ness.

"Mon Dieu! do you not see that while Bernard lived she wanted to marry him, and now that Bernard is dead, she will care not a sou who she marries," explained Marie. "And oh, pray, Hugh, do not be angry with me, but that ferocious Fulke says it must be within a month. Think of it-one month! No trousseau, no jewels from Paris-or anything; but he will have it so; he is savagely determined to force you to his terms."

"He knows it is as much as my life is worth to refuse; he knows I cannot refuse," was the bitter response.

"But think what a heaven for you afterward, Hugh. Ah, mon Dieu! what peace, what tranquillity alwaysalways. Cher ami! it is the best you can do. You must see Winifred in the morning, for Fulke bid me tell you he would be here at noon for your answer, and it must-mark that savage brute-he says it must be satisfactory."

General Jocelyn groaned. It was hard that even this Frenchwoman should see the depths of ignominy to which he had fallen-almost past endurance.

"How can I approach Winifred so soon after Bernard's death?" he asked, after a long silence, while Marie reclined luxuriously among the cushions, and watched him with intense anxiety, and a world of compassion solely for him. "Ma foi! he was only a cousin. She was not engaged to him. How does it matter? Ask her not a question of him," was the wary counsel she gave. "Bernard Jocelyn can only claim a cousin's share of regret. They were not even engaged. Winifred is not even fiancée."

"No, they were not engaged," repeated the general, as if the foregone conclusion admitted of no question. "They were not engaged, or Winifred would have informed me of it. There was always such unbroken confidence between us; she had no secrets from me."

The Frenchwoman smiled derisively, even while she said, in a subdued, sympathetic tone:

"Ah, yes! Such a comfort to know that, and so different from her mother. She did have secrets from you." "Let the dead rest, Marie; you are not the person to blame her, or cast a breath of defamation upon her name. Let her rest, I say !"

Hugh Jocelyn was not to be trifled with. When he spoke in that way, even if she dared brave his displeasure -which Marie had no idea of doing-the limit had been reached. With all her reckless daring and fatal knowledge of the guilty past, the Frenchwoman absolutely could not utter a depreciative word of Winifred's mother. "Yes, ah, yes, Hugh! What love was yours! You adored her, but I remember how much she robbed me of. And ah, poor Gabriel was not quite so happy”

"Peace, I say. What do you mean, Marie, by bring ing up the past in this way? Be content with meddling in the present. What is it to you? Advise me what to do about Winifred. Women surely should understand each other."

wedding. And oh, Hugh, you will let me arrange the details; give me carte blanche, and I will appear in such a lovely toilet, and look almost as well as I used to twenty years ago. This is such a charming, bealthy place, one gets young as the years roll on."

The general listened to her lively chatter in a half amused way, but with only partial attention.

"It is pleasant, and Jocelyn Hall was always considered healthy. I never saw any one improve in appearance as you have. Your color is quite-indeed, even more brilliant than I ever remember it," was the innocent answer.

"Ah, mon Dieu! I am not triste now, you know. Trouble robs one of life and beauty. I have no trouble or sorrow at Jocelyn Hall, and tranquillity brings my roses back," sweetly observed Marie, with a satisfied glance at herself in the opposite mirror, and inward congratulation that Hugh Jocelyn seemed oblivious of Winifred's "slanders" as to the reality of those roses.

"It don't matter," she said that night, as she washed the roses off in warm water; "it don't matter in the least. Men are so gullible, such terrific fools, a clever woman like myself can make them believe anything, and that rouge is the very best I ever had."

General Jocelyn looked pleased. In the kindness of his heart the host was gratified at the tribute paid the old place by this bland guest. He glanced at her more attentively.

"I never saw a more perfect glow of health in any countenance. You do look charming," he said, evidently dismissing the subject with one of those rare compliments he sometimes vouchsafed Marie, and which she never forgot.

She chattered with more sparkling vivacity than ever. Such delightful tete-à-tetes seldom fell to her lot, and the wary Frenchwoman meant to avail herself of this great opportunity.

"Once lift this trouble from him and marry off that girl Winifred, and I'll snap my fingers at anything else in my way," she confided to childish old Madame Frissae, as she lay on the sofa in her dressing-room that night.

