A PARTY of ladies were grouped in the large drawing-room at the Hurst, in the dusk of a June evening, just as the long twilight was fading into dusk.

The Hurst was a comfortable old house nestled among hills in the western part of New Brunswick. Behind it stretched away a chain of round-topped heights, and it lay in the shadow of the tallest of the range, known as Tanconk Mountain, a double-peaked bluff, wooded with pines and birches nearly to its bald summit, where its great granite skull lay bare to the rain and wind that blew over it from the bay. From the library windows of the Hurst you could catch a glimpse of dancing blue waters through the trees, while from the upper balcony you could see the whole broad expanse of the bay stretching before you, sometimes dotted with the white sails of coasters which drifted by, and again lonely but for the watching hills that compassed it on every side.

The Hurst was the property of a Colonial magnate, Mr. Ridsdale, once Governor of one of the Provinces, who, weary of the cares of office, had retired to spend the close of his days in the home of his childhood.

The family held themselves royally above the small farmers of the country round, and only found a few neighbors on the American side of the bay, whom they admitted to their hospitality. Their guests came to them from England, and now and then from St. John, or Fredrickton, or perhaps from some of the larger New England towns; but except the Wiltons, who lived at Preston Beach, on the opposite side of the bay, they had no intimates in the neighborhood.

The Wiltons were very American, but they were wealthy and cultivated, and had a well-bred daughter and two

grown sons, who were available companions for the young people at the Hurst. Their house was even finer than the Hurst, though with a modern elegance that the Ridsdales would have disdained.

The Wiltons only spent their summers at Preston Beach, and their winters in Boston, while the Ridsdales lived at the Hurst all the year round, piling great logs high in the wide chimney-places when the winter wind blew cold, and the snow lay heaped around.

The group collected in the drawing room on this summer evening, was a striking one. Mrs. Ridsdale was at first sight its most prominent figure. Mrs. Ridsdale was wont to be the most prominent figure in any group. She was a portly and comely woman of fifty-five, with striking elegance of demeanor and gesture. She dressed habitually in robes of heaviest fabric. Rich lustreless silks, stiff moirés, and velvets, were her favorite draperies, and they became her well. On this occasion, her black satin gown was relieved by rare old venice point, and as she sat in her crimson easy-chair, with the folds of soft white wool that she was knitting into some graceful shape, falling over her lap, she looked the ideal of stately motherhood.

Her daughter Jeanie was a young thing of nineteen, of pure English type, rosy and fresh, with golden, wavy hair, and bright blue eyes. She was gentle and very shy, but with keen perceptions, and a character of mingled strength and sweetness.

The two other women who occupied the room were marked contrasts, both in appearance, attitude, and costume.

Edith Wilton was a very striking person. Tall, and rather ungraceful in her figure, there was a suggestion of latent force about her that always im

pressed people. She was energetic and impassioned, impulsive and wilful, warm-hearted and very tenacious in her attachments.

Her hair of wavy black was pushed back from her forehead half impatiently, and fell over her comb in heavy ringlets that were caught up with a scarlet ribbon. She wore a dark blue dress, that swept behind her as she paced the floor, and a scarlet cashmere scarf of vivid dye fell in graceful drapery around her person.

As she reached the end of the drawing-room in one of her rapid courses, an indolent voice said lightly:

"Pray, Edith, stop that energetic march, it tires me to death just to look at you; you are the Wandering Jew personified.

'Toujours, toujours tourne la terre,
Et toi, tu marches!'

The

The lady addressed rose slowly from her recumbent position on a couch in the bay window, and approached the piano. The slightest motion she made showed rare grace. Her dress was white, of daintiest fabric, relieved by sea-green ribbons. Emerald ornaments glistened at her throat and in her ears, while a spray of glossy ivy was twined in her hair. Her face was of purest outline, and most delicate tint. fine lines of the nostril, the haughty curve of the short upper lip, the markings of the firmly-pencilled brows, were all of the most thoroughbred type. Her hands and feet were fabulously small, her figure round and taper, as a sċa nymph's. But her hair was the most wonderful thing about her. It was red, unmistakably red, but such a red as the Venetian painters loved, such a color as you may see now under some duchess's veil, as she floats in her gondola down the grand canal; a golden glory, warm as a summer's sunset, with such rays in it as never painter's pencil

caught; for who can paint woven sunbeams?

