6 
te i^ioukes’ SHaral fKcL&iet ttn.3 3Piciorml Some iSompariiaiu 
doting old creature to say so. Ah, Bradley, your father 
had your golden temperament, but it was mixed with some 
foibles and weaknesses—somo dross you do not seem to 
have inherited.” 
He rose from his seat and looked at her with an ex¬ 
pression intense, ardent, almost imploring. 
“ We have always been lovers,” he said, as he passed 
around her chair and took her thin, white hand with a 
pretty, caressing gesture in both his brown ones; “ why 
do you wish to drive me away, mother ? Why should we 
not live on happily together in the old way? Wo have 
enough for every comfort—for luxuries even—and the in¬ 
dulgence of our tastes.” 
Mrs. Haleourt’s face changed as if from some inward pang. 
“Ton are as sadly at fault there,” she said, in a low, 
pained voice. “ There have been bad investments mado; 
some of the securities I was advised to buy have proved 
worthless. I found last night on my arrival a letter from 
my lawyer, with the terrible news that we have only 
enough left to live on with the strictest economy. I could 
not break it to you all at once, and this other startling an¬ 
nouncement drove it for the moment from my mind.” 
“So much the better,” cried her son, as he threw his 
arm around her and drew her into a closer embrace. “I 
will work for you now. I will achieve wonders to make 
you happy. I have splendid health, plenty of bone and 
sinew, and energy, too, when it is called out. I will throw 
off the foolscap and bells, and show myself a resolute man.” 
“ Oh, Bradley,” she cried, almost wringing her hands, 
while real, passionate tears broke through her conventional 
being, “ you do not know me, though you are bone of my 
bone. I am worldly, I am ambitious, if not vulgarly mer¬ 
cenary. I cannot change my whole nature. Bor years I 
have had but one aim, one purpose, to see you righted, to 
see you in possession of the estate that belongs to you. 
Bradley,” she repeated sinking down, with sobs, upon his 
shoulder, and lowering her voice to an intense whisper, 
“ if you do not marry your cousin it will break my heart 
and l ring me down a disappointed, miserable old woman 
to the grave.” 
All the light, and ardor, and affection, had gone out of 
his face. It was pale now, and almost stern. 
“Mother,” he asked slowly, “ do you desire this object 
of your ambition moro than my happiness ? ” 
“ Why should it bo inconsistent with your happiness, 
Bradley ? ” 
“ Because I wish to be free to dispose of my own life, 
my own heart.” 
She looked up alarmed, with the tears on her face. 
“ Do you love another woman ?—is that the reason this 
idea of marrying your cousin Winnifred seems repugnant ? 
Surely, if you are heart free, you might in time come to 
love a beautiful; spirited creature like that! ” 
Bradley had withdrawn his arm. He stood back and 
made no answer to the question for a moment or two. 
Then he said, with a strange infusion of bitterness, almost 
of irony, in his tone: 
“I will do as you desire, mother, seeing that you desire 
it more than all other things—that your happiness, your 
very life depends on it. I will obey the summons to the 
Hall. I will marry my cousin Winnifred if I can do it con 
sistently with honor—without lying professions of love or 
an unnecessary display of mercenary meanness. But the 
result, I must forewarn you, on these conditions is more 
than doubtful.” 
She half sprang out of her chair toward him with an 
unnecessary effusion of gratitude. 
“0 Bradley, you are my good, reasonable, loving boy. 
I knew you would come around, for you have never crossed 
me. I have made myself odious to you, but I am sure the 
day will come when you will bless me for having secured 
the happiness of your life.” 
She would have caressed him, putting her hands upon 
his shoulders in au old familiar fashion, but there was 
something repellant and chilling in his air, which she had 
never felt before iu all their years of loving intimacy. 
“Now,” she continued, trying to resume her sprightli¬ 
ness and old charm of manner, “there is one thing more 
I must ask of you, Bradley. You know a woman, if you 
give her an inch, will take an ell. Mademoiselle Duvalhad 
better leave the Hall. She ought not to be leading the 
life of an idlo dependent, and Winnifred is too old for a 
pupil. Virginie has accomplishments that will secure her 
a good support in her own sphere in life. If you will 
send her to me I will provide for her future.” 
“I have no control over Mademoiselle Duval,” he an¬ 
swered, coldly. “We cannot move human beings about 
at will, as if they were pegs in a cribbage-board.” 
“Nonsense,” she cried, still trying to make the spell of 
playfulness work. “You kuow that ever since you began 
to take such a delightfully romantic interest in her affairs, 
and especially since the search began for that mythical 
uncle, she has looked up to you as her patron saint and 
guardian angel. She would be as submissive as a child 
to any request you might make.” 
“ I cannot take it upon myself to ask her to leave the 
Hall," said Bradley, as he turned and quitted tlio room. 
