“ What do voice. “ Help, of course.” “Icau do nothin r. You had no business to involve yourself so ileeply.” “ One must live,” was the sullen answer. “ I have always looked forward to coming into the half of the Challoner property. It did not seem necessary, with such expectations, to deny iny— self the comforts of life. ’ “ Comforts?” echoed Mr. Challoner, in a haughty tone. “I have always given you a handsome allowance—more than enough to gra— tif y every reasonable want. And now, accord- ing to your own confession, you have exceeded it, phingiug yourself deeply into debt.” ‘ (iver head and ears, sir. It will take no light sum to relieve me, some thousands at the least." “ You expect me to advance the money?” “ It is the only way in \A'hichexposure can be averted.“ “ How did you contrive to involve yourself so deeply (" Raymond dropped his head. “()h, it is not necessary that you should an— swer. i can guess the secret. You lost your money at play, sir; at the gaming—table.” “ I do not deny it, sir.” “ _You have promised me over and over a (tin to give up the vice. I believed you had one so. Ra mond trembled as he looked into his ram father’s cold, stern face. There was some- t ing ominous in the old man’s calmness and self—restraint. It seemed like the lull that often comes before a tempest. He would much sooner have seen him angry and furious. “I intended to keep my word, sir, I did iii— deed,” he said. “ But one is surrounded with so many tern )tations in a large city.” Mr. Cliailoner made no reply, and aftera brief silence, the young man drew near, and added earnestly: “I am ruined unless you help me tide over this crisis. Rumors of my embarrassed affairs will certainly ro abroad unless somethin is done immediately. That is why I came to in- lo Dell so secretly—the truth must be kept roin the public, at least until after my mar- riawe. r. Challoner‘s lip curled. “ Docs Miss Erle know aught of your troubles and lperplexities?” he asked. “ o; I would not tell her for worlds. It would furnish her with the very excuse she wants for breaking off the marriage.” “ Hiimpli. It scarcely seems the course of an honorable man, to conceal the fact of his em- barrassment from the lady he expects to make his wife.” ' “ Circumstances compel me to take this course. Ethelind need never be told. When we are married, I am resolved to turn over a new leaf. I’ll throw cards and dice to the dogs. Help me out of this infernal mess, and you shall see that I can keep my word for once.’ “ I have helped you once or twice before.” “True. But I have made up my mind. I promise to reform in good earnest, this time. ry Inc, sir. I came here on purpose to make this secret appeal. No one—not even Dolores— must know of this visit. She might suspect you want?” he asked, in a faint something, and think it her duty towarn Ethe— ' lind against me. Oh, sir, do not betray me.” There was another silence. At length Ray- mond said. uneasil : “ I've done my best to tide this danger over. lleft Glenoaks, some three weeks since, and Went up to New York, ho )ing to succeed in staving oil' matters a little onger. But it was of no use. Unless you interpose, disgrace is in- evitable. ” Had Raymond come to his an other time, it is probable no have been made in vain. But Mr. Chal- louor’s mood was a very bitter one. First, Do- lores had disappointed him, and now it was Raymond. lle almost felt like cursing them but I. “ Let me hear no more of this matter,” he said, in a low, stern voice his eyes burning with a strange expression. “ f you have dis raced oursell', you did it in your sober senses. have man your dupe long enough; now, I wash my hands of you and your affairs. You have brought sorrow and shame enough upon in head. Now I disown, discard you. From t time forth, I have no grandson.” Raymond slowly rose to hishfeet, a strange, ashy pallor overspreadin his countenance though it had seemed as w ite as it well could be, before. “ You— ou——are not—in earnest?” he gas . “You s iall see. Two years a o I ma e a will, dividing my property equally tween on and Dolores. But the girl, too, has disappo t- ed me. It is not ri ht that ingrates should bene- fit