CONRAD HEYDON'S GHOST.

WAS fifteen years old when there was called |
together a great family gathering of the
Catherwoods, at Wharton, where Grandmother
Catherwood had resided since Grandfather
Catherwood brought her home, a bride. It
was an immense house, built in the English
style, with long corridors, countless rooms, and
a boundless capacity for guests.

Upon the occasion of the above-mentioned gathering there was need of every bed and every room, for Mrs. Catherwood was to celebrate her one hundredth birthday, and upon the occasion had called together her descendants, comprising nine children, with their respective husbands and wives, seventeen grandchildren, and thirty-three great-grandchildren, of which later generation I, Elsie Catherwood, had the honor of being the eldest, also daughter of the eldest grandson, who was the VOL. XXXI., No. 3-12

eldest child of Grandmother Catherwood's first-born. I am painfully aware of the fact that I should have been a son, or followed after Claude, son of Claude, grandson and great-grandson of Claude, but I was not, much to the disgust of the seniors concerned.

You must perceive that to attempt to give any idea of the individuals of the assemblage at Wharton would be a task beyond my patience to write, and probably beyond yours to read. But I want you to single out of the group gathered in the wide drawing-room on the first evening, Aunt Meta, the youngest of Grandma Catherwood's children, and the only daughter unmarried.

There is one son, also single, Uncle Mark, and it is fully understood in the family that, although the old lady's great wealth will be divided amongst the children, Wharton itself, the homestead, will belong to these two for life.

Aunt Meta was fifty-five years old; but, to one who knew nothing of her age, she might have been mistaken for twenty years younger. It may have been the quiet, secluded life that gave her this youthful look, cut off as she was from the cares of the world, or any worry or anxiety outside of household management. Her face, a perfect oval, is as smooth and unwrinkled as that of a child, the soft fair hair unstreaked by white, and the tall, slender figure as erect and graceful as in her first bright youth.

To the younger members of the family Aunt Meta is the living personation of every gentle grace, kindly impulse, and

stately, slightly old-fashioned courtesy. In her presence the fastest of the city cousins became ned, and it would have been considered little short of sa o use slang, vulgarity, or rude language in any form l' it Meta. To her the children carried all their petty for arbitration, the eir love experiences; young people all the joys and sort * the widows, the mourning mothers, sent for Aunt Meta in their hours of deepest sorrow; the brides, the affianced couples, asked for her gentle sympathy in their first gladness.

The older ones, who knew her history, said her whole nature was changed, elevated and purified by the one fault of her life. In her youth she had been very beautiful, in a sparkling, brilliant style of beauty that made her the belle and boast of the country far and near. She had flirted and laughed through more than one courtship, where a bruised and mortified heart attested her power, but at last her own heart was taken captive by Conrad Heydon, one of the rising lawyers of his time-a handsome, dashing wooer, who courted stormily, and, it was asserted, fairly surprised the long-guarded garrison of Meta Catherwood's heart.

Certain it is that he tried to rule the proud, wayward nature with lordly sway, and many were the quarrels, fierce and loud, ending in a few days of separation, and a reconciliation as gusty as the rupture.

While the engagement was still young, another suitor appeared on the scene-a wealthy man, older by some ten years than Conrad, and one whose riches were almost a proverb. He yielded at once to Meta's charms, and placed his hand and fortune before her, although he knew of her betrothal.

Just at this point of the sad story there is a difference amongst the family authorities and narrators. Some of these incline to the belief that Meta, not knowing her own heart, intended to desert Conrad, and bestow her hand upon the wealthier suitor. Others maintain that the mere wayward spirit of coquetry possessed the girl, and she only meant to torture and tease her lover.

All agree, however, that she certainly gave her new wooer far more encouragement, and many more smiles, than was consistent with the dignity of a betrothed maiden, playing off one suitor against the other with the arts of a finished coquette. To a man of Conrad Heydon's fierce, stormy, ungovernable nature, it was a matter of simple impossibility to submit passively to this exasperating state of affairs, and it was soon evident to lookers-on that a crisis was approaching.

calling upon Conrad to return and forgive her to take the burden of her sin from her conscience. Her life was long despaired of, and when her physical strength seemed returning, fears were entertained that her reason was permanently impaired.

Time, however, the great restorer, gave to the young girl her health and her rationality; but there had fled forever the pride, the caprices, the wayward temper and strong will, that had made her indirectly the cause of death. A pale, subdued, mourning woman moved sadly about the old house, till, as years rolled away, the sorrowing soul learned to crush down its own weight of misery, and live for others. In the large family, and with Grandmother Catherwoood always to be cared for, there were plenty of calls upon the only maiden aunt and sister.