Helena Paget was the half-sister of Mrs. Ridsdale, an English woman, born and bred. She had been a belle in London; she had had an unprecedented success in the provinical capitals; she had been known to decline several brilliant alliances; and now she was contentedly spending her summer at the Hurst, having resigned her triumphs without a murmur, and apparently finding perfect content in the quiet country life she was leading.

Her luxurious tastes were the only reminder she gave of her past brilliant career. Her dress was always a miracle of exquisite taste; she loved soft couches, and delighted in dainties. You would have fancied a crumpled rose-leaf in her bed would have given her a night of torture; and yet, this woman, so tender that a rough grasp would leave bruises on her arm, could ride thirty miles in the saddle without flinching, and take the highest gate in the county at a standing leap. She could endure privation, exposure, fatigue, without a word; cheery and blithesome all the while. Had she an object to achieve, no power could keep her from it; she would have gone through fire, with a smile on her lips, to reach her goal. In a word, she was a thoroughbred.

Miss Paget seated herself at the piano at her friend's request, played a dashing prelude, and a number of mockingly brilliant tunes. Her touch was delicate and vigorous, she was a finished artist both in method and expression. Gradually, as the shadows deepened, her sparkling music changed into a wild accompaniment, and she sang with wonderful dramatic power a strange old legend, of a famous buccaneer and pirate. It was quite dark as the last words rang out through the room:

"Then Captain Kidd he sailed away

And far away sailed he,
And he buried his treasure far and wide
In all coasts of the sea.

And he who seeks shall find, they say,
His gold and silver hid
Along the shores of river and bay,
The rocks and shoals amid

But the Evil One, who the League did make,
Watches the treasure still,

And woe to him who that silver finds,-
It shall bring him naught but ill."

A few wild minor chords closed the song, and Miss Paget paused.

"What an eerie thing!" said Miss Wilton. "Where did you find it?"

"In the library, among some old manuscripts. It struck me as dramatic in its capabilities, and so I learned it, and adapted it.”

"Do you know," said Edith, "that they say that some of Captain Kidd's treasure is hidden along this bay? At intervals people seek for his buried hoard, but they have never discovered any thing."

"Then I believe it is my destiny to find it," said Miss Paget. "A gipsy once told me that I should find a treasure in a foreign land, and that it would bring me trouble. I am determined to set forth on a search to-morrow."

At this moment the servant entered with lights to announce dinner, with the return of the gentlemen, and the younger ladies followed Mrs. Ridsdale into the dining-room.

II.

As the ladies entered the diningroom, the master of the Hurst advanced to meet them, from his station on the hearth-rug.

Mr. Ridsdale was a handsome man, some ten years older than his wife, courteous in his manners, and rather stately in his bearing. The country people called him proud, but he was a kind master, and considerate landlord, while his generosity was large, though discriminating.

The other gentlemen, who entered by different doors, as the clock in the hall struck eight, were three in number.

The youngest was Edith Wilton's brother, Harry, a merry young law student of three-and-twenty, spending his vacation at Preston Beach, and now enjoying a week with his sister at the Hurst, where he was Jeanie Ridsdale's devoted attendant.

Of the other two, one was Major Carmichael, of Her Majesty's service, the

other was an American lawyer named Forsyth.

The Major was a man of the Prince Rupert type, a cavalier of the olden time; tall, handsome, brave, and chivalrous. The only thing that prevented his being a hero was, that he was without steadfast purpose, and that his life lacked a centre. He had fancied himself in love so frequently, and had been so often mistaken, that he feared he had lost the capacity for a strong emotion; but his sympathies were keen, and his nature easily stirred on the surface.

A certain superficiality, mingled with great good-nature, were his prevailing characteristics. How deep the real man went, no one knew positively; his social polish was too perfect to show where the veneering ended.

