Pretty Merribelle: The Strangest Fate Ever To Befall A Beautiful Young Girl

By Nellie Bly and David Blixt

From the bestselling pen of the original undercover reporter, a novel that has been lost for over a century!

Pioneering undercover journalist Nellie Bly is rightly famous for exposing society's ills. From brutal insane asylums to corrup

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sordelet Ink
• Release date: Nov 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781944540814

Nellie Bly

Nellie Bly (1864-1922) was an American investigative journalist. Born Elizabeth Jane Cochran in a suburb of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, she was raised in a family of Irish immigrants. In 1879, she attended Indiana Normal School for a year before returning to Pittsburgh, where she began writing anonymously for the Pittsburgh Dispatch. Impressed by her work, the newspaper’s editor offered her a full-time job. Writing under the pseudonym of Nellie Bly, she produced a series of groundbreaking investigative pieces on women factory workers before traveling to Mexico as a foreign correspondent, which led her to report on the arrest of a prominent Mexican journalist and dissident. Returning to America under threat of arrest, she soon left the Pittsburgh Dispatch to undertake a dangerous investigative assignment for Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World on the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island. After feigning a bout of psychosis in order to get admitted, she spent ten days at the asylum witnessing widespread abuse and neglect. Her two-part series in the New York World later became the book Ten Days in a Mad-House (1887), earning Bly her reputation as a pioneering reporter and leading to widespread reform. The following year, Bly took an assignment aimed at recreating the journey described in Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days (1873). Boarding a steamer in Hoboken, she began a seventy-two day trip around the globe, setting off a popular trend that would be emulated by countless adventurers over the next several decades. After publishing her book on the journey, Around the World in Seventy-Two Days (1890), Bly married manufacturer Robert Seaman, whose death in 1904 left Bly in charge of the Iron Clad Manufacturing Co. Despite Bly’s best efforts as a manager and inventor, her tenure ultimately resulted in the company’s bankruptcy. In the final years of her life, she continued working as a reporter covering World War I and the women’s suffrage movement, cementing her legacy as a groundbreaking and ambitious figure in American journalism.

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A Brief Biography of Nellie Bly

Nellie Bly is a descendant on her father’s side of Lord Cochrane, the famous English admiral, and is closely connected with the present family, Lord and Lady Cochrane, at whose home Queen Victoria’s daughter, the Princess Beatrice and her husband spent their honeymoon. In some characteristics Nellie Bly is said to closely resemble Lord Cochrane, who was noted for his deeds of daring, and who was never happy unless engaged in some exciting affair. Nellie Bly’s great-grandfather Cochrane was one of a number of men who wrote a Declaration of Independence in Maryland near the South Mountains a long time before the historic Declaration of Independence was delivered to the world by our Revolutionary fathers. Her great-grandfather, on her mother’s side, was a man of wealth, owning at one time almost all of Somerset Co., Pa. His name was Kennedy, and his wife was a nobleman’s daughter. They eloped and fled to America. He was an officer, as were his two sons, in the Revolutionary War. Afterward he was sheriff of Somerset Co. repeatedly until old age compelled him to decline the office when then was considered one of power and importance. One of his sons, Thomas Kennedy, Nellie Bly’s great-uncle, made a flying trip around the world, starting from and returning to New York, where his wife, a New York woman by birth, awaited his arrival. It took him three years to make the trip, and he returned in shattered health. He at once set about to write the history of his trip, but his health became so bad that he had to give up his task, and he was taken to his old home in Somerset, Pa., where he shortly died, a victim of consumption. He was buried there with the honors of war. Nellie Bly’s father was a man of considerable wealth. He served for many years as judge of Armstrong Co., Pa. He lived on a large estate, where he raised cattle and had flour mills. The place took his name. It is called Cochrane’s Mills. There Nellie Bly was born.

Being in reduced circumstances, owing to some family complications, after her father’s death, and longing for excitement, she engaged to do special work for a Pittsburgh Sunday newspaper. She went for them to Mexico, where she remained six months, sending back weekly letters. After her return she longed for broader fields, and so came to New York. The story of her attempt to make a place for herself, or to find an opening, is a long one of disappointment, until at last she made a list of a number of daring and original ideas, which were submitted to a prominent editor. They were accepted, and she went to work.

Her first achievement was the exposure of the Blackwell’s Island Insane Asylum, in which she spent ten days, and two days in the Bellevue Insane Asylum. The story created a great sensation, and she was called before the grand jury. An investigation was made, and her story proved true, so the grand jury recommended the changes she suggested, such as women physicians to superintend the bathing of the female insane inmates, better food and better clothing. On the strength of the story $3,000,000 a year increased appropriation was made for the benefit of the asylum.

