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eagerness convinced me I was on the wrong track.

'Mrs. Mordaunt,' I said, 'you are not treating me right. You forget what danger and risk you bring upon me by asking me to give you this poison.'

'No one shall ever know,' she cried; the secret will lie with you and me; it will be buried in my grave!'

Your grave!' I exclaimed. "Then you do mean to kill yourself. No, Mrs. Mordaunt. I am young and not very clever, but I have sense enough to refuse you this.'

Cruel!' she said, in a tone of grief I can give no idea of. 'You could not refuse me if you knew what I suffered.' She started up as she went on speaking, as if stung so she could not be still.

I am insulted hourly in my own home-made a miserable martyr of at every moment of the day. My life is one long wretched outrage, and yet you refuse to let me end it! I can bear it no longerit is impossible. Well, if you refuse me this, I can go home and hang myself, or cut my throat! It is more difficult to do-it takes more courage; but never mind. You are unmerciful-you are cruel-you will not help me!'

She turned away and moved towards the door; but before she had taken more than two or three steps, a storm, a perfect passion of tears and sobs, came upon her. She stood there like one lost and alone, apparently unconscious even of my presence. I made her sit down. I rushed to my sideboard and got some brandy, which I put to her lips, and with difficulty made her swallow a little. I was really alarmed at the force of her passion; she looked so slight and frail a creature, it seemed as if it would tear her.

It was over as suddenly as it

came.

'You are very good,' she said, speaking in a low quiet voice. You must think me mad. I am not mad. I am only an unfortunate woman, hated by her husband, insulted and despised by her rival, and driven indeed to the last edge of endurance. I do not believe I can bear my life any longer, and I do not know how to escape from it. I entreat you, give me that poison, that I may end it quickly. There can be no sin in going to sleep when wakefulness becomes unendurable.'

'Mrs. Mordaunt - dear Lady Marjorie! to kill yourself would be a cowardly deed-you never were meant to be a coward!'

'Would it be cowardly?' she said. 'Do you think so? Is there anything heroic in living when there is no place for one in life? I have no child; my one boy is dead, my husband is worse than dead-he hates me. Why should I live?'

'O Lady Marjorie, don't speak like that! it is too sad.'

She turned and looked at me with an air of surprise.

'What!' she said, ' are you sorry for me? I thought everybody despised a neglected woman!'

'Despise I repeated. I did not know how to answer her. I turned away from her strange, sad, sweet face. I could not bear to meet her eyes, that brimmed over with grief.

I was startled by a slight sound. I turned and saw-she had seized the opportunity, had flown swiftly to the bookcase, and caught the bottle from the shelf. I rushed at her, actually struggled with her for its possession; and having at last got it in one hand, held her from me, and flung it out of the open window towards the dark Thames, which flowed silently below.

It was unseemly-it was hideous, but it was over. She fell back from me with a look of despair in

her eyes, and no word upon her parted lips. She leaned against the wall which was behind her, and for a time was quite still. Then suddenly she moved towards the door. 'Good-bye,' she said. 'Forgive me for distressing you with my private troubles; and will you keep my secret?'

I will,' I said, following her quickly, if you will promise me to perform the heroine's part, and not the coward's. I cannot fancy you weak enough to take your own life!'

She said nothing, but went on her way down-stairs. I saw her into her carriage. She told the coachman to drive home-and she was gone.

I went up to my room, and sat down in the first chair I came to, perfectly exhausted by the excite

ment.

As soon as I could command myself I wrote a line to Lady Marjorie, excusing myself for the fol lowing evening. I thought she

would understand that I could not endure to see her again so soon, and that she herself would far rather not meet me.

I did not see her from that time until a few nights ago, when I saw her in a box at the Opera. She looked as lovely, as fragile, as bright as ever. Mrs. Ferguson sat at her side. Was she then still enduring the torments which she had revealed to me in that horrible interview? The idea was too terrible to me; I could not again fix my mind on the stage, or listen to the music. I had to leave the opera-house.

