crat to drink tea with and make pleasant speeches to a poor proletarian than to fleece and oppress him-to work for the reform of poor girls rather than for their seduction. son of Randolph the great financier and railway man—Randolph, who began life as a peddler, or a tinker, or hodman, or something of the sort, but who managed to pick up a trifle of figures and other knowledge here and there Wilfrid Euston, then, was a philanthropic as he tramped his road, or mended his kettles, young aristocrat, and he made Colonel and or mounted his ladder, or followed his trade, Mrs. Shirley-and Alice, when he could-his whatever it was, and who, in the infancy of the confidants and co-operators. I do not know railway system, invented something or other, whether Charley Randolph felt much faith in people didn't very well know what, and like- all the schemes of benevolence. Perhaps he wise developed a financial genius, and so made stood too nearly affined to the working-classes to no end of money, and now sat in Parliament, care much about any projects which seemed to and held steadily aloof from bubble companies, savor, however faintly, of patronage. But he and "contractors' lines," and audacious proj- always subscribed handsomely, even when he ects of all kinds, and was a rich, respectable, frankly declared that the way to do the workand honest man, with grave, solid manners, noting-classes any real and permanent good was to much out of keeping with his whole surroundings. Charley Randolph, his son, was a fine, handsome, manly young fellow, with a ringing voice and a splendid beard. He had been at Oxford, and still read a good deal; and his father had sent him to travel not merely over Europe, but to the United States and Australia. He was a devoted follower of Alice's, and there could be little doubt that he was only waiting for an opportunity to propose to her. I shall not yet say what she thought of him. Let the course she afterward followed show that. He throw open full means of education, give them all their political rights, and then let them alone. Wilfrid Euston, of course, was in Parliament, but he was not much of a political reformer, and, while a great admirer of Mr. Bright's eloquence, was sincerely afraid that the great orator was a "demagogue." Wilfrid did not stop to inquire whether demagogues are not occasionally needed, and whether the demagogues of one day or age are not the patriots and heroes of another. Charley Randolph was in Parliament too, and not being much of a speaker, devoted himself principally to sitting behind Mr. Bright, and cheering for him when he spoke. Now these were the two principal competitors for Alice Shirley's hand. It so happened that each had confided to Colonel Shirley about the same time his intention to appeal to Alice herself on the subject, and each had received from Shirley and his wife the assurance that wherever Alice's choice pointed, their approval would follow. But the hopes of the Shirleys, husband and wife, were with Wilfrid Euston, and he knew it was so. Colonel and Mrs. Shirley leaned decidedly to the other admirer. To begin with, he was the son of a lord; and it takes an extraordinary Englishman, and yet more extraordinary Englishwoman, indeed, to be wholly indifferent to the allurement of a title. Then he was really an amiable and attractive young man, apart from his family recommendations. was the Honorable Wilfrid Euston, eldest son of Lord St. Pancras. He was a handsome young man, with delicate, aristocratic features, and gentle, graceful, winning ways. He was a young aristocrat of a type growing to be common in our days-the philanthropic nobleman. He took a deep and sincere interest in all schemes for prison reform, in ragged schools and Sunday-schools, in reformatories for children, in social tea-parties, meant to bring all classes into harmony, and where the workingman and the heir to an earldom were to drink tea together twice a month, and be very friendly, and where they were generally very awkward, both of them, and bored each other terribly. He got up reading classes and lectures; he took more trouble about the reforming of poor girls than one of his illustrious ancestors would have taken for the purpose even of ruining them. Much of this is a fashion, of course, and is the offspring merely of the condition of an age. Only a little difference of time and scene decides whether a young aristocrat with plenty of money shall be a Richelieu or a Wil- He was a tall man, rather past middle age. frid Euston. But without overglorifying our- He probably had been handsome and dashing