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WEST UNION, Adams County, Ohio, Juno 22.â€"«Ginger Ridge, 2. rnggml, sti-rilu uplrmil, abouc six miles northwest 1mm hero, i;-: much excited over the killing: of ILII('llfll‘llll‘llfll)l.10li- {make which for Hcvcrnl j, ‘ is has played havoc with the farmers’ flocks. Hogs, poultry, calves, sheep, etc., have mysteriously disap~ peared. always at night. Two years ago a band of gypsies were camped in the neighbor- hood. and they were accused of stealing; the ' missing property. John Rainforth, a farmer, ~“who greatly suffered from those depredmimis, swore out a warrant before ”Squire Peter Anna and had several ofthem arrested. They had D. prolil‘niimry examination. but nothing was proved against them. and they wm'e dis- charged. They went 21“ {Ly muttering; threats of vengeance. "or hikelt-lon Found in flu- Dru Euornlouaa “Innksnnluu Mr. Raiuforth had a goldcndmired libtle daughter, 4 years old, whom 1mm uty and sunny temper was the pride of her parents. On the day nftvr the arrest of the mimics little Nellie Rninforth was missed. She was last soon phlyim; with :1 pet hunh on thu edge of a tacky ridge, 1; short distance from the house. Search was made for her. but neither she nor the lamh was found. The whole ncimilmrhand wam aroused and man scmm d thn fields and woods for milus around. Mr. Ruinfurth HIb‘p-fi‘ck d the gypsicu of thJucLing her out of revenge for their arrest, and fullowcd the party across the Ohio River into Lewis County, Ky When he (mum up with them they indignnmL denied all lmmfludgc of the child's where abouta and a search of their camp failed to discover his little daughter. He turned to his heme broken-hearted. One day last wnek Mnl‘tainferth was plant- ing a field of about twentyvfive acres, situated near his house. He had not been at work long when he discovered what at first seemed . to be a fresh furrow across the middle of the field. He stopped work and followed the track to a fence \vhiehseparated the field from a dense thicket of under brush. 0n the fence he found blood and some sheep’s wool, which at once convinced him that the body of a sheep had been dragged across the fence. He went to his pasture and found that a large lotswold rain was missing. Accompanied by four or live neighbors, Mr. ltuinforth made Search for the missing; sheep. The track through the brush was marlu-d by drops of blood and tufts of wool. About sixty rods from the fence they came to a ledge of rocks, forming one side of a steep hill. The track led directly to this ledge, in which was found an opening of suilicient size to admit the body of a large man. A large charge of giant powder was exploded in the opening, and the rocks were thrown asunder by the blast. When the smoke cleared away the farmirs drew near and peered down the open- ing, and there among at least a wagon load of bones, lay a huge black snake, quivering from his hurt. The farmers waited until the snake was dead. and then at- tached a chain to his body and dragged the monster out of the hole. He measured fifteen feet seven inches in length, and the biggest part of his body was over, two feet in circum- ference. He had an ugly-looking head and enormous fangs. sharp as needles. The miss- ing ram lay beside him. crushed out of shape, and covered with a sticky. glutinous sub~ stance. I visited the spot to-day and saw the men. star snake. While Iwua there, men were at work clearing the den of the bones. 11.1 :1 0011101 one of them picked up a human skull. It was smell, like a child’s, and he brought it fmwnrd to the light Mr Rainforth was standin" by my side when the man came to- wm‘d us with the skull in his hand. He g1 mead at it and. staggeiing against :1 two, buried his face in his hands and burst into tears. “ Poor little Nellie,” he cried. through his sobs. “My God, it is hgrgibm l” _ Aftcra time he cotrollcd his {0011111131 and told me the story of his little (111111711101 14 mys- te1ious disappearance 1:116 yarns ago. '1‘ he bones of the little 0110 was gathered togdhor 11nd buried in the family p10: in the cemetery at West Union. Tho. discovery was kept from Mrs. Rainforth. for the poor woman has never ceased to mourn for 11011091 child 111111 1101 husband feared that this intelliwcrfce would seriously affect he1,shc bein"b in delicate health. There can be no doubt 111-1 to the iden- tity of the skeleton, for 11 gold chain which she Wore around her neck was found among the bleaching bones. Cnmuliun \VoI-kmcn Ilulldozml and Swin- dlml ln’ Yankee ’lluslnnuull'l'u, It will be remembered, says the Cornwall Reporter, that some months ago I). couple of oilyâ€"tongued Yankees came around this vi- cinity for the purpose of engaging carpenters to go to work at Roclmway Beach. It will also be remembered that quite a number were engaged, and leit via Ogdensburg. One of them has returned, a. sadder and a madder man than when he went; away. He is a rc~ spectable, sober man, and a. good workman, well known to all old residents of Cornwall. We give his story exactly as he gave it to a reporter the other day :â€" ~. - 1 ‘ 77, __ “in-v , , V " Ileft here in April, hired by Harvey Trowell, to work at $2.50 per day. My rail‘ road {are was to be paid and not eharged to me, provided I worked until lst June \Vhen we got to Rockaway Beach, Trowell handed us over to another man named Thomas Hayes. He drove us like the 4.1â€"], that is, those of us who were (Jana- -dians. He knew we were bound to stay until ‘lst June. The grub we had was not fit for dogs, and it was thrown at us as if we were ihogs at a trough. The stuff we got instead of butter the Yankees called "l\:iargery.” None of us could touch it, The boys used to :say it was made at the soap factory near by. Our eating place was between the rotten car- rier] of this soap factoryaud a row of latrines, both of which sent out intolerable stenehes. Our sleeping place was half a mile away. The accommodation was miserable. We had only one thin blanket to two men, and the nights were very cold. \Ve had to begin work in overeoats, and by nine o’clock we would be roasting. The sand flew so badly that all the men, who could get them, wore goggles. The work was hard, and the lifting very heavy. It was all framing andlifting heavy timbers. On} the 15th May, I got my time and‘ money for April, but only $2.25 a day. A gang of us Canadians went together and said if we were not paid as agreed and better fed we would leave. This was ten man named Hilliard. His answer was "’ Go and better yourselves,â€"â€" you, you Canada Chinamen.” He would have been glad to have us go, for we had fifteen days’ work in. I took my time ticket to the ofliee in New York city, and asked a man named Smith to let me have my money and go home. They were going to put me out. Finally I sold my time to another man at a discount of 25 cents on the dollar, and got barely enough to bring me home. HIE. BHQHN'EVGFRIII‘S MISSING CHILE}. I forgot to say that we were expected to work seven days a. week, and when we Canadians, Protestants and Catholics, reâ€" fused to work 011 Sunday. the Yankees would poke fun at us and call 118 names; of course that did not hurt us, but was not pleasant. ‘ t . . ,. - ; I am at home now, and at work at fair wages, and I don’t want any more Yankee- mmbling for a while, I can tell you.” â€"The pair of hollows, which the believer in home decoration hangs by the chimney, is invaluable for bringing the feathery little hemispheres of raveled silk worn on hats into a proper high state of flufliness. :HAV‘E you heard of the success of Edison’s Electric Belts. If not, call on your druggist for pumphlet with testimonials. They are as food to the hungry, as water to the growing plant and as sunlight to nature. IllJlVIHDGGED “’(Ifllfifl «- N 1|" He had nothing more to do but to enjoy l himself, and let others do so too, for that was part of his creed, Naturally generous and , free, he was always ready to share his fortune with others,and he made up his mind at once 1 to he very populnr in liothsay, and to begin by liberal gifts to every public and charitable ‘ object. as that was sure to win him favor. Walter Klyne, who served no purpose whatâ€" ever, was retained, nominally as legal adviser, but really because under his smooth. placid exterior, the doctor car- ried u Coward‘s heart, and did not like to he alone at the For t House, where he soon took up his quarto . There was an odour ot aristocracy about the place which he lilged, for it reminded him of some of the pal- aces in Europe which he had coveted, envy- ing the possessor, and fancyinghow happy he should he were he the lord and owner. He was lord and owner now, with an income of more money than he had ever had at any one time in his life. He had menscrvants and maid servants, and f‘dSD horses, and carriages, and hunting dogs, and choice cigars by the hundreds. and rare wines, which he drunk as freely as water. He ordered several costly pic- tures from Munich and Dresden. with statuary from Florence, and filled thehulls and grounds with the latter, and fitted up a gallery for the former, and set up to bo'sa connoisseur and critic general of fine art, and gained considert able reputation in that line, and was spoken of as a highly cultivated and generous man, of whom Rothsay would have been glad it his coming there had not been brought about by the death of the sweet young girl, whose memory was so fresh and green in the minds of her friends. lie had the most expensive pew in church, and was present every Sunday morning, and joined reverently in the service, though his preference, ho frankly said, was for the plain . Methodist chapel; and he made no secret that he had once been a Methodist clergyman, and said he should return to that body were it not that ltossie loved the church as a child loves its mother, and for her sake he should be a. churchman, and instruct himself in all its usages and doctrines. So the Episcopalians clzimed him, and made much of him, and took his gifts thankfully, and rejoiced that at Inst the Forrest money, which the judge had held so tightly, was being distributed among them in so liberal a manner. Could they have had their choice they would rather have seen Everard in his father’s h)use. Dr. Mat- thewson was genial and pleasant, and very generous, but in some sense he was an inter- loper, while Everard was to the manner born; the purple. was his by birth ; the blue blood of Forrest and Bigelow was in his veins, and the people sympathizqd with and piticd him more than he ever dreamed. FOR REE; “3T HOUSE. Ii was a very lonely life which he led that summer after .llossie's death; and with the exception of Beatrice he seldom talked with any one, except upon business. He could not mingle with his old friends and seem as he used to do, with that sad memory constantly in his heart ; that; grave always yawning before him, where he had buried his Gatling. A thought of Kossie was always with him -, not as he, saw her last‘ standing on the deck and waving him her fiu‘ewell, with tears swimmingr in her eyes, and (L look upon her face whose meaning he could readily inter- pret, but as she was when a little girl sport- ing on the terrace behind the house, or romp- ing,r on the grounds, with the white sun- bonnet hanging down her ha’ek, the strings chewed int-o a hard knot, her hair blowing about her face, and her starry eyes brightenâ€" ing when he joined her with his millery and teasing jokes. . .u .i. .1.1 o a" Sometimes in the stillness of the night he almost fancied that he heard again the quick trend of the busy feet which had run so wil» lingly for him, and always when his grief was at its hight, and his heart aching the worst. he felt that pale, thin hands were beckoning from out the darkness of the g five-beckon- ing him to come, as if the spirit could not rest until i‘. was joined by his. Once, when the impression was very strong upon him, and it almost seemed as if the dead hands touched his and were leading him away, he said aloud : “Russié‘, are you 11010 ‘3 IS there some- thing you want me to do, and are you trying to tell me ? l’d go to the ends of the earth at your slightbst bidding." ,0, ,n,, --- .7" .. W'rr’r V But to this appeal no answer came from the far-off grave across the sea, though the hands still seemed beckoning with a never-tiring persistence which moved and troubled him greatly. Had he been at all tainted with spiritualism as its exists in modern times, he might perhaps have sought through mediums to know what his love would tell him. but he was free from superstitions of all kinds. ex- cept this one, that Rossic was calling to him, and that ere long it would he granted him to join her in the World beyond. And to this end he tried to make himself ready, praying earnestly as he never prayed before that God would lead him to Himself in any path he chose, so that it conducted him at last to heaven. where ltossio was. Well he knew that if he would lind that rest, all sinful affec- tions must be