THE BANK ROBBER. By HERO STRONG.

I think it was some time in July that she came to Locust Cottage.

It was a house that most ladies would have feared to live in, for its situation was lonely and secluded, and its reputation bad as possible. Some one was murdered there several years before, and such a circumstance is enough to blast the character of any house in the country. In the city they are used to such things, and do not mind them.

Mrs. Leroy did not take a lease of Locust Cottage without knowing what was just said of it. She heard old Granny Coe’s story of the “death lights” that danced past the windows on stormy nights, and listened, with tolerable patience to Peter Jones’ narrative of the immense black dog that had howled at him one night when he was passing the house. Peter was a brave fellow, according to his own estimate, and he averred that he went to the fence and got a stake to make “daylight shine through the sassy cur,” but when he struck at him the dog was not there. There was nothing left to mark the spot where he had stood and growled, except a speck of fire about as big as a dollar; and even that faded away as Peter gazed upon it, and left just nothing at all.

Then there was another story of a fair young girl, with long, flaxen hair, wreathed with water lilies; and this girl sat on the moldy piazza, of wet nights, and sang plaintive airs to an old broken-stringed lute, which, according to all descriptions, must have seen its best days long before.

In a country neighborhood, no one ever forgets anything, and so when the report transpired that Locust Cottage was haunted, every old crone in the vicinity would remember some occurrence which made it very reasonable that it should be haunted.

Captain Fox owned the cottage, and the captain was an extremely conscientious man. In fact, his conscience was a great trouble to him, for he was exceedingly fond of getting the best end of a bargain always, and it seems very unfortunate for such a man to have a conscience. Covetousness and conscientiousness never work well together. They go a great deal better in single harness.

The captain informed Mrs. Leroy that the cottage had the reputation of being inhabited by spirits, and this satisfied his conscientiousness. Then he told her that the people who said so were all irresponsible parties, and that satisfied his covetousness. Mrs. Leroy said it was quite immaterial to her about the spirits. She was not timid about dead people, and forthwith engaged the place.

Locust Cottage was very beautifully located, though it was fully half a mile from any other dwelling. There were locust trees in front, and at the rear of the house quite an extensive pond, where water lilies grew in abundance.

I remember of hearing the ladies of our family speaking about the new arrival, and I concluded that as they did not say anything against her she was some ugly old crone, who wanted to get away by herself and hire a house cheap. It is only young and pretty women who are slandered by their own sex.

I was busy in the village for seven hours of the day, but I went home to tea, and occasionally some lady caller of my mother’s would remark on the pertinacity with which Mrs. Leroy kept herself secluded; but further than that I knew and heard nothing. Neither did I care, for I had never been a lady’s man, and at thirty-eight I was not likely to get up much of an interest for one I had never seen.

I was cashier of the Southbridge Bank, and, as ours was a manufacturing town, our institution did a very flourishing business, and kept one stirring most of the time.

It was a hot day in August, and i sat down for a moment, with a new number of a favorite magazine in my hand. It was so hot, and so near noon, that no one would be in until after dinner, I thought, and i should get a chance to read that article on South America of which there was so much said.

Scarcely, however, had I cut the first leaf before the door opened and a lady entered. As it was a lady, of course I could not do otherwise than bow, and be very polite to her.

She wanted a check cashed. I looked it over. It was New Orleans paper, and made payable to Eudora Leroy, or order.

Ah, thought I, looking at my fair visitor, so the old lady has a pretty daughter; and then I wondered that no one had ever spoken of her.

The face that gleamed on me through the black lace veil was a very beautiful face, though masked somewhat by lines of care or sorrow. Perhaps the old lady was tyrannical.

“Have you an order for the payment of a draft?” I asked.

“None is needed,” she replied quietly. “I will indorse it.” And, taking up a pen, she wrote the name on the back, in a free, graceful hand, Eudora Leroy.

“Then you are Mrs. Leroy?” I said, in some surprise.

“Yes, sir.”

I took a good look at her. She was a brunette, and I have always fancied that style of woman. Some way, they look as if they would wash and wear better than the light style.

Her hair and eyes were very dark; the hair combed loosely, but in these days, when every woman’s hair curls, it is not worth while to mention that fact, I suppose. She had some color, and her expression was sweet in the extreme.

