“ Well, tie was simply very devoted, and I used 
tilm as a messenger; let blm run errands.” 
“And never spoke about me?” he asked, re¬ 
proachfully, 
“ I did not like to,” she answered. 
“And let tilm think himself a murderer?” was 
the farther reproach. 
“ I daresay 1 am a very bad girl, and not worth 
thinking about 1" she said. 
The meeting between father and daughter Is 
too sacred to be recorded. They were left an hour 
alone, and then Kflyston was admitted. 
A few days later they all started for Longmead, 
taking Jack Clayton with them. 
He had sown his wild oats, and was gladly wel¬ 
comed back by his delighted family. 
Soon a handsome tomb was seen, recording the 
virtues of Alice, Lady Trosslder. 
Before Christmas, her daughter Edith became 
Mrs. Koyston Yorko Trosslder, and the future 
Lady of the same name. 
But that event has not come off yet. The Bar¬ 
onet Uvea happily surrounded by his children’s 
children, and thanks Ileaveo every day that he 
discovered “Her Mother’s Secret.” 
recognized in the unfortunate man his quondam 
rival and attempted murderer, Jack Clayton. 
Ho went away musing on the instability of 
things, and then returned home. 
Next day he called to see the patient. 
“ Well, and bow are you now ?” asked Royston. 
“You!” gasped the patient—“you not dead7 
Don’t say you put me here—that you saved me 
from the hospital ?” 
“ I recognized your face at once,” answered 
Yorke. 
The man could not speak, and the surgeon com¬ 
ing In, the conversation dropped. 
“Sir,"said Jack Clayton, humbly, “will you 
come back this evening, and I may have some¬ 
thing to tell you you may wish to know 7” 
Royston Yorke promised, and going away, re¬ 
turned at a later hour. 
Tho room was poor, hut clean and well lighted 
up. Jack Clayton was no longer the same being. 
“ I have always thought you were dead,” he 
said, “ though 1 might, have known different for 
the asking. But as It Is, I have led tho life of a 
hunted murderer,” 
“ Very foolish,” replied Royston. 
“I see it now; but I always was a mad fool,” 
he went on. “Now will you tell me, in a few 
words, the truth about Miss Emily Marshall ? I 
have heard tell and want to know.” 
With a bounding heart, Royston Yorke told all, 
and at great length. 
“Then she 18 the daughter of Sir Arthur?” he 
asked; “ and you, his nephew, really mean to 
marry her when you find her 7” 
“That I do!” cried Royston. 
“There 1” said Jack, thrusting a paper into his 
hand; “take that, and ask for Mias Wilson. 
Say you come from Jack, who Is hurt.” 
Royston Yorko gave one bound, and was down 
stairs, where be read the address of some obscure 
street In Islington. He reached the place hy a 
cab, and found himself outside a small shop. 
He went In as calmly as he could, and seeing a 
middle-aged woman, said he had an Important 
message from Jack to Miss Wilson. 
She pointed to the back parlor, and Royston 
darted in just la time to seo Edith trying to re¬ 
treat. 
“My darling,” ho said, catching her In his arms, 
“you escape me no more! Come, put on your 
shawl and hat; your father Is dying to see you: 
come!” * 
Well, It was not very easy to resist, and proba¬ 
bly she did not try much. 
Away—away. In a cab, to alight, at the old fa¬ 
miliar house In Eaton Square. But the ride was 
long, and Royston was able to tell all in outline. 
But that we know. 
She explained that knowing herself to be looked 
after by policemen, and seeing rewards offered, 
she had determined never to go out until the hue 
and cry was over. 
"I thought It all came from your generous 
love,” she said, tenderly; “ I little suspected the 
truth. Ah! how happy 1 am to know my father 
Is a good and honorable man, as my mother be¬ 
lieved him!” 
“ But what about Jack?” asked the lover. 
“ No; but leave my house—pollute It no longer 
by your presence,” he added; “ and never let me 
see you again." 
She turned as If at hay, but the words died upon 
her lips. She was utterly crushed and beaten. 
Half an hour later, after collecting all her jew¬ 
elry and her banker’s book, she and her daugh¬ 
ter slunk away, to be seen no more by any one Id 
that, house. 
Sir Arthur had to retire to hod, but In two days 
more he was again about. 
MISTAKEN 
JOHN HARDY. 
I was only a little broken-hearted 
Yesterday, 
When he and I so coldly parted 
On our way. 
I had thought his words of kindness. 
Some meaning boro; 
It was all my foolish blindness. 
Nothing more! 
I do not think that T shall sorrow— 
Not much, ut least; 
I shall meet him on the morrow, 
My love dream ceased. 
CHAPTER XIV. 
The Search. 
