a strange look on the J udge’s face es‘he spoke.

' . with Jinnie?’ Bill muttered, as he walked up

- 01d cuss for all he‘s worth;

 

 

n,

‘ . spoke:

 

 

 

 

   
  
 
 
    
    

be,” said theJudge, puzzled at the words.

.~m’

» a
M, A.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ Yes, of course; but it is necessary that ’she
should  the receipt for it.” There was

“ I kin take the hook
me,” Bill replied. .

“I can’t spare it at present,” the Judge said,
quickly. “ But, Bill, you can tell Miss J innie
that the box is down. here andsbe can come
down,for it, sign the receipt and then I’llsend
it up. ’

The driver looked at the Judge in astonish—
ment.

“ Say, what’sup, Judge? Never knew you
to act so cranky” afOre. Want to see the little
gal, eh? got somethng for to say to her i”

“ Well, yes; perhaps I have,” the Judge said,
slowly

“ S’pose I’d better not come back with J in-
nie?"

“ It might be as well to let her come alone.”

f‘Allco—rect; awink’sasgoodasanodtoa
blind horse,” Bill said, sagaciously. “ I’m Off.
say, Judge, you ain’t a-shinnin’ up to the gal
that runs the Eldorado, are you, ’cos I’m goin’
for her myself, and you don’t stand a ghost of
a show alongside of”l me: ,

‘ For I looked in the glass an' found it so,
The handsomest nig in the country, oh.’ ”
Then Bill took his departure. .
“ I wonder what on airth the old cuss wants

right up along with

the street toward the hotel. “ I cotched him
the other day when he was eatin’ his hash up
to the saloon, a—lookin’ at the gal with a pc-
cooliar look on that graveyard face of his’n.
By hockey! Jinnie’s struck a ‘lead,’ if she’s
got the Judge onto a string. ‘ Pay dirt,’ by
thunder! Guess the old cuss will ‘pan out’
well: ,

‘Oh, pretti Jemima, don‘t say no, and we will mar-

ried e.’

I don’t believe though that J innie will cotton
to that old cuss, 11on you can fix it.”

By the time that Bill had come to this con-
clusion, he had arrived at the saloon. En-
tering it, he found Jinnie, busy as a bee, as
usual

“Box for you down at the express office,”
Bill said, in his abrupt way.

“Why didn’t you bring it up?” Jinuie ask-
ed. ‘

“The old cuss, Judge Jones, objected; said
you had better come down and see about it
yourself. He wants to see you ’bout some-
thing. Say, J innie, I reckon you’ve struck the

‘ Den I was gone ; clean gone!’ ”

“Nonsense! Bill, you‘re always joking;
but, does the Judge really want to see me?”
she asked. . »

“That’s “his platform and no beefsteak!
But, say, Jinnie, don’t you throw yourself
away on an old cuss like the J udge, when Gin-
ger Bill is around; '
‘F‘or ou’d make me

ower!”’

f‘ I’ll go and see what he wants.” V ' I

just as happy as a bigsun-

“Just as you please; but go on with your
story; I am very much interested.”

“Then he told me that he intended to
look out for me until I was able to take care
of myself, and he asked me what I thought
I ,would like to do. You’ve seen the light-
ning flash, Judge, haven’t you, in a thunder
storm?”

The Judge nodded assent.

“Well, just as quick as that, the thought
came into my mind to take the Eldorado.
When I told him of it, he looked grave, but,
after thinking for a moment, he asked me if I
thought I could run it. I told him I thought
I could, and that settled the matter. I took
the hotel, and you know the rest, Judge, as
well as I do.” : -

“ Yes; I think I can guess who aided you i”

“ I don’t want you to, Judge!” cried J innie,
earnestly.

 

CHAPTER XII.
JUDGE JONES’ QUESTION.

, JUDGE JONES cast a long and steady glance
into the face of the girl. It was evidentthat
he was not pleased with her speech.

“You do not wish me, then, to guess who
your friend is?” he said.

J innie replied by a single movement of the
head.