Her next work of state interest was the story of her exposure of Ed Phelps, who was said to be the king of the Albany Lobby. For publishing this story she was summoned before an investigating committee, this time at Albany.

These two things alone made Nellie Bly’s name known in other countries as well as this, and English and French journalists constantly noticed her work.

After three years’ work on a New York paper she conceived the idea of making a trip around the world in less time than had been done by Phileas Fogg, the fictitious hero of Jules Verne’s famous novel; but when she first planned the trip to do it in 58 days, it was not met with favor by her editor. When she did go, almost a year later, it was impossible to make close connections but she, however, was the first person to make an actual record, which was 72 days. On her return she was greeted by ovations all the way from San Francisco to New York such as were never granted the most illustrious persons of our country. Thousands of people fought for glimpses of her at the stations, and no President was ever greeted by as large crowds as welcomed her at Jersey City and New York.

Since then she has spent her time lecturing and writing a book describing her experience while flying around the world. Nellie Bly has received letters from all parts of the world, in all languages, congratulating her on her successful journey, and begging autographs. Papers in every country, even Japanese and Chinese, published accounts of her novel undertaking.

Nellie Bly at an early age already showed great literary ability in verse as well as in prose, and many poems were contributed by her to the Pittsburgh and New York papers. She has, so far, written two novels—The Mystery of Central Park and Eva, the Adventuress—the latter published some time ago in the london story paper. Her latest story—New York By Night—which will begin in two weeks, bids fair to be one of the greatest successes of her life. She has stopped all newspaper writing, and is under contract, at a large sum, to contribute exclusively to the columns of the london story paper.

Her portrait published herewith is an excellent likeness. Nellie Bly is unmarried, and resides with her mother.

London—March 28th, 1891

Editor's Note: The description of Bly’s professional career is basically accurate, though the refusal to name the paper that made her famous is perplexing.

As with much published about Bly’s personal life, however, there is as much fiction as fact here. There is no evidence linking her family to British aristocracy, nor to any signers of any Declarations of Independence or Revolutionary War soldiers. This does not mean these facts should be entirely disregarded. The story about her great-uncle, for example, is entirely true.

Pretty Merribelle

The Strangest Fate Ever To Befall A Beautiful Young Girl. A Romance of Plot and Passion.

I - Pretty Merribelle.

"‘There is a mate for every heart,

For love is of each life a part,’"

repeated a tender young voice, in the sweetest, clearest and most musical tone that mortal ever heard.

The girls who had been wiping their hands and removing the last traces of their midday meal, preparatory to returning to work, paused to smile at the saucy young speaker.

She was perched upon a high table in a picturesque position full of graceful defiance. Her little white hands were clasped around her knee; one tiny, coquettish foot dangled down below her short skirts and a column of snow-white and newly-made paper boxes loomed up as a background for her dainty golden head. Saucy little madcap Merribelle was a prime favorite with all the girls in the factory.

She was always amiable, always sympathetic, and always ready for a merry good time. With a less perfect and charming disposition, sweet Merribelle’s rare beauty would still have made her queen of any circle in any position in life.

No one ever looked upon her saucy, irresistible, and perfect face whose heart did not acknowledge her the most beautiful being ever seen. She was only sixteen, poor and a working girl, yet she could count her admirers by the score.

Words can but poorly describe the witching beauty of Merribelle Harleigh. She had a face like an angel in its fair, glorious beauty, framed in a mass of long, silken curls of the purest golden shade; cheeks in which the blush of the crimson rose came and went with every emotion, which every smile broke into the most fascinating dimples.

Her mouth was as warmly-red as the heart of a crimson rose, and seemed intended for smiles and love’s sweet kisses only, while her eyes, in their glowing, dazzling splendor, as blue as an Italian sky, could coax the heart and love out of the breast of the coldest of men.

Pretty Merribelle had but one enemy in the factory—Lotta Loring—who hated her through the bitterest jealousy of her pretty face.

Lotta was a beauty, too, but entirely opposite in style to pretty Merribelle. Lotta possessed the dark, magnificent beauty of a Spanish señorita. Her big, black, velvety eyes were filled with a mesmeric fire that could either melt or transfix with a single glance.

Her skin was so purely white as almost to deserve the name of pallor, but the full, pouting, vivid-red lips and the tall, Juno-proportioned form bespoke the perfect health.