Now began a thorough search for the poor un¬ 
fortunate girl, who In the very spring-time of tier 
happiness had fled none knew where. The police 
were unanimously of tho opinion that she had 
changed her name and fled abroad, when they 
might as well search for a needle In a bottle of 
hay. 
Advertisements wore tried; but., as is well 
known, these nevor serve the purpose unless they 
are expected, 
But, stimulated by the almost fabulous reward, 
the detectives kept on. 
Sir Arthur grew thin, hut refused to go to Long- 
mead until his daughter was found. 
We may here mention that Longmead H ill was 
the mansion of the village In which our narrative 
commences; but, by some fatality, sir Arthur 
never visited’it. The second wife’s I tine was 
given wholly to Baris or London. 
otherwise, one accidental meeting might have 
prevented much misery. 
Royston Yorke became moody and Irritable, 
lie frequented tho most unlikely places, places 
where certainly no one like Edith would hide. 
But he was sullen and miserable, and tried 
walks through every quarter of London. 
Wrapped In a loose great coat and slouched 
hat, he traversed every thoroughfare, and often 
looked so close luto women’s faces that he was 
threatened with the police. 
But. the police began to know him. 
One evening ho was going up a street in St. 
(Mies’s near St. Martin’s Lane, when a cab 
dashed by with great velocity, knocking down a 
man, 
Some rushed after tho cab, hut. Roystsn helped 
to assist the man Into a surgeon’s. He was a 
poor, wretched-looking being, hut the heart of 
our hero was always open to the poor and the 
outcast,. 
“ Is he dangerously hurt ? " asked Yorke. 
“ We’ll seo. He’ll want some mending,” was 
the half careless reply. “ lie's a flt subject for a 
hospital—such as he is.” 
“ But It’s only a fractured leg," said the young 
man. “ I’ll pay all expenses If you’ll get a room 
and soe to his wants.” 
Money In St. Giles’ goes a long way, and the 
poor fellow was soon comfortabfy housed and at¬ 
tended to, live pounds being handed to the 
surgeon. 
Now, Royston Yorke was very good-natured In 
all cases, but here he had a motive. He had 
One of my foolish fancies only 
Passed away; 
And perhaps I feel a little lonely 
Just to-day! 
ON THE KATTENAESE 
BY CAROt.CS'. 
[Concluded from page 62.] 
“ Aftkr a while. I became more habituated to 
her and the girl, and began to like her. Then I 
took up the. idea of marrying her to my nephew. 
*• But ho settled that by choosing ror himself— 
my own daughter. 
“ Hark I the messenger has returned," ho cried 
and truly, In a few minutes, Martha entered, car¬ 
rying the desk. 
Tho Baronet snatched it from her like a fam¬ 
ished wolf. She would have remonstrated, hut 
Linton took her on one side, and whispered, “ Her 
father I” * 
“ Heaveu save us !” said the poor woman. 
The Baronet wanted no keys. He opened the 
desk without diflloulty.emplledall ila contents on 
the table, and then, setting to work tor a few 
minutes, produced a secret drawer. 
“ see,” he continued, tearing open an envelope 
and producing a medallion of himself ; “ tills Is 
tho portrait I showed her, hut which I did not 
leave about while my father lived, and this Is my 
marriage certificate, her copy, which 1 put for safe 
keeping here.” 
All looked amazed. 
“ Read it out, Royston," said the Baronet; 
“ every word.” 
lie did until the end, when the signatures 
proved to he Alice Estcourt and Arthur Mortimer 
Tresslder, with the address Longmead House. 
“ Forgive me, Sir Arthur,” cried Linton, hum¬ 
bly, “ 1 have done you great wrong.” 
“ Say do more,” continued the Baronet, quietly; 
“ and that we may find my daughter, summon 
my so-called wife.” 
This was done, and Lady Tresslder came hur¬ 
rying In, to seo her husband, not dying, but seated 
in a chair, surrounded hy gentlemen, and with 
papers before him. 
“ Be seated,” said the 
Baronet, calmly. " I have 
a very important commu¬ 
nication to make to you, jUgg 
and a very disagreeable 
one, Nay, you need not - 
speak; you w 111 have plen- 
ty of time presently.” \ v !- »(• ' 
Lady Tresslder smiled y <■. \vy 
scornfully. 
