Godey's Magazine 1885-01: Vol 110 Iss 655

Page 1

Page 2

PHILADELPHIA: COLLINS, PRINTER,

Page 3

Page 4

y JAMES R.RICE PH Mv. EY yp ae 2) i Ye y,

Page 5

Page 6

Page 7

Page 8

aX

Page 9

rt aR a “: GODEYS FASHIONS. FOR DESCRIPTION SEE FASHION DEPARTMENT.

Page 10

Page 11

Page 12

. MIE Sif’ sa ta ee, Vol.

Page 13

23 a o j Fy “4 q a 3 by o o Q a ° a >) FA oO Mo) 3 ms

Page 14

CUMUYYY, Ya For description see Fashion Department.

Page 15

g ‘ A g ; 3 é 2 é

Page 16

—- a —- ._— Eo ae ee ee a — Fig. 1. For description see Fashion Department.

Page 17

For description see Fashion Department,

Page 18

For description see Fashion Deparment.

Page 19

Fig. 23. For description see Fashion Department.

Page 20

rig. 2 Fig. 30, Fig. 31. § é 3 : é

Page 21

ay TT TTT OOF} | | \W\ } y ; «so wil ly 54 ee uy | ; | ] ; & ee: & | | | Fig. 30. Fig. 31.

Page 22

a mo. ‘ sw 2 aan oyyekes: For desemption see Work Department.

Page 23

a . ee .n/) Be * ~ a q ‘ S be ve 3 B o a P| 3 Be E 3 - & °o =

Page 24

: 8 A = . : A 3 8 é i é 3 : iS

Page 25

For directions see ‘‘Christmas Decorations” in Work Department.

Page 26

TURNHAM TOLL. FRED. E. WEATHERLY. MILTON WELLINGS. Scherzando. 8rd verse a little slower. 1. “ Now where are you going so early this morning, Now 2. There’s riding and driving to market, this morning There's 8. The day’s growing later, cool shadows thicken, The eA st ae where are you going so carly?” said he; He peep'dat her little face under the awning, ‘‘ I'm riding and driving from near and from far, But no little fuce looks from under the awning, And little cart stands in the grass by the way; And under the tiltare the butter and chicken, But fam. = > ni I : a SS SSS SS SS ap - eo $3 — == —s fsa $ = Se —_, a ~—we Ss Se p ad es 1 oN oe a Siededioni oz 2leo_? a ar (eS Sp Se + + wt yy yw @ cdl = es — + #3 33 FZ a tempo. — going to market, to market,” said she, ‘‘ But toll you must pay for passing this way.” ‘‘And nobody stands to take toll at the bar; The door’s open wide, but no one’s inside, And the oh! ’tis too late for the market to day. But two happy souls each the ovher concludes, That fam. 1 a oNeNRREC + . Re TE — ee -o-: | lf w | i = | fs oe Ud ~a_-S- ft SS - =——_ | ame 1} . | p mf ‘Fe. 4 a =. + CAN | ON CANS CANT 1 ifs cAAL et lele

Page 27

ee o~ £ se TURNHAM TOLL. LL o~ ——t—— ai a nm fo =fa as —~o—g -o 2 oe = oe i Ay what is the toll, master Toll-keeper, pray?” ‘*O twopence to pay, two-pence to pay, dog finds it lone - ly at home tobe tied; The clock ticksaway, what does it say? lifes something better than markets and tolls! O, happy are they roaming a - way. o~ SS me pp ee mn ee ee 2 a oo —— os a (ge oe as ——. a Pe ae es OE (ez eS = ar = a i. o | oe és oT t ww. we: — E ao a ae 2 ot +—h “Ss ° es eee eos ae E A a 4 ey e—E twopence the toll is for passingthisway! _twopencetopay, twopenceto pay, **not ma-ny twopences tak -en to-day,” The clock ticks away, what does it say? tho’ ne’er a two-penceis tak-cn to-day! Hap-pyarethey roaming a- way, O-# — Ca —_— es a c+. fe Sj eS + eS EES Ee —— ee ee ee ae Ps I twopence the toll is, for pass-ing this way.” ‘not ma-ny two-pen-ces tak -en to - day.” Tho’ ne’er a twopence tak -en to-day! Tho’ ne’era twopenceis tak-en to-day!

Page 28

ARCAODI STYL

VELVET *: mm

rie _’ Godey’s Lady’s Book, Sept. '=4, says. * * * To imitate a Genoa silk velvet so clesely that only an expert can detect the difference is rather difficult, The Arcadia Velveteen does this, however. Resides, its durability and stylish appearance have made it a great favorite with ladies. The woven broche, combined with old material, is very efec- tive in brightening up & cos- tume. For these advantages, and for ita rich coloring and v riety of shades, we must place the Arcadia above all other velveteens These velveteens sre also useful for children’s Costumes, as they stand auy amount of hard wear and rough usage.

EEN AND WOVEN BROCHE. ISH AND ECONOMICAL A_

FOR WINTER COSTUMES. The great pow ity of ARCADIA VELVETEEN over all other goods for ladies’ costumes is, that it combines, in a greater degree than any other, the following qualifica- tions, which are an absolute necessity in all gouds that are applied to the use of ladies for winter dresses: First, WARMTH—the texture being very fine and closely woven. Second, STRENGTH—the durability of the fabric being su- perior to any other known make of velveteen. Third, APPEARANCE—the finish of these goods being so superior that when made into a garment, it requires air expert to detect tiem from Genoa silk velvet. el

4 =. L V E T ! Ran Ee N

bie Ys +>REMEMBER<

mommy ARCADIA Bake consumervo A SE OREN ADIN E stamp. S00 stamp REGISTEREG you getit.

Sold by all first-class Pry Goods Dealers, Manuf’s Agents, SHAEN & CHRISTIE, 198 & 200 Church 8t, N. Y.

Peterson’s Magazine, Sept. ’84, says : What shail we wear f—Th opéning of another season briogs to the front the much-vexing question of What to Wear. Js answering this, we cannot de better than cali attention to the ever-popular Arcadia Velveteen and even Broche, whic proved so satisfoctory last ses- son, and which, with its new pat terns and varieties, wil) without doubt take the Jead this season. Experience proves this to be ont of the most dressy as well economical articles of drew

oe i] |

ik

] of Fai and wit at t con stat I bly the: deli wit! eye: 0ce: T ther inci add the sun! hair call flow “ee of now and atte “ som “e you tion

Page 29

ESE *k im4 iF 4 on ? iin? MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE. BY MARY E. BRADLEY. I. Madame de Launay sat in her chair of state in the library at Ravenswood. Family portraits in portentous ruffles and flowing wigs looked down upon her with serene dignity: she glanced back at them with calm complaisance, as one conscious of a fine equality with the stateliest presence amongst them. Her small head was balanced super- bly upon shoulders that had carried themselves erect for seventy years ; her delicate, clear-cut features were keen with energy and decision,and her bright occasion. There was a dangerous brilliance in them at this moment, and a peculiar incisiveness in the tone with which she addressed the young lady who stood by the great oriel window—just where the sunlight transmuted her loose-flowing hair into shining threads of gold, and called forth in all their loveliness the flower-like tints of her face. “There has been more than sufficient of argument, Mademoiselle; it comes now to a simple question of authority | and obedience, and I desire your whole attention for a moment, if you please.” “T listen, grandmamma,” was the somewhat sullen reply. ‘“ Have the kindness to show me that you do. I am not accustomed to be heard with the face averted.” The bright curls were tossed aside with an impatient gesture as Mademoi- | selle turned a pretty, petulant counte- | nance towards her grandmother. “] desire you to observe, ma chére, that I am entirely in earnest,” she be- gan. “It has been already explained to you what will be the advantage of compliance with my plans for your mar- riage ; now I have to tell you what will be the consequence of your refusal. But, let me offer you another opportunity to withdraw your unreasonable objec- tions. If you have reconsidered—” Vou. cx.— 3 | turned Madame, serenely. “T beg your pardon, grandmamma,” the young lady interrupted impetuously, “but I have not reconsidered in the least. I do not intend to reconsider ; and I decline the opportunity with thanks.” “ Very good, Mademoiselle.” A faint color tinged Madame de Lau- nay’s pale cheek, but she spoke with unruffled serenity. “It only remains, then, for me to in- form you that next week Sister Petro- nella, of the Holy Sisterhood of St. Vin- cent de Paula, will relieve me of a | responsibility which, it seems, 1 am no eyes could flash with imperial prideupon | longer equal to.” Mademoiselle stared at her grandmo- ther for a moment with mingled amaze- ment and perplexity in her blue eyes. Then a laugh of scornful incredulity rippled out from the rosebud lips. ‘“* Have we gone back to the dark ages, grandmamma? One would think we were in Catholic France instead of Pro- testant America; or else that you con- sidered me a very silly child indeed, to be frightened by the threat of a convent in this age of the world!” “You estimate my opinion of you quite correctly, my dear,” Madame re- torted, suavely. “ The threat of a con- vent is, however, of your own inven- tion. Even in Protestant America there are, happily, some excellent schools, conducted after the manner of similar establishments in Catholic France. It | is to one of these, where I have reason to believe that a wholesome discipline is maintained, that I propose to send you for the present.” “Grandmamma, you say that to frighten me,” exclaimed the girl vehem- ently, her face growing blank with dis- may. ‘It is impossible that you can mean anything so preposterous !” “ But it is not at all impossible,” re- “ You have the choice to marry Captain Meredith, or to go next week to Montreal, and be- come a pupil of St. Vincent de Paula.” (33) MAR 2 3 1916

Page 30

34 MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE. “ Captain Meredith has never asked me to marry him,” was the indignant answer. “It was not necessary that he should, my dear. He has asked, and obtained my consent; which was more to the purpose.” “And mine is of no consequence, then; I am simply to be transferred from you to him, like a horse, or a slave, without any voice of my own in the matter? Grandmamma, how can you think I will submit to such treatment? It is outrageous.” “Only to your romantic ideas, my child. When I was young, it was inva- riably the custom for parents to arrange these affairs, and equally the custom for daughters to acquiesce with modest grace. I have seen nothing in the young people of the present day to convince me that they are better qualified to choose for themselves, than they were supposed to be in the olden times. Therefore I take the liberty of deciding this important matter for you.” “ You were born in France; it was all different there,” answered the young girl, passionately. “In America fathers and mothers do not tyrannize over their children like that. You have no right— no sort of right, grandmamma, to make me marry against my will.” “ Without discussing that point,” said Madame, coldly, “have the goodness to explain why this marriage should be against your will. Briefly, what are your objections to Captain Meredith?” “A thousand objections. I detest him!” exclaimed Mademoiselle with spiteful energy. “But a thousand are more than enough. Let us come to particulars. Is he not handsome, for example?” * That’s as people think ;” and Mad- emoiselle shrugged her graceful shoul- ders with a contempt not altogether genuine; for the gallant captain was undeniably handsome. There could be no dissent, unless through wilful preju- diee, from such an acknowledged fact. Madame was provoked, but she kept her temper. “ If his looks do not please you, that is after alla small matter,” she said. “ He has family, position, wealth, intel- ligence—” ‘“‘ And is he the only one who has all these?” interrupted the girl hotly. “Iam sick of his family, and his wealth, and his intelligence; and he is not a gentle- man, grandmamma, or he would see that Iam sick of him, and leave me in peace.” “ Admirable logic! It is but a mo- ment since you declared that he had not annoyed you with any proposals.” “ He does it through you, which is a more effectual, and also a more cowardly way of annoying me,” Mademoiselle re- turned with spirit. “If he were truly a gentleman, he would not appeal to you. He would come to me, and take my no for an answer, and that would end it.” “With the girl of the period, and with the gentleman of the period,” said Mad- ame with sarcastic emphasis, “it is no doubt the style to ignore the existence of parents and guardians in such affairs, Happily, Captain Meredith’s standard of a gentleman differs somewhat from that of your ardent admirer, Don Luis Henriques Carrero.”’ She uttered the musical Spanish name with a contemptuous inflection, that brought a deepening color into the girl- ish cheeks already flushed with excite- ment. ‘Why do you speak of Mr. Carrero?” sheasked, resentfully. ‘“* Thereis no need to insult him because you praise Captain Meredith. And as for the standard of a gentleman, it is so much the worse for Captain Meredith if his is different. Mr. Carrero is as noble by nature as descent; he is brave, and chivalrous, and courteous; there is no gentleman in the land that surpasses him.” Her blue eyes sparkled with fearless determination, though her face was like a sunset cloud, with its conscious blushes. Madame de Launay smiled scornfully. “It was not needed that you should make such heroic exposition of your feelings. I have been for some time aware of your preference for the Cuban, who has not thought it necessary to seek my approval of his suit. Possibly it is my misfortune that I fail to comprehend his unsurpassed perfections. I am but an old-fashioned gentlewoman, Made- moiselle, and it may be very woful blind- ness on my part. Be it ao. I have nevertheless only this to say: I decline distinctly, and altogether, the honor of his alliance.” lll silo io /i”- Ti in i i i — a a a ae ae | Ss =b ©

Page 31

m d d- 10 ce rd m ne at rl- te- 9” ed in for nt. us, an agg ike us ly. ild yur me an, ek t is nd but de- nd- ave ine - of MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE. 35 There was a brief silence when Mad- ame’s low, clear tones ceased to vibrate. Outside, the mellow note of an oriole broke the stillness with musical monot- ony; a waft of scented wind rustled through the tangle of vines that arched the window, and shook down a shower of palé petals from a branch of the Cher- okee rose that strayed far into the room. They fluttered in the air for a moment, then settled noiselessly—some in Mad- ame’s silken lap, more in the lovely meshes of Mademoiselle’s hair. The ‘ first were flecked off lightly with a handkerchief of cobweb fineness; the last lav as they fell, unstirred by breath or gesture, for the girl’s whole face and figure had settled into a curious still- ness. “You mean me to understand, grand- mamma’’—the rose-leaves lay as they fell—“that if I wished to marry Car- rero, you would certainly refuse your consent ?” “T mean you to understand,” with emphasis, “that you shall never marry Henriques Carrero.” ‘* Because you have determined that I shall marry Captain Meredith?” “ Precisely. And also because, if Captain Meredith were out of the ques- tion, Carrero is not the man I choose to accept as my son. Assure yourself that I mean you to understand this,” Madame added with calm determination. “ T understand it.” The pale rose-petals trembled in her hair as she slowly turned her head, and met her grandmother’s resolute look with eyes steadily defiant. “]T understand it, grandmamma, but let me tell you it will not have the slightest weight with me. You have no right to control my feelings; no one has, for they are mine. And now you may understand that I not only refuse Captain Meredith, but that I mean— some day—to marry Mr. Carrero. So we both understand each other, and if you please I would like to be excused from hearing any more. I shall go to my room.” The rose-leaves fluttered away in a soft shower as Mademoiselle made her haughty little courtesy, and swept out of the library. Madame de Launay fol- lowed her retreating figure with wrath- ful glances, too astonished and incensed at this rebellious outburst, to find words for answer until she had disappeared. She had never in all her life been so bitterly offended, amazed, and dis- appointed; for her granddaughter was the creature that she had loved best on earth, and was now the sole absorbing interest of her life. Such a scene was unprecedented; for in spite of the stately formalities in which Madame’s household was envi- roned, the girl’s life had been full of love and tender indulgence, and she had hardly known what it was to have a wish thwarted. Consequently she had never till now been tempted to rebellion; and it came to the proud old lady, who had been autocrat of her realm for two generations, with the force of a new, and exceedingly unpleasant sensation. She gave no vent by word or gesture, however, to her outraged sensibilities. With knitted brow and compressed lips she sat pondering for a time, and she grew so like the old pictures on the wall that one hardly could have told which was real and which was painted. By and by she rose, crossed the room with the quick but stately movement that was habitual to her, and seated her- self at a writing-table inlaid with beau- tiful southern woods, and carved to a marvel of dainty fretwork. There she wrote with care and deliberation a brief letter, which having neatly sealed with red wax and her own signet-ring—Mad- ame, of course, had never condescended to the vulgarity of self-sealing envelopes —she addressed to the devout Petro- nella of the Holy Sisterhood of St. Vin- cent de Paula. ‘“‘ Here is medicine for your distemper, Mademoiselle,” she murmured as she locked the letter in the desk. ‘“ We shall test the strength of your passion for your Cuban adorer.” II. In her own apartment, meanwhile, Mademoiselle Delphine, whose power of self-control was spasmodic, and not at all her high-bred habit, had been in- dulging herself in a tantrum. She had marched about the room with blazing eyes, and clenched hands, and passion- ately muttered exclamations ; she had thrown herself upon her couch and sob-

Page 32

36 MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE.

bed stormily; she had berated poor Maum Phyllis, whose heart was broken at the sight of her nursling’s trouble, for trying to comfort her. Maum Phyllis had seen the like be- fore. It was not an absolutely new ex- perience to be snubbed by Ma’mselle in her tantrums; and she waited patiently, knowing her time would come, as it did presently. ‘“‘Maumer! come here to me,” was the command issued from the bed before long. And the mulatto nurse, who had been lady’s maid to Delphine’s mother, and more mother than servant to Del- phine herself through her orphaned in- fancy and childhood, came eagerly at the call. She loved her nursling with a supreme and self-forgetting devotion, and would cheerfully have laid herself down as a carpet for Ma’mselle to walk upon, fat and cushiony and ponderous as she was, if only she could have saved her the smallest vexation thereby. Delphine in return for such devotion made her the trusty confidante of all her varying saprices. Maum Phyllis knew the state of her mind towards all her lovers. The pretty speeches of one, and the ardent glances of another; their flatteries, their rival- ries, their jealousies, and her own be- witching and exasperating coquetries, were all detailed in full as Maum Phyllis undressed her at night, or brushed her shining curls, and made her fascinating toilettes in the morning. She was aware of the present ascendency in Mademoi- selle’s imagination of her Cuban admirer with the musical names. She was also aware of Madame de Launay’s prefer- ence for the handsome captain, whose martial prowess, as well as his chivalrous bearing to herself, had won her heart ; and the old nurse had a shrewd suspicion that Ma’mselle’s present excitement was the result of collision on these points. So she came prepared to sympathize with the grievance that was soon poured into her ear. “Ts not grandmamma a tyrant? Is not she too horribly unjust?” cried the young lady, as she finished her recital of the interview in the library. ‘“ She thinks I am still a child to be absolutely governed ; but I tell you, Maumer, she will find herself mistaken. I will not

be forced to marry the man I do not love, and give up the one I care for ;— for Ido, Maum Phyllis, I do care for him!” with vehement assertion, “and I am not ashamed to own it;” the pretty face suffused with blushes, nevertheless, “T will not be sent to any Sisterhood of St. Paula, either, for all her threats, Fancy it, Maumer, fancy me—buried alive in a dreadful convent-school away up in Montreal! I should perish with the cold, and with all sorts of horrors, for the snow is piled there to the house. tops—oh, you know nothing about it! It is wickedness in grandmamma to think of such a thing, and I won’t sub- mit to it, Z won't!” with another burst of stormy tears. It is needless to say that Maum Phyllis responded with indignant sym- pathy. Her fat bosom heaves, her old eyes filled with tears as she cries out wrathfully :— “ Ole missis ought to be ’shamed ob herse’f! Has de debbel got into her to make her torment my chile? Wha’ she thinkin’ about, I wonder?” “ Oh, she thinks of Captain Meredith, and no one else,” returned the “ chile,” spitefully. ‘“ Sheis perfectly bewitched with him, but for my part I find him utterly detestable.” Maum Phyllis rocked to and fro with melancholy movement, her comely face reflecting varying emotions of distress, perplexity,and anxious fear. It was in her mind to speak words of wisdom to her young lady, yet’ shehardly dared to say the thing she wished. “What makes you hate de cap’en so bad, honey ?” she began, presently, in a deprecating tone. “ Pears like you’se kind o’ spiteful to him, jes ’cause ole missis sets her heart on him.” “ Not at all,” returned Mademoiselle, indifferently. ‘* What do I care whether she sets her heart on him or not, if only she will not insist upon my doing the same? [I dislike him for himself.” “ But why, honey? tell de ole Maumer de reason why. ’Pears to me dey ain’t nuffin’ to fine’ fault with in de cap’en. He’s mighty nice to ole Maumer, I know; al’ays has a smile an’ a howdy for her, wheneber I come acrost him. But de oder one—he nebber looks at me, no mo’n ef I was de mat he wipes his shoes on.”

you exe on” “i nice rup! I wi now witl dith you. in t am ¢ “ee hone ‘She cord no u Was | mit t | oe i | repea you’s nigh Migh as m<¢ = short is pla My v will fi “ D said | know: wants der. off to do de “St “Wh: “ D it, hor you’se “ TI for I t Vent s me, M the pe at me

Page 33

= MADEMOISELLBE’S MASQUERADE. 37 “Now, Maumer, I won’t listen to that !”’ Delphine raised herself to a sitting posture, and the angry sparkle came back to her eyes. “ T didn’t request you to come here to turn against me, and stand up for Cap- tain Meredith.” “ Laws, honey, I ain’t turnin’ against you, bress your heart 1” Maum Phyllis exclaimed in frightened haste. “I was on’y jes’ sayin’—” “That Captain Meredith is much nicer than Mr. Carrero—just so!” inter- rupted the young lady, haughtily. “ Well, I won’t have you say such things to me, now mind. If you choose to take sides with grandmamma and Captain Mere- dith, well and good. I don’t prevent you. But you must go away from me, in that case. You can’t stay where I am and speak ill of Mr. Carrero.” “ T won’t say another word about him, honey,” Maum Phyllis replied, meekly. ‘She had done her duty, and spoken ac- cording to her conscience, and it was of no use; she could not help it. There was nothing for her to do now but sub- mit to circumstances. “T’se got nuffin’ more to say,” she repeated. ‘ But I don’ see, honey, what you’se agwine to do. Ole missis is nighty sot in her ways, you knows dat. Might’s well try to move Rock Dunder as move her.” “T know it,” said Mademoiselle, shortly. “ But perhaps some one else is planted on a rock, too, Maum Phyllis! My will is as strong as hers, and she will find it out presently.” “ Dey’s plenty ob will between you,” said Maum Phyllis, dryly. ‘ Dis chile knows dat widout any tellin’. What I wants to know is anoder matter altoged- der. Sposin’ ole missis sen’ you way off to dat ar’ school up norf, what you do den ?” “Supposing I will not go?” haughtily. “What then, Maumer ?” “ Don’ see how you’se gwine to hinder it, honey. Reckon ef ole missis say go, you’se got to go.” “Then you reckon without your host, for I tell you I’ll never go to that con- vent school, or any other. Listen to me, Maumer,” pulling her sleeve with the petulance of a spoiled child. “ Look at me when I talk—look me straight in ? the eyes! Now tell me truly, do you love me with all your heart and soul?” “* Laws, honey, I’se tole you dat heeps o’ times,an’ tole you de truf. You knows ole Maumer’d go fro fire and water for her precious baby. Wha’ for you ax me dat again ?” “ Because I want you to prove it now. You can do something to help me if you love me so very much.” ‘‘QOn’y jes’ show me de way, honey, Maumer'’ll do it, or die a tryin’,” was the prompt answer. “ That’s the way to talk,” returned Mademoiselle, approvingly, as she rose to her feet, and tossed back her dishev- elled curls. “ I want my hair brushed, mammy dear, and while you are doing it, Ill tell you something. Now then,” as Maum Phyllis began her task, part- ing the golden masses tenderly, ‘ pre- pare yourself to beastonished. I want you to run away with me to-night.” “ Bressed Lord !” Maum Phyllis’s two hands went up to her head with a wild jerk, scattering combsand brushes in heedless confusion. “ A little more, and you would have broken my beautiful best ivory brush,” said Mademoiselle, stooping to pick up the favorite article. ‘“I wish you wouldn’t jump, and drop things, Maum Phyllis.” “But, honey—my precious chile! Fo’ de Lawd’s sake, honey! Wha’s dat you’se sayin’ "bout runnin’ away ?” “Just what I meant. You know grandmamma intends to send me to Montreal, unless I will marry the cap- tain. Well, ! will not marry the cap- tain, and I'll save her the trouble of sending me away, by going of my own accord—somewhere else.”’ ‘“ Whah kin you go, honey?” asked Maum Phyllis, tremulously. “To a safe place. Don’t look so frightened, you silly old Maumer ?” said the young lady, patting her nurse’s cheek with caressing condescension. “ You’ve got a son on the plantation across the river, haven’t you?” “Yes, honey. George Washington Napoleon—” “IT know. George Washington Na- poleon Bonaparte Levi Joseph Francis Wast, sir!” repeated Mademoiselle, laughing merrily. ‘I heard him tell- ing his ridiculous name to Captain

Page 34

38 MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUER ADE. Meredith one day when he held his horse.” ‘IT "member dat day,” rejoined Maum Phyllis. “ De cap’en give him a qua’ter, an’ dat’s mo’n Mistah Cray—” Maum Phyllis stopped suddenly, for Ma’m’selle held up a warning finger. “Do you wish to make me angry, seriously angry, Maumer ?” “No, honey. Lawd knows I ain’t hankerin’ arter dat!” “ Be careful then. You were just about to say something disagreeable ; and ‘three times more will rouse the sleeping lion,’” quoted Ma’mselle, calmly. ‘“ We were speaking of your son; would you like to pay him a Visit this afternoon ?” “T’se no "bjecsh’ns, honey. My mind hain’t been sot on it, but I’d jes’ as lieve go as not.” “ A ffectionate mother!” laughed Del- phine. “I supposed you would jump at the opportunity. Never mind, you shall go all the same. Tell grand- mamma that I have given you permis- sion to stay all night at the plantation.” “* Yes, honey.’ « But you are not to; stay all night. You are to make George Washington bring you across the river again after dark, when no one can see you; and then you are to come up to the old summer-house in the woods, where I shall be waiting for you. Then we'll go back to the riv er,and George Wash- ington will row us down to Runny- meade. Do you understand ?” “* Mas’ Willum Somers’s place ?” asked Maum Phyllis, doubtfully. “Is you gwine to stop wid Miss Lily ?” “Just so. Dr. Somers has gone North for a month, and Iam going to make Miss Lily a visit. But grand- mamma is not to be told that. When she asks you if you know where I am, you are to know nothing. You are to go back to the plantation with your son, and he will have this’”—putting a bright gold piece into her hand—* for his trouble. And for holding his tongue. Remember, Maumer, that he is not to say a word about taking you down the river. He will bring you back to his cabin, and you'll sleep there, and come home in the morning. Not too early, either,” continued Made- moiselle, knitting her brows in some per- her plexity. “If you come home as you generally do, in time to dress me, you would have to be the one to discover that I was missing. And that would never do,mammy dear. You’d makea bungle of it, and grandmamma would pounce upon you like a hawk upona chicken! Let me see’’—the pretty little foot tapped the floor a minute to assist cogitations; and Maum Phyllis listened to the rhythmic pat-pat of the slipper with a woeful sense of heart- sinking. Her fear of “ ole missis” was only less dominant than her love for Ma’mselle; and between the two she foresaw troubled waters for herself. “T have it!’ Ma’m’selle suddenly cried, lifting up a bright glance that instantly routed Maum Phyllis’s half- formed purpose of trying another re- monstrance. “I’ve thought of a way out of that difficulty, mammy—you're not to come home at all to-morrow. You're to be taken ill in the night, with a‘misery’ in your head, or your back —you do have‘ miseries’ quite suddenly sometimes, don't you?” “ Yes, honey, I does; dat’s no lie, de Lawd knows.” “Of course not. I would not be likely to suggest your telling a lie, mammy,” said the young lady with a loftily virtuous air. “ As | said before, you will have a bad pain somewhere; and you will not be able to leave your bed. So that George Washington, or Andrew Jackson, or somebody, will have to come over and explain the mat- ‘ter. That will save you from the wrath to come, dear old Maumer; and by the time you and grandmamma come face to face again, you can look her in the eyes and tell her honestly you don’t know where I am. For you won’ know.” “Yes, honey, da’s all fixed up mighty nice,” said Maum Phyllis, dolefully. ‘But don’t ye s’pose ole missis gwineter see right fru all dem contrivins’? An’ how long does you reckon itll be ’fo’ she fin’s out whah you’se hidin’? De fust thing you know, you'll see her drivin’ up to de do’ at Runnymeade; an’ den what you gwineter do?” “Never you mind, Maumer! I'll take care of all that when once I get to Run- nymeade. All you have to do is to get me there safe, and after that Miss Lily ani afr lov “ }T Mi wo sai he! bur be ‘ yo sh in ; wil rec obe ( ger tho sou bra tra tec hin wit finc tha wes not ser her cap self nec I the con fess lov

Page 35

ill at- th he ce he n’t MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE. 39 and I will manage the rest. She’s not afraid of Madame de Launay, and she loves me,” added Delphine, proudly. “ Between us we'll put a stop to the Montreal plan, never fear.” “Ole Maumer lubs you too, honey. Miss Lily, nor nobody else in dis wide world, lubs my chile like her mammy,” said poor Maum Phyllis, piteously. “T believe it, I know it, mammy dear!” Mademoiselle threw her arms around her nurse’s neck, and pressed her rose- bud lips against the dark cheek with bewitching tenderness. “You love me,and you'll do as I bid you, and save your darling from being shut up, away from everybody she loves, in a horrid prison of a school. Say you will, mammy—say yes you will, di- rectly !” It is needless to state that “ mammy” obeyed. III. Captain Meredith was a Southern gentleman, who was in most respects thoroughly imbued with the traditional southern spirit. That is to say, he was brave, to recklessness; generous, to ex- travagance ; infinitely proud of his an- tecedents, and honorably careful to keep himself worthy of them. Mademoiselle with all her willful little prejudices,could find nothing more to say of him than that she was sick of his family, and his wealth, and his good qualities: she had not the satisfaction of being able to as- sert that he had ever thrust them upon her, for like all men really brave, the captain was modest, and asserted him- self only when it became a matter of necessity. In regard to herself, he had not felt the necessity, for he was innocently un- conscious of the hatred she felt, or pro- fessed to feel for him. He had fallen in love at first sight, captivated by her beauty and piquancy; and according to his sense of propriety had straightway offered his heart and hand, not to the young lady herself, but to her nearest relative and natural guardian in her behalf. Armed with approval from this quar- ter, he had set about the task of winning his sweetheart in a manly but modest fashion. He had not sung melting Span- ish airs to her, or sent her passionate poems stolen from de Villegas, or Gre- gorio Sylvestre, and boldly claimed as the original inspiration of her charms. He could not have descended to such trickery, and it would never have oc- curred to him that she could be pleased with that sort of silliness. On the night of Delphine’s daring scheme, and about the time when that young lady in an artfully-arranged dis- guise, which she had planned and Maum Phyllis helped to execute, was stealing through shadowy by-ways to the tryst- ing-place in the woods, Captain Mere- dith was nearer to her than either of them imagined. Mounted on his bay mare Venus, and with a revolver in his breast-pocket, he was patrolling a sec- tion of the forest less than half a mile distant from the old summer-house. If any one had asked him why he was here, he would have been at a loss to explain. He could not have formulated to himself the object that he had in view; yet it was a kindly and honorable one, though somewhat vague and pur- poseless. It had come to his knowledge that a couple of slaves were missing on a neighboring plantation, and that they were suspected of having taken refuge in a certain bit of swamp on the Ra- venswood domain. Also he had learned —through a chance word of Carrero’s, who was a guest on the plantation men- tioned—that to-night a party of men were going out in search of the run- aways. The captain had no distinct purpose, as I have stated, in putting himself to- night in the track of the slave-hunters. He could not prevent the exercise of the law, nor had he any intention that he recognized as such, of helping the fugitives if he should happen to encoun- terthem. He had only an uneasy sense of apprehension, discomfort, and com- passion. He knew that Gilchrist, the owner, was a hard master, and that the poor creatures, if recovered, would have hard measures dealt them. What he could do to soften it was not clear to himself; yet he paced his horse through the dusky forest-paths, keeping eyes and ears open for whatever might befall, and determining at least to throw the weight of his presence (and remon- strance, if need be) on the side of mercy.

Page 36

a 40 MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE. fully ignorant of his contiguity, or the painful reason for it, but far from easy in her mind nevertheless. It was not a figure to be recognized by any of her admirers—this slim, frightened, cring- ing creature, that hurried through the woods in mortal terror of the darkness, trembling at the sound of her own foot- steps, and crouching behind bushes in shivering dread if so much as a rabbit or a raccoon scampered by. Never before had pretty Delphine found herself alone and unprotected when she was troubled or alarmed. It did not mend the matter that she had chosen the situation for herself. Her independent spirit could not soothe the wild beating of her timid little heart ; and no sight had ever been half so wel- come as the dimly-defined but unmis- takable outline of Maum Phyllis’s ro- tund figure in the doorway of the old summer-house. She threw herself into her ample em- brace with a sobbing outcry, like a frightened child. * Oh, Maumer, I’m so glad you are here! I should have died of terror if I had had to stay alone another single minute.” “My bressed baby! Wha’ for you git so skeered, honey? Did yur come acrost anybody in de woods?” asked Maum Phyllis, cuddling her with anx- ious tenderness. “No! I met nobody. But it was dark, mammy; and those great trees are horrible inthe dark! They seem to stretch out long arms to snatch at you; and there are things that rustle and creep at your feet; and voices that whisper all round you. Oh, I was frightened!” sobbed Mademoiselle, shuddering all over at the recollection ; “and I am frightened still, Maumer. Let us get away from this place as quickly as possible. I shall never, never want to come here again.” “ Mus’n git ’scouraged, honey,” she began, with an attempt at cheerfulness. “Ole Maumer’s here to take kyar ob her baby; an’ dis ain’t nuffin ter’ble, no how ‘tall! Dey’s wus’n dis to come, my precious lamb, I’se mighty feard dey is.” “ What do you mean?” cried Delphine with a start. “It is not very far to the river—is not the boat there, Maumer, and your son? Didn’t he come with rou?” “ Yes, honey, Geo’ge Wash’nton fotch me ober de riber, an’ landed me safe enough. But jes’ as he was haulin’ de boat up on de sho’, long came anoder boat, full ob white men, an’ pull up right in de cove, as if dey come to stay. Geo’ge Wash’nton, he ‘lowed he'd bet- ter make tracks fo’ ’noder landin’, kase day ain’t po’ white trash, he says, dey’s gem’men smokin’ cigahs, an’ Ma’mselle, she won’ want to run acrost ’em.” ‘* No, no, indeed,” exclaimed Ma’m’ selle, shivering at the bare possibility. “George Washington was right. I wouldn’t for the world meet any gentle- men, looking like this!” blushing up to her eyelids in spite of the darkness. “ But where has he gone, Maumer? He had to take the boat further down the river, but how far ?” Maum Phyllis was reluctant to an- swer. “*Dey’s no place whah he kin lan’ de boat, honey, dis side o’ de swamp,” she said, apologetically. *“ Then we'll have to go through that horrible marsh? Oh, Maumer, I can’t, I can’t! There are snakes there, and all sorts of dreadful creatures,” cried poor little Ma’m’selle, clinging to the mulatto-woman in shuddering terror. “T should die there, I know I should,” she added piteously. * Den le’s we go home, honey, right away,” exclaimed Maum Phyllis, seiz- ing her opportunity in haste. ‘“ Ole missis haint missed you yet, taint likely she has, an’ we'll git back fo’ de house is locked up, an’ nobody won’t know whah you been. Sho’s you bohn dat’s de sensiblest ting you can do, Ma’m’selle. I ’prove ob dat co’se wid all my heart,” she continued, eagerly. ‘“ Jes’ le’s we go home de way we come, honey.” “ And be sent to Montreal next week ?’? answered Delphine, passion- atelv. “Indeed, Maum Phyllis, I will do nothing of the sort. I will perish in the swamp first! At ali events it will be quicker than to freeze to death in Canada. follow.” Her proud spirit reasserted itself; her blue eyes flashed, so that even in the dusk Maum Phyllis caught their Lead the way, and I'll gleat start oun , Tl com} to ta dark iousl ious | { “ce y: Mau river But watel know “ \ De ri little you ¢ Bu blind swam as be: instrt she | away men”? and y risk, ing w be af fo’ w Maun yield of th cut a mars! ingto To some prove cross she h lost | mere regio been ing t pilgr river took. Hs this cour: some ears- time of th

Page 37

ee iin a ‘2 a wy MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE. 41 gleam and cowered before it. She started forward immediately, and her young lady followed. There were no more falterings or complainings, though the path they had to take was soon as difficult as it was dark and dismal. She only asked anx- jously, after half an hour of labor- ious journeying— “Are you sure you know the way, Maumer? We ought to be near the river by this time, don’t you think? But I do not hear the lapping of the water, or see any Opening. Do you know where we are, truly ?” “We’se makin’ fo’ de bend, honey. De riber takes a tu’n, you see, roun’ de little end o’ de swamp. I’se leading you dat way,” answered Maum Phyllis. But it was a blind leading of the blind, for she had never traversed the swamp herself, and was only following as best she might George Washington’s instructions. She began to wish that she had not let herself be frightened away from the little cove. The “ w’ite men’ might not have molested them ; and yet she had not dared to take the tisk, for Mademoiselle’s sake. No tell- ing who they were, or what they might be after! “ Debble fin’s heaps o’ work fo’ w’ite men, in de dark,” thought Maum Phyllis shrewdly. And she had yielded readily to her son’s suggestion of the bend in the river, and the short cut across the swamp. Half a mile of marsh mud was nothing to George Wash- ington Napoleon Bonaparte, etcetera. To Mademoiselle it would have been something much more serious than it proved, if Maum Phyllis had actually crossed the swamp. But the fact was that she had mistaken her son’s directions, or lost her bearings in the dark, and was merely skirting the edge of that moist region—a progress which might have been kept up indefinitely without bring- ing them any nearer to the goal of their pilgrimage, for they were leaving the tiver behind them at every step they took. Happily Ma’m’selle was unaware of this misfortune. She gathered up her courage and plunged on bravely for some minutes longer. But her keen tars—which had grown used by this time to the whisperings and rustlings | of the forest—caught suddenly a sound ! which was distinctly different. She clutched Maum Phyllis by the arm, with a breathless whisper— ‘“¢ Some one is coming this way ! keep still.” Maum Phyllis stopped, as if she had suddenly taken root, and the two clung to each other in frightened silence, hardly daring to breathe. A _ slight crackling of branches, followed by the sound of hoof-beats in measured tramp, was presently audible. “Ts it a wild beast ?” grasped Ma’m’- selle. ‘“‘No, honey! Man on hoss-back,” returned Maum Phyllis. “ Git down in de bushes—dis way! We’se right in his track.” She dragged the young mistress aside with small ceremony, for the horse and his rider were already visible—a huge shadow looming through the lesser darkness—and filling all the space of the narrow, overgrown foot-track. Leaves rustled, and twigs snapped noisily as she pushed her way into the thicket, and pulled Ma’m’selle down be- side her. The horseman, on the alert for discovery, was not slow to detect this commotion. “* Who’s there ?” he called out prompt- ly, stopping his horse opposite the crouching figures. There was no answer, of course, but in the stillness one could almost hear the loud beating of the two fluttering hearts. “Tf you are after any mischief, let me give you a warning,” said a steady, fearless voice. * I carry pistols, and use them when it is necessary.” A sudden sharp click gave emphasis to the words, and struck mortal terror to poor Maum Phyllis’s soul. She grab- bed Ma’m’selle, with a scream that no earthly power could have suppressed, and covering her with her body, plung- ed her own head into a myrtle bush, convinced that her last hour had come. The horseman smiled,and put up his pistol. “It’s a woman,then! What are you screaming for, before you are hurt? Come out here, and tell me what’s the matter.” There was a quietauthorityin the tone that Maum Phyllis could not resist. She drew her head out of the myrtle-