Mrs. Halcourt sat gazing after him for a long time. A 
red, excited spot still lingered on her pale cheek, and many 
painful chords were vibrating within her. She was a 
proud woman, and this interview liad cost her dear. She 
sat fingering a fold of her violet cashmere robe with her 
jeweled hand, while plans and purposes took clear shape 
in her mind, and then she rose with a half smile on her 
face, thinking how she would lure her dear boy back 
again. 
Iu less than two hours Bradley had packed a portman¬ 
teau and was on his way to the hill country. The railway 
journey was devoid of incident, but it was a long one, and 
afforded too many vacant hours for brooding over troubled 
thoughts. He sat all night in a corner of the car, wrapped 
in a rug, and without catching a single wink of sleep, and 
early on the afternoon of the following day, stepped out, 
jaded and travel weary, at the little upland station, five 
miles from Halcourt Hall. Leaving his portmanteau with 
the station master, to be called for. he set out on foot over 
the hills to the old Hail. It was a beautiful September 
day, the air just crisped and clarified with autumnal fresh¬ 
ness. The hills were of a deep, dark blue, glorious and 
strong, as if freshly buttressed and strengthened in their 
mighty fortresses. Health and vigor came from the aro¬ 
matic pine forests and acres of sweet fern that clothed the 
barrens. Bright tints had begun to kindle at the edges of 
the wood. Every now and again a partridge started up 
with a great whirr from some copse, and the nut trees were 
heavy with rich brown clusters, and the streams, swollen 
by late rains, came foaming and dashing and tumbling 
down through the hill gorges. 
Bradley was delicately alive to every sensation of physi¬ 
cal enjoyment, and as he struck out of the main road into 
by-paths and forest ways that he remembered exploring in 
his school-day vacations sometimes spent at the home of 
his ancestors, the blood tingled down to his healthy finger 
tips, in spite of a sleepless night and a long fast. He re¬ 
membered the streams where he had fished, the places iu 
deep, mossy glens where lie liad watched the habits of 
wild birds and animals, and the glorious weather and the 
beautiful scenery helped to shift the dull load of foreboding 
from his thoughts. His young life had thus far been 
singularly bright and unclouded. He was so little accus¬ 
tomed to mental disturbance that it seemed like a thorn in 
his hand, which he must pluck out and be rid of. The 
feeling of bitterness toward his mother was the most un¬ 
yielding, the most stubborn and resistant. His heart liad 
smarted and burned with a sense of wrong, the conviction 
that sho was ungenerous and cruel to make use of his 
affection to force him into a position abhorrent to his na¬ 
ture. It was the first time that a dense shadow had fallen 
between them. Mrs. Halcourt had always beeu her boy’s 
playful, indulgent companion, using her wit and culture and 
grace and wordly wisdom to bridge over the disparity of 
years, that she might charm and fasciuate him into the 
worship she craved, rather than bind him to her by formal 
ideas of duty and obedience. Bradley was suffering the 
pang an ingenuous nature feels wheni direct ray is thrown 
upon the fatal weaknesses of a character it has loved 
blindly. The clear vision of the present moment made 
his former security and peace seem almost a mockery. 
But he was determined to crush out this mental disturb¬ 
ance, to put it under his feet by vigorous exercise. So he 
chose the roughest road through the woods, leaping over 
logs and stones and crashing through undergrowth until 
he liad got into a great glow. He noticed the little curling- 
moss at liis feet, the red-berried vines twining about gray 
rocks; the plumy ferns in many-sliaded tints of green ; the 
tree branches over his head gathering a sunny glow; 
and glimpses of the azure hills seen through great tree- 
bolls, and a gleam of the old tranquillity stole back upon his 
heart. Surely, if his vision was awry, tiie world was still 
fair and healthy; the future could not all be hung in sable 
without a touch of silver lining anywhere. 
As he drew nearer to it, he thought of the old Hall as 
it used to look in his boyhood’s days, with sepia touches 
about the gray roofs and gables, and the long sweep of 
carriage drive, and the old oak avenue leading up from 
Glenmere. It seemed to furnish a background for only 
one picture, the fair, pale face and shy, blue eyes, and 
sunny liair, and slender figure of a young girl. It came 
over him for the first time, like a thrill, that lie was draw¬ 
ing near to Virginia Duval; that he should see her and 
hear her speak, and make her look at him in spite of her¬ 
self, as lie had done moro than once on the ship. And 
then ho fell into a reverie in which he lived over every 
littlo event connected with the young stranger, since she 
had been thrown so singularly oil his care. If a young 
man, going a wooing, finds the wrong maiden making pic¬ 
tures in his brain, liow can lie help himself? 
