TWO MEN AND A WOMAN

Evening Star, Issue 15882, 14 August 1915, Page 3

TWO MEN AND A WOMAN

*- [By Helen 1 Mart Fraser, , author of ; ‘Well Paid,’ etc.] [AIl -Rights Reserved.] •. Philip, Marsden’s fine, tanned face grow cynical. He turned over a dainty sheet of note, paper, neatly filled with a warm invitation to dinner ’ and a dance. ’lt said: “ Just impromptu. ’ We had no idea that you w.ere, back hi town.” “ Read that. Aunt Betty,” he said, and passed the letter across the - table. “It’s another of Lady Troy’s little tricks to throw her dear Hilda into iny’arms.” “I thought you were keen about her. She seems to attract most men,” replied Lady Thornton. “Yes, perhaps I Avas keen once, but that’s all over now. I am growing fastidious, and the longer I know Hilda the less she fascinates me.” "Well, Philip, I begin to fear yon will never find a woman who comes up to your high standard, and you were twenty-eight last birthday,” she remarked, with a sly twinkle in her kind grey eyes. “Better be fifty-eight than marry the ■wrong woman,” returned Philip, opening another letter. His good-humor returned. ‘“Splendid! This is just what I want for an excuse—dine with Joe at the club and arrange that law business. I can make that sound ell right to .oady Troy over the telephone, can’t I? Must ring up at ten, she says. Nearly-that now.” Breakfast hurriedly finished, he gathered up his scattered correspondence. “ Goodbye until to-morrow, aunt. Out to lunch and dinner, yon knew.” Philip had never experienced a mother’s affection. But he was the very apple of Lady Thornton’s eye. She had matched him. grow into tall, handsome manhood Avith as much pride as if he had been a son instead of her nephew. It was a starlit night, and a clock from a neighboring church had just struck eleven as Philip’s motor car made a sharp turn round a corner in. St. John’s Wood. There was a sudden jerk, and a scream near by. The abrupt stop threw Philip against the door, and he opened it quickly. “What’s up?” ho called to the chauffeur, who had hurriedly descended, and Avas bending over something at the back of the car. It was too shadowy to see at first. Then a woman brushed by him, and was almost kneeling in the road over the “something” before Philip could distinguish the motionless form of a black poodle. “ Quite dead, miss,” said the chauffeur, touching the silky head. A muffled sob cam© from the woman, and she, too, laid her hand on the dog’s soft coat so tenderly that both men understood in silence. “Poor Bo Bo,” she murmured, in a tone of despair.' “ Poor Bo Bo! What shall I do?”

There was an awkward silence, then the round of approaching footsteps made Philip dread the annoyance of an interfering policeman and a scene of some kind. Perhaps this strange woman would make nil sorts of wild accusations against him. A dozen fears crossed his mind in those few moments. “ You came too fast round the corner',” said the woman. “It didn’t seem 1 fast, madam. However, it is too late now, and I hope we can settle the matter quietly. I am quite willing to pay compensation, and all that. Is the dog your own?” “ Money cannot repay us for losing something we have loved,” she said, bitterly. “Tlie poodle belonged to my aunt, who is an invalid. How shall I ever tell her?”

