ESTRANGED 
tured by weird phantoms and remembrances. 
Awful pictures formed themselves of shadows 
in the room; gleams of sunshine took the 
form of flaming swords; ever I heard that 
wild cry, “Miriam!” ringing through my 
brain, and from every dim nook, out of every 
cloud 1 saw that convulsed face with its 
burning eyes. When she was near I saw it 
hovering round her; I ruw pale spectral 
hands unloose that wealth of premature gray 
hair and fold her frail form in it like a 
shroud; I saw the dead lips mutt 
numbered ajres, if I could but know that some¬ 
where, sometime during the eternities, I might 
bold you In my clasp again, my own true wife! 
Hut the fires of hell arc never quenched; I feel 
them scorching,even now. farewell, my Angel 
of Light! I go out toward the rayless Dark. 
The fiends have come for me; they leave me 
time for no more words. God bless you, my 
beloved I 
“ My charming Irene, how lovely you are 
this morning; but tell me, am I safe—Cousin 
Peter, you know." 
“ Yes,yes!—you have just escaped him; 
lie went out two minutes ago." 
“ Bless bis old soul!—and he will not be 
back?” 
“• Not for an hour, at least.” 
“ But why may I not see Cousin Peter, 
and tell him how much I love you ?” 
“Oh, not for the world! — not for the 
world!” 
“ And he is still so much opposed to your 
marrying? Does he object to me?” 
“ I cannot speak yet.” 
“ Well, bang Cousin Peter, — that is, I 
mean, you know ,—1 mean, I love you to 
distraction ; and if Cousin Peter stands be¬ 
tween us,—well then,— hang Cousin Petek !” 
“JBut the money, dear Archie ?” 
“ The money ?— that’s true. Well, we’ll 
hope for the future, and love for the nonce.” 
Again struck the mantel clock. 
“ Au revoir, my love. I mu 9 t come again, 
you know.” 
“ Oh, yes, come again.” 
“ Soon ? ” 
“ Soon,” said the blue eyes. 
A dieu x, with fear of meeting Cousin Peter 
at the street door. 
Poor Miss Van Tassel I What should 
she do ? She was alone now, aud she walked 
through the parlors, back and forth, aud 
took counsel with herself. 
Elegant, charming, handsome Arthur,— 
elegant, charming, handsome Archie,— 
and not a straw to choose between the neck¬ 
ties 1 
Bight hand, or left? Which held the 
luck ? There was no choice between the 
men; but, oh! who should tell her which 
paid the largest income tax I When would 
this secret open? AH her ingenuity had 
failed to draw out even an inkling on this 
point. She must hold on to both till this 
important question, as to their respective 
fortunes, was solved; and then to keep them 
apart, — dear I so much contrivance was 
needed. Cousin Peter! Ah, it was too 
good!—and Miss Van Tassel laughed aud 
rubbed her little hands. 
“ I will just take a peep at Cousin Peter; 
if only I can find a clear spot in this ground 
glass—a spot as big as a pin's head will do. 
Now, let me see. And so that’s Cousin 
Peter! Well, well! I think I’ve seen the 
old fellow before." 
“ Seems to me I heard a movement in 
there just then,” said Arthur to himself, as 
he stood in the middle of the back room. 
“ If only I could see Cousin Peter ! Well, 
at any rate, I'll just take a squint through 
this bit of a crack. Hum 1 Ha, ha! that’s 
a good one! Cousin Peter, I think I’ve 
seen you before." 
“ We need not fear Cousin Peter to¬ 
night,” said the gentle Irene, returning to 
Archie ; “ he is quite absorbed in himself, 1 
assure you.” 
“And in the mortgage,” added Archie, 
mentally. 
“ And you are going ?" said Miss Van* 
Tassel, and the blue eyes opened. 
“ Yes, going on account of Cousin Peter.” 
The bewitching smile went back to Ar¬ 
thur. 
“ Is Cousin Peter gone ?” 
“ Gone.” 
“ But what if he should come again—to 
the ruin of my prospects, or his own—there’s 
no knowing which. It really is not safe for 
me to stay.” 
“ And you leave me so suddenly ?” 