Lotta’s dark, passionate beauty was as perfect in its style as Merribelle’s fair loveliness. Indeed, it was difficult for a casual observer, with an equal fondness for blonde and brunette beauty, to decide which was the prettier. And the two girls knew this.

While it was a matter of indifference to laughing Merribelle, Lotta’s proud, passionate heart swelled with bitter jealousy at the thought of her rival, and she lost no chance to show her hatred.

Lotta Loring had been reading a novel during the noon hour, and in a moment of intense disgust she flung the book far from her, saying bitterly:

What disgusting foolishness! what lies! what utter nonsense! The woman that wrote that book should be set up in a public square to be laughed at.

The girls laughed in rather a nervous way at this passionate outburst.

What is it, Lotta? asked one, a little bolder than the rest. Didn’t the heroine marry the right man?

Bah! Lotta exclaimed with an expression of disgust. The heroine hadn’t the sense of a jack-rabbit, but she had as many lives as a cat. Her enemies killed her forty-eleven times, but she wouldn’t stay buried, and came out of her grave every time, peeping in at the windows and scaring everybody to death but the villain, and wondering if she was never to be happy, where, at any stage of the game, if she had possessed a grain of sense, she could have walked in and opened up her mouth and explained everything, and been happy for evermore.

The girls laughed loudly at this explanation, and one went over and gathered up the offending novel.

Novels are all nonsense, anyway, supplemented a sober-looking girl.

Yes, they are always telling about poor working girls meeting rich young men who fall in love with them, dolefully said a sympathizer.

Yes, Lotta cried, with curling lips, and poor working girls never get a chance to meet rich men. Rich men are scarce, and what there are, don’t go around searching for poor girls to marry.

Of course they don’t search for poor girls to love, Lotta Loring, cried pretty Merribelle, with glistening eyes. But fate throws them in each other’s way, and if they love, they marry.

Humph! In novels, only! ejaculated Lotta disdainfully.

Not a bit of it, Merribelle declared stoutly. In this last week I’ve read of no less than three wealthy young men marrying poor working girls—one a seamstress, one an actress, and one a factory girl.

I suppose you think some prince in disguise will come along some day and marry you? sneered Lotta.

Then swinging her mite of a foot and with a roguish twinkle in her big blue eyes, Merribelle spoke the lines that opened this chapter:

"There is a mate for every heart,

For love is of each life a part."

And your mate will be one of the men in the factory, who smells of glue, and chews tobacco, and speaks bad English, Lotta laughed shrilly.

He may be the foreman—you know he has a tender side for me, Merribelle observed with quiet humor.

He is married, you must remember, spoke up one of the girls.

So he is! Merribelle said with a fetching sigh, her big eyes looking as innocent as a baby’s. Poor fellow! What a chance he has missed.

The girls laughed merrily at this remark, but Lotta Loring, with a disfiguring frown upon her handsome brow, drew her breath in sharply.

What conceit! she sneered. I suppose you think your doll-baby face a great prize for some man?

Cert! answered Merribelle coolly, pouting out her delicious lips and swinging her mite of a foot harder than ever.

I am sure we will all rejoice when your fine lover appears to carry you off to wealth and happiness, Lotta Loring remarked cuttingly.

Merribelle flashed her a saucy look from her glorious big eyes. No, you won’t, Lotta Loring, she replied audaciously. You will tear your long hair out through sheer jealousy. But never mind, poor girl, I’ll not forget you. I’ll drive past in my fine carriage behind my beautiful, high-stepping team just so you can see how I look, and on Christmas I’ll invite you up to view my presents.

Merribelle, in her teasing good humor, little reckoned on the frightful passion she was raising in Lotta Loring’s breast until Lotta, her beautiful face distorted with rage, grasped her fiercely by the arm and dragged her off the table, hissing savagely:

You little fool, if you ever get a chance to marry, beware, for I hate you and no difference where you go in life, I’ll be there to drag you down and disgrace you.

With that she flung the startled girl with ferocious force far from her, and walked away heedless of the indignant cries of the other girls.

Several ran forward to pick Merribelle up. There were big tears in her blue eyes, and her red lips trembled piteously.

Are you hurt, Merribelle? they asked softly as the pretty child shivered convulsively.

No, girls, I am not injured in any way, Merribelle replied, with an effort to appear natural. I deserved what I got, for it was not kind to speak as I did to Lotta even in jest. You know it hurt her or she would never have been so angry. I must ask her pardon.