by my death. ou have evoked our own punishment. I have resolved to ma e a new will, and leave all my possessmns to found a hospital.” Before Raymond could interpose, the old man had sli pod back the bolts of the door, and touche the hand—bell on the table. “ One of the servants will be here directly,” be said, in a low, impressive tone. “If you still desire to keep this visit a secret, you can retire to my bath—room yonder. By keeping the door ajar, on will e enabled to hear the instructions I s all give to the servant.” Raymond gasped once or tWice, and then, scarce] knowing what he did, staggered into the bat i-room, just in season to av01d being seen b the rson who entered the apartment he hat just oft. It was Madam Zoe, the housekeeper. The woman’s handsome face was flushed, and she sent a quick, furtive glance in the direction of the half-closed door behind which Raymond stood cursing and trembling, ere she said: _ ” “What is your dpleasure, Mr. Challoner? “ You may sen one of the men-servants for my solicitor—Lawyer Grab. I have need of'his services professionally, and he is to come With- out delay.” The woman’s strange black eyes dwelt for a moment fiercel on his face. . “ Is that all?’ she said, turning at length to 0“ It is. " “I will see that your wish is executed.” Searcer had she disappeared and closedthe door, ere Raymond emerged-from his hiding- ,place. His very lips were white. “ I hope you have fully considered the step you pro )088 to take?" he said, in a husky VOice. Mr. Challoner silently iiited to the Window. Something in his face to d the young man that he had nothing to hope or expect from ex. ostu- lation. A stran e chill stole up from his eet to the crown of his ead as he turned slowly away, and step )ed out into the bright, glaring sun- light. lie felt that his doom was sealed. randfathor at is plea would CHAPTER XVI. A DEED or noanon. “ Murder moat foul as in the best it is, H But this most foul, strange and unnatural! -—SHAKBPEARI. SELECTING the most densely-shaded among the garden-paths—for he still had discretion enough left to tr to shun observation—Ra. - mond hurried on everish] until he reached t e pavilion. Here he pause , climbed the ste , and threw himself prostrate on one of t 'e benches, groan after groan breaking from his livid lips. , At length he heard the rustle of a wpmans dress, and a cold, soft hand fell on his. He raised his head—4t was Madam Zoe’s. “ Why have you followed me here?” he asked, sullenly. I “ Because I knew you were in trouble. Dear master, do not drive me awa —and oh, don’t look at me like that! Perhaps can help on.” “No one can help me, now,” came t e de- spailifing answer. boy ” ‘ or r . “ Dd 32gb knlboiiiZ aught of my trouble, Zoe?” . _ “ I know every thing,” she replied, in a gloo- my tone. “ I saw you come stealing toward the Madam house like a criminal, and my heart told me something was amiss. I listened at the door.” “rYou heard all that my grandfather said to me ‘ “All,” said the woman. Raymond sat up and folded his hands; all was darkness and des 'r. “ I am a ruine man,” he groaned. “Don’t sa that!” cried Madam Zoe, in a fierce, thrilling whisper. “ Mr. Challoner has no ri rht to cast you off for a mere youthful fol- 1y, t is uiii'ust. If he does it, some fearful re- tribution wi I surely overtake him.” .The young man did not answer; he sat with his black e ‘es fixed intently on the floor. Madam oe stern] continued: “ ’ou have a ri r t to half these broad acres. They would have on your father’s, had he lived. They must not be taken from you. I shall tell Mr. (‘halloner so.” ' “And be driven away, as I have been? No, you must not incur the risk, Madam Zoe.” “ Do you think I could remain if you were banished? No; the place would become odious to me. I could not even breathe freely under a roof that had denied shelter to you.” Raymond shuddered as he listened to the wo- man’s words, spoken as the were with a strong, wild vehemence. She ha always seemed to cling to him with a deep, self-sacrificing affec— 20:1. He could not understand it. He never a( . “ You are the only friend I have left at Din- gle Dell,” he said, softly. “ I shall never