There was a sound of distress in the voice, and an air of eadness in the stooping figure. But when she stood up Philip noted with surprise that she was slight and elegant. “I am fond of dogs, and I know this must be a fearful blow to you. It’s dreadfully unfortunate. We don’t often come this way at night because of that nasty corner. But, of course,” he added, “ I will accept all the responsibility. Do yon live far from here?” “ Just a little further down, at the Old Hall,” :she said, turning into the light to show the direction, and Philip gave a little start as he saw her face for the first time. Young, and exquisitely beautiful, was the message that thrilled him. “My man had better take the dog to your house, unless,” he added, in a gentler tone, “you will allow me to have him ' buried. That might save you trouble.” “No, I think aunt would like Bo Bo in our own grounds,” she said, thoughtfully. _ ■: Philip moved aside, giving the chauffeur directions for carrying the dog.; then ho turned back to the' girl and peered into her face. “ I will give you by card if you will be so good as to tell me your name and address, and your . aunt’s, too.” “My name is Birkett. We live at the Old Hall. Aunt is Miss Wainwright.” *“ You must surely be related to Mr Thomas Birkett, the artist.” “ I am his daughter,” answered Evelyn. Philip gave her a card. “ Philip Marsden,” she read aloud ; “ then Lord Abberdale must bo your father.” “ Quite right,” returned Philip, drawing nearer, and their eyes met in a stead- , fast gaze as she raised hers from the card. “May I watch you safely home?” he asked. “It is late,” glancing down at his' watch. “ Yes, it must be. I came out to post a letter to my father—one that had been ; forgotten. If only I hadn’t brought Bo Bo,” she murmured, as they were nearing the gate. “ I hope you will tty not to think too harshly of me for the pain I have been the means of causing you. It will grieve me to remember what I have done.” He longed to make her understand how sorry he was, but somehow he could only repeat the most commonplace words." “ I i Will write to your aunt to-night.” I “Thank you,” said Evelyn, and almost ■U before she knew it she had put her hand his which was offered. It seemed as a wave of emotion passed from Philip her_ as their hands met, and it made her shiver as she turned away and passed through the gate. It was five months since Bo Bo died, and another black poodle had made himself one of the family at the Old Hall. Evelyn and Philip had met many times far too many to please Mr Birkett, who had made his plans for Evelyn many years ago, and in whose mind her future was settled. “ I can’t stand that young Marsden fussing round here, Evie,” lie said, crushing the tobacco into bis pipe. “We don’t ■want his kind attentions, nor those of his aunt. Fred doesn’t like it, so you must just quietly drop them. You needn’t exactly be rude.; but get rid of them somehow. You always know how to manage people, don’t you, my dear?” Evelyn was pouring out the coffee, and continued without even raising her eves to her father. She made no sign to 'betray her feelings.’ Many years ago, before her sweet mother had passed away, Evelyn had learnt the secret of self-control. “You quite understood what I said, ’didn’t yon, Evie?” he repeated. “Quite; but I think you are asking too much, father. I can’t very well refuse to see Lady Thornton when she comes to-dav, can I?” *ls Mars Sen coming, too?” “ Well, I haven’t asked Lady Thornton whether she is,bringing her nephew; but tamely there could be no harm if she did ?” “Yes, there could; plenty of harm,” interrupted her father. “Anyhow, I tell you Fred doesn’t like their coming here, ,and as. Fred is to be your lord ..and master some flay— —” “My lord and , master,” she repeated, putting down, her cup, while the color left her cheeks. “Dh, why do you always harp on that string? Why axe you so ■ determined that I must marry Fred Baxter f’

“Why? First of all, because he loves yen. Then hs is wealthy, and a man any girl might be proud of. And last, but most important, he has made up his mind , to have you. And when Pied makes up his mind he‘never alters it.” "I shall, not .change, either, andi I shall - never marry a man unless I love him,” she , ( replied, rising'to leave the room, '

Don't co," ho- said. "I want to tell you something which may help you to part in peace with Lady ThSmton and her nephew.” ‘ . ; He. was standing hy the fire , now, and looked sternly at "Evelyn while speaking. “ I sometimes forget that ■ you axe only twenty, and- 'maybe expect more reason from you than your years warrant; but this time I have tried to be considerate, my dear. I thought you might find it difficult to get out of this intimacy with Marsden and his aunt; so I have arranged to take you abroad for a few months, just for a little sunshine, you understand ; and perhaps I can work at a picture.” Evelyn felt a. lump rise in her throat, and her 'breath came quickly as she stood leaning one hand on the back of a chair, realising the full force of her father’s words. .

