no explanation 
 which is nearer the truth than one of those illus- 
 trations would be ; you would not understand 
 me ; I am not sure that I understand it myself. 
 But I was as conscious of his thoughts as 1 was 
 of my own ; I knew what was going on in his 
 mind as well as though I had been in hist)ody, 
 using his brain and nerves." 
 
 " A mind-reader? Do you mean that?" 
 
 " Perhaps so ; in a limited sense, at least." 
 
 " What were his thoughts ?" 
 
 " ' I have robbed this fellow, and he will never 
 guess it. He must face want and dishonor, and 
 all for my sake.' That is what I read." 
 
 " And since then? With other men, can you 
 read their thoughts also ?" 
 
 " No. I have no^ that power." 
 
 "It is very strahge," said Barnard. "Are 
 you sure you read aright ?" 
 
 " As sure as I speak to you now." 
 
 Barnard turned away his head. Far away 
 could be heard the train which was coming to 
 their relief. The rain was increasing, but morn- 
 ing was at hand. 
 
 He turned back again. 
 
 But there was no one there to whom to speak. 
 The tramp was already more than half-way down 
 the slope, and almost hidden among the trees 
 at its foot. 
 
C2 
 
 THE MISSING LINK. 
 
 III. 
 
 Barnaed, an hour alter, was on bis way home. 
 He had asked from the company, by telegraph, 
 a leave of absence, which was granted promptly. 
 He walked at once out to the little house which 
 he had bought, and which Ethel and he had fur- 
 nished before the wedding ; the house to which 
 he had taken her when the ceremony was over, 
 and where he had left her, less than a day later, 
 to attend to his duty as an engineer. 
 
 He went quietly in at the gate. The front 
 door was unlocked. He entered the house. He 
 passed noiselessly upstairs. He found his way 
 to his wife's i^oom unannounced. She sat at 
 her table, writing. 
 
 Ho had never seen her look so sweet. There 
 was a pain at his heart which was hard to bear — 
 very hard. She was his wife and he had loved 
 her so ! It was hard to have to give it all up. 
 and tOvput his happiness away from him. But 
 one tender and generous resolve sprang up in 
 his soul, as he looked at her, and remained 
 there ; it was different from what he had prom- 
 ised himself on his way home. 
 
 " I — I will shield her from— from such a pen- 
 alty as I suppose she deservq^, though I will 
 never spare him," he said to himself. 
 
 Then he spoke. 
 
 "Mrs. Barnard" was what he said. It was 
 hard not to call her "Ethel," and bis tone was 
 as solemn and full of heartbreak as it would 
 have been had he said it above her coffin. 
 
 She looked up with a start, just a little paler 
 than she had been. Then, when she saw that 
 he seemed strong and well, she spraug up with 
 a blush and a glad cry, and ran to meet him. 
 
 But he evaded her outstretched hands. 
 
 " Sit down," he said, coldly. "I suppose you 
 did not expect me back so soon ?" 
 
 "No, I did not." She was growing pale 
 again. 
 
 " Possibly you didn't expect me back at all?" 
 
 There was a sneer in his tone. She could not 
 help but hear it. 
 
 " Malcolm, what do you mean ?" 
 
 He walked over to where she sat by the tabic 
 —for she had returned there when he repulsed 
 her -and drew the picture from his pocket which 
 he had shown the tramp. 
 
 "Do you remember the time I took this pict- 
 ure from your table ?" he asked. 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " You thought I was jealous then ?" 
 
 "You acted as though you were." 
 
 "You remember I asked you to tell me his 
 bame, do you not ?" 
 
 " I remember it. And I gave it to you. Ralph 
 Moxen is his name." 
 
 " I know it. I shall never forget it. Do you 
 recall what else I asked you ?" 
 
 "Not all. You were foolish, and " 
 
 "Be silent! I ask you now what you must 
 answer. Do you understand ? Will you sa^y 
 that that man never spoke words of love to 
 you ?" 
 
 " No, I will not say that." 
 
 " Why ? Is it because it would be false ?" 
 
 " It would be false ?" 
 
 " He loved you, then ?" 
 
 "Ho said so." 
 
 " And you? But I will not ask. I can see it 
 all : You quarreled ; he warned me ; he won ; 
 he hurried to do his wicked worst, and " 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " You do. Have you not heard from Ralph 
 Moxen since you were married ?" 
 
 "I have, twice." 
 
 " Show me his letters." 
 
 *' I cannot ; I burned them." 
 
 " Perhaps jon were writing to him " 
 
 He reached over to take her letter from the 
 table. 
 
 There were tears in her eyes as she answered. 
 
 " I was writing to you," she said. 
 
 " To me ? It could not reach me until after 
 my return." 
 
 " I was going to send it by telegraph." 
 