fail you,”. returned Madam Zoe, dropping her hand caressineg on his shoul- ( er. “ Why is it that you have become so strongly attached to me?” She changed color, and fixed a wild, startled look on the youn man’s face. “ It is well to ave somethin to love,” she muttered. “Ask me no more. here are mag- netic influences always at work where there are human hearts; and of some of these you, as yet, know nothing.” She turned slowly and left the pavilion as she spoke, and after a few moments Raymond fol- lowed her out. His face wore a dark, gloomy expression as he disappeared in the thick shrub- bpryggith which this portion of the grounds was p an . The sober hues of twilight were darkening the landscape when at last Lawyer Grab, the solicitor for whom Mr. Challoner had sent, ar- rived at Dingle Dell. The messenger had not found him in; and now he had hurried over, the moment he found himself at liberty, to learn what his client wanted. Mr. Challoner stated his wishes in a few terse words. “ I want a new will drawn up, and the old one destroyed.” “ You do?” said the lawyer. “ What’s the reason of this?” ' “ My grandchildren have shamefully deceived and betrayed me. It is my intention to punish them. I shall leave my money to found a chari- table institution.” Mr. Grab stared at him uneasily. “ That would be unjust,” said he. do nothing of the sort.” “ Who is to hinder me?” “Of course you can do as you please with your own. But my advice is that you think twice—half a dozen times, if necessary—before taki such a step.” “ hat business is it of yours?” “ None, to be sure. But I don’t wish to see you drawn into a measure, in the heat of pas— sion, that you are likel to regret.” The old man frowned. “Will an draw up the will—or must I send for anot er solicitor?” he asked, with dogged sullonness. “ Of course I must do your bidding, whatever that may be.” “Then enou b has been said.” “But it is latetodo anythin to-night. In the morning I will come to you, a any hour you may name, with the proper papers.” “Very well. Let us say ten o clock. ” And with this understanding the lawyer took his departure. It happened that Aunt Jerry was superintend- ing some work in the kitchen that evening, and sat 11 till a later hour than usual. The clock struc eleven as she stood before the glass in her own room deftly tying a starched and frilled cap under her chin. ‘ La, bless me! I had no idea it was so la ,” ejaculated the instcr, whirling round so quickly that she ocked the candle oi! the table, and was left in total darkness. As her toilet for the i ht was nearly com- pleted, Aunt Jerry decid not to relight the candle; but she stepped to the window and drew back the curtains to let in the light of the nlioon, which was sailing through a cloudless s . 1); moving figure on the lawn instantly at- tracted her attention, and as she pressed her face against the glass and peered out eagerly, a second figure emerged from the shadow of the house, and joined the first. “Good racious! It’s Dolores and that rascal, Vincent rlel” e'aculated Aunt Jerry, reco - nizing the two gures at a glance, for thoug the moon was not much past its first quarter, it already afforded considerable light. “Audacious! I never did hear of an hing so impudent! How dare they begin their illin and cooing over again, after what transp' this morning?” _ Aunt Jerry clung to the window-Sill and stared after the young couple until a bend in the path concealed them from view. She was choking with rage, but in the resent instance no tem tation to ex 56 them Mr. Challoner assaile her mind. he had had quite enough of that sort of thing the night before. “Let them 0,” she muttered. “If Dolores told the truth t ey are husband and wife and it is too late to interfere. They want to talk over this new crotchet of Mr. Challoner’s, I reckon. Anyhow, I’m not going to ruin any more etti- coats chasin after the un ateful idiots. t’s a marvel that ’m not sick 9. d with rheumatism, after getting the drenching I did last night.” The curtain slipped from Aunt Jw’s bony fingers, and she went grumbling to , where she found transient forgetfulness of all her troubles in sleep. . Some time