country town asleep. The waters ripple and plash, the forests moan, and the nightbirds wake the echoes of hills and vales, but the village is silent and stirless as death. Into this peaceful and unbroken silence came a wild cry of alarm, and those who were suddenly awakened sprang from their beds trembling with vague fear. Those who were first at their windows saw a lurid glare lighting up the windows of the Glebe, as if in terrible mockery of the gay illuminations of the previous evening, and two or three who lived nearest declared that they saw the figure of a man run up the long drive with the speed of the wind, dash through one of the flame-lighted windows, and disappear as if swallowed up by the devouring element. In the meantime, at the Globe a scene of wild alarm and confusion .prevailed. The back part of the house, containing the kitchen, pantries and storerooms, as well as the servants' apartments, was in the form of a wing, and built of wood; the rest of the structure was of stone. There was no communication between the upper portions of the wing and the main building, and none between the lower save by way of the dining-room. Dora was the first to awake, but though she tried to cry out, the suffocating smoke stifled the sound on her lips. She was weak, too, and a strange lassitude oppressed her like some impalpable weight. She made an effort to rouse Arthur, but it was some moments before either were sufficiently conscious of their terrible danger to make an effort to escape. With groping nerveless hands they drew on their clothing, and after several unsuccessful efforts, managed to throw open the door. The whole of the long hall and staircase was a crackling, seething mass of flames, and the heat was so intense that they involuntarily shrank back into their chamber. At that moment a faint shout came up from somewhere outside, and at the same time, also, fanned by the air, half a dozen pale tongues of flame shot up from the corners of the room, and the heat and the dull roaring revealed the terrible truth to them that the fire was eating up through the floor. "My God, Dora, we shall be roasted alive!" Arthur groaned, and staggering back, he fell heavily upon the burning floor, which crackled, and trembled, and bent beneath the sudden shock. "Dora! Dora! quick, in Heaven's name!" came in a sharp, fierce, pained voice from the burning hall; and Dora, with a strange sudden strength, rose up and staggered to the door. "O Mark!" she cried, faintly; and almost instantly something wet and cold was thrown over her from head to foot, and then she felt herself borne rapidly through a seething sea of fire, that hissed and crackled terrifically; then the blanket was thrown off, and a fresh breath of air revived her fading consciousness. "Arthur" she cried, in a voice sharp with agony, and grasping Mark's arm. “O, why did you not let me die with him, Mark ?" "Hush, Dora; I will save him, and your father, too. Speak quick-where is Mr. Montford ?" he said, glancing up at the roof, which had just broken into flames. "Father is at the end of the hall, in the last room. O Mark! you cannot save him. You will only die yourself in the attempt." "Dora," and he caught her suddenly to his breast, "I am willing to die to make you happy. You are a thousand times dearer to me than my own poor useless life. Kiss me, Dora, just once, darling!” The sudden passion and tenderness in his tone revealed his secret to her; but she kissed him, her lips trembling with the tumult of regretful pain and alarm in her heart. She saw him rush through the flames, then followed a moment or two of breathless suspense, and then, staggering beneath his burden, he came out through the solid wall of flame, and laid her unconscious husband at her feet; then her own brain grew giddy, and she was vaguely conscious that some one caught her up and bore her away, and after all was a long dead blank. By-and-by she was dimly conscious of sound, which grew gradually into voices, first faint and far away, then growing so distinct that she listened for the words. "The poor fellow's arm is broken again," said one of the voices, "and no wonder, bringing those two heavy men through the flames as he did. But he would go; people tried to stop him, especially the last time, when he went after Montford, for his arm hung at his side then as if it was broken." "Strange that he should risk his life in that way for people who wouldn't so much as touch his hand, isn't it? Particularly old Montford, who always seemed to owe him a grudge, and treated him as if he was the dirt under his feet." "And now he owes him his life. I tell you what," and he lowered his voice, "I'd sooner take Mark Murdock's chance in the day of judgment than Montford's, though some folks would be shocked at such an idea, I dare say." Dora rose up on her elbow and looked about her. A little at her left were three or four men, talking, who moved away when she moved. She looked toward the Glebe, and only a dark column of smouldering flame and smoke rose sluggishly from the great stone caldron, wherein the Sre still seethed and roared in impotent fury. She had just discovered that she was at the foot of the drive, and partly screened by a clump of junipers, when a woman put her arms about her, and