“ Do you knew that I take a great interest
in you, my girl!” the Judge asked, a strange
hesitation evident in his speech.

“ I’m sure, I’m very much obliged, J udge,”
Jinnie said, honestly.

“ It pains me to see you leading the life that
you do; something tells me to extend a hand,
and try to lift you from it. Are you willing
to be aided by met” * ‘

For a moment J innie’s gaze sought the floor.
In the eyes of the Judge she read the full
meaning of his words. _

‘ “You do not answer,” he said, after wait-
ing for a moment. ‘

“I’m very much obliged to you, Judge, but
I am getting along very well now, ” she replied,
slowly. “ If I should need a friend, why I’ll
remember what you've just said.”

The Judge started to his feet and paced up
and down the room for a few moments, his
brow contracted in thought. Suddenly he
halted, facing the girl, and extended his hands
to her. «

“ Give me your hands, J innie, ” he said, in a
tone that betrayed traces of deep agitation.

Astonished at the request, the girl placed
her little brown hands in the broad palms of
the stalwart man.

Quickly, with a feverish haste, the fingers
of the Judge closed around the little hands.
He raised her from the chair to her feet and
gazed, with an earnest look, into her face.

“ Jinnie, do you love any one?” he ques-
tioned.

For a moment (the face of the girl flushed
crimson at the question. She strove to with
draw her hands from his, but he held her fast
asbyagripofiron. '. -

s

‘1.
v

 

So Jinnie caught up. her straw hat, which
lay behind the bar, and left the saloon. ‘ .

With a light step, she hastened down "the
street toward the express ofice. , ‘

“You do not answer my question!” he cried,

“ Perhaps he’s up in the Gully.”
“ The Gully?”
“Yes, Gopher Gully; it’s about two miles
up the valley. Follow the river till you come
to where a little creek runs into it; then turn
to your right; the camp is only about a hun-
dred yards or so from the river. ”
“ You think that I will be likely to find him
there?” ,
“ I don’t know anything about it,” replied
Jinnie, with a shake of the head. “But he‘s
just as likely to be there as anywhere else.”
“ And just as likely not to be there, I sup-
pose?” A
4‘ Yes. ”
“Ah!” Rennet came to the speedy conclu-
sion that he hadn’t obtained much informa-
tion.
Jinnie went on her waytoward the saloon,
leaving the old lawyer in a rather puzzled state
of mind.
“Bless me! I wonder why she was so anx-
ious to know if Bernice wanted to see this
young man?” muttered the lawyer. “I sup—
pose that I may as well go back to the hotel,
and tell Bernice that I can’t find the young
man. I don’t think it will be of any use for
me to travel two miles up this valley, Over the
rocks and through the mud. It’s ten chances
to one that I shall only have my labor for my

‘ 7)
So, having come to this determination, Ren—
net returned to the hotel. He went at once to
Bernice’s room. He found the young girl gaz—
ing out of the window.
Bernice turned eagerly as the old lawyer
entered the room.
“ Well?” she questioned, in haste, almost be-
fore he had entered the apartment.
“I haven’t been able to find him,” Reunet
said, understanding what she wished to know.
“ Oh, that’s too bad I” exclaimed Bernice,
petulantly.
“ My dear child, I have inquired all over
this delightful city, and no one seems able to
tell where he is to be found. I asked the land-
lady—that young girl, you know—and she said
that he might be in aplace called Gopher Gully,
two miles up the valley, but the chances were
that he might not be there.’ ’

“ Did you tell her that I wantedto see him?”
Bernice asked.

“ No; I didn’t tell her so—that is, not until
she asked me. She guessed it some way.”

“ Then she would not tell if she knew!” ex-
claimed Bernice, impetuously.

“ Eh?" cried the lawyer, in astonishment;
“ why not?” v ‘

“ I can’t—well, only a fancy of mine,” Ber-
nice replied, in some little confusion. “ Where
is this Gopher Gully?”

“ Follow the river up two miles to a. creek;
then turn to the right.”

, “ I am tired of staying in the house; I’ll go
for a walk,” the girl said, suddenly, rising and
taking her hat and cloak. ‘

“Shall I accompany you, my dear?" _
“ I won’t trouble you; I’m only going a little
way,” Bernice replied.

