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The Unbldden Guest. CARLOTTA PERRY. Within my home that em ty seemed, I sat And prayedlfor greater lessings. All That was mlne own seemed poor and mean and small ; And I cried out rebelliousl y for that I had not, saying if great gifts of gold Were only mine, Journeys in fur»01flands. Were also mine, with rest for burdened hands ; If love, the love I craved would come and fold [ts arms around me ; then would joy abide wm‘ mo. forever: Deuce would come and [ts arms around me ; then would joy abme With me forever; peace would come and bless, . And life would run out from tlns narrowncss Into a fullness new and sweet and wide. And so I fretted ’guinst my simple lot. And so I prayed for fairer, broader w Making a burden of the very days, In mad regret for that which 1 had not. And then one came unto my humble door And asked to enter. “Art thou love " I cried, “Or wealth or fume? Else shalc thou be denied." I She answered, “Nay my chxld ; but I am more, uunucu. She answered, “Nay my child ; but I am more, “Open to me. I my ; make me thy guest, And thou sha t Iind, although no gift of gold 01- fume or love within my hand I hold That with my coming colueth all the best “That thou hast longed for.” Fair, tho' grave her face, _ Soft was her vmce, and in her steadfast eyes I saw the look of one both true and Wise My heart was sore, and so, with tardy grace l bade her enter. 110w transfigured Seemed now the faithful love that at my feet So long had lain unprlzedl How wide and sweet Shone the finiall paths wherein I had been led 'I Duty grew beautiful ; with calm consent I saw the distant wealth of land and sea. But all fair thin s seemed given unto me The hour I claspe the hand of dear Content. A»<O>«râ€"â€"â€"‘ Our engagement having received the openly expressed though secretly unwilling sanction of my father, Mr. Uarrington comes every other day to our houseY where he of Course meets with overpowering sweetness from everybodyâ€"Dora excepted. Not that she shows him any demonstrative dislike. If she happens to be in the room when he arrives she is as civil as the occasion calls for, but at the first opportunity she makes her exit, not to return again during his stay, and ‘if possible avoids his society altogether. A heavy sense of injury is upon her, impossible to lift. To me she has said little or nothing on the subject. Once, two days after my engage- ment was made known, happening to find herself alone with me, she said, curious- ly _‘ A firm. ,1.ALA,..-nnk r emu! \fr (lar- Author y o “\Vas it your photograph I rington kissing that day ‘2” ‘ ‘ " ~~~~~~~~~~ I ‘ 4 l'lughUu nADoAA-b VAAWV “V.” V And when I answered “Yes,” rather shamefacedly, she turned from me with low- ered lids and a. curved smile that suggested many thoughts. Like most even-tempered people, Dora, when roused, is singularly ob- stinate and unforgiving. At times I am a little unhappy, but very seldom. On such occasions the horrible doubt that Iain marrying Marmaduke for his money crushes me. Every now and then I catch myself reveling in the thought of what Ishall do for Billy and Roly and all of them when plenty of gold is at my dispos- al. I try to think how much Iwould like him, how handsome he is, how kind, how good to me, but always at the end of my cogitations I find my thoughts reverting to the grand house in which I am to reign as queen, or to the blue velvet dress I mean to wear as soon as ever I can afford to buy it. __ LI._L I now glory in an engagement~ring that sparkles fairly and gives me much pleasure. I have also an enormous locket, on which the letters P. M. V. are marked out by bril- liants. This latter contains an exquisitely painted miniature of my betrothed, and is given to me by him in a manner that betokens doubt of its being acceptable. “1 don’t suppose you will care for the picâ€" ture part of it,” he says, with a laugh and a. rather heightened color. But I do care for it, picture and all, and tell him so, to his lasting satisfaction, though it must he confessed I look oftener at the outside of that locket than at any oth- am uuu vuvuvau u. c”... .V,,, or part of it. Thus by degreesI find myself laden with gifts of all kindsâ€"for the most part costly; and, as trinkets are scarce with us and jewelsimaginary, it will be underâ€" stood that each new ornament added to my store raises me higher in the social scale. So time speeds and Christmas passes and gentle spring grows space. “Come out,” says Billy one morning early in April, thrusting a. disheveled head into my room; “come out: it is almost warm." VVhereupon I don my hat and sally forth my Billy in attendance. 