steadied her to her feet. "Do you think you can walk now, Miss Dora? Your father and Mr. Blake were insensible, and were taken to Mrs. Braley's cottage immediately. There was so much excitement that I took you here myself in my arms, to get you where it was quieter." Dora saw now that the woman was Mary Greene, a poor Magdalen, whom all Sanborn looked upon with holy horror, because long ago, in the flush of her youth and beauty, she had erred and fallen in that way which is never forgiven-in a woman. "Please, Miss Dora, don't cry!" she begged, as Dora broke into a little passion of nervous tears; "there is nothing to cry for; they are both alive and safe, through one of His miracles. Please don't cry, dear! And all the time she was crying herself as if her heart would break! Leaning on Mary Greene's strong arm, which half carried her, Dora came, after a while, to Mrs. Braley's little cottage, around which were collected a group of friends and neighbors. One of them met them a few rods from the house. "I was just coming to look you up, Miss Dora," he said. Everybody called her "Miss Dora," yet; they hadn't learned the new title. "He wants to see you." "Arthur?" she asked, eagerly. "O, is he better?" And she almost broke away from Mary Greene's arms. "Mr. Blake is very comfortable, and so is your father," the man replied, gravely; "but I wasn't thinking of them; I meant Mark Murdock." "O yes, dear Mark! I must see and thank him first," she said, hastily. "Or you may not have a chance," he rejoined, soberly. She looked up in his face with startled eyes, and then, without speaking, followed him into the kitchen to Mark's side. "You are too late," some huskily. 66 one said, "O Mark-dear, dear Cousin Mark!" she cried, leaning over him, her tears falling like rain on the still white face. Suddenly, as if her voice and tears had power to call him back from the dead, he opened his eyes, and a smile of glorified content illumined his face. "My dear brave Mark!" she whispered, laying her wet cheek against his cold forehead, “you have given your life for mine!" "It is my wedding present to you, Dora. It isn't much, but it's all I had to give," he whispered, faintly; and with the last word the fluttering breath went out from poor Mark Murdock's lips forever. And so ended the new test of chivalry. A test harder to bear because of the temptation that must have risen at the last to let the man who had wronged and scorned him so bitterly die. If there was any other struggle at the first-when he first saw the peril, and knew it would make him a rich man if the whole Montford family perished -he bravely overcame it, and shamed with his heroic self-abnegation the storied knights whose chivalric deeds gleam like golden stars in the firmament of the centuries. LOOK OUT FOR SPURIOUS CANVASSERS. Several parties are canvassing in Illinois, and pretending to act as agents for BALLOU'S MAGAZINE. One scamp, named B. F. Turner, has received many subscriptions in the towns of Genesee and Moline, and failed to account for the same. A fellow is also operating in Pennsylvania, and has swindled hundreds of people out of much money. Now let our readers understand distinctly that we have no travelling agents, and that those who pretend to be in our employ are swindlers, who should be arrested and punished as they deserve. Let our friends send subscriptions direct to this office if they do not want to be deceived. BY THE SAD SEA WAVES. BY MAY CELESTE WADSWORTH. CHAPTER I. THEY were standing on the cliff, Cecil Villers and Ralph Lowenstein. A brisk breeze blew from the sea, wantonly caressing the bright golden locks of Cecil, and fanning a faint rose tint into the softlyrounded cheek. There was a fluttering of azure ribbons and dainty white dress-skirt, just a glimpse of tiny slippered feet and prettiest of ankles, which Ralph noted with a sensation indescribable. It was a June twilight. The fresh dewy air was redolent with a thousand entrancing perfumes; on the sky, the waves, and softly tinting the long line of white beach, a warm mellow glow lingered, "Filling more and more with crystal light, As pensive evening deepens into night." The dark dreamy eyes of the woman wandered afar over the wide-spreading ocean to the faint low line that marked the hori zon. The sea to her was an unknown region that stretched far away, wonderful and beautiful in its solemn mystery. She dreamed of distant lands, where the ships she so often watched were voyaging. She had read so much, and this man beside her had told her about them, that she longed to see and know them for herself. He, too, was lost in reverie, and his thoughts seemed pleasing, for, as he looked at her with glowing eyes and flushed cheeks, a gleam of satisfaction and assurauce crossed his face, and the soft smile curving his lips was hopeful. As it occurred to Cecil how absent she was, she started and lifted her eyes quickly to the darker face above her, half expecting to read a reproach there. The satisfied sinile, the ardent glance sent a richer crimson to her checks, and the long lashes drooped, veiling the bewilderment of the lustrous eyes. Ralph Lowenstein caught her hand and pressed it passionately to his lips. The monotonous murmuring of the sea chimed a low symphony to the rapid beating