fitcraru |$iscfl(anjjr. 
THE PASTOR’S RESIGNATION. 
BY I. EDGAU JONES. 
The utrod pastor bowed his head within the altar’s rail¬ 
ing; 
Uis hands wore tremulous with axe, his sight and 
hearing failing; 
Fond faith and trust were striving hard to fight away 
his fears, 
But yet his heart was sore and sad and sought relief in 
ears. 
For orty years his tongue proclaimed to all salva 
ion’s story. 
For forty years to all who came he ofl'ered hope f 
glory. 
Fo orty years the bell that echoed now from out the 
eeplo 
Proc lamed that, here his warning voice had tidings for 
his people. 
But now the leaders of the church—an influential clan. 
Had called on him to yield his place to hold a younger 
mau; 
His energies had long been spent, 'twasmeet he should 
retire 
That they might call a man of mark endowed with 
youthful Are. 
With tpiavering voice he gave response to friends who 
offered greeting. 
And listened in an absent way to members in the 
meeting— 
Discoursing in familiar tones of changes they were 
making— 
And asking him to make remarks, although Mb heart 
was breaking. 
But yet he spoke—as oft before—his voice aglow with 
feeling, 
While down his faded, furrowed face slow tears were 
softly stealing, 
A holy hush pervading all, as though an angel spell 
Had rested on them, as he rose to bid his flock fare- 
well. 
He spoke of memories sad and sweet, of dim and dis¬ 
tant days, 
Of forty years of oonstant toil, of pain and jirayer 
and praise— 
Of children—christened by his hand who stood before 
him still, 
While some reposed beneath the flowers upon the dis¬ 
tant hill. 
ud here his voice sank sad and low—for there his 
child and wife 
Were laid when death had left him lone to live his la¬ 
boring life— 
Far more were they he once had known, who ’neath 
the willows slept. 
Than they who sat before him now, and o’er their 
memories wept. 
For all he prayed as fathers plead for children whom 
they love, 
That all might once again be .joined in God’s abode 
above; 
And then, in voice replete with tones of love and fond 
caressing. 
He raised his trembling hands aloft and gave to all his 
blessing. 
The saddened people silent sat as ho resumed his 
chair, 
While rays of sunshine softly fell and played upon his 
hair. 
And rested there with light caress, as though a golden 
chain. 
By which an angel message sought and soothed him 
in his pain. 
The organ broke the silence then with sweetly solemn 
roll. 
That wailed in waves of silver song across the sad¬ 
dened soul, 
With “ Rock of Ages," old, yet new—majestic, grand, 
and strong- 
Woll may the angel choir above, its quivering notes 
prolong. 
The people rose to be dismissed; their pastor lingered 
still, 
And smiling looked upon the graves that crowned the 
distant hill; 
But when they sought with gentle touch to wake the 
mttsjng mind, 
They found that death had called him hence; their 
pastor had resigned. 
-- 
IN FOLLY’S NET. 
(Continued from page 794.1 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
TAKEN. 
Jean was alone; she was sitting In a little quaint 
octagon room, which had always been a lavorite 
resort duilng her unhappy residence at Blair 
Gates. It was hung with crimson, scented with 
flowers, winter though It was, and on the hearth 
Burned a warm,-glowing fire of logs, which threw 
a ruddy warmth over the room, with its ricb-hued 
coloring and rich furniture. 
She was leaning back In a deeply-cushioned arm¬ 
chair, her beautiful head resting against Its crim¬ 
son cushions, her hands clasped In her lap In Idle¬ 
ness, her lids half closed over the dreamy, musing 
eyes, which looked Into the red glare of the Are. 
She was dressed In black—all the heavy outward 
signs of mourning were upon her; the long cash- 
mere, with tts crape coverings, swept the ground 
around her feet; but her lace was not aad. It was 
grave, oertalnly — very grave and still; but the 
lips were parted In the faintest little smile, as if 
they held some happy secret, and a faint rose- 
color had crept on In the pallor of the soft cheek 
which had been pale so long. 
For some time she had been sitting thus Idly, 
doing nothing, for the languor of her recent In¬ 
disposition was on her yet, and she was but weak 
and feeble still. No noise nor confusion reached 
her in her little lar-off room, shut In so cosily ; no 
suspicion of the trouble about to overwhelm her 
in her calm security ; she had no soupcon of the 
terrible gulf on whose brink she stood; she had 
forgotten even the suffering of the past few weeks 
in the aay-dream which she was dreaming in the 
firelight. 