Page 38

42 MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE. bush, and struggled up to her feet with an instinctive impulse. “Dey aint nuflin the matter, mas’r,” she answered, tremulously. ‘“ We wuz kind o’ skeared at de pist’l, da’s all, mas’r.”’ ‘* What are you hiding in the bushes for?” ‘‘We’se not hidin’, mas’r. We wuz on’y gittin’ out ob de hoss’s track, da’s de wholetrufe. It’s anarrer road ‘long dis way.” “And a lonesome one,” added the rider. ‘“ Nota nice road for a woman to travel at this hour of the night. Might I ask why you are here, and where you are bound ?” ‘* We’se bin to camp-meetin,’ mas’r,” said Maum Phyllis, with a ready inven- tion that Mademoiselle, cowering be- hind her in speechless terror, could only wonder at. ‘ We’s jes’ two ’spectable culled pussons, comin’ home from camp- meetin’. An’ we tuk dis road kase of its bein’ mo’ ’sclusive. Dey’s al’aysa parsel of low-life niggas dat hangs roun’ camp-meetins’—you knows, mas’r. An’ me an’ my da’ter, we did’n wan’ ter run afoul ob dem. So; we cum fru de woods, da’s de whole trufe, mas’r.” ‘““Come closer, and let me look at you,” was the quiet answer to this plausible speech. And Maum Phyllis, drawn to obedi- ence against her will, but wholly unable to resist, came out into the road to let herself be seen. “Tt strikes me,” said the gentleman, in a significant but kindly tone, “ that you two respectable colored persons on your way home from camp-meeting, are the pair that are missing from the Gil- christ plantation. Don’t be frightened” —as Maum Phyllis gave a cry of dismay. “JT ve no intention of betraying you. If one of my own people wanted to run away, I wouldn’t hinder him. And I certainly sha’n’t hinder you. I only want to give you warning that there is a search to-night, and there will be men, and lights, and dogs in this swamp be- fore long. You know best whether you have reason to fear them or not.” “OQ Lawd, ha’ messy, mas’r!” Maum Phyllis’s face turned gray with the sick terror that came over her. And Delphine, crouching to the earth in an agony of shame and apprehension, ? wished wildly that the spongy marsh was a quicksand, to suck her in and swallow her up forever! Not so much for the men, and the lights, and the dogs that were to come, as for the one mag who was so near her—the man whose voice she had recognized at the first word, and who—oh, horror! would per. haps compel her, as he had compelled Maum Phyllis, to stand before him! What then would hinder him from re cognizing her? And, oh, what shame in heaven or earth could be equal to the shame of being discovered by him in such a plight? Yet it was only the extravagance of her own imagination that suggested suchacalamity. For in truth the kind. hearted captain had not the faintest, most remote suspicion of her presence, His mind was occupied with a precon ceived idea, and he was somewhat obtuse to other impressions. Maum Phyllis’ portly figure and mellow voice were suf- ficiently familiar to him: in a different setting he would have recognized them promptly, but now—in the darkness, and with the vision of Gilchrist’s fugit tives before him—he looked at her calmly unconscious. “You are not obliged to take me into your confidence,” he said, as the cry of distress (convincing proof to him) e& caped Maum Phyllis’s lips. “I would rather you would not, in fact. But—if you are in trouble—you had better keep away from the swamp. And you may want money—here’s a trifle to help you along. Good-by, and good luck to you!” He tapped the mare’s neck with the bridle, and she started off, while Maum Phyllis stood speechless, clutching & handful of silver coins, and staring after the vanishing shadow in dazed bewil derment. “My bressed Marster in Heben !” was her first ejaculation. ‘ Ma’m’selle, he ney! did you hear dat? Does you know who dat gemman was ?” “Yes!” exclaimed Delphine, despair ingly, “I do know, Maumer. It was Captain Meredith, and you let him give you money! How could you do it, Maumer? Throw it away this instant.” “Oh laws, honey! was’e all dis good silver! Wha’ for, chile?” Maum Phyllis slyly slipped the silver into her pocket, taking out at the same time there “FE selle medi when “ I M: the | and cheat spite. ss N sake, rising relief river sumn Ma “ic I hone’ cap’n “'y “T d Maur You by m Th Maur toget Made erect heart they was ¢ miss¢ use ¢ reach they the s the d men, Prai: any hi Tl neou that and | just 6“ [

Page 39

rsh nd ich gs ose rst er. me the in > of ted nd- est, 1¢e, ‘ON- use is’s suf. ‘ent 1em ess, ugr her nto y of es yuld —if eep nay rou yu!” Lum ga fter wil- was ho- now MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE. 43 time a few large coppers that lay loose there. “ Because I tell you!” said Mademoi- selle imperiously. ‘“ Throw it away im- mediately.. I'll giye you twice as much when I go home.” “ Dah it goes, den!” Maum Phyllis tossed the coppers into the bushes with ostentatious clatter ; and Mademoiselle, unconscious of the cheat, felt better for this little bit of spite. “ Now, then, Maumer, for Heaven’s sake, let us hurry on,” she exclaimed, rising up with the sense of an immense relief. ‘Surely we must be near the river now. It’s an age since we left the summer-house.” Maum Phyllis groaned. “Is you gwineter keep on all de same, honey? Spite of all dat you hear’d de cap’n say ?” “ Yes!” said Mademoiselle decisively. “IT don’t believe a word of that story, Maumer, but if you are afraid, very good. You can go and leave me to get along by myself.” There was nothing more to be said. Maum Phyllis gathered her old bones together, and trudged on disconsolately. Mademoiselle followed with her head erect, and fiery determination in her heart. Neither of them knew where they were going, for the negro woman was convinced by this time that she had missed the path. But what was the use confessing that fact? They would reach the river somehow, perhaps, if they kept on long enough; and as for the searching party, and the men, and the dogs— “ We'se jes’ got ter take our chances,” thought Maum Phyllis, drearily. It was easy for Ma’m’selle to say she did not believe a word of that story; but ole Maumer knows mo’n she chooses to tell "bout dat sort ob ting,” her uncom- fortable reflections went on. ‘“ And sho’s you bohn, da’s what dem wi’ite men, down dah in de cove wuz arter. Praise de Lawd, we’se kep’ clar ob dem anyhow—oh, bressed Mahster !” The last words burst forth simulta- neously with a sudden flash of light, that gleamed upon the glossy leaves and white blossoms of a magnolia tree just beyond. “ Dey’s comin’, honey, dey’s comin’! Lawd hab me’cy upon us—wha’s we gwine ter do now?” To crouch again in the underbrush was the only resource, and this, alas! was no protection in the danger that menaced them now. For it was a true story that the captain had told them. The gleaming lights came nearer; trampling feet of men and horses shook the ground ; rude voices broke the still- ness ; and yelping dogs rushed straight to their covert, as the dreaded pursuers burst forth from the swamp. Maum Phyllis screamed wildly as one of the hounds sprang upon her; and Delphine—surprised out of her self- control—echoed the shriek with another more piteous. They were answered, alas! not with kindly, compassionate voices, but with shouts of exultation ; and directly a group of men had closed round them, flashing lights in their faces, and assailing them with jeering speeches, the like of which had never insulted Mademoiselle’s ears before. “ Viva!” cried a gay voice with a musical foreign accent: “ This is buenos fortune—good luck, eh?” a laugh of heartless enjoyment ringing out as a slender, dark-eyed, olive-skinned cava- lier sprang from his saddle, and ap- proached the trembling captives. “Buenos noches!” he said mockingly, tapping Maum Phyllis’s shoulder with his riding-whip. ‘ You are not in luck to-night, my friend. Will you try the game once more? and the little one, too? Madre de Dios\” as a flaming torch was thrust before Mademoiselle’s affrighted face. “It is a bella senorita we have here—bella suprema ! How many kisses will you give me, carita, if I intercede for you with the master ?”’ He patted her cheek with an insolent caress, and raised her chin to bring her face into the light. In doing so his own was brought into bold relief,and Maum Phyllis gave a ery of glad recognition. ‘* My bressed Lawd and Mahster! It’s Mas’ Crayro, honey—sho’s you live an’ breve, it’s Mas’ Crayro dis time!” Poor little Ma’m’selle! No need to announce thiscrowning climax of the night’s misadventures toher. Too well she knew that musical voice, with its liquid Spanish intonation, and those velvet-dark eyes !—only a few hours ago they had sought hers full of adoring

Page 40

44 MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE. devotion, not with the insolent gaze fixed upon her now. Ah, the cruel difference! Would ever anything in the world be the same again, after this night’s revealings? She hung her shame-bowed head, with the sense of being utterly crushed’ and desolate. Nothing in life was of value any longer, and it mattered little what happened next. Let them drag her away at their horses’ heels if they chose. Nothing, nothing could be worse than the humiliation she had suffered al- ready. But Maum Phyllis did not take such despairing views of life, never having | fancied herself in love with Don Luis Carrero. She only at this moment con- sidered the chance of escape, through him, from an alarming situation. And with voluble haste she began to explain to him that she was no runaway slave, but Mademoiselle de Launay’s nurse and waiting-maid. The gay young gentleman laughed incredulously, however, and declined to recognize her. *He was not to be cheated by a shallow trick like that ; and the more eagerly Maum Phyllis pro- tested, the more amused and sceptical he appeared. The other men (who were mainly of the class that Maum Phyllis would have designated as “ po’ w’ite trash”) were equally unbelieving, and eut the argument short by producing ropes to tie her hands behind her back. “ We'll take ’em down to Gilchrist’s place, an’ hell know fast enough whether they’re his’n or not,” said the chief brute (next to Carrero) of the party. “ Shall we tie ’em together, or separate.” Carrero laughed. ‘“ Never mind the little one,” he said; ‘as many knots as you please for Mademoiselle de Launay’s waiting-maid ; but I will answer for the little one’s safe keeping myself.” He put his arm around her as he spoke, and Mademoiselle’s stupor of shame was changed into active terror. She sprang back from him wildly, and clung to Maum Phyllis with a heart- piercing cry. As if it “drew him, like a call,” a horseman instantly galloped towards the group, and Captain Meredith con- fronted his rival with an indignant protest. “ Carrero! do you know that youare ———— on Madame de Launay’s grounds, ah most within ear-shot of her dwelling? What if this disgraceful affair should come to her hearing ?” “ And wherein isghe disgrace ?” wag the careless rejoinder. ‘“ Weare acting according to law, Captain Meredith.” “ Teallit disgrace,” the captain began hotly, “to hunt human beings like wild beasts,” he intended to say. But the sentence was interrupted (perhaps to the captain’s advantage) by a wild dash from Maum Phyllis. “*Hebenly Mahster!” she shouted ecstatically. ‘ We’se got deliberance at last. Oh, bress de Lawd, he’s sent his angel to shet de lion’s mouf! Mas’ Cap’en! Cap’n Mer’dith—who’s dis a talkin’ to you? Is it me, or ain’t it? Is I Maum Phyllis, what b’longs to ole Madame, an’ nussed Ma’m’selle when she was a baby, oris I lossed my senses dis drefful night? You knows me, mas’, Who ts I?” The captain turned to her with amaze ment. “Know you? Of course I do,” he exclaimed. “Inthe name of common sense, Carrero, have you arrested this woman—Madame de Launay’s head. servant—for one of Gilchrist’s field hands? Where is Gilchrist himself? Couldn’t he see what a dreadful mistake you are all making ?” “Gilchrist hasn’t come out to-night,” one of the men answered. “ He is at home, sick.” And Carrero added, with a savage “ caramba !” under his breath, “How am I to know Madame de Launay’s servants by sight? and why are they allowed to roam the woods at night without a pass?” “ That’s her affair, not ours,” returned the captain, crisply. And turned away from the Cuban with careless contempt “Come, Maumer, I think you had better let me take you home before you get into any more trouble,” he said kindly. “ You can bid these gentlemen good-night. They will not hinder you from coming with me.” ‘“‘T suppose you will answer to Mr. Gilchrist, if you have made the mis take,” said Carrero with a sneer. “(©ertainly. I wish you as easy & task in accounting to Madame de Lat nay for your treatment of her maid.” “] will make my explanation t0 Mad misu insol If pair him, Mad sion. to de rero TI his thro’ waik throt kept bling mois cepti Sh to r one i after nay— girl, and | hand had : tore! pitile of b stain touc 80 © had chiv: swee yet. with past ful mov wer x moc eda scre T had ma ples wit cap cou cap mnis to | enj

Page 41

lash ited ince sent fas’ dis it? ole hen 18@8 is’T, AZe- ’ he non this ead. ield elf? ake ht,” 3 at vith uth, de vhy ods ned way apt had fore said nen you Mr. nis y 4 4a to MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE. 45 Mademoiselle. I have no fear of her misunderstanding,” returned the Cuban insolently. If he could have seen the flash in a pair of blue eyes not far away from him, he might have felt less confident of Mademoiselle’s indulgent comprehen- sion. But “those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make” blind. Car- rero saw nothing. The captain dismounted—obeying his instinctive kindly impulse—and throwing the mare’s bridle over his arm, waked side by side with his protegés through the forest. Maum Phyllis kept close to him, in a state of trem- bling, but thankful excitement; Made- moiselle crept behind her, dumbly ac- cepting her fate. She cared too little for anything now to rebel against it, and walked on as one inadream. Was it not a dream, after all? Had she—Delphine de Lau- nay—actually masqueraded as a slave- girl, dressed in her own maid’s clothes, and with brown dye on her face and hands? Had she truly s seen—or only had a night-mare vision of those flaring torch-lights, those yelping curs, those pitiless faces? And more—ah, Mother of heaven! had she felt her cheek, stained as it was, insulted by the ribald touch of the one in whom sie had been so cruelly deceived? How noble she had thought him, how gentle, brave, chivalrous! Midre de Dios—the liquid, sweet-sounding syllables rang in her ears yet. Never would she hear them again without living over the horrors of this past hour. No dream, alas! a fright- ful reality in which she lived and moved still, and whose humiliations were not over even now. Poor, poor little Ma’m ‘selle! What mocking fate was it that, just on the edge of safety, sent that wretched screeching owl across her path? They had left the forest behind them, had crossed the running stream which made a boundary-line between field and pleasure-ground, and Maum Phyllis with innumerable thanks had given the captain to understand that his escort could now be dispensed with. The captain understood, and took his dis- missal smiling. It was not his business to meddle with her little surreptitious enjoyments, poor thing, or to betray them. He said as much, briefly, by way of parting assurance; and was about to spring into his saddle, when that hideous owl swooped down from some hiding-place, and flapped its wings, and gave its dismal shriek in their very faces. History records that the hero of a hundred battles has been known to tremble at the sight of a mouse. Mad- emoiselle’s endurance of worse things had been heroic; but she succumbed now like the veriest coward, staggered, and turned faint; and all ina moment feil swooning almost under the horse’s feet. Maum Phyllis dropped beside her, senseless with fright; but the captain, being a man of prompt action, sprang to the brook they had just crossed, filled his cap with water, and dashed it hastily over the unconscious face. “ There—it is only a fainting-fit. She will come to in a moment. Don’t be frightened.’ He stooped to raise the girl’s head, but started back in amazement. The bandanna handkerchief, wound about it in the usual fashion, had been displaced as she fell, and instead of the crisp, black locks of a negro, a mass of golden hair was visible. A late moon had risen, and her pale light was gradually overspreading the sky, so that, here in the open, things could plainly be seen. The captain for a moment could hardly believe his own eyes; but the tell-tale tresses, the false color melting off in streaks, the delicate, clear-cut features, left noroom fordoubt. And he turned to Maum Phyllis like a thunder-cloud ready to burst. “What is the meaning of this? Why have you got your young mistress here, in this condition? Tell me the truth, instantly !” Maum Phyllis shook with dire bodings. “@Q Lawd. Mas’ Cap’n! how’s. I gwine ter tell you allinabref? My po’ chile’s a comin’ to. Lemme git to her, fo’ Gawd’s sake !” Mademoiselle had opened her eyes, the cold douche having proved effectual in more ways than one. She was not an altogether beautiful object, as she lay with the water trickling down her neck in little muddy streams, and streaks of brown and white mingling fore-

Page 42

46 MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE, variously on her countenance. A third tint was added in the blush of shame that surged to her face as consciousness returned. She,strugzled to her feet, Maum Phyllis aiding her with shaking hands: But the captain offered no as- sistance. He stood before her with a blacker frown on his brow than had ever been seen there before, ominously silent. And without a word Mademoiselle un- derstood that concealment was hopeless. Native pride came to her support. “ Have the kindness, Captain Mere- dith, to leave me with my nurse,” she said, with cool stateliness. ‘ You have been morse than sufficiently troubled with my affairs to-night, and I am ex- ceedingly indebted to you. I beg to excuse youtnow from any further in- terest in them.” “ But I beg your pardon, Mademoi- selle,’’ he returned, with spirit. ‘“ The interference with your affairs was invol- | untary on my part, but having been con- cerned in them so far, I decline to be excused from the further interest. On the contrary, I shall make it my busi- ness to investigate very thoroughly this night’s proceedings.” | “That is to say you will carry the whole story to my grandmamma! A truly noble and gentlemanly perform- ance on your part!”. exclaimed the young lady, with bitter contempt. “That is to say, like a woman, you have jumped to unwarrantable conclu- sions,” replied the captain, hotly. “I shall carry the story to no one but yourself. But to-morrow morning I shall call at Ravenswood, and request an explanation from Mademoiselle de Launay. Till then I have the honor of bidding her good-night.” He sprang to his horse impetuously, and galloped back to the forest, leav- ing Mademoiselle with a curiously new sensation. “ Maum Phyllis,” she said, after a moment’s grave silince,‘‘ I have made a discovery.” “Yes, honey, ’pears like dey’s been a heap o’ discoverin’ done to-night,” returned Maum Phyllis, dejectedly. * Dunno wha’s comin’ nex’.” “Neither do I, and I am not sure that I care. The discovery I allude to is this—Captain Meredith is a gentle- man.’ “Qle missis tole you dat long ago, an’ ole Maumer tried to, but you wouldn't gib no ear to her. How ’bout Mas’ Crayro?” “He is a fiend!” with sudden fire and passion. ‘“ Never mention his name to me again, Maumer; never while you live |—take me home and put me to bed.” IV. The brown streaks had disappeared from Ma’m’selle’s pretty face when she met her grandmamma at breakfast, next morning. She was somewhat paler than usual, and her violet eyes had a dewy softness that suggested ‘*Tears from the depth of some divine despair.” Madame de Launay was surprised at the exceeding gentleness of her de- meanor, the subdued and pensive air with which she made her morning salu- tations. It was entirely different from the pretty petulance of her ordinary- behavior, or the proud self-assertion of the day before : and Madame found it singularly attractive, in itself, and asa novelty. Gentle submission was the charm of girlhood, she thought; and certainly her granddaughter was a very lovely embodiment of that charm this morning. Maum Phyllis’s tenderest skill had been spent upon her toilette; and from her dainty muslin robe with its em- broidered morning-glories, to the silver buckle on her cinderella slipper, every item of her attire was perfect. The beautiful face matched it. No morning glory could have shown lovelier colors, ora more winsome, fragile grace. A sterner autocrat than Madame de Lav- nay might have softened rigorous de termination at the sight of those dewy blue eyes, and that rose-bud mouth with its bewitching curves. And she—with- out any better reason for the conclusion than the blue eyes afforded—silently decided not to be in haste to mail the letter to Sister Petronella that lay seal- ed in her desk. “Tf you do not need me this morn- ing, grandmamma, I would like to take my books into the garden, said Mad- emoiselle, respectfully, as she rose from the breakfast: table. “It looks shady and cool under the box-trees.”’ “The library is equally cool, and in

Page 43

ago, you bout fire his ever | put ared 1 she next paler ad a pair.” ad at - de- e air salu- from nary- on of id it as a the and very this had from . em- ilver very The ning lors, . A Lau- 3 de- lewy with with- sion ontly | the seal- 10rNn- take Mad- from hady din , MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE. 47 my estimation more comfortable,” an- swered Madame. ‘“ But you are at lib- erty to choose for yourself. I have no need of you, my child.” “And if you should have,” said Mademoiselle, blushing a little at the kindly epithet ; “if you should, grand- mamma mia, you will know where to send for me. I shall be in the root- house, or thereabouts.” “ Very good,” said Madame, placidly. And Mademoiselle took her armful of books and her morning-glory dra- peries out into the stately old-fashioned garden which was one of the splendors of Ravenswood. Vast in extent, with its broad alleys, its bewildering variety of rare plants, its clipped yews and boxes, and its grand central fountain where dolphins and tritons and nereids spouted ceaseless streams of water into the huge, moss-grown stone basin, this pleasure-ground was the pride of Mad- ame’s domain, and the one interest in life of her old French gardener. To keep: it in such exquisite neatness that Madame could pace the alleys without dust upon her trailing robes, was old Pierre’s unending effort. His ‘crowning reward was to see her enjoyment of her daily promenade, and receive the gra- cious word or two which she as duly vouchsafed him. For Ma’m’selle’s erratic flittings to and fro, he cared but little. “ Butter- flies have their uses,” he was wont to say scornfully. “The good God made them.” But Pierre’s secret opinion was that all the force of that fact was needed to excuse their being. It was amuse- ment to Ma’m’selle to tease the old man a little, and provoke his cynical re- marks. She did not care for the butter- fly value at which he rated her, so long as there were always roses to Ye gath- ered, and the root-house was kept free from bugs and caterpillars. It was her favorite nook of all the bosky, cool retreats in the great bloom- ing garden. There were two divisions in it, the lower one a mere common- place summer house where Ma’m’selle seldom stopped. But a winding stair- case, made all of gnarled roots and logs with the bark on, led up to a bower that might have been fair Rosamond’s for its “paauty and seclusion. Cape- | by one on the open page. jessamine, Cherokee rose, mycrophilla, datura,and flowering orange mingled here their creamy blossoms and their delicious odors. Mocking-birds built their nests in the bloomy tangle, and thrilled the air with sweet song. There were openings for the blue sky to peep in, and the morning winds to ruffle the leaves. And—because Ma’m’selle oc- cupied it, and the place of her occupa- tion was always luxurious—there were sundry pretty furnishings to lend a further charm to this airy bower. A rustic arm-chair had its rockers, and its bright cushions, and its embr oid- ered foot-stool. A low, broad couch, whose framework was of varnished roots, was similarly provided with means for taking easy positions. There was a table upon which to bestow her books, and a bell to summon a servant if she needed attendance. Old Pierre had no respect for these trivialities, but he protected them from rain and other vicissitudes, so that Mademoiselle found her bower always in order. It was chosen as her retreat this morning for vague reasons that she did not try to define. She did not confess to herself that she wished Captain Meredith to find her here; yet she felt instinctively that it would be easier to get through with the dreadful “ expla- nation” in this place than within sight of the old portraits. Of course she should tell him the truth; that she had placed herself in that compromising position simply to escape from him ; and of course (with an involuntary sigh) that would be the end of it all. He would tell her that she need not de- scend to such expedients again on his behalf since he begged to decline the alliance with a young lady who could so forget her high degree. “ It is all at an end, everything,” s sighed poor little Delphine, forlornly. And in spite of the sunshine, the roses and the mock- ing-birds, life stretched before her eyes a ‘dreary vista of long, dull, loveless years. Her books lay unread upon her lap ; she had no heart for French classics this morning; and tears dropped one Slowly at first—the large drops that herald the down -pour—then i in a stormy burst not

Page 44

48 MADEMOISELLE’S MASQUERADE.

to be controlled. She had not intended to weep; but nature asserts herself at times without regard to one’s inten- tions, and Mademoiselle’s whole being was shaken by her convulsive sobs. The sound of them drew hasty feet to her bower, and yet muffled, to her, the noise of their approach. She did not see or hear the captain as he sprang up the fantastic stairway, and for the first time entered these charmed pre- cincts. But she could not be deaf to the passionate outery —“ My darling! my darling!” with which he knelt be- side her. It was nature’s self-assertion again, the captain had not designed any such impulsive greeting—far from it! He had intended to wear an air of magis- terial determination, and maintain a demeanor severe and searching until all the mysteries of last night were clearly accounted for. Afterwards—he told himself sterniy—circumstances must decide his future behavior. Perhaps, after all, they did! Possibly it was the sighing summer wind, the passionate breath of flowers, the green seclusion, the tender stillness, that touched both hearts, and, unawares, revealed life’s sweetest secret to them. There are fateful moments that hold in a breath the balance of bliss and misery. The gallant captain “ builded better than he knew” when he cast doubt to the winds, and kissed the tears from his sweetheart’s eyes, and hushed her sobs upon his honest heart. mocking-birds trilled in the vines ; the white blossoms swayed to the wind’s caressing. So pretty little Ma’m’selle swayed to the true love that entreated her heart, that with all its waywardness, was innocent and sweet as the whitest blossom in her bower! The | , and gave in return the willful little | Madame de Launay sat in her chair of state some hours later, apparently ‘absorbed in a volume of Racine. A | close observer might have noticed that the leaf was seldom turned, and that Madame’s glances were often directed to the oriel window, <A sudden light flashed in her eyes as two figures crossed the garden-alley, approaching the mansion. She had done justice to her antecedents in the self-control with which she had awaited Captain Mere. dith’s return from the root-house; and she did not belie them now by any un- seemly excitement. Her lace ruffles trembled, and a pink flush mounted to her withered cheeks, but she did not rise from her chair. On the contrary, she devoted herself ostentatiously to Racine; and Mademoiselle’s graceful, gliding entrance was (apparently) un- perceived. “ Grandmamma ! you for a moment ?” Madame de Launay lifted a glance of mild attention. * Certainly, my child, if it isa matter of importance.” “ That depends”—with a rosy suffu- sion that needed no interpreter. “I wish to ask, grandmamma mia, if you have written to Sister Petronella ?” ‘Before I answer, let me ask why you care to know, Mademoiselle ?” * Because”—Delphine knelt upon the footstool, and lifted up a face of blush- ing entreaty. ‘“ Because I have been very naughty, grandmamma, and I am sorry. I wish to ask your pardon, and to say that you need not give yourself the trouble of writing to Sister Petro- nella.” Shall we picture Madame’s triumph, or leave it to be imagined? Enough to say that Mademoiselle was forgiven, | that the-letter to Sister Petronella was burned unopened, and that Captain Meredith has never had reason to re- gret Mademoiselle’s masquerade. May I interrupt

{Ed. Note.—For information regarding the award of the Prize Story we refer our readers to card in Arm Chair of this number. ]

cit bo th on fit’ ch ca fo: We

Page 45

chair ently . that that ected light rUTeS hing ce to with ere. and un- iffles dd to not rary, y to eful, ) un- rupt ce of utter uffu- oe I you why 1 the ‘ush- been [ am and rself 2tro- aph, h to ven, was tain » TR UNDER GRAY SKIES. ee BY CARRIE BEEBE CROCKER. Carter I. ‘“‘A day of fading light upon the sea ; Of sea-birds winging to their rocky caves ; And ever with its monotone to me, The sorrows of the .waves.”’ The cool, green, white-fringed waves came sweeping grandly in; the fierce wind blew their foam about the smooth, wet sands like wool. It had been a wild night, and the morning was wilder still; all along the coast the winds and waves were warring like the bitter enemies they invariably are. Cicely Ives, accustomed to the monotony of a sick room, liked to feel the- moist, salt air upon her face, and to watch the rough sea by way of contrast. In the city, scareely forty miles away, Easter bonnets and light spring mantles were the universal rule; yet this morning, when the rain ceased falling, Cicely put on a warm gray dress, a thick, close- fitting gray winter cloak bordered with chinchilla fur, and crushing a chinchilla cap over the light brown curls on her forehead, she went out for a seaside walk. Mrs. Branscome, Cicely’s mother, was an invalid. No physician who came to understand her case had quite the hardihood to claim that he could attain a cure. Under favorable condi- tions her life might be prolonged yet a few months ; further, the most sanguine of them all would promise nothing. Though it was rendered again and again, Mrs. Branscome would never be- lieve their verdict true. Life had dealt hardly with her at times; it could not be, now that it was endurable, it was about to forsake her altogether. She had been twice married: first, to Cicely’s father because she loved him; and second, to Mr. Branscome, for he had money. She was now for the second time a widow, and scarcely arrived at middle age. Though trouble and illness had set their blight upon her life, they spared her face, and this, to her, was an invaluable compen- sation. Strangers believed her, always, to be Cicely’s sister ; it was now one of her sweetest comforts to know this. VoL. cx.—4 For two reasons, in this year of which I write, she had come early to the seaside. The salt air,even though cool, was what her system required ; besides, she was building a Queen Anne cottage near the beach. Often there were days when, the weather and her strength permitted her to ride out and watch it grow under the deft builders’ hands. It was a marvel, this house; quite a tangle of recesses, alcoves, and angles. But it was large, it was ex- pensive, it was fashionable ; what more could even Mrs. Branscome’s insatiate heart, desire ? To-day when Cicely walked beside the sea she saw, looking southward, this cottage, grave in the so-called Queen Anne colors it was beginning, under the painter’s brush, to wear. Scanning the horizon, she counted but two or three gray-sailed ships in sight, and half sighed for a land breeze that they might not fear to hug the shore. Turn- ing her eyes to the north, she saw a por- tion of the dismasted hulk of a ship wedged in the sand; a few nights since the winds and waves had driven it in the darkness against the treacherous bar. Cicely had watched this wreck from the morning on which its passen- gers had been safely landed by the crew of the life-saving station near, to the day when its last remaining orange, cocoa-nut and coffee berry had drifted ashore and been eagerly gathered by the boys, aye, and men too, who greed- ily watched for these, and hoped for greater spoils. And now, since the wreck was too far from the shore for the children to reach even at low tide, it ceased to be an object of interest, except that some half idly wondered how long it would be ere the shifting sands and fickle winds would break it further, and bear it quite away. “The sun is always hidden,” Cicely murmured at length, won by the soli- tude to speak aloud her thought, “ and the wind is ever high. A cruel mother is this cold, bitter wind. Surely the waves are her children, yet she beats them for days together. I’m weary (49)

Page 46

50 UNDER GRAY SKIES. with listening to their crying, and oh, so tired of these cold, gray skies!” She sighed, and then a sudden im- pression asserted itself in her mind, without a sound to waft it thither; she felt she was not alone. She turned, and saw, almost at her side, her land- lady’s daughter, little Gracie Horton ; and, only a few steps distant, a gentle- man who was regarding her with more than ordinary interest. One feels re- buked and even silly when caught solil- oquizing, and this gentleman was tall and young and handsome; three facts which caused Cicely to fear he might fancv her declaiming for his benefit. Though usually too indifferent to be abashed by strangers, a glow swept over her face as her eyes met his—an unmistakable flush of mortification. “ You are gray yourself, Miss Ives,” said Gracie, her childish voice falling gratefully upon Cicely’s ear. “Am I?” she queried in answer. surely thought I was blue.” “ No, you are all gray—cloak, and hat, and eyes, and—” “ And face,” prompted Cicely. * Well—-yes, it is a sort of pinkish gray,” replied the truthful child. And then, remembering a remark her mother “Ty | | | | | | had made upon the subject of introduc- | tioned, like his form, and somewhat tions, she assumed an air of importance and said: ‘“* Miss Ives, this is Mr. Kean.” The gentleman’s hat was quickly up- lifted when he found himself thus sud- denly presented. He smiled in a man- ner quite flattering to Cicely,and moved a step nearer, yet he waited respectfully for her to speak. She smiled, too, half amused, half indifferent, and when she spoke, it was not as he expected, to ex- cuse herself for her words. ; “It is a magnificent sea,” she said, “and only a peevish, discontented mind could chide it.” Gracie stoed eyeing the two, and de- bating, as she kieked the scraps of foam about with her small feet, whether it would be mere interesting to remain, and listen to the cenversation, or run after the great dog that was challenging her to a race along the sands. Lion soon prevailed, for she spied a stick a few steps distant, and she became anx- ious to know if he would really’ plunge after it in so heavy a sea, and just as the tide was beginning to ebb, too. 4 So | /amusement flitting across away she ran, out of hearing for the moment, or she would certainly have set Mr. Kean right when he made his first remark. “ T should grow tired of the sea, too,” he said, “if obliged to remain here the whole year long.” “He mistakes me for thought Cicely. And though she knew many refined people lived all the year in Sandy Shore, she was also aware that strargers usually supposed them to be either verdant or grasping. Wonder. ing to which class he assigned her, she answered rather coldly :— “TI never really grow weary of the sea, but sometimes I am very tired of myself.” “ Perhaps it is your lot which wearies you,” he suggested, wondering if she were seeking sympathy. “ You may not be placed in a congenial atmos- phere.” “T seem to be,” she said, a gleam of her face. * Did not even small Gracie observe that I was in keeping with the atmosphere?” “ A harmony in gray,” he suggested, smiling. “A sombre discord, rather,” she re- plied, looking up to admire his face when he smiled. The face was well propor- grave when in repose, but lighting quickly. He had dark eyes, a firm chin, and a mobile mouth half shaded by a shapely dark moustache. It was a face of contradictions, being both gentle and stern, but it was altogether pre- possessing. “He is one of those taking fellows,” Cicely thought, “who makes love to all the women, children, and men, too, with whom he chances to meet. ‘ Dont think,” she said aloud, “ I belong to that interesting class of people who go about parading a real or fancied sorrow. My temper is not always the best in the world, but otherwise I am a very con- monplace young woman. I don’t sup- pose I know what trouble is, as yet.” | Unconsciously she contradicted her words with a sigh, and the “as yet,” a truthful afterthought, sounded as if it might be ominously near. ‘“T, too, have never known real trou- ble,” he said. I could remember them, but the kindest a native,” “* My parents died before: Ww ju es ci in be w hs

Page 47

> the ive, new year that Oo be ider- , She the d of aries she may mos- m of face. that re?” sted, e re- vhen ypor- what iting chin, by a face entle pre: ws,” 0 all with Jon't that bout My | the com- sup- yet.” her e* a if it trou- efore dest ” UNDER GRAY SKIES. 5k of guardians in some measure supplied their place.” “IT lost my father when I was an in- fant,” she replied, unconsciously becom- ing confidential. “It could not have been a sorrow at the time, and yet—oh, yet, I feel a father’s love must be sweet! Missing his protection, my life is, after all, unsatisfied and incomplete.” « The daughter ofsome boarding-house keeper,” he thought. “ Poverty must be especially hard for a girl who has no father to protect her from it. You re- side here ?” he asked, aloud. “Tam stopping with Gracie’s mother at present,” she replied, too indifferent to explain further, and somewhat vexed for having been so communicative to a stranger. Hearing Cicely’s remark, the child ran back to her side. Lion objected to plunging in the waves, as he usually did, for the stick she threw out to tempt him. ‘* Miss Ives teaches me French,” she said, proudly. ‘“ Why don’t you stop at our house like you did last summer? Maybe she’d teach you too.” “ T only ran down for a short while,” he answered. “ But I’m coming again, later. If your mother will include French with board the coming season, and Miss Ives consents to act as teacher, I shall stop with you. My only fear is that Miss Ives will decline the post.” The child scarcely understood him, but the slight frown upon Cicely’s face was unmistakable. “She won’t teach anybody but only just me!” Gracie was resolved to be especially emphatic. ‘ She hasn’t time, and she wouldn’t if she had!” Cicely smiled down,into the preco- cious face; Gracie responded with a kiss and scampered away, for Lion was pull- ing at her dress. The conversation had been conducted in a careless, indifferent way between Cicely and Mr. Kean, yet had each studied to hide the truth, they could scarcely have been more deceived regarding each other than they now were. When Gracie introduced the gentle- man, Cicely, knowing the child did not speak plainly, supposed his name to be Green. His remark concerning the French lessons led her to believe him flip- pant intheextreme. As for St. George Kean, he knew it was far too early for fashionable summer guests, and he im- agined Cicely resided permanently at Sandy Shore. Gracie’s last remark led him to think her either living upon Mrs. Horton’s nominal bounty, or perhaps as governess, seamstress, or clerk; possi- bly all three. She had drifted down to the seaside, probably, for she had ‘cer- tainly seen something of the world; the air of ease pervading her manner could only be acquired by contact with well- bred people. Her garments had been of stylish make and fit when she came down a few weeks before, but frequent wettings made them appear rather wea- ther-beaten. She wasa superior girl, he was certain, and by some means had se- cured an education. He was not usually curious, and now he took much for granted. But there was an utter lack of curiosity about her; an indifference concerning himself which surprised, and even piqued him. Yet he might have parted from her without another word, had it not been for a slight and unfore- seen accident. Lion, though fully grown, had not arrived at the age of discretion. It chanced as he came racing back with Gracie, that he discovered Cicely’s um- brella, which was lying upon the sand at her side. He was grievously tempted to carry it off, and he yielded to the temptation, tearing away at his utmost speed, Gracie following, and upbraiding him vigorously, telling him, not gently, what a disreputable dog he was. Mr. Kean also started in pursuit, and Lion, closely pressed, sprang into the sea. The waves were so rough they fright- ened him, and dropping the umbrella, he swam and scrambled back as fast as possible. To and fro the umbrella swayed, but never came quite ashore. Mr. Kean made several endeavors to catch it, but it evaded his hand, like some live thing which had but now found its freedom, and was resolved to trea- sure it. “Tf you value it especially I will swim in for it,’”’ he said, at last. “What, peril your life for an um- brella?” Cicely exclaimed. “It is not of the smallest consequence, except to shelter me upon my way home, should it chance to rain, and it is now ugfit for that. I am sure you can swim well, but ; é 2 ‘ i ' 4 7