selves on the virtue and beauty of our own age, once; but now his face was flushed and bloatwe may be allowed some little self-congratula-ed, there were deep wrinkles under his eyes, tion on the change of manners and morals which and his whole make-up suggested billiards and makes it more fashionable for a young aristo- brandy. That he was or had been in the army One morning, just at this time, Alice went into town in the carriage to get some music. As she was entering the shop, in Regent Street, a man who was lounging along the pavement saw her, and was apparently much struck by her appearance. He came to a full stop, stared at her, gazed into the window, exclaimed "By Jove!" and followed her into the shop. She was turning over some music. He, too, asked for some piece of music or other, and he glanced curiously and closely at Alice. She could not get what she wanted, and the clerk offered to send it to her address next day. But she said she would be coming into town herself that day, and would call for it. Then she went away, and the man contrived to get into conversation with the clerk, and to learn her name.. He seemed a little puzzled when he heard that her name was Miss Shirley. was evident to the most casual observation. | him to decide whether to treat with him by He wore a heavy mustache, waxed and dyed to horsewhip or through the medium of the police. conceal its grayness, and he was altogether an unpleasant and disreputable-looking personage. Next day he was pacing Regent Street an hour before the time at which he had seen Miss Shirley. He hung closely round the music shop. At last her carriage came; she got out, went into the shop, and came forth again. Then he approached her, standing between her and the carriage door. He took off his hat, and addressed her very ceremoniously. At first she took him for a beggar of a new kind, got up to imitate a broken-down gentleman. He said something, however, which made her start and color and look indignant. Then he spoke again, and she listened. The conference lasted but a few moments. He then gave her a card with an address written on it. She got into her carriage, rejecting angrily his proffered arm; and she flung herself back, and hid her face, as if the light were hateful to her. When she reached home and got out she was pale, but looked firm. She seemed to have grown older. Such a change appeared to have come over her as I always fancy must have come on Juliet from the moment when the nurse, in all sincerity, advised her to forget Romeo and marry Paris, and the girl knew that henceforward she must take counsel with herself alone. That evening she had a long, sad conference with Mrs. Shirley first, then with her and her husband together. The man who accosted her in the street had told her something of her mother's story-nobody could know the worst part of it better than he-but he refused to say whether she was alive or dead, except on conditions; and he left his address, in order that acceptance or refusal might be notified to him. In fact, he wanted to extort money, under pain of having a shameful scandal made public if the family should refuse his terms. All three, Alice, the Colonel, and Mrs. Shirley, were of one mind in resolving to make no conditions, and to take no further notice of the scoundrel. Colonel Shirley was already satisfied that Alice's mother was dead; and he was convinced that, for her own sake and that of her married life, Alice must take a resolute stand in the beginning, and defy exposure. He was going on to hint that, in the event of any suitor proposing for her, the truth had better all be told, when Mrs. Shirley quietly interrupted, and said, If the man should prove a mere professional extorter of money, then, of course, the police. If he retained any pretense whatever to the condition of a gentleman, why, then the horsewhip would be the proper mode of remonstrance. A day or two brought a visit from the Honorable Wilfrid Euston, for a purpose which he had already notified to Colonel Shirley, and for which, therefore, Alice was fully prepared. The Honorable Wilfrid approached his proposal somewhat diffidently and awkwardly, as most young Englishmen, however aristocratic their breeding, would do on such an occasion. When he was yet on the verge of the proposal, while it was yet unuttered, Alice stopped him with a gesture and an effort to speak. There were tears sparkling in her eyes, but she became mistress of herself. "Mr. Euston, before you say a word more I have something to say to you. May I tell you a painful secret ?" "Surely, Miss Shirley, if