When we entered the drawing-room on the evening of the day before the birthday, we found a merry party ready for a week of perfect enjoyment. Grave men forgot their business cares, mothers put aside domestic tribulations, and everybody entered heartily into the spirit of the great occasion.

Aunt Meta, in soft gray tissue-for it was June weatherwith white lace at throat and wrists, and her own glossy fair hair knotted in a thick coil at the back of her small, shapely head, was portioning out rooms for the noisy, chattering crowd. So many girl-cousins here, so many boys there, aunts and uncles disposed of in the best rooms, sisters and brothers scattered everywhere through the many apartments, babies disposed of in couples and trios.

"Elsie rooms with me!" I heard Aunt Meta say as I entered. "You always take Elsie," pouted one cousin. Partiality," said another.

แ

"Hush! she is here," whispered a third; and I was wrappe1 in Aunt Meta's cordial embrace. I knew in the depths of my sensitive heart why I was always taken into Aunt Meta's room, next that of Grandmother Catherwood herself, why she favored me and petted me. It was because of all that healthy, happy family, I am the only blot. A fall from my nurse's arms in infancy had injured my spine, and I am hunchbacked.

In those days nothing but blood could wipe out the last insult, and one morning there was a duel fought in an open space upon the estate of Conrad Heydon. One combatant was fatally wounded, and the other, hurried away by his seconds, fled for his life across the ocean, far from home, sweetheart, and country.

The bleeding, dying man was carried into the house his rival had lived in from birth, and there firmly refused to make any statement to inculpate his opponent.

three gold dollars represented the last generation. "The bouquet will have emblematic flowers, Elsie, full-grown blossoms, and opening buds-just one hundred in all-a flower for every year of my dear mother's life. A long life, Elsie; a long, long life!"

She sighed, as if it wearied her to think her own might be so prolonged.

While she was busied in putting the gold into its place in the cake, before locking it up, I sauntered over to the window of the large pantry, and looked out. We were on the lower floor,

The servants who gave testimony swore that the shots were so simultaneous that they all thought but one was fired, and after a desultory investigation the affair was allowed to die away as a nine days' wonder, no steps being taken to pursue or arrest the fugitive.

Yet after that day Conrad Heydon was seen no more. His father watched and waited many long years, then died, and the fine estate was deserted and neglected, no heir appearing, and the claims of more remote kindred only resulting in endless litigation.

The office and clients in the city missed the step and voice of the talented young lawyer, and the paths of Wharton echoed no longer the sound of his wooing or his anger.

Far away, hiding for his life, with the stain of blood upon his soul, the lover of Meta Catherwood passed from his old life forever. Tidings of his death in England finally extinguished all prospect of his return.

a view of the front garden and the avenue of elms leading to the road.

To our right, and just in sight, was the deserted Heydon estate, that no heir had yet inhabited, and that was rapidly falling into decay.

The soft twilight of a June evening was over everything, for dinner had been delayed till after the arrival of the last train from Boston, that passed within half a mile of Wharton. I was idly dreaming, when I saw a man coming slowly toward the house, dodging behind the trees, and peeping round them, as if anxious to avoid observation. He was shabbily dressed, and looked like a tramp or beggar.

I was about to warn Aunt Meta to hide the gold, when I beard her step behind me, and in a moment her hand was on my shoulder. At that instant the man leaned forward, bringing a pale face, with large dark eyes and haggard features, full in the bar of light streaming from the window.

I heard a faint moan, felt the little hand slide from m

sible, at my feet. Thinking she was terrified at the idea of a robber, I cried out for Martha, her own servant, who came running from the kitchen in great haste.

"Laws bless me !" she cried, "she is just worn out with work, directing the servants, and getting ready for so many people. Get some wine, Miss Elsie! There, she is coming round!" And the color was returning to the white lips, while the soft blue eyes opened slowly and wearily, as if, indeed, the active housekeeper was worn out, as Martha said. We made her drink some wine, and when she was better, Martha assisted her to her own room.

"Now just lie still," she said, tenderly, "till the bell rings. I'll see to everything; and Miss Elsie will help dress her grandma."

I assented, and Martha bustled away. As soon as the door closed after her stout figure, Aunt Meta sat up, and, clutching my hand, whispered:

"Elsie, I am going to die! Conrad has come for me! He looked in my face when we stood at the window-Conrad, whose death was reported in an English paper nearly twenty years ago."

"It could not have been he!" I cried. '

་

"It was his spirit, white and fixed! He has come for me." The idea, so far from terrifying or shocking her, seemed to give her some deep, peaceful happiness. The softest smile was on her lips, the most radiant light in her eyes, that I had ever seen there.

