ary, before him, in her peerless beauty, stood Genevra
Tompkins, leaning on her father's arm.

"Ye'r not scalped, then!" gasped her lover.

"No. I have no hesitation in saying that I am not; but why this
abruptness?" responded Genevra.

Bumpo could not speak, but frantically produced the silken tresses.
Genevra turned her face aside.

"Why, that's her waterfall!" said the Judge.

Bumpo sank fainting to the floor.

The famous Pike chieftain never recovered from the deceit, and refused
to marry Genevra, who died, twenty years afterwards, of a broken heart.
Judge Tompkins lost his fortune in Wild Cat. The stage passes twice a
week the deserted cottage at Donner Lake. Thus was the death of
Muck-a-Muck avenged.

TERENCE DENVILLE.

BY CH--L--S L--V--R.

CHAPTER I.

MY HOME.

The little village of Pilwiddle is one of the smallest and obscurest
hamlets on the western coast of Ireland. On a lofty crag, overlooking
the hoarse Atlantic, stands "Denville's Shot Tower"--a corruption by
the peasantry of D'Enville's Chateau, so called from my
great-grandfather, Phelim St. Kemy d'Enville, who assumed the name and
title of a French heiress with whom he ran away. To this fact my
familiar knowledge and excellent pronunciation of the French language
may be attributed, as well as many of the events which covered my after
life.

The Denvilles were always passionately fond of field sports. At the
age of four, I was already the boldest rider and the best shot in the
country. When only eight, I won the St. Remy Cup at the Pilwiddle
races,--riding my favorite bloodmare Hellfire. As I approached the
stand amidst the plaudits of the assembled multitude, and cries of,
"Thrue for ye, Masther Terence," and "O, but it's a Dinville!" there
was a slight stir among the gentry, who surrounded the Lord Lieutenant,
and other titled personages whom the race had attracted thither. "How
young he is,--a mere child; and yet how noble-looking," said a sweet
low voice, which thrilled my soul.

I looked up and met the full liquid orbs of the Hon. Blanche Fitzroy
Sackville, youngest daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. She blushed
deeply. I turned pale and almost fainted. But the cold, sneering
tones of a masculine voice sent the blood back again into my youthful
cheek.

"Very likely the ragged scion of one of these banditti Irish gentry,
who has taken naturally to 'the road.' He should be at school--though
I warrant me his kno