afterward—how long a time she could not tell—she was suddenly awakened by a hoarse, shrill cry sounding from the room im— mediately underneath—that usually occupied by Mr. Challoner himself. Trembling with horror, Aunt Jerry started up in bed. Again the shriek came peahng up the stairwa ; this time it sounded more pro— longed, an she distinguished a word that sent every drop of blood backward to her heart. _ “ Mur—der!” Then came a muffled noise as if a fierce and deadly struggle was going on. o . Aunt Jerry sprung out of bed, sweating With terror. She was not a brave woman, but she quite lost sight of self in the intense exmtement of the moment. Hurriedly throwin on a loose wrapper, she opened the door an stepped outSide. As she did so, some one brushed past her on the land- ing with a faint, moaning si h. It was a we- man’s figure—whose she coul not distinguish in the gloom. . Hastening down-stairs, she found that the light which was usually kept burning near Mr. Challoner’s door, had been put out, and that the door stood widely ajar. She entered. The blinds were up, and one of the windows “You will stood open, and a flood of moonlight pouredinto the room. A faint, gasping cry sounded almost at her feet, and lookin down, the appalled woman saw Egbert Cha loner lyin on the floor in one of the patches of moonlig t, welterin in his own blood! A dark stream that oozed om his breast was already lapping its noiseless course over the carpet. Screaming with horror, Aunt Jerry sprung forward, knelt beside the prostrate figure an supported the old man’s head against her shoul— der. The light of the moon fell full upon his face. He still breathed, but the death- ng had so contorted his livid features that t ey were ghastly to look upon. “Look up! 3 ak to me!” cried Aunt Jerry. “ Tell me who done this dreadful deed!” As if the departing splirit had been recalled by that wild entreaty, 's glazing eyes opened Wide and white for a single instant, and a name fell from his Fquivering lips. “ Vincent rle!” Then he fell back a dead weight in her arms, and ceased to breathe. CHAPTER XVII. THE DAY’S REVELATIONS. - “ ‘ I shuddered at the sight,‘ Said Margaret, ‘ for I knew it was his hand That placed it there.’ ” —Woanswonrn. THE whole household soon came fiockin tel, the scene of the tragedy, for such among them as had not heard the first appalling cries were awakened b the piercing screams that broke from Aunt erry’s lips when she realized the terrible fact that she was actually supporting a. dead man in her arms. Gently placing the gray head on the floor, she walked up and down the room, still shrieking at the top of her voice, and wringing her hands. “ Oh——oh-—oh! This is too dreadful! I would have died willingly if that could have saved him. But his murderer shall be punished! I can do that much—I can avenge him!” There was Something strangely grotesque and horrible in the woman s appearance as she paced the floor and gave utterance to these ravings. Her face was eadly pale, and there was an m- sane glitter in her eyes. Her ni htcap which she had forgotten to remove, had fallen half off her head, and a few locks of scanty gray hair, escaping from under it, fell in stragglin masses over the faded yellow wrapper she ha drawn on. Aunt J 9 had had her romantic dreams and had cherished them 'ust as fondly as a girl of sixteen. She had ma e an ideal hero out of the stern, self-willed old man, investing him with graces and merits he had never possessed. It seemed to change her whole nature to see him lying there, weltering in his own blood struck down by the hand of an assassin. Her eatures took on a hard, fierce, vindictive expression quite new to them, and when some of the weep- ing servants drew near and would have borne gekbody to the bed, she waved them fiercely c . “Do not touch him,” she said, in a raised voice. “Let some one go for the coroner. There is work to be done, for the murderer shall be brou ht to justice.” » She bent own and laid her bony hand on the dead man’s forehead. She was shivering, but no tears came to relieve the burning of her eyes. “Poor Egbert! e(poor, martyred hero!” she muttered. ‘ I lov you better