Only for a few moments did he yield himself to the melancholy fit. Presently he flung his head back resolutely.

"This will never do. I have set myself into this path; I must go on. I must not think of the swamped skiff. If I could help him, without ruin to myself, I would do it. I have already answered him. He cannot come to England; it is impossible."

Ay, Algernon Thornton, more impossible than you guessed.

Reaching forward, he poured himself a glass of wine, and drank it eagerly; then he drew toward him the newspaper. Let him forget himself once more in those busy columns.

The first thing which met his eye was a short paragraph announcing the death of Miss Annette Henchman. He dropped the sheet as suddenly as if it had burned him.

"Miss Annette-dead! A new complication! Good heavens has Malcolm Trente communicated with her?" And then for twenty minutes and more he sat bolt upright, staring at the ceiling. He had no pitying thought now concerning the poor little swamped skiff. If one or two such dismal waifs went down, what matter? But a hidden rock lay in the track of the prosperously sailing ship. Let a firm hand be at the wheel, a skillful eye upon the course, and every faculty strained to save her from catastrophe!

He rose presently and put on the mask again—that serene and placid smile which made his still handsome face so delightful to look upon.

He touched the bell, and James appeared promptly. "Call a hansom for me, James. I am going down to the house earlier than usual. And tell Darby if I am not here to-morrow morning that he may save the important letters and send off the others. It is possible I shall run down to Trente Towers, and I may remain over night."

"Yes, sir. I'll have the hansom here in two minutes. So I'll bring your hat and gloves now," declared James, briskly.

And he brought the required articles and laid them on the table, and then hastened out to the street. He returned promptly to announce that the vehicle was in waiting, and vouchsafed the volunteered statement that a telegraph-boy had just carried in a dispatch to Mr. Darby. "Call him. It may be of importance, and I'll hear it before I go," commanded the honorable member. But Darby appeared without the call.

"A telegram, sir, from a Welsh station, for you." He did not add what was in his thought: "It's a queer thing what it has to do with you, anyhow."

But he handed the paper to his employer, who opened it carelessly, but at the first word he read the thumb and finger closed together like a vise. Not a shadow of change crossed his face, however, so powerful was this man's constant habit of self-control while in the presence of other people, not even excepting his own servants.

The telegram was this :

"Horace Younge died suddenly to-day at Heidelberg. His daughter is alone. Will the aunt meet her? Answer at once."

It was addressed to the same name as that upon the inner envelope Mr. Thornton had found inclosed in his letter which he had broken open so short a time before. It was signed, "Philip Markham, Hotel Schrieder, Heidelberg."

From under his lowered lashes Algernon Thornton took a close survey of Darby's face; then he said, listlessly: "An old affair of my college chum's. But what does he

think I know about it? However, you may telegraph to him-let me see what it shall be? Oh, this only: 'Let the bankers know that the thing is ended. The aunt is dead. Nothing more to be done." "

He drew on his gloves with scrupulous care, and said, as if to himself:

"Poor fellow! I had forgotten him years ago." Then he walked down to the hansom, smiling blandly as he went.

But as the carriage whirled away over the roar of the street traffic and the rumble of the wheels, he seemed to hear a great rush of wild waters surging in his ears.

Inwardly quivering under a great shock, he could not tell whether it was of delirious joy or of endless remorse. But this inexorable fact was pressed home to his realization-the little skiff had gone down.

He went up the massive stone steps of the stately mansion to which the hansom brought him with slow, deliberate steps. A liveried servant opened it promptly, and another stepped forward to take his hat and stick. He passed on through the grand hall, and at an open door which revealed an apartment fitted up with every luxury that taste could devise or money procure, a tall young girl was standing, smiling joyously upon him.

“What a good papa to come home so early from that tiresome office! I have not had a quiet hour with you for half an age, mon père. Now I shall seize upon it. Come, you shall have the coziest chair."

"The princess's commands must be obeyed," answered the father, gazing upon her with idolatrous pride in every glance.

The girl was indeed worthy of it, for many a royal house might have envied the beautiful, regal-looking creature who leaned her slender figure against his so trustfully and looked up into his face with great lustrous eyes, such as look out from Murillo's pictures, and are fitly framed by waves of black hair, glossy as the raven's wing.

"You have dressed for dinner in good season, Maude," he said, letting his eye run from her head to her feet, taking in every detail of the toilet, from the long sweep of the deep garnet velvet robe to the dainty fineness of the rich lace that rippled about the round white throat and dimpled elbows-losing not even the pattern of the embroidered ruby satin slipper, nor the careless grace of the single white rose fastened at the breast.

"Yes, I must have had an intuitive knowledge of this rare pleasure in store for me. I shan't allow you much time for your own toilet duties, papa. We are to have one of our delicious long talks, you know, and I have volumes to tell, I think.”