overcome, and ice be made humble and submissive as a little child. At 1 first, however, it was very hard to be sub- missive and humble, and harder still not to hate the man who had blasted . his whole lite ‘ and who seemed to he riding triumphantly in the high and pleasant road of success. But gradually the hardness began to give way as the new life within him became clearer and brighter, and though he could not bring him- self to like the doctor or find pleasure in his society, he could endure his presence, and no longer crossed the street to avoid meeting him if he saw him coming in the distance, and that was about all the progress he could make with him. He distrusted and disliked him, and never on any occasion went near the For rest House, which, as summer adâ€" vanced, the doctor tilled with his friends from New York, men of his own class, who were as unlike Everard as he was unlike his former self when he rebelled hotly against his fate, and blamed the Almighty for having dealt so hardly with him. He did not feel that way now, and every Sunday found him an occupant of his father‘s old pewY where llossic used to sit, and where he now knelt and prayed earnestly for grace to bear whatever might be in store for him, feel- ing, it is true, that nothing worse could happen to him than had already happened, â€"â€"the. loss of Rossic and the loss of his estate. VOL XXIII From Josephine he seldom heard. She was still in Indianapolis with her friends, but she did not write to him often, and never asked for money. He had sent her 21. Rothsny paper which had in it a column and a half of matter concern- ing the disposition of the Forrest property, and the new proprietor, but she had made no comment. That she could not live at the Forrest House he know, and that she would not return to llobhsny he dovoutly hoped, and so he grew more quiet and contented each day, though there: was ever \vixhin him a sense of bitter pain null u constant. thought of the grave acms- s the sen, where Lassie was buried. And so tho summer waned, and September came and went, and one morning,y in October 8. bombshell was thrown into Rothsuy which made Everard stagger for a moment from the suddenness of its coming; then he rallied, BY MARY J. HOLMES and his first sensation was one of intense re- lief, such as the prisoner feels when told that ere long he will be free again to go and come as he likes. “ 1)IVORCH IN HIGH LIFEâ€"“70 learn from a. friend residing in Indianapolis that there is a. divorce suit ponding between two parties well known in Rothsay. The gentleman, in fact, is still a resident here. but the lady is at present in Indianapolis, where she, went last May with the intention of get- tinr: the divorce” It came first in the form of an article pub- lished in the Rothsay Star, and which was as follows : Everard read this article twice before fully comprehending its meaning. Then when he linew he was one of the erLics meant. that it was the Forrest name, which must he mixed with the al'l'ain lllH first feeling WM one of :slianm and nmrlilication, notwitlistinnling that he had once contemplated dong just what Josephine was doing for him. But his next feeling was one of intense relief that at last. he would be free from the burden which had borne so heavily upon him. He went with the notice to Beatrice, who, although she disapproved of divorces as n. rule, looked upon this as an exceptional case, and was glad 101' him. Of course all Rothsay tallied, and gossiped, and wondered, but asked no questions of Everard, who outwardly was just the same, and came and went as if noth- ing had happened or was likely t.» happen. The next day's mail bought {our foreign leiteisto 1}0thsay,-â€"0no fol Evcmid, 0110 for antrice. ()IN‘ 101' Josephine. and one for Lawyer liussulli Tlmy were all mailed in Vienna, within two days of each otlicv, and the our: addressed to Eveiurd was as {01‘ lows :â€" “ VIENNA, April â€",~â€". “ Mn. EVERARD Faminsr zâ€"Dear Sirâ€"I hardly know why I write to you first, unless it is because I know th-1t what I have to say will hurt you most ; you, who I think loved my darling Rossio. You have perhaps re- ceived the American lifiyistcr which I ordered to be sent to you from the oiliee in Paris when 1 forwarded the notice, and so you know why 1 write to you now. I have written to you from time to time of Bossie’s failing health, but never told you as bad as it was, for I did not wish to alarm you unnecessarily. and kept hoping that change of scene might bring the improvement I so greatly desired. But nothing helped her, though she never complained of anything but fatigue. ‘ So tired.‘ was all she ever said of herself, and she seemed like some sweet flower fading gradually. ”At fluolderâ€"Struuchsen, it little town among; the Austrian hills, I found that she was not able to go on, as I wished to do, to Vienna, and so we stayed there, where she had the best of care. Neither of us thought the end so near until the last day, when she failed so rapidly, and talked of you and Miss Belknap, and told me to tell you how much she loved you both, and that you were not to be sorry she was «lead, for she was only going home, and Heaven was as near Austria as it was to America. She was so beautiful in her coflin, with a smile of peace upon her face, as if she were resting at last. The people liter- ully covered her with flowers, and strangers’ tears fell inst over her cofiin as we laid her in the grave. “1 shall come to America soon, and will tell )011 all you wiuh to know with regald to her sickness and death, and the many things she said of you, and your kindness to 1101-. I have a lock of her hair for you and Miss Bellmap, which I will bring wi tl1 "And now gool-bye, and mny Heaven pity usl)ot11,und1-na.ke us better men for havinghad our lossie even for so short a time. His letter to Beatrice was in substance much the same as the one to Everard. There were a. few more details of Rossie’sillness,nmd a few words more which she said at the last of her friends in America. Josophine‘slctter no one saw, and if they had, few in Rothsay could have made it out, for it was written in German, which Josephine could readily understand. One or two sentences, limvcver, deserve 11 place in our story. and must accordingly be given. After indulging in a good deal of sentiment- alism with regard to Rossio’s death, he added :- “ But as every cloud has its silver lining, so has this dark pall which has overshadowed me so heavily. I can now offer you wealth as well as love, and this I dare say you will not object to. So, if you are not already at Indianapolis, {:0 there at once, and perhaps I will join you there after I have paid my re- spects to Mr. Forrest.” To Lawyer Russell he wrote as follows : VIENNA, April -â€", ” Ma. 