In this Pape Vol. 42. Office P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. 31 Rose St. Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1887. sy Sireet & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. QC. New York, May 21, 1887. Three Dollars Per Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter. Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. nw) OLIVER, BY A iM ‘i WITH as oa A LOOK OF TRIUMPHANT SPITE, ROLAND LIFTED THE CANE [ ————— Y Ns “IT WAS A CAPITAL PLAN TO COMMIT 2 oe NEATNESS. A girl’s every-day toilet is part of her character. The maiden who is slovenly in the morning is not to be trusted, however fine she may look in the evening. No matter how humble your room may be, there are eight things it should contain: A mirror, a wash- stand, water, soap, towel, hair, nail, and tooth- brushes. These are just as essential as your break- fast, before which you should make good use of them. Parents who fail to provide their children with such appliances, not only make a great mistake, but commit a sin of omission. Look tidy in the morn- ing, and after the dinner work is over, improve your toilet. Make it a rule of your daily life to ‘‘dress up” for the afternoon. You dress may, or need not be, anything better than calico; but with a ribbon, or flower, or some bit of ornament, you can haye an air of self-respect and satisfaction that invariably comes with being well dressed. A girl with fine sensibili- ties cannot help feeling embarrassed and awkward in a ragged, dirty dress, with her hair unkempt, if a stranger or neighbor should unexpectedly call. You should make it a point to look as wellas you can, even if you know nobody will see you but yourself. rp ie SUICIDE OF A HORSE. James M. Stevens, of East Northport, Me., tells this story of a horse’s suicide : A team that had been worked a long time together were sold, and one of them taken to Massachusetts. The other was given to a neighbor’s son, being con- sidered worn out. Whenever he could get loose he made his way back to the farm where he had lived so long. On one of these visits he went to the old watering trough, drank, and wandered over the premises, and at length, with his head drooping nearly to the ground, turned into a lane that led to the shore of the bay. Reaching the water, he waded far out, and, finally getting beyond his depth, sunk, and was drowned. His actions were perfectly de- liberate, and it seemed evident that it was his pur- pose to make way with himself. sialyl <_< Horsford’s Acid Phosphate In Nervous, Mental, or Physical Exhaustion. Dr. N. 8. Reap, Chandlersville, Ill., says: ‘‘It is ot the highest value in mental and nervous exhaustion, attended by such functional dis- turbances as sick headache, dyspepsia, dimin- ished vitality, etc.” words. But Mrs. Ranleigh had thoroughly deceived him as to her acts and character, and he could not see her as poor Beryl did, nor Beryl as she was. From his half-stupor of sorrow he was recalled by the strip of buff paper. “Fanny, can you get your lady and yourself ready to start for Bath in half an hour?” “Yes, my lord.” “Quickly about it then.” He looked from the window ; his amiable heir was lying on his back on the terrace, playing with half a dozen dogs. “Harley, the dowager Lady Heath is dead; I must take Beryl to Bath at once. Take charge here for me. Your wife will take Beryl’s place. Mrs. Ran- leigh will aid her.” He pulled a bell as he spoke, and ordered the car- riage, and sent for his valet. The Honorable Harley came to him. “Go contented, cousin; ’1 do my best for your guests. I’m sorry you are to be disturbed so, but these things happen.” “Yes. Left here, you will only be rehearsing your ultimate position, Harley,’ and the marquis laid his hand kindly on the young man’s broad shoulder. “Perhaps not. Yon are not old. My new cousin is young and fair. Do you not see in prospective a nurse-maid pacing this lawn, with the Hope of the Medfords in her arms ?”’ “It will be so, Harley, but the boy will be yours, not mine. comes.”’ With a hearty clasp of his heir’s hand, the marquis went to his room. “Grand fellow,’ said Harley Medford, winking his eyes rapidly. ‘Model man; but he’s aging uncom- mon fast. I thought it would be just the other way. What can aman like Percy have to bring gray hairs and wrinkles ?”’ And the Honorable Harley went off to find his wife and that pleasant Mrs. Ranleigh, to tell all the news and get what interest he could out of the evening. The June morning was just brightening in pink and gold, when the marquis and Beryl, with their maid and valet, reached Bath. Very little had been spoken between the husband and wife during the journey, but Beryl felt that each instant she had been surrounded with constant sympathetic care. She crouched back in a corner of the first-class car, where they were alone, and cried silently, or thought thoughts that were as bitter as tears. Would every- body whom she knew die and leave her alone on the earth? Jerome was dead, and her grandmother was dead. She thought that now she would put on black, and those brilliant dresses which had seemed to mock her heart-pain for her lost love, could be laid aside. Now she would dare look sad as she felt, and no one would blame her. Now, for a little while, she need not dance, and sing, and make sparkling little speeches, with a grave and a loss seeming’ all the while to lie at her feet. Then she took some comfort in the thought that she had always been good and obedient to Lady Heath; she had nothing there to reproach herself with. But in this sudden fashion, as Lady Heath had gone out of time, so the marquis might go with his mysterious ailment; and then, oh, how much she must write against herself on his ac- count! That very morning she had said things that she should not have said, and felt selfish resentments, instead of patience and humility ‘as became her! She made more, many more, of those good resolu-. tions we are wont to make, set face to face with, death. All this impression was deepened in the next two} weeks. Alfred Heath and the earl were summoned to England; and Lady Heath’s body was carried to the ancestral vaults.at the chief estate of her family. Then the house in Park lane was to be indefinitely closed, rented, perhaps, by and by ; and Beryl seemed to be the only one to look after matters there. There were innumerable desks and drawers and private portfolios to be gone over, and correspondence and other papers to be made safe by burning them up. Lord Alfred had to go back to Vienna; the earl must return. to Norway; his countess was in delicate health. Beryl and her husband went to Park lane, the house where Jerome had wooed her and the marquis had won her. It makes sad havoc in affairs when the wooing and the winning are by different ones! The marquis was very patient and good. with the cheerless house, the empty conservatory, the furniture and carpets shrouded in linen; he brought his strong, manly business sense to bear on the bills and the debts, and the confused papers of the old dowager. He took calmly, as a matter of course, that revelation of the penurious, selfish, in- debted, extravagant, rowdy, contradictory life, over which Beryl] blushed hotly. He brought order out of confusion, and a measure of clean respect out of He bore God bless you, Harley, and him, when he | shiftlessness. Amid all this renegade misery, bald- ness, and deceitfulness, of this blatant old life of hard selfishness, looked forth for Beryla treasure clean and pure, and sweet and fair, as astar in stormy skies—a lily bloom among nettles. She found unex- pectedly, among bills and duns, and spicy letters of seandals and backbiting, the records of a saint! She found the pictures and the letters of her mother. Her journal of her married. days, and those two or three brief years of her motherhood, even a letteraddressed to herself, written by that dying hand, to be given her when she entered society, and which, alas! the renegade old dowager had forgotten. Oh, what ant those pure, saintly counsels have saved her child! Beryl spent the whole of a day reading and re- reading these blessed treasures, while stately, true, full of all womanly tenderness and admirable grace, grew before her the portrait of her mother’s mind and heart. Overcome at last, realizing how far she had fallen short of her mother’s ideal, and how far she had unwittingly wandered from her teachings, she took the picture and the papers, with many tears, to her husband. ““You will see,” she said, “how different I am from her, trom what she wished me to be; from what I might have been if she had lived, or even if they had ever thought to give me this packet—her legacy. They gave me her jewels, but oh! how much more good ‘hese would have done me! They show me, Percy, how wrong I have been. I entreat your forgiveness. Itis not too late for me to model myself on her pattern. I will try. Oh, if my mother had only lived! The marquis felt grieved for her, now realizing for the first time her irreparable loss. He looked at the ivory miniature of Lady Agnes Heath. “This is a very lovely face, Beryl,” he said. “TI will tell you what I willdo. I will have the best painter we have copy it in afulllength, to hang in yourroom. Send one of her dresses with the miniature, and it can be made perfect.” CHAPTER XXIII. “THE VAPOROUS BEAUTY OF HER BLONDE HAIR.” The marquis spoke about the picture in a generous compassion for his sorrowing little wife. But when he read the papers the grateful Beryl left with hin, he admired the character they revealed, and set the Lady Agnes in his mind ina shrine beside his mother. Of late he had been telling himself that Beryl was of a selfish, vain, weak spirit—only what he might ex- pect as child and pupil of Lady and Alfred Heath. Now he began to believe and hope better things of her. He perceived that in person she was remark- ably like her lovely mother, and he noticed much similarity in disposition. Her faults were those of inexperience and careless education, and he began to hope she would conquer them. They returned to Winderton Castle, but the gay company expected in August did not come. Harley Medford and his wife remained ; two or three elderly political friends of the marquis came—and Mrs. Ran- leigh staid. Beryl, in her repentance, after reading her mother’s papers and letters, resolved to bear with Mrs. Ran- leigh’s presence as part of her penance. Shecouldsay no more, at least, about having her requested to leave the castle. Beryl found that her mother had pa- tiently and silently endured all manner of ill be- havior in her husband, and had only usedher troubles as helps in growing better. She had found these words in her mother’s journal : “Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Under our feet each deed of shame.” Also, of our sorrows we can fashion the ladder where- by we climb to heaven. When Beryl read these words, she considered of how little she had to complain in regard to the mar- quis. He had been stern to her faults, and he had been deceived by Mrs. Ranleigh. So Beryl accepted Laura as part of her penitence. The sharp wound of Laura’s treachery was dulled by time and over- laid by other sorrows; its memory was less keen. After Beryl returned to the castle, Mrs. Ranleigh sought an explanation with her, and smoothed away much of what Paulette had said. Paulette was dis- missed; ‘“‘she was very false, and had proved a thief.” Mrs. Ranleigh utterly denied many of her statements, and softened others; she protested deep love for Beryl. Beryl! heard in silence. She said she did not wish confidence where once it had been ‘betrayed. On these terms even, Laura found it for her interest to remain at Winderton. Beryl dressed now in mourning; and, permitted to | have a cause of grief, could sorrow for the lost | Jerome. a widow and a wife. Her heart in Jerome was for- ever widowed. She could never love any other man as she had loved him. To him she had given the first passionate love of her youth—the love which regards the lover only, worshiping and adoring the man him- self. If her family had let her alone, she would have married him without an after-thought of terror of his poverty, without grudging the sacrifice of jewels residences. That had been the sacred fiame, lighted in her heart by handsome, affectionate Jerome, and it burned now in a still, unearthly light above his grave. She could never feel-for the marquis any- thing like that, but she felt respect, gratitude, trust, and longed to please him and win his approval. Per- haps she might Have succeeded only for Laura. “Beryl! is looking pale,” said the marquis, uneasily, one September evening, to Laura. Beryl sat by the table in a soft cirele of lamp-light, her head bent over some pretty work which she was doing for the Hon- orable Mrs. Harley, with whom she had a quiet triend- ship. Her face was, indeed, pale and delicate, her skin transparent like alabaster. ‘‘We should do some- thing to cheer her up,” he added. “T don’t know as she cares to be cheered up, poor little darling!” said Laura, compassionately. ‘You know, there is a certain luxury in indulging hopeless grief. Since the dowager died, poor Beryl can show without fear her mourning for Sothron. I wish she had never seen him! She is wearing out her life over thatloss. Yes, I wish we could divert her.” Now, this idea of a double mourning had never en- tered the honest soul of the marquis; but, having been put there, it staid and irritated him. He said to Beryl next day: “T think you have worn that heavy mourning long enough—as long as society requires. It is three months. I prefer you should lighten it up a little.” “Certainly, Perey, if you wish,” she said; and that day at dinner she appeared with a lusterless black silk with half