1 r ALA »»_»11 ‘L..1L .quy u. we.~.-~....-._v. Mechanically we make for the small belt of trees that encircles and bounds our home, and is by courtesy “our w00( .” It is my favorite retreatâ€"the spot most dear to me at Summerleas. Ah! how sweet is every thing to-day, how fragrant! The primrose gold in its mossy bed, supported by its my- riad friends; the pretty purple violetâ€"~the white one prettier still. I sigh and look about me sadly. all. . fact.” “W” . Wm, . “This is the very last spring I Shall ever spend at home,” I say at length, being in one of my sentimental and regretful moods. “Yes,” returns Billy], this time next year I suppose, you will be holding high court at Strangemore. How funny you Wlll look? you are so small! \‘Vhy, you will be an out-and-out swell then, Phyllis, and can cut the country if you choose. \Vhat are you so (1018nt about ? Ain’t you glad?” H 1.117 “N0, 1am not,” I reply emphatically ‘3 “I am sorry! I am wretched! Everything will be so new and big and strange, andâ€"you will not be there. Oh, Billy!" flinging my arms around his neck. “I feel thug worst of “Well, and I am awfully fond of you, too,” says Billy, giving me a. bear-hke hug that horribly disarranges my appearance, but is sweet to me, so much do I adore my “l‘_(_)y Billge.” 1 ,,,,_ I__»11 “*1 We‘écatvéursclves on a grassy knoll and giygqqrselves up to glpomy foreboding. ._ "mud" n lrIEEQNlL.llgaglglyrlfixisanée, your thtinq married at all,” says Billy, grumpily. “ If f amfitgt; fond 'of you, and that’s a of “.Molly Baum," “ The Baby,’ “ Airy Fairy Lilian," ctc., etc. CHAPTER. XIII. PHYLLIS. TLIE DUCHE ‘ my SimplcVIOt/u saw Mr. Car- ways. it had been Dora, now, it would have been a cause for public rejoicing; but you are dif- ferent. What I am to do wijhout yqp it} this stupid hole is more than I can tell. I shall get papa to send me to 1L boarding- school when you 0.” (The Eton plan has not yet been divfiged.) Why on earth did you take a fancy to that fellow, Phyllis? \Nere you not very well as you were 17” "It was he tookva fancy to me, ifyou please I never thought of such a thing. But there is little use discussing that now. Marry him I must before the year is out ; and really. perhaps, after all, I shall be very hap- FY: ‘ “Oh, yes, I dare say, if being happy mean settling down and having a. lot of equalling brats before you can say Jack Robinson. I know how it will be,” says Billy, moodily ; “you will be an old woman before your time.” “IndeedI shall not," I cry. with much indignation, viewing with discomfort the ruins to which he has reduced myhandsome castle. “I intend to keep young for (WET so long. \Vhy, I am only eighteen nowY andI shan’t be old until I am thirty. And Billy,” coaxingly, “you shall see what I shall do for you when I marry him; I will send you toEton. There!" ' “ W'hy don’t you say you will send me to the moon 2’” replies he, with withering con- temp}. “But I will really ; Marmaduke says I shall; and you are to spend all your holidays at Strangemure; and I will keep a. gun for you, and a dog; and may be he will let me giveflyou a: liq-sa’j _ “\Vell, you shall see. And Roland shall have money every now and then to pay his debts; and Dora shall have as many new dresses as she can wear; and for Mamma. I will get one of those delightful easy chairs we saw in the shopwindow in Carston, the one that moves up and down, you knowâ€"« andâ€"â€"â€" 0h, Billy! I think it is a, glorious thing to be rich. If I could only do all I say, I believe I would marry him were he as ugly as sin.” “0h, fiddlesticks‘.” says the dear boy, “Draw a line somewhere. You have said too much; and I’ve outgrown my belief in the ‘Ambian Nights.’ I will be quite content with the dog and gun.” VII) the enthusiasm of the momentI spring to my feet, and as I do so become fatally aware that not two yards from me stands Marmaduke, leaning against a tree. There is a. curious, not altogether amiable expres- sion upon hls face, that assures me he has overheard our conversation. Yet one can- not accuse him of eavesdropping, as if we had only taken the trouble to raise our heads our eyes must inevitably have met his. I am palsied with shame and horror; I am stricken dumb; and Billy, looking lazily up- wards from where he is stretched full length upon the sward to discover the cause, in his turn becomes aware of the enemy’s presence. A moment later he is on his feet, and has beaten a masterly retreat, leaving me alone to face the foe. Mr. Carrington comes slowly forward. “Yes, I heard every word,” he says, calm- ly, anger and reproach in his eyes. I make no reply; I feel myself incapable of speech. Indeed, looking back upon it now, I think silence was the better part, as, under the circumstances, I don’t quite see what I could have said. “So this is the light in which you regard our marriage!” he goes on bitterly 2 “ as a means to an endâ€"no more. Atthe close of six months I find myself as far from having gained a place in your affections as when we first met. I may well despair. Your heart seems full of thought; and love for everyone, Phyllis, except for the man you have prom- ised to marry.” “Then give me up,” I say, defiantly, though my false courage sinks as I remem- ber what a row there wxll be at home if he takes me at my word. “No, I will ;zot give you up I w111 mar- ry you in spite of your coldness. I am more determined on it now than ever," he makes answer. almost fiercely. I feel uneasy, not to say unhappy. I have heard of men marrying women for spite and revenging themselves upon them afterwards. This recollection is not reassuring. I glance at Marmaduke furtively, and persuade my- self he is looking downright vindictive. “Yes,” I murwmur douBtfully, “and per- haps, afterwards, when I was your wife, you would be cruel to me, and ” “Phyllis,” he interrupts me hastily, “what are you saying ‘3 \Vho has put such a detes- table idea. into your head 1’ I unkind to you, or cruel! Child, can you not even imagine the depth of the love I bear you ‘3” 1 know I am going to cry. Already are my eyes suffusing; my nose developsa tick- ling sensation. 1 am indignant with myself at the bare thought, but nevertheless I feel assured if I open my mouth it will be to give utterance to a. sob. If I cry before him now he will thinkâ€"â€" “Phyllis, do you really wish to marry me?” asks Mr. Carrinqton, suddenly, trying to read my hot and averted face. “If you re- ent your promise, say so; it is not yet too ate to withdraw. Better bear pain now than lasting misery herealter. Answer me truly: do you wish to be my wife?” [11‘ 1 11‘ “i do,” I return earnestly. “I shall be happier with you, who are always kind to me, than I am at home. It is only at times I feel regretful. But of course â€"-ifyou don’t want to marry meâ€"â€"«” I pause, overcome by the ignominy of his thought. Mr. Carrington takes my hand. “I would give half my possessions to gain your love,” he says. softly; “but, even as it is, uobribe on earth could induce me to relinquish you. Don‘t talk about my giving you up. That is out of the question. I could as easily part with my life as with my Phyl- lis. Perhaps.” with a rather sad little smile, “some time in the future you may deem me worthy to be placed in the cate- gory with Billy and Roland and the rest of them.” A mournful sound breaks from me. .1 search my pocket for a. handkerchief where- with to wipe away the solitary tear that meanders down my cheek. Need I say it is not there? Mr. Carrington, guessng my want, produces a very snowy article from somewhere and hands it to me. “Do you want one?” he asks, tenderly, and resently I am (hssolved in tears, my nose uried In my lover’s cambric. “I am sure you must hate me,” I whisper dismally. “I make you unhappy almost every time‘ we meet. Ml" Carrington, will you try to forget what I said just now, and forgive me?” you‘c_all me.1V_Ir. Qfirfiyéton? “Marmaduke, then.”°He presses me clos< er to him, and I rub my stained and humid countenance up and down against his coat. I am altogether penitent. 