“ I am sorry to say that . ; 
when 1 married you my 'XAV 
first wife was living. She 
only died six months ago,” 
he went on; “ and that | 
the young lady whom you ' - ' 
persuaded to leave this 
house under false pre- 
tences Is my only daughter wj 11 wil ] Vtj&ira 
and heiress. Under tho ' |) 
circumstances, it is you 
who have no business el 
Uere -” 
“My business Is In the \ M j;-N , (rtf 
police-court!” she cried, i > hm Xu 
rising lurtouslyand to , I J > H 
one I shall go to get a war- , | \ V L, 
rant against you for blga- \\ ' ,| j !\ 
my!” \ " V \M 1 
“Hush, woman!” said i I j\\, J )j 
her supposed husband,sad- j| 3 ' f \ \ /y® 
ly and coldly, “If any / l i(Xj|\ Jv j/ atSa 
warrant Is to be obtained, ! \v:ij f 
It will be one against you \ Av/fli 
for attempted poisoning y U\vfl'f OwN 
Behold!” ho cried, point- \'\\\\\\\ij v SjS 
lag to tho live glasses IV')' | V/ X Sr 
which had been suddenly J 1 <J v ' A 
put on the table; “ Into IJ 
everyone of these I saw fTH Ti] LiiL A-yl ■ 
you put the deadly drug tH V | | Jfl/ 
which was to take my life. 1 / •/ jjj [' J j J( 
Two have been analyzed, * ^ jl yJ 
and the potsou Is known. v A i 
Shall I send to a police- vjf WJIfy i 
court lor you 7 ’ .xs/l hr A ' . 
“ Mercy ! Mercy !" sho 
cried. 
“ Or shall I send you to " ■<%}&-&. 
Romo, give you up to the 
Italian police, and have 
the body of your llrst bus- 
band exhumed ?” he con- - "SS 
tlnued. ‘V s ] 
“ I have nothing more 
to say,” was her sullen re- 
ply. “Give me over to 
the police,” 
i was sitting one afternoon some summers ago 
unter <lm rtchen (under the oaks), near a little 
wood lying at the foot of t.he hills, and skirting 
the road that leads to the village of Tlarzburg, In 
which spot I was spending my vacation, and per¬ 
suading myself that 1 was regaining health and 
strength from its weak saline baths, It was four 
in the afternoon—a hot, sultry day. All nature 
seemed ensl umbered; promenaders were few and 
lazy. The shopmen, In their rustic booths, looked 
indolent, and unmindful of purchasers; the hand 
treating us for the second 1 ime that day to the 
overture to “ William Tell,” played about a score 
more wrong notes than was their wont. As for 
myself, 1 was leisurely sipping a cup of coffee, 
Idly amused by watching the mountain stream 
that runs through the wood and the village. The 
brooklet was gushing merrily past, hopping and 
skipping over small and large stones, forming 
here and there miniature cascades, gurgling, 
murmuring, leaping along; kissing the pine-roots 
that struggled Into Its waters, playing with the 
rushes on Its bank, It seemed the only animated 
thing around. 
Looking up, l saw a girl approaching the place 
where 1 sat. She was tall and well built, wore 
the usual peasant dress and neat print bodice, 
scrupulously clean, and a short woolen skirt, and 
carried on her back a long, broad basket, called 
in the Harz a kiepm, which enables the bearer to 
carry burdens without fettering the bands. She 
seated herself next me, took the fcfepen off her 
back, and signed deeply, as though she had got 
rid of some heavy burden. 
1 turned to look at her. It was a tine f ace, noble 
In expression; her hair, which seemed luxuriant, 
was twisted In colls of rich brown plaits around 
her head, and one was laid across the front, form¬ 
ing a cor. net that made 
her clear, well-dehned fea¬ 
tures stand out in good re¬ 
lief. Her exhausted, heat- 
_ ed aspect struck me when, 
fr a few moments later, she 
bent down to the brook, 
catchlng.some of Its water 
In her hollowed hand. I 
said, “ Do not drink water 
^ —you look warm. Let me 
offer you a cup of cof- 
fee.” 
: , _ She raised her bead, sar- 
-f veyed me wistfully for a 
moment, and then, seeing 
V. that my offer was sincere* 
p rose and sa-ld, curtseying, 
3 " If the lierr really means 
it.” 
v * “Certainly,” l replied. 
——- While she was drinking, 
1 said, “ You are tired and 
~ warm. Have you been far 
H l_ “ Nearly half way to the 
3^ Brocken, Herr," she re- 
; -- pled. "I have been get- 
ting food for our cow ; the 
jp*- poor thing Is ill, and can- 
rt not get It for herself. 
1 V\ Everything Is so scorched 
; \ N v here la the valley that we 
must go far up the moun- 
tains hefore we find fresh 
Igj suddenly a heavy hand 
was laid on my shoulder 
from behind, and a deep 
Sg* masculine voice, choked 
X’ ly, “ Have l found you at 
- yOU villain? Tf you 
7 V \ ar ' not too great, a cow- 
ai d, meet me at tho Kat- 
tenaeso tr is afternoon; we 
P rfi shall he alone ;<nd undls- 
turbed there.” 
XX Before 1 could reply the 
JIT speaker was gone, and a 
*-• second later I saw, from 
bet ween the trees, a wagon 
driving along the high road 
at a furious rate. 1 turned 
to the girl at ray side. She 
had risen, and was read¬ 
justing her kiepen ; her 
