PART II.

Te Aroha News, Volume II, Issue 78, 29 November 1884, Page 4

PART 11.

BY THB SWEAT OF HIS BROW. The beautiful night, closing down on tho golden City by the Sea, hid under its shadows a thousand wrongs and crimes ; but as the sultry clay faded, and the lamps ■were lighted, other -wrongs and crimes grew fairer and bolder, and the gamesters hung out their gaudy lures to entrap the devotees of Ch.mce. One San Francisco gaming-house differed in no essential particular from a hundred others of the same class which night and day kept open doors for their votaries during the summer of 1855. Tho same rough sort of men were to be found in them all ; the same gaudy furniture and hangings, the same low-voiced croupiers or dealers, the same soft-footed servants, were characteristic of each. In one, the night was far spent, the raw, chilly morning beginning to dawn, and the pla,) ers dropping off one by one from around the green tables. The croupiers yawned wearily, tired of raking into their strong boxes treasures which they were only paid to gather, and w hich they could not share. The long, high-ceiled room shono gaudily in the gas glare, reflecting back from its mirrored walls the gorgeous hangings and crimson - coloured furniture. A gilded buffet against the wall sparkled with ks store of beautiful glass, through which glared redly the fiery liquors, placed there by the wily spider of this parlour with a cunning forethought to steal away the brains of the unwary flies whom he had entrapped. Play went on at a single table, about which the men were mostly miners, who had come down from the mountains with their large or small stores of gold, the result of weeks or months of such labour and exposure as few men long endure and survive, only to lay it all down on the green cloth before the quiet-voiced croupier, never to see it again. Rough- voiced, rude-mannered, hard-fisted fellows mostly, who staked and lost and bore their failure or success with oath or laughter equally unpleasant to hear. One by one as the day came on the players went away up into the mountain gullies again, only to dig and sweat and find gold, to bring back, after more weeks or months, to this room to lose. But one man there did not stir, though the sunlight of the morning had already fallen on and made beautiful the Golden Gate, its ships and cliffs and piers. Seated at the table, a fewmen still standing about, he sat watching the game with feverish anxiety, being flushed or depressed beyond all others as he lost or won ; he differed from the rest not only in his nervous, feverish impatience, but in that there was about him an air of gentler breeding than they had known, a gentleman at odds with luck, fast parting with that something which raised him above his coarse associates ; so much of his face as could be seen— for his hat was drawn low over his forehead and his hand wandered about his mouth and chin in almost perpetual unrest — was pale and thin, his hands white and attenuated, his eyes sunken and fierce, as if from an inward fever. He had evidently suffered great bodily or mental distress, and had scarcely recovered from its effects. Later, he was left quite alone at the green table with the croupier, the drowsy servants hanging about silent and sole spectators of the game. The croupier raked in the result of the previous play, and, looking out into the sunshine, asked, " Do you play again ?" The man's voice was thin and v> eak as he answered, "Yes, I play my last dollar on the red." The rod spun quickly round, resting on the black. " You have lost," said the other, coolly, raking in the pile of coin. "Were you right in saying you had staked your last dollar ?" " Yes, the last of a good many hundreds that have gone down into this hell since yesterday." The croupier tossed back to him a halfhandful of coin. *' Take that ; it afill pay your way to the diggings ; and if you don't like this hell, keep out of it. You came here of your own choice, you miserable beggar." Then the man held the money in his hand, irresolute for a moment whether to keep it or fling it back into the croupier's face. The banker smiled. " Keep it, my man," he said; "you'll need it soon." There was more pity than insolence in his tone now, which made it all the more offensive to the ruined gamester. He put the money into his pocket and crept away into the chill, moi.-t air of the morning ; a gentleman very much at odds with fortune, and slipping fast down the hill. "He's been sick, that man has," said a sleepy servant. "And not long out of gaol," added another. The keeper of the place that the man had just left was no better or no worse than his lellows. They were all willing enough to give back to the men that they plundered a small percentage of their lot.in^-3 to enable tlwm to reach the mines, knowing by long experience that they would find their way back to the green tables again w ith replenished .stores. When the man reached the street, his first thought was to find a hotel ; but he carefully avoided the best houses, and walked on until he found an obs:uro tavern in an obscure street, and theie he entered. The clerk, a low, narrow-browed ruffian, eyed him closely as he advanced slowly to the desk and stated his object. "You have made a mistake; this is a hotel, not a graveyard," the fellow said insolently, smiling at some loungers in the room. "I have made no mistake and I don't mean to die yet awhile ; it I should, I have sufficient money to jay my funeral expenses." He threw some coin on the desk. "Take what you want out of that for a day's accommodation ; give me a decent room and breakfast. " "I don't want your money now. A good many people come in who have none, and I thought you looked like one of that sort," said the clerk, abating nothing in the insolence of his manner. "Sign the register, will you ?" " What is it you ask?" taid the man, perfectly understanding the request, but pretending he did not, trying to gain time. " I ask you to register your name." " My name ?" " Yes, your name —or another man's ; it don't matter to us, only we require people who come here to write the names by which they wis-h to be known on our register." The man drew his hand slowly across his nervous mouth, looked at the clerk for a moment with an ugly glitter in his eyes ; then he took up the pen, and in a miserably cramped hand wrote his name,

AIJKL DUWLETIIK. The clerk turned the book about, and read it. " I think," he said, "your people made a mistake in £our christening."