 

his lips trembling with a. strange excitement.
“You have no right to ask it,” Jinnie said,
slowly, avoiding the earnest gaze of the

An earnest look was upon her face as she Judge.

walked onward. \

The words of the jocose

“ Perhaps. not~perhaps not!” he exclaimed,

stage-driver had put strange thoughts into her ‘slowly; “ still, I do ask it. Will you reply?”

head. .
Many odd circumstances connected with
Judge Jones’ manner toward her came into
her mind. She remembered how, once or
twice, when the Judge was seated in the sa-
loon eating his meals—the Judge tookhis
meals at the Eldorado and slept in the eXprem
ofiice—nshe had caught his eyes fixed upon her
with a peculiar expression shining in them.
She had not thought _much of it at the tune,
but now, she began to ask herself if Bill had
guemed the truth. ,
q Entering the exprm ofice; she found the
Judge alone, busy among his papers.

“ Bill told me that a box has come for me,”
Jinnie said. '

“ Yes; there it is; charges, one dollar.”

Jinnie handed over the amount and signed
the receipt.

“I’ll have it sent up to the hotel right
away,” the Judge said, a kind expression in
his usually harsh voice. “Sit down, Miss J in~
nie. I want to talk to you for a little while.”
He brought a chair as he spoke and placed it
by the girl’s side.

Jinnie sat down and waited in silence. The
Judge brought another chair for himself and
sat down, facing Jinnie.

Fora moment the Judge looked earnestly
in the fresh young face I- of the girl, a strange
expression upon his grave features, than he

“ Miss Jinnie, do you know that the life that
you are leading is a very strange one for a
yOung girl?” -

‘f Yes, I know it,” Jinnie said, quietly.

“ You are! constantly brought; in contact
with the very worst class that frequents our
towne—rough, uncouth miners—you can not be.
happy leading such a life.” ' _ .

“Imust-r get my living some way; I have
no one to, look Out for me,” ‘Jinnie replied,
earnestly. “I know that the miners are
rough, but you forget Judge that I was
brought up amongthem; by this time I ought
to be pretty well used’to them‘and to their
ways.” , a , . .

“ Jinnie, what ever put it into vour head to
take :the Eldoradol’fr the Judge asked, suddem

1y. L , ‘ I , ' , :

“‘I‘don’tknow; I supposebocause it'was,
the only thing I could do here I work hard,-
andl’m doingweil, and there isn’t anyone in,
Spur City that ’ can truthfully say a werdl
against me.”- The girl held up her headproud
1y as she spoke. . ‘ ,‘ ’

“That’s‘true.” . .

“Yes; after father died, I didn’t have five
dollars in the world. 331‘ was all alone, helpless,
almost, friendless.  sat in the little cabin
down bythe Ream after the; funeral, crying
for father, for he had always been a good fath-
er tome; I felt as if there wasn't anybody on
earth that cared anything for me. Iliad a
good mind to go out and jump into the river,
and die there, where father" had died. Then
somebody earns in to see me. He .didn’t say
much, but what, he "did Say dried my tears
right up, and made me know that father had
spoken truth whdh' he said, after he passed in
his chuckle, there was somebody up in the sky
overhead that would look after me. I never
was learned to pray, Judge,1but, just then, I
did pray, not with my lips, but way down in
my heart.” ‘ _ . . , .

“ This friend that came to see you oflered
you assistance, than?” toe J udge questioned, a
peculiar look in his stemreyeu

“ Yes, hedid’; but he wasn't what you call
a regular friend; I had never seen him but
oncebefore. He told .me that the Reese had
taken one father from me but had giVeu‘ me
another, and he was the other.” ‘ I '

‘-‘ Why, I don’t understand how that, could
_’ “It was true, but I would rather not speak '
any more about that, if you please,” Jinnie re»

‘1 No, 77
The answer of the girl was low but firm; no
" trace of hesitation inner voice.