than you knew. Now I will prove it by avenging your dreadful death.” Dolores Gloyne was one of the last persons to make her appearance, but at this moment she came glidin into the room. A wail of anguish broke from or 1i 3 as she bent over the dead body of her gran father. “ 0h, Aunt Jerry,” she moaned, “ can noth- ing be done?” ' ‘Ay, 'ustice!” answered the‘ woman, in a strange, ollow voice. Dolores drew back with a dreadful sickness at her heart. She was frightened at the wild lare of reproach and horror with which Aunt erry regarded her. “Why do you look at me so strangely?” she said. “ Have you discovered any clew to the murderer?” L ‘ Yes. 7’ “ Oh, my God! Who was it?” The gra ness of death overspread the wo- man’s pal id face. Bending down suddenly, she whispered a few husky words in the girl’s ear. “ Vincent Erle is the dgluilty man.” The eyes of Dolores atod with despair and horror. Gasping once or twice, as if her breath were gone she threw up her hands, and with an odd soun ,half-sob, half-scream, fell senseless to the floor. No gleam of pity crossed Aunt Jerry’s stern face. “ Take her away,” she said, with a swee of her hand toward the unconscious gir . “And see that she is not permitted to come here again.” The. servants, greatly wonde ' at the singu- lar scene, raised their young mis ess between them, and she was conveyed to her own apart- ment. The coroner arrived shortly after daybreak, and with him came several men from the vil- lage who had been hastily gathered up to act as jur en. 6 body was examined—the premises care. fully ins cted. Appearances indicated that Mr. Cha oner was in bed and probably sleep- ing, when the attack had been made. There were two or three ugl gashes in his side, and his hands were cut. he probable theory was that the first blow, bein awkwardly dealt, had only awakened him, an that he had instantly girqu out of bed and grappled with the mur- erer. The worst wound, that which proved fatal, had been received in the left breast, and the knife with which it was made was found lying on the grass, just outside the open window. The knife appeared to be a new one and bore no marks by which it could be traced to its owner. Twelve o’clock had struck before the coroner succeeded in amassing sufficient evidence to be- gin the examination of witnesses. The first person called was the villa e surgeon. This was a mere matter of form, as 6 could only testify to what was palpable enough alread —namely, that the deceased had met with his oath from the wound in question. The servant who had last seen his master alive, was then called. He testified to having been dismissed by his master at half past nine. Mr. Challoner was then ready for bed—he inva- riably retired early. The windows—of which there were two, both opening to the ground— were closed; but the servant could not say who- ther they were fastened or not. “ Call Miss Gloyne,” said the coroner, when the servant had been given permission to retire. Dolores entered, leaninge‘ppon the arm of Lawrence Grab, who had 11 one of the very first persons summoned. The beautiful girl was pale as death, and trembled with terror, as she. sat down in the chair indicated by the coroner. “Please state to the jury what you know of this shocking crime,” said that gentleman, look— ing at her rather sternly. 7 l ‘I know nothin ,” said Dolores, trembhng more than ever, an dropping her eyes. “Did you hear no uproar in the night?” “I was awakened by the screams of Aunt J e113 Martin;. I heard nothing else.” “ id you arise immediately?” “ No. I felt dazed and frightened at first, for I had been sleepin very soundly. But when the screams continu , I sprung up and dressed in self.” ‘Did you learn what had happened before coming down-stairs?” “ I did. One of the maids stopped me on the landing, and told me that my grandfather been murdered,” Dolores answered, breaking into a passion of tears and sobs. She was given time to recover herself, and then the coroner resumed: “ You say you were sleeping soundly. Is_ there any particular reason why you were buried in so deep 3. slumber?” “ I—I—had been up very late,” answered Do- lores, in a hesitating wa . “ What kept you up?’ She did not answer, but a burning blush swept up to the roots of her hair, and receding, left her aler than before. “ sit not a fact,” said the coroner, sternly, “that you had an appointment to meet a. cer- tain young gentleman in the grounds, last even- ing, and were with him there until a very late hour?” The head of Dolores drooped lower and lower. She seemed overwhehned with shame and con- fusion. “ Yes ” she answered. “And was not that gentleman Mr. Vincent Erle?” She shuddered, .but made no reply. “ Answer my question if you please, wit- ness.” “Yes,” she said, in a low, trembling voice, “ it was Mr. Erle.” “ I thought so. Now you may stand aside for the resent. Let the boy, Muggins, be called.” uggins was a lad of twelve or fourteen, who was ke t to run errands and do any odd jobs about t e place that might fall in his wa . He had a precociously old, and a precociousgr wise expression not altogether pleasant to see in one of is age. 0 “Muggins,” said the coroner, “ you may tell the Jury whether Miss Gloyne did or did not send on on an errand yesterday.” “ L 6 did,” said the boy, inning from ear to ear. “ Sent me to the ‘ ‘rown and Thistle’ With a letter. Gave me a dollar for taking it, and romising to hold in tongue.” “ o whom did you dc iver the letter?” “ To Mr. Erle, sir. He was stoppin there— 1 in low to keep out of master’s way, reckon. e etter was for him.” “ For Mr. Erle, you mean?” “ I do, sir.” Nothing further was wanted of Mug 'ns, and the coroner requested that Madam gZoe, the housekeeper, mi ht be summoned. “Can’t be di , sir,” said Muggins, speaking up from the corner to which he had retired, near the door. “She isn’t here.” “ Not here?” was the amazed reply. “What do you mean?” ‘ She’s vanished, sir—evaporated. Nobodyhas the least idea what has become of her.” An in uiry into the matter elicited the fact that Ma am Zoe had not been seen by any member of the household since the previous eve— ning. She had suddenly and mysteriously dis- appeared in the nighttime, taking none of her be ongings and leaving no clew by which her flight could be traced. The coroner seemed puzzled by this singular event. After whisperingl for some moments with the jury, however, easked that Lawyer Grab be called to the stand. The solicitor simpl testified to having been summoned, by the eceased, the afternOOn of the preceding day, for the purpose of drawing up a new Will; and that the business, because 0 the lateness of the hour, had been finally deferred until ten o’clock of the present day. “Is the old will still in existence?” inquired the coroner. “It is,” was the answer. possession.” “What is its purport?” “After some trifling legacies are paid, the bulk of the deceased’s large fortune is to be di- vided equally between his grandchildren, Ray- mond Challoner and Dolores G10 e.” “ Do you know if the deceasedqlliad made up his mind to leave his roperty differently?” “He had,” replied t e solicitor, speaking with extreme reluctance. “It was his intention to disinherit both Ra mond and Dolores.” “What reason 'd be amign for so radical a. chan e in his pu ?” “ e declared imself disappointed in the young people, and averse to the idea of allowing them to profit by his death.” A murmur ran the rounds of the 'ury. A motive for the crime had been disclosed by Lawyer Grab’s testimony. Knowing nothing of the truth—except such facts as had alread come out at the inquest—they looked at each other and whispered that Raymond and Dolores were the rsons most interested in the old man’s death. at which—if either—of the young peo- ple was guilty? The coroner, who was better posted, shook his head at them gravely, and said in a low, im ressive voice: Miss Gloyne may take the stand a sin.” (To be continued—commenced in o. 408.) “ I have it in my Parson little’gflination Party. BY MA'I'I‘IE DYER BRITTS. Goon Parson Little was in trouble. And as he sat in his study giving the finishing touches 1&0 his New Years sermon, that was very evi- ent. I’m afraid if the sermon had been to com , this last da , it wouldn’t have edified the ock. But only t 6 last touches were to be added to ghe frame-work, and they were