“ I am afraid of Cousin Peter." 
“ Dear me 1” and the blue eyes drooped. 
The next day two notes crossed one 
another. One, from No. 65, went to No. 82. 
It said; “My dear A. B.;—I accord to you 
the privilege you seek. I am Cousin Peter.” 
The other, from No. 82 to No. 65. ran thus: 
“ My dear A. B.;—Dispel all anxiety, old 
fellow ; I make you welcome. I am Cousin 
Peter.” 
If, for some time after this, fortune de¬ 
layed to visit Miss Van Tassel, it could 
hardly, in reason, be said to he the fault of 
Cousin Petek. 
BV A. ZAI.IA 
Upon this pleasant room, with all Its bright adorn- 
lug, * 
I sadly close the door; 
From these laminar friends I hear a mournful 
warning,— 
" W« greet thee, nevermore I” 
To all the little tokens of affection. 
To every sweet reminder of thy love, 
To gifts. I daro not trust my pen to mention, 
Vet thee, sad heart, so powerful to move, 
1 whisper, " Nevermore!” 
Upon our past, with sacred memories unspoken, 
I sadly close the door; 
From sweet emotions golden hours we’ve lived, a 
broken 
Voice murmurs, ** Nevermore!” 
To all the varied scenes of days departed, 
To all the Joys and sorrow* we have shared. 
To hopes and feam long past 1, broken-hearted, 
Breathe this adieu : The knell for all we’ve dared 
To hope, tolls “Nevermore!’’ 
Upon the plan for future years we made In blind¬ 
ness. 
I sadly close the door! 
From each bright hope long fostered, each un¬ 
measured kindness, 
I torn me, evermore t 
To sweetest visions, we so oft have cherished, 
One end and aim in happy days to come; 
To all the dreatus of hope so Quickly perished, 
All—every Joy of this forsaken home— 
I whisper, “ Nevermore I” 
Upon a love that deep respect alone could strengthen, 
1 sadly close the door; 
’The shadow of thy wrong, thro’future years shall 
lengthen, 
Alas, forevermore I 
To ties wo fondly dreamed that naught could sever. 
To all the free eonlldlngs we have known, 
To thy dear hesrt * sweet tenderness—forever, 
Lost friend, adieu ! my soul abides alone, 
Ah, me) forevermore! 
Into the dark and untried future, fraught with sor¬ 
row, 
I sadly ope the door ; 
Thro’ all the trials of the coming years, I borrow 
Thy loving help no more ; 
Yet, still thy pleadings, heart so soon forsaken, 
Thy prayers, thy tears, thy tenderness hath moved 
Mo all in vain,-my bitter vow Is taken ! 
Wo part, thy falsity so surely proved 1 
Farewell, forevermore! 
How I reached my own room I never 
knew ; but after weeks of delirium I slowly 
became conscious of a presence in my room, 
and a constant care which could only come 
from one being—the wronged aud suffering 
woman, once my little Queen. More wo¬ 
manly, older and sadder, she was still sun¬ 
shine, and in her life-giving presence I re¬ 
covered slowly my lost reason. Not a word 
was uttered of Phillip or Miriam; not a 
word of the wrongs and misery. She wore 
no crape, and I saw nothing of Philip's 
child. She never avoided my gaze, or 
showed disgust or resentment, hut would sit 
beside my bed for hours, stroking my hot 
forehead and calming my fevered pulses to 
rest and slumber. A week passed, and as I 
grew stronger 1 felt it impossible to longer 
hold my peace. Iler kindness hurt me; I 
had rather she would curse me and leave 
me to die. I wanted to see Miriam and ask 
her forgiveness, as poor Phillip had done. 
And so one afternoon, as I lay looking at the 
sweet calm face, the words hurst out im¬ 
petuously from my soul; 
“Why don’t you tell me of Miriam?” 
The quick tears filled her eyes, and her 
head with ail its golden waves of hair 
drooped low upon her breast; then she 
arose, and brushing hack the filmy curtains 
showed me a white cross glimmering through 
the twilight. 
“There they sleep together 
at curses on 
^me as the cause of all her suffering and de- 
1 formities, and then I raved like any madman 
hour by hour. 