She sank gracefully down upon the velvet ottoman before the chair, and crossed the white arms on his knee. He laid one hand fondly, though lightly, upon the beautiful head.

My darling, my princess !" he murmured, in tones as fond as a lover's.

"My father and my hero !" responded she, as tenderly. And then she broke into a rich, musical laugh. "How mamma would laugh at us! We are really a silly pair of lovers, papa, as she says."

He smiled gladly, and yet at the moment this thought stabbed his heart: the other girl-alone, desolate. He had cut off her last hope of help and sympathy, and deliberately done it.

What if retribution came back to him through her, his idolized daughter? He held the small white hands the closer for the thought, and said, tenderly:

"My darling, I am not sure that a lover could offer you such thorough devotion as mine-nay, not even so much

"The lover? Oh, papa, do you know"--and here there was a wise shake of the graceful patrician head—“I am afraid it will be a rather forlorn hope for him, whoever he may be! I have such a high pattern, such a grand standard always before me. He must be so much like you, papa."

"My treasure, he will be a better and nobler man, I pray heaven," ejaculated Algernon Thornton, with fervor, born out of that burning bitterness within.

"What a rara avis he will be in that case!" laughed Maude. "All Great Britain will envy me. Well, he has not made his appearance yet. It is scarcely fair to discuss him, is it? But I declare he has my sympathy, for we shall both hunt sharply for flaws."

And again the clear, deliciously gay laugh rang out and started a mocking-bird who had been drowsing in a gilded cage which hung on the balcony without the open window.

"You had something you wanted to talk about," spoke the father, after the moment's silence in which they had smilingly listened to the bird's carol.

"Oh, yes; mamma's letter. Such a nice letter from Colonel Trente, and but just arrived. By-the-way, was it odd or not that it came to us instead of to you? The idea struck me. He says that he is told you are coming down to fix up a shooting-box, and he asks mamma to bring me with her, and make him a few weeks' visit, even if the town season is not quite ended. He says she may invite you to The Towers to visit her as often as she pleases. The funny old fellow! I can see that mamma is quite set up because he wrote to her instead of to you."

"It is an excellent idea. I should like you to go very inuch. Pray write at once and accept," he answered, romptly. "And now I must really go to dress for dinner."

"Come down the moment you are freshened up, for I have an endless amount of chattering to do," she said, playfully, kissing the hands that reluctantly relinquished their hold upon her soft white fingers.

room.

(To be continued.)

TIME.

PY HENRY D. M'DOUGALL.

HOW MANY mourn their lot with envious tears, And rail against the fortune others know? They seldom count the wasted hours and yearsThey long to reap, but never care to sow. While others toil they sleep-then wake to find Unwearied Time has left them far behind.

If life's swift stream 's to bear us to the sea,
Where lies the goal ambition longs to gain,
Just at the flood our vessel launched must be,
The waters then will float us to the main.
One moment linger, and the ebbing tide
Will toss us idly on some bank aside.

THE BOWIE-KNIFE HERO.

On the 2d of November, 1831, Rezin P. Bowie, James Bowie (his son), David Buchanan, Robert Armstrong, Jesse Wallace, Matthew Doyle, Cephas D. Ham, James Corriell, Thomas McCaslin and two servant-boys, Charles and Gonzalas, set out from San Antonio, Texas, in search of the old silver-mines of the Spanish mission of San Saba.

James Bowie (from whose renown in its bloody use we get the name of "Bowie-knife "), was one of five brothers, born in Georgia, all hardy and powerful men. James was a terrible duelist, and was greatly feared as well as admired. He made a fortune by purchasing negroes from Lafitte, the pirate, smuggling them into Louisiana, and selling them for slaves. Bowie was killed at the massacre of the Alamo.

The party in search of the silver mines met with no adventures until the 19th of November, when they were overtaken by two Comanche Indians and a Mexican

"Maude has told me of your letters from Trente Towers," he said, promptly, after her listless salutation. "I am quite pleased at the little attention, and wish you to go."

"Certainly, I shall go. I have been planning great things. Who knows what an impression Maude may make? That magnificent property all lies in his gift, does it not?"

"Yes," and a faint sigh accompanied the monosyllable. "Well, of course you won't grumble if I order some new costumes for us both;" began the lady, briskly.

Col

"It is the last place where they will be needed. onel Trente would never know if you had the last century's style of gown or not," he answered, coldly. "Pray, don't be extravagant. Where is his letter? I would like to see it, please."

The lady pointed to the fanciful Chinese writing-table, upon which the missive was lying open with a pearl and gold pen across it.

"I've written the acceptance, though Maude wouldn't let me post it until you knew about it. She never thinks I am capable of judging in such matters."

Algernon Thornton carried the letter to his room and read it there.