Page 48

52 UNDER GRAY SKIES. I think no living man could keep afloat in such a sea. I am quite as grateful for the offer as if you had restored it to me. And now, since the gray sky is growing more gloomy than ever, I must 0.” She bowed ; he uncovered his head in response, and then she moved away. Before she had advanced a dozen steps, however, the first hesitating drops of the shower began to fall. She paused within the pavilion for shelter; he fol- lowed, leading Gracie by the hand. And so they again drifted into conversation. Cicely looked forward across the breadth of the storm-tossed sea, and St. George looked at her. They seemed, except for Gracie, remote from the living world. There were walls of misty rain on every side ; before ‘them was the struggling sea ; "above, the sky appeared to close drearily down, until, had it been less cool, the air would have been close and stifling. The clouds trailed their dark, irregular robes about, some of almost midnight darkness, while others were of diaphanous texture, through which the light of heaven faintly glimmered. “Tt isa grand storm,” Cicely said; “ but I wish the sky would smile once more.” “ Nature and women are alike,” re- Og 99 turned St. George, “ for both are sweet- ' est, smiling.” Cicely’s face was grave than ever. ‘* Some things are harder to bear than frowning skies,” she said, coldly, ‘and vague, doubtful compliments are among them.” “ Pardon me; I scarcely thought how the remark would sound when I uttered it. I did not mean it for a mere com- pliment, but I had been studying your face, and the slight, rare smiles I have seen flit over it change it so altogether, I naturally longed for more.” “T suppose I do not smile often,” she replied. ‘“ Perhaps I was _ born under gray skies. I think I under- stand you. There was no thought of flattery to me in your expression. It was as if you said: ‘There is a picture of a head which has possibilities, only the artist has failed to bring them out. It needs high lights. As it now is, I cannot call it ugly, it is simply uninter- esting.’” more painfully “ You have exaggerated my thoughts, but they did flow on ina similar strain,” he said. Cicely smiled, well pleased. He cer- tainly was not flattering her now; while St. George thought he was will- ing to say all manner of discourteous things, if it would only make her smile upon him like that. ‘Since our conversation is so _per- sonal in character,” Cicely said ; “ since we two, hedged in by the storm, seem to have forgotten there are other people in the w orld, I feel like saying there is no lack of high lights in your face. Kyes, teeth, hair, all are glittering. I do not say yousmile toomuch. Evidently the world has dealt gently, caressingly with you. You have an eager nature; you speak and act with all the confi- dence of youth—that youth which has never had its fires of aspiration quenched by disappointments and re- buffs. It is rather pleasant to meet with such a face. It shows that there are agreeable paths in this world, and there are those who find them. Per- haps if my way were set about with smiling faces, mine might learn to be less rigid than it is.” While she spoke Lion came and laid his head upon her knee. Gracie ran to drive him away, reminding him of his ungrateful conduct toward Miss Ives, who had always been his friend ; but he failed to realize what a sinner he was, and when Cicely patted him, and told him he was beautiful, he seemed to throw a triumphant look at his little mistress. Gracie, unable to scold or entice him away, pushed his head aside and crept upon Cicely’s lap, while Cicely, unconscious of being the centre of attraction, stroked the child’s hair mechanically, and looked out at the storm. “T regret being detained. by the shower,” she said at last. “I am needed at home, and shall be missed. I tan away this morning, for I knew I could not well be spared. It is right that I am punished.” ‘“‘ She cannot, then, be spared an hour from duty,” thought St. George. “If you must go,” he spoke aloud, “ will you not not accept: my umbrella , please? It is of ample size, and strong enough to withstand even this shower.” et et os A of © — — > ee ee oot oe oot —_ 5 j= me - FH

Page 49

shts, uin,” cer- OW ; will- eous mile per- ince seem ople re is face. I do ntly ngly ure; onfi- has ition l re. meet here and Per- with o be laid n to ’ his [ves, it he was, told 1 to ittle l or side yhile ntre hair the the am l. I iw I ‘ight hour “ If will ase? yugh UNDER GRAY SKIES. 53 “ And leave youin the rain? Thank you, no; I will not consent to rob ou.” “Perhaps you would be gracious enough to share it with me,” he ven- tured. “I am stopping at the Victoria, which is only a block from Mrs. Hor- ton’s. She looked at him a moment, her ex- pression showing how much she disliked to make herself his debtor. He re- turned her glance, showing how eager he was to oblige her. “T am extremely anxious to return,” she said at last, “ and will avail myself of your kind offer.” Again that wonderful brightness over- spread his face, and Cicely watched it. How strangely fascinating even to her was his smile. “ Gracie,” he said, “there is not room enough for three under the um- brella, but if you will wait here with Lion, I'll send for you as soon as I reach the hotel.” She assented, feeling very important, since she was to be sent for, and waited cheerfully, though not with Lion. He insisted upon running after Cicely, rubbing his wet head against her dress, and shaking all over her the water from his long black hair. “He will ruin your dress,” said St. George, striving, but without success, to drive him away. “ He cannot harm it,” she replied; ‘it has already lost its freshness. One can never rough it at the seaside, without ruining everytaing in the way of cloth- ing. All but the most hardy colors are drenched out by the sea or scorched out by the sun.” Something, perhaps the exercise of walking, had brought a delicate bloom to her cheeks. Over her forehead the dampness had ringed her gold-brown hair. Her face was very soft and gentle in expression as she smiled at Lion, never reminding him of one of his sins against her, and he looked up in her face in a most adoring manner, as he finished his morning transgressions by whipping out upon her coat the raindrops from his bushy tail. “ T cannot scold him as he deserves,” said St. George, showing his admiration for Cicely very plainly in his face,as he looked down into hers, “ since, only for his misdemeanors, I would have had but a moment with you.” “ Have I helped you to pass a dull morning? Weare quits then. Still, I thank you very much for bringing me home. Good morning!” There was no lingering at the door; she went into the house quickly, as if she had already forgotten St. George altogether. As he went to his hotel to send for Gracie, according to promise, his mind was filled with thoughts of Cicely, and he decided that she pos- sessed two traits of character in a greater degree than any young lady he had met before: indifference and dislike of flattery. “She looks as if her whole life had been a struggle,” he thought. “ For what? I wonder. Surely not for bread; her hands are too delicate for that, and she seems too supple to have borne bodily weariness. She is too proud for sympathy, but when her interest is once enlisted she is neither cold nor indiffer- ent. Gracie and Lior are both far too fond of her for that.” Cuapter II. ‘¢ The fruits I cannot reach are red and sweet, The paths forbidden are both green and wide ; Oh, God! there is no boon to helpless feet So altogether sweet as paths denied !”’ Cicely, with swift, still feet, sped up the staircase to her mother’s room. “Have I been very long away, dear?” she asked, as she passed through their little sitting-room to where Mrs. Brans- come was lying. “I was caught in a shower soon after I went down to the beach. Lion ran away with my umbrella, and I was obliged to wait. I'll change my damp dress, and then I'll read to you as long as you like.” “ Why do you persist in petting that horrid dog?” asked Mrs. Branscome, fretfuHy. ‘‘ He will bite you some day, and then—” ‘“ He doesn’t bite at all, mamma, or at all events he bites only tramps. He’sa very sensible dog.” “Tt is very imprudent to go out upon such a wet morning, Cicely. You will have pneumonia if you are not careful.” “ As if I ever had anything besidesa good appetite !” laughed Cicely as she

Page 50

54 UNDER GRAY hurriedly put on a pretty blue house | dress. Mrs. Branscome continued her chid- ings ina peevish tone, Cicely answering cheerily, and when her hasty toilet was completed, she went to the bedside and kissed her mother atfectionately but gently, turned her pillow, and sent Adams, the nurse, away for her dinner. “ What shall I read you, little mam- ma?” she asked. ‘“ Here are two maga- zines that came to see you through the rain. I'll cut the leaves—” There was a knock at the door, and the query: “Is Mrs. Branscome able to see Mr. Potter this morning?” “Yes, tell him to come up,” was the invalid’s reply. “ I’m not able to sit up, Cicely. Is cap or gown awry ?” Cicely made a movement as if to set- tle the delicate cap with its profusion of blue ribbons more securely over the thin, but still pretty, blonde hair; she knew no verbal answer would be so sat- isfying. And then, after a confident announcing tap, the door opened to ad- mit a man who appeared, if possible, both sinister and sanctimonious. He bowed low, with a cringing, rather than deferential air; inquired wordily after the state of Mrs. Branscome’s health; and always, to Cicely, there was something in his eye which said : “ IT do this for effect only.” ‘“* How do I find my dear Miss Cicely this morning?” he asked at length, with a smile which seemed to disclose every one of both rows of false teeth ; his face was so thin and his mouth so wide, the effect was like a grinning skeleton. ‘Good morning, Mr. said, coldly. “T hope you are in reasonable health,” he continued, with a smile meant to be so sweet it was maddening to the girl. “My health is good if that is what you mean,” she replied. “It may be reasonable, but if so, it is very unlike its possessor.” “ Now do not slander the sweetest girl in the world,” deprecatingly. Cicely opened a book and began to read, or at least she glanced over its pages. “My dear, Mr. Potter is speaking,” said Mrs. Branscome. Potter!” she SKIES. * I beg pardon, mamma,” Cicely an. swered, putting aside the book, and sit- ting down with her back turned toward their visitor. “She is very coy,” remarked Potter, with a disagreeable laugh. “ Oh,-no!” returned Cicely, quietly. “ T have, in common with most people, a dislike of creeping, cringing things, but I am not coy.” “My dear, I beg you will be less rude,” said her mother, anxiously. “She is not rude, my dear Mrs, Branscome,” his thin blue lips pressed hard together ; he was trying to assume a sad expression to hide his anger. “She would not be too easily won, that is all; yet her reserve, contrasted with your sweetness and gentleness of char- acter, seems somewhat brusque. I would be in a measure discouraged by this reserve, only I know ‘ love conquers all things !’” This was said with a flourish, as if it were entirely original ; it was received in silence, however, and, after a pause, Mr. Potter rose. “7 only called to see if I could be of any service to you,” he continued, “ and | to say the cottage is progressing finely. Only the inside finish is incomplete, and the storm does not interfere with that.” Mrs. Branscome had some trifles she wished him to order for her from the city, and after making out the list he turned to Cicely once more. “T cannot go away feeling you are angry with me,” he said. She made no reply. “Miss Cicely, will you not kiss and make up ?” “T kiss you?” she said, facing him. “ T would die first, and you know it!” “Why persist in being angry with your truest friend ?” he asked, meekly, in a sorrowful tone. “You my truest friend! God _ pre- serve me from my enemies then. You have never been true to anything ex- cept your own sordid interests. Papa Branscome took you from the House of Refuge when you were a boy because he wished you to learn to follow out his own schemes. You were false to him —you have been false to mamma and to me. If only you had the nerve of | Judas and would go out and hang your- ” Mr. m di eo +. 3” Ss —*4 ese at Ot > an ft

Page 51

UNDER GRAY SKIES. | 55 self, all might yet be well. But while you hang upon us like a leech, financial and moral ruin are not far away. I know what you wish to-day. You would like to drive me from the room to give you an opportunity to tell poor, tired mamma how invaluable your judgment is to her; how quickly her estate would melt away did you not manage it so perfectly; to how much expense you have been put to of late; that you must have a check for one or two hundred dollars; and finally, that you are in possession of secrets concerning Papa Branscome’s transactions that would make his whole property revert to people he had wronged, if known. And though every word you spoke would be a lie, and mamma would know it, she might be sorry for you if you managed, as usual, to shed a few croco- dile tears ; at all events she would be so tired of your misrepresentations, she would willingly pay you to go away and leave her in peace. But you will have no such opportunity to-day, so go at once ; mamma can bear no more.” Cicely’s face was very white while she spoke. As for Mr. Potter’s, it was ghastly. He bowed and went out with- out a word. Mrs. Branscome began to sob, and Cicely hastily poured out for her a soothing drink. “Don’t fear him, darling,” she said, “and please do not be angry with. your cross, old-maid daughter. You had no right to have such an ugly daughter, had you, my dear, beautiful mamma? Drink this at once, and don’t cry, you will make your pretty blue eyes all red. There! that is better. Shall I read or sing to you?” “You are so perverse, my dear. You know I wish you to marry Mr. Potter. And now you have driven him away, and it is in his power to ruin us.” “It isin his power to do that while you retain him in your employ. His knowledge of law allows him to rob us, and yet avert legal responsibility. If you would dismiss him, mamma, I would manage the estate in a more sat- isfactory and economical manner.” “JT dare not do that; my child. I feel certain there were dark secrets between Mr. Branscome and that man, and I fear him when he is angry.” “He is robbing you shamefully, mamma. Because he cannot take all, he wishes to marry me. If he did he would make your life a torment, depend upon it, dear, and I could not protect you from him. I don’t wish to marry at all, I only ask to be allowed to de- vote my life to you.” “Tam in no haste for you to marry, Cicely, but Mr. Potter is very persis- tent. However, I’m tired, let us drop thé subject; give me a bit of jellied chicken, and then read me to sleep.” Cicely read, passing one hand con- stantly over her mother’s hair. The narcotic Mrs. Branscome had taken, the gentle tone of the reader, the sooth- ing touch of a cool, soft hand over her forehead—all these invited sleep, and sweet sleep came. Then Cicely laid aside her book and went to her own room. Closing the door softly, she threw off her gentle- ness and her silence as a mask. Im- patiently she pulled away the pins that fastened her hair, she tore off her dress, she paced the floor and wrung her hands. “Why do I bear it?” she asked. “Why must my life be a constant sacrifice to those who care nothing for me? Mamma is almost as dead to me, so faras her own feelings are concerned, as the father whose face I never remem- ber to have seen. Poor little mamma! it is not her fault that she is but a wreck of what she once was—how wicked, how terribly wicked I have been!” She began to sob. “ And yet the world is full of pleasant ways, if one is only at liberty to find them. It seems so needless to make my life so hard. I smile too rarely! The only wonder is that I can smile at all!” The knob of her door turned, she saw it, but she did not move. Presently it was turned again. She rose and shot back the bolt. “ You dear, meddlesome old Adams !” she said, drying her tears for a moment to smile in a vexed way. “ You knew I didn’t want you, and yet you would have gone on turning that knob until doomsday and the door fell open of its own accord. Of course I could only let you in, I had no choice.” “Of course,” said Adams, with a nod and a grim smile. “ Do you expect to live without eatin’ and sleepin’?”

Page 52

56 IT SNOWS.

“Oh, I feel like doing both just of this round-faced woman, had in sooth. now |!” ing the girl’s overwrought nerves. “ You didn’t sleep last night, your “You don’t?” she asked, incredu- mother was too wide awake to let you. | lously. “Then eat this here stew.” Between her and Potter you et no din- Cicely took up the spoon irresolutely, ner. What do you s’pose is goin’ to “Shall I feed you?” said Adams. become of you ?” “No,” smiled Cicely, shaking her “Qh, Adams, I neither know nor | head. “I’m going to eat it; I will eut care.” it, but give me a moment’s time.” “Well, I care. Miss Horton is fixin’ Adams nodded, and began to turn up an oyster stew this minute. When | down the covers of the bed. There it’s done you're goin’ to eat it. When ‘was no escape, so Cicely ate her stew you’ve et it you’re goin’ to bed. | and went to bed. To the delight of her Them’s my orders, and they'll be car- | nurse, she soon fell asleep. ried out. I’m the nuss of this. estab- “Ef I’d a-thought,” muttered Adams lishment. When the doctor ain’t here, | to herself, as she regarded the sleeping I prescribe, and it’s well Ido. I know | girl, “that they’d work on her feelins what you want. You want to be sick.” | for her mother, and make her marry “T don’t want to be sick,” Cicely | that air Potter, I b’lieve I’d a put pison protested. She was growing calm. It | in that stew—yes, I reely b’lieve I |

was wonderful the effect which the nip- | would!” ped-off sentences, falling from the lips | ( To be continued.)

4 ‘ “IT SNOWS.”

‘It snows,’ cries the schoolboy, ‘Hurrah!’ and | The warm glowing hearth, and the table pre- his shout | pared, Is ringing thro’ parler and hall, | And his wife with her babe at her knee. While swift as the wing of a swallow he’sout, | Blest thought! how it lightens the grief-laden And his playmates have answered his call. | hour, It makes the heart leap but to witness their | That those we love dearest are safe from its joy: power ! Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow, Like the rapture that burns in the blood of the | ‘‘ It snows,”’ cries the belle, ‘‘ dear, how lucky,” y and turns As he gathers his treasure of snow. | From her mirror to watch the flakes fall ; Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs, | Like the first rose of summer her dimpled cheek While health and riches of nature are theirs. burns, While musing on sleigh-ride and ball : What visions of conquests, of splendor and «Tt snows,”’ cries the imbecile, ‘‘ Ah!”’ and his | mirth, breath ; : Float over each drear winter’s day ! Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight : But the tidings of hope, on the storm-beaten White, from the pale aspect of nature in death, earth, He turns to the blaze of his grate ; : j . Will melt like the snow flakes away. And nearer and nearer his soft cushioned chair Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for Is wheeled toward the life-giving flame. bliss ; He dreads a chill puffof the snow-burdened air, | That world has a pure fount ne’er opened in Lest it wither his delicate frame. this. Oh, small is the pleasure existence can give When the fear that we die only proves that we -live! her sigh Has stifled the voice of her prayer ! ‘<Tt snows,”’ cries the traveler, ‘‘ Ho!’ and the | Its burden you’ll read in her tear-swollen eye, word Or her cheek, pale with fasting and care. Has quickened his steed’s lagging pace ; Tis night, and her fatherless ask her for bread— The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard— | And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds hor- Unfelt the sharp drift in his face, ror to dread, For bright, through the tempest, his own home | As she lays on her last chip of wood. appeared ; | Poor sufferer! thy sorrow thy God only knows ; Though leagues intervene he can see | 'Tis a most bitter lot to be poor when it snows. | Mrs. HA.g.

‘Tt snows,”’ cries the widow, ‘‘ Oh, God !’’ and

dr Ja ye wl no fo: tu Sir sti un un th br br pr

Page 53

oth- -du- ely. her eut urn ere tew her ims ing lins ry son 2 | pre- iden . its aten for d in and ve, ad— hor- OWS } OWS. ¢ JACK’S PLAN. BY MARY BLARIE. CHAPTER I. “ Let me tell yourfortune, Cousin Mil- dred.” ‘““Go ahead.” “ Hand me one of those four o’clocks, Jack.” ‘“‘ No, take this daisy, Estie,” and ten- year-old Jack held up one of the flowers which he had been weaving into a neck- lace for Estie’s large doll. ‘“ Suppose you try instead, whether or not [am to get my new dress in time for the ball? That may decide my for- tune.” No, pull this daisy,” say both of the children, dropping the lapsful of flow- ers, Which they had been weaving into crowns and bouquets, upon the soft, green turf, and coming to her side. “ How often can I name it?” asks their cousin, as she lays down the book she has been reading, and takes the flowers. “ Only once.” “ Why, Jack, don’t you mean to have but one sweetheart ?” asks his cousin. “ But you can’t talk to more than one to a time,” suggested twelve-year-old Estie. “ Toatime, Estie,” says Mildred Irv- ing, smiling. ‘“ Where did you learn that ?” “ Got it from the new chamber-maid,” says Jack, with an accent of strong dis- approbation. ‘She is always saying ‘guess,’ and ‘ to a time.’ ” “T’m not, at all,’ and Esther turns ready for self-defense. “Come on, Cou- sin Mildred, and try your fortune.” “Whom shall I name it ?” “Brother Ant’ny,” say the children, simultaneously, as they draw closer,and Jack pushes off his broad-brimmed straw hat, that his view may be quite unobstructed, as with one hand resting on his cousin’s shoulder he kneels close beside her. A pretty picture they make under the wide spreading forest oak, the soft June sunshine lending slanting golden arrows for ornaments, and the breath from the neighboring hay field bringing delicious odors, and lifting a chestnut ring here and there on the prettiest head in Hanover. “ Let’s name it Mr. Cecil,” Miss Irv- ing suggested. ‘ How will that do?” “No, no; Ant’ny, Ant’ny,” cry both the children in chorus. “Name it Ant’ny.” “ Very well, what shall I say ?” “He loves you, he loves you not,” began Esther, watching with deepest interest the little white leaves as they dropped one by one into her cousin’s lap. “He loves you, Cousin Mildred! he loves you,” they both exclaimed with delight. ‘I knew he would,” continued the little girl. ‘“ Jack and I named one for you the other day, and now let’s blow for the new dress.” Neither of the children noticed a faint additional color which had come into their cousin’s cheek, as she threw the little stem, with its golden eye to the ground, and said :— ‘* No more nonsense now. Let us go on with our fairy story.” But the fairies’ will regarding the new dress must first be investigated, and Esther and Jack, having selected the fluftiest, downiest ball within reach, and having blown at the most auspicious angle, were in ecstacies on seeing the last speck wafted away, and the little gray centre left bare and smooth. “Your dress is coming! your dress is coming!” was the second chorus, and Esther executed a pirouette, and Jack turned a somersault, in honor of the discovery. “Here comes Ant'ny, now,” ex- claimed Jack. “I see the dogs,” and in an instant more a tall, handsome man with his gun upon his shoulder, and his game-bag swinging across it, came into view. He had turned in their direction apparently before having noticed that this favorite loafing place for Ewing pedestrians was already occupied. Miss Irving had come to Ewing a month ago on a visit to his sister. They were distant cousins, and had been since their schooldays warm friends. This brother “‘ Anthony ” she had met for the first time when he came to the station for her, and during the first fortnight of (57)

Page 54

58 JACK’S PLAN. her visit he had fulfilled all his admiring sister’s representations, but latterly, fit- ful, disagreeable, impolite, had been Mil- dred’s mental descriptive adjectives re- garding him. Occasionally the under- current of interest which he could not altogether repress, cropped out in suffi- cient quantity to make her inwardly regret his sudden change, and wonder what could have induced June sunshine to relapse into fitful April weather. “ May I have a seat with you all?” | was the pleasant voiced inquiry, as he neared the group. “We were just about leaving,” said Miss Irving, rising, ‘ but will resign in your favor, and wish you much pleasure. This is a charming little nook.” “ Whew! hot, hot, hot;” and An- thony Chambers threw himself down upon the grass, lifting his straw hat to wipe the moistness from his brow. “ Here, Jackey, hold my gun, and you, Estie, take this bag off my neck.” The children dropped the dolls and books, which they had been collecting, to obey their uncle’s commands, who was their beau ideal of excellence and wisdom. “Why, Ant’ny, where is ‘Tripper?’” asked Jack, suddenly re- membering that his uncle, or brother as he usually called him, had ridden away that afternoon. “ In the stable, I suppose ; he left me at Smithfield, and I have not seen him since.” “And did you walk all the way home?” asked Estie in surprise. “ All the way home,” was the reply. “ And now, little girl, ‘hand that bag of game, which is only mail game, to Cou- sin Mildred, and let her see if she has any letters, and then you can take it to the house, while Jac k takes the gun.’ “ Oh, Ant’ny, we’ve had such asplen- did time this evening,” began Estie, as picking up her uncle’s hat she pro-- ceeded to ornament it with wild flowers, which were lying around in heaps. ‘* How? wearing Cousin Mildred to a feazzle ?” “No indeed, she liked it,” replied Estie, quite indignant— but we’ve been fishing, and getting flowers, and run- ning races, and reading stories, and—” “ And telling fortunes, Estie,” put in her little brother. “Oh, yes, we—” “ Here is the mail, Estie,” interrupted Mildred’s voice quickly, as_ slipping her three unread letters into her belt, she swung the bag over the little girl’s shoulder, as she added, “ your father will be wanting his paper, so we will go at once. Here, Jack, put these pencils in your pocket, my portfolio i is too full to close over them.” But during the few moments she had been collecting her drawing materials, the children, supposing she would come | with their uncle, had started off in full |chase, and were now some distance | across the field. “ Cool, isn’t it?” said her cousin, smil- ing at her astonishment. ‘There seems no help but to let me act as convoy.” “JT am sure that I have no objee- tion,” was the reply,“ but I thought you wanted to rest.” “]T should like a few moments, pro- vided that you will wait. There is such a delicious breeze here. I will not force you to talk; sit down and read your letters.” “ Thank you, they are of no especial importance, except one from my mo- ther, which I suppose contains march- ing orders for me.” She broke the seal, and her cousin lighted a cigar, and indulged himself in the pleasant occupation of watching her while she read. ‘“‘ She wishes me to come home on the sixteenth,” was her comment, as _ she refolded the letter and returned it to her belt. “The day after to-morrow !” “ Yes, Charlotte is going with me, or I should be very doleful over my sud den leave-taking.” “ Thanks for the implied compliment to the rest of us,” was her cousin’s re ply, with a Frenchy shrug of the should- ers, and an extra line in his forehead. “It is rather early to begin leave-tak- ing civilities, or I should overpower you with my ‘regrets.” “Whicu I am sure I could return | most heartily,” was the pleasant re sponse. “TI am very sorry to go.” A few moments’ silence, and Anthony drew from his pocket a letter which he threw into her lap, as he said :-— “Came by the afternoon mail, which accounts for its being separate from the rest.” co all th M wa

Page 55

—_—_ pted ping belt, rirl’s ther ll go ncils - full had rials, ‘ome . full ance smil- eems y. ” bjee- ught pro- such force your ecial - mo- arch- » the igar, rsant 2 she n the ; she it to 1e, OF - sud- ment ’s re- ould- head. e-tak- ower eturn it re bi hony ch he vhich from JACK’S PLAN. 59 It was postmarked St. Louis, and ad- dressed in a bold, straight, masculine hand. There was no mistaking the pleasure in the tone as she exclaimed: ‘‘ Ah! so glad to get it,” and in a moment more she was absorbed in its contents. “Such a pleasant style, I feel half in- clined to ask you,” began Mildred, as she concluded the letter. “ Thanks, excuse me,” Mr. Chambers interrupted, anc rose as he spoke. “ It bores me intensely to read letters. Shall we go now?” They were half across the lawn before either spoke, and then it was Mildred, who honestly desired to make herself agreeable to this handsome cousin—who could be so charming—would he only allow her to do so. She was rewarded, however, with but indifferent success, though to resist the melting influence of Mildred Irving’s loveliness, at its best, was not an easy task. Cuapter II. “ Anthony ,’ said Mrs. Exeter next morning as they stood on the long, sunny gallery after breakfast ,the gentle- men enjoying their cigars, and the two ladies dressing flower vases. “Anthony, what has happened to you?” “ Why, Charlotte, have I gone off in looks ?”? was the interrogatory answer. “You have grown perfectly bearish, Mr. Conceit. Here, Milly,” she added, holding out a bonsilene bud, “ put this in Anthony’s buttonhole, my hands are wet.” Mildred took the flower, and pro- ceeded to obey the command, as Mrs, Exeter continued: “I never saw any one lose his good manners as you have done. I-feel that I have decoyed Mil- dred to Ewing under false pretences,” she added, laughing. ‘Now that Milly’s visit is over, I must tell you I am grossly disappointed in not having developed a‘summer romance’ from such promis- ing raw material.” “T hope Cousin Mildred is as contrite as it is her duty to be, for having dis- appointed you, but I am sure she will resent your adjectives,” was her bro- ther’s reply, as he laughed a little con- strainedly. “There! Charlotte, I have broken this stem,” said Miss Irving; “have you another, or shall your brother go unadorned to-day ?” ‘‘Spare me one of your own collec- tion,” suggested Mr. Chambers, lifting a bud which hung from her belt. “Certainly, if you like that one; Estie,” she called to the little girl who was feeding her pigeons on the door- step, ‘give me a pin.” “Oh, mamma, we tried Ant’ny’s for- tune yesterday,” Esther suddenly ex- claimed, as she stood watching Mildred fasten the flower. “You did? And what did it say?” “It was down at the ‘big oak,’ and we told Cousin Mildred’s too,’ put in Jack. “What is that about Mildred?” asked Mrs. Exeter, turning round. “Why, I say Cousin Mildred told Uncle Ant’ny’s fortune,” said Esther. “No, it wasn’t,” interrupted Jack, emphatically. “We told Cousin Mil- dred’s fortune with a daisy, and she named it Uncle Ant’ny.” Mildred could but join in the laugh which followed at her expense. ‘“ Don’t repeat that nonsense, Estie,” she said, with a decided deepening of the roses in her cheek. But Mr. Exeter’s “hear, hear,” as he laughed heartily, and laid down his paper, was too ‘inspiring, so astie continued— “ Jack and I blew a four o ‘clock for her new dress, and it’s coming; and then she pulled off the daisy leaves, and Uncle Ant’ny loves her, for the leaves said so.” The laugh which followed reached a climax when Jack said quite gravely : “ Do you really, Ant’ny ?” “T am really afraid I do, my boy, but neither your mother nor cousin will be- lieve it,” was the surprising response ; but Mildred was too self-absorbed at the moment to notice how genuine the tone was,and Mrs. Exeter was endowed with all of a sister’s obtuseness. Only Mr. Exeter’s lips formed themselves into shape, as if he would like to whistle if he dared, as he resumed his paper. “Oh, Anthony,” said Mrs. Exeter a few moments later, as she inclined her head to note the effect of a last spray on her vase, “ please take this basket and get me some more ivy; if you can’t select it, Milly will go with you, won't you, Mildred ?”

Page 56

60 JACK’S PLAN.

“ Certainly, but we need not trouble him, I can get it myself.” ‘“* No, the best pieces are beyond your reach,” said Mrs. Exeter, picking upa hat, and handing it to her. ‘ Now don’t forget that I am waiting,” she called after them, as they crossed the lawn toward the garden. Neither seemed in an especially talka- tive frame. Mr. Chambers being occu- pied with anathematizing himself for having fallen irretrievably in love, and Mildred with wondering what could be the cause of the change in him. They Had nearly filled the basket with the rich, green leaves, and Mildred sat down for a moment to stick a pin, where her ruffle had been torn from her pretty lavender dress, as her cousin said :— “This is my sister’s favorite place for having tea served in dry weather. Since your stay the frequent rains have prevented her using it.” “ Yes, we have not been here for a fortnight, and apropos to that even- ing, I lost a letter here somewhere,” she continued, “ which I have never seen since, though /f came next morn- ing and searched thoroughly.” “Was it from St. Louis?” he laida last spray across the basket, with the question. “ Yes.” “| picked it up after you left, and gave it to my sister to hand you,” he replied, as he offered his hand to assist her rising. “ Never heard of it,” said Mildred, laughing, and looking up into his eyes as she spoke. “ Perhaps I ought to confess, that thinking it had dropped from my own pocket, I opened it,” he went on in a tone half haughty, half apologetic. “Did you?” was the good-natured response ; “ well, it didn’t in the least matter.” : “ Then I have been wasting a great deal of contrition,” he replied, in what was meant for a tone of severe dignity. “T had no idea young ladies were so liberal with their love letters.” “ Love letters?” exclamed Mildred. “ You didn’t read it then?” “ Only the opening sentence. I could hardly suppose myself addressed as ‘Sweetheart.’”

“Was that the way it began,” his cousin inquired in the most innocent of tones. ‘“‘ Why Thornton is growing quite lover-like.” “And who is Thornton,” Anthony managed to ask in a moderately polite tone. “Thornton?” repeated Mildred, blandly. “ Don’t you know Thornton? Charlotte does, he is—” “ Anthony, what are you and Mil dred doing all this while?” Mrs. Exe ter’s voice called, as she at the same in stant appeared at the end of the walk. ‘“] could have gathered twelve baskets full in this time. Do you both know that this is ball night, and that I have more to do than can be thought of? Miss Mildred, your dress has come, and I want your ingenuity about my own. And you, Anthony, are to go at once to Smithfield for me,” she concluded, as they reached the gallery steps. “So not another word do you speak to each other.” Mildred was dressed for the evening, and a pretty reflection her mirror of fered for contemplation, as she gave the final touches to her toilette. The azure silk and crépe of her dress fell in graceful folds to the floor, the pointed, low corsége, softened by hand- some old lace, well displayed the fault less outline of her figure, and the hair, dressed & la grec, showed her cameo face to the best advantage. “Mars Ant’ny, miss,” said a cham- ber maid, depositing a tray with flow- ers upon the table. Mildred picked up the note which lay upon them, and read :— “T venture to hope that you will use the accompanying bouquet. <A sudden boldness tempts me to ask that the little daisy be given a place at your belt, pro vided I may use it on Jack’s plan. A. L. C.” A third reading failed to convey the full significance of the note, so entirely unexpected was its revelation. “Stupid fellow,” was the half-aloud comment, as she touched the little flow- ers gently to her lips. ‘“ Who ever heard of a daisy on a brocade ;” and she slipped the little flower down amongst the satiny leaves of her lilies. It was quite late in the evening when, standing on the gallery alone for a me

hi re cl be sil an wl sil fre an ar ho th th sh he an

Page 57

” his cent wing hony olite lred, ton? Mil- Exe. e ins walk. skets cnow have of? , and own. once ided, “ So each ning, yr of gave dress r, the 1and- fault- hair, ameo ‘ham- flow- icked , and ll use idden little , pro Cc.” y the tirely aloud flow- ever ” and down lilies. when, a me POETRY. 61 ment, her cousin came up and offered his arm as he asked for a promenade. “ Certainly,” was the unembarrassed response. She had by this time con- cluded that the possibilities which had been dimly floating through her brain since reading his note were “folly indeed, and only meant for jest. “ Cert tainly ; where shall we walk ?” “ On the terrace,if you are not afraid of damp air.” “ Well, I moderately am,” she replied, smiling up at him, “in view of my best frock.” “ But don’t mind your dress ; here,” and he picked up a shawl and threw it around her. ‘“ Now it is protected.” “So my poor little marguerite was not allowed to come to the ball,” An- thony began, when they had res ached the terrace. “Are not the lilies prettier?” and she smiled sweetly up at him, as she held the bouquet up for him to admire. ‘ Mildred,” and he halted suddenly, and took her hand, then dropped it as if having changed his mind regarding | what he would say, as he asked: “ tell me frankly, was it sheer coquetry that induced you to mislead me this morn- ing ?” , “ How? about that letter? deed, it was from Thornton.” ‘* And who is Thornton ?” asked her cousin impatiently. ‘“ Why, in Heaven’s name can’t you fell ?” “ Thornton ?” repeated Mildred, with calm deliberation, making a mental note of man’s unreasonableness, ‘“ Why, Thornton is my cousin, and the hus- band of the handsomest woman in St. Louis.” A few seconds of silence, and then; ‘“‘ Milly, let me try my fortune without the flower?” said the young man, taking her hand again,and looking down upon her from eyes which told their own story. She drew the daisy from its hiding place amongst the lily leaves, and handed it to him, as she said in a half- laughing tone: “ Have you faith in its decision ?”’ No in- OE A DAY’S SPORT. Brightly, oh brightly Glows the sunshine on the lake: Lightly, so lightly Stir the ripples, half awake. Gayly, aye gayly Rings her laughter, low and clear— Till my heart beats slow and heavy, Does she care to hear? Steady, full steady, Fills the summer wind the sail : Ready, already From the stern the long lines trail Stilly, pond-lily Snowy lily-tufts we part: While we float, we play at fishing— She hath ta’en my heart. Drifting—and drifting— At the gleaming ripples’ will: Lifting, and lifting Blue’st eyes, she draws me still— Careless—all careless— Draws the heart out of my breast— The day’s sport is ended, fair one: Sunset’s in the west. -Flushing—warm flushing, Tide, and sail, and Beauty’s brow. Rushing, swift rushing Go the ripples at our prow. Fleetly, so fleetly Speeds the glad day, fast away— Sweet, what wilt thou with the true heart Thou hast caught to-day ? M. C. L. Reeves. OUR LOSS. The beautiful summer has left us, sis In spite of our clinging hands ; And a sense of chill and bereavement Broods over earth, sea, and sands. We think of her morns of splendor— Her shimmering noons of heat— Her twilights, long and tender, And her every charm complete. Was there ever a summer fairer ? Were the mountains e’er so grand ? Did the skies e’er glow so brightly At the touch of the Master’s hand ? Were the bird-songs ever sweeter, Or the flowers e’er so fair ? Was there ever so great a glory On sea, and earth, and air? We grieve for the vanished summer ; And long with a nameless pain, For the grace of her royal presence, And cry ‘‘ Will she come again ?’’ Or, safe in the sure Hereafter, Where our dearest treasures lie— Shall we find our fair, lost summers In the years of Eternity ? Linwian Grey.

