CONTENTS.

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 THE 

 MYSTERY OF CENTRAL PARK. 

 CHAPTER I. THE YOUNG GIRL ON THE BENCH. 

“And that is your final decision?”

Dick Treadwell gazed sternly at Penelope Howard’s downcast face, and waited for a reply.

Instead of answering, as good-mannered young women generally do, Penelope intently watched the tips of her russet shoes, as they appeared and disappeared beneath the edge of her gown, and remained silent.

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When she raised her head and met that look, so sad and yet so stern, the faintest shadow of a smile placed a pleasing wrinkle at the corners of her brown eyes.

“Yes, that is—my final decision,” she repeated, slowly.

Dick Treadwell dropped despondently on a bench and, gazing steadily over the green lawn, tried to think it all out.

He felt that he was not being used quite fairly, but he was at a loss for a way to remedy it.

Here he was, the devoted slave of the rather plain girl beside him, who refused to marry him, merely because he had never soiled his firm, white hands with toil, nor worried his brain with a greater task, since his school days, than planning some way to kill time.

He was one of those unfortunate mortals possessed of an indolent disposition, and had[Page 9] been left a modest legacy, that, though making him far from wealthy, was still enough to support him in idleness.

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He lacked the spur of necessity which urged men on to greater deeds.

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