 "Indeed? How loving 1 You were going to 
 play the game a little longer, were you ? What 
 a devilish mockery it wjuld have been to con- 
 gratulate me on my escape." 
 
 "Your escape? What do you mean? I did 
 not know you had been in any danger." 
 
 " Do you pretend that you don't know what 
 happened to me ?" 
 
 " 1 know nothing of it." 
 
 " Nor of what was to have happened, if the 
 plan had not failed ?" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Let me tell you, then, that there was an at- 
 tempt to wreck my train on the Cedar Ridge." 
 
 " Oh, Malcolm ! Malcolm !" 
 
 " And that the fireman was killed." 
 
 " Oh, Malcolm, and you might have been 1" 
 
 "Yes," crisply and savagely, "I might have 
 been. And there is a warrrnt out for the arrest 
 of Ralph Moxen for it. The authorities are 
 hunting for him now." 
 
 " He never did it." 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " For several reasons. First, he is notr^apable 
 of doing such a deed." 
 
 "Ah ! What are the other reasons ?" 
 
 '• One is the fact that he left the station next 
 beyond Cedar Ridge -Forest Isle is its name, 
 I believe— on a train which departed from there 
 early in the evening of the night in which your 
 train was due there, and came straight through 
 to this city." 
 
 "Aha ! an alibi, is it?" 
 
 " He certainly didn't attempt to wreck your 
 train." 
 
 " Well, since you know where he wasn't then, 
 perhaps you can tell where he is now." 
 
 " I can." 
 -ii Where is he ?" 
 
 " On a hunting expedition, twenty miles north 
 ofhere." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 " He and two friends were going out from For- 
 est Isle to hunt, and even went so far as to ride 
 out into the country a mile or two. Then, after 
 some discussion, they decided to take a train 
 and come here instead." 
 
 " Well planned ! I suppose he can prove this ? 
 He will certainly have the opportunity." 
 
 " He can — of course he can." 
 
 "It is greatly to your credit to be so well 
 posted regarding all his recent movements." 
 
 " It is certainly nothing to my discredit. Mr, 
 Moxen is engaged to my friend Mildred Atkins, 
 of whom you have often heard me speak. Mil- 
 dred is here in town now, having arrived since 
 you went away." 
 
 " But you had letters from him?" 
 
 " Yes : containing messages regarding Mil- 
 
THE MissiNa Link. 
 
 63 
 
 dred's plans, the probable time of her arrival, 
 and so forth." 
 
 " But you and he were engaged, so you said." 
 
 " No. I didn't say so. We never were." 
 
 " But you loved him ?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " But he did you?" 
 
 " No. He said he did ; but he has since con- 
 fessed that it was all done in a fit of jealousy, 
 caused by some act of Mildred's." 
 
 " Please explain this then." And he laid the 
 anonymous letter on the table. 
 • "I think I can. It's true, you don't know 
 much of me or my family. It's true, too, that I 
 know more myself, than I did a few days ago. 
 I had a very eccentric «Ticle,a brother of my 
 father's, who died ten years ago. He left me 
 one hundred dollars in his will. He left the 
 same amount to each of my ten cousins, sons of 
 others of my father's brothers. The remainder 
 of his property was left, to quote the words of 
 the will — 1 remember them well --' in trust with 
 my lawyers, until they can satisfy the condi- 
 tions of certain private written instructions 
 which I have deposited with them, and which I 
 declare to be a part of- this last will and testa- 
 ment, to all intents and purposes, and which I 
 direct shall be made public and go into effect at 
 the time of the satisfaction of the conditions I 
 have imposed.' The chief condition was my 
 marriage." 
 
 "And you knew of this ?" 
 
 " Not until after I became your mfe. " 
 
 "But some one did ?' 
 
 " I think so, though it was intended the direc- 
 
 )us should be strictly private." 
 'And who knew it ?" 
 • I don't unow. Some one of my ten cousins. 
 
 \iave no idea which one. Not the slightest 
 ^. J*t of dishonor has ever been whispered against 
 an\\of them before." 
 
 '*' Oishonor ?" 
 