Page 58

THE STORY OF AN ELOPEMENT. BY CHRISTIAN REID. Author of ‘‘Gentle Belle,’’ ete. PART II. CuaptTer IV. ‘700 FAR ABOVE ME.” But to dream by night on moonlit waters, with everything condfcive to enchantment of the senses, and to face the same dreams in the broad light of prosaic day is a very different matter. When Lennox faced his dreams the next morning, he bestowed several un- complimentary names upon himself, and with stern resolution decided that he would leave Venice without delay. But first it .was necessary, or he thought it necessary, that he should pay a visit to his old friend who had so kindly volunteered her services in his behalf. And if in paying this visit he should see any one else—well, there was no harm in looking at a beautiful face, and meeting forthe last- time a kind and gentle glance. So having breakfasted—at least taken that light collation which is’ called on the Con- tinent the first breakfast—he went out on the piazza, upon which his hotel opened, to while away time as best he could until a proper hour for visiting, Sometimes, however, it chances that fortune takes up weapons and fights for those who have neither heart nor power to fight for themselves. And soit hap- pened that as Kyrle emerged into the broad square he saw a lady, accom- panied by her maid, just entering the great portal of the cathedral. His heart bounded. He had not sat behind that figure the day before and studied it in vain. He recognized at once the elegant lines, the graceful carriage, and, without a moment’ s hesitation, followed into the church. Who does not know by sight or by fame that wonderful interior, in whose darkness lie hid the spoils of the Orient and whose ancient pavements in its un- dulations follow the rise and fall of the sea that cradles it? Lennox had before this wandered over it in wonder and admiration; but now he was not think- ing of gorgeous mosaics, or marvelous carving, of columns of verd-antique, (Copyright, 1884, by J. H. HautenseeK & Co. (62) porphyry or jasper; his eyes were searching through the gloom of the vast edifice for the figure which had entered it a few minutes before, and it was a little time before he found what he sought in a chapel where a priest was saying mass and a small congrega- tion were gathered. But as he drew near the chapel, struck by the infinitely picturesque scene—the rich, jewel-encrusted altar, the priest in his golden vestments, the contrasts of rank and costume in the forms kneeling on the pavement—he suddenly saw Aimée, her maid on one side, on the other a Venetian girl with a black lace shawl, thrown in the fash. ion of Italian women over such red- gold hair as Titian painted. Finding thus what he sought, he paused, and, leaning against a pillar, watched from his safe obscurity that beautiful pas- sionate face which only yesterday en- tered his life; yet which he felt as if he had known.-from all eternity. When the service was over and the small congregation dispersing, he step- ped from the shadow of the pillar and presented himself to Aimée. . She start- ed a little, but greeted him quietly and they walked together toward the door, Ky rle saying :— “ T am very fortunate to meet you, for I was on my way to your hotel to make my adieux when I saw you entering the church—and, therefore, I took the lib erty of following you.” . “To make your adieux!” she re peated with surprise. “ Are you think ing of leaving Venice—so soon ?” “T had no intention of spending more thana few days here,” he answered; ‘‘and though I am strongly tempted to remain, still I—think it best to go.” She glanced at him quickly—invol- untarily as it seemed—and then sud- denly in the light of that glance it flashed upon him what interpretation she might give to these words. Her eyes seemed to say, “Ah, is that it?” and before he could collect his thoughts All rights reserved. ] th be ti

Page 59

were the had 1d it what riest ‘ega- upel, sque tar, , the 1 the —he one with fash- ding and, from pas- y en- if he 1 the step- and start- r and loor, u, for make g the e lib 2 Te hink- iding ered; ed to 2? invol- - gud- ice it ‘ation Her t at?” ughts THE STORY OF AN ELOPEMENT. 63 sufficiently to know how to explain himself, she had looked away, saying: “If you think it best, of course you are right ‘to go—and one should not attempt to change your resolution.” “No one is likely to attempt it,” said he, with a slight laugh. “ But I fear that you misunderstand me,” he added with a sudden impulse of deci- sion. ‘ We were once thrown together very singularly, and you did me—as well as another—a great service. Will you, therefore, let me speak frankly ?” “Surely, if you wish to do so,” she answered ¢ but he saw that she looked a little startled. “Do not be afraid,” he said gently. “T have no intention of saying any- thing that you need hesitate to hear. But may I ask you to sit down fora moment ?”’ They were now in the atrium or inner porch of the church. Aimée hesitated for an instant; then turning to her maid said in French :— “Go to the Merceria and make the purchases of which I spoke. I will wait for you here.” * Oui, mademoiselle,” replied the girl, without the change of a feature, and forthwith departed. Kyrle could hardly believe his gcod fortune, but as Aimée sat down on one of the stone benches fixed against the wall, he said gratefully :— “ You are very kind—as kind as I re- member you of old. And I have no more forgotten how kind you were than I have ceased to thank Heaven for the message you so bravely brought me then.” She looked up at him, and he saw in her face that she was astonished. * But—” she said, and then paused. * But you thought that I meant some- thing else a minute ago,” he said. “You thought I meant that I found it best to go because I felt the old attrac- tion reviving—is it not so?” She dropped her eyes. “ Was it not natural that I should think so?” she asked. “Perhaps it was natural,” he an- swered ; “‘ but you were wholly mistaken. My only sentiment with regard to that past folly is one of sincerest thankful- ness for my escape. I believe I was very melodramatic when we spoke on iin, — the subject last,” he added, with a smile. “IT have not the least inclination to be melodramatic now. Mrs. Meredith is a very pretty and amusing person—of her kind—and she acted altogether ac- cording to herkind. I bear her not the least malice; on the contrary, my feeling toward her is one of gratitude. She saved me from the greatest. misfortune which can befall a man or woman—an ill-assorted marriage.” Aimée ‘had lifted her eyes now, and was looking at him again very steadily. It seemed as if she was absorbed in readjusting her mental attitude with regard to him. Then she said with the old-time simplicity of directness :— “ But why did you wish to tell this to me?” ‘‘ Because whether I go or whether I stay,”’ he answered,“ I do not wish you to regard me as the subject of a hopeless passion, or a hopeless regret, for the wife of Mr. Meredith.” “ T could hardly have thought that,” she said in a low tone; “ but surely it was natural to fancy that you might re- member—with pain—” “ Oh, no; it is no matter for pain,” he said,as she paused. “ Only for a light-comedy sigh and smile. Fancies of that order come and go like dreams. One must know many of them—fashion and shatter many such spells—before one learns what love really is.” ‘¢ She turned her dark meditative eyes away from him. On one side was the interior of the marvelous old church, gleaming with marbles and precious stones; on the other the sunshiny piazza, with its graceful arcades and flocks of sheeny pigeons. She looked toward the last as she said :— “T do not think I like such an idea,” “You!” he said quickly. ‘“ No— how could you like it? It is not meant to apply to natures like yours.” “Ts it not?” she said with a smile. “ But how can you tell that, when you know nothing of my nature?” “Do you think I know nothing of your nature?” he asked, smiling also. “Tf f had time, and. you did not. con- sider me too presumptuous, I might prove the contrary, for you forget all that you showed me once ; all the cour- age ; the unselfishness ; the humility— but I do not forget. And has no one

Page 60

64 THE STORY OF AN ELOPEMENT. ever told you that you carry your soul on your lips, and your heart in your eyes ?” A soft flush came into her clear, pale cheeks, but her self-possession showed that his were by no means the first words of homage that had fallen on her ear. “* No,” she replied quietly. “ I donot remember that any one ever told me so before—at least, not exactly. But per- haps Fanny means the same thing when she tells me that my face is ridiculously transparent.” “It is only a different way of stating the same thing,” said Ky rie, and then they both laughed. The conversation was less personal after this, and when the demure maid presentiy returned, laden with various small packages, she found them talking easily like old friends. “Going away?” said Fanny Meredith. “What an absurd idea! What do you mean by it ?” Kyrle, whose resolution was by this time very much shaken, did not answer for a moment. Then, he said :— “I mean that I think it is the only wise course open to me.” Mrs. Meredith threw herself back in her chair and lifted her eyebrows as she looked at him. “ You are as incompre- hensible as ever!” she said frankly. “ Now, what on earth do you mean by the only wise course open to you ?” * Briefly, then,” said Kyrle, “you were shrewd enough to observe last night that I am in danger of falling in love with Miss Vincent.” “Qh, no,” said Fanny, shaking her head. “I observed that the thing was already accomplished.” “There you are mistaken,” said he positively. “It is not already accom- plished, or, if it were, there is the more reason for my going away, since I only expose myself ‘to useless pain by re- maining.” ‘* But why useless pain ?” asked she impatiently. “Have you so faint a heart that you are afraid of Percy Joscelyn as a rival?” ‘Not at all,” answered he calmly. “But it is quite impossible for me to aspire to Miss Vincent. Did you not tell me she is a great heiress ?” “ Yes, she is worth a ‘million or so in her own right, without any restrictions —happy girl!” “| hope that it may prove for her happiness,” said Kyrle rather gloomily; “ but it is an effectual bar to any hope on my part. A newspaper correspon- dent would certainly not’ be a fit parti for such an heiress.” “ And whose fault is it that you are ®& newspaper correspondent?” asked Mrs. Meredith, with a malice born of past recollections. ‘“ But, in my opin- ion, that is all nonsense. It is birth and social: position one considers—not the mere‘accident of money.” “ The accident of money is what the world considers,” said he, “and I must consider it too. For myself I have perhaps thought of it too little—if so, I am punished by finding it now an in- surmountable barrier between myself and a woman I might love.” Fanny opened her lips to speak, but apparently thought better of it before any words esc aped. She closed them again and sat silent for a moment, evi- dently reflecting. Then she looked at Kyrle with an expression of resigned regret. “ T remember how ob— that is, deter- mined you are,” she said, “so I sup- pose there is nothing to be gained by arguing the matter. But since your mind is so fully made up, why should you run away? I thought that was the resource of weakness and indecision.” “No doubt it is,” said he, falling into the artful trap, “and I felt very weak last night, I assure you. But, after all, there is no reason why I should go at once”—looking out at the enchanting sea and sky and begin- ning-to yield to temptation. “ A day or two cannot matter—and it is no- body’s affair but my own if I choose to pay for present pleasure by future pain.” “Oh, dear, no—not anybody’s affair at all,’ said Fanny. “ And then you can so easily take another trip to Egypt and forget all about it. I really wish you would stay,” she added persuasive- ly. ‘“ We might have such a pleasant time wandering about Venice! Anda man need not abjure the society of a woman because he thinks her too rich to marry.” th nt fil « yo an if ¢al an: toc th toc kit the ap! the cel if | the auc eir up hei sel sin liv. an

Page 61

Tair you ypt Fish ive- sant ida of a rich THE STORY OF! A'N) ELOPEMENT. 65 “No, certainly not, ” said | Lennox, though’ he knew in his heart; that this was. sophistry. “Well, at, least.) will not go to-day. I will stay as,long as J first intended—that is, two, or three days longer.” | “ Howniceof you,’ ‘a gleam of triumph. in, her eyes, you will also stay to breakfast?” “ You.are very kind. , But,,I, fear that the majority of your party would hardly have their appetites improved by my appearance, If you are going anywhere this afternoon, however, and will allow me to join you” “We are, going, out, to, the Lido, Meet us there.and we,can all return to- gether.. And one, word+don’t mind the incivilities of the Joscelyns. They are uncivil because they are afraid of you,” “J am very well aware of that,” said he with a smile. Then his. heart sank and his voice also,as he added: . ‘‘ But if they only knew it, they, have. no eause for fear.” “ They are wiser than to believe that, and so am [,’’ thought Fanny. | But she took very good. care, not to utter her thought aloud. And indeed the Joscelyns were much too, wise, to believe anything of the kind. | In the first, place, they had not the faintest idea that Mr. Kyrle had appeared in Venice by accident; and in the second place, they were perfectly certain that he meant to marry Aimée if it were possible for him to attain that end by unholy, acts or. incredible audacity... As was natural under, the eircumstances, they looked suspiciously upon every man who, approached the heiress they desired, to keep: for them- selves, and Fanny. Meredith, had; long since expressed her opinion that, they lived abroad because they could more readily seclude Aimée, from admirers and suitors there than_ in, her. native country., “And Aimée, is so\ gentle and. unresisting that she lets them have their own way altogether, and; will end by letting, them marry her,|to that horrid. Percy!” the speaker, would al- ways add—in which prediction,, how- ever, she was mistaken, and like many other people mistook gentleness. for weakness. But ordinary suitors were one thing VoL. cx.—5 *said Fanny, with “ And | and-an, “old lover?—a phrase held gen- erally, to,.express much-—quite another: What, was) to be done. to check the au- dagious advances of | the latter, this stranger, with his, handsome face,and commanding air? The. family held.a council jof war,|to determine the ques- tion, and| as it chanced this couneil of war was sitting while, Aimée was: talk- ing to Kyrle in the porch of St. Marks. “ The fellow’s. familiarity and. impu- dence are intolerable,” said Perey, “and Mrs. Meredith is encouraging him in every way. Liast/night she not only in- vited him to join us as we sat! outside of 'Florian’s, but. she, proposed going out ina gondola, took him, along; and made him sing--he sings, remarkably well, too, confound him!” ** Does he?” said Miss Joseelyn, with languid interest. ‘I wish I had.gone with you last night. I like people who sing.’’ Her brother looked at her with the intention to utter a brotherly sneer very plain im his eyes and on his, lips. | But suddenly he paused; a new idea evi- dently struck him.. He continued to regard the pretty, self-conscious face, but it wa’ with an air of simple scrutiny, and meanwhile the Major spoke :-— ‘“* It, is—hum—very improper of the Merediths to encourage such a person— very improper, indeed—and I shall cer- tainly tell them so.” ‘« But it seems he is an old friend of theirs,” said; Mrs. Joscelyn,'‘' and, we really don't know anything against him, you know, so that will hardly do.” “ Then we must keep Aimée from go- ing out with the Merediths,” said the Major. ‘“ She’ was’ not ‘alone with thém last night,” said Perey; ‘yet’ the fellow almost made love to her’ before my eyes. No; either one of two things :'we must leave. Venice, and that! is ;what I should prefer, or we must arrange that some one shall be always ready to take charge of Mr. Kyrle ‘and ‘see. that he, has no opportunity to idevote himself. to Aimée.”’ “ Leave Venice!” said,the | Major. “ That—hum—might be a good idea Only—ah—we have no excuse,” “And what is to keep: this objection- able, person from following ual” said Mrs, Joscelyn.

Page 62

me 66 THE ‘STORY! OF‘ AN’ ELOPEMENT. “ J should leave without an excuse, and trust to luck or the shortness of his purse to keep him from following,” said Perey. ‘But since you are not of my mind, what do you think of my second expedient ?” “ |-ah—hard)y think that I under- stand it,’ said the Major. “ Howisany one’ to take charge of Mr. Kyrle with- out his consent ?” “Oh, that is easily managed,” replied young Joscelyn. ‘“ A man’s consent is taken for’ granted, you know, if‘a lady is concerned:'| Now, Lydia here would be equal to the emergenoy, I think, and by quietly taking possession of Mr. Kyrle, make it quite impossible for him to attach himself to Aimée. Itis a task after your own heart,” he went on, ad- dressing his sister. ‘Do you think you can manage it ?” A flush rose into her cheeks and was plainly visible through her powder. “ No one but you would doubt it,” she said. ‘“T am delighted that you feel so much eonfidence,” he replied. “ Under- stand, then, that you have to keep Kyrle from Aimée by engrossing his attention, and if you should sucteed in tranisfer- ring it entirely to yourself, I will give you a brother’s blessing and anything else that: you choose to ask.” She looked at -him, and there was no love in her eyes. ‘“ Neither your bless- ing nor your promises amount to any- thing,” she said. “But I will do the thing in order to show you that I can do it.” CHAPTER V. THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER, After this the Joscelyns were out- wardly civil to Kyrle, but he soon found that civility might prove even more effec- tual than incivility in separating him from Aimée, for it need ‘scarcely be said that Miss Joscelyn lost no time in earrying into effect her brother's shrewd suggestion, and to Lennox’s infinite’sur- prise he found himself calmly but deeid- edly taken possession of by that young lady, carrying her shawl, sitting by her side, and‘ offering her his arm whenever need for an arm arose, without in the least understanding how it) alli came about. But one of the lookers-on understood perfectly how it came about and laughed to herself with an ‘amuse- ment not untinetured by malice. “He refiised my aid,” she thought, ‘so [ shall legve him to Lydia’s mercy. A man, poor creature, is so ‘helpless in such a case!” This man was certainly very helpless. There was not in him any of thé bru- tality’ of! men who can release them- selves from ‘such a ‘position by the simplest and most direct methods. He eould not ‘be deaf when a lady asked for assistance, he could not refuse. to hold a parasol over her when she re- quested’ him to do 80, nor could he leave her alone when, after falling be- hind the others in some church or palace, she would plead fatigue and propose to sit down. They were all threadbare artifices, but still strong enough to hold a man with the instincts and training of a gentleman, and Kyrie groaned inwardly but submitted—ask- ing himself why he should rebel when she by whose side he longed to be was separated from him by barriers far more powerful than these. But after a day or two his patience gave way, and leaving the party in a chureh where they were engaged in in- specting ‘with blank’ amazement ‘some frescoes of Carpaccio which Mr. Ruskin holds up to the admiration of the world, he went out on the little piazza before the church and sat down on the steps which led to the canal to wait for them: It was in his mind to bid them ‘a final adieu as soon as they should appear, for what’ (he asked himself) was gained by this? He could look at Aimée, it was true, and such looks fed the passion which had laid strong hold on him, bat eould by no means satisfy its demands. For the rest, he had hardly exchanged a dozen words with her in three days— so constantly did Percy claim her at tention, and ‘so vigilantly did’ Lydia guard him. He saw the meaning of it all, and ‘vowed with an ‘angry heart, 9s he sat there in the Venetian sunlight, that if he were not so poor # man he would: soon prove to them that their devices were mere barriers of straw which would not stand in his way an hour. But it was‘a gigantic “ if,” and he sighed as he looked up at the tall houses opposite and ‘then at the green water

Page 63

ut se- Te I A in 8s. ru- ‘m- the He ced to re- he be- or and all ong icts yrle ausk- hen was 1ore nee na ) in- ome skin rid, fore teps yem. final year, ined fe, it sion , bat nds. nged ys— r at- ydia of it t, a8 ight, n he their traw yy an id he uses vater THE STORY OF ‘AN ELOPEMENT. 67 ebbing and flowing at his feet. “The sigh was so profound, so heavily weighit- ed, that it was heard by some one who had come out of the church to look for him, and who, now advan¢ing, sat down by his side. “IT wonder,” said Mrs. Meredith, quietly, “if you are by this time aware that you area very foolish’ man ?” He looked round at her with a slight smile. ‘I have been aware of it a long time,” he answered. «“ And is not the knowledge of' folly the beginning ‘of wisdom? Are you not sorry ‘now that ‘you refused my good oftices—in order to fall'a prey to Lydia?” He was so''thoroughly a gentleman that he ignored the last part of her speech, and only answered, “ I ‘cannot be sorry to have refused your good of- fices, since the reason holds good on account of which I refased them.” “ But if you don’t see the folly of that, you are not at the beginning of wisdom,” said she. “ Why, ‘according to your idea, only rich people would marry rich people, when really it should be the other way. The proper equaliz- ing of things demands that Fich per- sons should marry poor ones.’ He could not ‘help laughing, though he was in no laughing mood. “It is something new for you to appear'in the character of a political economist,” he said. “Your ‘theory may be well enough, ‘and I ‘have no quarrel with those who practise it, but I ‘must de- cline to be one of the poor persons who aid in the equalizing of things by such means.’ “ Well; Zam ofe of them,” ‘said Fanny, quite’ unabashed, turning’ a dia- mond ring round ‘on her finger, “and I can assure you that it is a very good means. But what I consider! is this,” she went on emphatically, ‘‘ that Aimée is worth more than her fortune, and that you are letting her slip for the sake of money which you profess to despise.” This was putting the case in'a nut- shell, and it struck Kyrle so forcibly that he’ almost groaned. “I ‘despise money only for mysélf,” he said. “TI know what its’ value is in the eyes of others. But you are right. Miss Vin- cent is worth far more than her fortune, and if she were only rid of it—”’ “ She is not, however,” said practical Fanny. “And you cannot. expect her to give it or throw it away in order to oblige you.” “T expect’ nothing—from her,” he answered. “ And [ do not understand why you should talk as if I had but to put out my hand and grasp a_ prize which I am sure would, under any cir- cumstances, be far above my reach.” “Your humility does you credit,” said Mrs. Meredith. “ But in my opin- ion there is no possible reason why you should not grasp the prize if you would only resolve to make the effort. I have told you before that it is not on your account I urge it,” she added quiekly, “but because I want to rescne Aimée ; you do not understand, arid she hardly realizes in what a bondage she is held. If those people can prevent it, she will never marry any one—unless it be Percy Joscelyn. By every possible and conceivable means they keep suitors away from her, and if I had not been here you would never have been allowed to approach near enough to speak to her. Through me you have a chance that no ether man has ever had before. But if you are so blind—if you throw it away for a mere scruple—if you think more of your own pride than of saving her—then you may go. I have nothing more to say to you.” She rose as she uttered the last words, and Kyrle, who had listened to the lat- ter part of her speech with amazement, could hardly believe that it was Fanny Meredith who was leaving him with such an air of dignity. He rose, too, and quickly made a’step after her. Several heads were visible at the windows of the opposite houses, watching with interést the little scene. “Stop a minute,” he said. “If you. have nothing more to say to me, at least let me say something to you. I never looked at the matter in the light in which you have put it. How could I when I did not know? But if you will have patience—if you will Five me a little time to consider—I will tell you my final decision before to-day is ended.” “Tn your place I would tell you mine in five minutes,” said Fanny, scornfully. “Very likely,” said he, humbly. “ But you must make allowances for the slow-

Page 64

68 THE, STORY OF AN, ELOPEMENT. ness of the masculine mind, Can I see you—will you be at home this after noon ?” “No,” said she, after a moment’s con- sideration, “for Mr. Meredith would likely be at ,home also, and we could not speak freely. But you;may meet me at the top of the Campanile about sunset,” She had hardly said this,and Kyrle had no, time to reply, when Miss, Jos- celyn emerged, from the church and came toward them with an air of sur- prise. “T have been wondering what had be- come of Mr, Kyrle,” she said.. “ You really should not have let Mrs. Meredith keep you from studying ; those extraor- dinary frescoes of Carpaccio.” They are certainly. extraordinary,” said Fanny, dryly ; “but I have not kept Mr. Kyrle from studying them, I found him here when I came out fora little re- lief and sunshine, I hope that we are done with Carpaccio now, and that we are going home. It is time for lunch- eon and I am hungry.” This seemed to be the general senti- ment of the party, which, with a,some- what stupefied appearance—as of hav: ing taken Art in too large a dose—now emerged from the church. The Major was shaking his head, ‘ Mr. Ruskin is no doubt a fine judge of painting,’’ he was saying, “‘ but really—ah—hum—to send one to see such pictures as these!” Aimée, who was walking behind with Percy, looked tired and pale, and when Kyrle met her eyes he was about to. step to her side, but a hand, was ‘suddenly laid on his arm. “ Do be kind enough to raise this parasol for me,” said Miss Joscelyn. “ The sun.is positively blinding.” Kyrle raised the parasol, and. aceept- ing his fate, assisted her into the wait- ing gondola. But. then, instead of fol: lowing, he stepped back, and lifting his hat, quietly bade the party adieu, until to-morrow, “You willnot join us this afternoon ?”? inquired Miss Joscelyn, with some. sur- prise and evident concern, “ T am sorry that I cannot have, that pleasure,”: he; answered. ‘I haye a budget of correspondence to read, and another budget to send off.” ““ Then we will defer, the excursion to Murano till to-morrow,” she said. Kyrle did not answer, but watched the gondola as it moved away, witha very grawe facey The moment of temp- tation had come now in earnest. Ought he to think of himself, of his own pride when it was a question of rescuing the fair and gentle creature who had won his heart, from such\a,bondage as that which Fanny painted? This was the question which he had toanswer. If it were true that. by a singular chance he was enabled to approach her more nearly than any other man had. ever approached ,her before, or was likely to be able to approach her again, did it not seem us jif fate pointed, him out as her rescuer. .Yet for him, by comparison penniless, to woo so rich a woman, to meet the insults:of her. friends, and to bear the brand of a' fortune-hunter in the eyes of the world—that was a bitter necessity for a proud man to face, and revolving it in his mind, he went slowly home. He had been strictly within the limit of the truth when he! told) Miss Jos- celyn that he had a budget of corres- pondence to read, for the accumulation of several weeks had reached him only that morning, and he had not, taken time to wade through jit. before going out. After a light déjedine, however, he set: himself to do so—partly because it was a necessity and partly to distract his, thoughts from the question. which he was constantly asking, and altogether unable to answer. So after going through several letters with a very distracted, attention, he took up and opened one which was ad- dressed. in a strange hand-writing, and bore! the printed stamp of a Jegal firm “How ean I—I who, have nothing !’— was; the refrain echoing through his brain as he broke the seal, But a min- ute later he uttered a great exclamation, and, sat, staring incredulously at ‘the paper, before him, Instead of having nothing, this letter informed him’ that he possessed a for- tune of not less than.a millior dollars. ( To be continued.)

Page 65

ters 3 ad- and firms 1 shee his min- sion, the tter for- lars. LITTLE FORGET-ME-NOT. A PEN PICTURE FROM ACTUAL LIFE. Little Forget-me-not lay dying—slow- ly her life’s blood was ebbing away e’er she had searcely tasted of the cup of life. But all that she had sipped of its con, tents had been only the bitter foam of the dregs of pain and sorrow, And after these few years of want and wretchedness, Little Forget-me-not lay dying of starvation. Not the kind of hunger which quickly .destroys by the total deprivation of all food, but the much worse phase which slowly kills by not having sufficient daily nourishment for a growing child’ en- feebled by disease. The wonderful de- scriptive pen of Dickens, nor the mag- netic voice of eloquence of Cicero, in their happiest. moments, could, not truly picture the innocent. pathetic ex- pression of this little girl as she lay dy- ing—struck in what usually is the very sunshine of the blossom of life, by the cruel darts of the relentless hand,of— call it what you will: fate, destiny, mis- fortune. It makes no difference what the name is, the bitter results.are the same. She was only a little over four years of age; with large expressive steel-blue eyes, features, even as they were all marred with the. disfiguring touch of disease and lack of. nourish- ment, pretty in detail and sweet. beyond all description, crowned with a little rose-bud of a mouth whose lips had so often quiyered with pain or begged for that which they could not obtain. The room in which she lay dying was a small, poorly furnished apartment, situ- ated in the rear of the third story.of one of those immense abodes of. suffer- ing and semi-starvation called “ tene- ment houses oceupied by the. lower class.” Tenderly bending over Little Forget-me-not, soothing her as best she could, was her mother, a prematurely aged woman, herself almost hopelessly ill, as her racking cough and attenuated frame plainly showed. In this scene of sorrow, drawn from actual life, there were no dainty (lishes of delicacies to tempt the appetite of the little sufferer; and although it was in midwinter, just before Christmas, there was no cheerful glowing fire, sending out its grateful heat throughout the room... In one corner was a cheap little stove without fire; in the. closet there was a small portion of a loaf of bread, with a very little milk standing near it in a teacup, The old bedstead with thin and ragged covering, three wooden chairs, a lit- tle table, a very. few of the cheapest articles of household utensils, and that was all there was in, this chamber of death and suffering, except two immor- tal souls. who soon, would be far beyond the corroding cares. of this life, and be where hunger, cold, and thirst are unknown,.and, where there are no sighs or tears. ‘‘ Mamma,” the little girl cried. “ Oh, mamma, I’m so hungry; tant I have somethin’ to eat ?” ‘Yes, darling,” the mother replied. And the cup of milk with the little bread. left was given her. Not satisfied with this humble apology for a meal, but knowing, ah, too well, there was no more, she fell asleep. Then the wretch- ed,, heartbroken, mother, utterly pros- trated by the harassing doubts and fears which, had beset, like sharp pierc- ing thorns to the naked feet of the out- cast, her pathway of life for many months, fell beside her dying babe and groaned aloud to Almighty God.. For the,end had now come; absolute starva- tion and death from ‘the cold’ stared them in the face, For. months this poor woman had fought the, demon of poverty, but at last the hour of agony, so often thought and dreamed of and battled against, had come, As long. as she, maintained her health she could earn enough to feed and clothe her little one and herself. But running a sewing machine night and day, making garments for which she received a mere pittance, with the anxiety about her child’s illness, added to all of which was a terrible cold, caught by exposure while carrying work home in a storm, had so undermined her health, that for over a month she had been so weak (69)

Page 66

70 LITTLE FORGET-ME-NOT. and lielpless as to be totally unable to work at anything. For a while the demon was kept from the door . by pawning the sewing machine and évéry other article of any value which she possessed. Now all was gone; no food was left, and there were no. friends to whom she could appeal. Sick, nigh unto death’s door herself, in her great agony, falling prostrate by the bedside of dying Little Forgot-me-not, she cried, “Oh, God in Heaven! My Father! Look down. upon me and my innocent suffering child. What shall we do for food to-morrow, and after that? Oh, merciful Father, I cannot, cannot beg, spare, oh, spare me; Thou hast prom- ised to help the widow and the father- less. Oh, God! I will try and believe and have faith. Help me, blessed Father, help me, and if I, in Thy pro- vidence, must die, Thy will be done; but, oh, save my darling! Give me food for her hunger, and keep her warm.” Mrs.. Robertson, whose heartbroken and tenderly pathetic appeal none but God heard, was like thousands of other poor unfortunate souls in this Valley of Tribulation. Her experience, sad to relate, was only the stereotyped life picture which will continue to be im- printed upon the pages of time until it shall be no more. It ‘all can be compressed in a few American journalisti¢ words. Born and raised in comfortable circum- stances, her beauty and accomplish- ments made her a belle in the social sphere in which she lived. Falling truly in love with a poor man she mar- ried him against the wishes of her family. ._Two years after marriage her only child; Little Forget-me-not, ‘was born. ‘Then the fair rosy, horizon of her life’s prospects was, suddenly darkened by the clouds of adversity, and the thunder-bolts and storms of a multiplicity of sorrows environed her. As Shakspeare truly says: “ Woes never come like spies.in single numbers but in whole battalions.” And she was no exception to the general rule of humanity., Her husband died after a long, tedious, expensive illness, leaving her penniless, with her baby to battle against. a cruel and heartless world. Her father and mother died within a short time after, and when her father’s estate was settled after his decease there was not, enough left to pay the debts. None of her relatives were left but one older brother, who, by years of miserly thrift and shrewdness, had ac- cumulated a large fortune. But he. she knew too well by youthful experience prior to her marriage, possessed a heart of stone. His god was the god of dollars and cents, and during all her troubles she had never made one appeal to him for assistance, for well she knew that bitter taunts and sneers would be all he would vouchsafe her in answer to her supplications. The next morning, the day before Christmas, dawned clear, cold and sharp, Little Forget-me-not woke early, and began to cry for food. And, alas, there was none; absolutely noth- ing for her. ‘* Mamma,” she _ plaintively “ Dod is dood, ain’t he?” “ Yes, darling.” *“ And He loves me, don’t he ?” “Yes, my child. You are His. is your Heavenly Father.” “ Then, mamma, why don’t Dod dive us somethin’ to eat? Oh, mamma, mamma, I’m so hungry. Oh, please, please dit me somethin’ to eat.” What could the poor heartbroken mother say ? ** Mamma, dead papa loved me, didn't he? ‘That is what made him tall me Little Forget-me-not, ain’t it? He said I must never, never have any ozzer name, and. fhat I must never fordit him, and lhe never would fordit me, and must always be talled that, If. he was here now, and wasn’t dead and in heaven, he would feed me, wouldn’t he, mamma? Qh, I am,so hungry!” The . poor, tortured mother could stand it no longer. The strain now was too great for her to bear without ac- tion of some kind. She did not, could not ask for charity from strangers, But she would make one appeal to her rich brother. She had not seen him since her marriage, to which he, like the rest of the family, was bitterly op- posed, but she had frequently heard of his prosperity and knew his address, Tenderly kissing Little Forget-me-not, and telling her that she would return He said, —

Page 67

Oo on SV Es One a =< OC lt“‘<é OP \y Sy. ~ er p- of S, rt, mn

LITTLE; FORGET-ME-N OT: 71

soon ‘with just. oceans of bread and butter and milk and nice chicken,” she drew her tattered shawl around her, and nerved with bitter desperation, all her family pride held in stern subjec- tion by the awful emergencies of her circumstances, she sought the residence of her brother, It was yet early in,the morning, and she hoped to catch him before he went;down to his place of business. At the door of his palatial mansion the colored servant said, -he had not yet gone out, and she wus allowed to go into, the hall only, her appearance being such that in the eyes of the well-drilled menial she was hardly even deserving of being asked that far in the house. _ Her brother, met her with astonishment. and bitter sneers of contempt and educated brutality, which is far, far worse to a sensitive soul than intense anger or studied eold- | ness. But remembering only her starv- ing baby, the poor woman_ literally placed her bleeding mother’s heart at her brother’s feet. Piteously, with great sobs that almost choked. her utter- ance, she begged, by all the recollec- tions of the past when they happily played together as brother and sister in the innocent hour of childhood ;, by all the ties of blood which, bound them; by the memory of their dear mother, and for her sake to give her aid for her starving, dying child. She might just as well haye appealed to the massive, re- lentless granite in the quarry, or the cold, cruel sea for aid. “TI told you,” he said, with a sneer, born solely of the devil, “what you would come to if. you married that man who you said could do so much. for you, And now you are there. Well, people who. make their beds must lie in them, I’ve got nothing for you.” At that moment a bright, happy little girl, just about the same age as Little Forget-me-not, not only warmly but elegantly dressed, with the sparkle and bloom jof, youthful health and joyous- ness shining in every line of her. face and form, ran into the hall and cried, “Oh, papa, who is that nasty, ragged woman? ;What does she want? Send her away quick.” “She is only a beggar, my darling,” was his reply. Mrs. Robertson waited to hear. no

more. It was her only brother who had thus spoken, and it was to. her own niece he had called her such a name. Any- thing, anything was better than this. Even charity from the hands of strang- ers. Weakand faint with mental anguish and physical weakness and sickness, she fled from the house of this fiend incar- nate in human form, whom the business and secial world, in which he lived, re- garded with eyes of esteem and envy asa most successful business man of renown and ability. She directed her faltering steps towards the office of the nearest local charitable organization. There she told her tale of distress. All pride was now gone, She had but one object and aim; one burning desire only . over- whelmed her aching heart—to save Lit- tle Forget-me-not, her darling child, from starvation; to carry back with her the “ oceans” of nourishing food which she had promised to bring on her re- turn. The manager of this local chari- table association listened calmly to her touching appeals, then, after asking cer- tain questions, told Mrs. Rebertson that a member of the investigating com- mittee would call upon her that after- noon, if they were not all too busy, in which event it would have to be deferred until to-morrow, and if her condition was as she represented, proper relief would be extended, This was all that she could obtain. No money or food immediately —just that moment — but the investiga- tion first. After beseeching the man- ager to send the member of the com- mittee that afternoon without fail, to which he kindly consented, if possible, she returned to her desolate room, and dying Little For-get-me-not. As soon as she entered’ this abode of suffering and. death, Little Forget-me- not,-all anxiety and excitement,) partly rising in bed as far as her weak state would admit of, eagerly exclaimed : ‘“‘@h,; mamma, have you dot the oceans of food? : Dive me some, quick; please. Oh, I’m so hungry. Don’t wait till it dets cooked, but dive me some right away.” ‘* My darling child, they are bringing it. It will be here directly, and then you shall have. plenty,” the mother re- plied aloud, and in her heart.of hearts she silently groaned : ‘Great God, how long?, How long? Merciful Father,

Page 68

72. LITTLE’ FOR@ET-ME-NOT: send, oh,:send help! ‘Let me perish; but save, Almighty God, save my dy- ing ehild !” The day slowly passed away. . The mother spent the long, dreary time silently praying and running to the door watching for the expected visit of: the member of the investigating eom- mittee. The child passed the hours alternately crying and begging for food, and falling into the uneasy, fitful slum- bers which frequently precede death in many of its vaned forms.. Darkness at last came, and now there was no hope of food until the next day. It was Christmas Eve.. Mirth seemed to’ be holding a grand ¢arnival among man- kind; and happiness apparently reigned supreme, throwing its beams of glad- ness in the heart of even the humblest of God’s creatures among the million of people in that great city. The streets were all aglow with crowds of well- dressed and laughing throngs, who hurried to comfortable, happy homes laden with presents for loved ones, and eagerly anticipating the pleasures and mutual surprises of the morrow. All in the crowded thoroughfares was glorious life, excitement, bustle, and hilarity. There were no signs of grim poverty there, nor in the multiplicity ot well-lighted stores, crowded with eager buyers. Disease, poverty, death were not there, nor were there any signs or manifestations of their devastating work. But in that little room in the rear of that large tenement house, over Little Forget-me-not and her poor de- voted mother they held unlimited sway. None disputed their awful authority there, and their grim, ghastly work went on unmolested and undisturbed. ‘* Mamma,” Little Forget-me-not feebly said, “ lama doint to die. I won’t be hungry in heaven, will I ?” “ No, no, no, my child!” ‘ And Dod, you say, is good, and He will feed me, won’t he? And‘ I'll see dear papa, won’t 1?. And he will hold me in his arms just like he used to, and tiss me and tall me Little Forget-me-not, and say I ain’t dot. any ozzer name, and feed me with nice bread and milk, won’t he? Iwon’t never, never, never be hungry nor cold any more?” And an angelic smile of sweet content and ‘happiness transfigured the wan face of the dying child, making it shine with the daw yning light ‘of heaven. “Phe mother could only sob bitterly in reply. In the strange, wonderfal expression of her darling’s face she read the infallible signs of the presence of Death, and knew that God was an- swering her prayer by taking Little For- get-me-not from her and the cruel world into His own blessed rest of peace, love, and supreme happiness. Suddenly the dying little girl’s at- tention was attracted by the singing of a Christmas Eve masquerading glee club in the street. They had become tired of the sentimental songs of the day,and now their voices rose in sweet aceord in that glorious old Christmas anthem: Glory to God in the highest. Peace and goodwill to men.” “ Hark, mamma, hark!” Little For- get-me-not exclaimed. ‘“ I’m almost in heaven. I hear the angels singing. ‘Oh, mamma, won't I be happy there! Never, never be cold there, or so awful hungry there.” And the dying child’s voice grew fainter and lower. The mysterious and awful seal of mighty Death was now unmistakably imprinted on her face. Suddenly her eyes shone with a strange, wondrous fire of joyous recognition ; an eager, angelic expression lit up her face. Stretching out her thin, wasted arms and glancing upwards, she cried : ‘‘Oh, mamma, I see papa! I see papa! Oh, papa, dear, dear papa, take me, take me in your arms like you used to. Tall me Little Forget-me—” Then she fell back dead ! No more would the bitter pangs of hunger torture Little Forget-me-not. No more would the biting cold assail her, nor the sufferings of disease tor- ment her:' Her piteous appeals for food belonged solely to the dark, dreary past. There would be no more of these pa- thetie calls. No,no, thank God, she was safe in''the sweet haven of rest’ and peace. As the midnight bells chimed in the glorious dawn of another Christ- mas, an angel was born in heaven, and one little suffering soul was forever at rest. The wretched, distracted mother caught the lifeless, inanimate form of her child’ in her arms, and kissing her repeatedly, cried, “ Oh, Little Forget- me-not, speak, speak, speak, darling, once mor mot. B fron cold Unt that the r not, ealli lost daw} she | glori bed, blue tion and creas word lips 1 all ye and J It. fore 1 ing « orgar tenen Robe five ] At dar Is di Upon t Crea The gu Acro Over Cloud | Cloud ¢ Ane Whi Swells Ther Whe ere, { numb) The s “Tg : Dh the Stan ] t stil And Shive painst

Page 69

ana "ses © — © ommee or of er ce . THE GUIDING LIGHT. 73 more. Say one word, baby, to your mother.” But no word would ever again come from that little mouth, now pale and cold in the awful embrace of death. Until dawn, all through the darkness of that terrible night, Mrs. Robertson held not, beseeching her to speak, and. wildly calling upon God to restore to her’ her lost child. Then when the first rays of dawn softly came through the window, she laid the mortal casket of the now glorious angel in heaven back on the bed, and closed the once bright steel-. blue eyes for all time. With despera- tion she seized an old well-worn Bible, and by the rays of the now rapidly in- creasing daylight, read again and again words which had so often been on her lips for months past: ““ Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” It was nearly twelve o’elock, noon, be- fore the lady member of the investigat- ing committee of the local charitable and asked for Mrs. She had a happy family of tenement. house Robertson. At dark, the rain against the cottage pane Is dripping solemnly, and cold and slow ; Upon the byre the rusted hanging vane Creaks in the wind, tossed aimless to and fro. The gusty blast sinks panting down, wail-spent, Across the, bleak moor. by the sea that lies; Over the moon fast flies Cloud after cloud-wrack by the tempest rent. Cloud after cloud above, and down below A network black of pools that silent yawn ; While a low sob, deep-drawn, Swells from the reeds in the unseen sea-flow. There, o’er the fell morass, Where but the curlews pass, ere, where no path the treacherous heath has crost, tumbles a way-worn wanderer, lone and lost. 'The storm is drear!’’ the child said, half in fear : ; “Ts any wandering o’er the moor to-night ? the deep pool was some one found last year: Stand forth, O Moon, send forth thy guiding light !”’ t still the moon enwrapped her face in cloud, And not one beam athwart the wide moor laid. Shivering the little maid ainst the cottage-pane her forehead bowed. the mortal remains of Little Forget-me-’ five little ones, and had been detained | | tigating lady had just left. by ‘them until that time, enjoying the keen delight and surprise with which they. had received their numerous gifts, and participating in the family enjoy- ment of the beautiful Christmas tree heavily laden with its varied glistening fruits. In response to her inquiries she was shown to Mrs. Robertson’s door. The door was fastened, and 'no amount of ‘knocking would cause it to open. At last, after much delay and many con- jectures by the now assembled crowd of “tenement house neighbors,” the: door was forced open. And what an awful picture was there diselosed. What a terrible and striking contrast was there witnessed between what was there seen and the happy family which the inves- Partly across the dead body of her child, and on the floor,in a kneeling position, Mrs, Robertson lay dead. Upon the child’s _ breast lay the open Bible, and upon these | words the lifeless hand of the dead wo- organization stood at the door of the | man rested : “‘Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” God had kept his promise. She was at rest. God had answered her prayers; Little Forget-me-not was cold and hun- gry no more! ———_- —»-e- -—____ THE GUIDING LIGHT. ‘*Oh, if the moon would shine!’’—and stretched afar Her tiny lamp to find one lunar ray ;— Over the moor away Gleamed that lamplight, like a star— Over the fell morass, Where but the curlews pass, Twinkling in the child’s small hand, That had no thought of guiding o’er the strand, And still the rain against the cottage-pane Drips, drips the faster, as the hours wear by. ‘‘T would,’’ she said, ‘‘ but longing all is vain— What help,can come from one so weak as I? 0 ‘Moon, shine forth!’’—but denser storm-. clouds blew, And wilder, ever'wilder, shrieked the ‘blast. Hark.!: was’t: a footstep passed ? Grating the gravel, as the, gate swung to? Hark | at the cottage door a feeble tap. ‘* My little maid,’” the aged wanderer said, When to the warm hearth 1¢d, Resting he sate, and told o’er his mishap— ‘** Over. the fell morass, Where but the curlews pass, Back from the yawning pool, the path of death, Dear child, thy lamp hath beckoned me,’’ he saith. AuTuor oF ‘‘ WEARITHORNE.”’