All things end. One day among the let¬ 
ters came a dark-edged thing to Miriam; 
marked and remarked, mailed at one place, 
forwarded to another, but coming finally, as 
all things must at last, to its rightful owner. 
1 held it in my hand and tried to divine its 
intelligence, I took it to her, but she slowly 
sank into a chair, motioning me to break 
the seal and read. I tore the letters out, for 
there were two — one in hut writing. First 
was this; 
Paris, No. HO Rue Jacob, I 
October, 1800. f 
Miriam Wade Hartwell: 
Madame: — After an illness of twelve weeks 
your husband died, on the evening of October 
14th, a victim of consumption, induced by tils 
dissipated life. Before ills death bo confided to 
me his strange etory awl the Inclosed letter. The 
(fir! is »til! here, but will embark for New York 
Immediately, where she has friends. She knows 
of you, and seems heart-broken. 
With sympathy for all, I am, respectfully, 
M. Pierre. 
P. S.—We laid him under the sods of Pcre la 
Chaise, and put up a marble cross, at his re¬ 
quest. p_ 
I looked at Miriam. Nature was merci¬ 
ful to her; she had fainted. But I read on. 
she whis¬ 
pered, “ Phillip’s wife and child—my little 
babe clasped closely to the heart which 
should have given it birth. I came and 
found her dying, and while yet she held my 
baby to her lips, his little body sickened and 
—we bid them both away under the daisies. 
She left sweet words for you, Percy. Nay, 
do not sob so; all 19 joy with them, and as 
for us, Gor> will remember his own !" 
Her fair face, wet with heavenly tears, lay 
on my breast; her aims encompassed me; 
her great love overshadowed me with its 
Christ-like charity. As only men can weep 
I wept until the hitter fountains ceased to 
flow, and wllen that tender voice uttered 
Hiiblimest words of hope and prayer at my 
feet, while the moonlight streamed iu upon 
her kneeling form like an aureole to crown 
her, 1 flung open ihc inner sanctuary of my 
bouI and took the angel in, and with her 
came the Dove of Peace; and still through 
all the dark hours of my life do they abide 
with me. 
Our House still shares my toil, and ever as 
I tread those sacred rooms I think of Miriam, 
Hie crushed yet saiutly one, and long to en¬ 
ter through the Pearly Gate, that I may 
hear her wliisper, 
“ I forgive thee!” 
torifs for 
OUR HOUSE.” 
BY MARY WHITNEY. 
[Concluded from page 220. last No.) 
CHAPTER II. 
There came a time when peace fell upon 
me, as if a fearful burden of woe had been 
lifted from my shoulders. Miriam no longer 
avoided me, but seemed to find light and 
cheer in my presence. That ethereal look 
came back with added grace, the tense lines 
of suffering relaxed, and her beautiful spirit 
irradiated the maimed form till it shone like 
a glory. 1 thank God fervently now that 1 
recognized her wondrous loveliness and 
never for a moment fult disgust for the 
crippled and disfigured casket. I owe the 
best that 1 am to that great soul, whose 
secret grief so speedily fastened itself upon 
my own. 
Both of us possessed, in a wondrous de¬ 
gree, the power called for lack of a better 
name, clairvoyance ; and so closely were our 
thoughts connected by some subtile link, 
that the events which I am about to relate 
became known to us at the same moment. 
One October night, during that season of 
peace which fell upon me, we sat beside the 
deathbed of one of our oldest charges—the 
same tiny woman who had fondled Queen 
Maud’s dimpled hand so long ago—and in 
the silence of the room, while tlmt lone spirit 
lapsed into eternity, 1 took Miriam’s thin 
pale baud into my own, thinkiug I should 
soon ask to keep it in mine till death called 
it away. Suddenly she raised her face to 
mine witli a dreadful pallor on it and an in¬ 
tense look of listening fear, and while my 
whole soul shivered with dread, 1 heard it 
wild voice crying out through the silence, 
“ M jriam, have mercy! Forgive, or I perish!’ 