The hand which she had ungloved to indorse the draft was white and shapely, not a hand unused to labor, by any means.

Her age was seven or eight and twenty, I judged; possibly she might be thirty. Faces like hers do not show their age.

After that I saw Mrs. Leroy quite frequently. She came to the bank about once a fortnight, and always on business of this kind. I mean with a check to be cashed. She evidently had plenty of money, so my supposition that she had taken Locust Cottage because the rent was low could not be correct.

Sometimes she would stop a moment in the bank and answer my remarks about the weather, or the news—for I always tried to have something ready to say to her; but generally she seemed in a hurry, and I noticed that she never went into the street, but always started directly for home when she left the bank.

All her marketing was done by a colored woman, a great, strong-looking, sphinx-faced creature, who never spoke an unnecessary word, and never answered any questions.

Mrs. Leroy was a Southerner, so it was probable, and the village concluded, that she had brought the woman from her old home with her.

I think I never told any one that I was getting quite well acquainted with Mrs. Leroy. Somehow, I did not feel as if I wanted to discuss her, or hear her discussed.

I slept at the bank nights, but I always closed at four o’clock and went home to tea. And about eight in the evening I generally returned, and went to bed in a back room adjoining the reception room.

One night in October, just as I was about to close to go home, Mrs. Leroy came in. She seemed very much frightened, and her face paled and flushed alternately.

“I wish to see you alone,” she said, in a low voice. “Lock the outer door, if you please, and then listen to me.”

I did as requested, and then, sinking her voice to a whisper, she went on to tell me of a plot which had been laid by three men to break into the bank that night and rob the vault.

“Mr. Morelle,” she said, in conclusion, “if you had not slept here I confess that I should have done nothing about it, because I risk my life by betraying them. But I heard them say that if you awoke, the only way would be to murder you, and I could not remain idle and suffer any one to be killed.”

“But who are these men, and how did you learn their intentions? And from whom are you in danger?” I asked.

“These are questions I cannot answer. I have warned you, but you must not ask to know too much. Be on your guard. I think, if they discover that you have means of defense they will go away. You will call in some one, will you not?” And my heart beat a little faster as I marked the ill-concealed anxiety of her countenance.

“I will be prepared——”

“Hush!” she said, laying her hand imploringly on my arm. “You must not think of bloodshed! Promise me that you will not! Oh, Mr. Morelle, promise me that you will not kill him, for my sake! I have risked my life for you—now, in return, promise me that there shall be no bloodshed!”

“Who is it that I must not injure?”

“Alas, I cannot tell you! Oh!” she cried, under her breath, “what if I have doomed him to death?”

She evidently had a strong personal interest in one of the robbers, and I felt myself growing nervous and uneasy at the thought. What if one of the villains was her husband? Nothing more likely. One never knows anything about these women who move into out-of-the-way houses and do not join the sewing society, where every one is expected to put her character into the common stock for discussion.

I thanked Mrs. Leroy for coming to me. I promised that, so far as I could prevent it, there should be no bloodshed.

She went away with a sadly depressed air, and I went to call on Mr. Jenkins, the president of the bank. We talked the matter over, though, of course, I could not tell him how I had obtained my information. Then together, we called on Davis and Lucas, two of our most efficient policemen, and it was arranged that I should go home to tea, as usual, return to the bank at my accustomed hour, and admit Davis, Lucas, and Peabody, one of their set, by the back door.

We carried out the program. We were all well armed, and prepared for any emergency. The policemen went to sleep, and I kept watch. About twelve I heard a noise, like the grating of a file, but so dexterously was the instrument handled that for some time I was not sure but the creaking of the heavy shutters had deceived me.

Presently I heard the slightest touch in the world of iron against iron, and then I knew that the strong staple which held the padlock of the south window was being drawn out.

I touched Davis, and in a moment the three men were awake and on the alert.

We let the burglars alone until they were fairly at work picking the locks of the safe, and then we pounced upon them.

They were only two, and we were four; but they were desperate characters, and did not stand bound by any promises not to shed blood.

“Betrayed!” cried one of them, the younger of the two, for the third one had not entered the building, but was standing at the window, outside. “I know who has done it, and I swear by the heavens above us she shall pay dearly for it!”

“Submit quietly,” said Lucas, “and we will not fire on you.”