I have been obliged to avoid Harry, much as I miss him from my life. His eyes remind me of his sister's; and sometimes, when I suddenly met them, they chilled the blood in my veins.

Delicate Lady Marjorie! She bears on her frail form chains heavier than any convict's fetters.

I shall never believe in the happiness of any household again.

IN MID-OCEAN, By W. J. FLORENCE.

'GOING! Going! Gone! Mr. Cooper buys 330 for six guineas. Now, gentlemen, we will sell the lowest number on the list. How much for 299? Start it, gentlemen. Who says 1. for 299? We have sold 330 for six guineas. Now let me have a bid for the lowest number. Come, start it lively. No. 299! How much for 299?'

Scene, the smoking-room of the steamship Russia in mid-ocean. Time, noon, just after lunch. The place was crowded with most of the male passengers smoking; while I, in the capacity of auctioneer, was selling the 'pool' on the day's

run.

We left the Cunard Dock, Jersey City, on Wednesday morning, April 16, 1873, bound for Liverpool, with as jolly a lot of passengers as ever quitted Yankee-land. It was the Vienna Exhibition year, and we had on board a number of commissioners, accredited to represent their several States at the great Austrian capital. There were Louis Seasongood, of Ohio; Alexander Chambers, of Pennsylvania; Wagner, of Oregon; B. J. Booth, the eminent actor; and Cooper, of New York. Besides these worthies, we had the usual complement of newly-married couples on their bridal tours, invalids seeking health and fresh air in foreign lands, dry-goods men, and buyers for Stewart, Lord & Taylor, Arnold & Constable, and other American firms.

The voyage was a succession of fine days, lovely weather prevailing. The time passed most pleasantly

until the seventh day out, when a pretty stiff breeze was blowing, and a roughish sea was on.

We had arranged on that day to sell thirty numbers-from 299 to 330, it having been anticipated that the ship would run between 299 and 330 miles during the twenty-four hours. These numbers were to be sold separately by auction, and the total amount realised was to go to the buyer of the successful number.

Well, I had just sold the highest number to Mr. Cooper, since the honoured Mayor of New York City, and had put up the lowest.

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'How much shall I have for 299 ?' I asked the assembled passengers. How much for 299, the lowest number? If an accident should happen, if the propeller should break, or if a storm should come on, the lowest number would have the best chance of taking the pool. Come, give me a bid, gentlemen! Come!

At this juncture the crowd in the smoking-room were startled by the terrible cry of 'Man overboard!' Clang, clang went the bell. Immediately the room was cleared, and there was a general stampede to the spar-deck.

I reached the deck just in time to see a fearless young sailor run aft and, with a spring like a deer, jump over the rail into the sea. He just cleared the screw, and, as

we

were making over thirteen knots an hour, his head appeared for a moment only above the waves before he was out of sight. With anxious hearts the passengers, male

and female, crowded towards the stern of the vessel to watch the small white eddy where the person who had fallen overboard went down. Clang, clang went the bell again.

'Lower the aft boat on the port side shouted Captain Cook.

Like lightning willing hands were at work. In less than two minutes the boat touched the water. With a cheer from the passengers the crew pulled away, keeping the wake of the ship-as she was still making headway, although her engines had been stopped-for their guide towards the drowning man; while one of the officers took his telescope and ran up the rigging to report.

'I can see but one object in the water,' said the officer, shouting down to the expectant crowd below. 'Good heavens! the other must be drowned. The boat is going in the wrong direction. They will lose the poor fellow. are a mile from him now. waves and rough water hide him from them. They seem to have lost their bearings.'

They The

For over half an hour the passengers crowded the after-part of the vessel, and with straining eyes watched the boat in the far distance tossed like a cockleshell on the waves, at one moment sunk down between the huge billows, and at another seemingly thrown sky-high on the crests of foam.

'Signal return,' at length said Captain Cook; and a small red flag was run to the topmast.

