Year: 1878

a TERRIBLE MISTAKE.


Dora Guild was the daughter of an Indian
general who died, covered with fame, and
left her alone AMI literally fnendless in
Bombay, where he breathed bIs last.


His dying words were: go home my
poor girl, to your Aunt Arlingford at Elms-
ley, near London, and stay with her until
you are married to Walter"


For General Guild and Colonel Cray had
been friends together and comrades in many
a battle, and had long ago afianced their
motherless children to one another, the
wedding to take place as soon as the young
man had attained his majority.


So here was the orphan girl nearing the
end of her long journey, and gazing wistful
lv at the strange and unfamiliar land of her
BIRTH


There was one clause in her dead fathers
will which had recurred to Dora's mind with
ever present pain ever since she had first
heard it; and that was, should she, upon
making the acquaintance of Walter Cray,
refuse 10 marry him, the bulk OF her fortune
should be passed over to her cousin, Penelope
Arlingford.


That her dear father should think it neces-
sary to coerce her into compliance had
wrung from her many a tear Wholly un
verSed in the strong minded ways of some
English maidens, she had never dreamed of
disObeying him, or of choosing a mate for
herself


The journey was over at last.


Miss GUILD found herself in a quiet coun.
try house, surrounded by the most fervent
assurances of welcome from her sole, surviv-
ing relatives who, of course, knew all about
her affairs, and treated her with the most
delicate consideration.


Mr.. Arlingford was bluff and hearty gen.
tleman farmer; Mrs. Arlingford a reserved
lady, who, however, seemed kindness itself;
while Penelope. the only daughter and
Dora's possible rival for the fortune, was
gentle-faced, chestnut-haired girl of twenty,
who greeted Dora by winding her arms
around her and laying her cheek to hers
without word


In the course of the evening of Miss
Guilds arrival, while she was giving her
aunt some account OF her voyage from India,
she observed her cousin Penelope standing
out on the lawn, talking earnestly with a
gentleman.


Ii was a brilliant night in midsummer;
the moon, white and searching as a great
limelight, shone on the pair, and showed
Miss Arington's companion to be not only
young and handsome, but also lover.


His hand held hers, and his stately head
was often bent in unmistlkable alteration
close 10 her tresses. while she leaned towards
him in all the loving confidence OF a re-
turned affection.


Very soon they entered the parlor, and
Walter Cray was directly presented to Miss
Guild.


And he the lover of Penelope!


Dsmay CONSERVATION, fell upon the heart
of the orphan. There could be no mistake
every LOOK, every action of the two betrayed
it.


She was affianced to man who loved an.
other.


The cold ouch of his hand on hers, the
distant salutatiOn, as if she were the merest
stranger, proclaimed that he was resolved to
ignore the contract which was between
them.


Dora shrank into the nearest corner of the
room. and bitter disappointment filled her
soul.


Very soon, however, the conversation 60
ing on round the table arrested her atten
ton. Walter Cray was telling Mr.. Arlingford
and Penelope an account of a strange muir
der which had lately occurred.


The man, said he, was rather clever
chemist, and accomplished his purpose in
manner savoring more of the exploits OF the
Arabian Nights epoch than those of our
day. He got possession of her journal. and
impregnated It's leaves with sort of volatile
poison, which she. OF course, inhaled the
first time she made record in the book, the
result being mysterious death which no
one could account FOL"


The eyes OF Penelope Arlingford were
fixed upon the narrator with pulsatiDg
eagerness which arrested the attention OF
the orphan.


What could it have beeng' she almost
whispered


Don't believe it," remarked Mr.. Airing
ford, sententiously.


The lovers were gazing at each other, and
there was half smile on the features of each.


Soon after this, Bora being considered
weary after her railway journey, was con-
Quoted to her bed chamber by her cousin,
who, again embracing her in a mute, cling
ing fashion, hoped she would rest well, and
left her.


Not one word had been said about her
betrothal to the young man in the parlor.
Her claims had been wholly ignored. Her
cousin was likely not only to rob her of her
inheritance, but of her husband also.


The young girl retired to bed with feel
ing of desolation at her heart which may be
easily imagined, and fell asleep weeping
bitterly for the old, happy Indian life, when
she was the idol of her father, and.the dar-
ling of her ayah.


She awoke-or rather, she struggled back
to consciOusness-with these words running
through her mind-"the result being mys
terious death, which no one could account
for"


1t was dissgreeable remark to occur TO
one in the middle of the night and it reused
her to preternatural wakefulness-
She began 10 ponder over the events of the
past evening, when suddenly something
struck her ear which sent all the blood ting
| ling to her heart


robe over the thick carpet which covered
the floor. and the cautious rustling of paper.
The one sound followed the other with the
slow and regular monotopy of a machine.
| The night was at its darkest and the head
| OF the bed was in an alcove, so that view of