1 , 1' ,1:J.JL “Will you?” quickly. “ Then kiss me of .your own accord. “I don’t believe up to this, Phyllis, you have ever yet done so of your own sweet will.” u 1- . L,,,,: “Afterin, Mairmaduke, maybe I didn’t say anything so very dreadful, I venture, at the end of a slight pause. “I was only thinking, and deciding; on what I would like to give everybody whenâ€"when I was your wife. V\ as that very bad ‘2” “No; there was nothing to vex me in all that; it only showed me what a loving, generous little heart my pet has. But then, Phy llis, why did you give me so plainly to _J --__, .._. _____ a V W o - - understand you were marrying me only for the sake of my odious money, by sayingâ€"- what you did in your last speech?” “What did I say ‘2” “That for the sake oi being rich you would marry me (or any one else, your tone meant) even were I as ueg as sin.’ ” “If I said that it was :1; untruth, becnuge if you were as ueg as Bobby De Vere, for in- stance,I most certainly would not marry you. I detest plain people.” W“ VVeil, 3.12511 évents, I think you owe me some reparation for the pain you have in- flicted.” “i 80, Indeed,” I admit, eagerly. “Lay any penance you like upon me, and I wxll not shrink from it. I will do whatever you ask.” “I will do it now, then,” I return, heroi- cally, and straightway, raising myself on tiptoe, without the smallest pretenceat pru- dery, I fling myself into his arms and kiss him with all my heart. p. No accomplished coquette seeking after effect could have achieved a. more complete success by her arts than I have by this sim- ple act, which is with me an every-(lay oc- curence where the boys are concerned. By it I have obtained a. thousand pardons, if need be. He is evidently surprised, and grows a lit- tle pale, then smiles, and strains me to him wit‘r} pas_sio_xgate fervor. . A. “- n- n ~p 1 "WVM‘y'éléflihgâ€"my own! Oh, Phyllis? if I could only make you love me!” he whispers, longipgly. _ ‘ n ‘E‘lllggfiafiduke,” I say, presently, in a rath- er bashful tone, rifling with the lapel of his coat. “Well, my pet ‘8” “I have something to say to you.” “Have you, darling ‘2” “I want to tell you that I think I must be growing fond of you.” “My angel 1” “Yes. And do you know why I think “No. I cannot imagine how anything so unlikely and desirable should come to passi” .. -n 1 v “I will tell you. Do you remember how, long ago, when first you kissed me, I dislik- ed it so much that it made me cry?” “Yes.” “Well, now I find I don’t mind it one bit 1” A _ "Lu . Instead of being struck with the good sense of this discovery, Marmaduke roars with laughter. .... ‘nv 1-1.1 "um -_...n"_,, “Oh, you needn't laugh,” I say, slightly offended; “it is a very good sign. I have read in books how girls shudder and shiver when kissed by a man they don’t like; and, as I never shudder or shiver when you kiss me, of course that means that I like you im- mensely. Don’t you see?” “I do,” says Marmaduke, who is still laughing heartily. “And 1 also see it is an excellent reason why I should instantly kiss you again. Oh, Phyllis! I think if we look- ed into the family Bible we would discover we had all mistaken your age, and that you are only ten instead of eighteen.” “Why ?” “For many reasons. Come; let us walk As lunch-hour approaches, we retrace our steps until we reach the principal avenue. Here Mr. Carrington declines my invitation to enter the house and partake of such light refreshments as may be going, and departs withapmmise to take us for a. drive the following day. I v I "M "Na; Nature tells me the luncheon-hour must be past, and, impelled by hunger, I run down the gravel sweep at the top of my speed; but, just as I get to the thick bunch of laurels that conceals the house from view, Billy’s voice, coming from nowhere in par- ticular, stops me. Presently from between the evergreens his head emerges. “I thought he was with you,” he says, with an air of intense relief. “Well?” “Well?” I reiterate. “\Vhy don’t you tell me,” cries Billy, angrily, “instead of standing there with your mouth open? Did he hear what we said '3” “Yes. every word.” “Oh dear! oh, dear!” with a dismal groan. “And who is to tell filem at home, I would like to know?” ‘ ‘Tell them what?” “Why, about Surely you don’t mean to tell me he is oing to marry you after all that?" exclaims illy, his eyes enlarged to twice their usual size. “Yes, of course he is,” I reply, withmuch dignity and indignation combined. “When a man loves a woman he does not give her up for a trifle.” 117 .y v u vr‘nAfiti‘ifle!’ Well, I never,” murmurs Billy, floored for once in his life. We are in the orchard at Summerleas alone. Mr. Carrington and I, with the warm but fitful April sun pouring heavily down upon us. All around is one great pink-and- wliite sheet of blossoms; the very paths be- neath our hot seem covered With tinted snow. It is one of those pet days that, coming too soon, make us discontented to think to- morrow may again be (lamp and chill-a day that brings with it an early foretaste of what will be, and is still and heavy as in the heart: of summer. “It will be a good year for fruit," I tell my lover, soberly, “the trees are showing such a. fair promise.” And my lover laughs, and tells me I am a, wonderful child; that. he has not yet half dived into the deep stores of private knowledge I possess. He sup. poses when I come to Strangemore he may dismiss his steward, as probably Iwill be competent to manage everything thereâ€"the master included. “Boy can»! foigivp ypu anything when CHAPTER XIV. VVhereupon I answer, saucily, I need not go to Strangemore for that, as I fancy I mave him pretty well under control even as it is. At this he pinches my ear and prophe« sies the time will yet come when it will be his turn to menace me. Our orchard has not been altogether sacri- ficed to the inner man: here and there one comes upon straggling slopes of greenest grass and long irregular beds of old-fashion- ed and time-honored flowersâ€"such flowers as went to deck Ophelia’s grave or grew to grace the bank whereon Titania. slept. High up in the western wall a sfimllgreen gate gives entrance to another garden â€"~ a. quail-1t spot, picturesqucly wild. that we children choose to name Queen Elizabeth’s Reheat. Long lines of elms grow there, through which some paths are cutâ€"paths innocent of gravel and green as the grass that grows on either side. Here, too, are beds of flowers and rustic benches. “Come, show me anything as pretty as this in all Strangemore, I say, with triumph, as we seat ourselves on an ancient oaken contrivance that threatens at any moment to bring the unwary to the ground. “f wonder if i011 will ever think anything at Strangemore as worthy of admiration as what you have here?” says Marmaduke, passing his arm lightly around my waist. “Perhaps. But 1 know every. nook and cranny of this old place so well and love it so dearly! I can remember no other home. We came here, you know, when I was very young and Billy only a. baby.” “But Strangemore will be your homewhen you come to live with me. You will try to like it for my sake, will you not ? It is dear- er to me than either of the other places, al- though they say Luxton is handsomer. Don’t you think you will be able to love it, Phyllis ‘3”. ‘V‘Yes, but not fora. long time. I can like things at once, but it takes me years and years to love anything." “Does that speech apply to persons ? If so, I have a pleasant prospect before me. You have known me but a. few months; will it take you ‘years and years and years ’ to love me?” There is lingering hope in his tone, ex- peqt'alncyr innhis _ey_es.A _ ‘ “You”? 011, IHon’t know. I’erhapsso,” I {ep1y, with unpleasanp >truthf511ness. “You are candor itself,” he says, with a shght tinge of bitterness. “Certainly I can never hereafter accuse you having concealed the true state of your feelings towards me. Whatever else you may be, you are hon- est.” “I am,” I return reluctantly ; “I wish I were not. 1 am always saying the Wrong thing, and repenting it afterwards. Papa. says my candor makes me downright vulgar. Marmaduke, do you think honesty the best policy ‘3” Marmaduke removes his arm from around me and frowns. I glance up at him with questioning eyes from under the flapping hat that has braved so niariy Aguinmers. “I do,” he answers, warmly; “I think there is nothing on earth so sweet or so rare as perfect truthfulness. Be open and true and honest, darling, and like yourself as longas you can. Every hour you live will make the role more difficult.” “But why ? You are older than I am, Magpaduke; wpuld you ten a. lie: ‘2” “No, not 5. directfie, perhaps, but I might prgpgpdfiqwlgatf did n_<_)t_ feel.”