* ' How ? I don't understand. " " They called you for the wrong brother It should have been Cain— the other one." Loud, coarse laughter greeted this sally of the clerk's ; but Abel Dunlotho only scowled upon tho ruffians in the room, and went out to find his breakfast elsewhere Still choosing the obscuvo streets, he went on until ho came to a decent, cleanlylooking tavern on Suter-street, where he entered and received civil treatment. He breakfasted, and afterwards slept until noon. He went out then, and occupied the remainder of the day in buying an outfit I for the mines. In the morning ho started, making the journey by steamer to Sacramento, thence for days together across the dead level of the plains, among the great oaks for awhile, and then over a dreary desert of sand, or through a tangled wildcrj ness ot bushes to tho Mokelumno Kivor, on the southorn hills of -which the minors worked like ants, digging and washing tho yellow sands. Ho arrived at nightfall, as they began to light their fires and prepare for supper, 110 passed among them closely scrutinised, hoping with a curious longing for fellowship, that some would ask him to share the evening meal with them ; but he | went on past their quarters and cabins, uninvited to pitch his tent near or enter theirs. When he reached the outer edge of the rancho, he pitched his tent, and 1 built his fire unassisted or unvisited by any i one. Later in the night, he sat at his door ! watching the hills grow denser with each 1 expiring" flame, his own thoughts growing blacker as tho bitterness of his situation gathered about him Some men near him were seated on stones, at their fire playing cards. He wanted some one to say a single friendly word to him before ho went in for the night. Ho hesitated for a moment, { then wont over to them. The mon looked ! up at him as ho stood among them. " These seats are all reserved, mate ; no ' 100 m here," said the biggest rullian of tho lot, shuttling the cards. The rest laughed, and went on with tho gamo. lie wcht back to hid tent. When he had made all fast for the night, he sat on his tent floor silent for a long time. "It (Cos a mistake," ho said piesently, getting up; "1 should have been called Cain, for it seems as if I carried his mark in my face. I haven't had a friendly word to day.' % Nor had he. He had come among a rough desperate crew, mostly vagabonds and advcntureis from the States, noisy and floricsome, but, for all that, with a good deal of human feeling for the unfortunates of their class who fell exhausted by the way. But they did not like this man's appearance ; it might have been that the air of the gentleman was too strong upon him to suit their tastes, or it might have been that, when they looked into his face, they indeed saw there the mark of Cain. Dunlethe resolved that first night never to try a^ain to get a triendly \\ ord from any I j man. In the morning he located his claim, and with increasing strength went to woik with pick-axe and spade and sieve. But he was not a strong man yet ; illness had pulled him down, and he was unused to such exertion, so that, the given quantity I of labour being small, the result \ias not i great. The rough fellows, who had ! avoided him at first, seeing how poorly he began to look and how unsuccessful his ! awkward efforts were, came about him now ! to proffer assistance or advice ; but he wa-s morose or niient with them all, as they l\nrt been with him. Then he fell sick, and the men, seeing hi« pick and shovel lying idle in the pit, went over to his tent, but he was. soured and bitter, .