The brows of the Judge contracted at her
words. ' ‘ , I

“Then, if there is a man in Spur City who
loves you—a man rich, holding a goodposi—
tion in thewbrld, esteemed by his fellows—41
there is such am, and howshould come to
you messy: ‘I'love you; will you let me
take you from the unwomanly life that you
are leading and place you before the world,
the wife of a Wealthy man?’ what would be
your answer?”

“N0 :72

Firmly and promptly the answer came.

,“ You will not change your mind?”

“ No. ”

For a single moment the Judge gazed into
the earnest face of the girl; then he released
her hands and turned away; walking to the
other side of the room, he sat down in a. chair,
and placing his elbow upon the table near him,
half hid his, face in his hand.

J innie stood'irresolute, not knowing whether
to go or stay. The strangemanner of the
Judge surprised her.

“Do you wish to say anything more?” she
asked, timidly.

‘ “No; I will have the box sent up,” he re
plied, in a strange, unnatural tone. ,

With a puzzled look upon her face, Jinnie
left the express office. 7

The Judge remained for a few moments mo-
tiOnIess, a dark look upon his massive face.
Then he‘ rose to his feet and began pacing,
with'a rapid step,*up and down the narrow
limits of the room. »

“ She loves him!” he muttered, in an angry
tone. “ I readrthe truth in the crimson flush
that spread over her face at my question.
Shall he have her?” There Was an angry
menace ‘in his voice as he asked the question.
“Yea-when the Reese'river runs backward,
and the" peaks of the Sierra melt like the snow
that lies upon them in the winter—time.” The
Judge compressed his lips firmly,‘and clenched
his'hands nervously, as‘though he held a fee
in his grasp. “His life‘ or mine, eh!” A
dreadful meaning in the simple question.
“ It must come to that, sooner or later. All
the Reese river valley isn’t big enough to hold
both ofus. I’llhave him out of the way be-
fore another week goes by. It’s strange what
a fascination there is in this girl’s face."

Then the‘Judge sat down to the table and

O commenced to write. The words he traced

upon the paper threatened a human life.

Jinnie, returning to the Elder-ado, met the
lawyer, Mr. Bonnet. . -

“.Ah, by—the-by, Mite—e” 7 - ‘

“Jinnie,” said the girl, as the lawyer hesi-
tated. , '

“ Yes; Miss Jinnie; can you tell me where
.I can find the gentleman who gave his room
up to Miss Gwyne last night?” Rennet asked.

“ Why, does she wafitto’see him?” Jinnie
asked, quickly. * ' ' '

“Well, I-—'-th’at is~——of course it would be
only common politeness for her to express to
him her appreciation of his kindness,” replied
the old gentleman; rather embarrassed at J in-
nie’s direct question. Bernice, that morning,
had astonished the lawyer by the eagerness
with which she had requested an interview
with Talbot. In obedience to her commands,
the old gentleman had been searching for
“1an Dick” all the evening, but without
success. ‘

“She wants to see him?” repeated Jinnie,
thoughtfully.

“Ye—~yes,” replied Rennet, who couldn’t
understand why the young girl was so par-
ticular in regard to the matter.

“ I don’t know where he is,” Jinnie said; “ I
haven’t seen him since last night.”

“ Can you inform me of any place where I
would be likely to find him?” *

 

plied, a little embarrassed.

sudden determination, Bernice left the hotel.

by the river. Soon she left Spur City behind.
The road wound along, flanked by river, rooks
and pines. A man going taward the city came
in sight. ' At the first glance, Bernice recog-
nized him. The man approaching was Dick
Talbot!

( To be continued—commenced in No. 264.)

Old "Bull’s-Eye,
THE LIGHTNING SHOT OF THE PLAINS.
BY JOSEPH E. BADGER, JR.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 'xx1v.
.OLD BULL’S-EYE’S REWARD.

THIS announcement fell upon the ears of
Juan de Sylva’s hearers, with the force of a
thunderclap. They stood as though petrified,
interchanging glances of wondering doubt.