“When are we going?” she asked. “I thought of Thursday, if you can manage that. It gives you three whole days to prepare.” “Thank you,” she answered, in tones that told how well she had learnt to obey this father of an iron will.

Once in her own room, Evelyn flung herself on a lounge, and wept until the pent-up emotion had passed away. She was hurt at what had taken place with her father, ~and yet she had been prepared for such a blow. From the first day Philip Marsden entered the house she had seen her father’s resentment towards him. She sat in meditative despair, trying to work out a ’plan of campaign. She was not the sort of girl to waver in the thing she wanted to do. But she was uncertain what was the safest way of accomplishing her heart’s desire, to free herself from the constant attentions' of the man her father was resolved she should marry. The sound of. a motor on the drive roused her. She glanced out, and knew that her father had gone for the afternoon. That bronght a sigh of relief. 'She got up, caught back her wavy brown hair which had fallen loose, and prepared to clear away all traces of weeping and dress for tea. She must look her very best to see Philip and Iris aunt. The color came back to her face, and a look of happy determination settled there.

“ Perhaps it Avill be a lorig time before we meet again,” she said to herself, as she chose from its hanger- a favorite frock —a soft gold _ crepe, made in such simple lines that all her alluring individuality struck the eye and held it in admiration.

A clock in the hall chimed four, and soon afterwards Evelyn Avent down to receive her guests. “I have brought some lilies for Miss Wainwright. Shall I take them up now?” said Lady Thornton, after a few minutes? conversation.

“ How kind! Aunt will he delighted to see you, and she loves lilies!” exclaimed Evelyn, leading the way upstairs to the invalid’s room. When she returned to Philip lie was waiting impatiently. ■“ I sn>t Aunt Betty splendid in her eagerness to see your aunt? She knew I was longing to have you to myself. Why didn’t you come in to the ‘at‘home’ yesterday, as you promised? You can’t think what a bore it was without you,” he said. I did get ready to go, hut someone called, and, truly, I couldn’t get away.” “Was the someone Mr Baxter?” Evelyn lifted her eyes quickly. “How did you know?” she asked. “Because I have learnt that he is always coming between us, and I have heard so much about his constant attentions to you that I have made up my mind to ask you one straight question: Is there anything like an engagement between you? Because it there is I have no right”! he paused—“no right to speak to you a* I want to speak.” r -J" am " ou ave asked me this now. i nave wanted many times to explain everything to you. I have known Mr Baxter ever since I was in short frocks, with hair down my back. He and my father nave always plotted to make me him, but I have never been the least bit in love with him. I have said No’ to him a dozen times, but, of course, with my father’s encouragement, he won t take ‘No ’ for an answer. Now, what would you do if vou were in my place?”

Philip s face grew serious. He got up and paced the floor for a few moments. Then he came back to where Evelyn sat, and bent over her, lifting her face in both his hands until his breath was on her cheek. He was speaking softly and looking into the very depths of her soul for an answer to his question. I cant wait any longer. I love you as I can never love any other woman. Evelyn, can you ever care enough for me to be my wife?” . There was a glowing warmth of feeling tor Philip reflected in her tell-tale eyes, which answered him before she spoke.