you wish me to know it." "I do wish you to know it, and to keep it." "You may rely at least on my keeping it. What you wish me to hear I will hear. What you ask me to keep to myself or to forget shall be kept secret and forgotten, if I can forget it.' His manner was naturally that of one surprised, and expecting to be pained. Not knowing or guessing what was to come, he conjectured, surely enough, that something was coming to destroy his hopes. "Mr. Euston, my name is not Shirley-that I always knew, and you too, perhaps. But I have learned only lately that my history is disgraceful; I do not mean that my parents were poor or humble-that would be no disgrace to them or to me. But I mean that there is shame upon us and scandal, and that any man who marries me marries a woman whose family story is one of shame. If you believe I exaggerate, Mr. Euston, I give you leave to speak to Colonel Shirley on the subject. But it would perhaps be more just to yourself, and more kind to me, to let our conversation stop here, and allude to this no more. Let us meet as we have always done hitherto. There is no reason why I should not be your friend." Wilfrid Euston felt like one suddenly pierced with a poisoned weapon. He really did love this girl as much as so calm and pure a young "I think, dear, we may safely leave Alice to philanthropist could love any woman; and he take her own course in that." Alice gave her a look of tearful thanks and confidence; and the girl was warmly embraced and kissed by both, and did her best to look reassured and happy. Colonel Shirley resolved to walk Regent Street a good deal for a few days, and look out for the personage Alice had described. He thought he should know him by her description, and that a few words of conversation would enable But her looked vainly into her face to see whether she was not, perhaps, merely trying his sincerity in some romantic, extravagant way. face only showed intense pain and humiliation and grief; and tears, which a feigned emotion never yet called up to make a triumph for a tragedienne, were stealing down her cheeks. For a moment Euston was impelled to put his arm round her waist, and say, tenderly, "Alice, do you love me? If you do, that is all I care for. Your birth, your parents, be they what they may, can not lower your value in my eyes!" He was near doing this for a moment; but, after all, he was an aristocrat before every thing, and he had thought he was making a generous sacrifice to his love in marrying the daughter of Colonel Shirley, who, however unblemished in birth and character, did not pretend to rank with the aristocracy. He tried, he really tried, to be headlong in his love, and to sacrifice all to it, and he could not. "Miss Shirley, I can not tell how deeply I regret and sympathize; and I hope you overrate the the painfulness of all this." ered her disgrace-but she refused to marry him. In vain he pleaded and begged, and even stormed, for Charley had a vehement nature; in vain he caught her in his arms, whether she would or no, and kissed her. She would not yield. But however he pressed her, she would not-and this was the only consolation he had to bear away with him-she would not say she did not love him; for she could not say it: she did love him. How does a despairing lover now demean himself in civilized life-in the life of London, or Paris, or New York, I mean? He can not creep into bushes, like the stricken deer; he can not go off and fight the Saracens; he can "No, no," she said, in tremulous tones; "it hardly even go unshaven. I fancy that no great is only too true." "I deeply regret-and I am sure there is no sphere you would not adorn-and I don't see why this should affect you, except that, of course, it must give you pain. And pray believe me, my dear Miss Shirley, that this secret, if it is really as you now believe, is safe in my hands." He was regaining his composure, and beginning to feel a gleam of satisfaction that he had not committed himself. They parted sadly, but on friendly terms, and he went away, shocked and grieved indeed, but thinking in the deepest depths of his mind that, after all, and since things were so, it was well that she was generous and disinterested enough to stop him before he had gone too far for decent withdrawal. So he went back, sadly but resolutely, to his philanthropy and his concerts for working-men. When he had left the room poor Alice said, with a scornful light flashing through her tears, "I knew how that would be. He has no heart! But I don't blame him. To marry me would disgrace any man." She had hardly time