sleeves, and cut square in the neck, with plentiful garnishing of crepe lisse at arms and bosom. “That is better,’ said the marquis, ‘and I should be glad if you went back to your imusié and singing. and invited some friends and made the house more cheerful. We have no right to be selfish in sorrow, and Hartley and his wife are finding it dull.” Before lunch, Beryl went to him and asked him to choose some guests to be invited for October and November. The guests came, and in the delicious October weather the castle woke to a more joyous life. The little mistress was beloved of all. There was a wist- ful, pleading gentleness in her glance, a pathetic droop of her pretty mouth, a timid manner, which united to the exquisite shape, the dainty head with its golden rings and frills, the fugitive dimples, en- chanted all hearts. The guests united to do herhonor. The merry Mrs. Harley Medtord openly laughed at the devotion of the Honorable Harley to the little countess. Law- rence hung on the gracious looks and gentle words of his young kinswoman, and each morning had a tiny, dewy bouquet to lay on her plate. Harley read poetry to her. Lord Ravlin was the first of the autumn guests that arrived, and he made love to Beryl’s dogs, and declared himself unconsolable if he might not sit by his hostess at every gathering at table. He went out riding on horseback with Beryl. In this fair home kingdom Beryl] stood, if crownless, an unquestioned queen. Then came a former ward of the marquis, Sir Eus- tace Friar, a youth not much beyond Beryl’s age, a young man with a hobby always at command. The previous season he had been nothing if not a poet. He had made ballads and sonnets, and appeared in an annual, and published a thin little volume of verse in white and gold. But Poesy was no longer mistress of his soul. Painting had usurped the place of poetry. Art was now his ideal. He had a studio at the end of the portrait gallery, and he went about the grounds with a water-color box and an easel. He sketched Beryl in one pose or another from morn- ing till night. Lady Berylin the drawing-room, on the terrace, at the piano, feading pheasants, knitting, readigg, writing. His sketch book was a whole gallery of studies, which he supposed to be lady Beryl,gand innocently showed about as such. His artistighinfatuation, his boyish frankness amused Beryl, she sat indefinitely for portraits. Sir Eustace betimes returned to his ancient wor- ship and indited madrigals to Lady Beryl, and read them to her in the drawing-room after dinner. All this homage was gall and wormwood to the jealous spirit of Laura Ranleigh. If she could not ap it ahe could make it bitterness to the marquis and Beryl. j “How can you expect your wife to go unscathed through the furnace of society life,’ she whispered. “She cannot avoid all this admiration, it goes to her unsought. She would be superhuman to reject it, and people seeing it, and not knowing her real sim- ple purity, will very naturally call her a married flirt. How cruel the world is. How I pity the darling. Do see Sir Eustace Friar, toiling now at ‘a Lady Beryl Medford.’ ” The marquis strode up to his former ward. “Always at the same study, Friar? Practice should make you perfect.” “No,” said Friar, with amusing desperation. ‘An- gelo himself could not catch the vaporous beauty of that blonde hair.” “Beryl, you make yourself conspicuous by accept- ing Friar’s homage,” said the marquis, aside, to her that evening. “Why, my lord! I look at the boy almost as an in- to quarrel with any one, nor could she re-establish | She was in an anomalous position—at once | and velvet gowns, horses, coaches, and numerous | cmt THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #25— fant in arms!” cried Beryl; but she bade Eustace make no more pictures of her. Christmas was kept at Winderton Castle with stately old time splendor. Then the marquis and Beryl made some visits and prepared to return to Cavendish square for the London season. CHAPTER XXIV. THE QUEEN OF AN EVENING. That procession of months had not been a happy time for Beryl Medford. Each passing day recalled the year before, when she had seen Jerome so freely, and had, alas! been so happy with him. She dreamed of him constantly—never of him as lost and dead, but living, loving, glorious in his youth and beauty. More than these wistful memories of Jerome, the singular bearing of her husband distressed her. No matter how submissive she was and intent on pleas- ing him, she could not prevent his jealous watching, and confidence seemed gone forever. It made social life hateful to her. In fact, stirred by the artful Laura, the marquis was making a mania of his dis- trust of his poor little wife. In March a ball was given by the duke,-.and Beryl appeared at it—her first brilliant outcoming since her grandmother's death. The marquis himself was dazzled by his wife’s extraordinary beauty, as she same to the drawing-room prepared to go with him. Her dress was of royal purple velvet, with a train, cut high on the shoulders, with a stately ruff, and open in a point, revealing the pearly and very shape- ly neck; the bodice front and petticoat were of satin of a pure pale amethyst-purple shade. Pearls were her only ornaments. She looked most royal as she came softly forward, her head crowned witb her golden hair. Fanny behind her, wiih a wrap, extin- ae this dazzling vision in a white swan’s-down cloak. Her appearance created a furor, When shestepped from her carriage to the carpeted walk before the ducal door, there was a stir of admiration from-all the on-lookers. As she moved up the stair-way, it was a triumph. She was the center of all eyes front first to last. People crowded around her for a look or a word; and there was fairly a strife until her card was filled for the dances. Never had a young debutante made a more astonishing impression. Anx- ious mothers sighed in hopeless envy, and the mar- quis felt the glare of the eyes of dozens of younger men fixed on him. The demon of jealousy took pos- session of his soul. Beryl, carried away at last by this full tide of ad- miration, seemed really bright and happy. Her sym- pathetic face only reflected the pleased looks about her. She really wished that her husband had been of her most pressing admirers, but said to herself, “That is not Percy’s way.” She never guessed that the outwardly cold mar- quis was in a fury of jealous love and selt-deprecia- tion. He gave her no congratulations. They left the ball early, and nothing was said on the way home. +" The next day they did not meet until luncheon, “Beryl,” said the marquis, “I have affairs at Win- derton. Ido not care to be much at the House this session. I think we must go to the castle instead of remaining in town.” “Very well, Percy. homes.” Not a shade of regret. a further explanation. ‘‘Harley’s son—I hope the child will be a son—will one day heir the estate, and I should like to have it born at the castle.” “Then we should go, and have them come at once, my lord,” said Beryl. “We cannot invite much company in the circum- stances, and as Mrs. Medford will not be able to be with you much, I propose to you to take Mrs. Ran- leigh,” said the marquis, slowly. Beryl resented this, but said, quietly : “Tt is not needed.” “T think itis. Jshould not think you would wish to be left to the sole entertainment of Lawrence and other men, who will go and come there.” Then Beryl made no more remonstrance, and Mrs. Ranleigh was invited. Beryl’s ready resignation of the social life where she was such a bright, particular star, pleased the marquis. She must, then, care little forthis adulation, since she so readily resigned it. She seemed to have no regrets and no backward glances, as she went | from the splendors of the London season to the castle in the lake region. In truth, the castle suited Beryl | far better than Cavendish square, with an endless | succession of routs, operas, dinners, balls, feles. | Beryl had begun life young, and she had worn out | those things; but she had never had opportunity to | wear out the serene sweetness of country life; and the beauties of nature would never pall on her in- | genuous heart. The quiet sweetness about the gray | old eastle was soothing as a low-sung lullaby. The spring came early; in April the gardens were fair to see, and in the weods and dells primroses, violets, anemones, and crocus sent a blissful floral morning brightening across the waking world. Beryl was peaceful, but far from strong. She looked so very fragile one evening, that kindly Harley Medford, after a keen glance at her, went to | his kinsman, who was leaning back ina great chair | near the fire-place, which blazed rather for pleasure | than warmth. “My cousin, I fear in doing a great kindness to my wife, you are harming your own.” “In what way ?”’ asked the marquis. “Your fair countess looks unusually pale and deli- cate. Perhaps the country spring is too damp for her, or she is lonely here, or the change from the manner of life she is used tois too great. She loses her color and her vivacity.” “Are you speaking of me, Harley?’ asked Beryl, coming up. ‘Are you saying the country is too dull, and I pine for town? Do not say that. I love this best of all; it is so comforting, so restful here.” “Beryl!” cried Mrs. Harley, from behind the win- dow drapery, ‘‘do come look at this wonderful offect of moonlight.” Beryl disappeared behind the curtains, and Mr. Harley Medford asked Lawrence to go with him to the billiard-room, ‘‘and knock about a ball or two.” “Tf [thought I was harming: Beryl, I would take her back to town at once,” sighed the marquis, wist- fully. “Never think that!’ cried Mrs. Ranleigh, vehe- mently ; “happiness and health are largely affairs of our own creation. I am grieved for Beryl, and angry with her, and so sorry for you! Here, or in town, it would be all the same; as long as the child will in- sist on thinking of herself as a martyr, and sit nights mourning, and crying, and kissing over Sir Jerome Sothron’s likeness, and notes and old love tokens, 80 long will she pine away. Why cannot she rest satis- fied with the happiest lot of any woman in England?” It was all false—false as Satan; but the marquis, who was never false, believed it; the venomous shot went home; it poisoned all his soul. All next day he was dark, silent, brooding; wounded to the heart’s core, not knowing what to say or do. That evening, when the gathering in the drawing- room broke up, and Beryl had just summoned Fanny to her chamber, the marquis sent for his wife to come to him in the library. She went. “Beryl!” he said, sternly, without looking at her, “vou have some—trifles—relics of—Sir Jerome Soth- ron ?”’ “Yes, Percy,” faltered Beryl. “Why do you keep them ?’ “T do not know. [could not give them away. It seemed hard to destroy them. Yet, perhaps, Ishould have done so. Do you bid me destroy them, Percy?” Her voice was like a despairing cry. “T will not have you nursing over these things a foolish regret that is nothing less than disgraceful to me, and suicidal to yourself. Bring those things to me.” Light broke on Beryl, and with it returned, like a blaze of lightning, the fury with which she first heard of Mrs. Ranleigh’s treachery. “It was Laura Ranleigh told you that!” she cried. “Still you keep her here asaspy. J hate her!” “No doubt; she knows your weakness,” he retorted. “She shall never enter my presence again !” ‘Lady Beryl, you instead should resolve to form yourself on her—a woman without social weak- nesses.”” “On her!—the traitress! choose between her and me.” “Choose ? What choice is open, Lady Beryl? The law has bound us together. There was a day when I might have chosen—when I did choose, perhaps I chose wrong.” Oh, cruel words!—oh, sharp wounding swords in that gentle, lacerated heart! But the marquis was sarried outside of himself, in jealous fury, over that picture Mrs. Ranleigh had drawn. Beryl looked at him in wide-eyed agony. Then gave an inarticulate cry, and fled out of his sight. As the library door closed behind her, two ways were open to her flight—the stairs leading to her own room and Fanny, a glass door and corridor leading out into the park. She did not take the stairs. Fanny waited—one hour—two—and no ring from her lady. Finally she went to her room. No an- swer. Sheentered. The house was dark and silent —the room was empty! (TO BE CONTINUED.) Be AOR Sona Delonn 1 NLR ERL PRE ONT _THOSE who know most are generally the best listeners and the most anxious to know more. CONSUMPTION CURED. An old ere retired from practice, having had placed in his hands by an East India missionary the for- mula of a simple vegetable remedy for the speedy and permanent cure of Consumption, Bronchitis, Catarrh, Asthma, and all Throat and Lung Affections, also a posi- tive and radical cure for Nervous Debility and all Nervous Complaints, after having tested its wonderful curative powers in thousands of cases, has felt it his duty to make it known to his suffering fellows. Actuated by this mo- tive and a desire to relieve human suffering, I will send, free of charge, this recipe, in German, French or English, with full directions for preparing and using. Sent by mail, by addressing, with stamp, naming this paper, W. A. NOYES, 149 Powers’ Block, Rochester, N. Y, I love the castle best of all our The marquis felt moved to | | | | } | } Perey, once for all, esi THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. S32 yawns New York, ; ~ - Rei a) a , a“ eee eee secs 0 050 OOOO NEW YORK, MAY 21, 1887. Terms to Mail Subscribers: (POSTAGE FREE.) 3 months - - - - - 75c.|2 copies - $5.00 4months - - - - - $1.00| 4 copies - 10.00 lyear -.-- - - 3800}8 copies - --+-- - 2.00 Remit by express money order, draft, P. O. order, or registered letter. We employ no traveling agents. All letters should be addressed to STREET & SMITH, P. 0. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St, N. Y. TIME ENOUGH. BY KATE THORN. There is time enough for everything, if one knows how to use and enconomize it. The man who is al- ways in a hurry will never accomplish anything. Huiry and fret are the two evils of the present gen- eyation. They kill more people than all the railway accidents and hotel fires—which is saying a great deal in favor of their murderous propensities. Whatever is worth doing at all,is worth taking time enough to do well. Everybody tries to do too much. It begins even in childhood; it grows stronger in youth; it intensifies in manhood. Our children are put to school, and initiated into the mysteries of Latin and Greek, and all the ‘isms’ and ‘‘ologies,” when they ought to be playing with their tops and their dolls. Our girls play German music, and sing Italian songs, and talk knowingly about operas and musicales, before they are out of short dresses; and our boys enter college at fifteen, and come out four or five years later, with a smattering of all kinds of knowledge, an inability to write a decent hand or spell an English sentence correctly; many of them with weak lungs, weak eyes, and legs that are too feeble tu carry their bodies erectly, and a general in- aptitude for anything useful. And why? Simply because too much has been crowded into too little time. If you will look at the processes of Nature, you will find that all grand and symmetrical growths are slow. Time is taken. Nothingisrushed. The coal- beds, whence the fuel of generations has been drawn, were centuries in forming. The giant oak, which sheltered beneath its magnificent limbs your father and your grandfather *efore you, has been growing for a hundred years or more. The Chinese wall—the wonder and admiration of all ages—occupied more than a life-time in building; and the pyramids of Egypt were sixty years in reaching their majestic height, and the storms and convulsions of centuries have not moved them from their places, Less haste, and more patience to await results, are what we of the present generation need. We don’t want to build pyramids or Chinese walls, but we want to endow our young people with education and training, which will be of practical use to them in this lice, and in the life which comes afterward. Health is the first consideration. A man with sound lungs, and a heart that can stand mountain climbing and not quicken its pulsations, and a liver that needs notonic, anda stomach that does not make a slave of its possessor, are in themselves a fortune, aud productive of more happiness than all the gold of the {ndies. i Hurry destroys the health, to say nothing of the temper. Take the average American household. They live just out of town. It is hurry up for break- fast; hurry through that meal; hurry to catch the train; hurry to get the children ready for school; hurry through the day, to get time to put the braid on Mary’s dress, and finish the embroidery on Kitty’s basque, and to put the tinishing touches on the man- tle lambrequin, like Mrs. Jones’. i Then it is hurry to get supper, and hurry it out of the way in season for the concert or the lecture; and hurry home from the entertainment so as to be ready to go to bed early enough to get up in season the next, - morning. z : And this isa type of the national life all the way through, until by and by, at the age of forty-five or fifty, just when the busy man and his busy wife “always calculated to be able to take some comfort,” the man drops dead at his desk, or his wife stops hur- rying under the dread hand of paralysis—and people talk soleimnly about God’s dealings. . : Sine the rage for decorating has come in, there is more hurry than ever. Every good housewife wants her home just as pretty as her neighbor’s, and there must be as many painted plaques, and banners, and pots, and jugs, and long-necked bottles, and staring- eyed owls, and peacock’s feathers, and cat-tail flags, in Mrs. Brown’s parlors asin Mrs. Smith’s, or Mrs. Brown will feel that life is not worth living. And time must be saved somehow, in order that Mrs. Brown can construct them. Somebody will say we have no taste for the beau- tiful! Soimebody will ask us, don’t we admire a tasteful home? : 3 On, yes, we like to see things decorated. We like to see a house tilled with artistic gems, in the shape of ol peach cans painted with wild roses, and sec- tions of drain pipe ornamented with hollyhocks, and gridirons tied together with pink ribbon, and rolling pins stuck full of gilt hooks—they are perfectly lovely, of course; but we do think it is of more con- sequence that the family comfort should be secured —the stockings properly mended, the buttons sewed on the shirts, the children’s trials and troubles ar- ranged as none but a mother can manage it all, than it is to sew ruffles on petticoats, or paint cats’ heads on pickle pots, to ornaiment the parlors with. — We plead guilty to not having Kept pace with the times ; for it seems to us that the true mission of the wife and mother lies not in those things which per- ish, but in the training up of souls which shall live through all eternity, and exert their influence for good or evil. HOPE RUN WILD. BY HARKLEY HARKER. Ts he honest ?”’ But bis hope is “What do you think ? “Yes; I never caught hii in a lie, run wild.” The first question was mine. It concerned a busi- ness friend with whom I had invested money. As I ascended the steps of the bank, to deposit money to take care of this friend’s paper which he could not pay, I met the second speaker. I knew that he, too, had loaned money to our mutual friend. I presumed he, too, had had to take care of Hopeful’s paper, In his reply, he explained Hopeful’s character to a dot. There are such men whose strong hopefulness he- comes the bane of their own lives and the snare of all their friends. Whether the despondent man or the over-hopeful is the more unfortunate, I cannot decide, but Iam certain that the despondent party is safer as regards his friends. Itis the bad luck of the over-hopeful that they involve their friends in painful plights. They are so positive. They are gen- erally men and women of robust health. This gives them a certain mesmeric power to carry conviction; it also makes them cheerful. Indeed Sir Hopeful is always the most welcome company. No man’s af- fairs quite satisfy him; no man but would be glad to listen to a cheery, hopetul word concerning his own plans. Cautions and warning are never quite wel- come. Hence our very hopeful friend “booms” us, andis thanked forit. He throws us off our proper balance, and we like him forit. We go seek hiin when our wish is father to the thought that what some disvreet friend warned ‘us against is, for all that, harmless and safe, . , sae Sir Hopeful is like champagne, his friendship in- toxicates, he is as delightful as heis perilous. We think we know how to make allowances for his extravagance; but, in fact, we never do make allow- ances, as we ought to. He is always getting us to look at life through magnifying glasses. And we never cut him, heis too agreeavle. We cut the care- ful, despondent, safe man who rebukes us, vet he is more generally correct. But wecling to Sir Hope- ful; if we scold about him itis behind his back, and the very next time we enter a cloud we seek him out and invite him to“boom’ us again. There is not a married man of all his friends whose wife wonld not like to slap Hopeful’s fave, he has tempted her hus- band into so many oil-wells, gold-mines, Colonel Sel- lers’ schemes; yet the wcmen all like him too, even | though they scold him. ; But itis himself whom Sir Hopeful treats the worst. | He is never secure; he sees no dangers in their real proportions; he sees no opportunities in their real promise. Allis distorted and visionary. He begins with falsehood to himself. When you have said that you have given a true measure of the man’s whole life. Heis an awiable, genial falsity. He does not know how to think the truth. Kact must be agree- able, or he will not accept it. But we plain people know full well that the tact is often disagreeable, perhaps half the time this is her guise. ‘lo one half of the actual world then, Sir Hopeful is totally blind. This makes life a lie. One would suppose that such a man would learn the fallacy of over-sanguine plans; but he does not seem to. How does he ex- plain his disappointments to himself? Impossible to say; but he gets over them directly and goes right on in his everlasting sunshine. I think your over-hopeful man is of unsound mind. Crazy? Yes; why not put it so and have done with it? Heis not level headed. He is utterly unworthy of confidence. Heis achildinaman’s body. Heis as incapable of business, in the real commercial sense—business where twice two make four—as a girl oftwelve. Heis a mere ornament to society— like music, like a picture on the wall, like a poem amid a lot of law books. Be warned of him. Do not let him catch you in his gilded spider’s weh, where he has caught many a working bee before you. Your too hopeful man is a fatal catch for your pretty daughtcr. Quite likely the fair girl may easily fall in love with him. If she does, it is your paternal duty to disenchant the girl. He will break her heart by hopes deferred that make the heart sick. He will not earn his salt. If you were to leave them patri- mony enough, he will dissipate it on his soap bubbles. This man is a baleful associate for your son. I know the dear boy wants to go into business with young Hopeful, but you are too wise to allowit. Take it in season. Puncture the bladder of great schemes that the two have been filling with wind together for | weeks past; do not delay about it; perhaps it is even now too late; your son has loaned young Hopeful money. Hopeful is ready with his advice; he isa great talker. I never knew one of the Hopeful family who was not a glib talker. But one had better go unadvised all his days than take that dear old fel- low’s words. He never proved, by experience, a thing that he says; he never will; he leaves experi- ence to the other man. Yet Hopeful has his place. He should be com- panion to an invalid with the dyspepsia; he might make-a good nurse to a consumptive; he is just in his glory during a storm at sea. Auy perfectly desperate circumstance brings him out, and he can do no harm then; for, in despair, straws may save us if we snatch at them. Hopeful should beaslave. Some wise man should own. him, and use him just to sharpen the dull edge of industry and courage. He should be put to pulling loads that no man other than he would touch—loads where there is just about one chance in ten that much needed success can be gained; for such a small chance is paralyzing to other men. And there are desperate necessities in life. I think those are the reasons for the man’s birth. What other reasons can there be? As [ bid Sir Hopeful farewell, my memory warms toward the poor fellow. God bless his dear heart, after all! I shall not forget how he came into my sick-room and, perhaps, saved my life-wheels from stopping. I can see him again as, like a great harvest moon, he rose on the one black twi- light of my life, and looking on him, I, too, take heart again. Afterall, his has been akind hand to wipe away the mist of sorrow in calmer eyes than his. I do not know but he is a good angel, after all. In this sad, discouraging world, this child of an eternal hope has his mission. Perhaps he is nearer right, after all; for what is life at best but a hope. Josh Billings’ Philosophy. Ridikule that iz not based on truth, iz not only un- principled, but powerless. The man who don’t begin until he iz ready, and stops just as soon as he gits through, haz got both ends of the argument in hiz possession. Faith and konscience seem to me to be about one and the same thing. Familiarity don’t breed kontempt, it often breeds more familiarity than we kno what to do with. Bashfuwhness iz afrade of everything at first, and nothing afterward. Modesty iz more inclined to be afraid of nothing at first and everything afterwards. The best riters are those who make the most hits and the most misses. To make no misses a man must dele in platitudes only and keep near shore. Whoever heard of a man loving to tell a lie in the fewest words he kould. I diskover that the best thinkers we have hav the largest supply of reazonable doubts. What a man learns by idle Kuriosity always costs him more than it’s worth—it is by idle kuriosity that he finds out which end of the hornet has the sting. My frend, don't think for a moment that the world kan’t spare you. Thare are dozens standing ready to step into your shoes, furnish you with a glowing epetaph, and konsole yure widow. , There iz none but the really wise who understand how wuch of their sukcess they owe to fortune. If you shed tears du it in sekret; they are 2 sakred to be seen by ennybody. Liberty kan’t exist without laws, any more than a kat can without claws. People ov good sense are never exklusive, nor be- long to any partiklar set. They belong to everybody and everybody belongs to them. You may impoze upon individuals quite eazily; but the world takes your measure more quickly and korrectly than individuals do. Fools are alwaze looking ahead for their experi- ence; wise men look back. One pun—and a thin one at that—will go farther in a mixed assembly than a dozen paragraphs, each one bristling with an idea. Wisdom never made a man suspishus, often has. Thare is no half-way house between vulgarity and good breeding. A man may be half q fool, but not half a lofer. A man’s karacter is what it really iz; his reputa- tion is what the world thinks ov him. Rather than argu the point, Iam willing to admit that man did come from the monkey; but [ shall in- sist upon being told where the monkey came from. bee eae HUMANITY ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. Cunning The following story is romantic enough to have emanated from the imagination of a novelist, yet it is true in every particular, andis told by General John B. Gordon, of Georgia: “It was the first day of Gettysburg. The battle was in progress when I came into it with my division and struck the Federal line at an angle, which caused it to break, doubling on itself, so that it was driven back in some disorder. As it was retreating, and our line advancing, in crossing a field I saw an ofticer lying on the ground, and dismounted to see if I could render him any assistance. Raising him up the blood spurted from him, and IT thought that he must be mortally wounded. To my inquiry for his name he answered that he was General Barlow, of New York. “T asked him if IT could be of any service to him. He said “No,” and told me to leave him and go and do my duty. Buton my pressing the offer of assist- ance, he asked ine to send word to his wife, who was in the rear ot General Meade’s army. I answered I would not only send word to her but for her. I called tor bearers, who were coming on the field to pick up the wounded, to bring a stretcher. They took him back to ‘The Branch,’ the name given at the South to astream, on which acamp hospital had been im- provised, and I sent an aid with a flag of truce to the lines to forward the message to the wife of the wounded and, as I supposed, dying officer. “The message reached its destination, although Mrs. Barlow was seventeen miles back from the front, and at two o’clock in the morning word was brought to me that she was at the lines. I sent word to have her immediately passed through, but bade the messenger tell her that her busband was ‘des- perately wounded.’ LIhad no idea that she would find hii alive. “The next morning the battle was resumed, and all that passed was forgotten in the great struggle. “Tt was nearly two years more to the close of the war. I remained ia the army to the last, and was with General Lee when he surrendered at Appomat- tox. When all was over I returned home to help restore the fortunes of my State, if anything were left to her in the general ruin. : “Years passed on, and Iwas chosen United States Senator from Georgia. Whemin Washington I was invited one evening to dine at Mr. Clarkson N. Pot- ter’s. I did not arrive until the guests were seated. Among the others to whom T was introduced T heard the name of Barlow, but took no notice of it till an interval arrived in the conversation, and I turned to the gentleman so designated, and said: «Pray, sir, may Laskif you are a relative of the General Barlow who was killed at Gettysburg ? ‘“Tinagine ny astonishment at the answer: “Tamthe man. And you, sir,’ he asked in reply, ‘are you the General Gordon who picked me up on the field? “i could not deny it. At this he sprang to his feet, and I thought would have leaped over the table. And then he told the story of the scene in which we ha't met before, at which not only the ladies but the men around the table found it difficult to control their emotion.” CITY CHARACTERS, No. 15.—THE LEADING LADY. WAC Catt ‘ =A 4) ‘ . X ».gh, & iis \ A M = 4 oma When anybody in the rural districts uses the ex- pression “leading lady,’ everybody knows to whom she refers. She means whatever womanis best known and most active in the community—the woman who has a clear head, a warm heart, able tongue, and, probably, a long purse. But when you say ‘leading lady” in a city, peo- ple at once think you are talking about the principal actress at a theater, and they wonder which actress and theater you are thinking of. The expression can’t help being used, for it means allitsays. A “leading lady” in a dramatic company leads all her associates, and she not only leads her manager, too, but generally drags him by chains that he dare not break, for fear of breaking his own bank account atthe same time. Why the leading lady of a theater should attract more attention, and be more talked about than the leading gentleman, is one of those things that no fel- low ean find out, but that she does is a fact, and facts have to be taken at their face value—no discount. Nobody talks of the trousers, overcoats, and watch chains of a leading actor; but let a leading lady buy a new dress, and all the newspapers from Maine to California describe the garment from the bottom fringe of the skirt to the tiny cord at the top of the waist—if the dress happens to have a waist. The leading ventleman may have serious rows with his butcher and baker—for actors have to eat like the rest of us—and nobody hears of it; but let there hea cross word or two between the leading lady and her maid about her poodle dog, and the country rings with it. Why, when Sarah Bernhardt lost her pupa few weeks ago, the affair was reported at length in thousands of newspapers that couldn't spare ten lines for the heroic deed of a self-sacrificing railway engineer And probably the newspapers were right, on general principles, for the majority of people have more interest in an actress’ poodie than in a whole- souled man. Leading ladies are not always all thev appear to be, as artists, but that doesn’t make the slightest dif- ference to the public; people do not so much want to hear about somebody who is entirely admirable as about some some one who is talked of a great deal ; so the leading lady fills the bill. Managers are sometimes blamed for engaging ac- tresses about whom some petty sorry stories are told. But what can the managers do? Talk about theater people is the best and cheapest of advertis- ing, so those who are most talked about are likely to draw most money to the box office. People think newspapers like to talk about leading actresses. They never were more mistaken in their lives; there are hosts of romantic reporters who loathe the job of writing up certain actresses, but business is business; newspapers live by printing most of that quality of news which their readers most like. For months the papers of New York and other cities have been full of reports, and letters, and cable dispatches about Mrs, James Brown Potter, a bright and honest little amateur, against whom nothing unpopular has éver been alleged, Nobody—not even herself—claims that she is more than a sprightly } amateur, but sheis to be a “leading lady” somewhere —that settles it. A leading lady is almost always ‘‘Miss” on the bill- boards. Frequently, on the other hand, she is an honest wife and mother, but she wouldn’t have it known for anything? Why? Merely because it would destroy some of the peculiar interest with | which she is regarded. Swells adore leading ladies, young men adore them; but the most ardent of their worshipers are young women whose audience consists only of a small social or home circle. How these pretty girls do envy the leading lady! They study her face, figure, voice, and gestures, and wonder why they might not be equally attractive. They special leading ladies themselves. A. thousand fail where one succeeds; but that trifling fact does not lessen the stage craze. To be the talk of all the papers and all the clubs, to have any number of new dresses at the manager’s expense, to be looked at nightly by a thousand or more people, to have their photographs sold in all the shops—what risks wouldn’t they take to accomplish all this ? It is a great pity that the leading lady herself can- not have something to say to the multitude—some- thing that her heart often prompts her to say; but she dare notsay it, for it would relax her hold on the | public. I know some leading ladies, butif any of them have let their own daughters go upon the stage [ have not chanced to bear of it. I have seen them burst out crying on visiting a simple home where the mother and wife was happy in the daily round of petty duties. For the leading lady can never get time enough for such things. All her time off the stage is popularly supposed to be given to her admirers, but she and her manager know it is given to study—to the hardest of hard work. Who ever sees her on Broadway, among the shopping throng, or at a flower show, or a picture exhibition, or a reception, or any other place where good women in general are glad to congregate? Not I, though T go to such places a great deal, and know many leading ladies by sight. On my way to my daily work I have stopped at theater stage-doors and found the leading lady, hard at work rehearsing pieces nut to be produced until months later. On my way home she was still in the same place, at the same work, and told me that she would like to change places with my porter, so as to get a rest. The porter could at least sit down ounce in a while in a comfortable room, but the stage of any theater is less comfortable than a country barn. Other women can rest when they have a headache, an ear-acheor any other of the many ills that woman is heir to, but the leading lady must be ready for work at eight o’clock on six nights in seven, and one or two matinees beside, and be as pretty and cheer- ful as if everything was justasit should be. T have known a leading lady hurry from a sick child’s bed- side, play brilliantly a comedy part, hurry home again and play tragedy all night over a dead dar- ling’s cradle. , {have known a leading lady to leave the society of honest, respectable gentlemen, and spend hours in nursing @ drunken husband through delirium tre- mens. , To her admirers she seems to hear nothing but praise, but no one knows better than she that no one is worse belied and slandered, no matter how good she may be. “Oh, to be nobody!” said a leading lady once to me, There are leading ladies who are not so sensitive, but as they generally end their lives with whisky or morphine, perhaps they are softer at heart than their lives seein to show. “The higher up you are the harder the wind hits you,” said an old mountaineer to me one day. Girls whe, euvy leading ladies may do well to bear this in mind. wins lilies alas, CURIOUS FUNERAL CUSTOMS, In Egypt, the death of a prominent personage is the occasion of great feasting among his acquaint- ances, of course at the expense of his family. When news of the demise of a wealthy person reaches his friends and acquaintances, they hurry to the house, and during one or two days, they eat and drink and indulge in dancing and the noisiest demonstrations. When the hour of interment arrives ‘a scene of the wildest character is produced. The slaves and wo- men of the household throw themselves on the corpse and feign a determination to hinder it from passing the threshold. This lugubriovs tragedv is played conscientiously; they snatch away the coffin; they belay each other with blows, and the most violeut | late. flock by scores to dramatic schools and | teachers, in full expectation of becoming | and frightful clamor is heard. At last the procession leaves the house and repairs to the cemetery, pre- ceded by camels loaded with victuals, which are dis- tributed tothe poor hurrying in crowds along the read. All along the road the mourners and friends of the family tight for the honor of bearing the bier for an instant, and thus it passes from hand to hand amid the most frightful disorder. The interment ended, every one returns to the house of the dead to recommence the festivities. pes Sk pe Seas Sa A HUSBAND'S DILEMMA. BY NETTIE ANDERSON. “Don’t sit up for me on any account,” said Mr. Blinks. “I have my latch-key. I’ve told you I should be late, and when I return, I sha’n’t disturb you. Ill just lie down in the spare bedroom. So you’ll not sit up, Eliza.” “Very well, William,” said Eliza, with an injured sigh. “But I might just as well sit upasnot. I’ve often told you I never sleep a wink when you are out > ‘“‘Nonsense,” said Mr, Blinks. ‘You can be under no anxiety; no reason why you should not go to sleep.” Mrs. Blinks breathed another sigh, which spoke | more deeply of injury than the last. “Very well, William,” she said again. “Ill through the form of going to bed, if you like.” Then Mr. Blinks, having finished his breakfast, went through the form of kissing his wife and family, go and departed for that mysterious region known as | down town, where he transacted business. He had a certain feeling of triumph in that he had persuaded or coerced his wedded Eliza to retire be- fore his return. Her apparition in a long night-robe, a small shaw] and toilet slippers, damped all his jollity, when, after a nice little evening, he entered his own door about the ‘‘wee sma’ hours.” She never scolded, but she was so meekly injured. She inquired in such softly reproachful tones whether the clock really was right; and she begged ; im in such a sad, imploring way not to wake the baby. Mr. Blinks was jovial, and hated to have his spirits lowered. Mrs. Blinks was very serious, and rather fancied high spirits criminal. They had married late in life. She was thirty and he past forty on their wedding- day. They had fixed opinions on all subjects, and could not give them up. If ever it entered their minds that it was a pity that they had agreed for once, and made a match of it, it was on Blinks’ convivial evenings, when he staid out late, and his wife kept vigil in consequence. A8 Miss Partlette, Eliza never had to sit up for any one. As a bachelor, pleased. So this morning Mrs. B sat and thought whata judgment it would be on Blinks if she were murdered in her bed before he came home, or if baby should that day have the croup; and felt sure of burglars for that night. Meanwhile, Mr. Blinks finished his business, and, at twilight, having his dress-coat and accessories at the office, proceeded to array himself for the feast he Blinks tumbled home when he was to attend, and calling a cab, took his way to the | place of festivity. He had a very jolly evening— sit up for him inspired him. At two in the morning he made his way home, singing to himself occasionally, and now and then compelled to laugh aloud at some joke that flashed across his memory. Always before. the fact that Eliza was sitting up for him had caused Mr. Blinks to be somewhat ab- stemious as to wine, but now, as he had ordered‘her to retire, he had arranged matters so that they were all in his own hands, and he was not as steady on his feet or as clear of comprehension as he might have been. He was also musically inclined, and uttered melo- dious notes as he made his way home. As he stumbled up stairs in the dark, and felt his way to the spare bedroom, he muttered to himself: “This is just as it ought to be. Eliza sha’n't sit up for me again.” Then, having bumped his head against a bedstead, he took off his coat and boots, gave up the rest as a bad job, retired, tangled inextricably in a maze of counterpanes, and immediately fell asleep. In a short time he was awakened by a strang smell of tobacco smoke. Lifting himself on his elbow, he looked about the room, and saw,in the moonlight, by the window, a figure draped in some kind of a gown, and smoking | a short pipe. A hazy idea that this was Eliza, who had disobey- ed him, and had also taken to tobacco, entered his mind... “TF told you not to sit up for me, ny dear,” he said, rebukingly. “And when did you learn to smoke ?” And then a masculine voice cried: “What the duse——” The gas flashed up, and he saw before him a stout man in a dressing-gown. who, having stared at him a moment, cast away his pipe, tucked up his sleeves, and advanced toward the bed. Blinks was still dreamy. He tried to remember whether there was any rea- son for this stranger’s presence, and was he a stranger ? Did he know him? At last—— “Why, who are you” he said. want in my house ?’ “That is a very nice dodge,” cried the other, “but it won't do.” “So, [understand it now,” said Blinks, quite wide awake at last, and comprehending that this was a burglar, who had hidden in the spare bedroom. And without a word, he sprang from the bed and grappled with the stranger. Tie other grappled with him. Each was intevt on the same object—to thrust the other out of the door. They tumbled down stairs together, smashed the hall hat-staud, fell through the glass in the door—stuin- bled, bruised, and scratched, out upon the steps, and clutching each other tightly, roared ‘*Police !”’ At the same moment, a window next door went up, a head in curl-papers was thrust out, and a temale voice screamed “Police!” also. It was Mrs, Blinks, firm in the conviction that bur- glars had arrived at last. A policeman heard the cries, He summoned another. The usual course of events would have been a pro- cession to the station-house. But these officers were men of great minds and wonderful discernment. One of them asked: “What is the matter?’ “T found this man burglariously concealed in a bedroom of my house,” said Mr. blinks. “I give him in charge.” “Bah!” said the other. “And what do you “This is adeeprascal. I found him in bed in my room. I live at number twenty, here. The rest of the family are in the country, and I’in, so to speak, keeping house. Jil- kins—I think you know me, o-ticer.” “Why, yes. [know you very well, Mr. Jilkins,’’ said the policeman. ‘We spoke to each other as you passed me half an hour ago; said good-evening. But this—this is Mr. Blinks of number twenty-two. I know him well; aud he passed ne about an hour ago, singing, and quite jolly. Either of you can make a charge, if you like, butit seems to me you’d better think it over.”’ Mr. Blinks looked at Mr. Jilkins, down whose cheek a long scratch was beginning to grow red, and whose eye was swollen. Mr. Jilkins looked at Mr. Blinks, on whose temple was arising a large blue bruise. the size of an egg, and whose npper lip was puffing up like a pincushion, and both tried to look calm, but failing miserably. “It’s a mistake,” said Mr. Jilkins. ‘This, F pre- sume, is the effect of a glass too much. You have entered our house instead of your own, and natur- ally——” “The mistake was owing to the similarity of the houses, Mr. Jilkins,”’ said Mr. Blinks. “Buta gentle- man, who had not taken a glass too much, would scarcely have taken me for a burglar,” And then a plaintive voice descended from the second-story window of ntunber twenty-two. “Mr. Blinks will apologize in the morning, I know, Mr. Jilkins. This would not have ocourred had he permitted me to sit up for him. It nuevershall again. Come in, dear. Please and try not to wake the baby.” What did Blinks say then ? No matter. Not what his parents and sponsors would have ex- pected him to say when he grew up, after all their careful teaching, I know. But he went in, and was very ill next day, and Mrs. Blinks nursed him with many sighs. And the next morning Mr. Jilkins sent in his dress- coat and boots in a parcel, and he heard himself plaintively apologized for in the hall. This was bad enough, but it was not the worst of it. Blinks knew then, as he knew afterward, that he should never dare bid his Eliza retire to her pillow while he was out again. He never did. From that time thenceforth Mrs. Blinks sat up for him—more injured, nore low-voiced than ever; until at lencth he was quite subdued. And now at ten every night, Eliza, with her own hands, turns down the gas, locks the front door, and puts the key under the pillow. Blinks stays out late no more. jollier than usual, for | the knowledge that he had forbidden Mrs. Blinks to | a | better, if you can conveniently procure it. Correspondence. GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. te Communications addressed to this department will not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers. Mrs. A. M. C., Cambridge, Mass.—To make peanut macaroons, take the quantity of nuts that have been roasted in an iron pot over the fire, and after removing the shells weigh a pound of them. Put them intoa pan of cold water, and wash off the skins. Pound the peanuts (several ata time), ina mortar, adding frequently a lit. tle cold water, to prevent their oiling. Pound to a smooth, light paste, and as you proceed, remove the paste to a saucer or plate. Beat to a stiff froth the whites of fourreggs, and then beat into it gradually a pound of pow- dered loaf sugar, and a large teaspoonful of powdered mace and nutmeg mixed. ‘Then stirin, by degrees, the pounded peanuts. until the mixture becomes very thick. Flour your hands, and roll between them portions of the mixture, forming each portion into a little ball. Lay sheets of white paper on flat baking tins, and place on them the macaroons, at equal distances, flattening them all a little, so as to press the balls into cakes. Then sift powdered sugar over each. Place them ina brisk oven, with more heat at the top than at the bottom. Bake them about ten minutes. Roger Williams, Bristol, R.I.—1st. The bell is an in- strument of great antiquity. According to Plutarch, the tradespeople rang bells in the Athenian market. The Romans used them in the household. They are said to have been first used for churches about A D. 400, by St. -aulinus, Bishop of Nola, a town in Campania. In Eng- land and France they were iu use as early as the sixth century. 2d. ‘Lhe bells of Russia are among the most famous in the world. Those of China rank next in size. In Pekin, it is stated. there are seven bells each weigh- ing 120,000 pounds. The largest bell in America is in the Cathedral of Notre Damein Montreal. It weighs 29,400 pounds. 3d. There are few bells of large size in the United States. Some churches have chimes or peals of bells. 4th. The fire alarm bell formerly in the City Hall in this city weighed about 23,000 pounds. Its height was about 6 feet. N. Y. Weekly.—ist. A cement for aquaria is made by mixing three pounds of well-dried venetian red (finely powdered) with one pound of oxide of iron, and adding as much boiling oil as will reduce it to a stiff paste. 2d. To make a cement for marine aquaria, take ten parts, by measure, of litharge, ten parts of plaster of Paris, ten parts of dry white sand, one part of finely powdered resin, and mix them, when wanted for use, intoa pretty stiff putty with boiled linseed oil. This will stick to wood, stone, metal, or glass, and hardens under water. It is good for marine aquaria, as it resists the action of salt water. Itis better not to use the tank until three days after it has been cemented. Lawrence L. B., Hoboken.—Behring Strait, a channel connecting the North Pacific and Artic Oceans between the continents of Asia and America, was discovered by Vitus Behring in 1728. He was a navigator in the Rus- sian service. The strait is frozen over every winter, Capt. Cook visited and described the strait in 1778, and later Capt. Beechey. Between East Cape in Asia and Cape Prince of Wales on the. Américan side, the strait is only 386 miles long. The depth of water is from 20 to 30 fathoms. [t is commonly reckoned about 400 miles long. The Island of St. Lawrence stands opposite the southern opening of the strait. Capt. Behring was wrecked in 1741 on adeso- late island, where he died. J. P., Galveston, Texas.—ist. To allay pain in the feet when caused by fatigue from walking or standing too long, put them as soon as you can into warm salt and water, mixed in the proportion of two large handfuls of salt to a gallon of water. Sea water made warm is still L 1 Keep your feet and ankles in the salt water until it. begins to’ feel cool, rubbing them well with your hands. Then wipe them dry, and rub them long and hard with a coarse thick towel, it is stated that this practice, if persevered in every night, will cure neuralgia or cramps in the feet or ankles. 2d. Jan. 9, 1830, fell on Saturday. B. L. H., Hillsdale.—You probably refer to Frederick Douglass, whose mother was a negro slave and his father a white man. The distinguished statesman, Stephen A. Douglas, who spelt his surname with one “s,” and who — was popularly known as ‘‘The Little Giant,” was born at Brandon, Vt. His father was a physician. His first wife was Martha Martin, of North Carolina: his second, Adele Cutts, of Washington, D.C. Fred. Douglass, as he is familiarly called, was born in Maryland. He was reared as a slave on a plantation, but fied trom his master in 1838, and found his way to this city and subsequently to New England. Willard M., Washington.—To make tomato catsup, take a peck of ripe tomatoes, wash and cut them in pieces, and putin a porcelain kettle, and boil until they are quite soft. Then wash them well and strain through a-hair sieve, Season with salt, cayenne pepper, and white mus- tard seed, and let the catsup boil until halt of it is boiled away. Let the bottles into which you intend to pour it be set on the back part of the stove and gradually heated, and pour the catsup into bottles when quite hot, but not boiling. Cork and seal well, and keep in a cool place. D.C. D., Portland, Me.—Chareecal poultices are recom. mended for certain sores or ulcers, especially when there is a tendency to mortification, they being highly antisep- tic. To make them, soak two ounces of bread in half a int of boiling water; add to this, by degrees, ten drams of linseed meal; and, afterward; two drams of powdered fresh charcoal, Then sprinkle one dram of the charcoal on the surfaces of the poultices, which should be frequently renewed. Besides purifying and healing, these poultices counteract any offensive odor. Lillie—Damask got its name from Damascus, where it was first made. Itis now manufactured sometimes of woolen, of linen, or a mixture of linen and cotton. It is woven with a twill in which the weft threads skip eight of the warp. The cloth called diaper is a kind of damask in which the weft skips five threads instead of eight. Very elegant and costly dresses were formerly made of damask silk, but it is chiefly used at the present day for curtains and furniture covering. D. T. R., Poughkeepsie, N. Y.—The tirinking of healths originated, it is recorded, during the Danish occupation of Britain. The Danes frequently stabbed Englishmen while in the act of drinking, and it finally became neces- sary for the English, in view of the constant repetition of this dastardly mode of assassination, to enter intoa compact to be mutual pledges of security for each other’s health and preservation. Hence the custom of pledging and drinking healths. B. W.J., Allentown, Pa.—To freshen stale cakes, in- close them an hour before they are warmed for tea ina circular wooden box with a tight-fitting lid, and place it on the hearth before a good coal fire; but not so close as to be in danger of scorching the box, which must be turn- ed round occasionally, so as to receive the heat equally on all sides, Lemuel §., Stonington, Conn.—The ocean race, from Daunt’s Rock, on the Irish coast, to the light-ship at Sandy Hook, between the yachts Cambria and Dauntless, was won by the former. ‘Lhe signal to start was given at 2:20 P. M., July 4, 1870, and the winning vessel passed the light-ship at 3:30 P. M., July 27. Clarence Bell, Nashville, Tenn.—Alexander Bain, of London, is said to have first conceived the idea of working clocks by electricity. His clocks appeared in the exhibi- tion of 1851, A time ball connected with the observatory at Albany, N. Y., was placed on the custom-house, in this city, in 1860. M. V. W., Staten Island.—The inscription on the Amer- ica cup, won by the Mayflower, is: “Schooner America, 170 tons, Commodore John C, Stevens, built by George Steers, New York, 1851. Esther, Raleigh, N. C.—The literal interpretation of “Mizpah” is “The Lord watch between me and thee when we are absent one from another.” See Genesis, chapter XXXI., verse 49. Regular Reader, Albany, N. Y.