It was all over in a very few moments. A tap at the door, and a maid, bringing m a telegram, brough Philip up to his lull height, and Evelyn read the twice before the maid. “Read it,” she said, putting the telegram into Philip’s hand. It ran : “ You and father must dine—--11 P art y. bavoy and theatre to-night. ohall_ be with you at seven.— Feed.” -Philip crushed and threw it aside Cant you refuse, dear?” he said. . “ N t o, it would be useless. My father is known as a man with an iron will. Nothing can move him from his purpose. My dear mother died very young, partly, I always think, from tlie crushing influence of his tremendous will. Let me * L ' ii"what has happened only to-dav.” Philip sab close beside her, eager for every word, as she repeated all that had taken place earlier in the afternoon. So, yon_ see, I am to be carried away out of England, where there can be no danger of any love affair between us. “It is monstrous,” said Philip. “They shall not take you away from me. Sa'v that you won’t go.” ho urged. “ Baxter would probably follow you. Oh Evelvn I couldn’t endure it. ‘ I couldn’t bear to think of another man talking to you as I have done to-dav, even though I knew you didn’t care" for him. Don’t leave me, Evelyn; just when you have given mo the greatest happiness I have ever hoped for. How do I know I shall ever get you back?” “Do you doubt me?" she asked. • Even if Fred Baxter does follow us abroad, it will be an opportunity for me to teach him a good lesson, and get rid of him. No, I don t doubt: I trust vou, Evelyn. But I want a promise—a sacred promise—from you now, before Aunt Betty comes down, quickly, while there is time. Say you will be my wife.” He held her in his arms until she promised, and Evelyn felt a joy that comes but once in the life of most women. One. two, three, four months had passed, and still Mr Birkett and his daughter remained abroad. Still Fred Baxter accompanied them from place to place, and still Evelyn remained resolute, always hoping that the very monotony of her indifference would prove to Fred and to her father the uselessness of their endeavors. Now they were in Venice, and Evelvn found some happiness if not forgetfulness of her persecution in wandering through the beautiful churches, studying the pictures or architecture with her father. These were the best days she had known on the journey. Venice, with its cool, noiseless streets of splendid reflections, was’restful to her. “ Wouldn’t you rather be here than in murky England?” whispered Fred, touching Evelyn’s > hand lightly as he drew closer to her, hut, as usual, she shrank away.

“ I love my own country, and could very soon get tired of this ‘sort of life ” she answered. ’

“ Evie, I wonder what on earth would please you. Don’t you really think I deserve a little more kindness than you show me?” . ,

“ I think we should be moving towards home,” she said, and the gondolier began pushing and chattering his way into the open water., “Evie, why shouldn’t you marry me? 1 will give you all a woman can ask for! I have never loved anyone else. I will worship you. I would die to save you any pain. Evie, I will wait still longer; but you must give me a little hope. You must,” he whispered, and caught her in hiearms with such strength tnat she was powerless,’

'v ’ next morning, when Evelyn was dressing, she missed a long gold chain that eh® was accustomed to wear con-' stoutly. She searched everywhere in the room, but it was not to be found. With a sore heart she went down to breakfast, feeling that she had lost something which was essential to her happiness. For on the chain hung a small gold seal that Philip had given her at the last moment as they were parting.

The behaviour of Fred the night before and the loss of her chain and seal made Evelyn unusually miserable. But a ray of gladness came into her heart as she saw that a bundle of newspapers had arrived from England.

For a long time Evelyn sat on the balcony devouring the contents of the papers. Suddenly her eyes became fixed on a short paragraph. The paper slipped from her hand. She swooned, and fell to the floor.

When she became conscious her father was bending over her speaking. “ Now, you’ll soon be all right again, my dear. What was it? The sun was too strong, I suppose.”

She opened her eyes, closed them, and opened them again. But, whether open or shutj the paragraph she had read stood out in vivid letters before her:

An engagement is announced between the Hon. Philip Marsden, eldest son of Lord Abberdale, of Abberdale Castle, Perthshire, and Hilda Louise, elder daughter of Sir Mortimer and Lady Troy, of Bel ford Abbey, Tonbridge, Kent. ' . From that morning Evelyn lost all spirit. She was too listless even to keep Fred in the place she had appointed him. He became more tender in his thoughts for her comfort. He delighted in performing a dozen small services that in earlier days she would have resented.

“I want so much to go home. I feel ill, Fred,” she said one afternoon. < “Then why not start back to-morrow? Shall I suggest it to your father, and shall to be to-morrow or the next day?” “To-morrow, please,” she answered, in' tones of depression and almost submissively.