-nd he turned them ! savagely away. After a time, when he wabetter, and the miners noticing that he still kept him-elf aloof fiom them, icf using to join in their games at caul-*, oi storytelling, or drinking bouts, they left him quite alone, and went no more to Ins tent or diggings. Hebeliu\cd for awhile that he was glad of their neglect, and stoutly maintained his resolve ; but the time soon came when he grew intolerably lonely and miserable ; his money, too, was given out, and he found no nuggets, and but little dust to replace it. Other men, he thought, had { friends or companions in the gullies of these black hills, and he had none ; other men got letters from home, but none e\ cr came to him ; occasionally, though, ho bonowed a newspaper from the States, and then he read eagerly every line of it, down to the last advertisement ; it made him feel less lonely, somehow, Returning one night from his claim, he came upon a man read ing a paper to a group of miners seated around the tire, and, going in among them, jhe found the reader had finished. Then he ' heard some one ask, "Didn't you say that you knew the murdered man, Joe?'" " No, I didn't know the man, but 1 knew the boj', George Lawrence ; I lost si<;ht of him when he was a man, for I left home young, you see," The speaker looked up ' into Dunlotho's face, which was shaded j with hi-s hand, as if to shut oil' the glaie of the flame. "We were talking, mate," he '•aid, ''of a man a.- was murdered in the States — a gentleman I once knew. Sit dow n and 1 11 tell you about it." JJunletho sat down among them, still his face fiom the the, keeping his hand between the narrator and himself. The miner went on, keenly relishing his story, and glad to have another listener, to whom it was all new. "I knew that boy, George Lawrence ; I woikiii tor hi- father. He was English — from Sui icy. and 1 think Geoigc vva^ Engli-h too, but he must have come over w hen young, lie was a baddish sort of boy, was (jeoigo. But no matter about that now ; he's dead " " Miudered, I think you said ?" Dunletho a.-ked. "Ye 3 , he was murdcicd, at night, in Boston — flung into the river off old Dunlethe^ wharf. Jlello ! there, mate, aicn't that what you're called— Dunlethe ?" " That is my name, but I do not know the wharf, nor the owner. lam from the West— Ohio." The men turned lazily to look at him as lie spoke, but the ne\'t moment their eyes were bent on the fire. " Well, stranger !" he asked, " wa.s the murderer discovered ?" " Yes, he was ; he was found and tried for George Lawrence's murder, and though he said he did it, they let him go. ' Not guilty,' was the verdict." "What was that man's name ?" " The murderer's do you mean ?" "Yes — the man who killed George Lawrence." " Well, Mr Dunlethe, his name was Luke Connor," the miner said, turning full upon him, as being the one auditor most interested in his story. " You did not know this man Connor, then, did you?" asked Dunlethe. "I'm not so sure of that, mate; there was some Connois in that town where I came from ; maybe I did know him, for he was a friend of the man he killed. If ho was one of them Connor.-} I knew ; though I might forget Im first name, I would know his face it I ever saw it again. I never forget faces.'' The face ho looked at now was shaded from him and from the fire by a hand that was visibly trembling. Dunletho got up. "The man was acquitted, you said !" "Yes — 'not guilty,' was the verdict. You're not going, eh ? Well, then, goodnight, mate," said tho miner; "sorry to lose so good a listener.

