rish church met her
ear. Alice knew that the sound signified that the marriage party had
entered the church, and that she was secure from interruption. With a
childish smile upon her lips, Alice Sedilia touched off the slow-match.

CHAPTER VIII.

At exactly two o'clock on the seventeenth, Rupert Sedilia, who had just
returned from India, was thoughtfully descending the hill toward
Sloperton manor. "If I can prove that my aunt Lady Selina was married
before my father died, I can establish my claim to Sloperton Grange,"
he uttered, half aloud. He paused, for a sudden trembling of the earth
beneath his feet, and a terrific explosion, as of a park of artillery,
arrested his progress. At the same moment he beheld a dense cloud of
smoke envelop the churchyard of Sloperton, and the western tower of the
Grange seemed to be lifted bodily from its foundation. The air seemed
filled with falling fragments, and two dark objects struck the earth
close at his feet. Rupert picked them up. One seemed to be a heavy
volume bound in brass.

A cry burst from his lips.

"The Parish Records." He opened the volume hastily. It contained the
marriage of Lady Selina to "Burke the Slogger."

The second object proved to be a piece of parchment. He tore it open
with trembling fingers. It was the missing will of Sir James Sedilia!

CHAPTER IX.

When the bells again rang on the new parish church of Sloperton it was
for the marriage of Sir Rupert Sedilia and his cousin, the only
remaining members of the family.

Five more ghosts were added to the supernatural population of Sloperton
Grange. Perhaps this was the reason why Sir Rupert sold the property
shortly afterward, and that for many years a dark shadow seemed to hang
over the ruins of Sloperton Grange.

THE NINETY-NINE GUARDSMEN.

BY AL--X--D--R D--M--S

CHAPTER I.

SHOWING THE QUALITY OF THE CUSTOMERS OF THE INNKEEPER OF PROVINS.

Twenty years after, the gigantic innkeeper of Provins stood looking at
a cloud of dust on the highway.

This cloud of dust betokened the approach of a traveller. Travellers
had been rare that season on the highway between Paris and Provins.

The heart of the innkeeper rejoiced. Turning to Dame Perigord, his
wife, he said, stroking his white apron:--

"St. Denis! make haste and spread the cloth. Add a bottle of
Charlevoix to the table. This traveller, who rides so fast, by his
pace must be a Monseigneur."

Truly the