Page 70

72. LITTLE FORGET-ME-N OT. send, oh,:send help! Let me perish, but save, Almighty God, save my dy- ing ehild !” The day slowly passed away. . The mother spent the long, dreary time silently praying and ranning to the door watehing for the expected visit of the member of the investigating com- mittee. The child. passed the ‘hours alternately crying and begging for food, and falling into the uneasy, fitful slum- bers which frequently precede death in many of its varied forms... Darkness at last came, and now there was no hope of food until the ‘next day. It was Christmas Eve.. Mirth seemed to be holding a grand ¢arnival among man- kind; and happiness apparently reigned supreme, throwing its beams of glad- ness in the heart of even the humblest of God’s creatures among the million of people in that great city. The streets were all aglow with crowds of well- dressed and laughing throngs, who hurried to comfortable, happy homes laden with presents for loved ones, and eagerly anticipating the pleasures and mutual surprises of the morrow. All in the crowded théroughfares was glorious life, excitement, bustle, and hilarity. There were no signs of grim poverty there, nor in the multiplicity ot well-lighted stores, crowded with eager buyers. Disease, poverty, death were not there, nor were there any signs or manifestations of their devastating work. But in that little room in the rear of that large tenement house, over Little Forget-me-not and her poor de- voted mother they held unlimited sway. None disputed their awful authority there, and their grim, ghastly work went on unmolested and undisturbed. ‘* Mamma,” Little Forget-me-not feebly said, “ Lama doint to'die. 1 won’t be hungry in heaven, will I?” “ No, no, no, my ehild!” ‘ And Dod, you say, is good, and He will feed me, won’t he? And‘ I'll see dear papa,'won’t I?. And he will hold me in his arms just like he used to, and tiss me and tall me Little Forget-me-not, and say I ain’t dot. any ozzer name, and feed me with nice bread and milk, won’t he? Iwon’t never, never, never be hungry nor cold any more?” And an angelic smile of sweet content and ‘happiness transfigured the wan face of the dying child, making it it shine with the dawning light ‘of heaven. “Phe mother could only sob bitterly in reply. In the strange, wonderful expression of her darling’s face she read the infallible signs of the presence of Death, and knew that God was an- swering her prayer by taking Little For- get-me-not from her and the cruel world into His own blessed rest of peace, love, and supreme happiness. Suddenly the dying little girl’s at- tention was attracted by the singing of a Christmas Eve masquerading glee club in the street. They had become tired of the sentimental songs of the day, and now their voices rose in sweet aceord in that glorious old Christmas anthem : “ Glory to God in the highest. Peace and goodwill to men.’ “ Hark, mamma, hark!” Little For- get-me-not exclaimed. “ I’m almost in heaven. I hear the angels singing. ‘Oh, mamma, won't I be happy there! Never, never be cold there, or so awful hungry there.” And the dying child’s voice grew fainter and lower. The mysterious and awful seal of mighty Death was now unmistakably imprinted on her face. Suddenly her eyes shone witha strange, wondrous fire of joyous recognition ; an eager, angelic expression lit up her face. Stretching out her thin, wasted arms and glancing upwards, she cried : ‘‘Oh, mamma, I see papa! I see papa! Oh, papa, dear, dear papa, take me, take me in your arms like you used to. Tall me Little Forget-me—” Then she fell back dead ! No more would the bitter pangs of hunger torture Little Forget-me-not. No more would the biting cold assail her, nor the sufferings of disease tor- ment her.’ Her piteous appeals for food belonged solely to the dark, dreary past. There would ‘be no more of these pa- thetie'calls. No,no, thank God, she was safe inthe’ sweet haven of rest’ and peace. As the midnight bells chimed in the glorious dawn of another Christ- mas, an angel was born in heaven, and one little suffering soul was forever at rest. The wretched, distracted mother caught the lifeless, inanimate form of her child in her arms, and kissing her repeatedly, cried, ‘“ Oh, Little Forget- me-not, speak, speak, speak, darling, once mo} mot B fron cold Unt that the: not, ealli lost daw she glor bed, blue tion and crea wore lips all y and . It fore | ing orgal tener Robe five ] At dar Is di Upon Crea The gu Acr¢ Ove! Cloud Cloud | A ne Whi Swells Ther Whe There, Stumb! “The s “cc Is In the: Stan But sti And Shiv« Agains'

Page 71

a a oe oS , = or of er T- Ce ‘ THE GUIDING LIGHT. 73 more. mother. But no word would ever again come from that little mouth, now pale and cold in the awful embrace of death. Until dawn, all through the darkness of that terrible night, Mrs. Robertson held Say one word, baby, to your not, beseeching her to speak,and wildly calling upon God to restore to her her lost child. Then when the first rays of dawn softly came through the window, she laid the mortal casket of the now glorious angel in heaven back on the bed, and closed the once bright steel-. blue eyes for all time. With despera- tion she seized an old well-worn Bible, and by the rays of the now rapidly in- creasing daylight, read again and again words which had so often been on her lips for months past: “ Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” It was nearly twelve o’elock, noon, be- fore the lady member of the investigat- ing committee of the local eharitable tenement house and asked for Mrs. Robertson. She had a happy family of five little ones, and had been detained At dark, the rain against the cottage pane Is dripping solemnly, and cold and slow ; Upon the byre the rusted hanging vane Creaks in the wind, tossed aimless to and fro. The gusty blast sinks panting down, wail-spent, Across the, bleak moor by the sea that lies; Over the moon fast flies Cloud after cloud-wrack by the tempest rent. Cloud after cloud above, and down below A network black of pools that silent yawn ; While a low sob, deep-drawn, 8wells from the reeds in the unseen sea-flow. There, o’er the fell morass, Where but the curlews pass, \{There, where no path the treacherous heath has crost, Stumbles a way-worn wanderer, lone and Jost. “The storm is drear!’’ the child said, half in fear : “Is any wandering o’er the moor to-night ? In the deep pool was some one found last year: Stand forth, O Moon, send forth thy guiding light > But still the moon enwrapped her face in cloud, And not one beam athwart the wide moor laid. Shivering the little maid Against the cottage-pane her forehead bowed. the mortal remains of Little Fotget-me-- | tigating lady had just left. organization stood at the door of the | by them. until that time, enjoying the keen delight and surprise with which they, had received their numerous gifts, and participating in the family enjoy- ment of the beautiful Christmas tree | heavily laden with its varied glistening fruits. In response to her inquiries she was shown to Mrs. Robertson’s door. The door was fastened, and ‘no amount of ‘knocking would cause it to open. At last, after much delay and many con- jectures by the now assembled crowd of “tenement house neighbors,” the door was forced open. And what an awful picture was there diselosed. What a terrible and striking contrast was there witnessed between what was there seen and the happy family which the inves- Partly across the dead body of her child, and on the floor, in a kneeling position, Mrs, Robertson lay dead. Upon the child’s _ breast lay the open Bible, and upon these | words the lifeless hand of the dead wo- ' man rested : “Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” God had kept his promise. She was at rest. God had answered her prayers; Little Forget-me-not was cold and hun- gry no more! ee 2. THE GUIDING LIGHT. ‘*Oh, if the moon would shine:!’’—~and stretched afar Her tiny lamp to find one lunar ray ;— Over the moor away Gleamed that lamplight, like a star— Over the fell morass, Where but the curlews pass, Twinkling in the child’s small hand, That had no thought of guiding o’er the strand, And still the rain against the cottage-pane Drips, drips the faster, as the hours wear by. ‘‘T would,’’ she said, ‘‘ but longing all is vain— What help can come from one so weak as I? G ‘Moon, shine forth!’’—bnt denser storme. clouds blew, And wilder, ever'wilder, shrieked the ‘blast. Hark.!: was’t a footstep passed ? Grating the gravel, as the,gate swung to? Hark ! at the cottage door a feeble tap. “ My little mhid,’” the aged wanderer said, When to the warm hearth 1¢d, Resting he sate, and told o’er his mishap— ‘* Over. the fell morass, Where but the curlews pass, Back from the yawning pool, the path of death, Dear child; thy lamp hath beckoned me,’’ he saith. AutTuor or ‘‘ WEARITHORNE.”’

Page 72

1] DREBING OF THE WEIRD. BY HELEN MATHERS, Author of ‘‘ Comin’ thro’ the Rye,’’ ‘‘ Cherry Ripe,’’ ‘‘ My Lady Greensleeves,”’ ** Larid 0’ the Leal, CHAPTER XVII. The situation had a touch of the gro- | tesque in it, and Mrs, Vivien laughed. “You had met before?” said Dash- wood, arguing quite wrongly from her mirth, and with a curious sense of Fe- lief. “ Why not?” shesaid, preserving her gay nonchalant bearing, * and of course I am interested in him as your daugh- ter’s suitor.” * An unacceptable one,” said Dash- wood, carelessly. “You prefer Mr. Fitz—I mean Mr. Velasquez?” “] prefer neither. Shall we turn homeward now? You cannot be very | comfortable in that saddle.” “Tt; is, as. comfortable as an arm chair.” She leaned over and patted the glossy neck, of his magnificent horse, that, while all. fire with) his mas- ter, now carried her,with the gentleness | of a lamb. * Dear Dashwood,” she said, “ why shouid not your daughter and -Mr. Stormouth marry? She will never love any other man. She is like her father —faithful.” * A bad: -edmplaint,” he said, as he opened a gate with his whip for her.to pass through. “ But it is worse for the woman than the man,” said Mrs. Vivien, bitterly, when he had joined her. “* Perhaps her faithfulness is the one thing in her life, and toa man it is only one of many, and recurring only by fits, and starts.” ‘You should not quarrel with''a man’s idea of it,” he said; “you, who have had so much—and not by fits and starts. There is poor Noll—” “Qh! Noll!” she said.. “He is’ a spaniel—with a spaniel’s attributes.” ° Yet as you value faithfulness’ so much,” ‘said Dashwood, dryly, ‘you should value him.” “T do not want it,” she cried passi- onately ; “I want love-love, your love, Dashw ood, and you will not give it me 1" [Copyright, 1884, by J. H: Havienseex & Co. (74) | | | | | | | **etc., ete. (Continued.) *“You are my dearest friend,” he said, lifting her hand to) his lips. La | am too old for love now.’ * No, no,” she eried, a drew his palm upwards until it: touched her cheek, down which the tears were fall- ing. ‘“ You loved me once—I could make you love me again ... and you would forget your Tita .. .” He knew that she was: not acting now; that however she might have schemed and used finesse to get him in her power, it had been solely because she loved him, not that she might work him harm. And yet a woman scorned is a dangerous thing, and he must dis-. | possess her of all such power, no matter how, for in his opinion the end justified the means. “ Alice,” he said,and her heart leaped (it was five years ago now since he had called her by that name), “if you still honor me with your aflection, you have lately taken a strange way of showing it.” The grave voice, so unlike his usual satitical! polished tones, the kindled glance of the habitually cold eyes, moved her more powerfully than a dee- laration of love from his lips could have done; she bent her head lower over his hand, and her tears fell on it like rain. She had not taken into consideration the frightful disadvantage under which a woman labors, when she sits down to play a game at skill with the man whom she passionately loves; yet even wiiile she laid her weapons down, she felt a trembling happiness to which her worldly heart, had. never before. been sensible. “Twill tell’ you' the truth,” she said almost below her breath, as the horses went at a foot-pace along the uneven lane with the ragged hedges, upon which patches of snow ‘still lingered, shutting them in. “T was struck by something. in your face when you. met Mr. Velasquez, and by something in his All rights reserved. } tha que bar of saic “ee out S foun line be “ said T seen turn face, atte ceiv: m. wort “cc } Fe exci fate. no Ic loves enen 73 ; TI burs}

Page 73

he ‘] 1i8 1er ull. id ‘ou ing uve in use ork ned (lis. tter fied ped had still ave ring sual dled yes, dee- lave r his Lin. tion hich n to hom vhiile elt a her been said orses even upon ered, | met n his DREEHING OF THE) WEIRD: 15 manner when the story of the feneing- room was told in the drawing-room one evening. You had been ,cold;to me, colder than usual, and I longed to make you feel my power, and at the masked ball I hazarded wild guesses, trying to produce an effect upon you, but, it was by accident more than intent that 1 got into the fencing-room: that, night.”’ She paused, and Dashwood’s, right hand closed on his whip,and reins like a vise, “T heard it all,” she said at, last; and looking away from him, ‘ all that, Mx, Velasquez said to Mr. Stormouth, and how he was sure, and how his mother was sure, that something had passed between you and Mr. Fitzhugh in the fencing-room—-something , besides the | letter that came to you from the bank.” She paused again, not daring to look at the man upon whose honor no speck or stain had ever rested, and did not re- sist when he drew his hand outjof hers, and let it fall to his side. Perhaps she knew that the bitterness of death was in his heart, but thought that the fount of love in her own might quench, it, for love is mighty, and barely sees the obstacles that it hews out. | of its path. Yet she trembled as she said :— “And so I stole the scrap of pape out of the helmet, after you went away.” She dared to look at him now, and found that his eyes were searching every, line of her face, then he said; “ And what did you find in it?” “ Something that Tita did not _write,” said Mrs. Vivien, boldly. The shot, told; for a moment a film seemed stretched before, the eagle eyes turned upon her, then something in, her face, a shrinking, a tremor, fixed his attention, and he knew that she was de-, ceiving him, “You will repeat to.me the exact words of that letter?” he,said, gently. “ No,” she said, sullenly, “ I will not.” For a moment or two. he watched the excited profile, then, he accepted; his fate. He knew now that his honor was no longer in the hands of a woman who loved him, but, probably in those of an enemy who was not likely to spare him, “ Poor Alice!” he said,.and. smiled. Then she knew herself detected, and burst into a passion of tears. ‘\ Qh! Dashwood,” she said, between her gobs; ‘how can I, get: it) back? That wretch stole it from me.” * Velasquez?” “ No, it was—” ‘Don’t,tell me,” said Dashwood, inter- rupting her; “ but I think you are mis: taken about the contents of. that paper. You have not/read jit, and I have.” She did not reply++they were now en tering the village that led te the Towers, and she had dried her eyes, straightened herself, and was as fine and indifferent alady as: ever before they had gone twenty paces further, and \if the spee- tacle of a woman)'on a man’s ‘saddle was unusual, why, she supported the situation with unusual grace. But. when an hour later Jack Stor- mouth’s horse was sent back to the Hall, there went with him a letter from Mallinger Dashwood that tan as follows :— ** Dear Mr. SrormovutHA : My guest, Mrs. Vivien, would like to thank you more fully for your kindness in taking care of her to-day, and my daughter and I will be happy to see you at dinner to-morrow, at eight o’clock, if you will honor us with your company. Believe me your faithful servant, Matiincer Dasuwoop.”’ Cuarter XVIII, Mary,. Martin, sat. knitting in her ingle nook, the work of the day being done, and the laborers abroad, when the tap of a riding. whip was heard on the door, and Jack Stormouth eame in, He looked weary and dispirited,., and | was splashed, with)mire as.if, he ; had walked far, and the good woman, rose in anxiety to meet, him, Is the Squire worse, sir?’ she said, when she had brought a, jugjof ale and served him. ‘‘ No-—+but Kitty—Kitty” (he spoke with intense bitterness) ‘is as bad .as bad can. be.” “She is. il, Master Jack!”; cried Mary turning very pale. “Oh! yes,.as ill.as.she can be, in her temper and, her,, manners, and her morals ; in fact, I don’t, believe there’s one sound, virtuous bit of your Miss Kitty left,” ‘“There’s plenty, sir,” said Mary, wrathfully,; “ and I won't hear my young lady abused like that.”

Page 74

i6 DREBING OF * And,pray, what has she ddne now a “ Only thrown me over for Mr. Velas- quez,” said Jack, savagely. “You mean Mr. Fitzhugh?” ‘said Mary. Jack turned a startled gaze on his old friend, and exclaimed— * How do you know that?” “ You can’t rub out Nature’s hand- writing,” said Mary, showing curious agitation, “and 1 saw his father’s face too often at the Towers not to know this one.” ** Mary,” said Jack, abruptly, “ you know how Miss Kitty and I loved each other as children; long before we un- derstood the feud between our ‘families, for Mr. Dashwood was abroad then, and you had not the heart to keep us apart ; but when he came back he separated us, but could not hinder our meeting years later, when we loved and parted, but vowed to keep true to one another.” ‘‘ And she is true now, Master Jack,” said Mary, stoutly, but withan anxious look at the handsome young man who seemed to have grown haggard ina day. “ And I say that she is not,” he replied stubbornly ; “ itis not from what I have heard to-day, but from her own acts that I judge her. Would you believe it, Mary, that she could cut me before the whole field ?” “ Perhaps her father was by, and she daredn’t notice you.” ‘“ Did her father’s presence compel her to flirt? Oh! heavens! to think that she can flirt /—with another man, under my very nose!” “ All love,” said Mary, nodding. “ Then la rather have her hate.” said Jack, getting up and striding about; ‘it’s ‘all very well for men to flirt; bat I'll be hanged if I ever let my wife do it.” “She won’t want to,” said Mary, briskly; “and as to her being kind to the poor young man, how do you know that it isn’t just pity and no more?” ‘“‘Why should she pity him?” said Jack, shortly, as he came to a full stop; ‘he has every attribute of success. He has influence, through a great man whose wife has taken him up; he has good looks enough to bring any woman to his feet—even my Kitty,” he added, bitterly ; “he can marry as high as he pleases, and what more does he want?” THE WEIRD. - Only his: father’s good name, so that he can wear his own,” said Mary. “ And how can he ‘get that?” cried Jack, impatiently ; “ he has no facts to go upon; it is all pure guesswork; all except—” his hand ‘involuntarily touched his breast pocket, and he re- commenced his strides. Mary had laid down her knitting, and her comely face was working strangely, “ Master Jack,” she said, “ don’t set yourself against him; he is your own cousin, and I befear me his father was most grievously wronged.” * You mean that his death was brought about by foul means?” said Jack, facing round. Mary made no answer, but went on knitting, though her hands trembled. Jack looked at her awhile, then went to her, and took knitting and all into his strong grasp. “What do you know, Mary?” he said. “Though I may hate him—and I do—I would not keep back a scrap of — evidence that could clear his father’s name, and you'll tell me everything.” Mary looked up at the resolute young face; her mind struggling against him yet. “Tt’s so long ago,” she said, “ nigh upon nineteen and a half years—and I haven’t held my peace so long to break it now.” Jack let go her hands, fetched a chair and sat down beside her. “* Now, Mary,” he said, “ begin.” me can’t, ” she said, in a whisper; “ there’s those livi ing now that ‘ud blame me for keeping silence then—and Mr. Dashwood ’ud turn my master and me out of the farm as soon as look.” ‘There is more than one farm on my father’s estate that you shall have when you want it,” said Jack, impatiently; “though I don’t know that what you tell me will go any farther, for we want facts, not auppositions.” Mary sat silent, winding and unwind- ing her ball of wool. “Why do you want to know?” she said at last. “If you clear his father, you give him a better chance with Miss Kitty—though I don’t believe he ever had any.” “ You have’ got to tell me, Mary, and you know it,” said Jack; “so the sooner you begin the better.”

Page 75

!- oF a -/ —™ cL A= WS © DREEING OF Mary looked half-fearfully around. The day was closing in, the blaze from the hearth made the outlook from, the windows almost dark, and a curious sense of silence reigned in the place. “ Twas first maid to Lady Alicia, after Mr. Dashwood brought her home from the foreign tour they had taken on their marriage. She sent her Frenchwoman away, and hired me instead, and I was quite happy in her service. She was young, gay, beautiful, lovely, and she loved her husband to her heart’s con- tent, if not to his. She saw no lack in him, and I never suspected any till one day, when I saw him in the company of Mrs. Fitzhugh. I had never seen her before, though her husband was constantly at the Towers, but I had to attend my mistress to an archery meet- ing, and on following her with a wrap I lost sight of her,and found myself in a tent where two people were standing, my master and Mrs, Fitzhugh. She was so beautiful that she took my breath away, and only afterwards I seemed to recollect what he was saying. ‘ Tita,’ he said, ‘can’t we be friends ?’ ““* No,’ she said, and on the moment my mistress came in, looking faint and ill, supported by Mr. Fitzhugh, and I saw Mrs. Fitzhugh look at her hard, then she went forward quickly and caught her in her arms. It was a long swoon, and I managed to get both the men away. But when it was over, and she had come to life again, the, two ladies were friends, one was innocent, and one knew—and Mrs. Fitzhugh had the lead, and kept it. She would have my mistress go to her house, though she would never set foot in;my master’s, and I used to think Mrs, Dashwood showed little pride in going to a place where her. husband was not. received, and I never could think what excuse her friend made to her for not receiving him. It was an odd thing to see Mr. Fitzhugh constantly at the Towers, and my mistress constantly away with Mrs. Fitzhugh; it seemed as if the two ladies were just as fond of, each other's company as the two gentlemen, were of one another’s, and if people talked, and gossiped;a bit at the queer terms the families were on, not one of. these four seemed .to care, and so things went, on THE WEIRD. 77 mistress was. not able. to, go; out.so much,and though she,begged and prayed Mrs. Fitzhugh to come to the Towers she could never persuade hen; but after all she did set. foot in the place once.”’ Mary paused, and _ looked, anxiously at the door as if she expected it to, open and admit some one,of whom she was afraid, ““ And now, Master Jack, I am going to tell you something queer, and per- haps you'll piece it together with what followed afterwards; but perhaps you'll piece it differently to how I did. About a week before her, confinement, she called me to her one day as I sat with my sewing in an outer room, and said, ‘Look, Martin !, did you ever see any one as clever as I am at imitating hand- writing ?’ and she held up an envelope with the ink wet, addressed to Mrs. Fitzhugh, that I could. have sworn was in, my master’s hand, I said ‘ Indeed, my lady, no one would know. it for yours,’and she laughed and said, ‘I can sign cheques too, and write Mr. Dash- | wood’s name at the end so that even he | can’t tell it from his own signature |’ I | felt uneasy when she said this, and ex- claimed,‘ Oh! my lady,that is forgery ?’ but she only laughed again, and said, ‘Why,you stupid Mary, your mastersaw me do it,and of course he tore the cheques up’—and she pointed at some pieces of pink paper, torn very small, that lay in the waste-paper basket... I thought no more about it, until certain things happened that. forced me to recollect it. ...... About,a week after, 'as I, said, the babe, Miss, Katharine, ' was born, and the mother did well for a few days: then she: had some feverish signs, and it was on the day that she began to be really ill that. the dreadful, thing happened in the fencing- room; but) I haven’t come to that yet. Mr. Dashwood, had not been up-to see her since eleven o’clock, and between one and two she sent me, for him, and. I | went downstairs, and. to the library where; the butler said I..should find him; I, knocked gently and thought he said, ‘come im,’ but. he did not look up _as I entered, and as, I saw he was busy at his, writing-table, I stood still in the _baekground waiting for him to speak. for close upon a year; and, then my | In. the smoking-room beyond, I. could see the back of Mr. Fitzhugh’s head

Page 76

ae 18 DREEING OF THE WEIRD. ! from his attitudé that he was asleep. “My master was sitting sideways to me; and I could plainly see what ‘he was doing—opening carefully, so as not to tear’ or deface it, a closed letter. He used s thin’ ivory paper-knife for the purpose, and when it was quite open, he took out a letter that con- tained'a pink ‘slip of paper, laid ‘it on the table, and took from beneath’ the blotting ‘pad another and similar pink slip; this he! put inside the letter, re- placed it in the envelope, end fastened it down. The cheque he had removed he placed in his pocket-book. Then he rosé atid tioved towards the bell, and at’ the same’ moment discovered me. I thought he started, then he asked my errand, and said he would be upstairs directly, and I heard the bell ring as I went out. He came up almost immedi- ately, but did not remain long, and having sent for the doctor and reas- sured her, he went down again, and presently I saw him walking with Mr. Fitzhugh in the grounds.” “Mary,” said Jack, sternly, “why did you not tell all ‘this at the in- quest ?” “T wasn’t ealled as a witness,” she said, trembling ; ‘* besides, I hadn’t put it all together in my mind then; it was only bit by bit I did that—after. But you'll blame’ me more when you hear the rest.” She paused as one who has not cour- age to continue, and her comely face had become very pale when she said— “ Barly in the afternoon Lady Alicia got worse, and ‘sent me again for my master.’ Her love for him was so great, that she Would always have kept him in her sight if it were possible. I felt pretty sure of finding them in the fenc- ing-room ‘at their rapier play, so did not go down to inquire, but went straight there,and seeing the panel a few inches open [ went close to it, meaning to knock at it and call my master. I could see in quite plainly; the gentlemen liad just stripped ‘to their shirt’ sleeves, and Mr. Dashwood was at that moment stooping to pick up a lady’s handkerchief—of white silk with a large 'séarlet’ monogram in the corner. It was not one of my mis- tress’s; I had never seen it before. I noticed that he picked it up awkwardly and thrust it at once inside the bosom of his shirt as he rose, and I thought Mr. Fitzhugh looked at him strangely, and their play began. I can’t say what it was that kept me, standing there, staring without speaking, but I was just fascinated by the two; they made such a splendid pair, and they played so magniticently—I’d seen them at it be- fore many a time when I was in attend- ance on my lady, but I never saw them show such skill and fire as they showed that day. “Suddenly Mr. Fitzhugh stopped, and said in a very odd voice, ‘You will lend me your handkerchief?’ My master gave him his own. ‘No, the other,’ said Mr. Fitzhugh; he spoke ina tone that might have roused any man’s blood. “One does damour,’ said and he smiled. wife’s waiting hugh, who had grown pale as death. ‘No,’ said Mr. Dashwood, ‘I never steal from waiting maids what their mistresses—give.’ ‘On guard!’ cried Mr. Fitzhugh, and rushed at him, and as they thrust fiercely at each other; I had some wild thought of rushing in between them; but just then I heard the butler’s steps approaching, and in a panic of fear I got away out of sight, and went back to poor Lady Alicia. I made some excuse, and then sat down, like the coward that I was, shaking in every limb, and listening with all my soul, for I did not know what—but I had not to waitlong. Within a quarter of an hour my master came into the room, kissed Lady Alicia, and spoke soothingly to her, and though she did not see anything amiss I knew by one look at his face that Mr. Fitzhugh was dead. He went away presently, and the doctor came; he looked as if he had got a shock, and ‘at me as if he wanted to know what had happened; but I gave no sign then or at any other time, of knowing anything more than what I was told. My mistress grew much worse, and I never left her; somehow I had a horror of crossing the threshold, and a still greater horror of seeing my master cross it again. The not part with a gage- my master, insolently, ‘You stole it from my nurse was in the next room with the baby. She had always disliked me be- maid,’ said Mr. Fitz- - caus Lat quie the. pale he | me 1 guic ago. witl men pect he : wall ter, got hear calle fene Fitz righ had ee denc ——f rapii grea “ce very the bank by h muc! deat self, gwen flust But, hand we c in it deat! se J took from * her the ¢ fathe M: astol but voie said 66 her— two. ishe¢ his h

Page 77

ee a es ae OO Ce oe ke ee We So wee he Nee eel Ce sa. “~. DREBING OF TH F WEIRD. 79 cause I was not a'‘gossip like herself, Late in the afternoon I heard a very quiet knock at the door, and I found the butler standing outside. He looked pale and ill, and his hand trembled as he beckoned me out, and then he told me that Mr. Fitzhugh had ‘committed suicide in the fencing-room a few hours ago. He said that ‘he had gone there with a letter,and had found the gentle- men féricing very furiously, and ‘sus- pected mischief, but they paused when he appeared, and he saw his master walk to a little distance to read his let- ter, and he came away. He had hardly got to the end of the corridor when he heard himself suddenly and _ violently called back, and he rushed’ into the fencing-room just in time to see Mr. Fitzhugh falling to the ground, his right hand grasping the rapier that, he had driven through his breast.” ‘But the butler, on giving his evi- dence, said there was something white —a letter, he thought—pinned “by ne rapier to his breast!” cried Jack, great excitement. “ And so there was,” said Mary, ina very low voice ; “ but it was gone when the butler came back with help. The banker’s letter about the forgery was by his side. Nobody seemed to think much of it at the inquiry held at the death, and the butler contradicted him- self, and said at least he would not swear to having seen it—he. was so flustered he might have been mistaken. But, Master Jack,” and Mary laid her hand on the young man’s arm, “if we could see that letter, we should find in it the real truth about Mr. Fitzhugh’s death.” ‘“T have it here,” said Jack, and ‘he took out a pocket-book and produced from, it.a discolored scrap of paper; “here is the last link that completes the chain of evidence against—Kitty’s father.” Mary had fallen back breathless with astonishment, at sight of that paper, but the shame and bitterness of his voice moved her powerfully, and she said :— ‘There’s no dishonor will rest upon her—and who’s to know it except our two selves? I guess he’s been pun- ished enough carrying about a hell in his heart all these’ years.” “But don’t you see, Mary,” said Jack, impatiently, ‘ that with all this eviderive in our hands, it would, be most dishonorable both to the dead father and the living son not to clear their name from the stain that rests on it?” “Oh! Master Jack!” cried Mary, in horror, “you’re not going to try and make me tell to other folks what I’ve told you here to-night ?” “T think ‘so,’ he said, and his hand- some face looked very stern and pale as he turned it on her; “ you shirked your duty nearly twenty years ago, , Mary, put you will have to do it now.’ “ My duty ?” cried Mary, poe “My duty -was’to my mistress first—the least hint of it might have killed her then.” “ But she.died soon after—why did you not do your duty then ?” “There was the child,” said Mary, “and why should I try and foul her name and her father’s, when most likely t’would only end in my muddying my- self? Who would have believed me? And Mr. Fitzhugh did kill himself— master had no hand in that—and the man was a fool and a coward to go out of the world like that, in a fit of jealous madness.” “ The truth shall be told—it. must be told,” said Jack, doggedly ; “it will be for Mr. Velasquez to decide whether he will publish it or not.” “And my man will never forgive me,” said Mary, with bitter tears in her éyes, “and we shall be turned out of here—and there’s my pretty Molly—” “ Thid you ever tell Martin all this?” said Jack, sharply. “Not I—not a word of it has ever crossed my lips till to-night.” “ He would be the first to bid you speak,” said the young man, as he took out his pocket-book to replace the paper. ‘ Let me see it, Master Jack,’ she cried, eagerly. ‘‘ I’ve guessed such many times what could have been in it— “No, Mary,” said Jack, “I won't trust it in your hands; but I'll tell you its contents. It is a love-letter from Mrs. Fitzhugh to Mr. Dashwood ; but unless she was the most deceitful. wo- man on earth, I should say this letter was forged.”