While the boat was returning to the ship we had time to inquire who had fallen overboard and how the accident had occurred. It seemed that a lad, the only sailor-boy on board, while employed in the rigging, had missed his footing and fallen into the sea, and in a moment the cry was given, 'Man overboard!'

I cannot depict the anxiety on the faces of our passengers as they watched the return of the lifeboat. All strained forward to see if there was anybody in the boat beyond the four men that manned it. Threequarters of an hour after the accident the boat was again alongside, but the lad had been lost, while the brave sailor who jumped after him was also nearly drowned. On reaching the water he had divested himself of his heavy boots and struck out for what appeared to him to be a body floating a little way off, but what proved to be a bit of old spar. The men in the boat lost his track, and he had given himself up for lost when he saw the boat returning. He was ultimately discovered and picked up, almost dead from exhaustion.

As the brave fellow stepped on the deck the passengers gave him three cheers. In a few minutes he was in his bunk under the charge of Dr. Wallace, the shipsurgeon. A collection was made among the passengers, a hundred pounds being thus raised for our hero, and a smaller sum for the boat's crew and the parents of the lost lad.

I was selected to present the money, and, after an hour's rest, the gallant sailor was called aft to receive it. With modest downcast looks he accepted our substantial tribute to his bravery, merely saying, in his honest sailorlike fashion, 'Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I am only sorry the other poor lad is not here to share it with me.'

The entire incident seems to have had a marked influence on the life of the young sailor; for the courageous fellow has since become famous as Matthew Webb, the champion swimmer of the world!

THE FEMALE UHLAN

An Episode of the Franco-German War.

ADAPTED FROM RICHEPIN BY JOHN AUGUSTUS O'SHEA.

I.

IT was after Bourbaki's defeat in the East. The army was forced to take refuge in Switzerland, decimated, disorganised, and exhausted after that frightful campaign, the shortness of which alone saved a hundred and fifty thousand men from certain death. Starvation, the chill icy cold, forced marches without shoes, knee-deep in snow, by wretched mountain-roads, had tried us hard-put us to the utmost pitch of our powers of endurance. We were francs-tireurs in the corps to which I belonged, and had more than our fair share of hardships. We had neither tents nor regular distributions of rations; we were always out en enfants perdus at the advanced foreposts when we marched towards Belfort, in the extreme rear when we returned by the Jura. Of our little troop of an effective of one hundred and twelve on the 1st of January, there remained but twenty-two unfortunates-wan, lean, and in tatterswhen we were at last able to set foot on Swiss territory.

There, at least, we were safe, and had the opportunity of rest. It is no novel story to-day, the kindly sympathy shown to the poor French army, and the attentions which were lavished upon us. Every one took a zest in life anew; and those who, before the war, were rich and happy, admitted that comfort had never been brought to their knowledge more solidly than now. Only think! We had some

VOL. XXVII.

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thing to eat every day, and we could lie in a bed every night.

Nevertheless, the war went on in France, throughout the Eastern provinces, which had been excepted from the armistice. Besançon still held the enemy in respect, and the enemy took satisfaction by ravaging Franche-Comté. Sometimes we learned that he had approached quite close to the frontier, and we saw the Swiss troops marching out which were to form a cordon of surveillance between him and us.

At length this story of Prussian doings gave us the heartbreak. As our health and strength came back, we were attacked with the nostalgia of fight. It was shameful and irritating to us to know that but three leagues away, in our unhappy country, the insolent and vanquishing Prussians were stalking about, that we were protected by our captivity, and that we were powerless against them.

One day our captain took five or six of us apart, and discoursed long and angrily on this state of things. The captain was a genuine soldier, not a doubt of it-an exsub-officer of Zouaves, tall, spare, tough as steel, shrewd. During the whole campaign he had cut out their work for the Prussians. He was eating his soul away in inaction, and could not humour himself to the notion that he was a prisoner, and, as a consequence, a non-efficient, when France wanted men.

'Tonnerre de Dieu !' said he to

LL

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