“You doubt me,” added do Sylva—or ra-
ther Antone Barillo, as he must hereafter be
termed—faintly; “ you think I am deceiving
you. The time for that is past. I am dying
—I feel a dull, heavy dropping inside—I will
be a corpse before another sun. ’Tis that
wound—there is a bullet in my lungs, but I
could not give way while she was in the hands
of those devils. But now she is free—and I
repeat it, Abel Vermillye: Anita, the darling,
whom I have taught to 0311 me father, is your
child—the babe that your wife, Dolores, car—
ried with her when she sloped with me.”
“She your child—then—what am I?” falter-
ed Carmela, as she drew a little away from
the scout’s side. .r
“Pray that his words may be’true, little
one—for then you can be my wife,” were Old
Bull’s—Eye’s words, as he drew the maiden to
his side again, his strong arm holding her firm—
ly andtenderly. - '
“Father,” said Luis, who was supporting the
wounded man’s head, “ you must not try to
speak now—you are killing yourself—wait. un-
til a more favorable momen .” ‘
“No, _my boy<—~for you, at least, are my
son—no; I must speak out while I can. I can
feel the blood; creeping lip—soon ’twill suffo-
cate me. Nay, don’t. weep—be a man. I am
‘not afraid to die—what is it but along, dream—
less sleep, after all? Nothingmnothing more!”
His speech was interrupted by a violent fit
of coughing, which was ended by ejecting a?
quantity of blood. He smiled faintly as the
spasm subsided. 'He knew as well as they that
his hours were numbered, and motioned aside
the proffered water. ' »

“Give me brandy~whisky~—anything that
will "sustain me while I can clear my con—
science,” he gasped, and fairly drained 2: leath-
ern flask of fiery liquor. <

His confession, if such it may be termed, was
a long one, interrupted by frequent spasms,
during each of which it seemed as though
death must come to his relief, but by plentiful
use of liquor, he would as often rally and con-
tinue his“ statement. Naturally there was
much repetition and irrelevant matter, and the
reader would be worried were his: words liter-
ally recorded. The substance will sufiice for a
proper understanding of what may yet be
clouded. ‘

Antone Barillo and Dolores Venture. had
been engaged to each other nearly a year be-
fore Abel Vermillye made his appearance, but
Vincents Venture saw that his only hope of
averting utter ruin, lay in Wedding his daugh

ter to Abel, and so forbade Barfllo the house,
forcing his daughter to smile Upon the rich
young planter. He was a stern man, and Do—
lores had always been accustomed to bow to
his will. She did so in this case, and told Ba—
rillo that they must part forever. He finally
accepted this flat, and left the country. Boleros
married Vermillye, thongh hating him with
all her fiery, intense nature, until little Anita
—-—or Esther, as Abel called her then—came to
make peace betWeen husband and wife. ’Twas

 

« Leaving the lawyer utterly astounded at her.
She followed the little road that led along _

his passion, returned, and found an opportuni-
ty to meet Dolores in secret. That interview
sealed the future of all; and from that day on,
Dolores‘ hatred for her husband increased, un-
till at last she fled with Barillo.

What followed can easily be imagined. Do-
lores was of an intensely jealous disposition,
and far from being the angel that Barillo had
pictured her when denied him. And day by
day his love for her cooled, until, after an un-
usually stormy scene, he abandoned her, taking
with him the child, who had wound herself
firmly round his heart. ‘

From that day on, until the burning of his
rancho, Barillo did not meet nor hear anything
of Dolores. He went to Spain, and there mar-
ried a high-born lady—a widow, with one son:
Luis. Then he returned, and started a cattle
rancho. His ’wife died. He raised Anita. and
Luis in the belief that he was their father—that
they were twins.

“ That is all—and I call upon the Blessed
Virgin to witness the truth of what I have
Said. She is your daughter—my darling Anita,
and may—”

The man’s speech was abruptly checked by
another violent spasm of coughing, and rolling
over, a stream of blood flowed from his
mouth—and with it went out his life.

An hour later the senseless clay was placed
into a shallow grave, and with uncovered head,
Old Bull’s-Eye said:

“May the good God rest his soul, and for
give him as freely and completely as I do.
Amen!”

