A GREAT WRONG, Or, The Mystery of Black Hollow Grange.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10019, 15 April 1910, Page 2

A GREAT WRONG, Or, The Mystery of Black Hollow Grange.

CHAPTER XVlll.—Continued. *■ As they reach the ten ace the little doctor looks up witu home awe at the gray front of the siknt house. He does not relish the undertaking at all, though he feels none oC the superstitious dread that cm dies Donald's hlood. 'We i-hall find ourselves in a nest of thieves or counterfeiuuc. and get our heads smashed for 0..r rashness,' he mutters. But- Ambrose takes no heoil, and they go on. Straight ii.no the manor, down the dim, resounding bid;, nnd up the dusty stairs the do-; leads, leaping on with wild, frantic barks that seem fraueht with humuri entreaty. The old house is as silet f as a tomb, as eold as and cheeil-ss under its winding-sheet of snow. Mot a sound gr-ets them, not even a stray muuse crosses their way. Up the silent stairs on and on down the dreary length of the lone; corridor, until they reach the old librsryroom, which opeua into the biaekdraptd antechamber. . Ambrose follows the do'i' with steady, resolute wteps, ih.,ugh his face is awfully while, and his breathing sharp an;.; short, and his father and the doctor follow him. In the library, where the dustladen floor is stained here and there with drops nf blood, tiie dog pauses, with a lorg. wilii cry, then he leaps into ihe anteroom and disappears,

The three men follow him breath- j lessly, and find him under the tat- I tered black arras, scratching at tiie | solid caken panels. j 'What is 'it, my good dog? cries Ambrose, tearing away the sombre | drapery, his lace flushing with eager excitement. Th.3 poor dumb creature tries hard to tell. He leaps on his master and caresses hi.J, and then throws hirr- i self against i'ne juuels, \ plaintive cries. 'There's soma cre'-'-'.u'-s hid =iboi?t here.' remarks JJonalc 'Ave. father.' Amb:o-0 'that there is. Here my tip*, where is he? Show me w:<y-\.' The dog throws huiist:;' .ajiyinai; the central panel with vvi. 1 ,; xorce, I and frantic ciies. The dog's mad,' growls Doctor Nugent; 'and you are as white lis a ghost, Ambrose. Come away, Donald! we've had enough of this folly.' 'Go if you like, doctor,' Ambrose answers curtly. '1 shall remain. Father, can there be a secret passage 'anywhere hen?, think you? Some of these old border dwellings had them, you know.'" '1 never heard of one in this house,' Donaid replies,, tapping on the oaken boards. 'Then what does the dog meean, father?' Donald shakes his head in direjaernlexity. Ambrose stoops and proceeds to examine the panels, every crack, and joint, and crevice; but to no purpose. His broken arm and wounded limbs pain him terribly, and he begins to grow sick and' dJ'zzy;- but some strange feeling within him prompts him to stay. 'I wish we had an axe,' Ambrose says; 'l'd burst these panels in. There must be something behind them. Suppose you let me rest a bit, father, and you drive over to Dotham's and get an axe! Dotham will come with you, too, and he's a stout fellow. I wish you would, father.' y Doctor Nugent gives utterance to an exclamation, but we will refrain from recording and stalks out of the black curtained anteroom in high in-' dignation; but Donald, who has indulged and obeyed his handsome son all his life long, answers hesitatingly : 'lf 1 thought you could bear it, Ambrose; but you look so white and ill '

'I can bear it, father—my will always was the stionge3r part of me,' the young man cries. 'Keep me in suspense and doubt, and I'll go Into a brain fever before midnight. I must get at the bottom of this—you'll go, father, to oblige me?' Donald turns to go. but he is barely out of the room, when a sharp exclamation from his son causes him to hurry back. 'Gocd h.avens, father! look here'! the young man cries, his finger on a tiny steel spark embedded in the solid oak. 'Can this thing be a secret spring?' As he speaks he presses on the shining point with all the might that excitement has lent him; and Jo! with a eharp click the spring moves, and th oaken panel slides aside, revealing a yawning aperture, which looks to tha amazed eyes of Donald like the mouth of the bottomless pit. The dog leaps upon this master with frantic cries of joy. Ambrose strokes his head, but it is a,full minute before he can speak, so ereat is his excitement.