'l'quAs RUSSELL :~Dear Sirâ€"I have communicated to Mr. Forrest the sad news of my sister’s death, and need not enter into the particulars with you,who will hear them from him. I write to you as the family lawyer, on another subject of which I cannot now speak to Mr. Forrest, lest he should miseonstrue my motive, and think me anxious and premature in what I am about to say. As a lawyer of large experience you have undoubtedly al- ready thought of the fortune willed to Itossie by Judge Forrest, and of which she died law- fully possessed, and you have probably thought what disposition would now he made of it. You know, of course, that Itossie al- ways protested it was not hers rightfully, and that she should give it back to Everard as soon as she reached her majority. 1, how- ever, who am her ‘lawful heir, do not see things as she did, am not disposed to throw away the goods the gods provide. Still I am disposed to be generous, and make over to Everard at once a portion of the property. As you must know more about the estate than any one except Everard himself, I wish you would be hunting up the matter. and get- ting into shape some statement or estimate of the value of the property, so there may be no unnecessary delay when I come to Roth- say, as I shall do at once. I have in New York a friend, who is a shrewd, honest law- yer, and I may bring him with me. not because I think there will be any trouble or opposition to my claim, but just to expedite matters and get them settled as soon as possible. ‘ “Hoping that you fully understand and appreciate my motives, and that I shall find in you n friernd andhdvisvcr,‘ “JOHN MATTHIWSON.” The old lawyer read this twice ; than, with his hands under his cont-tails and his glasses on the top of his head. walked up and down his room, muttering to himself : “Just what I told Nedâ€"the man is a scoundrel, and he will, With {Lll his fine talk of generosity, bring a New York lawyer here to see to it, as if he wouldn’t have fair play and get every cent his due. though I’ll be blamed if I wouldn’t take advantage of any quirk or loophole to crawl out of, if there was one, which there isn‘t. As Rossie‘s brother he is her heir, of course, and the whole thing goes to him, for I'll bet my head Ned will never take a dollar. Poor boy, as If he hadn’t trouble enough with the loss of the girl, with- out this new thing to bother him.” And if everam‘au utood in need of sym‘ pathyit was Everard, who seemed com “Truly, JOHN MATTHEWSON.” CHAI’I‘ER XXXIV‘ I am, y-OUI:S truly THE IERS RICHMOND HILL, THURSDAY, JULY 15, 1880, pletely crushed, and who looked so white and changed that even his best friends fox-bore speaking to him of 305310, though they talked much of her among themselves, and many tears were shed for the young girl who had been so great a favorite, and whose grave was so far away. That Everard loved her with more than n. brother‘s love was conceded now by all, and no one thought. to blame him for 1:, but; pitioil him in his sorrow, which he did not try to conceal. When LnWyer Russell took the doctor‘s letter to him. and asked what he thought of it, he evinced no surprise or dissatisfaction. “That’s all right," he said, “he is her heir, and he shall have every dollar, â€"â€" remember, every dollar. I would not take it from her, I will not have it from him ; and you must do the business for me. I give it into your hands. I cannot confer with him ; I should forget myself sometime, and at) his throat. l will give you all the papersierbaining to the estate. I have kept the tier perfectly straight, so there will be no trouble in find- ing just how much he is worth. Now mind, dont you ever dare to think I will have a. penny of the moneyior I will not so help me heaven! till Rossie rises fmm‘vher gxave to give it to me. Then you may talk to me and not till then." This was Everard’s decision. which both M1 Russell and Beatrice approval though both mourned bitterly over the fate which gmc Judrre Forrest‘s boarded stoma into the hands of one as unprincipled as Dr. Matthew- son, whose arrival was anxiously looked for. He stopped from the our one J'rine after- noon, elegantly habited in the latest style of Parisian coat, and vest, and hat, with a band of crape around the latter, and a grieved look on his handsome face, as if he were thinking of the dear little girl, dead so far away. and whose fortune he had come to take. With him was a sharp, shrewd-looking man, with round. bright eyes, which saw everything at a glance, and a decidedly foreign accent. To him the doctor always spoke in German, and in this language the two talked together for a few moments after alighting upon the plat« form in ltothsay. Evidently they were not expected, for no one was there to meet them, but the doctor inquired for tile best hotel, and making his way thither legisteled his own name and that of his friend, "Walter Klyne, Esq, New York City.” Then, engag- ing two of the best rooms in the house, and ordering dinner at seven o’clock, he started out to reeonnoitre, going first to Everard’s oiliee, and greatly astonishing the young man, who did not know that he had yet landed in New York. It might be thought, perhaps, that the sight of him, with his band of crepe around his hat, and the peculiar air of sadness he managed to infuse into his voice and manner would anakcn in Everard a feeling of sympathy and kindness f01 one in whose sonow he had so large a pa1t, but it produced just the contrary effect, and though he went forwzud with oiléi ed hand to meet him, theic swept ovei him a sensation of distrust. and aversion, and dreadâ€"a feeling of horror for “hich he could not account, any more than he could explain the sudden chill which erept through his veins, as if Rossie’s cold, dead hands were. touching his, and liossie’s white, still face pressed against his own. Dr. Matthewson quyory . ”anrfi very much afraid of wounding lu‘veim‘d’s feelings. He was sorry not to find Mr. Russell there. he said, as he wished to talk a. little about business, and would like to go over the For- rest House, which he believed was shut up. Everard gave him the keys, and adaed, hurriedly _ “You will have no trouble whatever, as I have no intention to dispute yourright to the