"You will not repeat this," she said to me. "I do not want to sadden them. But when all the rest go home, will you stay here?"

I promised readily, and without further conversation, Aunt Meta went to her mother's room, and allowed me to dress the snowy hair, and arrange the white lace cap, while she dressed our grandmother in the black silk, white kerchief, and white shawl she had worn for so many long years.

In spite of her great age, Grandmother Catherwood's eyes were as keen and sparkling as in youth, her figure as straight, and her mind as clear. She listened while we told her of the houseful waiting her welcome, asking for each one with strong interest. Some of the younger ones were strangers yet, for the invitations had traveled far to greet some of the large family. "It is the last time I shall see them all," she said; "but they shall all remember to-morrow."

The week passed merrily. Aunt Meta seemed to have forgotten the supposed summons, and was the presiding genius of everything. It was from her hand each one of the guests received the gift they were to cherish as a memento of the occasion, from the tiny finger-rings for the toddling babies to the snowy locks of hair in golden lockets given to the older ones. Every gift was of gold, and on each was engraved the date of the birthday.

It was Aunt Meta who arranged croquet parties, made up impromptu pícnics, pasted kites for the boys, dressed dolls for the girls, arranged impromptu charades, dressed characters for tableaux, played waltzes, quadrilles, and country dances, was the referee for all disputes, the head of all pleasures.

She never spoke to me, even in the night hours, when we were alone, of the spirit she had seen; but I knew that, despite the fatigue she must have felt, she spent long, sleepless hours in that week of boisterous merriment.

They were all gone at last, leaving me for the only guest. Uncle Mark returned to his farming, for Wharton cattle and Wharton vegetables, and fruit, were famous through the whole county,

Grandmother knitted little squares for counterpanes that were the wonder of the rising generations, or dozed away the long Summer afternoons in her easy-chair.

I wandered from library to music-room, or took long, lonely walks, while Aunt Meta drooped into a strange listless indolence, very new to her busy, active life.

Uncle Mark, noticing her pale face and languid step, Aunt Meta said she was tired after her busy week, and felt the increasing heat.

I wondered if she was still thinking of Conrad Heydon's ghost.

A few steps led us to an opening amongst the trees-a spot where the grass was long and rank, but where there were no flowers or shrubbery.

Aunt Meta was trembling so violently that I feared she would fall; and spreading my shawl over a large flat stone, I made her sit down. She did not speak, looking mournfully at the spot so fatal to her happiness, till suddenly she grasped my arm, and gave a low, shivering cry, which I echoed; for, standing in the inclosure, facing us, was the man I had seen peeping in at the pantry window on the night of my arrival at Wharton. He wore no hat, and his hair fell in long, rough locks on each side of his pallid, haggard face.

"Conrad's ghost again," whispered Aunt Meta. And stretching out her arms, she cried, in yearning, piteous tones, "Conrad! Conrad !"

Instead of vanishing into thin air, as it was the proper business of a spirit to do, the man turned his face slowly toward Aunt Meta, and then, with one headlong rush, he sprang forward, and was fairly groveling at her feet.

"Meta! Meta!" he sobbed, kissing her dress, her hands, and even her feet.

For a moment she grew so ghostly pale that I feared the sudden shock had taken life itself; but she rallied, and bent low over the kneeling, crouching figure.

"Conrad, is it indeed you?" she said.

He raised his face to hers, and then burst upon us both the appalling truth that the mind was gone. The large eyes looked into hers, and a smile was upon the pale lips, but he would only murmur:

"Meta! Meta !" with such thrilling sadness, and yet such tender love in every tone, that the tears rolled down my cheeks, even to hear him.

"Go for your Uncle Mark!" Meta whispered to me. "Are you not afraid?"

"Afraid of Conrad? Oh, no!" she said, and I hastened away.

Uncle Mark's amazement vented itself in a long whistle as I finished my recital.

"Conrad Heydon! Foolish, you say?'' "Certainly not sane," I answered.

"Show the way, Elsie. Dear, dear! to think of Conrad Heydon coming home! It is thirty-five years, Elsie-bless me! it is thirty-five years this very day, since Conrad Heydon fled from home and country."

We were not long traversing the space between Wharton and the spot where I had left Aunt Meta.

When we emerged from the grove into the open space, Conrad Heydon was lying upon the ground, and Aunt Meta was kneeling beside him, looking into his white, still face. "Hush," she said, softly, as we drew near them. "He is asleep!"