" Good night, Mends all." Ho had been gono but a few minutes, when he returned, and asked permission to take the paper to his tent. Dunletho sat up half the night reading it, and as often as ho concluded the account of the murder and tho trial, went back to it again. \\ hen ho started out to tho pit in tho morning, ho carried the paper to the owner. He was glad the miner had gone to his work before he got there ; ho liung the paper into his tout, and went on, thinking a good deal, by the way, of the man who knew the Connors, and ne vor forgot faces. During the next few days he kopt himself very close to his [work and quarters, but the solitude oppressed him beyond endurance, and he tried to mako friends with somo of the bolter sort, but tho effort was futile ; he met with no response, and was made to understand that he was disliked, and that, even by the hardened wretches of tho mines, ho was regarded with suspicion. He worked on then alone for several weeks, digging and washing, but scarcoly getting out sufficient gold to support existenco from day to day ; and then the rainy season sot in, which was unfortunately at a timo when he was certain he had leached a lode filled w ith gold. For several days before he had been oncouraged to more vigorous exertions, to go deopor, both by the indications and the increased lesults and within a few hours he had found a number of rich nuggets, scales, and dust in abundance, and ielt that his labours were about to be rewarded. Tho night that followed was rough and stormy, beyond all nights he had ever seen. The rain fell in unbroken torrents, swelling the mountain streams, "which lushed impetuously dow n the canons, sw coping before them whatcvor encumbered their way. In the morning, while the rain .still fell, he ventured out, going dow n to gee how, in the gcncial rack and ruin hib lode had fared. When he arm ed at the place whoro he thought that it ought to bo, he could discover not a trace ot its whereabouts. The gully in which it was located was tilled up ■with mud and stones and trees ; he looked down upon a miserable, hopeless wreck, never to be worked nor made profitable again; o\en his tools were gone — nothing loft of all yesterday's hope and promise of success. His long months, labour and exposure had gone for nothing, and he must begin all anew. Buiiod in tho corner of his tent wcio somo nuggets, scales, and dust, which he dug up and sowed into his tattered clothing. Ho sat by his lire all day, while the rain pelted dow n upon his tent roof, counting over his losses, living over again tho better years ho had known, between which and to-day a dead face camo and went for ever. — a dead face which camo and looked in at his tent-door by day and by night, in fou or pleasant weather — always thore. Then he grew sick of tho place, of his hard luck, and of tho rnon who avoided him ; afraid, too, of the man who knew the Connors and never forgot a face. The next day the rain had ceased falling and the •sun shone. Then, not knowing but that the storm would come again to-morrow, ho shouldered his traps, started out to find a now location — one not likely to be buried|in tho next tempestuous night. Ho went faitheraway into the newer fields and tho piofoundcr loneliness of the mountains, to locate his claim and dig and wash, and wash and dig. lie found the place he sought after several day-t oilsome tramp, ! pitched his tent, and began prospecting ; finally locating a claim a shoit distance from the mountain road. Half a mile ofl was the ncaiest cabin, where pro\isions, liquors and implements were sold. There he went and bought Hour, bacon, and coflce, stored tlit'in aw ay,and then wonttohi Iwoik, a little more ragged and diity, a little moic desperate, a little fuither oil from the <iod he once knew than he had ever been. He was not lonely heie, as he had been befoie ; theie were no other men abcut him to be roughly rude to him, or happy, or to get lctteis fiom home, or to have fiicndi ships and lo\es. Here he was sufficient unto himself, alone, but not lonely. Then ho dug on and on, day after day throwing out the washed sands which left no gold behind, digging deeper through sand and clay and rock in vain. Disappointment and defeat made him mad. lie valued gold for its own sake as little as any man ; but to get it meant success, or, as- ho grew to call it, luck. In the place of human love and follow ship, which should have been in Dunlethe's heart, there suddenly was engendered in it, by defeat, a single feeling — an awful hunger and thirst to find gold. That one passion filled his life up, took all his thought, and occupied his sleep. Having found it, he might have flung it away again, or recklessly tossed it openhanded to tho first beggar that passed that way"; but he was mad to find it, for that would be luck, and luck meant to this poor wretch that his God had not deserted him, that he was not altogether foi gotten and cast out. Then day by day and month after month be digged deeper into the pit he had sunk, but the indications grew no more promising, the luck his very .soul grew hungry for did not come to him, and the few ounces of {?old that he had before gathered weie going fast. Desperate at last under continued failure, he swore a savage oath that if he should be unlucky for only another day, he would dig no moie. The day came, and the man, as if regretful of his oath and repenting it, dug with the persistence and encigy of one who delved for life, or to save his soul alive. It wore on slowly