“Get out of my way!” returned the burglar defiantly, and at the same time he drew a pistol and fired full in Lucas’ face.

He dodged, but the ball grazed his cheek, and the pain made Lucas forget everything else.

Before one of us could lift a finger to stop him, he had dashed the young man against the iron door of the safe, and, by the limp, helpless way in which his head hung down, I knew that his neck was broken.

Lucas eyed his work with grim satisfaction.

“It’s the first one I ever killed outright, but I swear I’d do it again under like circumstances.”

The other burglar submitted without resistance, but the third one was never secured.

There was a coroner’s inquest on the dead body of the young robber, and just in the gray light of the morning Mrs. Leroy forced her way through the crowd to where the corpse lay.

I shall never forget the expression of the face she lifted to mine, so sadly reproachful, so full of unutterable grief.

“You promised me that there should be no murder done!” she said hoarsely.

“I could not help it. What was he to you?” I asked, with an eagerness I could not repress.

“He was my half brother. I had no reason to fear that he would be injured, for, when I heard their plan, it was arranged that he should remain outside and receive the gold. But, still, I had apprehensions for his safety, and that was why I asked you to promise what I did. Take me to him now.”

I led her to his side, and saw her lift his cold head to her bosom and shower kisses on his icy lips.

“Oh, Albert, Albert!” she cried, in agony. “If my life would have saved yours! And to think that it was I who betrayed you to your death!”

Even as she spoke, I felt the strong shudder that shook her frame, and the next moment I received her fainting form in my arms.

I did not care what people said. From the depths of my soul I believed Eudora Leroy was pure and innocent, and she had no protector. So I took it upon myself to care for her. I carried her home, engaged a nurse, and called a physician.

And I am afraid that I answered my lady mother anything but politely when she remonstrated with me on what she called my extraordinary conduct.

But you will want to know about the burglar who was secured alive, and a few words will give the facts regarding him.

His name was Granger. He was from New Orleans, and had known Mrs. Leroy’s brother there. His name was Albert Harper. He was a rash, high-tempered fellow, Granger said, and when in liquor easily influenced.

Granger was tried, and committed for four years, but I think he died before his time was out.

Mrs. Leroy was ill a long time. It was spring before she was able to see any one, and then she sent for me. I had known all along that she would do so, and had been awaiting her summons with nervous anxiety. For I suppose you have already guessed that I loved Eudora Leroy.

She was downstairs, lying on a lounge, when I was shown into her presence, but she arose instantly and took a chair by the window.

Before she spoke I had leisure to observe how much she had changed, and how wan and dejected she was generally. Even her voice had lost much of the silvery ring which I had loved so well to hear.

She began to tell me her little history. I had been kind to her, she said, and she thought it but justice that I should know all she had to tell.

By birth she was a Louisianian. Her father was a wealthy planter, who had been twice married. Albert was the son of his last wife. He had been a difficult child to manage from his birth, and, as he grew older, caused his friends a world of trouble. When he was fifteen, his mother died, committing him to the care of Eudora. She promised the dying woman to use her best influence for his good, and faithfully had the vow been kept. She had followed him into places where it brought a blush to her face to enter, and, vicious as he was, he never refused to go back with her. She had paid his debts—for all the property was left to her at the death of her father—she had borne with all his vices patiently, she had hoped always that he would eventually forsake his evil ways and become the honest, respectable man she desired him to be.

He had become concerned in a disgraceful affair at New Orleans which compelled him to leave the city, and she had settled up her affairs there and come to New England with him.

He was remorseful, and promised her faithfully that if she would take him to some secluded place, where he should never meet Granger again, he would try to reform. Granger had been his bane; but for his baleful influence he would never have sunk to such depths of degradation.

So, full of hope for the future, Eudora had come to Southbridge. She had married, only a year previously, a man much her senior, who had been thrown from his horse and killed only a year after the marriage.

I gathered from Eudora’s manner while speaking of this marriage, that she had never loved her husband, but had become his wife because he loved her, and because his influence was very strong over Albert.

And the idea gave me unqualified satisfaction. You may say it is foolish to be jealous of the dead, but—well, never mind. Most of us are selfish enough to want the entire affections of those we love. We do not care to share a divided interest.

After their coming to Southbridge, Mrs. Leroy said, Albert had become thoroughly changed. He remained in the cottage all the time, engaged in painting, for he was possessed of considerable artistic talent. He would not go out, even for a walk, and thus it had happened that no one knew of his existence.