 " Yes. Among the instructions my uncle left 
 were these — I quote again from memory : ' Miss 
 Ethel Etten is my favorite, but I have two rea- 
 sons for not wishing to leave my property to 
 her, openly and unconditionally. First, I do not 
 think she understands, or will understand, busi- 
 ness usages well enough to take care of it. 
 Second, I wish her loved for herself, and not for 
 her money. I accordingly direct that these in- 
 structions shall be kept private until the mar- 
 riage of the above-named Ethel Etten. I direct 
 that the property I leave, with the exception of 
 amounts directly ordered to be paid, be con- 
 verted into money, and deposited at interest in 
 such banks as my lawyers may select. I desire 
 that these directions and instructions be com- 
 municated to Ethel immediately after her mar- 
 riage, and that the money then in bank to the 
 credit of my estate be paid to her husband, un- 
 conditionally, whenever he shall apply for the 
 same. In the event of the death of Ethel Etlen 
 unmarried, or the refusal, neglect, or failure for 
 any other reason, of her husband to make ap- 
 
 Flication for the money thus bequeathed to him, 
 direct that it be paid in equal shares to my 
 nephews.' These stipulations were so singular 
 that I know them by heart. Can you guess, Mal- 
 colm, what my explanation is ?" 
 Malcolm stretched out his hands toward her. 
 "Oh, Ethel, Ethel," he cried, " can you ever 
 forgive me ?" 
 
 " I can, and I do. Your suspicion grew out of 
 your love for me and your maddening fear of 
 loss. In your place, under the same circum- 
 stances, I should have been more unjust than 
 you were. I do forgive you, freely and fully." 
 
 "And you forget " 
 
 "Everything except that I love you and that 
 you love me." 
 
 " I haven't killed your love, then ?" 
 
 Lv ae 
 
 I W£ 
 
 gry. 1 was puzzled, frightened, hurt— but that 
 was all. And that is all over now. There will 
 never be doubt or difference between us again, 
 will there, Malcolm ?" 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 He has his strong arms about her, holding 
 her as though he would never let her go, while 
 his lips met her's hotly, again and again. 
 
 " My bravo, brave husband, how did you ever 
 endure it all ? I— I only had a few minutes of 
 doubt and fear, a few minutes in which I thought 
 that perhaps I had lost you, and it almost killed 
 me," she whispered, softly. 
 
 "It is all over now. We will be happy to- 
 gether—happier than if this had not happened. 
 But do you think a tenth of your uncle's fortune 
 sufficient temptation to a man to commit mur- 
 der !" 
 
 "It might be, to a very wicked man." 
 
 " How much money will you — we — I — re- 
 ceive ?" 
 
 She laughs up into his face, and speaks slowly, 
 while she gleofudy watches the wonder grow m 
 his face. 
 
 "About five hundred thousand dollars." 
 
 A WEEK later, Mr. Barnard has received his 
 money from the k,wyers who had Theodore 
 Etten^s estate in trust. He has met Ralph 
 Moxen, and is ah-eady a familiar friend of his. 
 He has been introduced to Mildred Atkins, and 
 he likes her. 
 
 Moxen comes into Barnard's parlor. There is 
 a frown on his face. 
 
 " I say, Barnard, you have made matters 
 pretty serious by sending the authorities after 
 me on suspicion." 
 
 " How so ? Your alibi was so conclusive that 
 there was no arrest. Not a dozen persons know 
 that there was ever any suspicion of you." 
 
 " No ; but Mildred knows it." 
 
 " Of course ; but she knows it was ground- 
 less." 
 
 "I suppose so. But she says there is a 
 missing link in the evidence. She says she 
 will never marry mo until it is known who was 
 guilty." 
 
 " Indeed ! I must ask Ethel to argue the mat- 
 ter with her." 
 
 "She has already done so. It has done no 
 good." 
 
 "I must talk with her myself." 
 
 "It won't be of any use' If you want to help 
 me— or us, for Mildred, with ail her resolution 
 and firmness, is suffering as much as I am— you 
 must find the missing link." 
 
 There was a ring at the door-bell. A boy 
 brought in a telegi-am. Barnard broke open the 
 envelope, and read : 
 
 " Boston, Mass., Sept. — , 188-. 
 " Malcolm Barnard : 
 
 "Peter Etten accidentally shot. Will die. Must 
 see you. Coiue iinmeUiately." 
 
64 
 
 THE Mmim LINK. 
 
 It was signed by the physician in charge of 
 one ot the most important 'hospitals iu Boston. 
 
 Barnard handed it across the table to his 
 friend Moxen. 
 
 " That may be a clue to the missing link," he 
 said. 
 
 " God grant that it is,"' said Moxen, fervently ; 
 " you will go at once, will you not ?" 
 
 " I shall go by the next train." 
 
 It was a rainy night when Barnard arrived in 
 Boston. He stepped from the train, and started 
 to get a carriage. 
 
 And just then his eyes fell upon the tramp, 
 the man he had such good reason for remember- 
 ing. Better dressed than he had been, probably 
 as a result of the money with which the passen- 
 gers had presented him, there? was still no ques- 
 tion as to his identity. Barnard walked over and 
 held out his hanJ. The tramp seemed pleased, 
 took it, and pressed it warmly. 
 
 " I would like to see you and talk with you 
 again," said Barnard. " Will you please make 
 an appoiontment for to-morrow ? To-night I 
 have business to attend to." 
 