When Bradley came to the upper end of Glenmere, the 
thick woods that clothed its' bank were easting dense 
shadows, and the water lay at his feet in a long, bright 
line. Ho remembered poling about this pretty lake in his 
boyhood on an old raft. He could have gone to the very 
spot where lie had often hidden his poles to prevent liis 
Cousin Winnie from getting drowned in the same kind of 
exercise. Now he emerged upon a tiny cove, upon the 
opposite side of which ran a little green path, turning in 
and out among the trees. It was not many rods across, 
and the path was in plain sight from where ho stood hid¬ 
den by the sloping tranches of a great hemlock. 
As Bradley paused a moment in this place a confused 
murmur of voices struck liis ear. The words were indis¬ 
tinguishable ; but a woman was half sobbing or imploring, 
and when she ceased the sound continued in the heavier 
tones of a man’s voice. The blood rushed back on Brad¬ 
ley’s heart, as he seemed to recognize the accents of Vir- 
ginie, in those low pleadings, from the green path across 
the little cove. He peeped through the thick branches of 
the hemlock, and caught the flutter of a light skirt just as 
it disappeared from view. At the same instant a man 
emerged from the shadow of the trees. He was tall and 
slender, with dark hair, and a pale face- He turned 
and mounted the wooded bank of the lake with a quick, 
noiseless, stealthy step. 
Bradley dashed from his hiding-place, and almost with 
one bound had struck the path that rounded the little cove 
like a bent elbow, just where it was joined by a bridle-road 
that led through the forest, and over the hills, to the Hal¬ 
court mines, when Virginie, with her hat off, her hair un¬ 
loosed, her bosom panting, her face bloodless, and eyes 
dilated, came flying toward him like a frightened wild bird. 
In a moment she was almost in his arms, and then she 
shrank and cowered away, exclaiming: 
“ Oh, Monsieur Halcourt! ” 
“Virginie—Miss Duval—what has happened? Were 
you assaulted ? I heard your voice in distress, as I thought, 
and I was running to the rescue.” 
She cowered back still farther, and said, as well as she 
could, in gasping, agitated tones: 
“ Oh, no, no. I was foolish, nervous. I—I—that is, it 
was a man from the mines, who spoke to me, but he did 
not mean to harm me. I was fearful in that lonely place, 
and I lost my head.” 
“ The miscreant, did ho frighten you ? Did lie threaten 
violence ? I cannot leave you here half fainting from agi¬ 
tation and alarm, or I would go ufier him and give him a 
lesson he would not soon forget.” 
“Oh, no, no,” cried Virginie, in agonized tones. “Do 
not think of it again. It was all my weakness and folly.” 
•‘ Did he beg of you, the scoundrel ? ” 
“ He asked for money, but I had none to give,” she said 
hastily. “But it was all my fault. Do not speak of it to 
your cousin; it might disturb her ? ” And again the trem¬ 
bling and shuddering came on more violently than before. 
“ Do let me support you; you will fall," said Bradley, 
in an anxious tone. “ The villain has given you a shock 
that may throw you into a fit of illness. You must not 
go straying alone about this wild country." 
He passed his arm around her waist, and Virginie burst - 
into a flood of passionate sobs and tears. 
“At that moment Winnifred, with a brilliant, glowing 
color in her dark cheeks, and mounted on Thunderbolt, 
came riding down the road from the mines with Edgar 
Swayne, who liad resumed his clerical dress, by her side. 
(To be continued.) 
MADAME SOBIESKI—A NOBEE WIFE. 
During the troubles in Poland which followed the revo¬ 
lution of Thaddeus Kosciusko, many of the truest and the 
best of the sons of that ill-fated country were forced to flee 
for their lives, forsaking home and friends. Of those who 
had been most eager for the liberty of Poland, and most 
bitter in enmity against Russia and Prussia, was Michael 
Sobieski, whose ancestor had been a king a hundred and 
fifty years ago. 
Sobieski had three sons in the patriot ranks, and father 
and sons had been of those who had persisted in what the 
Russians had been pleased to term rebellion, and a price 
had been set upon their heads. 
The Archduke Constantine was eager to apprehend 
Michael Sobieski, and learned that the wife of the Polish 
hero was home in Cracow, and he waited upon her. 
“ Madame,” he said, speaking politely, for the lady was 
queenly and beautiful, “ I think you know where your hus¬ 
band and sons are hiding ?” 
“ I know, sir.” 
“ If you tell me where your husband is, your sons shall 
be pardoned.” 
“ And shall I be safe ?” 
“Yes, madame, I swear it. Tell me where your hus¬ 
band is concealed, and both you and your sous shall be 
safe and unharmed.” 
“Then, sir,” said the noble woman, rising with a dignity 
sublime, and laying her hand upon her bosom, “ lie lies 
concealed here—in the heart of liis wife—and you will 
have to tear this heart out to find him.” 
Tyrant as lie was the Archduke admired the answer, 
: and the spirit which had inspired it, and deeming the good¬ 
will of such a woman worth securing, he forthwith pub- 
1 lislied a full pardon for the father and sons. 
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