Page 78

80 “ She write.a love-letter to him” eried Mary; “why, she came. to. the place where her husband’s dead, body. lay, and cursed Mr. Dashwood, and, swore he was a murderer, and she would never rest till she’d brought him to, justice! The butler said it made his blood, run cold to, hear. her, and then she, fell down in a fit on Mr, Fitzhugh’s body, and so the liying and the dead were carried back to their home together,” “It was afoul, cowardly murder,” said, Jack, between! his teeth; “ and .to think that such a man should be father LOV LOVE'S AFTERG LOW. of. my good, isweet—no, not true Kitty,” he added as one stabbed , by a sudden recollection ; ‘ and no doubt now, rather than, have his disgrace published, he will give her to that fellow, and every one, will be satisfied except me.” Mary had long ago ceased to knit; the flame from the hearth showed her face, to be very pale, and she started violently, as a knock was ,heard, and the next moment a dark figure gloomed in, the doorway—it was Mr. Velasquez. ( Zo be continued.) E'S AFTERGLOW. BY) F. O. ;H. “Pom, I have just received a letter | as her husband confidently asserted, he from mamma. Shall I read you, what she says ?” “ My love,” replied Mr. Porter from the dressing-room, where he was en- gaged in shaving an almost ipvisible moustache, “ in, the language of my fa- vorite Mr. Fairley, of Woman in White memory,‘ will it not keep?’ ” - Certainly,” with dignity; ‘“ but as it is full of news, and bad news, I | fancied—”’ The dressing-room door, opened ,im- mediately, and a gentleman of about | eight and twenty, with a very red. face and the smallest possible quantity of whitish hair, emerged in demi-toilette. “Amy, it is not generous to tamper with an acknowledged weakness ; you know my insatiate appetite for news, especially bad news. Read the letter at once ;, perhaps—who knows? the doc- tors have ordered our adored parent to Teneriffe or the Ionian Isles for, the winter ; died and left us a mourning ring. our mamma’s letter at once.” Of this, sally Mrs. Porter took no notice, except to elevate her slightly de- fined eyebrows. She was a tall, splen- didly-formed creature, with auburn hair, liquid ‘brown eyes, and a noiseless tread, and, above all, she was so beauti- Read crossed and re-crossed, which, when one - was quite wise enough for two. The letter she proceeded to read was considered the illegibility of the hand- | writing, the cheapness of letter paper, -and the recent. reduction of postage, | displayed a singular lack of considera- | tion for the reader. ‘*New York, W. 34th St., Nov. 28th. | Dear Amy: If it were not for the consolations of religion, | and a temper disciplined by years of adversity q | I would succumb to my misfortunes. . Your sis- ter Eleatior has broken her engagement with Robert Loring: After having announced her intentions in the most public manner, and professed for him an unbounded attachment, she quietly walked in | after a drive with him last night, and informed | me that all was over between them. She had the temerity to assign to me, as a reason, that she no longer loved him. You know, my dear Amy, how little I regard true external advantages unaccompanied by | moral worth, and it is not necessary to tell you perhaps your inv. alid uncle has , that :t'is not his unbounded wealth and excel- lent social position I regret, but that your | unhappy sister should have proven so fickle, so totally unreliable in so solemn a contract, The sole desire of my life has been to see my | daughfers united to high-toned, Christian gentle- men} [{ ‘hear! hear !’’-eried Mr. Porter, in an ecstasy ], and though in ore instance I may have 'been disappointed,,1 had, hoped much from ful, and so good, one was delighted to | disedver her lack of cleverness, for any additional charm would have nursed the spirit of contradiction, and then, too, Eleanor. Immediately. on taking this fatal step, she in- formed me of her wish to spend the winter with you, and T acknowledge it is the only thing left : to berdone:) In the (seratehed out) retirement of a, Lonisiana plantation she may, learn the value of the pearl she has thrown away, My love to Th hee she ent del sai ten hat DEs D com has IT he ter : kno did mad I wi TI ha try | inde 4 afte ton | ing to j a pe but the But kno real refe ther the 4th, unp prok beat thou port 7 imm brou the | ee ’ ter, Whe Port “cc ! Amy was your \

Page 79

ee ea ee n, yy s- th he un in ad at rd by. ou el- uy le, ct, ny le- an ive ora in- ith left of lue » to LOVE’S AFTERGLOW. 8] Thomas, and a kiss to the baby. Should my health permit, and it is much broken by this shock, 1 will be with you in the spring. Your affectionate mother, E. V. ASHLEY.”’ “Tn the spring,” cried the gentleman, enthusiastically ; ‘my happiness is only delayed.” * And here is one from Nelly herself,” said his wife, handing him a note writ- ten in a bold, pronouncedly masculine hand. ‘New York, Nov. 28th. Dear Amy: Don’t be inhospitably shocked to hear I am coming to you for a few months. As mamma has no doubt informed you, I am in dire disgrace. I hope you will ask no questions about the mat- ter; it must be sufficient for you and Tom to know I have broken with Mr. Loring because I did not wish to marry him. I acknowledge I made a mistake, and I can only say in future I will avoid every member of a sex with whom I have been so unfortunately associated. I will try not to be more disagreeable than usual, for indeed, Amy, I am your loving sister, ELEANOR ASHLEY. P.S. Tell Tom to meet me every afternoon after Monday, by the New Orleans and Galves- ton train.”’ “ I like this,” said Mr. Porter, return- ing this remarkably aggressive epistle to its owner. “I like to see myself in a postscript. It shows that Iam good, but not quite as good as you, Amy, like the throne provided for Prince Albert. But then for so many years I have been known as ‘Mrs. Porter’s husband,’ I really ought not to mind a pleasant reference to my inferiority now and then. * Bless my soul; the letter is dated the 28th,and here it is Tuesday, the 4th, and I am quietly sitting here while unprotected beauty is waiting for me, probably, at the station ; unprotected beauty, who has just refused eighty thousand a year, and a house at New- port !” * John, Harry, somebody, come here immediately, and have the wagon brought to the front, I am going to the Bayou.” “Tom, dear Tom!” called Mrs. Por- ter, ‘do listen one single moment. What can we do about Louis?” Mr. Porter threw up his hands in despair. “ Destiny is against us, I warned you, Amy, before you married me, that mine was a doomed race, yet you persisted in your purpose. What can I do indeed ? VoL. cx.—6 I cannot turn him out of the house after forcing him to come, and I gave him my word of honor he should meet nobody but ourselves. However, she is your sister, not mine; if she were mine I would refuse her a night’s lodg- ing; but I stand too low in the com- munity to insult my legal relatives with imnpunity.” The sound of two impatient horses champing their bits at the door brought this conversation to a summary conclu- sion. When Mrs. Porter went into the drawing-room that afternoon at six, all the windows were open, and theair heavy with soft, sweet odors. The wide gal- leries were covered with Marechal Niel roses; an avenue of orange trees, bowed down with their golden burden, led into a wide-terraced garden, which was gay with autumnal flowers, all un- touched by the frost, and rivaling the flora of the vaunted spring. Tall cacti and stately lilies, La France, La Mar- que, Camille de Rohan roses, bananas and Japan plums, giving out their deli- cious perfume, hedged the geranium and verbena beds which glowed in varied colors. The drawing-room itself was big and many windowed, its dark grained floor polished to mirror-like smoothness, and half covered with a soft, white velvet rug; the spindle- legged tables were ornamented with rare bric-a-brac, and the Sévres bowls held masses of roses. The white- washed walls were hung with artist- proof engravings, and satin portiéres concealed the old-fashioned doors. This happy conjunction of New York and Louisiana taste was the result of a meeting between the young owner of “The Magnolias” and the beautiful Miss Ashley, of New York, at New- port four years before. The mother of the young lady was connected with some of the best Knickerbocker families, as she invariable informed her most xasual acquaintance, besides being the widow of anarmy officer of respectable rank. Her own charms were things of the past, which fact she accepted. but her daughters were her fortune, and the siege was short but violent ere she consented that the beauty of the family should marry her first lover, especially as she could offer no more valid objec-

Page 80

82 LOVE’S AFTERGLOW.

tion than that he was not quite rich enough, though an acceptable match for anybody’s else daughter. As it was, the young people were perfectly happy,and not the less so that Louisiana and New York are not ad- jacent States. As Amy walked to the window on the particular evening referred to, a gentleman with a kind, ugly face, long, loose-jointed limbs, and near-sighted dark-blue eyes, gave the little tow- headed boy he was carrying on his back to a Creole nurse, who was chattering in pretty patois to her charge, and open- ing the blinds entered the room. Amy was a woman everybody loved, and to whom all men spoke with a re- spectful affectionateness which con- trasted oddly with her redundant phy- sique and queenly movements. “T have just seen Porter,” he said, ‘and he tells me your sister has come, and you don’t know what to do with me. You know I am rather a stupid fellow, Amy, but I am not selfish enough to want to keep you all to myself. If I find you are too gay for me, I will run up to ‘ Chantilli,’ but Iam sure I shall not in the least mind.” For answer Amy brown eyes all wet with tears. “Dear Louis,” she said,“ will you lifted her big =] not try to be reconciled, and after a | while happy—because she is happy?” D’Arere did not reply, but a shadow flitted across his brow, showing lines of struggle and suffering. “Let me tell you about Eleanor,” Amy said presently; “mamma is so distressed, and’”—the conversation was just concluding when the subject of their remarks entered the room. She was a tall, slight young woman, with violet eyes, long black lashes. and a col- orless but clear white skin. Her little red mouth hid small glittering teeth, which, as she seldom smiled, were a half hidden beauty. Every curve of the lithesome figure, every turn of the small dusky head, spoke of the insolence of youth and unbroken will. Shestarted slightly on seeing D’Arcre, and with more candor than politeness said she had supposed there was no company in the house. Fortunately, dinner was announced ere Louis had time to apologize for his presence. Eleanor wore a dark, high dress with severely plain linen bands at throat and wrists. But Amy looked like one of her own full-blown roses, in a cream-colored cashmere dinner dress, her pretty arms bare, and her rounded neck half smothered in deli- cate lace. “You and Amy have a poor oppor- tunity to display your toilettes in this’ part of the world, Nelly,” said Porter. ‘We are six miles from our nearest neighbors, who are unreconstructed Creoles, with strong suspicions that Amyisa Yankee. There is, to be sure, a Catholic church in the neighborhood,

and all the gentry attend, but again the poor girl’s bringing up cuts off all her pleasure, so she stays at home and preaches to me about my duty to my wife and son. For simple gospel truth, I always, however, go back to your dear mamma’s orthodox clergyman, under New York.” ** ] have very little opinion of mam- ma’s rector myself,” said Miss <Ash- ley. “He is very fond of good din- ners, and puts one to sleep Sunday afternoons, but I think he is preferable to a priest. I can understand how silly women can luxuriate in a religion which is so much a thing of emotion, but I always doubt the sincerity of a man, who should be aware of its incon- sistencies.” This remark was delivered in a most | sententious manner, when one consid- ered the youth and the inexperience of the party, and Amy looked so very un- happy that both gentlemen laughed. “ Take care, Nelly,” said her brother- in-law, “here is an ardent Catholic, anda convert at that. Amy has been trying to proselyte him for years, but he has steadily rejected her offices. Perhaps you would do bet- ter, my dear; hers has been. persua- sive eloquence, yours I fancy will be of the battering ram order, and D’Arcre will yield, again to quote my favorite Mr. Fairley,‘ To save noise and slam- ming of doors.’” Eleanor looked the renegade over with a supercilious glance of half- veiled scorn, mingled with embarrass- ment. ‘I must sacrifice consistency to politeness if I apologize.”

whose ministry I sit whenever I go to.

y' bl fo ac at no the an th: he am wa thi ter ou. cle an yo snt do. ho ser wh day pec the fri; por In he anc her is } bui est:

Page 81

LOVE’S AFTERGLOW. 83 “ Consistency, Miss Ashley, to quote your favorite Emerson, is the hobgob- blin of a small mind,” said D’Arcre, for the first time addressing his pretty adversary. “It is the foundation of character,” she replied. “Of good or evil, there are charac- ters and characters ?” “T do not care to play with words,” said Miss Ashley with dignity. ‘“ And I had not heard that Emerson’s writings had penetrated to Louisiana.” “Northern people are singularly ignorant of facts about Southerners,” said D’Arere, as though dismissing the subject. ‘“ Faney the indignation of a hot-headed Virginia cousin of mine the other day on being asked in a polite way at the table of a German pensioner by a wealthy New Yorker who had gone abroad to ‘cultivate the languages’ — what had become of General Lee’!! Can you not see her magnificent scorn at the question ?”’ Eleanor colored with anger, and made no further remark till the ladies rose; then she burst out with her griev- ances. “I wrote you I believe, Amy, that I wished to see no gentleman, and I find one established in the house, and he is so very rude and disagreeable I am sure I cannot see why you should want him.” But Amy, who was usually facile, on this occasion was perfectly firm. “ Lis- ten, Nelly, while I tell you. Louis is our dearest friend, and as good as he is clever. You were rude to him first, and he only defended himself. Besides, you need not think, my dear, you must snub him because he is unmarried—no, don’t get angry and deny it. I know how you feel. He is married in the best sense of the word, though the girl to whom he was engaged zs dead. The day was set and they were the happiest people in the world, when one afternoon they were riding, and Mary’s horse took fright, threw and dragged her, and when poor Louis reached her she was dead. I never heard of anything like his grief; he had been almost a wild young fellow, and full of life and spirits. But after her death his whole life changed. He is very rich for a Louisianian, so he built a church to her memory, and has established a mission in her name.” “Was it after her death he became a Catholic ?”’ questioned Eleanor, ina low voice. “Yes; she was a devoted Romanist, and he felt nearer her afterwards, I sup- pose. I don’t understand it, myself,” continued gentle Amy, her bosom swell- ing with emotion. “ But I do know, Catholic or Protestant, Louis is the best Christian I ever knew—except Tom.” An hour afterwards, as D’Arcre was smoking a late cigar under the broad gallery, he saw a slight figure approach- ing. Ere he could realize its presence, he heard a low voice address him: * I am sorry I was rude to-night. I did not know about Mary,” and as swiftly the voice ceased, and the light step vanished. For a whole week Eleanor and D’Arcre only met at a late dinner, and never alone. He was up long before light, with his dogs and gun, and re- turned late in the afternoon, an almost indistinguishable mass of morass mud, loaded down with snipe and quail. Unaware of the proffered apology, Amy and Tom made no effort to throw the young people together, and were pleased to observe a cessation of open hostilities. One afternoon, about sunset, D’Arcre was returning from a long day’s tramp; leaving the plantation road, he took a short cut through the forest. Tall as- pens, covered with long gray moss, held out their spectre-like arms; the rich undergrowth was green, and rank, and bright with poisonous wild flowers; spreading live oaks, and tall cypress trees cast long shadows on the ground; here and there in the dark marsh an alligator, like a half charred log, lay wrapped in the swaying reeds. The yellow waters of the bayou gleamed through the flags, and the air was soft, yet heavy with dampness. In the deepest of the thicket, under a magnolia tree, was stretched a girl’s figure; her straw hat on the ground, leaving her dark hair uncovered, and her dress was crumpled and disarranged. Half a dozen letters and a photograph were scattered about the bank; the whole unconscious attitude was one of uncontrollable grief, and as he softly ap- proached, D’Arcre heard a low sob. ‘‘ Miss Ashley,” he said, gently, “are

Page 82

84 LOVE’S AFTERGLOW. you ill? Pray,do not lie here, it is very damp.” Eleanor rose instantly with burning cheeks and angry voice. “ How dare you?” she began. But D’Arcre simply gathered up her scattered belongings, and with a “don’t be a foolish child,” sat down by her side. “I have not the least idea of letting you take dengue fever, or be bitten. by snakes, and be- sides I have tried to thank you ever since you spoke to me that night, but you seemed to avoid me. Since you know my history, you may be inclined to trust me. What is the matter?” Eleanor looked up through her hot blushes, and turning her proud, pretty eyes on her interrogator, saw something in the kind, half-satirical face which changed her resentment into unwonted gentleness. She took the photograph which lay on the ground, and handed it tohim. D’Arcre looked at the clear-cut features, the violet eyes, the shrinking, sensitive mouth, and then at Eleanor’s bold, bright beauty. “T think I understand,” he said, hand- ing back the photograph. “ I am sure he loved you very dearly, and it pains you to wound so gentle a nature.” * Yes,” said Eleanor, after a moment’s silence. “It was like striking a child who had turned his face to kiss one. And at first I thought I could learn to give him all my heart. He was so gen- tle and good, and so anxious to please. His money, strange to say, did not in- fluence me; indeed, I am of so contrary a nature that mamma’s delighted ap- proval came very near deciding me against him—not that I don’t hate pov- erty ; I detest it only less than too dearly bought riches. But, as I said, he loved me, and I am more grateful than I seem. As day after day passed, I began to weary of the long hours of téte-a-téte. I longed to be contradicted, managed, even crossed, just to feel I had found my master. His goodness bored me; his very submission to my whims hurt my pride in him. I sawI could not give myself, poor as is the offering, but for a full exchange—love for love. But I am disappointed in my- self. I feel like a spoiled child whose toys have all been taken away. I have no confidence in myself. I can’t rely on my stability.” | friendship had been “If you had married me, feeling as you do toward him,” said D’Arcre, slowly, ‘and I had found it out, I should have cast you from me as a worthless thing. I give you no credit for not keeping your engagement ; your sin was in making it at all. No,do not be angry with me; we all err and are deceived. The great comfort I have in Mary’s death is, she sees my faults with a wide vision, and with the saint’s love includes pardon. But it is too damp for us to be sitting here. Come, let us go.” Eleanor rose, not knowing whether to be hurt or angry at this plain speak- ing. They walked in silence through the deep wood, she stopping every now and then to pull a lily which grew tall and straight in the marshy thicket. A turn in the path brought them toa | little church on the edge of the forest. D’Arcre opened the gate, and Eleanor followed till he paused under a wide spreading magnolia. There she saw a low mound, half covered with late noisette roses, and headed by a marble cross, on which was written: ‘“ Mary Neville, died Jar. 18th, 188—, aged twenty years.” Neither spoke, but Eleanor’s anger melted ; she knelt by the grave for one moment, and timidly placed her lilies on the green grass. “ Thank you,” out his hand from the other side. will be friends, will we not ?” said Louis, stretching “We “ Amy,” said Mrs. Porter’s husband, about a month after this compact of ratified, ‘‘ these two young creatures, your sister and my friend, are a good deal together. I fear my fate will be like that of the saint who invited an angel to spend the night with him, and he stayed thirty years.” Amy smiled. She knew how happy Tom was to have D’Arcre on any terms. “And Eleanor is very much changed and softened. She is positively losing the most prominent character- istics of your family.” ‘‘ T am sure it is much nicer for me,” said Amy. “ Think of how dull our dinners used to be with Nelly perfectly silent, and you and Louis talking about snipe. Then, too, she has left off wear- ing her blue flannel to dinner, and I do ma ‘ to pa no the ‘ Wit ens ori an tog por Po dre ray of vei wel Lo que fan erie exc bie 6 Am 74 hun we whi boy mid age 1 cha in € the she pre sho eve rea mo! he : at 1 din rem “ce Ww An to s E con The wit! ver had

Page 83

aS e, lit ur re in th ve ap us er ik- oh Ww all 04 Sst. or ide va ite ble ry red rer ne on ng We don’t feel so silly in the finery you will make me wear.” “ Amy,” said Porter, drawing close to his wife, and bringing his voice to a particularly distinct whisper, ‘do you not think, to use an old English phrase, they look very like people in love ?” “ Oh, Tom, how can you? It is really wicked to say such a thing. Eleanor’s engagement just broken, and poor Louis grieving for Mary—ah, how can you? and they studying ecclesiastical history together, too,every morning; if it were poetry or nonsense, now—” At that moment a man in hunting dress passed the window and rushed rapidly up the steps. Even the blood of the irreverent Porter ran cold in his veins. Just beneath the closed blinds were Nannette and Tom. “ Miché Louis est allé dans la maison, madame ; quelque chose est arrivé. Il jetta l’ en- fant dans mes bras et il courut—ne eriez pas, mon cheri,” cried the bonne excitedly. “ Miché Louis reviendra bientét.” ‘“ What shall we do if he heard ?” said Amy, in despair ‘“ We will acknowledge there are a hundred million fools in the world, and we are two of them,” said Porter, whistling in a spirit very like the school- boy passing through the graveyard at midnight—merely to keep up his cour- age. That very evening the weather changed, and the rainy season set in in earnest. The gardens were flooded, the bayou rose, and the marsh was a‘ sheet of muddy water. For two weeks previous D’Arcre had almost abandoned shooting, and had spent a portion of every day in the library with Eleanor, reading and writing. But the very next morning after Porter’s unlucky remarks he set out at an early hour and returned at nightfall too weary for anything but dinner and bed. “I have letters,” he remarked the third day of the deluge, “which will call me home to-morrow.” And Tom felt too guilty to press him to stay. But wind and weather have little consideration for human engagements. The bridge which connected “ Magnolia” with New Orleans was swept away that very night, and nolens volens, D’Arcre had to retain his quarters. LOVE’S AFTERGLOW. | pend upon him. 85 “Tam perfectly sure he heard you, Tom,” said Amy, ‘“ because he has scarcely spoken to Nelly since. But she don’t care at all. I notice every night at dinner how bright and happy she is.” One afternoon after a week’s confine- ment, Eleanor donned a water-proof, and noiselessly left the house, fearing a scene with her sister did she mention her intention. The rain had stopped, _and a little treacherous patch of blue, shone through the hurrying clouds. A half a mile’s swift walk brought her to the edge of the forest, a few hun- dred yards through the thicket, and she reached the Magnolia where D’Arcre had found her that remem- bered afternoon six weeks before. How changed everything was! All the wild flowers gone, the grass dry and dead, the morass a lake of muddy water. Those six weeks had been very happy, in the society of her true and honest friend, who for some reason was vexed with her. A nameless dread crept to her heart. He was going away so soon, just as she had learned to lean and de- What would she do without him? But her reverie was cut short by a loud rushing noise, like the sound of many waters. What was it? Was the ground giving way beneath her feet? She looked over the reed bank and saw with terror and amazement that the bayou had burst and the ac- cumulated waters were pouring out over the flat plain. One thought of help came to her; she remembered the church was on a little eminence; she rushed blindly through the forest, the water gaining on her every moment. A sharp swift race, and she gained the inclosure, but the gate was on the other side, and the wall too high to climb. Almost ex- hausted, she dimly saw that a side door was half open; she rushed in to sink senseless on Mary Neville’s grave. When Eleanor came to herself, it was quite dark. She was lying on one of the tall benches in the church; she heard the “ swish, swish” of the water on the floor, and the tempest thunder- ing outside. “Don’t be frightened, Eleanor,” said somebody in a voice which made her heart bound,“I found you in good-

Page 84

86 CONTRASTS.

time; I was shooting just beyond here when the bayou burst, and I, too, rushed to the church as the highest ground. I was looking’at the flood from the window when I saw you fall on Mary’s grave. You are not frightened now, Eleanor?” “ Frightened with you, Louis? ah, no”’—and then with an exceedingly bit- ter cryat the betrayal in her voice, poor Nelly burst into tears, to have them wiped away in a long embrace. “And you wiil not scorn my love, Eleanor, because it was hers so long; you will not mind that [loved her dearly, that I love her now? Oh, Eleanor, I have so suifered ; will you not comfort me now?’ I have not seen you fora whole week because I feared myself. 1 overheard—never mind, never mind— it was nothing; it only opened my eyes; and ever since I have spent long hours here trying to reconcile what seemed to me my faithlessness. You must be very patient with me, Eleanor, for even

“T shall never be jealous of her, Louis,” said Eleanor solemnly .as though she were registering a vow. “ How san I, when she is dead, and I am in your arms?” When the boats which were sent out to search for the wanderers reached the church, and Tom found both Eleanor and D’Arcre safe and sound, he was very angry, and if the truth be told, used some violent language not consis- tent with his wife’s assertion that he was the best Christian in the world. “If we had been drowned you would have been in an excellent humor I sup- pose,” said Louis. * No,” answered Porter, “not that exactly; but I don’t like to have hys- terics when there is no occasion for them.” I met Mr. and Mrs. Louis D’Arere in New York last autumn. Both were well and happy. Their eldest child is a little blue-eyed girl named Mary Neville, which is a very good proof, I think, now I do not know which I love best.” ! that Eleanor kept her word. SO —— CONTRASTS. Hear the children’s merry voices ringing on the frosty air, See the rosy, smiling faces—baby faces fresh and fair ; See the dainty, clinging fabrics fashioned well by loving fingers, See the red lips softly fragrant, where the mo- ther-kiss yet lingers— Gladder poem ne’er was written; gladder song was neve? sung ; Never merrier, sweeter cadence on the frost- winged breezes rung, Than the careless, childish laughter—than the pattering of the feet, Beating rhythmic rhyme and measure up and down the city’s street. Hear the children’s sobbing voices trembling on the frosty air, See the hopeless little faces—baby faces, old with care ; Not for them the dainty wrappings fashioned well by loving fingers-- Not for them the red lips fragrant, where a mother-kiss yet lingers, Sadder poem ne’er was written—sadder song was never sung Than the mournful, melting cadence on the frosty breezes flung, Speaking in the piteous faces—wailing in the voices sweet, Of the little children wandering, homeless, on the city’s street. Hear the girlish voices sounding on the per- fume-laden air, See the eyes with pleasure dancing ; faces sweet as pictures rare, Dainty fingers, wooing pressure of some other clasping fingers, Red lips, redder where the sweetness of a lover’s kisses lingers, Gladder poem ne’er was written—gladder love- song never sung Than the chiming, rhyming measure from youth’s mystic heart-throbs rung, And the dancing, flying footsteps round the symphony complete, As they gayly, lightly flutter up and down the city’s street ! Hear the siren voices sounding on the sorrow- laden air, See the faces, bold in beauty ; smiles that only lost ones wear ; See the gaudy, dear-bought fabrics, fashioned well by sinful fingers, And the lips of borrowed brightness where no mother-kiss yet lingers ; Gracious God! was ever poem written in so strong a rhyme, As the legend in those faces, lined with sin and shame and crime ? Sure, Thy judgments tarry strangely, when such piteous contrasts meet, In the sweet, glad light of Heaven, on the city’s crowded street ! Lucy M. Bury.

W! W mh: Wi m: wi an ch th sil er ve pl: M he mn¢ fre Vis an fr« sp br fir< sh tri hi dr sh an To ho fe op we po bl re all in: in be ha

Page 85

er, oh Ww in ut he or "AS ld, is. he ild \p- at \"S- in ell tle le, ik, om the the wW- nd len the

MISS FLOSSY. BY EMILY FRANCES HAZARD. Miss Flossy Fluff sat on the floor, the tears in her wide-open blue eyes, mute witnesses that something had gone wrong with the dainty little lady. <A maid knocked respectfully at the door. ! | “ Come in, Marie,” said Miss Flossy, | with tears trembling in her voice. The maid stepped in with mincing bow, and waited for instructions. “Get out all of my dresses—and— and put them on the bed, and on the chairs—and places—so—I—can see— them all together.” While Marie gathered blue silks, pink silks, white silks, cardinal, brown, green, gray, and all shades and tints of. silks, velvets, satins, etc., from the closets, and placed them lovingly around the room, Miss Flossy buried her pretty face in her lace handkerchief, and wept in a most heart-breaking way, the golden tinued Flossy. ‘ How could any crea- | ture with a heart expect me to appear ' on the street in a blue gown with a green dog? Ican’tand won’tdoit! Hewill allow me one dog. Allow me! Oh! Marie, you have no idea how cruel and hard-hearted the best of men are! Im- agine me,” the blue eyes flashed and the pink deepened in her cheeks, “ in brown carrying a purple dog!” She glowed. | with righteous indignation at the at- frenzy of her hair being all that was | visible till Marie completed her task, and the swish of the superb toilettes from Worth’s had ceased, much to the sprightly creature’s regret. ‘“ Now— bring them—in,” sobbed Miss Flossy, from her handkerchief. Marie cast one last loving look at the shining mass on the bed and chairs, and tripped out of the room. hind her handkerchief, and counted the dresses. “ Cardinal, red, mouse-gray, Nile-green,” carefully mentioning each shade represented, till she had taken an inventory of the entire wardrobe. “ Yes,” she sobbed,“ one for every one ; how can I give them up?” Out in the hall was the patter of little feet; dozens of them. Marie threw open the door, and immediately Flossy was surrounded, overwhelmed, taken possession of by cardinal dogs, light- blue dogs, pink dogs, green, gray, brown, red, and all shades and tints of. dogs, in all sizes. “ Marie,” said Flossy, with an appeal- ing look in her blue eyes, “can you imagine a monster so inhuman as to begrudge me my dogs?” Marie rolled up her eyes, spread her hands out with the palms down and the fingers apart. “ That is just what J thought,” con- _hands of a tyrant at last? | tempt to put this indignity upon her. “Oram I to have my one dog colored every time I step out?” Miss F lossy was getting very sarcas- tic and formidable indeed, but these heightsare seldom retained long,so tears followed close on the wings of this rare flight. She waved her hand toward Marie, and said pathetically: “ Take them away, I can bear it no longer.” Marie disappeared with the patter of many little feet at her heels. Her mis- tress sat for a long time thinking ; had she lived eighteen years to fall into the He might | as well ask her to give up her gloves— | absurd ! Gradually the grief, anger, and rebellion gathered and grew till all met in resolve. She got up from | the floor, shook out her multifarious Miss Flossy put one eye out from be- | | drawing-room, with the ominous words 'on her lips: lace flouneces, and went down to the “T hope papa won’t be } * . | disagreeable about my having wasted so ' much money on my trousseau.

I know he will say ‘wasted,’ he has such a way of saying queer things.” She rested her white hand for a mo- ment on the knob, when the door was opened from within by a handsome young man, with a grave mouth, and merry eyes, that had a trick of chang- ing suddenly to a quizzical or serious expression that puzzled Flossy wonder- fully, and made her half afraid of him. However, with a righteous cause for which to do battle, she felt brave asa lion just new. “Good morning, Edward,” she said in her most stately manner, which would have been very stately, I assure you, if she had not been such a little fluff of lace flounces and golden hair. “Why, Flossy,” returned Edward (87)

Page 86

88 King, with a smile creeping around his grave lips,‘ why so much state this morning? It was dear Ned yesterday.” She waved her little jeweled hand dismissing yesterday. ‘“ Emily,if you please, Edward.” “ Well, Emily,am I in your black book? Come, sit down, and tell me all about it. I'll put my arm around you —so, to keep up your spirits, and kiss that ghost of a frown off your fore- head—so. By the way I don’t believe you could get up a good frown to save your life, Flossy.” * Pardon me, Mr. King,” said she, in as dignified a manner as possible, en- deavoring to get out of the prison where she was usually very fond of nestling. “I am in no mood to be treated asa child.” Edward King was very much amused, | and took the objectionable arm away. | He stood before her making a profound bow, and asked in what manner he had been so unfortunate as to offend her high mighty-ness. “Tt is no light matter,” said Flossy, bursting into tears; ‘ you never loved me, or you would not always make— fun of me when I was in—e—a—rnest. You are a tyrant,and I won’t marry you at all.” He was serious enough now; he sat down beside her, folding his arms and gazing at her wonderingly. ‘“ Who told you I never loved you, and am atyrant, Flossy ?” “ Why,should you think I have to be told what the whole town knows?” answered she with the indignant tears on the pink cheeks, and shining in the pretty blue eyes. “ Minna Tate for instance ?” “Yes, Minna says she has known all along you did not care for me, and since you object to my having a dog to match each dress, she knows you are a perfect tyrant.” “Minna thought you would only show proper spirit if you broke off our engagement, even if your trousseau is all ready, didn’t she ?” “Yes; she said I ought to retreat, even if we were at the altar, for if you began objecting to my personal affairs before we are married, you would bea perfect Bluebeard afterward.” For a moment he was angry. So this MISS FLOSSY. | | | | | } | loving little creature, that had crept into his heart against his will, had been poisoned against him by that sharp- tongued, venomous young beauty, whom | he had an indistinct remembrance of overlooking several times without the slightest intention of being offensive, Ina moment his anger was gone, but be concluded to give Flossy a lesson. “ Very well; [I think Minna is right,” he said, walking to the fire-place and looking down on her,“ if we do not love each other, and if Iam inclined to be tyrannical, we had better give up all thought of our marriage at once; and as I have engaged our passage to Europe, I might as well go, and you “an spend your summer at some pleas- ant place where you can wear your pretty gowns, and carry any dog that suits you. Won’t that be nice?” He smiled brightly at the charming pros- pect. Flossy was dumb-founded, indignant, outraged ; she never dreamed he would consent. She thought after a little struggle he would submit, as he ought to do, to being accompanied by a green or blue dog, as the case might be, with his bewitching young wife as compen- sation, and she would triumph over the chagrined Minna. She sat perfectly still, staring at him smiling above her, overwhelmed by this stupendous blow. He gayly picked up his hat and came toward her. ‘“ Good-by! I hope you will have a merry summer.” He ex- pected her to burst into tears, and that should end the lesson, which was get- ting a little cruel, but she arose with a new dignity upon her, gracefully ex- tending her hand, and bade him a pretty, womanly farewell. He walked out of the room airily, but in the hall he sat down on the stairs, looked into the crown of his hat, and said: “ You are a fool.” He remem- bered she was very young; he had had grand schemes of gradually developing the girlish, loving nature, that was now lavishing itself on trivial things, into a strong, beautiful woman. He ought to have reasoned with her, gently and firmly showing her that no outside in- fluence should separate her from him; that he and she must stand alone. Why had he objected to her dogs? What did he care about them? She was wel- con —s too hea aro san for his dra pa if Fl roc chi her the esc hei ‘ hei fac ey he Ta by dit Su: nt. tin Su las er yo

Page 87

ept een 'r'p- om of the ve, but %t,” nd not to all nd to ‘Ou as- yur 1at He OS- nt, ud tle rht en ith en- she tly er, me ou 2X- at et- La 2X- LOVE’S TRIUMPH. 89 come to a million if she wanted them —she would tire of them soon enough. No matter what foolish notion she took into that pretty golden-covered head, he loved her; he could not get around that; the fact remained the same ; he could not escape from his love for her. Why did he sit there wasting his time? He would go back to the drawing-room and tell her nothing could part them; they were bound as fast as if they were married years ago. He started to his feet. Just then Flossy came flying from the drawing- room, her face buried in her handker- chief, on her way to “have it out” in her own room. She ran straight into the open arms of Mr. Edward King. “Oh, Ned,” she sobbed, struggling to escape. “Oh, Flossy,” he laughed, holding her fast. “How cruel you were!” burrowing her zolden head in his coat. “ How naughty you were!” lifting her face to the light. “T hate those dogs,” drooping her eyes. “ You shall havea thousand,” kissing her forehead, bangs and all. “T don’t want them, Ned, but Minna Tate will say I am ruled by a tyrant.” “ We will deceive the wicked Minna by having the whole pack at our wed- ding, that will settle it.” “ Dear Ned, you are so good.” “TI strongly suspect who will be the tyrant in this happy household.” “Not I, Edward,” with a demure smile. “Yes, you, Emily,” resignedly. Dear Eustace : The wedding is over, and I have lost my best friend, for that horrid husband of hers never did like me. I acted the part of a Spartan mo- ther in bidding her return with her shield or on it, but after all she did itin a half-hearted way. You remember I advised her to break off her marriage, though she stood at the altar, rather than give way one inch to his tyrannical whims. He feels sosuperior, Idespise him. The idea of his daring to object to her having a dog to match each dress in her trousseau! (It was by my advice she thought of having them colored ; wouldn’t it be stylish?) In her place I should have defied him, and had them ina circle around the altar as we went forward to the wedding march ; but she has no spirit, poor thing! She went farther than I thought she would, however. In the midst of the ceremony I heard a sharp ‘bow-wow ;’ I glanced back at the gallery, and there were her dogs—the whole lot—pink, blue, red, brown, and all, with their paws on the railing watching the bride. I looked sharply to see how his serene highness would enjoy such rebellion on the part of his slave. He looked at her with his superior, hypocritical smile, and she glanced at him and blushed— plainly blushed! Isaw it with my own eyes! I am disgusted ; I actually believe she cares for that man! Mamma is calling me to drive out with her. Yours in haste, Minna TATE. 1.1 e_ —_ LOVE’S TRIUMPH. A PARLOR PLAY. BY E. T. CORBETT. CHARACTERS. Mrs. Fortescue, a charming but prejudiced lady. Suzanne, her granddaughter. Scene: A sitting-room, prettily fur- nished. Mrs. Fortescue discovered sit- ting at her desk; she rings a hand-bell. Mrs. F. Suzanne! Suzanne! I say! Suzanne! (Hnter Suzanne.) Suz. Did you call me, grandmam- ma? Mrs. F. T've been calling for the last half hour. What have you been crying about? for you have been crying, you know! You can’t deceive me! Suz. I have no desire to deceive you, I’m sure. Mrs. F. You have been mourning over your wretched fate, I suppose, in not being allowed to make a pauper of yourself by marrying Edward Morton! Suz. No, but I think I’d better tell you all about it,grandmamma. (Paus- ing.) When I was in the garden this morning I saw Edward! Mrs. F. Youdid? And you dared to disobey my positive commands? Suz. He came to—to say good-bye —he—he is going away. Mrs. F. Humph! and how soon does he expect to return? Suz. Ah, who knows if he will ever return?

Page 88

90 LOVE’S TRIUMPH. Mrs. F. So much the better! you will have an opportunity to forget all this folly. Suz. I shall never forget! You may control my life, but my heart has been given to Edward. I shall wait for him ! Mrs. F. Which means, I suppose, that if I were dead you would marry him to-merrow! Speak, Miss —don’t hesitate to confess your intentions. Suz. Iam not in the habit of spec- ulating on your death, grandmamma. Mrs. F. Well, I have considered that contingency and have provided for it. (Takes up letter from the desk.) You see this? It is a letter to Mr. Stan- ley, my lawyer, requesting him to draw up a new will for me immediately, giv- ing the whole of my fortune to your uncle Henry and his children if you marry Edward Morton without my consent. Do you understand? All of my money! That leaves your brother and sister as poor as yourself. Suz. Oh! you would nut disinherit Jack and Cora if I—disobeyed you? That would be unjust ! Mrs. F. That is just what I have decided to do! I know well enough how useless it would be to cut you off alone—you’re such a romantic little fool that you would think it a praise- worthy act to throw away any amount of money; but I hardly think you'll venture to ruin your whole family. Suz. Grandmamma, you're’ too cruel! Mrs. F. H’m! One of these days you'll see things differently, and then you'll appreciate my foresight. Suz. Oh, grandmamma, dear grand- mamma, why won’t you let ine be happy in my own way, instead of making me miserable in yours? It is not too late yet; let me send for Edward, and tell him you relent—we don’t want your money, grandmamma; we can live on very little, and we will love you so dearly ! Mrs. F. Child, you are merely wast- ing your breath—my mind is made up, and I am very glad to know that Edward has had sense enough to retire from the field. I suppose he has prom- ised to write to you? Suz. And if he has, what then? You cannot object to our correspon- dence? Mrs. F. No—I don’t object, because I know it won’t last! No doubt he'll write regularly at first—but after awhile some newer fancy will eflace the old, and then— Suz. Never! I know better! Mrs. F. Well, we'll see! Suz. Grandmamma, I’m sorry for you—I am really and sincerely sorry for you! You seem to have no faith in the only things that make life worth living! Tell me, did you never believe in true, faithful love? in unselfish de- votion ? in ahappiness quite apart from money? Were youalways so—so cold, and—and worldly, as you are now ? Mrs. F. (angrily). You are very impertinent, Suzanne! I shall not answer you! How dare you say such things to me? You used to be so gentle. Suz. [used to beso happy. (Sighs.) Mrs. F. You can be happy now if you choose. If you will give up— Suz. Grandmamma, my will is as strong as yours in some things! I can not give up! Mrs. F. You mean you won't! Suz. Put it as you please. It comes to the same thing. Mrs. F. Suzanne, I used to think, when your mother’s death gave you to my care, that your companionship and affection would some day make my grief for her less bitter, and my life less lonely —am I to be mistaken in this hope ? Suz. No, grandmamma, I trust not. I know how much you have done for us, and I have tried to please you aiways, and so have Jack and Cora, but it seems to me that you are asking now far more than duty demands or affection yields. If my dear mother had lived I am sure she would have taken my part. Mrs. F. Your mother would never have thought of opposing my will, I can tell you. But we will not prolong this useless discussion. Goto my room and bring me the India cabinet on the right- hand of the mantel-shelf—no, I mean the one on the left-hand—or is it the right-hand, after all? What are you waiting for, child? Why don’t you bring the cabinet ? Suz. Which one do you say, grand- mamma? the right-hand one? (Going towards the door.) — 4 ant say . A han 4 ] Tl mo re-s girl dist aff s lea § son J an | and Ss tur d desi ope that Thi and her a fe ing dec! pen: in t be | thes less here H’n den of Wise lent. lett alty she best evel forg reac then sket he v had won to t Her

Page 89

use ell nile ld, for rry hin rth eve de- rom old, ery not uch so mes ink, u to and my less this not, rus, ays, ems far tion ed I part. ever ean this }and ight- nean . the you you ‘and- roung LOVE’S TRIUMPH. 91 Mrs. F. anne! and I hate stupidity ! say plainly the left-hand ? Suz. I thought you said the 1 hand at last. Mrs. F. How stupid you are, Suz- Didn’t I rig ht- Then you thought wrongly. (Lait Suzanne.) Mrs. F. Now I know what I'll do— I'll look over all my old jewelry this morning, and have some of the things re-set for Suzanne—nothing pleases a girl like jewelry, and it may help to distract her mind from this silly love affair. Ill try it, at all events. (Enter Suzanne with the cabinet.) Suz. Now, grandmamma, I must leave you for a little while; I have something to do. Mrs. F. Very well, you can go for an hour, but be sure to come back then and read to me. Sus. Very well, in an hour I'll re- turn. (£xit Suzanne.) Mrs. F. (Taking a key from her desk and fitting it to the cabinet, pulls open a drawer.) Why, how could that girl have made such a mistake? This is the wrong cabinet after all, and I was so particular about telling her too! There’s nothing in this but a few old letters and things, belong- ing to the days of my girlhood. I declare, I don’t know how it has hap- pened, but I haven't opened this cabinet in thirty years! be better to look over and then destroy these old relies, they are certainly value- less, and I can’t even remember what is here. (Pulls out a package of letters.) H’m! my old school-girl correspon- dence, I verily believe! and what a lot of rubbish! girls are fools, even the wisest of them. (Reads one or two si- lently.) Ah! hereare Alice Grosvenor’s letters, vowing “ eternal truth and loy alty to her adored Elinor,” and how did she keep her vow? Why, she did her best to cut me out with Mr. Fortescue, even after we were engaged, and never forgave me for marrying him. read them; they make me bitter! ( Tears them up.) Herearesome letters and little sketches of brother Will’s—dear Will! he was too good for this world. If he had lived I should have been a better woman, I know, but then— it is foolish to think about him, and I won't do it. Here are more of his sketches—no—not Will’s—these are—how strange! these are Bertie’s—but how came they here? I thought I destroyed them all, and his letters too, when I was married. Ah! . . . here is a letter now—the very last one he ever wrote me, just after he heard of my engagement. How I cried over it! but I was not so much to blame as he thought me. I was afraid of poverty —I was too great a coward to face it, even with Bertie, yet I did love him, and I knew—oh, I knew he loved me! . . - Let me see (opens the letter), what was it he said? (feads.) “ Iwish you | every happiness, and as you have no heart to trouble you, I doubt not that my wishes will be fulfilled.’ . Oh, Bertie, that was cruel, cruel, as well as untrue! I was never happy, never—how could I have been happy with John Fortescue? I tried not to think of you, Bertie; I wanted to forget you, but I could not do it! I could not forget the heavenly | brightness of those few fleeting weeks when I listened to my heart and you, and dreamed impossible dreams. I used to think afterwards that I must see you once more, even if only to hear your reproaches; but oh, my ‘love, my love, I am glad now that we never met ! glad that you saw me last when you | still belie ‘ed in me; glad even that you Well, perhaps, it will | | buried long ago; | grandmamma. did not live to see me lose the youth and bloom you praised so often. I thought this past was dead and I thought the frosts of so many winters had killed my heart, but I was wrong—yes, I was wrong, and you are revenged, Bertie. Hark! a knock! (AHastily thrusts the letters and papers aside, and shades her face with one hand.) Come in! (Enter Suzanne.) I have come to read to you, What book do you pre- Suz. | fer? | You I would likea Mrs. F. Don’t read quite yet. may sing for me first. , little music. I won't | } Well, I'll I’ve just Suz. (going to the piano). sing my new song for you. learned it. Mrs. F. Go on,and don’t talk to me. My head aches. Suz. Then won’t singing make it worse ? Mrs. F. Begin, child, begin, and don’t argue with me. (Suzanne begins to play.)