It was late the following night when they arrived, and Evelyn, wan and shivering, went to her room. But she was not sleepy. Her brain could not rest, and the same thoughts kept revolving themselves into questions which she could not answer. Since the morning she had seen the announcement of Philip’s engagement he had never been out of her thoughts. Her nerves were shattered, and she lay for hours before sleep came. Next day she awoke with a headache and hollow eyes. Several letters were brought in with her breakfast. One was a note from Fred, which read: My darling,—l forgot to mention that I have taken a box at the opera for you this season, and I want you to make up a party for to-night—aayone you like—and we will dine wherever you like. You were very pale last night. I hope you will rest to-day, and look more like your lovely self this evening.— Yours, Fred. Her first inclination was to plead illness and avoid going. Then a sudden desire to go seized her. It was good to be at home again. The mere sight of a few friends would, perhaps, cheer her sore heart. So she decided to arrange the party.

It was Madame Calve’s night in ‘ Carmen,’ and the first act was nearly over when Evelyn and her guests took their seats. Th§ box opposite was occupied by a large party, and at first sight .elyn did not recognise anyone. Gradually, however, she was attracted by the handsome face of a girl looking towards her. The girl spoke to a man next to her, who turned to look at Evelyn. The man was Phillip. She saw him start as he recognised her. Then all was blurred; a faintness came over her, and she leant back in her chair.

Fred had been watching. He whispered somethina into her ear.

“ I shall be all right presently,” she answered, as he fanned her, and slowly the mist cleared away; but the faintness remained. She scarcely heard the music. Calve might have been the commonest street singer for all Evelyn heeded. She knew that Fred had seen and understood what had occurred. She felt instinctively that he had brought her there hoping she might see Philip with his lovely fiancee.

The drive home seemed interminable. Mr Birkett sat in deep thought. Evelyn hudilled in a corner quietly, and Fred made intermittent remarks which meant nothing and required no answers. Supper was a gloomy performance for all. and Evelyn was thankful when it was ever. Reaching her room, she unlocked a box and took out a small packet of letters, sorted them tenderly, read several, and put them neatly together again. Then she rat for a long time gazing into the fire. “ There is nothing left,” she whispered. Suddenly the remembered she bad taken oft' a bracelet and left it, with her bag, on a table in the hall. She stole noiselessly down to get it, and, passing near the door of the study, heard her father’s voice in high, angry tones. She hesitated as it grew louder. There was a pause. Fred began speaking. She went nearer the door. At first no words were clear, hut soon there were harsh interruptions from the other voice, and she could hear distinctly. “ Yes, curse you! It’s a fin© business for me, now that everything has gone, and I don’t even own the roof over my head. Do you know that sometimes I feel I owe you a lifetime of gratitude, but at other times I could kill you for ever coming into my life.” “ Come, Birkett, don’t get angry, and don't blame me. I have never acted against your wishes, have I? But Ido beg just this last favor from you. Won't you go on for a little longer?” “ Longer? Why, it’s been years too long already. \ou have had your own way, and you see we are no nearer the end than we were twelve months ago.” “Yes; but that is your faullt. You let another man interfere. I told you I could win her it you kept her free from ail entanglements; but you didn't. You let that young Marsden come fooling round and get her into his clutches. That’s what you did with your blindness!” “Oh! I wasn’t io blind. I was trusting to your ingenuity and her weakness; but it seems she has some of her father’s strength of will. However, she must yield, and that soon. To-morrow I shall tell her the bald truth, and we will sec how her pride behaves then. What will she say when she knows that I have lost all, and that she. is your guert —living in your house? I think you. will find hex queenly manner change then.” “ Stop, Birkett; I won’t listen to it. I feci a coward when I think of my position. I wish I had let you go bankrupt years ago. That’s what I wish. Then'l could go to Evie with a clear- conscience. She will never understand what I have done for you. She will hate me for it. Good heavens ■ How I have prayed that she might learn to care for mo before the crash came!"

“ Yes; I hoped the four months abroad would have done it.”