 " So have I, and business that cannot be de- 
 layed. I am going to Hospital." 
 
 " Indeed ! So am I. What a strange coinci- 
 dence ! Will you ride with me there ?" 
 
 " Thank you, I will." 
 
 Once in the carriage, Barnard turned to his 
 strange companion. 
 
 "Why are you going to Hospital?" he 
 
 asked. 
 
 '"To see my former partner. He his dying 
 there." ^ 
 
 " And has sent for you ?" 
 
 The man shook his head. 
 
 "No," he said, mournfully. "Once I hoped 
 he would, if he came to die first. No, he hasn't 
 sent for me, but I learned he was here, and hur- 
 ried on to see him die. I mean to look in his 
 eyes again, and see if there is anything there 
 for me lo learn. His thoughts, at least I can 
 read. As to him I am a mind-reader." 
 
 Suddenly the tramp— if we may still call him 
 that — took it upon himself to question Barnard. 
 
 " Why are you going to Hospital ?" 
 
 "To see a cousin of my wife's." 
 
 "Dying?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Injured?" 
 
 " Shot." 
 
 The tramp started. 
 
 " What is his name ?" he asked. 
 
 " Peter Etten." 
 
 "Great God!" cried the tramp. "Can it be 
 possible ? Peter Etten was my partner !" 
 
 They rode on then, silently. The rain tapped 
 at the carriage- windows in an uncanny way. 
 Each man was busy with his own thoughts. 
 
 They arrived at their destination. They went 
 in together to the bedside of the dying man- 
 dying in poverty, to be buried by charity, no 
 matter how much he had stolen and squan- 
 dered, nor how much more he had vainly tried 
 to gain. 
 
 He was past the power of speaking. The 
 gray shadow of coming death was already in his 
 
 eyes and on his facer But he looked up at 
 Barnard, a man he had seen only once before, 
 and something between a smile and a grimace 
 flitted across his face ; he evidently recognized 
 him. 
 
 But the tramp— had he forgotten him ? Is it 
 much wonder? What age could never have 
 done, hunger, and cold, and loss of faith in his 
 kind had wrought. The tramp looked into the 
 eyes of the dying man ; but Peter Etten evi- 
 dently did not know that he had ever met him. 
 The group stood there for some minutes, Bar- 
 nard quiet and grave, the nurse and the doctor 
 professionally sympathetic, the tramp with his 
 unwavering gaze seeming to burn into the eyes 
 of the man who was going out from the shore ojf 
 time into the unknown realm of eternity. 
 
 Then, suddenly, there was a change. The 
 grayness deepened on cheeks and lips, the 
 hands ceased their convulsive movements, the 
 bedclothes no longer stirred over the breast, 
 and 
 
 " It is the end," said the tramp. 
 
 "Yes, it is the end," echoed the doctor. 
 
 The tramp drew away from the bed. Barnard 
 followed him. 
 
 " Did you learn anything ?" he asked. 
 
 " Nothing to help me. He had forgotten me. 
 He went down to his death with no thought of 
 the man he had robbed and ruined." 
 
 " I was watching his face. I thought so." 
 
 " Yes ; you thought. I know." 
 
 " You read his mind, then ?" 
 
 " I did, God help me, I did." 
 
 " And what was it ?" 
 
 " Regret that he— that he " 
 
 "That he had done wrong? I am glad 
 that." >\^ 
 
 "No, it was not that. It was regret that, 
 an attempt to commit more wickedness, 
 failed." 
 
 " Will you tell " 
 
 " I will tell all. Just as too low a voice would 
 baffle the listener— just as too dim a light would 
 balk the reader- so it was with me for many 
 minutes while I stood looking into that raseal's 
 eyes. Then, suddenlv, I knew his thought." 
 ""What was it?" 
 
 " ' He neglected my warning ! He dared the 
 fate I threatened in my letter 1 And he saved 
 himself and his train 1 If I could have been 
 sure, just a few days sooner, that my wife was 
 really dead, I would have tried to induce the 
 lucky little fool to marry me, and ' " 
 
 "And what?" 
 
 " Nothing. When the brain goes I am done ; 
 even such power as God has blessed — or cursed 
 — me with cannot go beyond the lino which 
 separates death from life." 
 
 "Thank you," said Barnard, bowing his head. 
 
 There is little left to write. The Barnards 
 and the Moxcns are as happy people as you 
 would wish to meet. They are not ai all super- 
 stitious in the ordinary way— they do not worry 
 about the spilling of salt, or care over which 
 shouider they first see the new moon ; but they 
 firmly believe that the tramp's mysterious power 
 of discerning the thoughts of "the dying man 
 furnished them The Missing Link 
 
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