"Maude is right," he soliloquized; "it is worded

Next morning the Mexican came back, saying that he had been sent by the friendly chief to warn the whites that they were followed by nearly 200 hostile Wacos, Caddoes, and other Indians, who had sworn to have their scalps. To vouch for the truth of his story, the Mexican showed his chief's silver medal as guarantee of his mission. His chief had tried without avail to turn the hostile Indians from their purpose, and so gave warning. He had but sixteen braves, badly armed and without ammunition, but would help the white men as far as he could, for which end he asked them to join his band. But it appeared that the hostile force of Indians was right between the white men and their friendly adviser, so that an attempt to join him would be at least very hazardous. So Bowie and his men pushed on, in hope of reaching the old fort of San Saba, thirty miles away, before night. The Mexican captive returned to his Indian friends.

The traveling was bad, the ground being covered with loose rocks, which made their horses lame, and they did not reach the fort. When night came they encamped in a clump of live-oak trees, thirty or forty in number, most of them about the size around of a man's body.

To the north was a thicket of live oak, about ten feet high, by forty yards in length and twenty in breadth. On the west, forty yards away, ran a stream of water. The surrounding country was an open prairie, with a few trees and rocks, and some broken land.

The trail they had followed ran eastward from the encampment. Here the Bowie party prepared for defense by cutting a road inside the thicket of bushes, ten feet from the outer edge all around, and clearing the prickly pears from among the brush. Then they hoppled their horses, placed sentinels, and prepared for rest; this place was six miles from the old fort of San Saba.

The night passed without disturbance, but in the morning they discovered Indians on their trail to the east, not more than two hundred yards away. The cry, "Indians !" was raised, and the men, who had just mounted to continue their journey, leaped from the saddles and fastened the horses to trees. As soon as they found themselves discovered, the Indians also dismounted and began to strip for action. Among them were a few Caddoes, who had always been friendly to the whites.

The relative number thus opposed were one hundred and sixty-four Indians and eleven whites, two of whom were boys.

It was agreed that a talk should be offered, and R. P. Bowie, accompanied by David Buchanan, walked out to within forty yards of the Indians, and requested them, in their own language, to send forward their chief, as he wanted to talk with them.

Their answer was, "How de do? How de do?" in English, and a discharge of twelve shots, one of which broke Buchanan's leg. Bowie returned this fire with a double-barreled gun and a pistol. He then got Buchanan on his shoulders, and started back toward his camp.

The Indians immediately opened a heavy fire, by which Buchanan was wounded in two more places; but Bowie escaped with one or two bullets through his shirt only.

Finding that their fire had not brought Bowie down, eight Indians on foot rushed after him with raised tomahawks. When just upon him his friends saw them, fired, and brought down four of them; the other four retreating to the main body.

The whites kept in their position, and all was quiet for a few minutes, then they discovered that a hill sixty yards off to the northeast was covered with Indians, who immediately opened fire, their chief sitting calmly on horseback, directing and urging them on.

When they saw this chief, not a gun among the whites was loaded, except Mr. Ham's. "Shoot that Indian!" cried Bowie; and Ham fired, breaking the chief's leg and killing his horse. The chief kept up, however, hopping on one leg, and holding a shield to ward off the bullets.

Four of the whites now fired simultaneously, the balls going through the shield and prostrating the chief. He was at once borne off by his men, some of whom were killed while taking the body away. The Indians then passed over the hill out of sight, but soon returned, bringing up their bowmen, who had not been in the action before. Then began a hot fire of bullets and arrows, which was promptly returned by the rifles of the whites.

At this moment another chief on horseback appeared near the spot where the last one had fallen.

"Who is loaded ?" was asked, and the reply was, "No one." Charlie, the mulatto servant, came running up with Mr. Buchanan's rifle, which had not been discharged. James Bowie seized the rifle, and, with the aim that never failed him, brought down the second chief, who was, like his predecessor, borne off by his men under the fire of the whites.

While thus engaged in defending themselves from the Indians on the hill, fifteen or twenty Caddoes succeeded in getting under the bank of the stream, in the rear of the Bowie party, opened fire at forty yards, and wounded Matthew Doyle, a ball going through his breast.

As soon as his cry was heard, McCaslin hastened to the spot, and asked, "Where is the Indian that shot Doyle ?" He was cautioned not to venture, for, from the shots, the Indians appeared to be using rifles. At the moment he discovered an Indian, but while in the act of taking aim the white man was shot dead. Then Robert Armstrong, furious to avenge McCaslin, rushed forward, but while preparing to fire at an Indian, a bullet from one of the red men tore off the stock of his gun.