The door oponed softly, and Jean lifted her 
eyes; but the person who stood there chimed 
in so aptly with her waking dream, that Ills 
presence gave her no surprise. The handsome, 
fair face had been so vividly before her as she 
dreamed, that now, as he stood there a living 
presence, she felt no astonishment, no wonder— 
perhaps she hardly realized that he was there 
really, as her eyes dwelt upon him with unut¬ 
terable tenderness, and her lips parted in a soft, 
welcoming smile. 
“ Archie,” she said, softly, in a voice of music, 
so low, so hushed that the words barely stirred the 
air, “ Is It you 7” 
He came forward hastily, befoi-e she could move, 
and sank on his knees beside her. putting his arms 
round her as she sat, and drooping his head until 
It rested on her knees, mute lu his awful sorrow, 
unable to tell her why he was there, knowing that 
his words would break her heart. 
• For a few minutes they were silent; the Earl’s 
head sunk on her knees: his breath coming with 
suffocated gasps; his hands unsteady arid trem¬ 
bling. Jean was the first to break It. 
“ Something has happened," she said, and her 
voice, faint though it was in her terror, dlcl not 
falter. “What la It 7" 
A long shudder ran through Lord Ivor's strong 
frame, a shudder such as shakes a man's limbs 
under some terrible bodily torture, but he did not 
speak. 
“ Tell me all.” pleaded the low, sweet voice, 
steady, unfaltering still, “ You are safe-you are 
weU; It cannot be anything so dreadful, that I 
cannot hear it—I have borne so much.” 
“ Fool- child 1” he said in unutterable tender¬ 
ness, lifting Ids head and looking at her with the 
weary pain In his eyes, the contraction ot a great 
torture In the quivering lines of bis face. 
“ Dear,” she said, softly again, with her tender 
hand lying lightly on his shoulder—“ If you can, 
tell me — I can bear anything, hut this sus¬ 
pense.” 
Anything 1—could her w ildest dreams have told 
her the awrul reality ! 
Listening to her sort, sweet tones, meeting the 
sad tenderness in the lovely, wistful eyes, a deadly 
pallor came over the Earl's face; Ills Ups grew 
white ; Ids heart almost ceased to heat! 
“ Archie!” she said, tenderly, “ you are 111 1” 
His head sank forward on her shoulder for a 
moment In unconquerable weakness, and he 
strained her to his breast with a close, convulsive 
clasp. In silence she submitted, waiting until he 
was stronger able to tell her. 
At last he rose from his knees and loosed his 
arms from around iter, looking down at her the 
while In tenderest compassion, then a great sob 
burst from him. 
“ Oh 1 my darling, how can I tell you !” he said, 
piteously, all bis manhood deserting him now, his 
heart wrung with anguish, his limbs trembling 
and nerveless. 
She looked up wltb wondering, wistful eyes. 
“ What is It, dear?" she repeated, gently. “ liov. 
your hands burn! How you suffer!” 
She rose from her seat and went to him; she 
forgot in her anxiety that the sod was freshly 
turned oa her husband’s grave—she only knew 
that the man she loved was with her in some new 
fearful grief; she saw that he suffered as no phys¬ 
ical anguish could make him suffer; that his 
limbs were weak-his eyes dim with an agony 
which no bodily pangs could wring rrom him. She 
put her arms round him, she lifted her fair, pale 
face to his, and her eyes questioned his mutely— 
but earnestly. 
“ Jean,” he said, In the faint voice of a man weak 
from long Illness or bodily Infirmity, It would be 
easier to die than to tell you.” 
“ Suy on dear,” she murmured, “ It may be 
easier when 1 bear It with you. Tell me all.” 
For all answer he pressed her to his heart, and 
kissed her many times, with a fierce, passionate 
despair In each caress, the fever of his lips burn¬ 
ing hers like lire—then in silence he released her 
again. 
suddenly there was the sound of steps upon the 
stairs; he turned from her, and crossing to the 
door with a hurried step, ho locked It, ooming 
back to her again, hardly daring to look at the 
questioning eyes with which she watched hhn. 
“ Great Heaven!” he said, clasping her hands In 
his with unconscious passion; “how can I tell 
her! How can I tell her 1” 
He sank down on a couch and drew her down to 
his side—she let her bauds lie passive In his and 
watched him anxiously; her love for him was 
strong—so strong, that It excluded all thought of 
self, but she knew that, for suffering to touch him 
so keenly, it must touch him through her. 