The words wailed themselves over and 
over till the room seemed full of voices. I 
held her in my arms, quivering with terror, 
and catching the direction of her fixed gaze, 
I saw—as God sees me—I saw the con¬ 
vulsed face aud burning eyes of one 1 knew 
too well. The awful blow bad fallen, and 
the nameless horror of Miriam’s life was all 
too plain. Coming out of the darkness so 
to call on her for help, he must be in dead¬ 
liest peril, perhaps dying, dead. Oh, where 
were t he rest of them, heart of my heart., life 
of my life, whom I had left with him away 
beyond the moaning sea? 1 dropped the 
insensible form and fled into the night, wan¬ 
dering blindly from street to street, knowing 
nothing, hearing everywhere that cry of 
“ Miriam 1 Miriam !’’ 
And I had dared to think of loving her, 
wretch that 1 was! Retribution had indeed 
been working out its inevitable punishment 
all these mouths. I understood the mystery 
to its bitterest foundation—truth. No wonder 
I had agonized in her presence! No won¬ 
der; but ’tis useless to dwell upon the 
horror. 
The days which followed that sad night 
were long and sorrowful, full of anxious wait¬ 
ing. I dared not question her; indeed there 
was no need. We two knew why we waited, 
and for what ? I grow wild and visionary, tor- 
The mantel clock struck eight. 
“ Ah, Arthur ! Good evening.” 
Ma belle Irene, good evening. Is the 
coast clear—in other words, is Cousin Peter 
here?” 
“ Not this moment.” 
“ Thanks to his kind consideration, or the 
kind late that considered for him. And 
now, my darling love, when will you speak 
to the old fellow ? ” 
“ Oh, he isn’t old.” 
“ By much the w’orse, then, that he’s got 
such a tough old heart; but I know that one 
glance from your sweet eyes will melt it, 
soften it 1 mean. How can I be patient? 1 
long to take your dear hand, and feel that 
you are all my own, and that time,—Ah, 
that time shall no longer cast dark shadows, 
[osiVfe—between me aud that confounded 
mortgage!"] 
“ What did you say, dear Arthur ?” “ No 
dark shadows between me,—and despair— 
the despair of losing you. you know.” 
“ Hark ! Arthur ! Mercy, mercy, Cousin 
Peter’s coming! That’s his ring at the 
door." 
“ Oli what!—where !—which way shall I 
go, dear Irene?” 
“ Here!—here 1—take your hat, and get in 
this room, through this sliding glass door,— 
quick, quick! There’s a newspaper, you can 
read by the gas; and be patient till I 
SHOPPING IN CAIRO 
Mrs. William Grey, in her Journal, says: 
About, five o’clock we returned home, and 
the Princess and I started soon after, with 
Abdel Kader Bey, for the Turkish Bazaar, 
where the Princess bought a hournouse ami 
other tilings. The mode of shopping here is 
certainly peculiar. You sit down on the edge 
of the counter, or step of the shop, and ask 
for what, you want; they then in variably 
show you something quite different, and it is 
a long while before the article you ask for is 
produced. Then the bargaining begins; the 
man asks you a price, and you then offer half. 
The bargaining goes on, at first in good hu¬ 
mor, then in rather cross words, hut general¬ 
ly ends with your knocking down the sum 
to nearly half that he had asked at first. One 
is quite mm gene, and puts on and tries the 
things in the middle of the street. Still one 
must have plenty of time and patience to get 
anything, as they iusist upon first taking 
down everything in the shop. For instance, 
if you say you wish for a silk scarf, you must 
first look ut all their heads, pipes, table cov¬ 
ers, and embroidered slippers; and though 
they must perfectly well see that you don’t 
want, anything of the sort, they seem muck 
more eager to spread out these things than 
those you want to buy. We did not agree 
about the price of a hournouse in one shop, 
so we went to another, and found one just 
like that in the first shop, only that we 
thought we preferred the shape of the first. 
Abdel Kader Bey, who managed the bar¬ 
gaining for us, at once sent for the man and 
hournouse from the last shop. The two were 
compared, and, before the shopman, we tried 
both on, and tried again to bargain for the 
first, the second shopman actually helping 
us to bring down the price asked by his rival, 
and going across the street for a caudle that 
we might see better. But be stuck to ten 
pounds as the lowest price, so we sent him 
hack with his goods, and our last friend car¬ 
ried the day, the Princess buying his bour- 
nouse for nine pounds. It was certainly 
very amusing; but what, would they say in 
England, if, when trying to buy an article in 
one shop, one sent for a similar article from 
another, and employed one shopman to help 
you in bargaining with the other? 