_ ‘ “Oh, but that is nothing. I would do that myself,” I exclaim, confidentially. “Many and many a time I have pretended not to know where Billy was when I knew papa. Vyas going‘to boxAhig ears There is no “You don't mean to say Mr. Vernon ever boxed your ears?” I exhlode at the tragic meaning of his tone. “Often,” I say merrily, “shoals of times; but that is not half so bad as being sent to bed. However”â€"â€"rea.surringlyâ€"‘ ‘he has not; done it now for ever so longâ€"not since I have been engaged to you.” “No, no,” edging away from him; “I would not. 1am not a bit unhappy as I am. You mistake me: and, as I told you before, he ne\_'er does it now.” “I should hope not. indeed,” hotly. “Phyl- lis, why won’t you marry me at once? Sure- ly you would be happier with me thanâ€" thanâ€"living as you now do.” “But it maddcns me to think of his ever having done so. And such pretty little ears too, so pink and delicate! Of all the un- manly blackgâ€"â€" I beg your pardon, Phyl- lis; of course it is wrong of me to speak so of your fpth‘er.". “Oh, don’t mind me,”I say, easil . “Now you are going to be my husband, do not care about telling you there is very little love lost be‘tween n}e and pupa.” “Then why not shorten our engagement ? Surely it has now lasted long enough. There is no reason why you should submit to any tyranny when you szm escape from it. If you dislike your father’s rule, out it and come to me; you don’t giislilge mt,” “No; butI should dislike being married very much indeed.” “Why?” impatiently. “I don’t know,” I return, provokineg ; “but I am sure I should. ‘Better to bear the ills we have,’ a; celerar.” “You are trifling,” says he, angrily. “Why not say at once you detest the idea of having to spend your life with me? I believe I am simply wasting my time endeavoring to gain an affection that will never be mine.” “Then don’t waste any more of it,” I re- tort, tapping the ground [)0 bulzmtly with my foot whilefixing my gaze with infected uncon- cern upon a. thick, white cloud that rests far away in the eternal blue. “I have no wish to stand in your light. Pray leave meâ€"«I shan’t mind it in the least â€" and don’t throw away any more of your precious Ino- ments.” “Idle advice. I can’t leave you now, and you know it. I must only go on squander- ing my life, I suppose, until the end, I do believe the greatest misfortune that ever be- fell me was my meeting with you.” gréat 113."le invthat. And Billy has done it :or me.” “Thank yeti. You aFe extreimely rude and unkind to me, Marmaduke. If this is your way of nmking love, I must say I don’t like it ‘ “I don’t suppose you do, or anything else sonnected with me. 01 course it was an un- fortunate thing for me my coming down here and falling idiotically in love with a gig] who does not care whether I am dead or a we. I “That is untrue. I care very much indeed about your being aliv * ” “Oh! common humanity would suggest that, speech.’: He turns abruptly and walks a. few paces away from me. We are both considerably out of temper by this time, and I make a solemn vow to myself not to open my llpS again until he offers an apology for what I am pleased to term his odious crossness. Two seconds afterward I break my vow. “Why on earth could you not have fallen in love with Dora?” I cry, petulantly, t0 the back of his head. ‘ ‘Shewoulddovou somecred- it, and she would love you, too. Every one would envy you if ygu married Dora. She never says the wrong thing; and she is cle- gant and very pretty ---is she not ‘3” y “Very prett§,” replies he, dryly; “almost lovely, I think, with her fair hair and beautiful complexion and sweet, smile. Yes, Dora is more than pretty.” (T0 In; coxnxmcn.) â€"â€"â€"¢«<o.>>«_-â€"â€"__ An Exciting Horse Race. The wildest horse race ever known to take place on the Denver track on Sept. 10, 1860. The horses were Border Ruflian and Rocky Mountain Chief, the purse $95,000 in gold. Ruffian was backed by Tom Hunt, his own- er, and Jim Harrison, notorious gamblers. Shortly before, Hunt had murdered a prom- inent Mormon, and after a brief trial he was condemned to hang for his crime. The scaffold was e1 ected on the outskirts of Salt Lake, near the overland road, and the mur- derer was to swing amid all the pomp of legal execution. 