But Uncle Mark bent over his sister, and lifted her very gently into his strong arms. Too plainly was the seal of death set upon the features of the wanderer.

"Meta," Uncle Mark said, sadly and tenderly, "he will not awake again. Come home, sister, and I will see that Conrad follows."

She knelt again and softly kissed the dead face, whispering the name of her lover in tenderest accents. Then she allowed her brother to lead her home, I following, weeping over the piteous ending of the bitter, tragic love-story.

Grandmother Catherwood gave willing consent to the funeral from Wharton, and Conrad Heydon lies in the churchyard

量

great work was "Apollo Crowning Himself with Laurel." Then "Theseus Vanquishing the Minotaur."

came

His works are too numerous to permit our recapitulating them. Among his later ones is a Washington of colossal size, in a sitting attitude, now in the State House, Raleigh, N. C.

We give a picture of one of his lighter works, "Hebe;" it is considered one of the best of his minor productions.

His famous statue of Napoleon, done expressly for the great conqueror, is now in Apsley House, London, the residence of the Duke of Wellington.

THE NEW SONG.

where Meta can deck his grave with flowers, and steal alone to weep and pray.

There was close and tedious investigation made, but no light was ever thrown upon those long years of wandering, nor the fatality that led the fugitive home to die upon the scene of his crime, at the feet of the woman he loved.

Grandmother Catherwood saw no more birthdays. Quietly and peacefully she gave up her spirit to her Maker in the early Spring of another year.

Uncle Mark and Aunt Meta still live at Wharton, and I am a

frequent guest, my deformity leading me to love the seclusion and quiet of the stately home.

There are many love-stories in the large family, some happy, some merry, some sad, but there is none that awakens so keen an interest, so vivid a regret in all our hearts, as the tale of Aunt Meta's love and Conrad Heydon's Ghost.

THE NEW SONG.

EVERY girl who is fond of music well knows the delight she feels at every new song, more especially when it is something about the tender passion. We often receive letters from our fair young friends, thanking us for the beautiful ballads which appear from time to time in Frank Leslie's Lady's Journal. It is a moot point between them whose songs they like best, their opinions being divided between Thomas and Maeder. Our picture on this page represents a lover presenting a new song to

his fiancée.

ANTONIO CANOVA.

THIS great Italian sculptor was born November 1, 1757, at Possagno, in the province of Treviso, and died in Venice, October 22, 1822. His remarkable precocity amazed his friends, for in 1774 he produced his "Orpheus and Eurydice," which gave evidence of undoubted genius. To this beautiful work succeeded his "Dædalus and Icarus," which induced the Venetian Government to settle on him a pension of one hundred dollars for three years, that he might pursue his studies in Rome. His next

LOVE OR MONEY.

THERE were three Miss Gillets, spinsters, who lived with their Uncle Gillet, a bachelor, in their old house at Atwater; and in pointing them out to strangers, the Atwaterites were accustomed to remark upon the fact that it was love or money with them, and that a Miss Gillet who married would cease to be her uncle's heiress.

Nobody knew how much Mr. Gillet was "worth," but that he was uncommonly wealthy was certain. He had no other living relations but these three girls; and his peculiar prejudices rendered it unlikely that he would will his wealth away to any benevolent or public institution whatever. So to whom could he leave the gold that he could not take out of the world with him, unless it was to Georgina, Millicent, and Dolly Gillet.

All regularly instituted public charities Mr. Gillet declared were "frauds"; and friends he had none. Averred that friendship was all humbug. As for marriage, it was, in his opinion, something which all sensible people eschewed.

The fact that in his earliest youth a dear friend had stolen from him the affections of the girl to whom he was betrothed, was at the bottom of all this. He trusted no one, because the two beings he had once loved and trusted utterly, had deceived him.

When his brother and his wife died in one week of a fever, the bachelor uncle had done his best for the young people. He managed their little income, and provided luxuries for them which their means would not have allowed. He educated them, and allowed them a few female friends. But as they grew up, one law was maintained with inviolable rigidity. There was to be no courting and no marrying beneath his roof. Beaux were utterly forbidden; and it was understood in the family that a

Miss Gillet who married would be blotted from her uncle's will.

"What infatuation! They'll fight like cats and dogs in a year," he would exclaim when wedding-cards were sent to him. "Take warning by this poor couple, who don't know what is before them, girls. Oh, what infatuation!"'

And Miss Georgina Gillet would shake her head, and her younger sisters would follow her example, and they would cry in chorus, "What infatuation!"

They were pretty girls, tall, slender, red-cheeked, and bluseyed; little ears like pearl, little mouths like coral, dainty waists, and cunning hands-girls to be loved and married by nature; but there was Uncle Gillet's money. So they grew up and grew older, still single, and not one of them had a thought of marriage in all her life.