put with a heavy cart For the New Year was just opening, and the barrel of meal and the erase of oil were very low. Nay, the little toes were almost bare, these cold winter mornings—wh , even the parson’s boots had to go into the pu pit with an ominous crack right across the foot, too large to be bid- den b brush and polish from curious eyes. An though the good parson tried to be thank- ful for even the lessings he had, he did feel that if the church had come 11 to its promises, 8. eat part of his load would lightened. n secular affairs, he knew most of his mem- bers were prompt business peo 19. Why not prompt to their (pastor, too? (1 how can a man preach the ospel with a free heart, when his mind has to be worried with an overdue grocery—bill? “ Good-morning! Good-morning, elder!” this from Deacon Kelly, as he popped into the study. “ You didn’t hear my knock so I made hold to come in. Seems to me on on’t look as bright as common. Not well?’ “ As well as usual. Only life’s little worries, you know. Hard times, and tough pinches now and then,” explained the parson, With a smile. “Yes! yes! I comprehend! Well, it’s going to be a tough pinch on a good many this Winter. But we’ll Eu 1 through, parson! We’ll pull through! eeprup heart 1’ “I try to. it a pretty firm trust in a wise Providence a stout heart hasn’t failed me yet!” Deacon Kelly had come on a little matter of church business. Havin settled it, he went away. Walking thought ully down the street, he met a brother deacon. , Deacon Kelly stopped, and clapped his hand on Deacon Hawkins 3 shoulder. “Tell you, my good brother,” declared he, “we’ve got to do something for our pastor to- morrow. ’ . “Been thinking of that myself,” confessed Deacon Hawkins. “ Fact is, we ought to raise his salary. But so many would be down on that these hard times, we can’t do it. But I know he and his famil need many things.” “ ell, what shall we do? I’m ready for any- thin 00d.” “' e’ll make him a present. That’s the what. The how, we have yet to settle.” “ See here; we‘re near my house. Let’s add a bit of woman’s wit to man’s wisdom. Mrs. Dodge is there too. Let’s go in and talk the thing over with them.” So they turned back, and admitted Mrs. Haw- kins and Mrs. Dodge (a lady member who chanced to be calling) to their confidence. “ I know they need many things,” said Mrs. Dodge. “Johnny told my Emma that he could not ’go to school because his shoes were worn out. “And I notice that Mrs. Little’s best dress is getting awful shabby,” added Mrs. Hawkins. ‘ Well, somebody suggest a plan,” said Deacon Kelly. “ Shall we ‘ pound’ him, or give him a donation visit?” “Not as such things are commonly done,” 5 ke up Mrs. Hawkins, quickly. “ Not a great dlixdner party, to eat 11 more than they bring, and make a week’s wor besides!” “ You make me think of the story of the minister’s wife who stuck a dry biscuit on every paling of the front fence after the donation visit, ’remarked Mrs. Dodge, laughing. _ “ We won’t 've Mrs. Little any biscuits to stick on the ence,” decided Mrs. Hawkins. “ Let me propose a plan.” What Mrs. Hawkins’s learn further on. But it was accordin rogramme that Deacon Kelly pop I‘ “.I have come,” he explained, “to tell yo that wife wants you all for dinner to—morrow— not to be eaten, but to help eat a fat turkey, the occasion for a specially to in- who has been waiting for month back. She charged me Vite the young ones.” .“V\’ill.many others be there?” asked Mrs. Little, With one rueful thought of her shabby black luster, and the little, worn shoes. “Nobody but ourselves. Lucy said she a)” wanted her pastor’s family for a quiet and would expect to take you all home service.” oliday times. So the black dress was brushed and brighten- a knot of ribbon, and ed with a bit of lace and the little shoes mended as well as could be, an nicely blackened. And at the New Year’s ser- all the pastor’s family sat vice, next morning, in the astor’s pew. The there. And stran e to say, Mrs. Hawkins was ab- came in during sent. Even t e deacon himself the Singing, lookin flushed and hurried. The pastor feare Mrs. Hawkins must church. The pastor sighed, but tried to make his own