During this time the Indians had completely surrounded the whites, occupying every rock and tree that offered shelter, and the firing was almost continuous. The whites next took to the thickets, where they had much better shelter. One by one they picked off the Indians, who held the banks of the river, invariably shooting them through the head as they ventured to peep out to discover a white man, which discovery was almost impossible, for the Bowie men were securely hidden by the brush.

The road that had been cut around the thicket the previous night now became very useful. From it the whites could see all the Indians on the prairie, and yet none of the Indians could see them. The whites would fire a volley, almost all with deadly effect, and then move aside two or three yards; then the Indians, who had no other guide, would aim at the place where the smoke of the white men's guns had risen, often putting twenty bullets within a space that might be covered with a pockethandkerchief; but the white men were not there. Fighting in this way went on for more than two hours, the only casuality for the whites being a bullet through James Carroll's arm.

The Indians discovered that the whites were not to be dislodged from the thicket, and there was not much chance of killing them at random by aiming at the smoke of their guns. So the red leaders resorted to another method. They fired the dry grass of the prairie, for the double purpose of routing the whites from their strong position, and, under cover of the smoke, carrying off their own wounded, for the whites had strewn the ground with dead and disabled Indians.

The fires kindled stopped at the creek, and the wind changed so that the whites' camp was for a time not endangered at all; but the men had taken means to keep the flames away by scraping off leaves and brush. They also piled up rocks and bushes to make a rude breastwork.

Their stratagem of fire having failed, the Indians reoccupied the rocks and trees, and began another attack. While the firing continued, the wind suddenly shifted to the north, placing the whites in a perilous position if the Indians should succeed in setting fire to the grass and brush of the small spot on which the white men fought. The strictest watch was necessary, and it was not long before an Indian was discovered crawling like a snake down the creek, where he set fire to the grass, but before he could retreat he was killed by Robert Armstrong.

Now there seemed to be no hope of escape, as the flames, rising three yards high, were borne by the wind directly toward the spot that Bowie and the men occupied. What was to be done? The whites were to be burned alive or driven into the open plain among the Indians. The savages were encouraged, and made the situation even more awful by their shouts and whoops, in anticipation of Victory, and all the time they kept up the firing of balls

and arrows, shots coming at the rate of twenty to a minute.

As soon as the smoke hid the whites from sight, they held a consultation. The first impression was that the Indians might charge upon them under cover of the smoke, and the whites could make but one effectual fire-for there were no fixed cartridges then-and the sparks were so plentiful that it would be almost certain death to open a powder-horn for a charge with which to load a rifle. However, it was decided that if the charge should be made, the whites would

give the Indians one fire, then stand back to back and fight with their knives to the last. If they did not charge, it was decided that when the fire came near the wounded men it should be smothered with blankets and bearskins, each man taking care of himself as best he could. But no charge was attempted by the Indians, and thewhites, by great exertion, stopped the fire in the grass before it

reached their

wounded

baggage.

or

The Indians

were more

intent upon securing their dead and wounded than on continuing the fight, and, during the smoke, they got off all their people which lay near the whites. It was now sunset, and the Indians, finding that Bowie's heroic band were still ready for fight, drew off abont half a mile and encamped to attend to their wounded.

and placed their wounded in a cave near the top of a hill.

At eight o'clock in the morning two of the white men went over the battle-ground, and the place where the Indians rested during the night. It appeared, afterward, that the Indians had no less than eighty-two killed or very badly wounded in this one day's fight, with less than a dozen white men.

The whites had one man killed and three wounded. During the morning they worked rapidly on their rude

Bowie and his men rapidly increased their fortification, getting it breast-high by ten o'clock at night; and they filled vessels and skins with water, expecting a renewal of the attack in the morning. They heard the Indians all through the night moaning over their dead, and now and then a shot was heard, which meant that some Indian so wounded as to be past cure had been killed by his own people.

During the night the Indians moved a mile further off,

fort, continuing till about three o'clock in the after

noon.

At that time a party of thirteen Indians came up, but when they discovered that the white men were still there and were fortified, they hastily rode off-and that was the last that was seen of Indian enemies.

The Bowies and their friends, pretty well worn out with such hot

work, gave up the search for the San Saba silver mines, and, with their wounded, got back to San Antonio, after a slow march of twelve days.

It takes four thousand pounds of roses to make one pound of the precious

attar. The manufacture of the article is carried on extensively in the plains of Turkey, south of the Balkan Mountains. There, whole districts are covered with rose plants, set about five feet apart, and attended with great care. Some fresh, sweet morning, while the roses are wet with dew, they are torn from the stems and thrown into huge coppers filled with boiling rain-water. The fragrant steam is carried along a tube, and on cooling becomes a kind of thick rose water. This is boiled up again and its vapor cooled into a liquid, on the top of which floats a yellowish, oily scum that is known as "attar of roses."

A BROKEN heart may have unbroken peace.