The black hair was twisted in a tight knot, and a row of rather oily-looking curl-papers graced her tawny brow, instead of the usual fringe of curls. The brilliant tints of cheek and lip had vanished, and a very dark-yellow, little, wiry-looking middle-aged woman, curled up on the sofa, with scarcely a vestige of the high-colored, flashily-dressed dame of an hour before.

"He, he, he !" laughed the older Frissae, in a cracked treble, and all the glee of a child with a new toy. "And will we stay here always, and have good things to eat and pretty things to wear, and a rug under my feet, and the wines-ah, those wines-every day, to give life to one's old blood? Marie, it's heaven. Will we stay always ?"

"If things fall out, as I say they shall, and if we get rid of that Winifred. Who knows," added Marie, between her set teeth-"who knows but what she may balk me, us her mother did, this Winifred ?"

"No, no, Marie, she must not," broke out the old crone at the fireside. "She must not. Mathilde's child is not as clever as her mother. Marie, you must watch her. We might have to go away, and give up these grand din

"Stop your babbling, you old imbecile," sharply cut in the daughter. "Your tongue will be the means of driving us away. If you tell of Mathilde it will make mischief. I say silence you. Nobody knows of that save you and me, and if you can't hold your wagging old tongue until the time comes, I'll just send you back to the old garret in New Orleans."

"Silence, you old fool!" interrupted charming Marie, yawning several times, and sauntering off to bed, leaving the withered old woman mumbling to herself over the fire.

However, nobody guessed the secrets of the boudoir when she came flying airily into the breakfast-room, to do the honors of the table once more in Winifred's stead.

"My dear general, you grand old sphinx, why do you open the papers instead of going to see Winifred? Do you forget that Fulke will be here at noon, cher ami? She must be definite to-day," reminded Marie, as the general gathered the papers, with the evident intention of going to the smoking-room.

He paused abruptly.

"Forget?" he echoed, bitterly. "Never. But is it time? Can I not wait a little? Poor Winifred! Must I go now ?"

"Faint-hearted as a boy," derisively commented his guest. "You must go now, dear Hugh-now; and you must keep to the point. Fulke is in no mood for quibbles or excuses. Winifred must let him know at noon what day she will marry him."

"True, it is a terrible necessity. Oh, my child! Why should I murder her to save myself ?" he muttered, quite gloomily.

"Tais toi!" laughed Marie. "Because to murder yourself would kill both of you. Go, Hugh; it is just as well now as ever. Ah," she added, spitefully, "I will have it now-there is no balk when Marie pushes."

But the door had closed on Hugh Jocelyn. The door had shut him out from the hard, resolute spirit invisibly urging him forward. He slowly ascended the steps and tapped irresolutely at Winifred's door, conscious of a terrible desire to risk anything rather than press this matter upon her.

"My darling, are you ill? What is the matter, Winifred? You look dreadfully pale," he asked, stopping stock still, as Winifred turned her white, tearful face toward him.

Father and daughter gazed at each other one moment. Both felt instinctively that each heart was full of unutterable woe, neither dared confide. The two Jocelyns were being driven before a nameless sin of twenty years agone. And that other Jocelyn-what had become of him?

"Papa, I am not ill," she faltered, the dusky eyes filling with tears as they shifted away from him. "Not very ill, not at all ill-my head aches."

"My darling, I am glad of that. I have so much to say. I must say it, my child. God knows I am forced to speak. Can you bear it, Winifred ? A cruel fate compels me to speak before noon."

Hugh Jocelyn spoke desperately, with a passionate agony in his suffering face and lacerated heart, and Hugh Jocelyn's daughter listened with the self-same, passionate agony in her ashen, quivering face, and the self-same throbs of racking pain in her broken heart. She shuddered as a prescience of what he might say crept icily through her. They were both deadly pale. But he meant with dogged resolution to unfold the scheme they compelled him to urge; and she with the same endurance resolved to listen to whatever her father must perforce say to her.

"Before noon ?" she echoed, faintly. "The time is brief. I can bear it, papa." He sat down beside her, and Winifred pressed her face down on his shoulder, and folded one arm around his neck. "Go on, papa.' "Winifred, you can guess the horrible secret that

beautiful, pale face was hidden from him. "He uses that to drive me like a galley-slave, to comply with his devilish demands. Winifred, we must obey-you and I-for God knows it is all true that he says; ay, and worse. My child, do you despise your father, now that you know that he is a criminal? My darling, it would be better for you, perhaps, to abandon me, as all the world would do if they heard the admission I have made to you. Do you despise me, Winifred ?"