and surely to its close, leaving him digging theie, every muscle strained to its utmost tension, great beads of sweat standing on his face and hands, rolling down his limbs, sapping his strength ; but that was all of his leward. Tho dying, d«ay gave him no signs of the golden luck he toiled for — it was almost gone now, and as Dunletlic paused in his woik, leaning on his shovel, watching the sun sinking behind the line of melancholy cedars ,<-khting the hori/on, he heard tho music of a loud, jubilant song, echoing along the hills, and turning around ho saw some men approaching, a rough and careless crew of Frenchmen. They come nearer and stood upon the blink of the pit ho had made. One touched his cap gaily, and asked, "What luck, Monsieur?" Abel Dunlethe clambered up from tho depths of tho hole. v 'No luck, Messieurs," he said; "and be damned to it. I have dug there for many month 13 , and in all kinds of weather. The dry mine of yesterday I have seen today filled witli water, and have bailed it out with such poor contrivances as you see here about mo. 1 have begun with the pick at daw n, and have laid the shovel down only at dusk. I have washed tho accur&ed sands till mj r fingers were worn to the bone, and yet I have found nothing. 1 will dig no more. It you care to try your luck, there is the claim air I there are tho tools. Tako them, Messieurs, you aro welcomo, and may your luck be better than mine. There are my tent and traps on the hill, yonder, you are welcome to them all. " A million thanks generous Monsieur," they said, and the merry fellows, ready for any fortune good as well as bad, jumped down into the pit, went to work, and ros umed tho moasurosoftheirintcmipted song* 1 ] Ho shook the dust of tho hole from hi^ torn shoes, and with no object, no place nor time in view, started oft' along the

mountain defile by which the other men had come. " What luck, Monsieur Dunlethe ?" he asked himself savagely, and he answered back to the mocking" devil within, "No luck, Monsieur Dunlethe, no luck at play, no luck at work, no luck at anything, no luck for the man on whom the curse has fallen, no luck for the alien adventurer, bearing a dead man's name." On he went down the mountoin path in the rapidly closing twilight ;' down to the valley below, where lights already gleamed from tent and cabin door. He was halfway down when a horse's feet struck the path beside him. He stepped aaide into the bushes to let the horse and rider pass. " What luck, stranger ?" asked the rider drawing rein. "No luck, stranger, pass on," the man replied, cursing the other for using that word at that time. The rider looked down at Abel Dunlethe with an ugly, mocking smile on his face. " I meant to tell you,"~he said, "you surly devil, of the luck of some friends of yours, back in the hills yonder. They havo struck the lode to which you had dug down, and within an hour have taken out a hundred ounces. You had better return and ask thorn to give you back your claim, or share ifc with you." Dunlctho strode on to where the lights shone in tlio valley, cursing the good for tune that shunned him and went to other men. The ridei shot pa*t, leaving the luckless, surly stranger to himself. lie i cached the valley at last, and, footsore and weary, ontorcd a tavorn, about ths door of which a scoro of miners were seated, all oagerly discussing the ill luck of the man Dunlethe, and making their plans for migrating soon to tho now and richer diggings which he had found but nob enjoyed. Ho sat alone by the stove, his ragged hat drawn down over his face, damning the men outside who continued to sneer at his folly for giving his claim to others, after so many months of labour. In the morning, having paid for his lodging and breakfast, he found that his last grain of gold was gone, and remembered bitterly that in half an hour after he had thrown away his lodo it had yielded to others a hundred ounces. lie went dow n to the river then, and stood watching a gang of labourers digging away a bank for a mill-site Ho recollected that he too must work, if he would live ; in a few hours he would be hungry ; about lodgings, that did not matter ; he could cicop into any shed and find shelter. He found the foreman of the works after a little search, and asked to be employed. The man, a hearty, frank fellow, looked at him for a moment, and the result of his survey not being satisfactory, said "No I have no work hero that you could do. You are scarcely strong enough tor this job." " You mistake. I have worked for months in a hole, digging sand and rock. I am a strong man," replied Dunlctho, his voice quiveiing a little; he wanted the chance to get near to tnis bluff, pleasantfaced gentleman, to make a friend of him, if he could. The other, remarking his anxiety to get work, said cheerfully, " Very well, turn in and try your luck witli the rest, though you don't look fit." Having arrived late, he was placed on the outer edge of the labourers' gang, where the earth tossed to him from above could be thrown into the river. The sand was wet and heavy, his shovel large and unwieldy. After an hour his back began to ache as it never did before, and at the end of another hour his hands were gashed and .