—The first ‘Young Men’s Christian Association” in the United States was founded in Boston on Jan, 10, 1852; in New York city on June 30, 1852, Pearl, Galveston, Texas,—ist. The color of the hair in- closed is golden. 2d. Prepared chalk and orris root make an excellent dentitrice. 38d. Nothing that we can recom- mend, Lester, Newark, N. J.—Louisiana is the only State in the Union in which the anniversary of the battle of New Orleaus—J an. 8—is observed as a legal holiday. A, M. B.—\ist.. Mrs. Mary Lincoln, wife of President Lincoln, died on July 16, 1882, 2d. Gen. George McClellan married Ellen Marcy, who is still living. M. M.N., Long Island.—A’ book containing plain and practical directions for the treatment of plants in the house and garden will cost 50 cents. Rosebuel, Stratford, Ont.—No recipe if the article be gilt or lacquered ; frequent rubbing or the use of acids or strong alkalies being injurious. Rosa Lee, Paducah, Ky.—ist. Not to our knowledge. 2d. ‘The fashion journal named can be furnished for 35 ceuts a copy or $3.75 a year. J. P. G., Rochester.—We can furnish you with a book on the cultivation of the voice for 50 vents. Wm. A. S., Hannibal, Mo.—The “Student’s Text Book of Electricity” will be sent to you for $4. Gertrude Smith, Rich Hill, Mo.—No recipe for the par- ticular kind desired. Mack, San Franciseo.—The “Painter’s Manual’ will cost 50 cents. Mary, Denver, Col.—No book on the subject. sis lll citi ill A Goop man is the best friend, and therefore is first to be: chosen, longest to be retained, and, indeed, never to be parted with, unless he ceases to be that for which he was chosen. “rR “ge 4 @ G a VOL. 42—No. 29. o-3 THE WANDERER’S SONG. BY RENNELL RODD. Day is dead, and blent in shadow Lifts the ridge that crowns his tomb; Mists are rising from the meadow, And the woods are massed in gloom. Homeward bells of lowing cattle Sound along the village street, And the gossips’ shrilling prattle, And the children’s running feet. Cool the fountain water splashes, And the lights show one by one, While the first star faintly flashes In the gold wake of the sun. Silent groups return from reaping With a reverence past the shrine— Hold you God in His good keeping, Give you lighter hearts than mine! Out beyond the hills that bound you, Deads are done and thoughts are thought; Such a battle rages round you, But it vexes you in naught; Evening air a-scent with clover, And the peat smoke softly curled Up the dark hill-side and over: This is all your little world! Have ye other lives to travel, Quiet dwellers in the trees, Deeper problems to unravel ‘ Than the darkest drift of these? Loftier aims in other ages, Wider orbits, keener fears? Rest you now; for labor’s wage is Dreamless sleep and quick-dried tears. Here men change not, men desire not, Here men wanier not away ; Here they fail not who aspire not, Here are still content to pray. Such a rest from all the riot! Fairest valley that thou art, This contagion of thy quiet Spreads its twilight on my heart. Now the mountains lie in trances, All the forests sway in dreams, And the moon with silver lances Strikes the ever-waking streams. Waking stream, we race together, Rush and swirl and even flow, Breasting crags or skirting heather, To a sea we neither know. Your swift eddies envy surely, As they near the rocky leap, Yonder lake that lies so purely, Hardly rippled in its sleep ; So, half envious, I too linger, Pace the village to and fro, While yon peak gleanis like a finger Pointing sky ward through the snow; Then away, and no returning! Whirls the eddy down the gorge, Where, night through, the fires are burning, And the sparks fly from the forge. On, till these biue stars are setting And the dawn unrobes the sky! Such an Eden for forgetting I would ask for when I die. paca eae edie. | THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. } Marrying for a Home: OR, AN OLD MAN'S DARLING. By Mrs. M. V. VICTOR, Author of “‘A Father’s Sin,” “* Back to Life,” ‘‘ The Forger’s Sister,” etc. (“MARRYING FOR A HOME” was commenced in No. 26. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.) CHAPTER VIII. OLD BLUEBEARD. More than a fortnight had gone by since Mr. Brooks learned by the papers of his daughter’s marriage. He had grown grayer and older in that fortnight. Lillie had obsérved this with a sort of scornful in- difference; she had pleasanter things to take up her thoughts now. She had enjoyed her evening at the theater with Effie and Mackay, and the jolly little supper at her mother’s afterward, at which her fath- er became dead-drunk, to her infinite amusement. In this stolen “fun” Lillie did not mean to be abso- lutely bad; but she could notexist without admira- tion, and Mackay admired her; besides, it was so much gayer going out with young friends than with “old Brooks.” Thisone adventure gave her the taste for more. Her husband said to her, one pleasant morning, late in September: “Tt will be glorious driving to Coney Island beach this afternoon. Tell Peter to have the horse and phaeton at the door at half-past three, and I will try and be home by that time to take you out for adrive.” The model wife colored, hesitated, and finally an- swered : “I’m awfully sorry, dearie; but I promised to go shopping with ma this afternoon.” “Well, to-morrow afternoon, then,” he suggested, feeling not a little disappointed; for, although he had found out that his darling was not all his fancy had painted her, some of the giamour still remained —he had not been married five months yet. Thatshe ras willful, selfish, and indolent, he had found out to his cost; but he loved her, and—he did not know all. The neighbors could have told him that his fine horse and handsome little top phaeton had been if use every sunny afternoon for the last fortnight; that it had been brought round from the stables at three o’clock, and Mrs. Brooks, dressed in her hand- somest carriage-dress, with lace parasol, and a cash- mere shawl thrown carelessly over the back of the seat, had driven away alone, but that she had never returned alone, always bringing back with her a very common-looking young fellow, of nearly thirty, who handed her out with a gallant air, and then took the little establishment round to the livery stable where it was kept. The curious neighbors generally understood this person to be Mrs. Brooks’ brother; but gradually the report crept round that it was not her brother, and then the pair were watched with greater observance than before. Some of these observers had met them down at Coney [sland, where they were having a little lunch of sea delicacies and champagne, for which the lady paid, and where her blue eyes were bright as the sparkle of the waves, and her cheeks red as roses, with the champagne and gratified vanity. On this particular afternoon Mr. Brooks, feeling far from well, resolved to go home at three, even if his pretty wife were not there to entertain him. His head ached, and he thought longingly of the cool, dim library, with its comfortable couch. He would go home and have a nap there until his Lillie came back from shopping with her mother. When he had croced the ferry and ridden in the horse-car nearly to his house, as he was glancing -arelessly out of the window, he saw a horse and haeton, which he recognized as his own, coming own the avenue. Seated in the phaeton was his wife, all smiles and blushes, and by her side a stranger—a young man, good looking and flashily dressed. If the earth had opened under the ear, or the heavens tumbled down upon it, Mr. Brooks could not have been moreconfounded. Hestared afterthem the moment they continued in sight; he got up when the car stopped opposite his house; he went mechan- ically up the steps and opened the door with his latch-key ; but his movements were like those of one who walks in his sleep. He staggered into the li- brary and threw himself on the lounge; he pressed his burning forehead with his cold hands. Then, presently, he began to laugh at himself and his doubts. “This is all an accident,” he said, to himself. ‘‘Lil- lie did not tell an intentional falsehood. Something has occurred to change her plans. The young fellow is probably some relative of hers whom [I have not happened to meet. It is cruel and mean of me to suspect her of deception until I know the circum- stances.” “J wish Grace were here,” his thoughts ran on, as he tried to slumber; ‘‘the dear child does not guess how 1 miss her. And the boys; they onght to be here before now; schoolis out; but I suppose it is pleasanter on the street than in the house for boys. It seems strange to me that Grace does not write, or they do not get back. Three weeks is quite a time for them to be away. Poor Grace! I am afraid she has made a bitter mistake! Sometimes I wish I had never seen a Dennison! then Grace would never have met that graceless young man. Somebody is ringing the street door bell.” He lay quite still, thinking it might be some agent, while Mary went through the hall and opened the door. She spoke to some one, and Mr. Brooks recog- nized the voice of his father-in-law, old Dennison. This man was athorn in the side of the honorable gentleman, who now kept quiet, not wishing it to be known that he wasin. Mary seemed to be arguing with the visitor, who forced his way in, and walked directly to the library. “Tt will be quite dinner-time when she returns,” said the girl, evidently unwilling to leave him there to himself so long. “Very well, Pll wait, all the same. Don’t trouble about me; I dare say I shall find the morning paper to read.” And the old red-faced fellow stumbled in the semi- darkness up to the center-table, took up a paper, and sat down. He did not see Mr. Brooks, neither did ae who had nothing to do but go away, which she id. Ever since he had discovered that Lillie’s father was an habitual drunkard, Mr. Brooks had felt an in- tense repulsion to him, though he always treated him kindly if they chanced to meet. He now kept still, hoping the intruder would not discover his presence —two hours of such company would be intolerable. Presently the visitor laid down his paper and seemed to listen. “Lillie ain’t here to give me any money,” he began to grumble to himself. ‘‘Mother wouldn’t let me have a cent this morning; I’ve been dying fora glass of liquor all day. I can’t stand 1t, norl won’t. I must find something for which the pawnbrokers will give me a few shillings.” He got up, and walked softly about the room. Still he did not discover the presence of the master of the house, for the blinds were closed, and a large screen, a piece of Grace’s handiwork, stood between him and the sofa. When he paused before the mantel-piece, Mr. Brooks could watch his every movement. “This vase will do,” he muttered to himself, reach- ing and taking down a small but costly vase of damio ware. “Lillie won't mind, and I musthave some- thing to quench my thirst.” Concealing the vase under his coat, he went quickly and lightly, on the tips of his toes, out of the room, and the next moment, Mr. Brooks, overpowered by the unpleasant surprise, heard the outer door softly shut. i Discovery Number Two in one afternoon! “Why, the miserable old thief! Who would have believed Lillie’s father capable of such a thing ?’—a sneak-thief! Oh, how humiliating! Ah, Lillie, Lillie, if my eyes had been opened to these disgrace- ful facts, [am afraid my pride would have revolted from such aunion. Yet, why should I visit their sins upon her head? She is a lilly grown up out of the mud. T ought to be all the kinder to her. Yet that lie she told ine this morning! What,if she too but no, I will not, dare not, suspect her! Such a blow would kill me. No, allis right—it was a mere acci- dent—I will try to sleep off this headache, so as to be bright when my young wife returns. I know I have been dull of late, but [am willing she should enjoy herself, She is young and light-hearted—I want her to be happy.” At that very hour, while he nobly put away his sus- picions, thinking of her with generous, loving wishes, Lillie was ridiculing her ‘‘Bluebeard” to her devoted companion—mockingly toasting him in champagne for which his money paid—and openly accepting the flatteries of Mackay, who was quite willing to drive and dine with a pretty woman ‘‘who paid the shot.” Lillie, in her turn, cared nothing for Mackay, except to have an admirer. She longed for flattery, as the children of Israel longed for the flesh-pots of Egypt. Mackay dished it ont to her with vulgar prodigality. On this particular afternoon she came back in a very gay mood. “Tecan’t drive with you to-morrow, Mack,” she laughed, after he had gallantly helped her to the pavement, “I’ve got to go with old Bluebeard; but never mind, I’ll see you at mother’s in the evening.” hilt yoo “THIS VASE WILL DO. I MUST HAVE SOMETHING TO QUENCH MY THIRST.” She rang the bell,and stood there humming a merry song, when the door was opened—not by Mary—but her husband. There was an expression on his face which startled her. Her guilty conscience sent the color flying from her face. ; “Why, dearie.” she stammered, ‘if [had known you were home, [ wouldn’t have sent the phaeton away. We might have a drive yet.” iy drive with old Bluebeard? That would be too kind.” Their eyes met. She realized that he knew more than she cared to have him. j “It is only a pet name—a bit of harmless fun,” she began. “Come into the library, madam. explanation.” He drew her into the room, closing the door after them. The blinds were up now; it was bright and sunny in the pleasant room. He could plainly see the color flushing and paling in the pretty face. “Had you made this engagement to drive when you told we this morning you were going shopping with your mother ?”’ He asked the question very calmly and coldly. The model wife knew that it was too late to slip out of the dilemina she was in by falsehoods, so she took refuge in a passion. “Do you mean to insinuate that I told a lie, Mr. Brooks ?”’ The poor gentleman had been very fond of his pretty wife; it was hard now to meet the steely blaze of those blue eyes flashing with anger. “Task you a question which I expect you to an- swer,” he said, firmly. “Well, then, if you will have it—yes!” and she fold- ed herarms and looked him squarely in the face. “And now, What are you going to do about it?” “Who is the man, and how often have you gone ridfng with him without my knowledge ?”’ ‘A dozen times, I presuine. His name is Mackay; oe is a friend of Sam’s. I made his acquaintance at 101e.” “Why did you conceal from me that you were in- timate with him?’ “Tm not intimate with him. I go with him to have some fun. Do you think I’m going to shut myself up like a nun because I married you? I have done nothing bad. I don't care a copper for Will Mackay —and he knows it—except to havea good time. If you are going to be ugly and jealous, I will be ugly as sin—there now! You can’t drive me; I’ve got to be coaxed. So don’t make a goose of yourself, Brooks, and we'll get along somehow.” “Lillie, my dear, I don’t care how gay you are— how much you enjoy yourself. Have [ ever com- plained at the money you squander? But two things [ must insist on—tirst, that you are honest with me, letting me know what you do and who you go with; secondly, that you do not disgrace thé name I have bestowed upon you.” “Oh, it’s an awfully tine, exclusive name, ain’t it? We're proud of it, I know. You shouldn’t have coaxed me so hard to take it, if you were so careful of it. It’s a great honor to be Mrs. Augustus Brooks. It’s a wonder I survive under the weight of it! When I came into this house, [ came here to he mis- tress of it, and [I intend to do exucily as [ please. You go to dictating to me, and you'll tind you’ve caught a Tartar.” “T have no desire to dictate, but to——” “Then don’t beginit. I’m going up stairs to take off my hat, and after that will have dinner. Maybe youw ll be better-nutured after dinner. Ihopeso. If you ain’t, I shall go over to ma’s.” She flounced up stairs as if she were the aggrieved party. . The unlucky husband walked up and down, not knowing what to say or do. One cannot reason with a woman like that. He had been duped and wronged, yet it had been made to appear that he was the guilty one. He groaned over the un™leasant scene just passed. However, in one resp. st, he was less un- happy. He believed his wife when she asserted that she cared no more forthe other man than to have Let us have an ' some one to flatter her; there was truth in her voice when she said it. But she was so giddy, she did not seem to realize that itis almost as fatal to a woman to appear bad as to be so. “T must watch over her more closely; she is young and thoughtless. I must try and be with her more; must correct her faults.” Yet he knew, by the sad heart-ache he carried about with him, how little real hope he had of correcting his young wife’s faults. Lillie came down to dinner radiant. She had gotten over her fight, had the best of the quarrel, and could afford to be good-natured. “T’ll call him Bluebeard to his face, if he carries the matter any further,” she, thought. before she came down. “Goodness! won't I have a laugh with Mack the next time I see him? I was awfully scared fora minute; but Pll teach him, all the same, he can’t manage me.” CHAPTER IX. “ALL YOUNG FOLKS, YOU KNOW.” When Mrs. Lillie Brooks entered the house after the drive and dinner with Mackay, and found her husband awaiting her, she had been extremely fright- ened at her own imprudence for a little while; yet she had kept on a bold face, and so turned the tables ‘DO YOU THINK I’M GOING TO SHUT MYSELF UP LIKE A NUN, BECAUSE I MARRIED YOU ?”’ by accusing her lord and master, as to silence him, and make him anxious ‘‘for peace at any price.” Im- mediately she was aware of this; and henceforth considered herself master of the situation. ‘He is afraid of me,” she thought to herself, with a contemptuous smile. “I’m not going to get down on my knees to aman who is afraid of me—silly old fool!” And that was where Mr. Brooks. made a mistake, in not at once “squelching” her, as she would have called it. But he was not afraid of her; he only shrank from too great harshness toward the young wife whose blue eyes and pink cheeks had still for him a certain witchery. She could not understand his gentlemanly forbearance; her own nature was too coarse. She was quite certain the best way to vrevent his finding fault was to do all the fault-find- ing herself. After dinner they went into the parlor. The house had seemed desolate to Mr. Brooks since Grace’s absence. The boys were at their studies in the library. “T wish you would sing me something, Lillie,” he asked, throwing himself into an arm-chair with a sigh. “I miss Gracie’s music.” “Oh, Pll sing you something if you want. I can’t come those operatic airs of Gracie’s; I detest ’em; but T’ll give you_a jolly song my brother brought home the other day. That’s my style,” and thump- ing out an accompaniment, she sang: “*Oh, my Mary Ann’s a teacher In a great big public school, And she gets a thousand dollars every year. She has charge o¢ all the children,’ etc. “There, now, therc’s some fun in that! Old folks may like solemn things, but J don’t. I wish to good- ness, Brooks, somebody would come in to spend the evening. I used to have more fun in one day at mother’s than I have here ina mouth. This is the stupidest house. And I’d like to know, if you've no objections to telling me, what's become of all your tine friends? Perhaps they think I am poison, the way the keep clear of me. I dare say I ain’t good enough for them. An’ you don’t want me to run with my old acquaintances, you tell me; and so Tam to stay cooped up in my fine house like a prisoner., TI tell you now, Angustus Brooks, ’'m not going to do it. U’m homesick,and [’m going te run round and spend the evening with ma. She’s always glad .to have me, and there’s always something going on there. You don’t care to go along, I suppose?” she asked, in a tone which implied that she did not care to have him; and ringing for Mary to bring hera hat and shawl, she took her departure, with a careless nod to her husband. ‘Good-by, dearie; if I’m not home by the time you get sleepy, don’t sit up for me. Ma and Effie will see me home.” A sinking feeling of disappointment, a desolation which brought tears to the strong man’s eyes, came over the old husband as his young wife went out, leaving him to a solitude inexpressible. Mr. Brooks had been a leader in the best society of his church and neighborhood. Fond of company, liberal and pleasant, he had had hosts of friends. Where had these vanished? Was not their staying away a silent token of disapproval of his wife? He knew it—he felt it most keenly. He was'aprond man whom every slight of this kind cut to the heart’s core. Worse than all, he felt that this silent judgment upon his actions was correct. His wife was not fitted for the society to which he was accustomed. He had been charmed by flaxen curls and dimpled cheeks— had taken a pretty face to mean a fair and gentle soul—had been led by a sudden fancy, and now he was eating the bitter bread of an uncongenial mar- riage. Ay, had he not introduced his precious daughter to such a family of the Dennisons she would have made a worthier choice. Why did not Grace come home? He could not endure his own reflection; he pined for a social chat with some of his esteemed friends; finally he too went out to gather a few crumbs of comfort at tree more cheerful table of a neighbor. These friends made no remark when Mr. Brooks came in to spend the evening without his young wife. They were glad to see him,and made him cordially welcome; but, beyond a formal inquiry after Mrs. Brooks’ health, she was not mentioned. “LL GIVE YOU A JOLLY SONG MY BROTHER BROUGHT HOME THE OTHER DAY. THAT’S MY STYLE!” Meantime Lillie eagerly entered her mother’s dingy sitting-room. “Hallo!” she cried, in her refined manner. ‘Why, pa, you’re tipsy! Better go to bed at once, hadn’t you?” “T don’t see where he got the money to buy liquor,” complained Mrs. Dennison. “I wouldn't give hima cent.” “T got it where we get all our good things,” said old Dennison, who was not yet so far gone as to forget his cunning. ‘‘Dused convenient to have a rich son- in-law !” and he grinned. “Oh, yes, it’s a mighty good thing for the rest of you,” snapped Lillie; ‘‘but sometimes I’m sorry I married the old fool!’ and she gave a meaning look at Mackay, who now seemed quite at home in the Dennison household, and was playing cribbage with Effie. “Would you believe it, Mack, he was on the watch when we got home!” “Don’t say so! How’d he take it?’ was the rather startled reply. “He was awfully mad, I tell you. My heart gave a thunder cloud. But I knew too much to show the white feather. When he began to scold, I told him to mind his business. Yes,” she added, with that pretty laugh of hers, ‘I gave him rats! Before we were through, he was quite convinced that it was himself was in fault, not his darling! I didn’t marry an old fool for his beauty, and I'll tell him so some day. I married him for the sake of having a good time, and I’m bound to have it. What shall we do this evening, folks?’ “Send out for Gus and Bill and the Tweed girls,” spoke up Effie, eagerly, ‘‘and let’s have a little dance, with something to eat afterward. I’m dying for a frolic!” “You!” said the young wife, scornfully. ‘Then what do you think of me, cooped up with old Blue- beard? Yes, let’s have adance. Here, ma, you take this’—handing her a ten-dollar bill—‘‘and go for oysters and anything you like. You can stop in and ask the folks as you go.” “T suggest a hot rum-punch, with plenty of lemon- peel and sugar,” stuttered the father, from his corner. “Oh, you go to bed!” cried Lillie, laughing; ‘‘you’ve had too much already, Say, pa, did you ask my old dearie for money, or how did you get it? I didn’t think you’d venture to ask right out.” “Oh, I got it—it’s all right;” and he tried to look wise, and succeeded in getting on a wonderful ex- pression of drunken gravity. ‘Don’t you bother your pretty head about it, daughter. S‘long as I’ve got a wealthy son-in-law, he won't let me suffer.” As Mrs. Dennison went out, Sam came in. When she saw him, Lillie burst out into provoking langhter. “Ha, ha ha! So she gave him the slip after all ?” “You shut up!” * “T didn’t think Grace had spunk enough to outwit you, Sam.” “Confound you! Well, never mind. I’ve got her name signed to a piece of paper that will give me all she owns ina few weeks, now. She’ll be eighteen, shortly; then we’ll see who’s got the best of it.” “Can’t you find out where she is?’ “No. She never went back to the old place where she was playing at being a plain sewer, Fancy Grace Brooks doing slop sewing for ashop! Say, Mack, I shan’t believe in those talents of yours,if you don’t tind her pretty soon.” ‘And what’s worse, I shan’t get my five hundred,” laughed Mackay. There’s two cases where it’s hard to find a woman—one, when she’s hiding for the man she loves, the other, when she’s hiding from the one she hates. Women are cuter than men.” “T should hope so,’ commented Lillie. ‘‘Women are made to pull the wool over men’s eyes. Ah, here come the Tweed girls. I’m going to have a gay time and forget ’m a married woman.” Mackay looked at her sentimentally. In his heart he despised her as a silly, vain creature; but she was undeniably pretty, and threw her money about right royally. A woman who ‘paid the shot” was the one for an impecunious detective to go and frolic with; while he was not above the flattery of being preferred by a handsome creature so showily dressed. “T wish you were not married,” he whispered, with a pretended sigh. “Oh, no, you don’t,” answered Lillie. who was sharp enough in her way ; ‘‘because if I weren’t mar- ried [ wouldn’t have money to spend. Come, Mack, you and I understand each other ; don’t make a goose of yourself. I’m young, and like to have fun, and you like to have me pay for it; so, there. Who’s going to play fordancing? NotI. Sarah Tweed, you sit right down and make yourself useful, and ll get you a new feather for your old hat to morrow.” The middle of the room was cleared, and there was a gay time for awhile. About nine o’clock, while the the dancing was at its liveliest, a knock was heard at the door. “Thope that isn’t old Brooks,’ murmured Lillie. “Tf it is, he’ll want me to go home before supper.” All flushed with exercise, the light rings of hair clinging moistly to her fair forehead, diamonds sparkling in her ears, a rich blue silk setting off her pliant figure to advantage, Lillie never looked hand- somer than when she opened the door in response to that knock. The next instant she gave a slight scream and shrank back a little. “John Halliday !” “Yes, Lillie,” he said, getting hold of her hand, his ‘i 3 $ ; } ~ Sal (A - mM ~ so q 3 mT LILLIE GAVE A SLIGHT SCREAM AND SHRANK BACK— ‘JOHN HALLIDAY !” noble face beaming with a rapture too deep for words, “I told you I would come back for you some time, and I have come soon.” ‘Hush, hush!” whispered Lillie, actually turning pale. “T know. I am so sorry you have company to- night. I only arrived in Brooklyn an hour ago. I did not write, for i wanted to give you a happy sur- prise. : Oh, darling! when will these people go away? “T don’t know; not very soon. John, come over here by ourselves. I have something to say to you.” She was nervous and distressed, but he did not notice it. His heart and eyes were too full. He only saw that she was prettier than ever, and looked very well. He entered and shook hands with the family. Poor John! doomed John! Neither letters nor papers had reached him in Montana; only two of either had been sent, and these were lost by the robbery of a mail-bag; and his to Lillie she had burned without opening. When he had greeted those whom he knew, he went to the side of the girl to whom he had been betrothed at parting. “Lillie,” he whispered, while she stood before him, flushed and guilty, ‘only six months, my darling, and here Tam to claim you! [Lam almost a rich man, Lillie—in a modest way. At first I had bad luck; but I drifted from place to place, and one day I stumbled on @ lucky ‘find’, and just before I left the West I sold half my claim for thirty thousand dollars, keep- ing the other half, for I considered it worth much more than that. But I wanted money to come here and marry my darling; so now, Lillie, our long pro- bation is over; whenever you are ready, I am.” “But—but—John,” she stammered, ‘tI can’t marry you now,” and she burst into a passion of tears. Perhaps that was the bitterest moment of the girl’s selfish, heartless life. Seeing her young lover stand- ing before her, ardent, handsome—hearing him say that he was independent and ready to marry her—she felt a keen repentance for the haste with which she had “married for a home.” Money matters being equal, certainly she would have preferred John Hal- liday to *‘old Brooks ;” or, even, John, with just enough money to live on in ease and idleness. That she had been too hasty came upon her with such con- viction as to cause those tears. Her lover stared at her in blank wonder. “Cannot marry me now?” he repeated, mechan- ically. ‘No, John. Brooks.” “Married! You married!’ ‘““Yes; I have been Mr. Brooks’ wife since June.” The dancing had been resumed, and their conversa- tion was unheard by those around them, although curious eyes were turned in their direction. He turned very white, and sat down in the nearest chair. “T did—didn’t believe you’d ever come back from that dreadful place, full of Indians,” she sobbed. “Ma was seton my taking up with old Brooks. She twitted me with having to support me, And—so—I married him—and I don’t love him one bit—and I’m so sorry, John! I’d give the world if it were you!” He looked steadily for a moment into the false, tear-stained face of the shallow girl he had believed to have a woman’s faithful heart; then, without one word, took up his hat, bowed to Mrs. Dennison, and walked out of the room. “There, ma,” said Lillie, viciously, wiping her eyes and going over to her mother, ‘‘you see what you have done! I might have had John and money, too! I'll hate old Brooks more than ever now !” In a few moments she was dancing with Mackay, more sparkling than ever, saying reckless things, the gayest of the gay, trying to forget John Halliday, and succeeding so well that at supper her appetite did not fail her. It was midnight when Maggie and Effie walked around to her door with her. “Good land! I never dreamed you would sit up for me!” shesaid, displeased attinding her husband wait- ingfor her. ‘‘Late hours aren’t good for people at your time of life; I'd advise you to goto bed next time, old goosie! Wehad a nice little dance over at ma’s, Children Cry for Pitcher’s Gastoria, After you went away I married Mr. ' and I enjoyed myself ever so much. Haven't had such a splendid evening in ages! All young folks, you know,” she added, with that delicacy which characterized her saying and doings. “Yes, [ know,” was the dreary response;-and Mr. Augustus Brooks realized more vividly than ever the folly of his choice. CHAPTER X. WHAT THE YOUNG WIFE SAYS TO BLUEBEARD. “Tf he hasn’t laid out those socks again for me to mend!” exclaimed the model wife, as she went up to her room after breakfast the next morning. “I should think a man as rich as he is could afiord to throw away his socks when they get holesin’em. T never darn my own stockings, and I certainly won’t darn his. Two pairs apiece for those boys. too! Did you ever! I guess Mary will mend them, if they get mended. I’ve got something better to do!” She looked at herself a few minutes in the glass. “YT wonder if John saw I was haudsomer than éver ? I believe I will write him a note to-day, asking him to call and see me.” a Picking up a fascinating a novel, she flung herself back in a large velvet easy-chair; and was soon lost to everything real in the excitement of a power- erful love story. Her flaxen hair hung down he back unbrushed; her pink cashmere morning-dresé had several large grease spots on the bosom and down the front; her finger nails were dirty ; but her \ idle fancy reveled among “marble halls,” with fault- less beauties, jeweled and satin-robed—an amuse- ment proper at the proper time of evening leisure, but hardly suitable for nine in the morning in a large house, with only two servants. Mary, the faithful ‘second girl,” tried hard to do: her work as nicely as she used to doit; but it was made very much harder for her by the exactions of the new mistress, who never lifted a finger to wait on herself, but would ring the bell and call the ser- vant up two flights of stairs to hand her a book from the other side of the room, or to brush her hair, er get her hat and cloak out of a closet; besides which, such sewing on of buttons, darning of stockiugs, and mending of table and household linen as was done at all, was done by Mary. She would long ago have taken her departure trom under this ill-natured, ex- acting mistress—out of this ill regulated house—had she not solemnly promised Grace to remain during her absence. The kitchen was so dirty Mary could hardly endure to eat her meals there; the Cook smelled of brandy ; there was enough wasted food every week to keep three families; but once when Mary had ventured to hint that Mrs. Brooks ought to visit the basement, she was snap pishly answered : “Mind your own business, Mary. The cooking suits me; mais delighted with it; so I sha’n’t trouble my head with the cook’s habits or her brandy. If I don’t go in the kitchen, I sha’n’t see the dirt, and so my ap- petite will not be spoiled.” Scarcely had the young wife got well settled to her book, when her brother burst into the room in his usual boisterous manner. “You look confoundedly comfortable, Lill, I must say. I wish I was an old man’s darling.” “T intend to take things easy. I'll never spoil my good looks by too much worrying. What do you want, Sam? I know you want something.” “T want you to let me have a hundred dollars, sis. Mackay don’t like it, ’cause I haven’t paid him any- thing.” “But he hasn't done anything.” “T know; but. he’s trying.. Come, I wan't fifty my- self; the other half I'll pass over to him.” “T haven’t got it,Sam. I don’t go around with hundred-dollar bills to give away.” “You can get it, sis. Ask the old man for it to- night.” “He won't give it to me.” “Tell him you need a new dress.” “He'll say, ‘Buy it. and send me the bill.’” “Oh, come, Lill; I can’t get along without it.” She put her novel aside, arose languidly, and went fe hier bureau. Taking out a velvet jewel-case, she said: “Pll tell you what Tlldo. Here’s a set of cameos worn by the first Mrs. Brooks. They aré said to be real stone cameos, and they are set around with pearls. You can easily raise a hundred dollars on "em at any good pawnbroker’s; and when you get hold of Grace’s money, you can take ’em out of pawn and give them back to me. Mr. Brooks would raise the mischief if he knew I had parted with them. Old- fashioned things! J wouldn’t wear them.” “You're a brick, sis. TV’ll get me a new suit of clothes and a seal for my watch. Much obliged, Pm sure. I'll take you over to amatinee at Wallack’s, this afternoon, if you like.” “Good! T’ll go. I dare say old Brooks would like to take me, but I’d rather go with you, Sam. The old fool is so awfully particular. I can’t give my hand- kerchief a flirt but he tells me it’s unladylike. Um sick of being too much of a lady. Ilike a little fun when [ am out where there are plenty of young gen- tlemen. There’s no harm init—you neverimeet those persons again—it’s just a little innocent aniusement ;; but you’d think it was awful, the way he snaps me up aboutit. Vm not going out with him any more than I can help, and he need not expect it, fussy old: thing!” “Well, good by, sis. I’ll meet you at the Bridge, at one, sharp. Ah, here comes mother. What's she atter, [ wonder? Ill go, all the same,’ and he went out as Mrs. Dennison came in. “You do have it easy, daughter, that’s a fact,” com- mented that lady. ‘Your bread is buttered pretty thick. I didn’t think you need to hanker after John Halliday; he couldn’t keep you like this!” and she looked admiringly at her indolent, dowdy, pretty daughter. ‘I came to talk over the carpets. lf you get new ones for the parlors, and put the parlor ¢ar- pets up here, why couldn’t you let me have this one for my sitting-room! Mine is dreadfully shabby, and I’ve taken a fancy to this pattern.” “That’s just what I had fixed in my own mind, ma. You do need a carpet, that’s a fact, and you shall have this.” “And will you order your grocer to send round thirty or forty pounds of sugar to our house? I want to do up pears to-morrow.” ‘As I expect to help eat the pears, I s’pose it’s only fair I should furnish the sugar,” assented the gen- erous girl. “Old Brooks growls about the grocer’s bills already, but I don’t care. We've only one life te live, and we may as well get all wecan out of it. Didn’t John Halliday look splendid last night, ma? I declare, it gave me quite a turn, his walking in the way he did.” “The less you think and talk ahout him the better,” advised the mother, who had never given her daugh- ter much good advice, but who foresaw danger in Lillie’s getting sentimental over John. \ “IT cant help teeling a little low this morning, ma.” “Then change your dress and come out for a little shopping. There’s nothing does a low-spirited wo- man so much good as a shopping excursion. It’s a beautiful, bright cool day, and Wechsler & Abra- ham’s, and Loeser’s will be crowded.” ‘Really, I don’t think of anything I need.” “Effie needs lots of things. Come, I think it will be just the thing for you to give your sister a silk dress. Her old black is frightfully shabby. I heard her say she did wish she could have one o’ those lovely garnets at Loeser’s.” Lillie got up and dressed herself in a new street costume. “There, ma, I don’t see as any of the ladies that turn up their noses at me look any nicer than I do,” she commented, when she had pinned on her new fall bonnet and rubbed her cheeks until the pink color came which was so becoming to her. “It’s aw- fully nice to have money to spend and do as one pleases, ain’'tit? The only thing I don’t like about it is old Graybeard,” with one of those pleasant little laughs of hers again. ‘Since I’ve seen John again I feel as if it was going to be hard to live with that old fool until he sees fit to kick the bucket.” “You need not live with him another hour,” said a stern voice, which caused her to start, and give a little scream. : Turning, she saw Mr. Brooks standing, pale and frowning, in the door-way. [TO BE CONTINUED.] i oe AN AMERICAN LADY’S JEWELS, Mrs. John Mackay owns some of the finest jewels inthe world. Two specimens certainly take prece- dence over any of their kind that are known. One is a sapphire that she bought for $150,000 from a Rus- sian prince. It measures a centimeter (about four- tenths of an inch) in diameter, and has no defects. She owns, also, the most splendid emerald known, Among her other toys is a necklace of pearls worth $100,000 and a set of corals comprising a brooch, crown, bracelet, ete., all of the most delicate rose color, each piece covered with diamonds. It took two years’ searching to complete this collection of gems, and there exists only one other like it, and that belongs to the Queen of Portugal. Further than these are a pair of solitaires worth $425,000, Ore of them was bought at a sale of the effects of the Duke of Brunswick, and the jeweler who was com- missioned to secure its mate was upward of two years in getting it. 0 A NAVIGABLE BALLOON AT LAST. An invention that will have an important influence in warfare has been successfully tried in Metz, Ger- many. It isa balloon, the movements of which are controlled by an electric motor. It is the invention of a German engineer named Welker, who for some time was employed in the United States, where he perfected his discovery. The German governinent has bought the invention, paying for it 1,000,*00 marks ($238,000) down, and an equal sum to be paid in installments, The speed of the balloon exceeds that of a railway train, and it may be stopped and directed at will, moving with or against the wind. Qe VOL, 42—No. 29. AMONG THE ROSES. BY ALICK STONE BLACKWELL. Among the roses, In morn’s rosy glow, She would not look at me, but turned aside, Scanning the queenly blossoms in their pride; And half she smiled and half she blushed to know Herself more fair than all their glorious show. Warmly I wooed to gain a peerless bride, But, though my tenderest eloquence I tried, She laughed her silvery laugh and answered “No.” But when pale moonlight, in the garden close, Half hid and half revealed their loveliness, We stood among the roses, and I chose That shadowy hour my suit once more to press, The darkness gave her courage; like a rose She dropped her head and softly whispered ‘Yes.’ | THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. } MAGGIE, THE CHARITY CHILD; OR, FROM GARRET TO PARLOR. By FRANCIS S. SMITH, Author of “Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl,” “Little Sunshine,” “‘Daisy Burns,” etc., etc. AGGIE, THE CHARITY CHILD” was commenced in No. [