Mr. Forsyth was a man of few words, and many ideas; he was grave, thoughtful, and reticent. Intensity of purpose, veiled by a quiet, unassuming manner marked his whole character. He was very strong, and very genuine, and capable of great exertion. He was ordinarily indolent in body, though active in intellect; his great physical strength was rarely suspected, until some unexpected occasion called for its exercise. He delighted in argument, but hated defeat ; and though slow to move in an enterprise, was indefatigable in pursuit of any object that once excited his desire. He and the Major had arrived the previous week at the Hurst, and were both old friends of the Ridsdales, though Major Carmichael had been previously a stranger to the Wilton family. He had been a devoted admirer of Miss Paget, who had captivated his fancy for a while, during her belleship at Fredrickton, but he had for the present transferred his attentions to Miss Wilton, who received them with marked indifference. He hurried to her side as she entered the room, and offered her his arm to conduct her to the table. She found herself seated between him and Mr. Forsyth, while Miss Paget claimed the latter gentleman's attention on the opposite side. The conversation fell naturally upon the day's exploits.

"The most superb fishing, Miss Wilton," the Major was saying; “fifty fish in an afternoon make famous sport. We rowed quite up to the Island, and there found ourselves in the very midst of them."

"Did you catch any thing better than cod, Major?" asked Mr. Ridsdale from the foot of the table.

"Two salmon, sir, of which we are royally proud. Forsyth had the honor of the first, and I was fortunate enough to catch the other, while Harry was hanging skates in a row on a sharp stick."

"Ah! but I had my success in another line," said young Wilton; "you must not forget my discovery. I am not sure that will not prove the great catch of the season."

"There are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught," laughed Jeanie roguishly.

66

Very true; but I doubt whether there are many of this complexion in our neighborhood. You must know that as we were rowing round the Island, and I was poking round with the boat hook to keep the boat off the rocks, I felt that someting heavy was attached to the end of the pole. I hauled up a great mass of sea-weed, and entangled in it, I found an iron box with papers inside, which we couldn't read. But the curious thing is, that there was a little chain around the box, that seems to have been attached to the rock, and the hook caught in a link, and so brought up the whole thing."

"There were curious marks cut in the cliff just above," said Forsyth, "something that looked like an R, followed by three crosses, as if the rude inscription had been left as an indication for some one. We fished about for a long time afterwards, but we found nothing; so we brought home the coffer to be examined by the family."

"What time of tide was it?" asked Mr. Ridsdale.

"Just about low water, sir, in the slack before the flood."

"Curious," said the master, musingly. "I heard of a thing of this kind when

I was a boy. Some men fished up a box like this down below the Beach, on the American side; but they never made anything out of the contents. I believe the writing was in a foreign language that nobody could read. When the cloth is removed, we will examine this. Helena, you are a mistress of tongues, possibly you may help us."

"Did you say, Mr. Forsyth, that there was something like an R on the rock above?" asked Miss Paget of her neighbor. Did it strike you at the time that it resembled a K?"

"I did not think of it, Miss Paget. To tell the truth, I had the name of Rollins in my mind. There used to be an old Captain on the river of that name, and I rather fancied the cache might belong to him; but I do remember that the R struck me as very imperfect. It is quite possible that your suggestion may be correct; but how does that help us- ""

"Only that Miss Wilton told me today that tradition reports Captain Kidd to have buried treasure along these shores."

"Really, it becomes exciting," said the Major to Miss Wilton. "We may come into possession of an immense fortune."

"Treasure-trove belongs to the Crown, I believe," said Edith; "but you must know English law better than I. I shall hope, therefore, for your sake, that if any thing is found, it will be on our side of the line."

"The advantage will always be on your side," said the Major, bowing gallantly. "Will you take a glass of wine with me to the success of my pursuit of fortune?"

"To your finding the pirate's store, most certainly," answered Miss Wilton, disregarding the significant glance that accompanied the last words of the Major. "Peace to Captain Kidd's ashes, and long life to his gold and silver. May you find them speedily, and divide fairly."

When the cloth was removed, Harry Wilton left the room, and soon return