of their hearts. Cecil was nearly stifled with the emotion that swelled in her breast, so unprepared was she-so sudden was the passionate declaration that flowed unrestrained from his lips. When he had finished Cecil Cecil's brain reeled; it dawned upon her all at once how dear Ralph Lowenstein was to her, and the knowledge was very painful, very bitter to her aspiring heartRalph was poor! Her head lay upon his throbbing breast one delicious moment only. It was such a sweet pain to permit his loving embraces, and she loved him so! With a plaintive cry she tore herself away. She clasped her hands over her breast, her bright eyes wandered toward the north, and rested with one long full gaze upon Lowenstein Towers. Lonely and dismal enough the stately old mansion looked in the twilight gloom that surrounded it. A massive structure, supported on either side by a tower, whose solid masonry was nearly hidden by the ivy which clung to the stone work, standing darkly forth against the fading sky. To her Lowenstein Towers possessed all the attractions and romance of some ancient and grim castle; to be its proud mistress was the ambition that influenced her life. She dreamed of this in her waking hours by day, and in her sleep at night. Soon her dream was to be realized, for was she not the promised bride of Arch Lowenstein, Ralph's elder brother? Ralph's gaze followed hers instinctively, and his face became overcast. "Mine it is not," he said, as though in answer to her thoughts; "but you will be its only mistress, Cecil. Arch will never marry," reflectively. "Not mine, but Archie's yet it is home!" An arch smile, curved her lips, chilling and treacherous. "I will be its mistress in truth," she said; "I fear no rivalry. It may not seem so pleasant a home to you when I am Archie's bride!" She had said it now, and she dared one swift glance upwards in his face. It was full of wild bewilderment. He more than half divined the import of her words, yet he dared not credit it. He still clung to a straw of hope, trying to think he had not understood. His tones were half pleading, half fierce, as he demanded what she meant. Cecil felt a shrinking shame, and her face flushed crimson under the searching penetrating glance that seemed to read her very soul. 46 Only this, Ralph; what has this day passed between us must never be repeated. It must be blotted from our memory and our lives. O Ralph," she cried, covering her face in her excess of despair, "I am betrothed to your brother Archie!" A cloud dark and dreadful crossed his face, but his tones were calm and dispassionate. "Is this the truth, Cecil Villers? It shall never be! In faith, I think the sacrifice would be greater on my simple brother's part than yours. It would not be long before his watchful jealous eye detected his bride's duplicity, or the treacherous motives that influenced her to wed him. Fear not but that I will prevent such a marriage. Archie's happiness has been the study of my life; 1 care more for the peace of that simple tender heart than my own comfort. No, no, Cecil, you aspire too high! You must not forget what your position has been and is to his." Cecil raised her head proudly. "You will not have long to taunt me of my lowliness and obscurity!"' The day's last beam rested upon her shining amber hair. The disdainful curve of her red lips and the flashing defiant eyes made her appear both beautiful and repellant. He grasped both her slender snowy wrists like a vice. "I do not taunt you, Cecil. Good God! how was I ever so deceived in your nature? I fancied that you loved me as I loved you, and I would have been proud to have claimed you as my wife. We part now with bitterest hatred. You have hurt me more deeply in trifling with Archie's tenderest feelings than the harm you have worked to myself. Believing you worthy, all my brightest hopes were centred upon the fond dream of possessing you; but now! Cecil, hear me and believe me; Lowenstein Towers is forever out of your reach!"' His face was marked with determination. His delicate refined nostrils quivered with intense earnestness. He flung her hands from him disdainfully. Cecil raised her arched brows just a trifle, shrugged her beautifully-rounded shoulders, smiled a smile both cunning and incredulous, but vouchsafed no reply. The next moment she stood alone, the breeze still fluttering her light dress, the damp of the twilight falling heavily upon her. She clasped her hands to her brow, and bit her lips to restrain the one long wailing cry that rose to them. Had she been too premature in disclosing her relation with Arch? Had she really the vital influence over him that he had confessed? Might not the brother's, after all, prove the stronger? Great God, to be foiled at last! CHAPTER II. THE checkered light from the oriel window streamed forth upon the fluttering leaves of the sweet-brier that clambered up to the low gothic roof where the swallows loved to build. The garden roses spent their sweet perfume on the night air, asking and receiving naught but their lovely glowing life in return. Among them wandered Cecil Villers, a restless anxious spirit. The deep blue vault above was loaded with stars, and in the faint light only a dim shadow wandered to and fro. Within the cottage Cecil's mother