“ Dear," he said, In a moment, huskily, “ you 
know how dear you are to me—how infinitely pre¬ 
cious you are—you know that I would out off my 
right baud to save you a pang.” 
“ Yes, I know," she said, soitiy. 
“ Then you will kuow what It costs me to come 
to you to-day." 
“ I can see how you suffer, Archie,” she said, 
tenderly, sweeping back the ha lr from hlB brow 
with a pitying, compassionate caress. 
“ Oil, If I could keep it from you!” he said, 
brokenly. “ I came to save you pain, Jean, and I 
am doubling yours. Oh I love—love, listen—they 
are coming for you." 
“ Coming for me l” she repeated, her eyes seek¬ 
ing his with an undefined dread. “ Who ?” 
“ Don’t look at me so, my darling 1 Your pure 
eyes break my heart. Oh! the fools, the mad¬ 
men to doubt you I” 
Sbe half rose; some dim revelation of the troth 
was ooming to her, but he drew her back into the 
shelter of his arms. 
“ To doubt me?” she repeated slowly. 
“ Oh, child, if I could keep you always,” he 
groaned. “My darling you will not be afraid; 
they cannot prove their vile suspicions. Jennie, 
don’t look thus, love; you are breaking my heart.” 
“ Their vile suspicions,” she said. « They are 
coming for me. Do they think—Archie, they can¬ 
not—do tuey think I did It?” 
“ They cannot prove It, sweetheart;’’ said the 
Earl, brokenly, as In a sudden access of terror, 
she clung to him with convulsive Btrength. “They 
cat not provelt, my poor, wronged darllug. TTeaven 
give you strength to bear It,! It cannot be lor 
long. All will he cleared up soon.” 
“You will not let them take me i” she entreated, 
clinging to him with her tiny hands. “ Archie, 
you will not let them take me 1” 
“ Oh! darling, if I could —” he stopped, choked 
with the greatsob which rose In his t hroat 
“You will hold me very tight?" she said. In 
strong, reveilsh excitement; “ you will keep me 
from them, Archie, dear, lr you love me—you will 
hold me fast from them I” 
“If I love you! If [ love you 1” he repeated In 
anguish, and a great passion of sobs broke from 
him In his agony. Powerless to help her—power¬ 
less when bla love was so great. 
At, the sight of his anguish she calmed her own, 
and unclasped her clinging arms. 
“ Forgive me,” she said, gently, “ I did not 
mean to hurt, you, Archie. I know that, if you 
could, you would keep the trouble from me. Dear,” 
she went on, tenderly, lifting his bowed head 
from fits hands, and looking Into the gray eyes she 
loved so well, “ do not gileve so terribly. They 
cannot hurt me, you know.” 
She was stronger now—he. who should have 
strengthened her was encouraged by her brave 
words, her unselfish devotion. 
A knock came to the door—a hasty knock, and 
Collin’s voice: 
* Oh! my lord, they are coming—they are here!” 
Jean rose, and went to the door, as If to unlock 
It, hut he drew hc-r back. 
“ Not yet—one moment, yet,” lie said, brokenly. 
“ My dearest, they shall not! oh! great Heaven, 
this Is unbearable 1” 
He held her close then stratned to his breast; 
she could feel the uneven panting of his heart 
against her should) r; lhe hot iears tell from Iris 
eyes on her upturned face. 
“ Archie, you hurt me,” she said, piteously. 
“Oh! Heaven!” was all he said, holding her 
close. 
It was a terrible thought. At the door they 
were walling to take her—his darling—to a felon’s 
cell! 
Strangely enough—and yet. not strangely, per¬ 
haps—she had never thought It necessary to assert, 
,lier innocence, to him. True, he had never doubted 
her, even In Ills thoughts, for a moment. And 
measuring Ills lcvc and trust by her own, she had 
not doubted him. 
“ Archie,” she said In a moment, speaking the 
words she had spoken to him once before, “let me 
go—they are coming ror me!” 
But he only tightened bis clasp, and as the 
sound of another hasty, Imperative knock came to 
the door, he bent his head and rained kisses and 
tears on the beautiful, still face near Ills shoulder. 
“ Archie”’ she whispered, faintly, “Archie, help 
me!” 