property. It was lawfully Rossie's, and, therefore, yours now.” It was the first; time Rossie had been mentioned, and Everard felt as if his heart were bursting as be pronounced the name, while the doctor’s lipquivered, and he shuthis eyes tight to keep the tears back. “Thanks,” he said, as he took the offered keys. “We will speak of business by-umey, and when I can trust myself to tell you more fully what your sister’s wishes were. Now, I only wish to see the house where she used to live. I will return the keys on my way back to the hotel. I wish you good even- ing, sir.” Ho lifted his hat courteously, and walked away with his friend, while Everard watched him for a moment with that same icy chill about his heart and the feeling as if from the darkness and silence of her far-oi} grave Rossie were beckoning to him and trying to warn him of danger. Meantime the two gentlemen went rapidly along the streets of Rothsay, where, as strangers, they were stared at by the people, who watched them until they turned into the avenue leading to the Forrest llouso. “A splendid inheritance! I quite envy you, old boy,” \Valter Klyne said, as they ascended the broad stepsiand stood upop the piazza. “Yes, it will do very well for a country house, but it will take a mint of money to fix it up as” I’d like to have it,” was the doctor's reply, as he fitted the key to the lock and entered the wide, old-fashioned hell, already beginning to grow dim with the shadows of the late afternoon. “It’s denced cold, and damp, and ghost-like in here ; don’t you think so ‘2” the doctor said, shivering a little as he hurried on through room after room. hardly seeing them at all, until he came to one, the door of which was open as well as the blind opposite, so that a. flood of sunlight streamed through the window and fell across the floor. ’ “This is a jolly room; let‘s go in here,” Kly ne said, entering himself and looking eur- iously a1ouynd,while the doctm stood by the tineshold, wiping from his face gmat «hops of. sweat, imd starting at every sound, as if he fancied the place full of something 11mm- ful. “Why, Doc, what ails you? You are white as :1 sheet. What’s the matter ‘2" Klyne asked, and the doctor replied : “Nothing, only this was her room ; Rossie’s, you know. I am sure of it ; she described it to me so often, and I feel as if she was here with us ; I do upon my soul. That’s her chair, where she used to sit, and these must be her books, and that’s her bed where she used to sleep. Let's go away ; it’s like a. graveyard to me." He seemed so excited that his friend looked at him curiously, wonaeringif the glass of Wine taken just before they left the hotel had afiected his brain, or if it really was true that his grief for his sister was augmented by the sight of her old home, and the objects which had once made a part of her life. “It’s not like John Matthewson to love any one like that. There’sa kink somewhere," he thought, as he left the room and followed on through one apartment. after another, until the whole had been gone through, and they went out into the open aix, where the doctor seemed to be more at his ease. Taking 01} his hat and wipintY his forehead, where the perspiration was stand- ing, he said : “This is a confounded hot night after 1111, ml am nojudgo of the weather, and this place in particular seems hotter than Tophet. Isay, Walt. do you believe in CHAPTER XLIV. ’JIIE NEW HEX?" .57.} 5f nonsense ?’ ghosts, or haunted houses, or any of that sort “ Of course not. Why do you ask ‘2” Wal ter Klyne suit} ; and-the doctor replied : u “ Because I was just nervous enough to fancy that the whole Forrest race, Rossie and all, were after me as I went over the lone- some old hut. Maybe they don’t like the idea of my being the heinand that has brought them from their graves ; but I feel better now, and I think we will be going, or the din- ner will be cold.” Early next morning the doctor interviweil Lawyer Russell, mid at the close of the con- feirence the doctor knew that as Rossie‘s heir he was entitled to several hundred thousand dollars, some in lands and houses, some in bonds and mortgages, some in railroad shares and some in ready cash. The amount, so far exceeding what he had expected, surprised and delighted him, and inclined him to he very generously disposed toward Everard, with whom he had one long talk He had taken all the necessary steps to prove that Rossie died at IIaelder - Strauchsen, Austria, on the evening of April 20th ; he had sworn to that effect before the lawful authority ; and he was accepted by the public as the heir. though under protest, for there was no one in Both- say who did not think it was in shame for “ Perhaps I ought to give you the whole,” he said, “ but; hanged if I can quite bring my- self to that. You see, when a poor chap like me geis a little money it is mighty hard to give it 111).” 1 1- -,1 Everard to be so defrauded of what ought al- ways to have been his. Thisfeeliug the doctor perfectly understood, and it strengthened his resolution to be very generous toward the young man, to whom he offered half of the entire estate. “ But I thought you had unlimited means in Europe,” Everard said; and without the slightest change of countenance the doctor replied‘ . .. . .. .1 1 ,,,L “ I did have Something there, though not so much as Rossie supposed. I deceived her purposely, thinking she would'feol easier if she believe& me very rich. But 111111101;in the firm failed where most of my money was de. posited, so that I am much poorer now than when I went from America. more than a your fig 1! He seemed to be in earnest, and insisted that Everard should take half the property, until the latter stopped him by saying de- cidedly : “ Your talk is all in vain, for I shall never take a dollar of that money. It would prove a curse to me if I did. I do not want it, I will not have it, and I only ask that I hear no more on the subject.” So saying he rose suddenly from his chair and left the room. rl‘he interview was ended ; the doctor had discharged his duty ; and it was not his fault that he was a richer man by more than two hundred thousand dollars than he expected to be. On the whole he felt quite satisfied with matters as they were, and would not quarrel with the good luck which made him so rich that he need never again feel a moment‘s anxiety. . V . -. Dr. Matthewson seemed as much surprised as any one, but offered no opinion whatâ€" ever on the subject. and after a few days he went to New York with his_ insepar- able friend and adviser, Walter Klyne. Four weeks later D. notice was sent to Everard to the effect that a divorce from him had been granted to his former wife, who chose to take her maiden name, and was again Josephine Fleming ; also. that he, too, was divorced, with a. right to marry agam if he chose. From that time onward Everard was a changed man. It is true that Bessie was always in his mind. and he never for a mo- ment forgot the pain and losswhichit seemed to him grew greater every day, but the con- sciousness that Josephine had no claim upon him made him in one way very happy, and he felt freer from care and anxiety than he had done since that fatal night when he made the mistake of his life. That Josephine would marry again he was confident, and it did not need Beatrice’s hint, cautiously given, to awake in his mind a suspicion as to who the man would be ; and still it was a shock when it came to him early in the spring that the Forrest House was to have a mistress, and that its last occupant was coming back with a right to rule and reign and spend his father’s money as she chose. Doctor Matthewson had spent most of the winterin New York,but of Josephine’s Wherea- bouts little was known. She had been in New York, and Holbnrton, and Boston,where she was the guest of Mrs. Arnold, with whom she had been abroad. and whose good opinion she had succeeded in retaining by tell- ingher apart only of the truth,and doing it in such a manner that she appeared to be the party to be pitied rather than Everard. Mrs. Arnold was not a person who looked very deeply into matters, she chose rather to take themas they seemed, and Josephine had been very faithful to her and her interest while they were abroad ; and though she was shocked and surprised when she first heard the story of the marriage, Josephine told it so well for herself as to make it appear that she had not been greatly in fault, and the lady believed her more sinned against than sinning, and invited her to her home in Bos- ton, where she was stopping somewhere about the middle of March, when word came to the man in charge of the Forrest House that the doctor, who had already been gone two months and more. would remain away still longer, and that when he returned Mrs. Mat- thewson would accompany him. Who Mrs. Matthewson was the letter did not state, but Beatrice readily guessed, and was not at all surprised when, a. week later, she received a letter from Mr. Morton, who was still in Bos ton, and who wrote that he had been asked to officiate at the marriage of Miss Josephine Fleming with Dr. John Matthewson, said marriage to take place at the house of one of his parishioners, Mrs. Arnold, April 15th, at eleven o’clock an]. What Everard thought or felt when he heard the news he kept to himself, but the townspeople unanimously disap- proved of the match, and arrayed themselves against the bride elect, and decrded that she should be made to feel the weight of their disapprobstion, and know that they resented her marriage and coming back there to live as an insult to Everard and eflront to themselves. Nor were they at all mollified by the arrival of cards inviting them to the wedding. There were in all a. dozen invitations sent to as many families in Rothsay, and Beatrice had It letter from Josephine, in which she tried to make every- thing seem fair and right with regard to the divorce and marriage. and hoped Miss Bel- knep would be friendly with her when she came back to Rothsay. “For myself,” she added, “I would rather not go where Everard is. and where his friends can hardly wish to see me. But the doctor is inexorable, and insists .upon living at Rothsay a portion of the year at least. He likes the Forrest House. he says, and would not sell it for the world. It suits him for a summer residence, and we shall be there some time in June. He is very kind, and I trust that after the stormy life I have led there is a bright future in store for me, which, I assure you, I shall appreciate, and if I can atone for whatever has been wrong THE NEW REIGN AT THE FORREST HOUSE LL} éLfmzL MW/MI CHAPTER XLV. and questionable in the past I certainly Elm lldo so.” And to do Josephine justice. she did mean to retrieve her character. if possible, and be at least a true wife to the man who had chosen her, knowing perfectly well what she was and how little to be trusted. There was about Josephine a most powerful fascination for Dr. Matthewsen, who thought her the l most beautiful and attractive woman he had ever seen. And the doctor liked beautiful , and attractive things ; they suited his; luxur- ious tastes, and Josephine was just the one ‘ to adorn the kind of home he was now able to have. She would be equal to any einerâ€" ‘ geucy, and he would enjoy the attentions she was sure to receive at the different watering places and hotels, where he meant to take her. If any of her admirers should become too demonstrative he could easily rid himself of them and bring his wife under subjection, for he meant to be her master, and to do ox- :Ictly as he pleased in everything, and he made a beginning by refusing; to sell the For- rest House, as she wished him to do. For Josephine was determined not to go back to ltothsay, and at firstmade it a condition in marrying the doctor that he should dispose of the place, or at least not require her to live there even for a few weeks. She had no wish to meet Everard, or to comein contact with his friends. who were sure to slight her now. But the doctor was resolved uoon making the house into a kind of palace. where he could enjoy himself after his own ideas, and as he had not the slightest consideration for the , wishes or feelings of others, he laughed at Josephiue’s seruples, which he called wining. and carried his point with regard to the For- rest House, and the evening of the 15th of April there appeared in the Boston papers the following notice : 1 l l “MARRIEB, this morning at teno’clock, by the 10v. Theodore Morton. Dr. John Matthewon to Miss Josephmc Flem- ing.” \Vnshington and New York were the Cities whore the happy pair spent their honeymoon. and 1t was not until the middle of June that th(y took possession of their 1’. othsny house. which had undergone quite a transformation. All through the months of April and May, carpenters from Cincinnati had been there, following out the plan which the doctor had forwarded to them with the most minute instructions. Buy: windows were sent out here, and hung;- ing balconies, there, and