to go to her own room, dry her tears, and try to look composed and elegant again, when she was told that Charles Randolph had come to call on her, The name threw her into a fresh paroxysm of tears. She had gone down to see Wilfrid Euston with tolerable firmness; but she could hardly bring herself to meet Charley Randolph. Yet she constrained herself to go down, not before she had many times had to retreat again to dry fresh tears, and to study her looks and her efforts at composure in the glass. I shall not describe the interview with Charley Randolph. Enough to say that it was long and painful, and on his side passionate. Then he went down stairs with a flushed face, and he mounted his horse at the door, and galloped away so fast that his groom could hardly keep up with him, and an officious and astonished policeman seemed inclined to rush forward and stop the horse-but didn't, however. Alice had heard his proposal of marriage fully out, and then sadly, tearfully, positively declined it. She gave him no reason; she said nothing of her family, or what she consid change was seen in Charley Randolph's demeanor. Perhaps he was more silent than usual in the club-rooms or the smoking-room of the House of Commons of nights. Perhaps he smoked rather more fiercely than before, and fell into a grim reverie now and then, leaving his brandy-and-water untasted, and then suddenly looked up and emptied his glass at a draught. But there were no more remarkable demonstrations of a disturbed heart than these; and yet, in good truth, Charley suffered terribly, and would have welcomed an earthquake, or a war, or a general election, or any other dreadful perturbation of things which might have distracted him even for a short time from himself and his suffering. Charles Randolph eyed Wilfrid Euston somewhat savagely for a while as they met in the House, or at the club, fancying that perhaps he was the favored lover. But, besides that Euston did not look by any means radiant, Randolph felt that there was something in the tone and manner of Alice Shirley, when last he saw her, which told him that if he was rejected, it was not because any other was preferred. Meanwhile Alice was profoundly unhappy. Nothing that Colonel and Mrs. Shirley could do could rouse her from a state of the deepest despondency, and her unhappiness made them unhappy too. One night Charles Randolph left the House rather early. As he walked moodily down Westminster Hall he was accosted by a shabby, red-faced man, with a broken-down military air, who, taking off his hat with ostentatious politeness, said he believed he had the honor of addressing Mr. Randolph, and on receiving a somewhat brusque assent, craved for an interview of a few moments. Charley came to a stand to signify that the interview might take place then and there. "Mr. Randolph, I believe you are acquainted with Colonel Shirley and his family?" "I am. What then?" "May I ask if you are engaged to the lady called Miss Shirley?" "You may ask, but you certainly sha'n't be answered. What the devil is it to you?" "Nothing to me, but it may be a good deal to you. I am a gentleman, Sir, and I once had the honor to hold her Majesty's commission, and I can not see a gentleman and a man of honor like you deceived. Mr. Randolph, that young lady's name is not Shirley. She is the daughter of an actress who ran away from her husband!" Randolph was about to fling him aside, but he controlled himself with a strong effort, and asked, coolly, "Why do you tell this to me?" "Because it may be worth your while to make some arrangement, you know, in order that this mayn't be talked of. I am an honorable man, Mr. Randolph, and if we can come to terms, you may rely on my silence." "Why not apply to Colonel Shirley?" "Colonel Shirley" (and his bloated face darkened) "has not treated me like a gentle man. I expect better treatment from you." "How am I to know that what you tell me is true?" "Ask Colonel Shirley; he has always known it. Ask the young lady-Miss Alice-she knows it now for the first time. Perhaps you have not seen her since she heard of it, ten days ago, or I dare say she would have told you. This was said with a scarcely disguised sneer. Charley had heard enough now. He turned fiercely on the man. "If you were one shade less of a scoundrel," he said, "I would horsewhip you round Palace Yard there. As it is, if you ever dare to stop me or speak to me again, I will give you in charge to the police." The man attempted to stop him. Charley flung him aside, and strode out of the Hall. His heart swelled and throbbed