The girls stood whispering together and watching Merribelle as she ran gracefully across the room to where Lotta Loring stood arranging her boxes, one on top the other.

She did not look up until Merribelle spoke, and then her face was so filled with rage that Merribelle almost fell back.

Forgive me, Lotta, she had said, bravely and contritely, but I did not mean to displease you.

Lotta turned upon her like a flash, and trembling with rage, struck down with crushing force the tiny hand stretched out to her in all friendliness and regret.

Stay away from me, Merribelle Harleigh, Lotta said, huskily. I hate you and I warn you to beware, for I shall never be happy until I hound you into a dishonored grave.

And the look of insane hatred Merribelle saw in those flashing eyes, she never forgot to her dying day.

Lotta Loring had barely ceased speaking when the factory whistle warned them that it was time to return to work. In a trice the girls were scampering in all directions, and before the whistle ceased each one was busy at her task.

Merribelle walked proudly away from Lotta Loring, but her heart was aching and filled with a strange dread, and the golden curls she had drawn forward over her ears helped to hide the tears in her blue eyes.

When she was busy at her own table all her fortitude seemed to give way at once. Tears rolled over her dimpled cheeks and splashed down into her glue-pot, and smothered sobs shook the slender, girlish form like a leaf in a heavy gale.

She was hurt and frightened, she hardly knew why. Lotta’s violence had surprised her, and every word the angry girl uttered seemed to have fallen like a withering curse upon Merribelle’s golden head.

Oh, I feel just as if she had ruined my life! she told herself.

All that afternoon she tried to shake off the feeling, but she could not. Even when the clash and clatter of fire-engines came like a gathering tempest outside, it failed to arouse her.

Wonder where the fire is? a girl near her remarked.

I’m glad it’s not in this old barracks, ejaculated another.

We’d stand a poor show with no fire-escapes and this a frame building, and the boxes would go like a flash.

She had barely ceased speaking when a lurid blaze shot up through the elevator shaft, turning the room—already growing dark—into the brightness of a fiery furnace.

The girls stood still an instant, as above the crackling of the flames came the mighty rumbling of the engines and the hoarse cries and shouts of the people upon the street.

Then the full horror of their position burst upon them with appalling terror, and they ran crying and screaming to the windows, ready to throw themselves down to be crushed to death in the street, but the people below waved them back, pointing to the roof.

With a faint feeling of hope they turned and made for the roof.

One by one they scrambled frantically up the ladder through the trapdoor.

Very quietly and calmly Merribelle waited to the last, assisting the other girls and begging them to be brave. Even Lotta Loring, as quiet and composed as Merribelle, hung back and helped the others to go before her.

This she did until only she and Merribelle remained, when Merribelle, with a little motion, said softly:

You first, Lotta I shall follow.

Lotta made no reply, but running up the ladder, soon gained the roof, where she rested as if watching for Merribelle to follow.

As Merribelle was almost ready to reach the last rung, some feeling made her raise her eyes, when the expression of livid rage upon Lotta’s face, as she looked down, made the little heroine tremble more than even the flames beneath could do.

Merribelle’s lovely face paled and her eyes were fixed upon Lotta’s with an expression of such mute entreaty that might have melted a heart of stone.

Merribelle read the sentence in those burning eyes before an unerring hand loosened the trapdoor and flung it down, striking the golden head with cruel force, and knocking Merribelle from the ladder down into the burning factory.

Fastening the door to make it secure, Lotta turned and staggered over to where the girls were crawling on hands and knees across a ladder that spanned the space between the two buildings.

Not until they were all across was Merribelle missed.

Where is Merribelle? Oh, God! Where is Merribelle? screamed a girl. We must go back for her; she is in the burning building.

Lotta grabbed the frantic girl as she rushed toward the ladder.

Are you mad? she cried hoarsely. It is too late to do anything now.

And with a hasty movement of the foot she sent the ladder, which had carried them to safety, rattling down the deep, black space between the two buildings.

Run, girls, run! she cried, turning to them. The flames are following us even here. Fly to the farthest roof! There is not an instant to lose!

II - The Strangest Fate That Ever Befell A Beautiful Young Girl.

Merribelle lay quite still for a moment where she fell.

Then, with a cry of terror, she sprung to her feet, and with one backward glance of wildest fright at the raging flames, she ran up the ladder and tried with all her strength to force the trapdoor open.

Madly she beat upon it until her little white hands were bruised and bleeding, but to no avail. She could not open it.

She realized all in an instant—Lotta had deliberately fastened her in there to burn to death.