"Papa"-she clasped both arms about his neck, but she never raised her head from his shoulder-"papa, I love you. How can you ask that I will do anything to save you, darling papa ?"

"You do not despise me, my precious child. Are you sure of that?" he reiterated, anxiously.

"Oh, papa, when we have been together in trial and trouble always, why should you think I despise you in this frightful hour of peril? Papa, I will give my life for yours. My life is nothing-it shall go for yours, dear, dear papa. You are all I have now," she murmured, brokenly.

Winifred, my life is worth nothing but for your sake. You are young, with long years before you. For your sake I must still keep up the hollow pretence of honor. There are other reasons, too, compelling me to struggle on in these iron fetters instead of putting a bullet through my brain'

"Papa," she interrupted, shivering and trembling as if an ague had seized her-"papa, don't torture me by saying that. My heart is broken now-don't torture me more. You are all I have left. Tell me what they demand of you. Oh, papa, it does not matter what becomes of me, now-now that Bernie is gone; I live only for you." My child, Fulke, perhaps, loves you as well as Bernie. He may be as kind

"Papa," she interrupted again, with a little cry of pain, "do not speak of love or of Bernie-that is past. Tell me Fulke's orders and threats. Do not be afraid; I can bear anything for you."

"My angelic child," muttered Hugh Jocelyn, pressing his lips to the golden hair-"my own angelic child, if I could only explain; but it would be useless. The one terrible fact remains, the fact in Fulke's possession. Explanation would be idle for you, and-yes, I confess itimpossible for me. Fulke has narrowed it down to two things: your hand in marriage, or my downfall; and, Winifred, he has notified me imperatively that you are to marry him within one month."

"Within one month!" she gasped, in a feeble voice. "Oh, God! what does it matter to me now?" she moaned.

"My child, he will be here at noon to demand of me what day you have named," began Hugh Jocelyn, a keen anguish in his countenance and a sharp anxiety.

"Papa, does this save you from shame? If-if it hap pens that I marry Fulke, does it remove this danger from you? Does he swear it ?" she asked.

46

"Yes, my child."

"Papa, I cannot listen-oh, I cannot even listen, until you prove beyond a doubt-that-that it is true about my poor Bernie. God will that it might not be true!"

"It shall be investigated thoroughly, my darling. I shall tell Fulke that until the sad fact of the poor fellow's death is proved, you will not listen to any overtures from him. I can keep him off for a short space, perhaps, and then-if it is proved, Winifred——”

Hugh Jocelyn waited in terrible suspense; her heart throbbed violently as she lifted her head from his shoulder

"If it is true, that awful thing," she whispered, huskily, "it does not matter what becomes of me. I will give my life for yours. I will save you, papa. You are all I have." (To be continued.)

increase more marked than that in the evening. Variations in diameter are believed to coincide with the variations of tension, but they are shown to be inverse to the temperature, the maximum of the one corresponding roughly to the minimum of the other, and so on.

In con

LEAF BY LEAF, AND TEAR BY TEAR.

YONDER, where the garden-close
Edges of the seacliff nears,

In her hand she holds a rose,

Shedding leaf by leaf with tears,
White and pink, and pink and white,

Falling 'gainst the sunlight there;
Like her soft cheek's peach bloom bright,
Halloed with her sunny hair.
'Neath the rose-walk's gloom she stands,
Love's sweet pleadings shyly hears,
Shedding from her trembling hands
Leaf by leaf, like happy tears.

Yonder, where the barren sea

Laps against the gray, cold shore,
White, and worn, and old, sits she,

Weeping, waiting, evermore.
Winter woods are waning fast,

Snapt are all her love-dreams gay,
Brave, sweet Hope has sunk at last,

Dead and crushed beside the way.
One late rose within her hands,

Bends she o'er Hope's quiet bier,
Dropping, where she lonely stands,
Leaf by leaf, and tear by tear.

THE SINGER'S GHOST.
BY NATHAN D. URNER.