But Granger found him out at last, and then all hope of his reformation was over.

He brought him brandy, which always made him partially insane, and at such times Eudora’s life was in danger. Albert was kind to her when not under the influence of drink, but brandy made a demon of him. There was nothing too bad for him to do when he was intoxicated. It was while he was having one of those frenzies that the plan to rob the bank was started.

Eudora had refused to furnish him with the money he asked for, and Granger suggested that they should get it at the bank. It was agreed upon, and they made all their calculations at once. A confederate was secured by Granger, and the two men had the boldness to come to Locust Cottage and ask to see Albert.

Eudora dared not refuse them, but, suspecting some villainy, she listened to the interview, and thus became aware of the intended burglary. It was arranged that Granger and Sterling should enter the bank, silence me, if I was disposed to be troublesome, and pass the gold out to Albert.

Eudora said that much as she felt it her duty to warn me, she did not know as she would have had the courage had it not been that she believed, according to their plan, that Albert would be out of danger.

Did she say nothing of her discovery to her brother, do you ask?

She said that she went down on her knees to him, and besought him to give up the mad scheme; and he told her that if she ever lisped another word to him on the matter it should cost her her life.

She was weeping when she finished, but presently she grew calm.

She was going away, she said, as soon as she could arrange for the change, where no one who knew her would ever see her again.

She looked so distant and so cold, when she said so, that she froze the passionate words that sprang to my lips. I rose to take my leave, and she just touched her fingers to the hand I extended, and said good-by as calmly as she would have said good night.

Just outside the door, I discovered that I had left my glove. I went back softly. I saw her holding it to her lips.

The next moment I had her in my arms, and I was telling her, in some unstudied words, that I loved her, and that I would never let her go anywhere.

She was very hard to convince. If I had been less in earnest than I was, I should have lost her; but I threw my whole soul into the work, and by and by she confessed that she did love me; that she had loved me a long time.

After that I did not care for the obstacles she raised. Dear, little, conscientious thing! She thought it would be wicked for her to disgrace me by becoming my wife because her brother had tried to rob a bank.

But I am a very determined man, and I would not let her out of my arms until she promised all I asked of her.

That day month I married her.

People talked about it, but Dora and I were happy enough to be able to afford to let them talk. Probably they felt easier after it.

A SMART BOY.

The power loom was the invention of a farmer’s boy, who had never seen or heard of such a thing. He fashioned one with his penknife, and, when he got it all done, he showed it with great enthusiasm to his father, who at once kicked it all to pieces, saying he would have no boy about him who would spend his time on such foolish things. The boy was sent to a blacksmith to learn a trade, and his master took a lively interest in him.

He made a loom of what was left of the one his father had broken up, and showed it to his master. The blacksmith saw he had no common boy as an apprentice, and that the invention was a valuable one. He had a loom constructed under the supervision of the boy. It worked to their perfect satisfaction, and the blacksmith furnished the means to manufacture the looms, and the boy received half the profits.

In about a year the blacksmith wrote to the boy’s father that he should bring with him a wealthy gentleman, who was the inventor of the celebrated power loom.

You may be able to judge of the astonishment at the old home when his son was presented to him as the inventor, who told him that the loom was the same as the model that he had kicked to pieces the previous year.

A BABOON WITH A BRAIN.

In the Transvaal some of the fruit gardens are much exposed to the ravages of large cynocephalic apes, and a good guard has to be kept, or the results of long labor would be lost. In some of those gardens grow certain shrubs which are much affected by wasps, the insects liking to attach thereto their nests.

These wasps, though small, have a very venomous sting. Baboons had often been noticed eying with envious glances the fast-ripening fruit in one certain garden, but feared to gather for fear of attracting the assaults of the wasps.

One morning the farmer heard terrible cries, and, with the aid of a good field glass he witnessed the following tragedy: A large, venerable baboon, chief of the band, was catching the younger apes and pitching them into the shrubs whereon hung the wasps’ nests. This he repeated again and again, in spite of the most piteous cries from his victims.

Of course, the wasps assumed the defensive in swarms. During this part of the performance the old brute quietly fed on the fruit, deigning occasionally to throw fragmentary remains to some female and young baboons a little farther off.