Oh, the horror of it! Her pretty face grew as white as death as she wrung her little hands together in helpless agony.

Frantically, Merribelle turned and crept down the ladder again, a cry of the most intense horror bursting from her paling lips.

She found herself almost surrounded by a raging fire that scorched her cheeks and brought the smarting tears to her eyes.

It would be but a question of a few moments until the entire building would be in one blaze—consumed.

The flames were pouring in through the doors and shaft, out through the windows, and hissing and crackling as they licked up with greedy rapidity the piles of paper boxes and pots of glue.

The wild cries that fell from Merribelle’s lips were lost in the roar of the fire.

Tearing off her skirt and binding it over her golden head, she fought her way, step by step, through the fiery flames to the window. But there the intense heat of the flames made her pause.

God help me! she wailed, covering her eyes with her hands to shut out the horror of the licking flames. There is no help for me—no escape! I am doomed to die this horrible death—to be burned to a crisp. Oh, God in heaven, pity me, forgive my sins, save me Help—help—help!

The most intense thankfulness prevailed among the breathless throng in the street when word was passed from one to the other that the rapidly consuming building was empty; all the girls had escaped with safety.

Suddenly a voice, shrill and piercing, rang out clear and distinct above the roar of the flames, striking a thrill of horror to the hearts of all that heard it.

It was Merribelle.

For a moment she stood upon the window ledge, her slender, girlish figure in plain view of the thousands packed in the street below.

Dumb, motionless, like a marble statue, she stood there in the window, surrounded by the darting fire.

Once her lovely arms were stretched out toward them in an agony of supplication, and on her pretty face rested the most pitiful despair.

They thought she was going to fling herself down into the street, but after one despairing glance she turned, as if preferring death among the flames to crushing out her fair young life upon the cruel stones so far below.

The crowd stood by, petrified with horror, unable to act or move, until she disappeared from view, and then a cry of agony arose.

She had fallen back into a furnace of flames, they thought, and all efforts to save her were useless.

But this was not true.

A young man who had driven down to see his cousin, whose business occupied the adjoining building, caught a glimpse of that beautiful, terrified face at the window, as with his cousin he watched from the upper story the labors of the firemen.

The factory girls had been helped down through this building and he knew how they had escaped, so with the swiftness of a deer he ran up the stairs and soon stood upon the roof.

The yawning space between the buildings did not thwart him, for he was a strong, athletic young fellow, cool and daring, and with one mighty spring he cleared the space and stood upon the burning building.

It was the work of an instant to wrench off the bolt that fastened the heavy trapdoor, and flinging it open, he rushed fearlessly and bravely down into the burning building.

Pretty Merribelle was standing at the foot of the ladder, hemmed in on every side by the hungry flames, which she was watching with clasped hands and wild, despairing eyes.

She did not know that help was near until he spoke.

Come! He cried hoarsely. There is not a moment to lose. Come!

For one brief second her pretty face was raised to him, and her soulful eyes rested upon his handsome face, and then without a sound she staggered, and would have fallen, had he not clasped her in his arms.

The horror of it had been too much for her—pretty Merribelle had fainted away.

The young hero pressed the slight, girlish form to his throbbing heart, and even in the midst of those angry flames felt a thrill shoot through him as he gazed into that pretty, colorless face.

Thank God, I came! he whispered huskily. I have found the only girl I shall ever love.

Holding her to him, he quietly retraced his steps, and none too soon, for just as he went to spring back to the other building, he felt the burning one swaying beneath him, and the instant he jumped there came a deafening crash, a rushing up of flames and smoke, and the building fell.

And as it was, the brave young hero would have gone to his death with pretty Merribelle had not his cousin been there to grasp him and pull him back from the yawning space, for in his wild spring he failed to measure the distance, and falling heavily upon the edge of the roof, would have fallen back again, burdened as he was, if a saving hand had not been outstretched to save him.

He rose to his feet pale as death, and with almost a groan upon his white lips.

Frank! he said huskily. I fear I was not in time to save her. She is unconscious, injured for all I know.

Darn the girl! was the rough reply. You almost sacrificed your life for her—a factory girl!

If it had been the lowliest of creatures, I would have done the same came the brave response. But this girl—ah, Frank, look at her beautiful face! I have saved an angel!

Be careful! Frank laughed gruffly. No falling in love with a factory girl. Remember, you are as good as betrothed to a wealthy heiress and, unless you marry her, you will lose your uncle’s millions and be a beggar.