pretty little sunny nooks for plants were cut through the solid mason work; rooms were thrown together trees were removed to admit more light and give finer vicwsmntil thestzitelyplilâ€"fashioncd housc assumed the appearance of a modern and rather graceful structure, which the Rothsayites,und even Beatrice hersclmhought greatly improved. Every room was ro-I’ur- nishcd and changed in some way except Rus- sie ’s,â€"_â€"wl1ich was left untouched. Not an article of furniture was changed 01 moved from its place Sonic of Ros-no 3 books were on the shelf where she left thorn ; a work- box was on the table. and in the closet one or two half worn dresses hung, u prey to any moth or insect which chose to fasten upon them. But the rest of the house was bonu- tiful, and fresh, and new, and roady for the bride, who (32th one afternoon in June, and was met {Lt the station by the coachlnan. with the new carriage and high‘stepping horses, which pawed the ground and arched their glossy necks as the long train swept by. There was no one there to meet the bride, for the marriage was very unpopular in haw-n, and every door was virtually closed against the lady who, for once in her life, looked pale and tired, as she took her seat in the carriage. and, leaning back wearily, said to the doctor : “ Please take the straightest road home, for I am tired to death.” But if the doctor heard her he did not heed her request. He had no feelings of shame or twiuges of conscience. Io wished the people to see his splendid turn-out, and they drove through Main street, past all the shops and oilices, where the men and boys stared at them, and n few made a show of recogniz- ing the courteous lifting of the doctor’s hat, and the patronizing wave of his hand. Josephine was closely veiled, and pretended not to see the ladies who were on the street, and who did not turn their heads as the ele- gant carriage went by But Josey knew that they saw hei, and felt that her worst fears were to he lealized; and when, at a sudden turn 111 the read, they came upon Beetliee, whose cool little nod seemed more an insult than a recognition, her cup of humiliation was full, and there were tears of mortifieation and anger in her eyes, and her headache was not feigned when at last they drew up be- fore the house, where a. strange women was waiting to greet them. This was Mrs. Rogers, the housekeeper, imported for that purpose from Cincinnati, as were the other servants. These, however, had all heard the antecedents of their new master and mistress very freely discussed, and the result was that a mutiny was already in progress, 'for, as the girl who held the post of scnllion said, “she had lost one cheâ€"rec-ter by living with folks who wasn‘t fust cut, and she didn’t care to lose another.” Still, the wages were good, and all decided to stay awhile, and see what thelady who had two husbands living and had once been {L ser vent herself (such was the story as they had it) was like. So they came to meet her, and thought her véiy hund- sonio and stylish, and a. fit occupant of the beautiful rooms of which she was mistress, and for which she did not seem to care, for she never stopped to look at them, but went directly to her own apartments, which she did have the grace to say were pretty. “ Yes. it is all Very nice,” she said to the doctor, “but I am frightfully tired, and nor- vous, too, Ithink. This last. hot day’s ride has just upset me. I believe I’ll have a cup of ten. brought to my room, and not go down to dinner, if you’ll excuse me.” "You‘ won’t do any such thing.” was the doctor’s reply. “ You’ll put on one of your swell dresses, and go down to dinner with me. I wish the ser- vunts to see you at your best, and somebody may call this evening.” “ Somebody call ?” Josephine retorted, with intensa bitterness in her voice. “ Don’t flatter yourself that any one whom I care for will call to-night, or ever, while I remain in Roth- say.” :‘Why, What do you mean ?” the ‘doctor asked, and she replied “ I mean that, as Everard Forrest’s divorced wife, married to another man, I am to be ta.- booed in this town. Didn’t you notice how the ladies we passed on the street pretended to be looking another way so as not to see me. They did not wish to recognize me even with a nod, and you surelynoticed the insult ing bow which Miss Belknap gave me. There was not a particle of cordiality in it. I knew it would be so, and that was why I was so 01)- posed to coming here. I wish I had remained firm to my resolution.” She was more than half crying with anger and vexation, but the doctor only laughed at what he termed her groundless fears. Supposing she was a divorced woman, with her first husband living in the same town, what did that matter? He knew of many such instances, and ii the peop plc in Rothsay we1e disposed to slight him at fi1at, he should live it doxm, for money could ac- complish everything. , V Bfit Josephi'ne Wis not to be soothed by his words, and bade him mind his business and WHOLE N’L. 1,150.-â€"â€"NO, ‘7. 1:: w e her to herself. .[t was the “Tat ebulliâ€" , in.” of temper the had shown towzmi him; i- so l](' received it gooil-humomdly and touched -, her playfully under the chin, andhad his way in everything. and took down to dinner a ‘ must beautiful and elegantly dressed woman, I who looked as if made just for the place she was occupying: ut‘ the head of that handsomely uppointml table. No one called either that evening or the next, or the next, and when Sunday came she was really sick with mortilicatiou and diam». pointment, and the doctor wont to church without her, and met only cold words from those to whom he tried to talk after service was over. Nobody mentioned his wife, al- though he spoke of her himself, and said that she was sick, and asked Mrs. lider to tell , her husband to call in ” the after- i noon and see her. Even that rusc' failed, for them was no solicitudc expressed for tho lady‘s health, no inquiry as to what nileil her, and the doctor drove home in his handsome ' carriage, feeling that after all Josephino might be right, and that the people were determined to show their disupprobation. But. he meant to live it down, and not let the good fortune he had so coveted turn to ashen on his hands. But living it down was not so easy as he supposed, and as day after «lay went by, undyo one came to see his grandeur, or paid the least attention to him, his spirits begun to flag, and he halt suspected that ho had made a. mistake in bringing his wife to Roomy, where