“ You must give me just a few months longer for a' final struggle to win her over. She isn’t well now, and perhaps I can reach her through sympathy. Maybe, when she realises how I long io make her well and happy, she will throw off the icy covering of indifference, and then I can appeal to the real woman underneath.”

“ Well, Fred, the bills grow bigger wh'le you wait. You know who will have to nettle them all. If you want me to hold my tongue, then I musk The house and practically everything in it is yours. I suppose a man mav do as he likes with his own. property, but I ami tired of the whole thing. There is nothing left for mo hut work—honest work with my brush.” * Then you will hold your tongue for a few months longer—you promise?” Poor Evelyn never knew how the conversation ■ ended. Her endurance • had readied its limit, and she aank exhausted, to the floor.

Many days passed before she opened her eyes to consciousness. She was in her own pretty bedroom, with the windows open, and a flood of sunlight pouring in. Flowers stood on » table rear her, and a nurse in blue uniform was hv the table.

“Why are you here?” asked Evelyn. “To nurse you,” was the simple reply. “What is the matter with me? How long have I been in bed?” “Not very, long, and you are getting better.’*-

Then followed a silence, in which the patient .was trying to remember something. “Oh, yes,” she said, with tears filling her ©yes. “.Oh, now I can remember.” “Hush! You mustn’t upset yourself, Miss Birkett. The doctor Days we must keep you very quiet.” ■ I remember I .couldn’t stand any longer, and. then I must have collapsed. Where is my father? Where is Mr Baxter?”

“ Never mind now,” said the nurse, smoothinig, the covers gently. “ Your •father will come and see you at teatime. You must rest now.” If the nurse had fepoken precisely she would have told Evelyn how she had tossed wearily on her pillow for seven day's and nights. _ Nearly a more passed before Evelyn was permitted to sit up or have much conversation. It was a great relief to her when, with pillows piled at her back, she was able to sit up and look at a magazine. “Nurse, why doesn’t my father come and see me?” she asked, for the sixth time.

. Because you have needed absolute quiet.

“How bng shall I be like this?” ' 11,I 1 , don ’! i my dear. Probably not long, if you are patient.” “ But I can’t be patient. I feel as if I shall go mad with thinking.” She x'an her fingers through and through her hair fretfully. ■ I wonder if you can keep very calm, and do exactly what I ask, if I give you some _ good news from someone who is thinking about you constantly?” Evelyn frowned and clenched her thin k a <?r , "What is it you have to say?” ‘I do beg you to be verv quiet, and vou may have this letter from Mr Marsden She drew an envelope from her pocket. “ I have been keeping it for you, ever since the first day I came.” Evelyn opened it with startled glance, but as she read it a little flush crept into her_ cheeks, and her sad eyes brightened, twice she read it: ,

My darling, my wife to be,—l am consumed with anxiety for you. My heart aches, but I pray for you night and day. Be brave, and do as your nurse tells you, so that you may soon recover. Life has been one constant mistake since you went abroad. I wrote tp you frequently, but i know that you couldn’t have received many 7 of the letters. Then came the paragraph in the newspapers announcin' 7 ' my engagement. , I had it contradicted next day, and sent several copies to vou. but again I doubt if they ever reached your hands. Then my seal was returned to me—the little one I gave you. That I could never quite understand, but still 1 had faith in you. Still I kept your picture near my heart, as the sign of a sacred promise. I could do nothing more but wait for your return. Heaven only knows how I suffered that night I saw you at the opera. I thought you suffered, too. The next morning I determined to see you at all hazards, so I called at the Hall, only to hear _of your illness. I could get but little information from the servants, but I waited my chance and approached your nurse. She will tell vou the rest. J

" I must not weary you now. I will wait, and you must be patient. I would gne more than I can say to be with you for a few moments, just to hear you tell ms again that you are mine for always.— Fondly., Philip.” " The nnrse watched the change that came over Evelyn as she devoured the letter, which brought more peace, more rest and strength to the patient than all the nurses and doctors could bring her. “Are you happy now, and would you like to send a few—a very few—words to Mr Marsden? He knows I can only allow you to send a- very short note at first, ion see, he had to take me into his confidence. I know all about your troubles, so you can just talk as much as you like to me. It will be a relief to vour mind, and you can trust me with all vour secrets.”