Have done with that—bitterly. I am in pain. Carry this girl down to the back entrance and get her into my carriage. I can’t carry her myself—my arm is broken.

Darn this factory girl! I’ll send the police up for her, said Frank indifferently, and then stopped abruptly and picked up the unconscious Merribelle.

Ah, I see hope in this! he said to himself with a thrill of glee. "My handsome cousin shall have his way, and it won’t be Frank Ashley’s fault if the Sutherland millions does not find a new owner. A clever exchange—Cedric Sutherland shall have the factory girl—I’ll get the millions.

Come on, Cedric, he said aloud. "I’ll get the girl down all right. A brave thing you did, my dear cousin, and the girl is a beauty."

The scheme that entered Frank Ashley’s mind made him wish to act with haste and secrecy, so he managed that no one should know who the girl was he carried to the carriage, or that she had been rescued from the burning building.

As he laid the girl in the carriage he was surprised to see Cedric Sutherland pitch forward, and catching him in his arms, he found that Cedric had fainted from the intense pain of his left arm that hung limp and helpless by his side.

Nothing could suit me better, he muttered, and giving the driver explicit instructions, he jumped into the carriage and was soon far away from the scene of the fire.

When Cedric Sutherland regained consciousness he found his cousin sitting moody and silent beside him, while on the front seat, still in a state of unconsciousness, lay the girl he had so nobly rescued from a horrible death.

Where are we, Frank, and did I faint? inquired Cedric.

That you did, old man, his cousin responded in tones of affection. Can you stand up a little longer or do you want to get out at some doctor’s, while I go on with your fair captive?

On where? Cedric asked with some wonder.

Oh, I’m taking her out to Sutherland Hall, was the easy answer. You know you couldn’t take her to your house in town. It would raise a talk. There is no one at Sutherland Hall except the old housekeeper and her husband, and they never talk, even if your nearest neighbor, Granville Norcross—who, like yourself, is never at home—did not live fifteen miles away cross lots. There the young lady can take all the time she wants to recover and nobody will be any the wiser.

But she may have friends who will grieve to death, thinking she was lost in the fire, Cedric protested. We must take her back, Frank.

True enough; I didn’t think of that. Then—cunningly—she may have friends, doubtless a lover, who wants her back.

A lover! Cedric repeated with a sharp start, glancing wistfully at the beautiful white face.

Go on, Frank, he added slowly. We’ll find her friends after she is well.

Frank Ashley smiled grimly, and said no more.

He finally persuaded Cedric to stop at the home of a physician in a small village through which they had to pass, and have his arm set.

Cedric felt that the beautiful girl he had rescued needed medical aid, but Frank assured him that she was suffering from nothing worse than exhaustion from fright, and that she would be all right before morning.

If you want the doctor to see her, bring him along, he said finally, but if I were you I wouldn’t let him into the secret, unless it is absolutely necessary. Mrs. Collins, as I remember in my boyhood days, has a remedy for everything. She’ll bring the young lady around in no time.

Once again Cedric Sutherland allowed his cousin to have his way, partly because a stronger influence was at work in his heart that made him determined to keep Merribelle near him, so he let them drive on to Sutherland Hall, while he stopped to have his arm dressed.

Frank Ashley thanked his lucky stars that he had persuaded Cedric to stop in the village.

It was an evil day for pretty Merribelle when this happened.

The instant after she had gazed into Cedric Sutherland’s handsome face she had lost all sense of her deadly peril, and knew no more until she awoke to find herself with a strange man in a carriage, going at a rattling pace over a smooth road.

Her first feeling was one of surprise as she opened her big, dazed eyes and gazed around her. Then she rubbed them with two mites of hands, like a sleepy baby, thinking she was dreaming.

But Frank Ashley, seeing that she was conscious, spoke and broke the spell.

You feel better, I hope? he said kindly.

Yes—yes—I—Where am I? she faltered nervously.

You are going to my cousin’s home. My cousin, who rescued you from the burning building at the risk of his life, he explained.

But I am not ill, she said quickly, feeling a strange fear stealing over her. I—I thank your cousin. It was very noble to risk his life for mine, and if you please, I’d like to get out and go back home.

I’ll send word to your friends that you are safe, but if I did not take you home, my cousin would be offended. I beg you to be patient. Surely he deserves this much from you. If you will kindly tell me the address of your friends

I have no friends. I am an orphan. There will be no one sadly except my landlady to worry over my absence.

Ah!—eagerly—"that is all the better. I must now insist on your seeing my cousin, and here we