wildly. "Dear, sweet, high-minded little girl!" he said to himself. "That is the reason she would not have me! I knew something strange and sudden had happened. I see it all! She knew it would make no difference to me, but she was too proud and sensitive, and she would not tell me. She does love me, though. I understand every thing now, and she shall have me." He jumped into a Hansom cab and drove to Colonel Shirley's. A quarter of an hour's talk with Shirley told him all. Then Colonel Shirley quietly went up stairs to the room where Alice and his wife were sitting, and by the aid of some plausible pretext or other brought his wife away. Alice sat alone in the dusk of the summer evening, thoughtful and sad. Every thing looked lonely, drear, and ghostly-in mournful keeping with the weariness and grief of her own heart. It was too much, and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly. Suddenly an arm was round her waist, a fig-| ure flung itself down beside her chair; and, starting up, she met the eyes of Charley Randolph. "My love, Alice," he whispered, "I know it all, and I love you ten thousand times better. You cruel girl, not to tell me; as if any thing on earth of that kind could make you less dear or precious to me! But I forgive you for not telling me; only I swear I will never leave this place until you pledge yourself to marry me!" She looked at him for a moment with streaming eyes. Then she only said, "Oh, Charley!" and laid her head upon his shoulder. They were married, and are very happy. The wretched man who had tried so vainly to make money out of the history of the dead woman, who was Alice's mother, disappeared very soon when he found he was playing a hopeless game. When Wilfrid Euston heard of the marriage of Charles Randolph and Alice a pang of jealousy, disappointment, and something like shame shot through him. But he got over it, and was as benevolent as ever, and reflected that, after all, such a marriage would hardly have suited him; and he was probably quite right. But it suited Charles Randolph admirably, and he is proud of his wife. They live at Sydenham now, and overlook the scene described in the opening of this story, with the gleaming Crystal Palace as an addition to the ornaments of the landscape. "A DEAD-HEADED. LL aboard!" shouted the conductor. "Have you got every thing?" asked a voice; and a girl's face appeared at the car window-a face with laughing eyes and pretty, wind-blown hair. "Take care, Lotty," said the older lady within; "don't put your head too close. I heard once of a woman's chin being carried clean off by just such a piece of carelessness." "Yes," chimed in another voice, manly and deep-chested, with a boyish squeak just discernible in it; "clean off, dimple and all! And the doctor, he made another chin out of gutta-percha; but the dimple was such a dead failure that-" "Oh, mercy!" screamed his aunt; "the hornets' nest! I knew something was missing. My hornets' nest, Henry-it is in the wagon. Run-run and fetch it; that's a dear boy! I can't go without it." Henry ran, while the group of girls on the platform exchanged smiles and winks, and, "a secret laughter tickling all their souls," volunteered advice of various sorts to their departing relative. "Are you sure that's the only thing left, Aunt Sue?" suggested Dora. "I don't see the biggest book any where." "Here it is," replied Aunt Sue, heaving up a substantial quarto. "I think I have every thing. Let me see," counting on her fingers: “Figuier,” Earthly Paradise,' umbrella, shawl, lunch-basket, moss-" "Big box, little box!" cried Fanny. "Where is that lovely bag? Oh, Aunt Sue, whatever else you lose, don't lose that!" "I have it safe," said her aunt, grimly; "but as for its loveliness-well, you know my opinion | hornets are there. If you do not credit my of it, girls, if you did give it to me. It is ex- word, you have only to look into that hole." tremely pretty, but a most absurd gimcrack for And he pointed with his finger at the great a sensible woman to carry about ;" raising from gray nest. her lap as she spoke a choice little article in crimson Russia, gilt-clasped and fur-trimmed, and exhibiting it to her nieces. "Oh, aunty!" clamored an indignant chorus; "how base, how horrid of you! So pretty, so strong, so convenient!" "And with a muff, too!" cried Lotty; "a muff to keep your ungrateful old hands warm. I really wonder at you, Aunt Sue." "Muff, indeed!" sniffed her aunt, undauntedly; "a blue silk aperture! As if I ever put my fingers in such a thing as that! No, girls, depend upon it, at my age gimcracks- Mercy, the cars are