the Forrest star was evidently in the ascendant. Once he decided to fill the house with young men from New York and Cincinnati, but when he thought of Josey he gave that up, for his love. or rather passion, for her was strong enough to make him wish to keep her smiles and blandishmcnts for himself ;» and so the New York guests were given up, and he spent his time driving his fast horses through the country during the morning, and in the afternoon lounging and smoking. and reading and looking over his handsome house, until his elaborate dinner, which was served at half-past six, and notice of which was given to the portion of the town nearest him by the loud hell which he caused to be rung as a signal to himself and wife that dinner was ready. The doctor was very particular and exacting on every point of table etiquette, and required as much form, and ceremony, and attention as if a multitude of guests sat daily at his beard, instead of himself and Josephine, who was always elegantly dressed in silks and laces, and diamonds. and looked a very queen as she took her seat at the head of her table with a langour which was not feigned, for in her heart she was tired and sick to death of the grand, lonely life she had led. Nobody came near her, and when by chance she met any of her old acquaintances, they were ltoo much hurried to do more than how to her; while even the tradespeople lacked that deference of manner which she felt was her due. The doctor seldom asked her to join him in his drives, and as she did not care to go out‘ alone and face the disap- proving public. she spent her time mostly in her room reading French novels and eating candy and bonbons, with which she was alâ€" ways supplied. Everard she had never met face to face. though she hadhseen him in the distance from her window, and watched him as he went by with a strange feeling at her heart which wrung a. few hot, bitter tears from her, as she remembered the summer years ago when her boy-lover was all the world to her, and the life before her seemed so fair and bright Not that she really wanted Everard back, but she wanted something ; she missed some- thing in her life which she longed for intense- ly, and at last made up her mind that it was Agnes, the despised sister, who was in Hol- burton, earning her own living as housekeeper {or Captain Sparks. . . .. ~n When they first; returned to the Forrest House, Dr. Matthewson had signified to her his wish that Agnes should remain where she was. She would he hardly ornamental in his household, he said. He liked only beautiful objects around him, and Agnes was not beautiful. She would be an ugly blot upon the picture. and he did not want her; though he was willing to supply her with money if necessary. But Agnes did not Wish for his money. She could take care of herself, and was happier in Holhurton than she cbuld be elsewhere. But as the summer went by. the longing in Josephine’s heart for the compan- ionship of some woman grew so strong that she ventured at last to write, begging her sister to come, and telling how lonely she was without her. I have been hard and selfish, and wicked, I know,” she wrote, " but Aggie, I am far from being happy, and I want you here with me so much that 1 am sure you will come. I believe I am sick or nervous, or both, and the sight of your dear old face will do me good.” Josephine did not tell her husband of this letter, lest he should forbid hex sending,1 it. She \\ ms beginning to be a good deal afiaid of him, but she thought she knew him well enough to feel sure that if Agnes wele once in the house he would make no open opposi- tion to it and she was willing to ham :1. good deal in private for the sake of having her sister with her again. So she wrote her letter, and as the day was fine, took it to the post-office herself, in order to insure its safety. There had been some trouble with the clerks in the post-office at .1tothsay, and two new ones had just been appointed, and one of these had entered upon his duties only the day before. As he came from Dayton, he was a stranger in town, he knew very few people by sight, and was altogether ignorant of the name and antecedents of the beautiful lady, who, after depositing her letter, asked if there was any mail for the Forrest House. Half bewildered with her beauty and the bright smile she flashed upon him, the clerk started and blushed, and catching only the name Forrest, looked in Everard’s box, where lay a letter not yet called for, as Everard had left town early that morning for a drive into the country, where he had some business with a client. It was a soileddooking letter, with a foreign post-mark upon it. and had either been mislaid a long time after it had been written, or detainedmpon the road, for it was worn upon the edges, and had evi- dently been much crumpled with frequent handling. It was directed to J. Ever- ard Forrest, Esq., Rothsay, Ohio, U. S. A., and in a corner the two words, “ Please forward” were written as if the writer were in haste and thought thus Very mechanically, and even indifi'erently, Josephine took it in her hand, and glancing at the name saw the clerk had made a mis- take and given her what belonged to another. But she saw. too, something else, which turned her White as ashes. and riveted her for a mo- ment to the spot with a feeling that she was either dying or mad, or both. Surely, she knew that writing. She had seen it times enough not to be mistaken. And she had thought the hand which penned it dead long ago. and laid away under the grass and flow ers of Austria. “ Bessie,” she tried to say, but her white lips would not move, and there was about them a strange prickling sensation which frightened her more than the numbness of her body. “I must get into the air where I can breathe,” she thought, and with a desperate effort she dragged herself to the street, taking the letter with her, and grasping it with a firm grip as if fearful of losing it, when in fact she had forgotten that; she had it at all, until the air blowing on her face revived her somewhat and brought her back to a consciousness of what she was doinv. Thou her first impulse was to return the letter to Everard’a box, and she turned to go back when she saw her husband entering the office and that decided her. She would not let him see the letter, for if there were a great wrong somewhere. he knew it and had con- trived it, and fine cold sweat broke out from [CONTINUED ON FOURTH men-.1 THE LETTER FROM AUSTRIA. CHAPTER XLVI.