The loose earth was pushed back, the body
hidden from mortal eyes. And, kneeling side
by side, Anita and Luis prayed silently for the
eternal repose of the soul of him whom they
had so long regarded as their father. And
their tears bedewed his humble grave.

 

“ But Chiquita—your wife, I mean—declar-
ed that I was your child," said Carmela, hesi—
tatingly.

It was late at night, but none of those in
whom we have been more immediately interest-
ed, could compose themselves to sleep after the
exciting events, and Old Bull’s—Eye had drawn

‘Carmela aside from the feet.

“She did, I know, at first, and I thought
that was What she meant just before she died,
when she said—‘ there is your child!’ But
you and Anita were together—I believe ‘now
that it was Anita‘she meant, not you. Then
there is her treatment of you—you told me
you did not believe she was your mother. Ba—
rillo seemed sincere in his confession, and he
swore that Anita was my child. I believe he
spoke the truth. My heart told me from the
first that you could not be my ch..~l~——my love
for you is far diiferent.”

5 “ Then I—I only find a father, to lose him,”
half laughed Carmela. “I am nobody, then,
it seems!” , ,

“I believe, before God, that you are my
daughter!" said a deep, emotional tone, as
Walter Dugrand came forward. “I have no
proof save what I find in my heart, but, Car-
mela, if you will, there is a home and a fa.-
ther’s love awaiting you—will you accept it?”

lieve he is your father. If you can think So,
perhaps his is the best right—” 

“ Do you want me to go with him?” exclaim-
ed the girl, breathing quickly.

“ No—I don’t—I can’t say that! You pro-
mised to be mine—you whispered that you
loved me, when we expected death together at
every moment—my right is better than his.
Little one, will you repeat those words now?”

“ Yes—~and more! I am yours—yours only
and forever!” murmured Carmela, and her
arms wound around his neck, her lithe ferm
quivered in a close .embrace as his eager lips
met hers in a long, lingering kiss of passionate
love.

And this was 01d Bull’s-Eye’s reward.

 

A few more words, and my story is done.
‘ The party passed the desert in safety, and
finally reached Santa Fe. There occurred a
double wedding, solemnized by Father Ignacio,
the very priest who had inadvertently put
Old Bull’s-Eye upon the right trail. And,
learning what had occurred, he settled all
doubts by declaring that Anita was indeed the
child of Dolores Vermillye. He had long been
a friend of Antone Barillo, and had, in fact,
advised him to take the child with him in his
flight, for Dolores was not a proper guardian.
Thus, all doabts set at rest, Old Bull’s-Eye
wedded Carmela, While Anita made Perry Ab—
bot happy. Then, in company with Whiter
Dugrand, they returned to the States; and, re-
claiming his plantation, Old Bull’s—Eye, the

_ Lightning Shot of the Plains, became once

more Abel Vermillye, the quiet planter. , _
Walter Dugrand still persisted in regarding

side them, willing all his property to her when
he died.

Luis Barfllo rebuilt his rancho, and formany
years carried on the business of cattle raises,
and his children have succeeded him.

As for the rest of those who have figured in
this story, they have scattered far. and wide,
no one knows Where ' _ , " . ’

But throughout the far Southwest, there
may still be heard occasionalmention of “ OLD
BULQSEYE, run LIGHTNING 8301‘ on THE
PLAINS.” THE END.

 

i Readers of this splendid romance which is now
just ended will be gratified to know that it will be

hand. It is, indeed, a most exciting and suggestive
story of the wild West—full of that humor, origin-
ality and power of depicting wildlife which has ren-
dered this author’s writings so popular. The new
serial is '
, YELLBWSWIE JABK, IHE TRAPPER;
on,
The Specter of the Boiling Springs.
m

FASHIONABLE Wnnnmea— The English
fashion in conducting weddings is gaining fa-
vor. Groomsmen are done away with, land
ushers take their places. As these last are es-
sential to the number of eight; the supply of
available young men Would be exhausted if

sides, the effect around the chancel is finer, if
the girls’ pretty dresses are not marred by the
intermingling of black coats. Gentlemen ought
to rejoice that they do not have to go through

in full view of hundreds of eager, curious eyes
behind them; girls who attends. wedding . just
for the sake of the sccnic effect. The floating
drapery of the bridesmaids appears to even
greater advantage when the fair wearers kneel
in graceful postures, but the men look ridicu-
lous with their coat-tails touching the steps,
and the soles of‘ their‘ boots turned upward.