1n the excitement attend- ing the preparations on the morning of the expected hanging, Harrison entered Ruf- fian's stable unobserved and spirited the the racer away. Mounted on another horse and leading Ruffian. Harrison rode to the gallows unsuspected,slipped two six shooters mto Hunt’s hands, and before the officials or multitude had recovered from their sur- prise the outlaws were eharging down the Webber eaf‘fon trail at a speed which defied capture. One of a number of parting rifle shots killed Harrison’s horse, and it became necessary for Ruffian to carry both men. The Mormons pursued the desperadoes night and day. but were powerless to overtake them, so wonderful was the speed and en- durance of the stolen bay. N 0t till 100 miles had been covered did men or beast eat or rest, and on the morning of the tenth day they arrived at Denver, 600 miles from the Mormon capital. The facts once circu< lated, Ruffian became the hero of the hour. In the Denver race the Greer boys, who owned Chief, backed him. Thousands of men and women Hooked to the track. There was long delay, but at last, amid frenzied cheers, the horses got a start, Ruffian forg- ing ahead from the stand. Chief flew the track, went over a steep embankment, and before he could recover, the heat was prac- tically decided in Ruflian’s lead. A yell of disappointment went up from the multitude, and a, rush was made to lynch the man who started Chief. He succeeded in escaping the mob unharmed, however. More than $100,000 changed hands on the heat. An even start was obtained in the second heat, the two horses passing into the quar- ter-stretch neck and neck. At the half pole Ruffian, in response to hard whippin , slowly took the lead. All this time Chief had been given a free rein, but had been spared the lash. Charles Hamilton, a des- perado, who. had all his earthly possessions staked on Chief, stood at the back-stretch pole as the horses approached, a navy re- volver in either hand. “Lay the whip to that horse or I’ll drop you from the sad‘ he,” he shouted to Eugene Teats, Chief’s rider, sighting both of his weapons. Teats knew that Hamilton would keep his word unless the order was obeyed, and, although he was confident that Chief would win the second heat without urging, he lost no time in apply the whip. He drew blood at every stroke, and Chief went under the wire a winner of the heat by 100 feet in l : 42. Then commenced a riot and turmoil the like of which was never before or since witnessed on a race course. Men pulled their six shooters and fired madly, indis- criminately, and gold (lust, in the quarrel for stakes, was scattered recklessly in the sand. Human was completely broken down after this heat, and the gamblers, appreciating that they were beaten, became frantic with rage. Con Oram and Charles Switz, who afterward became noted prize fighters,stood at the door to the stand and held the mob at bay untilthe judges had given their de- cision. Chief was ordered on the track, and, after making the half mile, was declared the winner of the race. The judges had to be escorted from the track to town by an arm- ed escort composed of volunteers from the winning side. Mounted on broncho ponies, with pistols and bowie knives drawn, the Greer brothâ€" ers and a party of friends made their way to the $95,000 nugget and cut it to the ground. It was loaded into a Waggon and taken to town, a guard accompanying the precious freight. There were a large num- ber of people stabbed and shot in the melee, but fortunate] y none died from their wounds. That night Denver was one blazing revel~ ry, one gorgeous orgie. The immense nug- get was cut up into smaller and more com- mercial commodities. Teats was presented with $5,000 worth of these. The balance of the winnings were equally divided among the brothers, and in less than forty-five hours they had squandered all. ,‘____-u<.w oohâ€"â€" Proposing. The difficulty of proposing to the young lady is not always the most serious one the suitor has to encounter. Popping the ques- tion to one’s prospective mother-in-law or “asking papa” is frequently the more arâ€" duous undertaking of the two. \Vhen Prof. Aytoun was wooing Miss \Vilson, daughter of Prof. \Vilson, the famous “Christopher North,” he obtained the lady’s consent eon- ditionally on that of her father being se- cured. This Aytoun was much too shy to ask, and he prevailed upon the young lady herself to conduct the necessary negotia- tions. “ We must deal tenderly with his feelings,” said glorious 01d Christopheiu “ I’ll write my reply on a slip of paper and pin it on the back of your frock.” “ Papa’s answer is on the hack of my dress,” said Miss Jane. as she entered the drawing-room. Turning her round the delighted Professor read these words : “\Vith the author's com- pliments.” mâ€"qndow” The County Treasurer’s office at Detroit has been robbed. Denver Nu ws‘