The Worthington advance., 1897-01-07

Poor little Fanchon stood pale and
| trembling before her indignant mis-
tress.
"Oh, madame, madame! Pray be-
lieve that never beheld them!" she
faltered, wringing her hands and look
ing wildly, around her, as if apprehen-
sive that the emissaries of the law might
already be upon her.
"What nonsense!" cried Mrs. Tram
ley, angrily. "Here's Cecile, who can
bear witness that they were all here
last night, when you brought them in,
and no one but yourself has had access
to them since! Of course it is you, and
you only, who has stolen my diamond
ring. I was a fool ever to employ a
French maid-I've always heard that
they are dishonest! Cecile, ring the
bell! Send James for q policeman at
once!"
Cecile Che&wynde, herself very pale,
yet languidly self-possessed, pulled the
silken rope.
Fanchon de Lisle clasped her hands
and fell at the portly lady's feet.
"Oh, madame, spare me! Do not
bring this disgrace-this unmerited
shame-on me and mine! Oh, madame,
I am as innocent as yourself!" she
cried.
Mrs. Framley jerked her skirts from
the French girls clasp.
"You shall prove that in a court of
justice" she said, harshly. "a police
man! Why does not some one bring a
policeman?''
The words had scarcely passed her
lips when Fanchon de Lisle fell, white
and lifeless, to the floor, her luxurious
jet black hair escaping from it's bands.
and falling, like veil, over her ashen-
pale face.
"She is fainting," said Cocile, with
culver in her voice.
"She is dead, ma am" said Mrs. Hoyle,
the motherly old housekeeper. Its
the heart-she was always complaining
of pains round the heart. You've fright
ened her to death, ma'am!"
Don't be a fool, Hoyle!" cried Mrs.
Framley, clutching nervously at her
throat. "1t's only a swoon. Get some
camphor, somebody. Oh, here comes
the officer!''
But it was no gruff-voiced policeman
who was ushered into Mrs. Framley's
boudoir-only Harold Disart, who
looked around him with puzzled coun-
tenance.
"Pray pardon me-" he said, with a
courteous bow in Mrs. Framley's direc7
tion. II fear am intruding; but will
detain you only for an instant. have
come to return the diamond earring
Miss Chetwynde lost last night at Mrs.
Fontaine's party. 1t was found in the
conservatory, close to the big palm
where brought you that last ice, Miss
Chetwynde."
Cecile grew scarlet, then pale, as Mr..
Disart laid the glittering ornament be-
side her on the table. She shranl1 from
her cousins eye even while she strove
to mutter some faint formula of thanks.
"The diamond that Ceci1e Chetwynde
lost!' Mrs. Framley shrilly calculated,
beginning to comprehend the true situ-
alton of affairs. "Cecile Chetwynde at
Mrs. Fontaine's party last night! Base
girl! How dared you deceive me thus?
You have been Haunting in my dia-
nlonds! You have been systematically
acting false part! Wretch, viper!
will no longer have you in my house:"
Mr.. Disart looked from the infuriated
matron to the shrinking girl, in surprise
and Perplexity; but there were half
score of voices ready to enlighten him
on the matter.
Cecile buried her face in her hands.
IL meant no HARM" she faltered.
''It was only for once."'
"And you would have let this poor
child suffer for your fault?" Harold
Disart exclaimed, reproachfully. "Ol,,
Miss Chetwynde! how completely you
have blinded me up to this tine!"
And he turned away, in cold anger
and ill-concealed disgust.
At that instant the experienced old
physician whom the servants had SUM-
mohed glanced up from his examina-
ton.
."It will matter little to this girl" he
said, quietly, what the world may say
of her henceforth. She has gone to u
greater tribunal to plead her poor little
cause!"
He spoke truly.
Fanchon de Lisle was dead.
The burial certificate called it "heart
disease" and they buried her in a lonely
cemetery in a strange land, where no
tender hand could hang garlands on her
tombstone. But Cecile Chetwynde, al
belt she bears brave front before the
world, feels that she walks ever with the
crimson stain of murder on her slender
white hand!
And sometimes she wishes it were She
lying under the daisies where Fanchon
sleeps.-N. Y. Weekly.
One Truo Ghost Story.
This ic q fr,1o rhNcf o1o of ~, ,,,,oo,,