The two simple words recalled him to htmsetr; 
he released her and stood erect, dashing the tears 
from his eyes; then crossing over he opened the 
door. Two or three men stood without, and Collins 
was shrinking back in the shadow of a dark velvet 
curtain which shaded the entrance. 
“ Collins,” said the Earl, calmly, “ bring your 
mistress her cloak. ” 
It was there ready, and with trembling hands 
the maid wrapped the rich, dark furs around her, 
and stooping when she had completed her task, she 
kissed the little cold hands. 
“Thank you, Collins,” she said, gently, and tak¬ 
ing the Karl's arm, she went quietly down stalre, 
through the group of weeping maid-servants and 
staring men, to the carriage which walled. 
And so they took her from lilm to the prison cell. 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
BEFOK E THE TBUL, 
Sir David Calrnes sat In his study—a handsomely 
furnished but essentially business-like room—In 
his house In Edinburgh, He was seated before his 
writing-table, glanelug over his correspondence, 
sorting papers In an alert, orderly manner, with his 
clear, steel-blue eyes still undlmmed and keen, 
although he had seen nigh sixty winters pass over 
his head. It was yet early In the day, for the 
clock on the mantelpiece pointed to eleven; sir 
David had given orders that he should never he 
disturbed by visitors beiore noon, but It wanted 
almost an hour to tha.t time when his butler en¬ 
tered with a card. 
“ His lordship begs you will receive him, Sir 
David,” he said, respectfully, “ills business Is 
urgent.” 
Glancing at the card, Sir David read the name 
aDd a slight expression ot pity crossed his face. 
“ Ask his lordship to be good enough to come 
to me here,” he said, quietly; and as the mau left 
the room, he went on with his letters until the 
door opened again, and the servant announced: 
“ The Earl of Ivor ” 
Sir David rose, and held out his hand to the 
young nobleman as he entered, and one glance at 
his faoe showed that he was haggard and weary, 
arid travel-worn. His proud gray eyes had dark 
shadows under them, and his face was very pale. 
Neither spoke until the seivant had closed the 
door; then Lord Ivor said hurriedly: 
“ I ought to apologias lor troubling you so early, 
Sir David, but my business is urgent.” 
“ No apology Is needed,” said Sir David, cordially. 
“Whatever chance brings your father’s son is a 
fori unate one for me.” 
“You are very good, Sir David,” said the Earl, 
wearily. “My business—you can guess it, can 
you not?” 
“ Partly,” said the lawyer, cauttouBly. 
“ You have heard ?” Lord Ivor said, eagerly. 
"Yes, I have heard,” Sir David answered, 
quietly. 
" And you will help her—you will help us?" said 
the Earl, in the same eager lone. 
Sir David hesitated a moment. 
“ Do you wish me to undertake the defence, Lord 
Ivor?” he said, lifting his eyes suddenly. 
"Yes.” 
There was a short silence. 
“ You win not reruse us ?” the Earl said, then. 
“I am afraid that what I am going to say will 
pain you,” was the answer, gently spoken. “ You 
wish me to prove the Innocence of a person whom 
I may—I do not say I do—think guilty.” 
“Guilty l” repeatecy lie Karl. “Guilty!—Jean 1” 
“ Listen to me, rny lord,” said the lawyer. “ I 
think the lady In question had a si rang hatred to 
her husband; I think she was almost desperate, 
and 1 think that she is a woman of deep reeling, 
likely to commit any—” 
“ Hush 1” said the Earl, haughtily. “ You know 
little of her, Sir David, and you Judge harshly.” 
“I Judge as the world will Judge,” lie answered, 
rather sadly. 
“Then I cannot count upon your friendship,” 
said Lord Ivor, rising. 
“Certainly you can.” the advocate answered, In¬ 
stantly. “ You may always count upon that, my 
lord. Are you returning to Gloss In ro-day ?” 
“Yes,” said the Earl, his face brightening a lit¬ 
tle. 
“ Then I will return with you. Excuse me while 
I make some necessary arrangements.” 
An hour afterwards the Karl and Sir David were 
dashing towards Glossln as fast as the express 
train could carry thorn, arriving there at dusk 
that afternoon, and going straight to the prison, 
within whose frowning walls Jean Blair was Im¬ 
prisoned. 