Page 90

SONG. (CONTRALTO VOICE.) Epwin C. Row ey. Andante. —— oe. -o- ‘ 1. Two doors swung wide that day—Two paths be-fore me lay, O heart un -wise! ee } aes NR 2 _ ga — yy Seow an me —{@— = = 6 TS] = = ' ss a — Fares u Why fal- ter in thy choice? Why scorn love’s pleading voice, Love’s pleading eyes? PT ee — = — Ore t = J a — ar = ee — —-: —s' S16 es, —e ae g's ss ae —— | py | eS o. 9-5-5 5 wo” Rene eet i leas — an = Se: ea te =e = = ~~ Pa es i | a ae [ 2 eo oe 2. Now vain-ly ev - ermore, Be-side a close-barr’ddoor,I weep and wait! I count the emp - ty years, I mur-murthro’ my tears, Too late! too late! = ©& @ om ee - & hs rm re) ce oa

Page 91

EY. \7| BABY’S NEW NEST. 93 (During the singing of this ballad Mrs. F. has grown very restless, and shows great agitation. As the last chords die away she covers her face with her hands, and sobs. Suzanne rises hastily from the piano and goes to her; she tries to take her hand.) Suz. (tenderly). Dear grandmamma, what is the matter? Are you feeling sick? Has anything vexed you? me, what shall I do? Mrs. F. (faintly). Nothing—I’m not ill. I—I was looking over some old letters, and the memories of the past have overcome me—that’s all. Suz. Poor grandmamma! You are looking pale. Shall I read to you now? It might divert your thoughts. Mrs. F. No, not yet. (Takes letter in her hand.) You have conquered, child! I have been heartless and cruel, I fear, but it is not yet too late to re- pair my errors. Here, burn this letter (handing it to her). I shall not send for Mr. Stanley, I shall not alter my will; you shall marry your Edward, and if you are happy I will be content. Tell | Suz. Oh, my dear, darling grand- mamma! how I love you! (Throwing her arms around her neck.) How good you are! And how happy you have made me! Mrs. F. Well, well, send for Edward —but put that letter in the fire, first. (Suzanne goes to the fire-place and throws the letter in.) Let it burn! I am ask umed to think I ever wrote it! Suz. Don’t think of it, grandmamma —let us forget everything painful to- day. I want you to be happy with me. Mrs. F. We must send a line to Edward now, and see if he will be happy too! Come! I will dictate, and you shall write. Suz. (embracing her). Dear grand- mamma! Ican only say how good you are! But I will try to deserve your goodness, and I am sure you will find Edward the best of grandsons. Mrs. F. And so, despite my pru- dence, and my worldly maxims, I am assisting at love’s triumph! CURTAIN. 6 ? BABY’S NEW NEST. Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”’ Dear little mother, thy birdling hath flown ; It has found a new nest by the Father’s white throne ; And its sweet angel-lips are entreating thee now, To banish vain sorrow from heart and from brow. Just list to its notes—*‘ Dear mamma, Iam blest, Such a beautiful home; such a heavenly nest ! I would not return to your cold world of pain, Not e’en for the bliss to be with you again. ‘** You know how I suffered in agony there— And I know how I burdened you all with my care, And the kind Father knew, and in pity and love Sent down a bright angel to bear me above. ‘It was only a moment, our flight through the air— Then I opened my eyes in a world new and fair; And I felt it was Heaven by the great ’waken- ing light Which makes yon dark Earth seem a cavern of night. ** And thousands of angels with wings white as snow, Fly like doves through the air, praising God as they go; Their smiles were like sunbeams imprisoned in gold, As they welcomed your baby to Christ’s sacred fold. ‘*But one who seemed fairer to me than the rest Came forward and gathered me close to her breast, Her voice was like music, her form dazzling bright, And her crown was a halo of shimmering light. ** And I knew that this fair one who held me so dear Was one who loved me and needed me here— You have Walter, and Helen, and darling papa, And you ought not to mourn when I’m safe with grandma. ‘“‘And one day you, too, with papa and the rest, Will come to me here in the land of the blest, Where the cold waves of sorrow can never come nigh, Where the flowers never fade and the stars never die. ‘¢So please, dear mamma, check the tears that upstart, And take the black folds of crape from your heart. Your nest is not empty, though one bird has flown, And nested itself in the Father’s white throne.’” NELLIE Dean.

Page 92

THOMAS JEFFERSON. THIRD PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, The apostle of American Democracy was born at Shadwell, Albemarle County, Va., April 2, 1743, and received his education at William and Mary’s College from whence he went to engage in the study and practice of law. His political career began with his election to the Virginia House of Burgesses, in 1769. In 1773 he was amember of assembly and an active par- ticipant in the measures which led to the or- ganization of the Continental Congress. He was the delegate chosen to draft our Declaration of Independence. During the Revolutionary War, he held the post of Governor of Virginia, and was sent as Minister to France in 1784, his wise diplomacy being called to aid the foreign alliance which insured the success of the Amer- ican cause. At the close of the war, he was appointed by Washington as Secretary of State. When the latter retired from the Presidency, after his second administration, the country had become divided into two parties, the Federalists and Anti-Federalists (Republicans) or Demo- crats as they were finally called. Jefferson be- came the head and front of the latter party, opposing John Adams in the Presidential cam- paign of 1797, but without success. In 1809, however, Jefferson’s party was triumphant, and he was elected President. His administration was one of great temperance. In accordance with his views, he simplified the forms of gov- ernment, enforced the principles of civil service and paid no heed to party claims where they were not allied with actual merit and responsi- bility. The purchase of. Louisiana from France was the most important act of his administra- tion. He was a man of exemplary conduct both in public and private life, and has always been held up as the representative of the best principles of Democracy. After an eight years’ administration, he retired to his residence at Monticello, and became famous for his hospital- ities, and his educating influence. As a rector of the University of Virginia, which he founded, he did a good work, keeping up an immense correspondence and diffusing the highest prin- ciples of learning and morality. He was a strong abolitionist, though much of his own property was invested in slaves, and he was known as an advocate of emancipation. He was best known as a writer of State papers and letters, but he produced one book in 1782, un- der the title of ‘‘ Notes on Virginia.’’ Though he had but one child, a daughter, his family has been largely perpetuated. His death oc- curred on July 4, 1826, the fiftieth anni- versary of the Declaration of Independence which he had written. It is a notable fact that on the same day, almost at the same hour, John Adams, the second President of the United States, died in New England. So the author of our famous Declaration and one of its most en- thusiastic signers passed away together. $ ? ART AND LITERATURE. A lost work of Michael Angelo’s was recently purchased by a Mr. J. C. Robinson, of England, for thirty-seven shillings. It is a design on paper for a ‘‘saliera,’’ or salt-cellar, which was manufactured in 1537, for the Duke of Urbino. Signor Morelli, the Italian connoisseur, has expressed doubt as to the authenticity of the famous ‘‘ Reading Magdalen,’’ supposed to be by Correggio. The connoisseur bases his suspicion on the fact that the picture, now in the Dresden gallery, is executed on copper, a material that was not used by any Italian artist before the sixteenth century, whereas Corregio died in 1534. A large collection of paintings, sent from New York to Paris as original works by the best masters, has been placed under suspect as very clever Yankee imitations. A street in Vienna is to be named for the dead painter, Makart. The artist is also to have a fine monument in that city, and an ex- hibition of his works, similar to the recent Meissonier exhibition at Paris, is talked of. Holman Hunt, who has been ill from over- work, is said to be recovering. Detaille has been studying military types in Russia, and has a royal palace to lodge in. It pays to be a battle painter. There is a new panorama artist who signs the name of George Washington. Rousseau is to have a fine monument in the square opposite the General Post-office at Paris. A hairdresser in Exeter has discovered three drawings by Turner. This is the second dis- covery of the kind made this year. A Sheffield (94) wil the for “f wh cal Sh lai ma Va ori wl An tu int If ha ha

Page 93

they onsi- ‘ance stra- duct Ways best ears’ e at ital- ector ded, ense prin- AS a own was He and un- ugh nily OC- nni- ence that our, ited or of en- the ex- ent yer- ; in It the ART AND LITERATURE. 95 manufacturer recently bought in a second-hand shop a drawing of the ‘‘ Lake near Lord Hare- House, Yorkshire,’? and Mr. Ruskin says it is a very beautiful example of Turner’s early method. The three drawings just dis- covered have received similar sanction, and the owner has already been offered £1,500 for them. wood’s A writer on art gives the following siap to our vainglorious pretensions :— ‘“‘The lists of our American artists, as we are proud to call them, are pretty well sprinkled with names of men born in other lands. Among the most distinguished of these Americanized foreigners are J. G. Brown, who was born and began to study art in England; Thomas and Edward Moran, Alfred Fredericks, M. A. Woolf, T. Addison Richards, S. J. Guy, and A. F. Tait, who are all English Born, though nearly all came here in babyhood; T. L. Smith, Walter Shirlaw, and the Harts, who hail from Scot- land; Albert Bierstadt, who is a Diisseldorf man; and M. F. H. DeHaas and Kruseman Van Elten, whose names betray their Dutch origin. George H. Boughton, who came here when an infant, and is sometimes classed as an American artist, is English born, and has re- turned to England to live, apparently with no intention of returning to this country.” When Count Gleichen, the sculptor, was a boy, he was so much enamored of Marryat’s novels that he ran away from school at Dresden and went to sea. He was afterwards commis- sioned to the English navy. Ruskin talks of writing an autobiography. If he does, woe to the critics and dilettanti who have ‘‘ cultivated’’ art in England for the last half century. Tennyson’s new drama has Becket for a hero. “Judith Shakespeare’’ is a sad failure in London. ‘“‘The House on the Marsh”’ phenomenal success. is having a “The Brooklyn Magazine’’ is a new quarto | publication that made its first appearance in October. The new method of teaching children to read forbids the spelling of words, but enables the child to recognize a word at sight by its form rather than its constituents. This reduces the labor of learning to reafl one-half. Mrs. Oliphant’s new serial, ‘‘ A Country Gen- tleman,’’ appears in the January Atlantic. The Graphic is to have a story by the author of ‘* Called Back.”’ Miss Betham-Edwards has in press a volume of poems. ‘* John Bull’s Daughters,’’ Max O’Rell’s second venture, falls much below the author’s first brilliant satire; but in Paris 48,000 copies of the book were sold within seven days of publi- cation. The first English edition of 15,000 copies was disposed of in a few days. Lady Holland was a social tyrant, but now and then some one of her guests would rebel. “Sydney, ring the bell,’’ she said imperiously to the famous wit, Sydney Smith. ‘Oh, yes,” he answered promptly. ‘‘ And shall I sweep the room ?”’ The circulation of the London papers is rated as follows :— To begin with the London morning papers, we have the Times, with an estimated circula- tion of 100,000; the morning and evening Standard together, 242,000; the Telegraph, 250,000; the Daily News, 160,000; the Daily Chronicle, 120,000; the Advertiser, 25,000. Among the popular weeklies which are known the world over are: The J/lustrated London News, which is put down at 100,000; the Graphic, 100,000; the Sporting and Dramatic News, at 20,000; Punch, 25,000; the Penny Jdlustrated, 150,000 ; the Police News, 300,000 ; Funny Folks, 60,000 (80,000 is nearer the mark) ; Judy, 50,- 000; Fun, 10,000; the Queen, 20,000 ; the Field, 4000; the Country Gentleman, 15,000; Chatter- bor, 20,000; Bow Bells, 100,000; the Saturday Review, 20,000; the World, 100,000; Truth, 8000 (both of these estimates are certainly in- correct. The World is rated too high and the Truth much too low); Society, 75,000; the Christian Age, 75,772 ; the Christian Globe, 40,- 000 ; the Christian Herald, 230,000 ; the Christian World, 100,000; the Sporting Times, 32,000; and Lioyd’s Weekly, which has probably a larger circulation than any other paper in the world, an average of 612,902 every week in the year. MUSICAL NOTES. The late Sir Michael Costa protested bitterly against the superficial instruction of pupils who were anxious to force their débuts. In making a generous bequest to the Royal Academy of | Music, he therefore stipulated that the obtainer | of the scholarship should neither publicly per- form nor publish a composition during his years of study, and that he should travel and study principally in Germany where Sir Michael thought that the most thorough instruction was to be obtained. Mr. Sims Reeves, the famous tenor, has sub- mitted to an interview and is reported to have predicted the death of Italian opera, without heirs. He thinks German opera is unlikely to succeed it, for it is too heavy for the voice, and there are few singers that care to wear out their voices with it.

Page 94

FASHIONS. NOTICE. Every holder of a coupon is entitled to a Full-Sized Cut Paper Pattern each month, of their own selection, free. The coupon will be found on the contents page, and in ordering you must send it. Postal cards or letters ordering the pattern will not answer, as the coupon is our only protection against imposition by others than patrons of this Magazine. The coupons are good for the patterns illustrated in any number, but only for illustrations that appear from time to time in the Magazine. If it is desired by any that we shall make the selection each month, they will please notify us by postal card, and we will enter their names accordingly on our list, and the Pattern will be forwarded each month in the magazine. Prices oF ExtrRA PATTERNS FURNISHED TO OUR SUBSCRIBERS. Children’s Patterns.—Dresses, 30 cts. ; Coats, 35 cts.; Ulsters, 35 cts.; Basques, 25 cts. ; Wrappers, 25 cts. Boys’ Patterns.—Jackets, 25 cts.; Pants, 25 cts. ; Vests, 20 cts.; Coats, 30 cts. Ladies’ Patterns.—Lady’s full dress, $1; Polonaise, 50 cts.; Basque, 35 cts.; Overskirt, 35 cts.; Cloak, 50 cts.; Wrapper, 50 cts. DESCRIPTION OF FASHIONS. Fig. 1.—Bride’s costume made of plain and brocaded satin. The front of the skirt is made of the plain goods plaited, and draped, edged with a narrow plaiting bordered with a wreath of orange blossoms and buds. The bodice and train of the dress are made of the brocade trim- med with Duchess lace and bouquets of orange blossoms. The bodice is pointed, cut surplice, filled in with tulle. Tulle veil with orange blossoms fastening it. Fig. 2.—Evening dress of cream colored lace and pink surah silk. The underskirt is covered with two ruffles of thelace. The overdress trim- med with one row and looped with a large bunch of roses. Pointed surplice bodice, lace falling from the shoulder for sleeves, flowers upon the shoulders, long gloves. Flowers in coiffure. Fig. 3.—Walking costume for lady, made of brown blue cloth; the underskirt is plain bor- dered with a band of astrakan, edged upon each side with wool braid; the drapery of the overdress is caught up very high upon the right side, disclosing two more bands similar to that edging the front breadth. The skirt is plaited in the back and falls straight down, the left side of the front drapery being fastened to it. Point- ed bodice trimmed to correspond with skirt, Hat of felt trimmed with ribbed plush, and large ribbon rosette. Fig. 4.—Walking costame for lady, made of green plaid cloth. The skirt is kilted, edged with a wide braid, the drapery is very short in front trimmed with braid, buffante in the back. Pointed bodice, jacket faced and lined with satin. Cloth muff trimmed with fur. Felt hat trimmed with bands of velvet and rosette. We are indebted to the courtesy of Strawbridge & Clothier, N. W. corner of Eighth and Market Streets, Philadelphia, for the designs illustrated in these two figures. Their stock of dry goods, trimmings, etc., is large and varied, and em- braces all classes and styles of goods from the most elegant to the plainest. They will gladly furnish samples and prices upon application by person or mail, thus proving of great assistance to parties residing at a distance. Fig. 5.—Hat made of brown felt edged with gold braid trimmed with velvet and feathers. Fig. 6.—A costume suitable for home or street purposes. Materials, plain and embroi- dered bison cloth, in a rich new shade between brown and plum colors. The skirt, walking- dress length, is made rather plain, or scant in front, and full in the back. The front width is trimmed from waist-line down, with perpen- dicular lines of Kursheedt’s Standard plaid tinsel braid in the new color and gold threads. The lines of braid are broken as they near the edge of skirt, and are carried round the sides of front in box fashion; four of these fancies decorating either side of the plain centre of skirt front. The stylish upper garment is made of Kursheedt’s all-over embroidered goods, the material being bison cloth, like that forming the skirt, with Standard uncut fris6é designs, leaf and flower, in golden brown and red. The skirt of this upper garment is cut and arranged to fall gracefully open in front, in jabot fashion, so as to show the plaid-trimmed underskirt. It is sewn on to the waist in large gathers, so that the garment falls in round folds. The pointed waist is outlined by a belt of the plaid tinsel braid, and the standing col- lar and cuffs are trimmed tomatch. Neck and waists finished with Kursheedt’s spiral ruching. Fig. 7.—Walking suit, with skirt of ribbed velvet, made plain and worn with stylish gar- (96)

Page 95

hat ited side int- cirt. and e of ged t in ick, vith hat We e & ‘ket ited rds, em- the dly | by nce rith 3. or roi- een ing- t in dth yen- laid ids. the ides cies e of , is ods, that risé and cut , in med ; in und belt col- and ing. bed par- FASHIONS. 97 ment, a polonaise redingote cut out round at the left side, and closed diagonally on waist portion. It is trimmed on the skirt side of cor- sage with bands of velvet, bordered with Kur- sheedt’s narrow Standard Titan braid, and or- namental buttons. The other edges of the gar- ment are finished with three rows of Kursheedt’s :Standard Titan braid much wider than that on the short side about the velvet. The bonnet is of velvet, trimmed with tips and Kursheedt’s Spanish lace. Figs. 8 and 9.—Front and back view of wrap for lady, made of heavy silk, lined with plush, trimmed with lace and passementerie ornaments and buttons. Fig. 10.—Wrap for lady, made of seal-brown plush, lined with quilted satin, trimmed with a band of beaver fur, chenille, and bead fringe, and passementerie ornaments. Fig. 11.—Mourning costume for lady, made of cashmere cloth. The lower skirt is kilted and trimmed with a deep fold of English crape, bouf- fante drapery. Pointed bodice; jacket with vest of crape, cuffs, and collar. Crape bonnet and veil. Fig. 12.—Mourning costume for lady, made of ladies’ cloth. The skirt is trimmed with four folds of crape; the right side of the skirt is tucked, the overskirt being open to show it. The overskirt is straight across the front, looped up high upon left side, bouffante in the back ; it is trimmed with a fold of crape. Pointed bodice trimmed with folds of crape. Crape bon- net, trimmed with mourning flowers and crape veil. Figs. 13 and 16.—Back and front view of evening coiffure for lady, composed of soft loops fastened with tortoise shell pins; curls and A bouquet of flowers fastened upon the right side back of the ear. Fig. 14.—An exceedingly dressy fichu, formed of net and Karsheedt’s Standard Matelassé Spanish lace. The fichu is rather peculiar in shape, being a large, round collarette, trimuned with double rows of the lace, and upstanding frill at the throat. The jabot has double cas- cades of net and lace edge, and is long enough to reach below the waist-line, giving an effective finish to an evening toilette. It may be repro- duced in cream or any of the colored laces. Fig. 15.—Jabot and collar, made of white duchess lace ; trimmed with ribbon bows. Fig. 17.—Walking costume for lady ; skirt made of black velvet. Cloak of heavy black silk trimmed with passementerie in a very rich pattern trimming each gore, back and front. Sleeves trimmed with a band of fur, and fur collar. Bonnet of black velvet, trimmed with ribbon and gilt ornament. Vou. cx.— 7 crepes. Fig. 18.—Russian circular, for lady, made ot brown satin brocade, trimmed with Russian sable; the fronts are of plush. Hat of brown velvet, trimmed with velvet and feathers. Fig. 19.—Suit for boy of eight years, made of black velveteen ; the blouse is box-plaited, and bound with silk braid. Knickerbocker trousers. Fig. 20.—Sailor suit for boy of four years, made of navy-blue flannel, striped and trimmed with braid. Fig. 21.—Suit for boy of nine years, made of brown cloth; coat, vest, and trousers bound with silk braid. Fig. 22.—Overcoat for boy of ten years, made of chinchilla cloth, trimmed with braid. Fig. 23.—Suit for boy of twelve years, made of mixed gray cloth, and trimmed with braid and buttons. Fig. 24.—Overcoat for boy of nine years, made of plaid cloth. Fig. 25.—Bonnet for lady, made of embroid- ered velvet, blue and gold. Trimmed with satin ribbon of the two colors. Fig. 26.—Bonnet of cypress-green velvet, the front brim and crown being made of gold cord. It is trimmed with feathers, wings, and ribbon. Fig. 27.—Bonnet of black velvet trimmed with gold embroidered lace and net, black feathers tipped with gold, and aigrettes at the side. Figs. 28 and 29.—Front and back view of costume for girl of nine years, made of velvet- een, two shades of blue. The underskirt is of the lighter shade with puffed vest of the same. The skirt is cut in deep turrets with fancy but- tons at the top of each one. Collar and cuffs of muslin edged with Russian point. Velvet bon- net faced and trimmed with satin. Cloth boots with sandals of leather of a darker shade. Fig. 30.—Walking suit for child of seven years. Cloak made of gray tweed trimmed with a broad band of velvet of a darker shade around the edge and up the front. Felt hat trimmed with velvet and fluffy-shaded feathers. Fig. 31.—Suit for boy, made of bottle-green cloth; felt hat to correspond. Fig. 32.—Suit for little girl, made of navy blue cloth and velvet. The skirt is composed of alternate kilts of cloth and velvet, with drapery of cloth and plain bodice, deep velvet cape. Velvet bonnet trimmed with feathers. Fig. 33.—Cloak for girl of ten years, made of fine checked cloth; the front and back are both plaited upon the waist and skirt. The cape is fastened in the back beyond the plaits and comes around in the front; velvet collar, cuffs and pocket. Felt hat trimmed with vel- vet.

Page 96

98 FASHIONS. FASHION NOTES AT HOME AND ABROAD. The fashions for children of all ages have not changed materially. The majority of cashmeres for girls over nine years are made with plain full skirts and prettily draped polonaises. For everyday wear there are pretty dresses with skirts of striped flannel, in red and blue, or in various colors on a white or cream ground, ao- companied by a polonaise of dark blue flannel or serge, open in front over a plaited plastron of the striped flannel, and full at the back with gathers at the neck and waist. In another model the skirt is of caroubier velveteen, with a deep hem, headed by a group of narrow tucks, about half-an-inch wide. The polonaise is of fine blue serge, with plaits from the shoulders, and open at the top over a little red velveteen plastron. The draperies are crossed in front, and form a full puff at the back, fastened up with red buttons; velveteen cuff, and a belt of red ribbon tied low on one side, complete the costume, which is both simple and stylish. In both these models the back of the polonaise is full, corresponding with the fronts, which are finely plaited from the neck, or from the shoul- der to the waist. The housemaid dress is also a favorite style for little girls, especially when finished off with a Swiss belt, a collar and cuffs, of plush in some contrasting color. A pretty model, and one that may be recommended for its extreme simplicity and utility, is in dark gray cashmere ; the skirt is very full back and front, and the sleeves are in the old bishop shape, gathered at the shoulder and again at the waist, where they are mounted on wide cardinal plush wristbands ; the large round collar, and the Swiss belt, which has equal points front and back, are also of red plush. These belts are a great improvement to the full bodice, and the style is adapted for velveteer dresses, with the belt, collar, and cuffs in ottoman or gatin surah; a wide folded sash of colored surah may also be substituted for the Swiss belt. Young girls from twelve to sixteen years of age chiefly wear, as out-door vétements, long tight-fitting paletots with plaits at the back ; these are made in black and colored cloth, and in stockingette, and are trimmed very simply with braid or astrakan. Both plain and broché cloths are employed, and although as- trakan, in bands down the front and round the neck and on the sleeves, is decidedly the most fashionable trimming, many of these long pale- tots are also bordered with other furs, such as beaver or skunk. Short jackets, tight fitting at the back, but loose in front, and either double or single breasted, are not much worn by girls under sixteen, although for girls above that age they are very fashionable. Little girls also wear long paletots covering the dress, but these are semi-fitting, and more elaborately made in colored cloth. Astrakan is again the favorite trimming, and is used alone or accom- panied by braid ornaments. Nearly all these paletots are made with capes ; a few have long capes covering the arms to the elbow; but the more stylish models have very short capes, raised a little at the shoulder, and sometimes with plaits on each side of the shoulder, and cord ornaments carried across the arm. Little girls’ winter hats are chiefly of felt. The favorite shapes are those with high crowns and rather narrow brims, either straight or turned up a little at the edge. The new woolen or cashmere lace is much used as a trimming, com- bined with loops of velvet ribbon. A great many felt hats are bound with the new fancy braids in gold or colors, and the front is entirely covered with a large rosette bow of the wide, francy braid, mingled with loops of velvet matching the felt. All hats, however, are made to correspond with the costume; and a great many astrakan toques, or felt hats bordered and trimmed with astrakan are worn to corres- pond with the suits similarly trimmed. There is no novelty in the shape of babies’ cloaks ; they are still chiefly made of cashmere, cloth, and plush, but this season they are trim- med with cashmere lace; the cream-colored lace is put on in the same manner as the em- broidery on summer cloaks. The skirts are tucked, the babies following their elders in this fashion. The prettiest babies’ hats and bon- nets are made of white plush, or of ottoman spotted with chenille. Cunning little hoods are made of quilted satin edged with cashmere. The predictions which made us hope for a great deal of simplicity in winter fashions has been in part accomplished as far as the making up of some dresses go, but the comparative plainness of our costumes is more than compen- sated for by the extreme costliness and elegance of the materials employed. Silk velvet, both plain and figured, silk brocade, and thickly ribbed silks are among these, and they are richly trim- med with lace, embroidery patterns, and passe- menterie. The fashion of skirts varies little from that we have already mentioned in recent articles. Bodices are of various styles. The jacket with loose open fronts over a plaited or puffed plastron, or else over a waistcoat, is 4 favorite model; but the close fitting jacket is also much worn. It is trimmed hussar fashion, with cords and frogs of passementerie. If the bodice is composed of some soft silk or woolen material, it is frequently made with full fronts, ru me lis: the tul rol sle are cre or cad als vor eas tain trir fine dar lool sim The trol bra and vel) ed ¢ flov bon Vet. T tray era. gra, dou cut to f in f Aq the cros no t Vely the and at t nec] = flan ass

Page 97

ve ris put ely the ym- ese ong the eS, mes and ttle The and ned or om- reat ney rely ide, lvet 1ade reat ered rres- bies’ 1ere, rim- ored -em- are this bon- man Ss are > . for a ; has king ative ipen- vance plain ibbed trim- asse- little ecent The ted or ,is a ket is shion, If the roolen ronts, FASHIONS. 99 gathered or plaited from the shoulders to the waist, crossed the right over the left one, and fastened slantways at the waist. This style is more novel than the blouse model, which is always rather négligé. It is more especially adopted for demi-toilette dinner or evening dresses of crépon, nun’s veiling, or India silk. In that case a slight pointed opening is left both in the front and at the back, edged, not with ruche or lace, but with a mere bias band of very fine tulle. Apropos of this, we may as well mention that ruches, whether of tulle, crépe lisse, or lace, are now quite out of fashion, and that they are superseded by plain bias bands of tulle put double and placed in one or two rows round the top of the bodice and the edge of the sleeves. For daytime toilettes these bias bands are of fine étamine instead of tulle, generally cream or pale buff, but also sometimes pale pink or blue, according to the toilette, or else bro- caded with colored chenille dots. Let us note, also, that embroidered galloons are a very fa- vorite style of trimming, and'that ladies may very easily embroider such for themselves, thus ob- taining a very elegant as well as inexpensive trimming for a winter dress. Worsted braid of fine quality, and either black or of some very dark shade of color, about half an inch wide, looks remarkably well embroidered with some simple zigzag pattern in gold or silver thread. The fronts of bodices and skirt, or merely plas- trons or panels are closely striped with rows of braid thus embroidered, which is most stylish and effective. The novelty in bonnets is that velvet capotes are filled in with tulle caps quill- ed or ruched all round, and trimmed inside with flowers, while the outside is trimmed with rib- bons and feathers matched in colors to the vel- Vet. The new traveling costume for ladies who travel southward at the present season is the gray carrier pigeon costume. It is of thick gray cloth, with two large plaits, each five times double at the back. The edge of the skirt is cut out in small square tabs, folded back so as to form triangles. A blouse bodice is fastened in front with a close row of small steel buttons. A quilling of velvet of the same shade trims the bodice in the shape of a sailor collar and crossed fichu. Paletot of the same cloth, with no trimming beyond an enormous bow of gray velvet over the plaits at the back. Hat also of the same cloth, trimmed with velvet to match, and with a carrier pigeon laid close to the crown at the side with a small ivory tablet tied to its neck, on which is engraved some name or motto. The new wool laces are used for trimming flannel skirts both in white and in colors, such as scarlet, pale blue, or rose pink ; other expen- sive skirts have a flounce of embroidered flan- nel for the trimming, while those for plainer tastes have a wide hem with three or four tucks above, done in stem-stitching. The Jersey flannels with webbing on the back and down- like surface are used in bright red or light blue for winter skirts, but are too thick for any or- nament, and are plainly hemmed. The light blue and white or pink and gray striped Jersey flannels are also used for plain petticoats. Fur-lined cloaks for wraps are, as the phrase goes, an ‘‘institution.”’ Vests of all kinds are prominent in the sea- son’s fashions. In the interests of good taste it is pleasant to observe that the showy styles of hosiery are fast disappearing. Some stylish capotes are of mushroom velvet, trimmed with embroidered lace and pearl-spot- ted feathers in a group. Buttons are very small, some forming small, round, jewel-like objects, others curious little men, or antique heads. A cloth cap bonnet (moss green) has a crown embroidered with small birds in gray shades, and a group of gray birds for ornament. New clasps, much used for cloaks and dresses, exhibit heads in curiously carved and stained wood, antique designs in bronze or oxidized metal. Navy blue may be described as a permanent color, and will be as much worn this season as of old. Buttons for fastening jackets are of wood matching the costume in color, and representing an animal’s head, a fleur-de-lys, a marguerite, or a geometrical figure. A novelty is a leather bodice stamped out so as to show the silk lining beneath, all the holes or designs being bordered with gold thread in tambour stitch. NOTES FROM OUR FOREIGN CORRES- PONDENT. The first thing I must do is to take a review of the cloaks which are to shield us from the cold, wind, and rain, beginning with the waterproof. They appear in all shapes, from the simple long cape to the most coquettish looking over-dresses ever invented by a modiste. They are lined with colored satin or flannel, so that they may be worn over evening dresses without crushing or soiling them if desired, by ladies who have to travel to and fro from their friends’ houses by rail. For day-wear, a little silk handkerchief, to match the lining of the cloak, is worn around the neck, whilst the hat, also, in

Page 98

100 some way matches the cloak. In this way, even in the most dirty weather, we may make our- selves look pretty if we can. Newmarkets con- tinue as popular. They are made as long as the dress, and, though fitting quite tightly to the figure, are very full at the back, to allow room for the crinoline. Some have capes and hoods at the back, some a series of capes, whilst others are perfectly plain. Their beauty consists in their cost and fit, and more than all, in the fig- ure which they fit. The most beautiful jackets I have yet seen are certainly some from Mr. Doré’s, London. There is not anything in Paris like them. According to his name, Mr. Doré ought to be French, but judging by the thoroughly English cut and chic of his coats and jackets, I should say he was a Jils de John Bull. The majority of his jackets are in military style, and are richly trimmed with brandebourg and braid in addition to their fur borders. In fur cloaks there is not any change. They are generally made tightly fitting at the back, and half tightly fitting in front, in order not to stretch the fur lining too much. Sealskin is all the rage in Paris just now. The most elegant mantles are made of this very beautiful and costly fur, and are trimmed with Canadian bea- ver or silver fox. The shape of the mantle is generally that of a visite, with deep hanging “sleeves. The fur border is put on round the neck and sleeves, down the front and around the mantle. As for fancy cloaks, they are most gorgeous, and look more like splendid dresses than cloaks. They are made not only of the most magnificent brocaded velvets and silks, and trimmed with the most expensive furs, but they are also pro- fusely embroidered and braided with every kind of passemenierie and beads imaginable. To describe them would be impossible; you must see them even to imagine their elegance. Finally, I must mention the new cloaks made out of long Indian shawls, and that without cut- ting a single thread of the shawl, or injuring it in any way, so that if the shawl were required to be worn again as a shawl it could be. This is quite a treasure-trove to ladies who have valu- able shawls, and do not know what to do with them. Long shawls may be thus converted into any long cloak now in fashion, whilst square shawls are converted into dolmans and visites. It matters little whether the shawls have fringe or not, for the fringe can be concealed, if desired, by the lining when the cloak is lined. Lace and erape shawls can also be converted into any kind of overdress in the same manner, that is, with- out being injured in the slightest degree, and FASHIONS. remaining perfect when required to be used in any other way. Although red is a color only in request for tea- gowns and evening dresses, yet the new winter shade isared. This is ‘‘ porphyry,’ a beauti- ful tint between brick-red and garnet. Itisa superb color in velvet, especially for evening wear, and it will be much affected for married ladies and chaperones during the winter, to form evening trains and corsages, with fronts of satin. Dinner and evening dresses for country house entertainments during Christmas are the objects of peculiar care, because as much as possible a dash of originality, or rather a soupcon of the Except porphyry, the beautiful mordoré shade and white reign supreme, almost to the exclusion of other colors. White crépe de chine with white broché velvet flowers is in great request for the toilettes of young married ladies, young girls preferring white tulle and gauze upon a white silk foundation, which is again fashionable. A toilette for a young girl of seventeen or eighteen has a full billowy skirt of white tulle, eccentric has to be introduced therein. with a wide hem at the edge sewn, in the old fashioned manner, with long stitches of white floss silk. The Duchess de Berry corsage is of tulle over white faille, with pointed tulle drapery at the waist. A belt of white gros grain, secured by asilver buckle, encircles the waist. The short, full sleeves are trimmed with a white bow, and in place of a necklace a broad band of white ribbon encircles the throat. Tho following mordoré toilette for married ladies could not easily be surpassed in elegance and beauty. Theskirtis of mordoré sicilienne, edged with three flounces of mordoré lace, over which fall the teeth-points of the sicilienne overskirt, which is embroidered all over with flashing mordoré beads. The train is of mor- doré Genoa velvet with large flowers on a paler satin ground. The low corsage is a veritable coat of mail of mordoré beads; it has a low neck and no sleeves. A row of Marshal Neil rosebuds edge the neck and form a slight sub stitute for sleeves. On the shoulders is a bow of ribbon, mordoré lined with pink. Just now there is a serious struggle for supremacy between the short corsage and that with long points for evening wear. It is im possible to say which will be victorious, but there is no doubt that for short persons the for- mer style is preferable, as the other makes the figure look all body and no limbs. And yet 4 certain length of limb is necessary to grace. Wishing you all a Merry Christmas and glad New Year. FasHion. mi mi pl Ch ou ge of do mé at ex gre Th

Page 99

1 in tea- nter wuti- is a ning ‘ried r, to ts of ouse jects ble a the cept and on of yhite r the girls vhite n or sulle, e old v hite over t the d by hort, , and white rried rance enne, over ienne with mor- paler itable 2 low | Neil , sub 1 bow e for | that is im- 3, but ie for- es the yet a ce. and & 10N. FASHIONS. IN HOLIDAY GARB. It is a venerable custom that constrains our magazine to wear its January clothes in the month of December, but as we hope to have the pleasure of meeting our readers some time before Christmas, the topics of that season are not yet out of date; and perhaps nothing will touch the general interest more nearly than the question of holiday decorations. Some people think they don’t pay for the trouble they involve, but you may rest assured that there is a little indolence atthe base of this opinion. ‘‘ Beauty is its own excuse for being,’’ and everything ‘‘ pays ’’ that gratifies the artistic taste or serves to elevate it. The pleasure of breathing a holiday atmosphere created by your own exertions is a fourfold re- turn for any expenditure you can possibly make. In regard to decorations, there are many ways of varying the conventional boughs and garlands of holly, pine, and laurel, though greenness is a feature one should always maintain. If one is lucky enough to have on hand a stock of ferns, autumn leaves, and grasses, the result is more readily accomplished ; but these are by no means essential. If used they may be wired and grouped in bouquets which are placed in vases full of sand, or they may be beautifully ar- ranged against the wall without injury to the paper, by stretching a coarse piece of tarlatan over the spot to be ornamented, and pinning or sewing the leaves, etc.,to it. The tarlatan does not show, and the best effect is produced. Grasses, and especially cat-tails, crystalized by immersion in a solution of alum, add tothe tout ensemble. Common salt will do the same thing for them, but the crystals are not as brilliant. Florida moss, which can be procured for a trifle at any fruiterer’s, is very pretty, its gracefully trailing lengths mingled with bitter-sweet or other bright berries being especially beautiful. Delicate green mosses of any kind are an acqui- sition, and lichens are invaluable. The most beautiful motto I ever saw was, “Welcome Yule,’’ made of pasteboard covered with gray moss. ‘‘ Begone, Dull Care!’’ has also been executed most successfully in green ; and letters covered with cotton, ornamented with holly berries, are very showy. It is alla mistake to suppose that it requires a practised hand to cut out letters successfully. There are bvoks published which contain all manner of fancy texts, and, with a rule and compass, the most awkward hand can draw them. A Christ- mas carol wrought upon the wall in gold letters has a fine effect, and letters made by the sprink- ling of rice over mucilaged cardboard are very pretty, especially if placed against a brilliant ted background, 101 But perhaps the most showy thing to be sug- gested is a pyramid of vegetables. To make this, have a symmetrical column with various mouldings at the base and capital, made of pine wood, and begin by nailing closely around the base a row of green peppers. Follow this by a row of red ones, and this by a row of yellow corn, placed perpendicularly. Repeat the red and green peppers; make a row of turnips; a row of small red apples arranged in diamond-shaped groups, filling in the interstices with celery tops ; make a row of parsnips running diagon- ally upwards; a row of onions arranged in wheels with lettuce leaves in the interstices ; a row of red sweet potatoes ; a row of carrots, and so on. The pattern of the pyramid may be varied indefinitely by grouping the vegetables in simple designs, such as stars, crescents, geo- metric figures, scollops, lines, ete. The base of the pyramid should be banked up with large groups of vegetables, such as heads of cabbage, lettuce, pumpkins, ropes of onions, etc. The summit of the pyramid may be surmounted by a vegetable bouquet made by hollowing out a mammoth pumpkin, and sticking in it red apples, carrots, onions, parsnips, cabbage, celery etc., all mounted on light sticks. The effect of this is really beautiful. Chains made of strung cranberries hung around the pyramid are very effective. Of course the same idea carried out with fruit is equally pretty. A pyramid built with blocks of colored ice is also handsome. For further decorations for the wall, use a Star of Bethlehem, covered with silver paper and diamond-dust, and supplied with scintilat- ing rays of silver tinsel at the back. A beauti- ful group for a niche shows a manger with a pretty aoll dressed as the Christ-child, lying in a bed of straw. Pictures of the Madonna, especially those after the masters, are framed in holly and spruce. Cotton is sometimes fastened over the tops of picture-frames, windows, etc., to simulate snow and icicles. A snow man (of cotton) is an innovation that pleases the chil- dren, and a Christmas bell, decked with gar- lands, is chimed at the Christmas parties. Ata Twelfth-night féte a ‘‘snow-ball’’ is provided for the children. This is a large, round recep- tacle covered with cotton to imitate snow, and provided with an opening on top through which the little folks blindly ‘‘ grab’’ for candy toys, or such gifts as the generosity of the hostess may supply. A Santa Claus bag is another development of this idea, and the mammoth cornucopia or horn of plenty is a departure in the same line. Some folks object to the wheel of fortune on conscientious grounds, but there is no moral dictum against the grab bag, whatever form it may assume. Mug. Bon Ton.

