THE STRANGE CASE OF BEAUTY AND

THE BEAST.

I.

THE INCIDENT OF THE ROSE.

R. TUTTERSON the merchant was a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a smile, unfortunate

in business, lengthy,

lank, and yet lovable

as the possessor of a

beautiful daughter. When everything went well with him, there was something about him that inspired confidence which even his fondness for himself could not overcome; but when angry, Mr. Tutterson,

without making any perceptible effort, could be as mad as the next man.

The chief pleasure which Mr. Tutterson derived from life, independent of the olive branch which adorned his household, came from a habit of rambling through the streets on Sunday afternoons, plucking flowers from the miniature parks, and wishing he knew of some island wherein there lay hidden the fabulous treasures of long-forgotten pirates.

It chanced in one of his Sunday afternoon rambles that his way led him down a by-street in an almost uninhabited quarter of London. The street was small, and on either side were the gardens of the occupants of the one or two villas which had been erected in the neighborhood. Within the largest of these gardens Mr. Tutterson perceived a bush on which were growing several magnificent specimens of

the cabbage-rose. Beyond the bush was a sinister-looking house in whose windows the shades were pulled tightly down. Mr. Tutterson did not perceive that beneath one of the shades there peered a pair of the most malignant-looking eyes conceivable. Had he done so, he never would have ventured to open the gate stealthily and walk on tiptoe to where the roses were growing.

He was a prudent man, was Mr. Tutterson, and he would much rather have gone to a florist and purchased the flowers which he had promised to take to his daughter, than purloin the blossoms of others when their owner was around to see him do it.

It was growing dark rapidly as Mr. Tutterson drew near the bush. It may have been for this reason that he did not

see the knob of the grim-looking door

turn slowly as he reached out to pick the largest flower from its stem. In another instant the rose was picked, and Mr. Tutterson became dimly conscious that he had been struck by an avalanche or some such overwhelming mass. As he said when in after years he related the occurrence to his grandchildren, he felt as if the sinister-looking mansion before him had fallen upon him. Always direct in his speech, he cried out, "Help! Help!"

Then to his terror he saw before him a form so utterly horrible and depraved in appearance as to surpass belief. It was not the house that had fallen upon Mr. Tutterson; it was the genius of the house, the owner of the roses, and the essentially sinful-looking being which he saw before him that had dropped into his life, whence he knew not.

Again Mr. Tutterson cried, "Help!"

“Help!” retorted the fiendish proprietor with a satanic smile. "What do you want help for? Seems to me you're able to help yourself!" pointing to the rose which

Mr. Tutterson still held in his nerveless grasp.

"What's the good of falling on a man from the third-story window of a sinisterlooking building just because of a cabbagerose!" asked Mr. Tutterson, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I didn't fall from the third-story