,At a glance the observers can easily tell if
those boots are old or new, and the number

worn. So groomsmen are things of the past,
and the best man has only to standby the
groom until he receives the bride. The ushers,
after seating the guests, walk up the aisles of
which they have charge, after the bridal party

 

 

at this time that Barillo, unabe longer to fight

enter, and take their seats.

“ You hear what he says, little one? , I be?

Carmela as his daughter, and settled down be?

followed by another serial story from the some

eight more were necessary as groomsmeu. Bee .

the trying ordeal of kneeling around a chancel .

 

NEVER AGAIN.

BY M. W. BALDWIN.

 

 

Never again will the roses bloom

Just as they did in the by one June;

Never again will the wild gowers blow

For you and for me as they did long ago,

Nor the stars look down, nor the moon’s pale

ght
Shed a radiance fair as it did that night.

Never again will the breezes play

With your golden-curls as they did that day,
When your blue eyes filled with a. shy delight,
You danced with me in the golden light,
When music, and mirth, and laughter gay,
Made the joyous hours fly swift away.

Oh, I whuld that the tender light

Of those sweet 8 es charmed my soul to—night,
Charmed away 1; e care and pain, ,

And brought me rest and peace again!

Oh. I would that the roses sweet

Bloomed again at my careless feet.

 

 

FINGER NAILS.

IF finger-tips have a language of their own,
so have the nails; and the manner of keeping
is as eloquent as all the rest. Some keep them
long and pointed, like reminiscenses of claws;
others bite theirs close to the quick; some pare
and trim and scrape and polish up to the high-
est point of artificial beauty; and others, car-
rying the doctrine of nature to the outside lim—
it, let them grow Wild, with jagged edges,
broken tracts, and agnails or “ back friends”
as the agonizing consequences. Sometimes you
see the most beautiful nails, pink, transparent,
filbert—shaped, with the delicate filmy little
“ half—moon ” indicated at the base—all the
conditions of beauty carried to perfection, but
all rendered of no avail by dirt and slovenli—
nose; while others, thick, white, ribbed, squai e,
with no half—moon, spotted like so many circus~
horses with “gifts ” and “ friends,” and‘the
like—that is, without beauties and with posi—
tive blemishes—~are yet pleasant to look at for
the care bestowed on them, their dainty per-
fection of cleanliness being a charm in itself.
Nothing indeed is more disgusting than dirty
hands and neglected nails, and nothing gives
one such a sense of freshness and ease as the
same members well kept. But one of the ugli-
est things in nails, is when they are bittin;
which, to judge by What one sees, is a habit
having irresistible fascinations for those given
over to it. It is an action, by the way, that
has more than one significance. It may mean
consideration, doubt, hesitancy; or it may mean
anger and annoyance; or, as a habit, it may
point to the not remote possibility of madness.
In any way it is ugly to look at, and worse
than ugly in its results; bare fingerltips, with
the protecting cover gnawed to the bleeding
flesh, belonging to the list of things mutilated
.and willfully spoiled—therefore taken out of
the category of things ugly by nature, hence
misfortunes for which the suffereris in no wise
accountable. ‘

 

 

The Letter-BOX.

SADIE (Bound Brook, N. J.) writes:

“ I am my mother'saesistant in housekeeping and
occasional y- have to perform tasks that are not
conducive to the good looks of my hands. Can you
so gest some way in which I can keep my hands
so t, remove fruit and vegetable stains, and make
them white?"