Then followed a dozen questions all at and a dozen answers; then more questions; until it was time for. Evelyn to lie down snug and peaceful for the first proper night’s rest she had known for a long while.

For four rears the Old Hall had stood empty and uorlorn, with only a solemnfaced caretaker to mind it, and sometimes gather a stray rose from its walls. The lawns were unkempt and the borders overgrown with a tangle of weeds, but the warm sunshine of early June took away some of its desolate" appearance, as a_ little group of four persons were walking out on to a broad path beneath a tall row of limes. “ I like the house immensely, don’t you, Arnold ?” asked a middle-aged lady of her big military husband. “ It seems just the sort of place we are searching for, Muriel.” “The grounds look scrumptious.” put in an energetic girl of 18. “ Well, ma’am, I know there isn’t another place like it in these parts. Might almost be away in the real country, like.” “ The only, thing I can’t understand is why the place should have stood empty so long,” said the husband cautiously.

“ That’s what they always says, and I could explain how it is the Old Hall got like this, but it's a long story.” “ I hope it's not haunted !” exclaimed the rosy daughter. “ No, miss, it ain’t exactly haunted, but it has seen some sad days. It was, maybe, 11 or 12 "years ago the place belonged to Mr Thomas Birkett, the great painter. s He was a hard man, folks say, though I never saw him myself, and they say he must have been a cruel, harsh man towards his wife. Anyway, she died here when she was only young, leaving a beautiful little girl. “Mr Birkett got rid of his fortune, nobody knows how. But he had a very rich_ friend—Mr Baxter—who kept on helping him pay his debts for- years and years, and nobody, not even his daughter, found it out. Well, this Mr Baxter was always in love with the daughter, and her father was all for her marrying him, but she couldn’t hear of it, so there was trouble all round. Her father tried hard to make her consent, but it must have been useless all the time, because the girl was in love with Mr Philip Marsden, Lord Abberdale’s son. Oh, it was just like a story book. Then one day the young lady round out how her father had. lost all his money, and that Mr Baxter was really keeping them, and the shock nearly killed her. She was ill for a time.

“ Then, just as she was recovering, the poor old invalid aunt who lived with them died all of a sudden, and that made a great upset for everybody. “ The young lady’s nurse was very kind, and looked after her like a mother, and wouldn’t lot anybody interfere with her. Well, one day off goes the nurse and Miss Birkett, and never comes back again, because Mr Marsden, he married his dear young lady, and they went to live in Scotland. Now they’ve got a little girl and a boy, so Heaven must have blessed their wedding.

“ When the young lady had gone there was moat terrible goings on here between the father and Mr Baxter. After a time Mr Birkett went abroad somewhere to paint his pictures. You see, Mr Baxter had really owned this place for years, and_ had paid all the debts of the family, hoping to win the young lady. Poor man! I always feel sorry for him—left here all alone. Polks say he gradually got queer—wouldn't leave the place, and at last he committed suicide in the young lady’s room. Oh, there now! I wasn’t to tell nobody which room it was, but, you see, I get so worked up. I must ask yon not to mention it to nobody, please. But the place isn’t haunted, miss. I always sleeps here alone when my boy’s in a job, and I never’ see nothing, nor hears no queer noises,” “Well, I must say the plane has a rather melancholy history;' still, I don’t know that we need be influenced by your story. I daresay there are many "houses with equally gloomy tales connected with them, if only there was somebody with a good memory to relate them. What do you say, Muriel 7” “I shall want a little time to consider,” she replied thoughtfully, then added; "What is that in the comer? It looks like a gravestone.” “Yes, ma’am, that is the grave of a favorite black poodle that belonged to the family. They had a great liking for black poodles, they did.”. CThs EndJ