sermon as interesting as he could to those who had remained faithful. _His text was from the thirteenth psalm: “ Will Sing unto the Lord, congregation earnestly attentive. After the meetin , and the usual hearty hand- shakes and friend y greetings were over, the pastor’s family accompanied Deacon Kelly’s famil home to dinner. An sucha dinner! The fat turkey, stuffed brimful With oysters, ruby-red cranberry sauce, the golden-brown mince- ies, and crisp dough- nuts, sprinkled with a litt e snow—storm of white sugar, the pyramids of red ap les and ellow can’t oranges, the—oh, dear, what’s t e use? tell it all! ‘ But the little Littles had never seen such dinner, and the big Littles enjoyed it fully as much. After dinner the young ones had a grand nd the old ones found so much to entertain them that it was quite dark before the pastor and his family were on romp in the dining-room. their way home again. “Oh, ma! somebod ’s in the house!” cried Johnny, as the turn the corner. ‘Howcan t at be? We have the key,” an- swered papa. “We left the back—door ke porch,” added Mrs. Little. in E’he house, sure enough! What can be goin on. “ No mischief, or they would keep dark. But we’ll soon see,” declared the parson, with evi- . dent excitement. He 0 throng the ball into the parlor. Not a. soul was there! But in parlor, sittin and dining—rpoms, bri ht lights were burning. The side-table was and 8 cos. and Johnny. Then a pair of ladies’ side-lanes, and then pair of wee wee button fellows, for nobody but little May Little! Beside these (the one sole vanity Mis. Little heart had longed for) laya fine, soft black cash- mere dress, with tasteful trimmings, and three—buttoned pair of black kid gloves in com- pany with half a dozen neat handkerchiefs and a pretty tie. And there were pretty laids for May roll of nice brown cloth fp ny, along with a pile of warm, bright-stri and stockings, and a tiny, cunning set of snowy um for May. And upon all these lay a card, marked thus: “ An offering to our pastor, from a. loving people. When these treasures were looked at, they followed the light into the sitting-room. There they found a beautiful pair of blankets, a large roll of white muslin, and a lovely set of table-linen, two handsome cloths, and a dozen na kins to match, with a fine set of tea-knives. till on, to the dining-room they went. There stood a portly barrel of flour, flanked by foug , an several large packages of groceries, besi es abox of canned fruit, and a whole barrel of round, fine hams, a forty-pound bucket of su reply-red apples. ‘ ell, you ought to have seem those ha py children ! cri like a bab And the good, pastor, with a glad 1i ht shin- With a ted aloud ing in his eyes, raised his hands, an sweet, solemn, joyful earnestness, re his text: “I will sing unto the bath dealt bountiftu with me!” Work and Play. COFFEE. rd, for H Mas. S. asks: clean, good coffee wit out using eggs? Th2! are so expensive that I cannot afford them 1 the time, and all attempts at making coffeila iling the coffee in a bag, ‘and a French coffeepot. ”—As soon as the fire is ound ' this with cold water until t pro is not a grain of dry coffee, or coffee dust left; uart it, and when just about to boil put it back where it will keep hot Without boiling. This should make stron , delicious, clear coffee. Remem- ber, 11 cupf l of - coffee to a quart of water, are the necessary quantities, and the coffee should be brought to the boiling point, but never bed- as ood coffee: and the only other way in w ich it can be made clear, is to strain through thin without them have have tried fish-skins, roved failures, though lighted, ut in a bowl a coffee-cupqu of coffee. t and add a Watc then ut it into ygur coffee of co d water. t upon t e fire. ed. There is no other manner of makin muslin. HINTS AND HELPS. LITTLE WIFE. Powdered borax scattered about the edges of floors and shelves Will keep Salt sprinkled on your carpets, can away insects. before sweeping, will brighten the colors, 0 them nicely, and prevent moths. of are in that piece of im 5 irits of ammonia and preci ita piece at a time, and dried upon perfectly dry soft linen towels. I;—-l '.- ‘ -/ Q_