To keep them soft, before retiring for the night
make a thick lather of good toilet soap upon your
hands, thnn pour into one palm, and rub thorough-
ly upon the hands, a few drops of sweet oil or gly—
cerine. Wipe without rinsing. Through the‘day,
when washing them, you might rub them with a. few
drops of glycerine mixed with rose water. ’1‘ rev
move stains. wash 1311- m in clear water, wipe fight-
ly, and, while they are yet moist, light a match and
shut your hands around it to catch the smoke.
Many fruit and vegetable stains may be removed
by rubbing them with the inside of the paring.
Oatmeal and lukewarm water are good for softening
the hands, and lemon juice for removing stains.
For whitening the hands mix equal parts of good
cologne and lemon Cjuice, scrape brown Windsor
soap to apowdr-r, an add until you have a. thick
paste. Use instead ofsoap.

 

LILY CLARKE (Trenton, N. J.)

The invitations for your proposed informal party,
or necktie social, should read thus: “ Miss Lily
Clarke presents hercompliments to Mr. John Jones
and lady, and requests the pleasure of their com-
pany to a necktie social, at her residence, 43 Irving

avenue, Wednesday evening. April 17th, at eight

o’clock. Ladies are requested to furnish a necktie
matching the bow they wear.“ Finish with the date
of writing at the left hand corner. If printed, the
latter date is omitted. The necktie-s, as they are
contributtd, should be sealed in plain envelopes;
and before supper each gentleman draws an enve—
lope, and finding the lady who is his mate acts. as
her escort to supper.

HELEN WEITTAKER (New Rochelle) writes:

“ Will you advise me how to act in a very embar-
rassing position? I am euga ed, and was to have
been married this summer. y parents, and the
gentleman’s, are well pleased with the match, and
would be very indignant were it broken. During a
recent visit to a Southern city I was thrown into
intimate Companionship with a gentleman whom I
fiil love immeasurably better than the one whom
I upected to marry. Since my return my friend,
who is not aware of my engagement, has written
me a ver gentlemanly letter avowing his interest
in our friendship, and hishope that it might result
in a dearer relationship, and uskingme to corre—
spond and grant him the privilege of visiting me
'within afew weeks. What might * do? The friends
I was visiting South consider my friend there‘an
exceedingly honorable and worthy gentleman; yet
'my parents and betrothed will be sadly angry if
'they learn of this.”

Our advice to you is to be perfectly honest. Had
you been so with the entleman when first you be-
came acquainted wit him, giving him to under}
stand that you were an engaged young lady, you
'mi ht have saved yourself much sorrow. As it is,
v'tel your lover the circumstances. and that you no
longer love himwell enough to take upon yourself
the vows of a wife; and if he is anything of a man
he will release you. Certainly, no cars of any per—
son’s anger should induce you to become one man’s
wife whenyou have given your heart to another.
If you tell your parents the truth they certainly
ought not to object to y ~ur receiving the addresses
of the man you like. At least. having told your
,story you will have no compunotions of coascience
’for allowing the other gentleman to pay his ad-
dresses.

Mas. .E. A. L.: -.

To get the wine stains out of your linen, rub the
spots well with salt. then put in boiling milk and
soak for twelve hours before washing. If they are
red wine stains use hot chlorine water. Out of
silk, wash very cautiously with diluted spirits of
'hartshern.

BOARDING-SCHOOL Gnu. writes:

“Are there not certain rules for flirting which
makes that amusement permissible when carried on
within the limits of such recognized rules? If so,
will you please suggest some of them.”

We believe there are minute rules for handker-
chief, and fan, and hand flirtatious, etc.; and we
lpresume these are so well known by some as to be
recognizable even among strangers. Yet they do
not make flirting permissible, or a thing that an
young lady who entertains respect for hereof
should indulge in. __

WILBUR Anne (Danbury, Conn.) ‘

There is no impropriety 1n your askmg a young
lady friend for her photograp , so long as you do
not press the matter too urgently. There is no rea-
son why a lady, because she is engaged, should not
bestow her picture, acce ting one in return, upon a
gentleman friend. The ady was gerfectly rlght
in not asking you in after church. uch hours are

 

 

too late for ordinary callers.

 

 

 

 

C r

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7,,fimuyr.
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