was seated at a round table, upon which the light rested. She held an open book in her hand, and was calmly reading. Cecil's brain seemed on fire. She had sought the shelter of the dim garden to screen the workings of her unquiet soul. There was a hysterical rising in her throat; she longed to throw herself upon the dewy grass and weep. She felt a chilling despair creeping over her heart. Arch had promised her this night; but Arch had not come, though the hour was growing late, and the time sped faster and faster. What if she had placed an irretrievable barrier between herself and the man she loved, only to be foiled in reaching the prize she thought within her grasp! Should Ralph's impressive words prove prophetic, that Lowenstein Towers was forever beyond her reach! Ah, the thought drove her wild! She crossed the flagged way between the cottage and the garden gate, and, lifting the iron latch, walked down the road to a point where she could view Lowenstein Towers looming darkly; then hearing a footstep she hastened back, waiting breathlessly at the gate. A tall slender form slowly approached. She knew it well; it was Archie Lowenstein's, and mayhap he was coming to sever their engagementand O, to be scorned by him! Her heart throbbed painfully; she pressed her hand over it closely to still its wild pulsations. Arch drew nearer and paused before her, with is long slender hand resting upon the iron paling of the gate. "Arch" she whispered, very faintly. "I have frightened you; you are agitated, Cecil!" And he took her hands in his. "No, no! I did not recognize you at first. Why are you so late? I feared there was something amiss at the Towers." "You are interested so soon in what transpires at the Towers ?" He spoke in such a queer way, without answering her question concerning his delay. "Arch, do I not 1-" She did not finish her sentence, but covered her face with her hands; her slender frame trembled. Archie's tone changed to one of ineffable tenderness, and he drew her gently to him. Cecil, I was detained by my brother Ralph. He had a great deal to say to me. Is what he said true? I want the truth, Cecil; you must not deceive me." "What, O what?" cried she, in a voice of anxious dread, clasping her hands and looking beseechingly into his face. "That you despise me-you consent to become mine only for the position and wealth I can give to you!" he aspirated, his voice full of intense suffering. Cecil began to weep passionately, and he waited in wretched silence until she could recover herself sufficiently to speak. "O Arch, you have broken my heart! I see that you no longer love me, and wish our engagement at an end. It shall be as you wish we will say farewell forever," sobbed the artful girl. Archie's tender heart could not resist her tears; he nearly wept himself, and he implored her not to grieve so. "I have not changed, Cecil; it is you, I fear, who are not what you profess to be. O Cecil, I only want to know if you do care for me! I will ask for nothing but your love!" His voice was tremulous, and in the gloom Cecil did not see the tears that swelled to his great boyish blue eyes. "Some one has been trying to destroy mc. Ah, if you would but believe me! And her voice thrilled with pathos, as she raised her dark dewy eyes to his face. "Good God, I will believe anything!" cried Archie, seized with rapture. "Say it, O say it, Cecil!" She twined her soft arms around his neck, her heart beat against his, her white tear-stained face was upturned to his own. "I love you, O I love you!" She sacrificed truth and honor to gain her end. She never knew what it would cost until after it was said; then she felt her soul recoil. What would she not have given to have that lie unspoken! Forever, O forever, she must go on acting it! She had sold herself body and soul, and the price was Mammon. Already she felt the weight of remorseless chains, their icy fetters dragging her helpless spirit down-a wretched slave, forever denied the blessed boon of loving and being loved by one whom she could love. Arch Lowenstein was frantic with an excess of joy. He laughed wildly, hysterically straining her to him, and pressing burning kisses upon her unresisting lips. She thought, while her whole being shrank from his embraces, "Great God, I am his! I have sold myself to one whom I loathe and abhor. It is not only this night I shall suffer the agony of his odious caresses, but through life. O Ralph, unworthy though I may be of your priceless love, the sacrifice and wretchedness are all on my side (when I consent to become Archie's), and not his! He is perfectly contented and happy, fed by the sweet poison of an untruth." Cecil did not care to linger without, though the night was growing brighter, and Arch pleaded that they should remain in the sweet light a short time longer. Cecil could not repress a shudder, and complained of the damp night air. It was not damp, but Archie thought her chilly, and led her regretfully across the flagged way between the garden gate and half glass door leading into the small neat room, from which the light had shone forth. The room was vacant now, and Arch remained a few minutes later, clasping Cecil's cold hand in his, and speaking rapturously of their future. When he was gone, Cecil flew to her |