«orc ; lie could barely stand erect, every muscle seemed strained and ready to crack. Momentarily he looked up, watching the sun lazily crawling to the meridian, think ing that noon would nevci come; for he meant to knock oil then and go away — hi.s piide would not peimit him to do it before. Noon came to the poor wretch at la^t, and found him without sticngth, with aching back and muscles-, his hands dripping blood where the rough-handled shovel, gliding through, had torn and biuiecd them. When the dinner-bell rang for the workmen he did not follow them, but [ hunted up the foreman. When he found him, he said, frankly, " You were right this morning, and I wa.-> wrong ; the work is too hard for me, Pay mo for half a day, and let me go ; my luck is against me," " I can't pay you till Saturday night," the man said. "It is against the rules. Stay hero till then, and 1 will look up some light work for you, maybe." lie was sorry for the poor wretch, who had no friend*, and who would be hungry and houseless when night came ; he looked around to find some excuse for employing him until pay day. "Go in and get your dinner now," ho said, " and afterwards, go up the hill yonder, and chop away those bushes ; they arc in our road there. I will pay you the same wages as I pay tho otlicis " "No, I will not do that. I will do a man's work, or I will not take a man's wages. As to what you owe me, give that to some otlvir poor devil on SatuuLiy night for me. Good bye." "Good-bye," the foreman said. "I'm sorry J can't help you." Then ho stood looking after the poor fellow whose luck was against him, until he was lost in the turn of tho load. The road to Sacramento lay straight before him another led away to hits deserted mino. lie took (he former, penniless and ahcady hungry, witli a hundred milef, over a rough road, to go. He could not go into the tavern with the other labouieis for dinner; he had earned, it but he had not got his pay Afterwards he was hungiicr, less fastidious about satisfying his hunger. He went on till nightfall, meeting here and there a worn-out straggler line himself ; then he entered a rough roadside tavern. Tho landlord was leaning on his counter as Dunlethe entered, but he glonccd once at tho stranger, and left him standing in the middle of the room without further notice. Dunlethe, quick to see the hostile manner of tho man, turned to go out ; but hunger and fatigue held him fast. " I have no money, and I want supper and lodging I have not eaten anything since morning, and the night will bo cold," " Stranger," said the landlord, " a hun drod men like you pass this road every day, and each one stops to tell mo what you have told me. If it was only ono man, I could help him, but I can't help a hundred." " You arc right. I beg your pardon for intruding. Good night." "Stop, though," said the landlord, who recollected that he could help one man, and had not done it for a long while. "Stop, you are not fit to go on to-night. You shall be the one man ; you shall have youi- supper, and if you can sleep on that bench, you are wolcomo." Tho supper was sot beforo him, and Dunlethe ato ravenously, and then slept until morning on the bench before the fire. Before dawn he was np and gone ; before noon he had accomplished twenty miles, with fifty yet to go, and his long fast from the previous night began to tell on him. He stopped again at a tavern. " Can you give me dinner?" he asked of a woman standing in tho doorway. "I have no money." "No," she said. "I can give you nothing. I can't feed every beggar that cornea thiaraadJ*

Then he went on again until sundown, and only ten more miles gained. He could go no farther, he thought, and began to look about among the trees for a place in which to pass the night, when he saw, a short distance ahead, the light of a camp-fire. As ho approached the camp, a young girl ran out into the road, closely followed by a savage- looking dog, that darted past her and flew at his throat. The girl caught the dog's collar, held him back, and called to some one in tho tent to help her, for the rough beast was more than she could hold. Dunlothe, too, worn and weak to have struggled with the animal, stood passivoly waiting for his spring, when the tent-flaps wore thrown back, and a tall, powerfully formed man came out, struck the dog down, apologised to the stranger for the rough reception he had got, and asked him what he could do for him. "I am tired, sick, and hungry, Can you give me a bit of bread, and a place by your fire ?" "Certainly, I can do that, and more. Come in and seo." Then, getting ready a comfortable meal, ho sot it before IJunlethe, and watched him as he devoured it, "Where did you have your dinner, comrade?" he asked presently. " I had no dinner— nor breakfast either. Do I eat too much, that you ask ? My luck is down on me, and 1 am going to Saciamento to get work." "Eat till you are filled, my surly friend, you are welcome," said the other; "but how would you like to go further than Sacramento and fare better ?" "Whereto?" "To Australia. I'm going there to try grazing, and shall want a man like you to help mo. Will you go ?" " Yes," said Dunlothe, " 1 will go there, — tho farther the better. When do you start ?" " In tho first outward-bound vessel that leaves San Francisco," his host answered. Throe days later, tho grazier, having left his littlo girl in charge of bomo friendb, stood with Abel Dunlethe on the deck of an Australian trader, setting out to sea. On the sixth day out, the steward went into the gra/.ier's cabin, and when he came on deck again, he ran to the captain, trembling and white-faced, and told him that ho had one passenger le&s than he had shipped, for the gra/ior wa& lying in his berth, with his eyc^ wide open, staring blankly up at the ceiline:, dead. (To be Continued. )