The arrest of Mrs. Blair on the accusation of the 
murder of her husband had caused the greatest 
excitement in the county, At first people were 
astonished and incredulous; they would not be¬ 
lieve It possible; then, when It was Impossible to 
doubt any longer, they were loud In their condem¬ 
nation. It seemed to many or the great people 
with whom Jean had mixed for so long that they 
themselves were personally Insulted by her sus¬ 
pected guilt.. Some whispered among themselves 
that she might be guilty; others threw buck the 
accusation with scorn, 'lhey knew she was in 
prison; lhat was sufficient proox lor some lo think 
her guilty. She would never have been arrested 
bad there not been strong proof of guilt, lhey 
thought and began to wonder already what the 
verdict would be. 
Mrs. Fergus Blair, the dead man’s sister-in-law 
—a woman ol an Inferior rank of file to that held 
by her late husband—was very bluer against her 
beauUful slster-ln law, she had been exceedingly 
mortified at merely reive lei ng a jointure, her hus¬ 
band having left the estates and lorlune to his 
brother; now It. was rumored that the late owner 
of Blair Gates had left the whole property io his 
wife, and Mrs. Fergus Blair may have thought It 
In her Interest to have Jean declared a lelon. It 
must he owned, however, that she believed firmly 
In her guilt. She knew little or nothing of .Jean ; 
she had seen her once or twice In society, and the 
girl s beauty, her haughty carriage and grace had 
aggravated the dislike, she was prepared to feel lor 
one who had so supplanted her. 
“It Is said they lived a cat aucl-dog life,” she 
whispered to her intimates. **And every one knows 
she loved Lord Ivor, and wanted to be a countess, 
only poor Andrew had been so Infatuated with her 
lhat he had Inveigled her into a Scotch marriage. 
It Is ail very sad and very dreadful, but I hope she 
will suffer lor her Infamy.” 
Such was the charity with which Mrs. Fergus 
Blair regarded the unhappy girl. Happily for 
Jean, however, she haul powerful friends, and she 
knew everything would be done, not only to 
ameliorate her position, hut to provide her with 
efficient advocates. 
Jean was alone In her celt when Sir David 
Calrnes was admitted; an open book lay before 
her, on which she was trying to fix her attention, 
she had promised Lord Ivor, who had obtained 
permission to visit her. that tlie would do her ut¬ 
most. to divert her thoughts from her terrible posi¬ 
tion, but It was a difficult matter. She was an 
ardent lover of poetry, but Tennyson’s beautirut 
Idyls, open before her, might have been Greek 
lines for all the sense thoy conveyed to her be¬ 
wildered brain. 
She l.fted her head sharply as Sir David entered, 
and a llt t.le hush stole into her cheeks. The old 
lawyer’s bearing was perfectly corn teous and re¬ 
spectful—a little cold, perhaps; and Jean had a 
vivid recollection of the clrcumsiances under 
which they had last met. insensibly, however, as 
the Interview went on, Sir David’s coldness melted, 
Iris tone became cordial, kind, almost parental; 
Jean's sweet, pure face and dear, sad eyes were 
telling their own tale, lie had entered Hie prison 
with a strong suspicion or her guilt; heldther 
with as Arm a conviction of her innocence. 
“ I oan see but little proor against you,’ he said, 
gently, at length, “ 'l’ho housekeeper states she 
saw you leave the laboratory on the night before. 
1 must ask you, and you must toll me freely, you 
know, my child, if I am to be of use to you, what 
you went there for ?” 
*• Must I tell you ?” she faltered, her long lashes 
drooping. 
“ If you please,” he answered, firmly. Then he 
put out his hand, aud laid It on her little cold fin¬ 
gers. “ I am an old man, my ohlld; you can trust 
me fully. There is little of tiro folly, the weakness, 
the wickedness of our humanity which I Uave not 
come In contact with. Let us hope my exper ience 
has taught me wider charity.” 
“I was very wretohedl” Jean said, brokenly 
“ so wretched, that for a moment T thought that 
It would be no sin to end my wretchedness and my 
li/i\ i went to the laboratory to get—” 
She paused, and the beautiful, shamed face sank 
until it, touched his hand. 
“ 1 understand," he answered, gravely. “And 
you brought some poison u'oin there ?” 
“Yes, I was sonly tempted, Sir David,” she 
said, through her sobs; “ but Heaven, In its mercy, 
kept me from harm that night. My p £ dn—my 
pain and Archies—was driving me mad; hut I 
was spared that bln.” 