You were right my brave dog,' he gasps at last; 'ypu haven't led us hera for nothing! Heavens, how black it is below there! Shout, father; perhaps Borne one will answer. I .can't command my voice yet.' Donald drew near the aperture, his

BY EMMA GAR&J OK JOKES. Author of "Pel!; and Power," "S'trafchiroro's Sin," Etc, oto.

face white and awed, his knees shaking undevhim. 'Hello 1 Who's below there?' he shouted lustily, A minute of breathless silence,and then, from some, subterranean depths beJow, came a feeble voice in answer. Ambrose leaped to his feet with a cry of triumph. 'Father did you hear it? A human voice—a woman's voice. It is she! For .Heaven'a sake, let me go down quick. Only think, she has been down there a day and a night. Let me go!' 'Ambrose, are you mad!' cried bis father, attempting to hoid him bac'.t. But the young man, half beside himself in his eagernesu and excitement, ciuded his grasp, and leaped through the aperture, into what lie fancied to be a .sort of passage that would lead him to a descending stairwav. But the instant his feet touched the duHi'iv-iloorirg beyond, there was a sort of rasping sound, and swift as thought, as if by the working of sume lineri-i'Lhiy magic, tho solid i'oi<ndatiniis cr;> ve . way beneea th hiin, and the' vrapthoi.', mi which he atocd, fifiuc rapidly downward, hurling hiiO headlong into the black pit below. CHAPTER XIX. NIGH FELLOWSHIP BEGETS LOVE. The Highand storms had blown themselves out; and on the hi'ia where the snows were melting, and in sheltered moorland nooks, vv;i'ro the fitful sunshine fell, • the ts c<r,: green of sprining grasses could ijo seen. In the old. cottage home, with Ihrj bleating lambs and kids its Ci'.ior, Arr.brr,sii Gerhart stiU Say, weal: ".lid po»v.".'''.ces as a babe. Very near r.nlo e'e-jih had uo been ■so near t' '." ibeso who loved him best had •:>:;-ed niz white lips, as thi-y bc'ie'-ed, ::'.;r tb.:j last time, and teizrs of bitter i:gc:.".y over hi nr.oraiscibus head. Yet he still lived, and the early spring Hunshine, streaming through the casement, fall tenderly on his worn face and clustering hair. Whether the genial influence of the yellow sunbeams, or something' mere subtle, penetrated his aturmed senses, we know not; but his*eyes slowly opened, and wandered from one object u» another with a sort of childish wistfulness, resting at last upon the face of the woman who sat watching beside his pillow. The sick man's weary eyes reposed upon this face, illumined as it was oy the glory of the setting sun, and to him it seemed the face, of an angel. Through all his hours of bitter pain this sweet presence, had been near him; when the very death agony clutched his and his feet touched the brink of the chill river, this woman's tender touch had lured him back to life; the soft breath of her smiling mouth, the divinity of her tender eyes, had soothed and strengthened him, even in his unconsciousness.

He looked up at her, as he Say there feeble and powerless, and the light of a love that was deathless kindled in his ey«s. He put forth his hand and touched her sleeve.

'You are a stranger; I do not even know your name,'he whispered, 'but your face is like an angel's. I think your presence ha 3 saved my life, Will you speak to me?'

She started from her seat, a lovely flush flaming in her cheeks.

'Thank Heaven?' she cried bending above his pillow, her eyes swimming with tears, that smile upon her sweet mouth which a woman gives only to the man she loves once and fyrever. 'You will live?' 'I shall live. You have saved me.'

'Nay, say not so,' her silken Such upon his forehead, "It was you who saved my life and risked your own—well-nigh lost it It was your presence on that stormy night that frightened my enemies, and gave me the opportunity to escape. But I will not thank you now, you are too weak to hear me. Drink this and sleep.' He drinks the draft she proffers, and with her soft fingers on his' brow amid his hair he falls asleep, utterly obvious of all things in the whole world, save this one sweet woman and the love he bears her. * Miss Lenore they call her in Donald's household, arid as yet she haa told them nothing of her life or of the man who treated her with s'uch fiendish inhumanity, and absorbed as they have been in their solicitude for Ambrose, they have not cared to ask. TO BE CONTINUED