There was Oliver Robb, who had followed Georgina about to and from church for a year. I don't think he wanted the heiress; I believe he loved the girl; but what use was it? Georgie had given him a glance or two, and he had found favor in her sight; but he had only a clerk's salary, and it would be so delightful to handle thousands of her own. And Millicent had met Rufus King in the apple orchard once cr twice; but Dolly had never had even a passing flirtation-Dolly, who was now eighteen, and prettiest of the three.

It was a well understood matter in the village, as well as in the family, that marrying a Miss Gillet lost her inheritance. Doctor Rush (a handsome young medical man) had heard it, and believed it to be true, when Uncle Gillet, having a touch of rheumatism, sent for him to prescribe. He had always thought the three slender girls, with ripe, round cheeks, dappled with peach-color, the prettiest things he had ever seen; but when he stood face to face with Dolly, he fell in love with

her. He looked after her as she went out of the room, and Uncle Gillet looked at him sharply.

"My niece is a pretty girl," he said. "I see you think so. She's a sensible girl, too. They are all sensible girls; they prefer a single life and pecuniary independence to the miseries of marriage."

"By your advice, I believe, sir," observed the doctor.

Georgina and Milly screamed in chorus. "We don't care for losing the money," said Dolly.

Money

is nothing compared with love; but we want to be friends here at home. As for things left in wills, it's a miserable sort of hope. I'm glad I sha'n't have any. If you'll only not be angry, and coine to see us, and let us come to see you, that's all we hope. He's perfectly splendid, dear Richard Rush is. I

"But are you not rather hard, sir?" said the doctor. "A beautiful girl like that—"

"Hard?" cried Uncle Gillet. "What's love worth? It fades in a week, and is stone-dead in a year. What do men give their wives but deceit and neglect? Either the wife deceives the husband, or the husband the wife. Better never to love than to see love die. Dolly's a dear little girl. I hope she'll never fling herself into any one's arms, to be dropped when the sweetness has been kissed out. That's a wife's destiny. If she ever does, no money of mine ever goes into the brute's pockets." "All the fault is on the man's side?" asked the doctor. "It's a miserable muddle altogether, this marriage," said Uncle Gillet; "don't talk about it any more."

Doctor Rush did not, at that time; but about dusk next evening, Dolly, crossing the bridge just out of Atwater, paused to look down into the water; and then and there some one came behind her and said, "Miss Gillet!"

She turned with a start. It was Doctor Rush.

"It is growing so late that I mean to see you home," he said. "I have just left the good uncle; he is better. He will be well in a day or two. He has a strong constitution, and is a man to live to a hundred years old."

"Your uncle is fifty," said the doctor. "You'll probably be sixty-seven when he takes his departure."

"My goodness!" cried Dolly; " how terribly old!"

"You don't really mean to live single all that time?" asked Doctor Rush.

"Of course I do," said Dolly, as innocently as possible.

"I don't mean to let you," said the doctor. "I'm in love with you. If mortal love has any power, I'm going to call you my wife. Confound the money! I'll give you all you can need, and I'll try to give you all you want. Of course you don't care for me; but I'll make you. Do you want me to swear it?"

66

'Oh, mercy! no," said Dolly. "You are very nice, and I'm sure-but I don't. I can't ever. Oh, goodness! don't talk so." "You can't ever like me?" asked the doctor, insinuatingly. "No, I don't mean that," said Dolly. "I can't ever marry.' "But you'll take a walk over the bridge to-morrow," said the doctor.

"Well, perhaps so," said Dolly.

And so she did. She took a great many; and at last, one day, Doctor Rush was allowed to slip a ring upon her finger, and to kiss her hand.

"I shan't have a penny," said Dolly. "You are sure you don't mind?"

"All the pennies we want I can carn myself," said the doctor.

"And uncle will le so angry!" said Dolly, demurely. "But I am so glad!" said Doctor Rush. " And you must tell the truth at once, and marry me in a month. Promise, Dolly." Dolly promised.

Georgina and Milly sat at work together that evening while Uncle Gillet read to them. Dolly was not sewing. She held the work, it is true, but her hand never moved toward the needle. She did not hear a word that was uttered; but when at last there came a pause, she dropped the muslin and started to her feet.

"If you please, uncle," she said, "there's something I must tell. I can't keep it secret any longer. It isn't a bad thingit's a good thing; only I knew you'd be angry. I'm going to marry Doctor Rush.

married this day month, no matter what anybody says." "You are, eh?" said Uncle Gillet.