COUSIN PETER 
BY LAURA SOUTHGATE, 
“You can never comprehend the situa 
tion,” said Miss Van Tassel. “ 
If Cousin 
Peter should imagine you had proposed 
marriage to me,—if lie should even meet you 
here, he would do, I can’t say what, to you,— 
and as for me, I should be disinherited that 
very hour.” 
“He would object so decidedly?” 
“ Oh, yes indeed, he would.” 
“Aud he is determined you shall not 
marry ?” 
“ Determined.” 
“Hang Cousin Peter!” 
The very name, though, shaped itself in 
Arthur Blakh’s mind as reprucuting rail¬ 
road stock, and Government bonds. And 
then here, beside, was this charming, fasci¬ 
nating, bewitching Irene Van Tassel, with 
her blue eyes and golden, hair. 
“ My darling, why can we not be married, 
and get Cousin Peter’s consent afterward ?” 
“ Oh, the money, dear Arthur ! we should 
lose everything.” 
Miss Van Tassel looked at her watch—it 
was five minutes to eleven. 
“And is Cousin Peter coming?” asked 
Arthur. 
“ Yes, this very morning.” 
" Plague take Cousin Peter 1” 
“ Then one parting kiss, my sweet Irene. 
I must come again, though, you know; I 
cannot keep awaj T ," 
“ Yes, come again,” spoke the sweet voiee 
and soft blue eye 9 , “and I will tell you 
when there is danger of meeting Cousin 
Peter.” 
“ One kiss, and one more, my sweet love, 
and then adieu.” 
Adieu for a while to Arthur Blake, with 
his handsome face, his superb form, his fresh 
gloves and exquisite neck-tie. 
Eleven o’clock! The mantle clock gives 
the hour, and the hour gives visitor number 
two,— Archie Brown, with handsome face, 
superb form, fresh gloves, and exquisite 
neck-tie. 
come 
for you.” 
“ Good evening, my darling,” said Archie 
coming in. 
“Ah, good evening—speak low.” 
“ Is he here ?—Cousin Peter ?” 
“ Yes!—yes!—in the next room.” 
“ Good gracious ! But lie will pop in here 
next.” 
“ No fear. There’s a spring lock ; he can’t 
get out.” 
“ Oh, Cousin Peter locked in !—good !— 
good !—that is a joke. What if lie finds out 
that he is locked in—and that I am here ?” 
“ No fear of that.” 
“ Ah me ! Well, time waits for no man, 
[aside —Nor for that infernal note that’s due, 
cither.” 
“ What did you say, Archie V” 
“ Why that time waits,—1 mean, it drags 
so frightfully—it's so awfully tedious,—this 
suspense, you know.” 
“ This suspense,—yes.” 
“ My darling, can you not speak to Cousin 
Peter to-night?” 
“ Oh, Archie ! you don’t know Cousin 
Peter ; but I will go in and speak a word 
to him, that he may not become suspicious.” 
“ Go by this glass door, that I may get a 
peep at him." 
“ Archie ( you must be insane; he would 
see you at the same Lime you saw him. No, 
I will go round by the hull.” 
Nothing definite presenting itself to Miss 
Van Tassel, she went no farther than the 
hall, but stood quietly for about five minutes, 
taking a mental view of the field of action. 
“ Now,while 1 am alone,” thought Archie, 
A Very Curious Work 
is in preparation by Mr. Mitford, the Secre¬ 
tary of the British legation in Japan ; a col¬ 
lection of the best original novels of the Ja¬ 
panese language, witli illustratious by native 
artists. 
An Unsolved Problem. 
Anthony Trollope says: — “ I do not 
comprehend the reason for the existence of 
so many women, although I suppose Provi¬ 
dence had some wise end iu view in giving 
to every man at least eight or ten women to 
choose from when he is about to select a 
wife.” 