going! Where is Henry? Why don't he come?" In effect, the train began to move, though so slowly that it was easy for a walker to keep pace with its motion. The nieces ran along, exchanging last words with their aunt-saucy, merry words; for Aunt Sue was laughed at and teased and beloved by the gay bevy, quite as if she too had been a girl like themselves. "Well, that is lucky," cried Aunt Sue, cheerfully. "I was just wishing for an insect to examine in connection with the book. Thank you, Sir. You see he is quite dead," extracting the hornet with her pencil-point, and holding him up triumphantly. "Figuier was right." The old gentleman, with deep offense, rose and changed his seat for one at a distance. Little recked Aunt Sue, deep in the study of the hornets; nor did she look up until the conductor appeared, and it became necessary to produce the "through ticket," and have the first strip torn from its complicated foldings. "The river" reached, it became necessary to transfer her impedimenta to another car. Assistance was volunteered by a gentleman near by, and accepted almost as a matter of course. Good-looking and well-dressed maiden ladies traveling by themselves rarely lack this sort of offer, and our maiden lady was unusually good-looking. Tall, commanding, with bright black eyes, and cheeks whose roses At the last second a figure came leaping sound health and hygienic living rendered peralong the platform, and a large gray sphere ennial in bloom, with a thirst for facts, and a was thrust through a window-the wrong one, certain frank and kindly ease of manner, which as it happened-and into the face of an old gen-pleasantly suggested both Boston and Chicago, tleman, who shrank back aghast. "Hornets!" he ejaculated. "Ugh! ugh! take it away! What do you mean, young man ?" "I beg your pardon," said Henry, splitting with laughter. "I made a mistake. Here, aunty, here's your precious commodity." This time the object popped through the right pane, and landed in Aunt Sue's lap. The cars moved out of reach. "Good-by, good-by," resounded from behind. Aunt Sue waved her handkerchief, and then, quite regardless of the glare of offense directed at her spine, proceeded to tie her treasure to the netting above, and to make herself generally comfortable. 66 Aunt Sue wherever she went attracted notice, and a fair share of admiration; and, as she herself would have phrased it, "Providence always sent a man to carry her bundles." Providence was no less kind than usual on this occasion. Bag, umbrella, shawl, books, were safely transferred, and with a cordial smile of thanks she repointed her pencil, and prepared for a day after her own heart, for digesting "The Insect World" at leisure, noting her fellow-travelers and their peculiarities, and sweetening fact by an occasional sugar-plum from the latest poet. The entrance of conductor No. 2 disturbed her reverie. She felt for her purse, and jumped up aghast. Conductor, I have dropped my purse in the second car behind this-my purse, with all my tickets in it! Is there time to go back and 66 'There's the change at the river," she thought, "and then I can settle down for the day." And she proceeded to look out and mark certain pages in "Figuier," to point a pen-get it?" cil, and otherwise prepare for a course of entomological research as soon as circumstances permitted. By this time the old gentleman behind had recovered breath and power of re monstrance. "I suppose you are aware, madam," he said, touching her shoulder sharply, "that that nest is full of hornets in a dormant state, who are very likely very likely indeed-to come to life again in this heated air?" "Oh dear, no, that is quite a mistake," replied Aunt Sue, facing round upon him. "Figuier entirely contradicts that notion. He says-" "Madam, I do not know who Vigger may be, nor do I care what he says," interrupted the old gentleman. "All I say is that the "No, ma'am, there is not. That car switched off for Boston five minutes ago." "The purse was lying on my lap. It must have fallen when I rose to change cars. What can I do? Could I telegraph- But I haven't any money to pay for the telegraph." "No matter for that, ma'am," said the conductor, politely; "I'll telegraph, and the answer will reach you at Exeter. I'm afraid, though, somebody else will have picked the purse up before the conductor on the up train gets the message." "What did he say ?" inquired an old woman across the aisle, as the conductor moved on. "Was he ha'sh with you, or did he act clever ?" "The conductor ?" said Aunt Sue, in her grandest tone. "Most kind and courteous. |