AGUERRE will be superb tonight; she is drunk." Such was the inscription, in French ("Laguerre sera divine ce soir; elle est ivre") that I read at the foot of a most remarkable portrait in the possession of Monsieur Legrand, who was, twenty years ago, the most widely known merchant of curiosities in Paris. The portrait to which it was affixed was that of Josephine Marie Laguerre, one of the most brilliant ornaments of the French operatio stage of a century ago, and quite as celebrated for her vices as for her talents; for while Gluck, the composer, spoke of her as la perle de la scène, Piccini, his rival, and after him Bachaumont and others were fond of alluding to her as la bacchante des coulisses.

The picture showed Laguerre in the prime of life, in the classical dress, or, rather, undress, of one of the fabled nymphs of the bacchanalian cortége, with a ravishing abandon in her air and looks, and the tiger-skin mantle rippling down from her half-bare shoulders, to the most picturesque revelation of her soft, luxurious proportions. But it also showed a woman whose peerless eyes, glorious hair-though powdered to a snowy whiteness and built up à la Pompadour-and perfect regularity of feature could not altogether make up for the inroads which years of dissipation and self-willed indulgence had already made upon her comeliness, and which even the painter's art had been too much leavened with honesty to quite conceal.

stuck there by some one or another of a host of noble lovers after the death of the original; but of that I cannot say. I only trust that it may some time enhance the historical value of the picture, and thus enable me to sell it to advantage."

My interest was greatly excited. I at once set to work to consult La Harpe, Bachaumont, "Les Mémoires Secrets," and other authorities pertinent to the subject, and on the following day was enabled to say to my friend, the dealer in curiosities:

"You have not trusted in vain, Monsieur Legrand. That inscription was appended to the portrait as a sort of ghastly joke, though it was nothing more than the quotation of a saying then much in vogue concerning the beautiful original in the year 17-, and by no less a personage than the Comte d'Artois, the youngest brother of Louis XVI."

And I referred him to a certain folio of "Les Mémoires Secrets" as my authority.

But I also learned much more of what might be called the romantic and prosaic, the lofty and ignoble career of that strange, contradictory and fascinating character, Josephine Marie Laguerre, which cannot fail to be of inter est to the reader.

Laguerre was not only known among her theatrical contemporaries as la bacchante des coulisses, but also as la femme du fantôme-"the woman with the ghost," and it will be seen that she was as abundantly deserving of one term as of the other.

We first hear of Laguerre as one of the choir-singers of the Royal Academy of Music, in 1774, at the early age of fourteen. Her precociously powerful voice was her only recommendation; she was not known to have a relative, a protector or a friend; she had come from no one knew whence; and, as she remained entirely reticent upon this subject, while making no secret of bearing an assumed name, this mystery accompanied her to the end, and shrouds her memory to this day. Besides for her beauty and talent, which were very soon recognized, she was remarkable from the first by being incessantly followed and haunted, wherever practicable, by a dark, gaunt, poorlydressed, strangely-looking young man, several years her senior. He shadowed her everywhere. His pursuit was mostly of a timid nature, and limited to glances and gestures of the saddest and most reproachful meaning; but occasionally in lonely places she had been observed to permit his approach, to listen to what seemed wild appeals and expostulations in a foreign tongue from his lips, and then, after repulsing him either scornfully or gently, to go upon her way, only to be dogged, haunted, shadowed as before.

In vain did her youthful intimates of the chorus or the ballet strive to wring from her the secret of this man's following; she was ever evasive, jocular or morosely mute, as the case might be. Her lovers-for even at that age she had lovers-emulated each other in offers to rid her of the annoyance with their swords, but only to be met with an intimation that any harm done to the unknown would be regarded as an unpardonable affront to herself, So there the mystery rested, as it remained for years. She soon became known as the "girl with the ghost," as she was afterward known as "the woman with the ghost." Two years later, in 1746, Laguerre made her début in a

"It was just where you see it now, wedged in between the canvas and the frame, when I bought the painting at an obscure auction-sale five years ago," said Monsieur Legrand, in answer to my inquiries. "It may have been

sation. Incontestably more beautiful than her predecessor, Rosalie Levasseur, and more fresh and charming than Sophie Arnould, who at that time chanced to be playing elsewhere, she exhibited a maturity and command of voice, combined with histrionic powers, never theretofore