Page 100

PRACTICAL HINTS UPON ORESSMAK(NG. Last month we left our dress skirt in an un- finished state, having trimmed it with a kilting which is not by any means the only trimming that can be used. Box plaited ruffles, double box plaitings and triple box plaitings are all fash- ionable. The Greek plait is new and resem- bles the box plait and can be found in either me- dium or large fold. After the skirt is trimmed the drapery must be decided upon. A simple plaa for making a woolen skirt is to use double width material for the skirt. This is passed round the figure and has only one seam, that in the back instead of the usual gored breadths ; all the fullness is massed in layers of plaits that fall in with the placket hole behind. Darts are taken in the top of the front and sides to make the skirt fit smoothly over the gored foundation skirt. The lower portion may be finished as desired. Many winter toilettes have the skirts merely plaited at the back, the breadths being then allowed to fall loose over a plain skirt edged with a narrow plaiting. Others have drapery at both sides and front ; no one style is generally adopted. If the wearer of the skirt is inclined to be stout, a deep yoke is made to fit neatly, and the skirt is hung upon that plain in front and at the sides, full in the back. If the person is slight the skirt is fast- ened upon a band, the fullness arranged in the same manner in either case. A pad bustle is fastened into the skirt at the back; this is made of satin, silk, or silesia. Take the material to be used and cut two pieces three-eighths of a yard deep and a quarter of a yard wide, sew these together and stuff with curled hair like a mattress fastening through with stitches. Put this upon a band, fasten into the dress or let it be worn with any dress. This should be trimmed all around with lace ; if only made of silesia, a common white lace is used for trim- ming. All dresses have this bustle added to them. Dress bodices are worn in such a variety of styles that it.is impossible to describe all or half that are used. The first point to be con- sidered is to decide upon the style you wish to use, next to procure the pattern. After that is decided upon and a lining of silesia ready put the pattern down upon the lining, measure all the parts with a tape measure to see if the size is correct ; if too large, it is very easy to turn down the extra size; if too small, an inch or whatever is required can readily be added. Put the pattern down upon the lining and mark the extra size with a piece of French chalk upon it before cutting ; it is a good rule always to allow large seams upon the lining, they can be cut off after the first fitting if not need- ed; and frequently save a great amount of trouble, where the pattern has been so closely followed. After the lining is all cut out it is important that it should be carefully basted be- fore it is tried on. First commence with the front dart seam, basting from the point down- ward. Then the second, and follow by basting the front side-shape to the front. The fronts being finished, proceed by basting the back to the side-shape at the back ; in basting this seam it is necessary to proceed differently for different forms. For an ordinary figure, both pieces should be held evenly from the armhole down- ward. For one with slightly rounded should- ers, the back should be fulled in a little from an inch below the armhole, to about seven inches downward. Fora hollow back, the back part must be held a little tighter than the side shape, at that distance. After the backs, fol- low the side seams, joining the back with front, Now, after the other side is similarly treated, join both halves of the waist together in the centre of theback. This finished, the shoulder seams should be basted, which will be found shorter in front than atthe back. Now the front part should be gently and uniformly stretched until both are even at the neck and armholes. To puton the basted garment for fit- ing put it on wrong side outward, with seams on the outside. Proceed by taking hold of the two fronts with the left hand at the hollow of the neck, securing both fronts evenly in height and width, and with the right hand insert a pin perpendicularly, to secure both guide lines at that point. Then proceed in like manner by tak- ing hold of the two front edges, evening them in width and length until you have secured the desired fit across the bust, then insert a pin perpendicularly at that point. Now, commence at the pin already inserted at the neck, pinning the fronts together by inserting pins perpen- dicularly, about one half inch apart, all the way down. Then proceed by smoothing the back and front of the garment downwards, according to the requirements of the form, and if any fullness appears upwards, both parts should be smoothed up to the shoulder seam. If any changes have been made on the right half of the garment in process of fitting, then the left half should be separated therefrom by ripping the seam at the middle of the back. Now sep- arate the different parts of the left half of the waist, and place each separate part thereof smoothly on a table, the outside material up- ward. Before separating the parts of the right side of the garment, the horizontal pin line as placed at the waist in fitting should be indi- cated by a distinct marking line, indicating also the pin lines as they were placed lengthwise in fitting at the seams for either letting out or taking in as the case may be. After these in- dications have been made, remove the pins, and also separate the different parts of this half of the waist, placing them smoothly upon the corresponding parts of the left half of the gar- ment, making all the necessary alterations upon this side that all cutting which has been done upon the right side in process of fitting will correspondingly be done on the left. (102) a ee ae eee rn ao fe we m or Hi: cr cr ag pe an br du

Page 101

sly be- the n- ing nts am ent ces vn- ld- hes art ‘ide fol- nit, the der ind the nly and fit- ums the v of ght pin 3 at rak- n in the pin mce 1ing pen- way yack ling any 1 be any if of left ping sep- the sreof ‘ight 1e as indi- also se in it or e in- , and half | the } gar upon don will PRACTICAL HINTS FOR THE HOUSEHOLD. LARDING, BONING, EGG AND BREAD- CRUMBING, ETC. Many kinds of meat which are very lean and dry are improved by the addition of some kind of fat. The tenderloin or fillet of beef, the thick part of the leg of veal, grouse, and game are often prepared in this way. Larding is drawing small strips of fat salt pork or bacon through the surface of the meat. Cut the firmest bacon fat, with a heated or very sharp knife, into square lengths of equal size. Placing one end in a larding needle, draw it through the skin and a small bit of the meat, leaving the strip of pork or lardoon, as it is called, in the meat. The two ends left exposed should be of equal length. The punctures for the lardoons should be in rows, of equal distance apart, ar- ranged in any fanciful mode that may suit the cook. Boning meat and poultry is frequently adopted, and is not a difficult operation. It only requires time, practice, a thin, sharp knife, and a littlecare. To bonea chicken, cut off the neck, and also the legsat the first joint. Cut the skin in a line down the middle of the back. Now, taking first one side and then the other of the cut in the fingers, carefully separate the flesh from the bones, sliding the knife close to the bone. When you come to the wings and legs, it is easier to break or unjoint the bones at the body joint ; cutting close by the bone, draw it, turning the flesh of the legs and wings inside out. When allthe bones are out, the skin and flesh can be re-adjusted and stuffed into shape. As the leg and wing bones require considerable time to remove, they may be left in if desired. For egg and bread-crumbing always sift the bread or cracker-crumbs. Whenever there are spare pieces or trimmings of bread or broken crackers, dry them at once in the oven, and after pounding and sifting put them away in a tin can for future use. In preparing for use, beat the eggs a little. If they are to be used for sweet dishes, such as rice croquettes, sweeten them slightly. If they are to be used for meats, sweet-breads, oysters, etc., always salt and pep- per them, and for achange finely chopped parsley may be added. Add a small proportion of milk to the eggs, say half a cupful for two of them, or for one of them, if intended for fish or cutlets. Have the eggs in one plate, and the bread- crumbs in another ; roll the article first in the crumbs, then in the eggs, then in the crumbs again. In the case of articles very soft, like croquettes, it will be more convenient for one person to shape and roll them in the eggs, and another, with dry hands, to roll them in the bread-crumbs. Pounded and sifted cracker- dust can be purchased at the same price as whole crackers. However, it will never be necessary to purchase cracker-crumbs, if all scraps of bread are saved and dried. It is deplorable for a cook to throw them away. It shows that she is either too indolent ever to learn to cook, or tov ignorant of the uses of scraps of bread to be tolerated. Yet if the bread-crumbs, when pounded and sifted, are not very fine, they are not as good as the cracker-dust. Celery, parsley, thyme, summer savory, sage, etc., should all be prepared for winter use. After drying and pulverizing, put them in tin cans or glass jars. Celery and parsley are especially valuable for soups and gravies. If the fresh or dried vege- tables are not at hand, seeds, such as celery, carrot seed, etc.,can be substituted for a flavor- ing. Never use the white part of the peel of a lemon for flavoring. It is bitter. The little globules of oil in the surface of the rind contain all the pleasant flavor of the peel. It may be thinly pared off, avoiding the white pulp. Pro- fessional cooks, however, rub loaf-sugar over the surface. The friction breaks the oil-ducts, and the sugar absorbs the oil. It is called zest. The sugar is afterwards pounded fine for certain dishes, such as cream, meringues, etc., or it can be simply melted in custards and beverages. A roux is a mixture of butter and flour cooked. It is generally added, uncooked, to thicken a sauce or a soup, but the flavor is much better if it is first cooked, and the sauce or soup is added toit. Professional French cooks always manage it in thisway. When the butter is first brought to the boiling point, in a small stew-pan or cup, the sifted flour is sprinkled in, and both are mixed well together over the fire with an egg whisk, until the flour is well cooked ; a part of the sauce or soup is then stirred in until it be- comes smooth and thin enough to add to the main sauceor soup. If the rouris intended for a white sauce, it is not allowed tocolor; if for a brown sauce, it may color a little, or browned flour may be used. Bread-making is an art, and it requires experience to make good bread. One must know, first, how long to let the bread rise, as it takes a longer time in cold than in warm weather; second, when the oven is just of proper temperature to bakeit. Bread should be put in rather a hot oven. It is nearly light enough to bake when putin; so the rule for baking bread differs from that of baking cake, which should be put into a moderate oven at first, to become equally heated through before rising. As bread requires a brisk heat, it is well to have the loaves small, the French bread loaves being well adapted toa hotoven. After the bread is baked, the loaves should be placed on end (covered) at the back of the table until they become cool. (103 )

Page 102

WORK DEPARTMENT. A. B. GARTER : CROCHET. The detail of the work for the garter is shown in B., the finished garter in A. Itis worked with purse silk and a steel crochet hook. Make a chain of nineteen stitches. lst to 5th Rows: One double into each stitch of previous row, working into the back hor- izontal loop of the stitch. 6th Row: One double into each of five stitches, nine chain, pass over nine stitches, one double into each of five next stitches ; repeat from the tirst row until you have made the length required to go round the leg. For the edge :— Ist Row: One treble into a stitch, two chain, pass over two stitches, repeat all around; at the eorners work four instead of two chain. 2d Row: One double into each of five stitches, four chain, one double into the first, five chain, one double into the first, pass over three stitches, one treble into the next, four chain, one double into the first, pass over three stitches. Repeat from the beginning of the row. A ribbon is run through the holes in the cen- tre of garter and is tied in a bow in front. C. D. Poopie. This will be found a very acceptable present for young children, and may easily be made at little cost. The foundation for the dog may be of wood or of calico stuffed tightly with cotton-wool ; it is then covered with astrakan fur; it must be cut to imitate the shorn part of the poodle ; two glass beads are sewn in for eyes, and a ribbon is tied round the neck. It can be made of any size. E. FAsHionaBLE DReEssinc-TABLE. At this season of the year, when a house is fall of visitors, it is frequently necessary to arrange an impromptu dressing-table. A deal table is the foundation, which must be covered with colored glazed cambric. Over this is a cover of linen, ornamented with designs in cross- stitch worked with crewel or embroidery silk ; the spaces between the designs have the threads drawn to form an insertion. The border corres- ponds, and is edged with a handsome fringe. The drapery is arranged in plaits, with a cross- stitch design on each. A pretty circular cush- ion is placed in the front of the glass; this is of cambric, the color of the lining of table-cover, ornamented at the top with an appliqué design, edged with a flounce of lace, finished by a ruche of satin ribbon. The hairpin-cushion—a very

necessary article of a lady’s toilet-table—is a little basket filled by a cushion covered with knitting, and ornamented by a drape of em- broidered cloth. This same design for a table can be carried out in cretonne; it looks exceed- ingly pretty at a trifling cost. The cover van then be edged with a box-plaited quilling in- stead of fringe if desired. F. Tropny or CHILDREN’s Toys. Children’s toys no longer wanted for a season can be prettily arranged as a trophy on the walls of the nursery in the manner shown in our woodcut. <A stout hoop painted or stained black, white, or brown forms the outer frame, to which the various toys are fixed with bows of red woolen tapes. G. Work Par. These pails are excellent receptacles for either waste paper or fancy work. They are made of_ wood, any ordinary wooden pail answering the purpose, or an empty tobacco pail may be used, which can be purchased when empty for ten cents. They are painted some plain color, and decorated with hand-painting in some pretty de- signs, or they may even be ornamented with fine and prettily cut-out scrap pictures. Or they may be covered with plush or satin and orna- mented with a floral appliqué. They are usually lined with some bright colored wool or silk goods. H. Emery Cusnion. This cushion is made in the shape of a heart. Two pieces of cardboard are cut the required size, covered on the outside with plush and in- side with silk. The outside edges are button- holed around with gold-colored silk, with fancy stitches inside of the buttonholing. A bag of silesia covered with silk is made to fit inside the pieces of cardboard, and to come up higher at the top; it is filled with emery, and tied to that a pinked-out flap stands up above the cushion. This is ornamented with fancy stitches ; a loop of silk cord is attached to it. I, Waut-Pocket. This wall-pocket is made of the straw covers that come upon claret or champagne bottles ; it is ornamented with gay-colored satin ribbons and secured to the wall; it is then filled with different kinds of grasses, a bird’s nest and stuffed bird if it can be obtained. Autumn leaves and dried grasses of different kinds, how- ever, look very pretty arranged in it without any additional ornament. (104)

SU

Page 103

n. of rs ns th id mn v- at WORK DEPARTMENT. 105 J. Music on NewsparPer STanp, The panels of the lacquered wickerwork stand are covered with terra cotta-colored plush, on which pieces of figured Indian gauze are placed diagonally. The edgings of the panels can be made of gimp or braid, and finished with a crochet ruche on three sides. Pompons and ball fringes are fixed to the frame and corners, as the illustration shows. A similar stand can be made of wood, the parts so completely covered over with plusk that none of the foundation shows. CHRISTMAS TREE DECORATIONS. Christmastides are the greatest exclamation points in childhood’s history, and the Christ- mas Tree is a decided emphasis on the exclama- tions. Be it ever so humble, we maintain that every home which contains a child of years of understanding should have a Christmas Tree. Christmastide is a season when the home influence is particularly exerted ; self is ap- parently lost in thoughtfulness of the happiness of others, and every home circle that is not overshadowed by death—God pity them— should resound with gladsome, Oh’s, Ah’s, and Dear me’s, accompanied by merry smiles and ringing laughter. Years may come and go, heads become gray or bald, character grow purer or more dissolute, still the remembrance of the Christmas Tree at home in childhood’s days stands out as a bright picture never to be forgotten; and though shrouded by adversity or clothed with prosperity, the scene is recalled as occurring at a time of life when everything was swallowed up in complete and innocent happi- ness. Do not allow the opportunity to pass of forging a golden link that in some future day of severe trial may hold some one of your offspring secure until the storm of tempta- tione is past. Do not permit the excuse ‘‘ too much trouble’ to deter you; only remember the rich harvest it will result in. Do you plead expense as a reason, then read our suggestions and find that only an expense of labor, not money, is required. Gather your family about you and utilize the ideas of each member ; also make up your committees for Sunday-school and charitable societies, and prepare a treat for those too poor to obtain it without your assist- ance, and be assured that it will not be love’s labor lost. If you will exert yourself a little, you may produce with domestic manufacture remarkably handsome decorations. TO TRANSFER A PATTERN. We publish this month for the benefit of our subscribers, two pages of miniature designs for Christmas-tree ornaments, which may be readily enlarged to any moderate size by the use of a little instrument known as the Smithograph. This simple apparatus may be bought of the Smithograph Manufacturing Co., No. 912 Arch Street, Philadelphia, Pa. (see advertisement in front of book), and will serve always to trans- fer any design, picture, map, engraving, etc., to any material, with pen, pencil or crayon, en- larging the copy if desired. Should it not be convenient to purchase a Smithograph, or as known by some a pantograph, one can be man- ufactured out of four light flat sticks, such as are used in the hems of window blinds. These should be marked off into inches, like the sticks of the instrument shown in the cut of the advertisement beforé referred to, each inch be- ing supplied with a hole to accommodate the pegs which hold the sticks together. A change in the position of these pegs enlarges or reduces the copy as desired. The cut will show you how to put the sticks together. The left arm of the instrument is fastened with a pivot to a wide board or table ; the lower angle is supplied with a brass pointer or finely-sharpened peg with which totrace over the original design ; the upper angle moves on a little castor; the right hand arm contains the pencil firmly fixed in its place and resting upon the paper to which the design is to be transferred, the original being placed under the brass pointer. The work is done by moving the pencil with the eyes on the pointer, guiding the latter so that it will trace the lines of the pattern. All of the designs furnished by us can be easily transferred by a child of twelve. When enlarging the design, make the transfer on light-weight pasteboard, and cut it out afterwards with sharp scissors anda pen knife. It saves time to cover the pasteboard with colored, gilt or silver paper be- fore drawing the design, or to use old pasteboard boxes already covered with bright papers suit- able for a ground-work in executing the de- signs. ABOUT MATERIALS. Use all the fire-gilt paper (copper, steel, green, blue, red, and amber), gold and silver paper, spangles and tinsel which you can in manufacturing the ornaments. The plain col- ored papers, scrap pictures and lace bor- ders are very pretty, but will not produce the glittering effect which is most to be desired. You must have plenty of mucilage, and you may use gum tragacanth for fine work. Among your materials have tinsel of all colors, notably silver and gold ; colored papers ; gilt and silver papers ; fire gilt; lace and gilt borders; scrap pictures of assorted sizes ; half-length figures

Page 104

106 for ‘‘ fairies,’ etc.; tarlatan, and tissue paper ; plenty of light-weight cardboard ; bright ribbon for loops to hang up the ornaments, and any other faucy materials you can command, such as artificial flowers, lace, and isinglass paper. In making ornaments, you can contrive very pretty things by outlining such objects as a pair of scissors, a key, a feather, an arrow, a pair of compasses, a pickaxe, a hatchet, a ham- mer, a shovel and tongs, a pair of bellows, etce., and cutting them out of gilt-covered paste- board, ornamenting them to suit the fancy. <A very beautiful effect is produced by covering the papered cardboard with a coating of gum tragacanth or mucilage, and sprinkling it thickly with diamond dust. Those who live near a glass factory, where blown ware is man- ufactured, can readily procure ‘ blow-over,”’ the powdered glass waste, fold it up in news- paper and roll it with a rolling pin till it is re- duced to ‘‘ diamond dust.”’ done. This is very easily It can be handled with impunity, as the glass is so brittle that it is reduced to a perfect powder, and cannot cut the fingers. A very beautiful dagger is made with a silver blade and a gold hilt set with jewels cut out of fire- gilt. A diamond is very well simulated by a drop of sprinkled thickly with diamond dust. Acollectign of daggers, swords, scimitars, etc., is very showy. Arrows of gold and silver, tipped and feathered with fire-gilt are very effective. For heart, club, spade, and diamond patterns use a deck of playing cards from which the designs can be copied with the Smithograph. A red fire-gilt heart pierced by a golden arrow is a very striking design ; so is a moon with a profile face in it. Anowl perch- ed on the edge of a crescent is very pretty ; the owl may have red fire-gilt eyes and a frost- ing on its feathers. You can probably get an owl off of an advertising card. A chain of frosted silver stars, a large one in the middle and smaller ones arranged by gradation on either side, makes a handsome ornament for the top of the tree. You will find no difficulty in cutting out pretty crosses, anchors, canes, etc. The letters of the alphabet, brightly orna- mented, are very pretty, especially in German or old English text. OUR DESIGNS. The feet furnished with our patterns will be found invaluable for “‘fairies,’’ as any one, not an artist, will tell you. It is very difficult to cut feet without a proper pattern. These which we give can be arranged in a variety of posi- tions, one of which our cut suggests. They are sewed or pasted on the back of the tarlatan or tissue-paper skirts which are gathered into a rosette, a half-length fancy paper figure being mucilage WORK DEPARTMENT. |

placed in the centre. If no suitable fancy fig- ures can be obtained, cut out half-length figures in evening dress from Gopgy’s colored fashion plates. The skirts may be trimmed with tinsel tringe, spangled, plaited, pinked, or otherwise adorned to suit the fancy. ‘* Night’ and ‘‘ Morning’’ are two fairies dressed re- spectively in black and white tarlatan orna- mented with veils and silver and gold stars, The feet and legs may be adorned with fancy colored stockings, silver and jeweled buckles, The globe of gold fish nay be made with base and fountain of red fire-gilt, water of silver tinsel, globe of silver paper, and fish of gold. The fish may be traced separately and will serve for another design. Our little schooner may have sails of green fire-gilt, a hulk of gold, and masts of red, the sails and hulk being ornamented with flowers and gay borders, The sleigh may be cut out of blue fire-gilt bor- dered with gold on every edge and ornamented with scrap pictures; afrosting of diamond dust will vary the design where more than one sleigh is made. The urn which we give is very. pretty if made of terra-cotta-colored paper de- corated with black silhouettes either painted on or cutout of paper. It may also be ornamented with scrap pictures. In the sleigh, coach, and buggy the heads and shoulders of ladies and children may be pasted from the back with good effect. If you have no heads that are suitable, cut some out of Gopry’s colored fashion plates. The banner may be made of silk or paper, ornamented with a Maltese cross, a2 moon and stars, a white elephant or any other design. The stars and stripes may be represented on it very successfully. Shields similarly decorated are very showy, and there is no end to the variety of flags and banners which you can construct. These suggestions will he!p the inexperienced, we hope. Dé not let the design intimidate you; only bear in mind that you must use bright colors for your work and have as many pretty contrasts in one design as possible. For instance, in our semi- circular pendant, have the semicircle of red fire- gilt bordered with gold, the diamonds of green and the triangle of gold set with jewels. This principle, if carried out, will insure a fine effect. We append a list of other things to which space will permit us to make only a passing re- ference :— A triangle and other geometrical figures; a bell ; a horse-shoe ; a trident; a caduceus; a gypsy-kettle; a weight; a drum; a tambour- ine; a guitar or violin; notes of music; an easel; a palette; a crown; a sceptre; a wheel; a capstan; a ladder; a chain; a bird-cage; a Goddess of Liberty ; a chariot ; aspear, etc. etc.

Page 105

WORK DEPARTMENT. 107 HOW TO MAKE A BONBONNIERE. Take a strip of gilt paper fourinches long by three wide. On either end paste a strip of red fire-gilt half-an-inch in width, then a fine fringe of crimped tissue paper (pale green). Havea round stick three-quarters of an inch in diame- ter. Paste the gilt paper over this, lapping the lateral edges and taking care that it does not adhere to the stick. Slip the paper part of the way off the stick and gather up one end by tying it with a strong white thread, leaving the fringed part free. Remove all of the paper, stuff it with cotton to keep the shape and tie up the other end. ture. Decorate with a scrap pic- They can be filled with sugar-plums and ‘“‘crackers,’’? but for this purpose it is not ne- cessary. The ends may be varied indefinitely. A very showy bonbonniére is made of red and white striped paper with ends of blue decorated with gold stars and fringed with gold paper. Colored paper edged with gold and lace border- ing is very pretty. CORNUCOPLA. These are easiest made over a tin form which any tinsmith will make for a trifle. They should be lined with white paper, bordered with lace paper and a gilt edge, tipped with gold and decorated with picture medallions. A beautiful cornucopia has a moss trimming of tissue paper at the top and a tinsel tassel on the bottom. A very pretty effect may also be gained by festooning strings of pop-corn, gilded or silvered acorns gracefully over the tree—the latter are prepared by simply dipping them in sweetened water and sifting over them bronze or silver powder such as may be purchased at any sta- tioner’s. In a word the appearance and general effect of a Christmas Tree should be the same asa most genial smile. Of course it should not be all show, but like gifts accompanied by a pleasant smile so the presents from the Christ- mas Tree are clothed with peculiar interest to the little folks. SPECIAL OFFER. To any who have purchased Gopry’s Lapy’s Book for January and desire to continue for 1885, we will accept their subscription for the eleven months remaining, for $1.80; if you send at once this will entitle you to the premium engraving by sending the money direct to us. | fond of reading. A Few GiLimpses FROM A Few LETTERS OF SATISFIED SUBSCRIBERS. Rock Creek, O. Here’s my hand, let’s shake ; words fail to express my delight over the Nov. No. The frontispiece is beautiful, and every page is a gem sparkling with scintillating rays of thought color from gifted, cultured minds. How you can furnish so much for so little money is a mystery tomany of your readers.—M. P. W. Clayton, Ala. I have been a reader of Godey’s ever since childhood, and I hope you will believe me when I say that the magazine under your management appears better to me than I ever recollect it to have been before.— Mrs. A. B. W. Jersey City. I send my book to England, and my friends are delighted with it.—Mrs. H. M. B. Bureva, Ills. 1 like the magazine; am very Iam 76 years old; my in- come is limited, so I hesitated some time about renewing, but finally concluded to do so.— Mrs. J. M. W. Bridgeman, Mich. I have taken your maga- zine several years. I think it a splendid magazine, and can’t do without it. People here who are taking ’s want to change. I raised a club for that once. I will now raise a club for you.—Mrs. H. M. B. West Pawlet, Vt. Your magazine is very good; not useless, as is sometimes the case with other magazines. I should not like to do without the book.—Miss L. W. Hartford, Ky. I am delighted with my book ; everything in it is lovely.—Mrs. E. T. Johnstown, N. Y. I am a new subscriber, and though I have taken many others, I feel now that I have hit on the right one.—Mrs. W. B. V. V. Paris, Mo. I subscribed for your book, and ’*s so as to see which I liked. The lat- ter has been of little use ; never expect to take it again. Yours has given entire satisfaction ; | will renew when my time expires, and get other | subscribers for you.—Mrs. T. W. R. Bridgeport, Ct. Your book has arrived, and is a beauty.—Miss M. E. Germantown, Md. We are all delighted with the great improvement in Godey’s, both as re- gards stories and illustrations. Hope the book will meet with the success it deserves.—L. R. B. Pipeston, Minn. Dear Sister Godey, you are the first one of your sex proud of her age after passsing her 25th birthday. But it is not surprising, as your beauty and usefulness grow with your years.—Jas. B. Deckerstown, N. J. My not renewing sooner was through neglect. I think I could hardly get along without it. I think it superior toany other.—J. D.

Page 106

OUR ARM CHAIR. A HAPPY NEW YEAR. These words will come through key-holes, from behind closed doors, from up stairs and down stairs ; will be echoed by relatives, friends, and acquaintances, and re-echoed by servants and tradesmen. The bells that have pealed forth the wedding summons ; that have clanged funeral knells; that have clashed fire! fire! that have hurried tardy feet to school; that have bid prayerful souls to the sanctuary, will with one accord join the glad chorus, and ring forth ‘‘A Happy New Year.’’ Aye, and even the door-bells and the dinner-bells will join the refrain. The very atmosphere will seem per- meated with the salutation, and as we write the old Arm Chair fairly creaks with pleasure be- cause it will be the first to cordially call forth to its many thousand readers, A Happy New Year! This old Arm Chair is not an ordinary piece of furniture, as the present occupant is well aware. It takes great pride in the fact that it is the oldest article of the kind in American literature, and your young editor is very fre- quently reminded that it has acquired the faculty of expressing its dissatisfaction when displeased. Whether by some mystical law of evolution or transmutation it has become im- bued with the characteristics of former occu- pants (undoubtedly more worthy than the present one) we know not; suffice it to say that the present incumbent has not at all times been considered a worthy successor to his predeces- sors by the venerable old ‘‘ Arm Chair.’’ In the main, however, ‘‘Arm Chair’’ and occupant agree very well, and as the fortunes of the old magazine are being retrieved under the present management, there is every prospect that the new year will be a happy one. And as all happiness is reflex in its nature, we trust that our patrons will participate with us in the en- joyment of the good things in store. As we have before stated, we propose that the coming year shall be the brightest in the history of this magazine. Each department of the book has its supervisor, who is pledged to the most lib- eral and progressive policy. In the present num- ber we publish our two hundred dollar Prize Story, start a new serial, and present each of our readers with a beautiful imported Christmas card, We desire also tocall your especial atten- tion to the fine steel engraved frontispiece, ‘‘ Too much Play,’’ which is entitled to your consid- eration. Each subscriber with this number also receives a copy of our premium engraving, ‘*Sleeping Love,’’ for framing. In view of the many complimentary words from the press on this picture, we need not praise our own accom- plishments. The outline designs for Christmas- tree ornaments accompanied by full instruc- tions, the suggestions for interior decorations, under the head of In Holiday Garb, together with the brilliant array of stories, will certainly receive your highest commendation. It is not the policy of this magazine to waste its space in talking of the shortcomings of other publications who seem to think that saying cer- tain styles are proper makes them so. If their patrons are satisfied with second-hand fashion plates from fourth-rate publications, old cuts that very feebly illustrate the characters for which they stand, paper patterns that drive one to distraction to comprehend, it is no affair of Godey’s. month, and are acknowledged to be illustra- tions of the prevailing styles, notonly by a few obscure back-woods papers, but by the metro- politan journals of the whole country—while hundreds of our subscribers write of their en- tire satisfaction with our cut paper patterns. The Philadelphia Inquirer and Philadelphia Ledger express it tersely in saying :— ‘“*Godey’s is especially noticeable for what should be a distinguishing feature of every well-condueted magazine, viz., fresh, bright, interesting, and original.”’ Philadelphia Ledger: ‘‘A superb piece of textile engraving makes one of the opening de- signs in ‘‘ Godey’s’’ for December, in the pattern for Russian embroidery. It is difficult to believe that the showy surface is only the paper of the magazine-sheet, and not an actual bit of linen drawn work. The same skill in reproducing fabrics is shown in the colored fashion plates, and both together are works of art. Under Mr. Haulenbeek’s management the special features of ‘‘ Godey’s,’’ as a fashion magazine, are ex- tended in practical directions, and the depart- ments of decorative work, house building and housekeeping receive special attention. The ‘‘oldest family magazine in America’’ keeps pace with the step of the youngest in its con- stantly extending field.’’ The good work performed by many of our ad- miring readers, i. e., the recommending of the magazine and securing for us an extra subscriber is duly appreciated, and we trust that many more will do likewise ; the larger our list the greater (108 ) Our fashions are prepared each —s & —_ ao mi im i

Page 107

at en ng OUR ARM CHAIR. 109 will be the attractions presented in the maga- zine for your delectation. And now, hoping that the new year will dawn as the vista of a bright future wherein each succeeding year will be more happy than the last, we bid you a cordial ‘‘ Happy New Year.”’ FROM THE FOUR-QUARTERS. The advent of cholera in South America has naturally caused a panic. Cases have been dis- covered at Santiago, and at Lima the uprising of Caceres is not viewed with half the appre- hension that arises before this dread epidemic. Concerning the insurrection, advices say that Caceres’s infantry have mutinied because he can- not pay them, Bolivia having refused him as- sistance. His cause is apparently lost. On the other side of the world, the Egyptian war pro- ceeds with that surly manifestation of hostility which threatens to protract it indefinitely. The English have not yet commanded the means to earry on the warfare with a high hand. The Nile expedition proceeds slowly, and under the shadow of possible failure. The massacre of the gallant Colonel Stewart is now confirmed by letters from General Gordon, but the month has brought us few new incidents in this most weary war. The trouble at Yemen, in Arabia, grows in its serious significance and magnitude. A riot in India, headed by the Arabs, is a late excitement brought about by the Russian ad- vance on the frontier of Afghanistan. The Afghans have appealed to the English for pro- tection, and are waxing belligerent. In China, the French are prosecuting their designs with success, and have obtained a point where they can again talk of mediation. England has offered to undertake the settlement of the diffi- culty, and it is believed that this arrangement is acceptable to the ministry. At home, France is more comfortable. The cold weather has caused an abatement of the cholera, and inter- wal affairs are in a flourishing condition. In (termany, public interest centers largely around the coming Congo Conference, soon to be held in Berlin. No other news of importance has been placed on record, and the year closes auspiciously, without the occurrence of any great disaster. HORSFORD’S ACID PHOSPHATE is useful in dyspepsia. It gives the stomach tone and imparts vigor to the whole system. SARD. To tHE CoMPETITORS FOR Gopry’s $200 Prize: The story which appears in the introductory pages of this number of Gopry’s Lapy’s Book, ‘‘Mademoiselle’s Masquerade,’’ by Mary E. | we could keep back the wrinkles. Bradley (Post-office address, Box 35, Hudson, N. Y.), is the one which, at the recommenda- tion of the committee, has been awarded the prize. But in justice to the other competitors, we feel called upon to say that the general character of the stories submitted was such as to render a choice very difficult, as there were several which nearly approached the point of highest excellence. In adjudging ‘‘ Mademoi- selle’s Masquerade”’ worthy of the prize, we have been influenced by the consideration of the largest number of good qualities united in a single story. Many of the other MSS. con- tained special merits of a certain kind. One, for instance, showed dramatic power, another a finely descriptive style, athird, careful analysis, a fourth, elegant diction, and so on; but in none of them did we find a combination of as many good points as, in our estimation, are manifest in Mrs. Bradley’s story. We could, for instance, mention others that were more original, but they were not at the same time well sustained and subtle. There are many of the stories which we deem worthy of publica- tion, and these will appear from time to time in the magazine. Thanking you for the favor of your manu- scripts, We remain, cordially yours, THe CoMMITTEE. Philadelphia, Dec. 1, 1884. DO YOU DREAD WRINKLLES ? The death blow to youthful looks is the sure warning of age, which we would not dread if Palm Kos- meo will surely and positively prevent them and keep the skin smooth and never chap. My own personal use is proof, and I am happy to say to my thousand customers: Try it and you will never be without it. Mrs. C. Thomp- son, patentee of the Thompson Wave, 32 East Fourteenth Street, New York. Make no mis- take in the number.—Exchange. CATARRH CURED. A clergyman, after suffering a number of | years from that loathsome disease, Catarrh, after trying every known remedy without suc- cess, at last found a prescription which com- pletely cured and saved him from death. Any sufferer from this dreadful disease sending a self addressed stamped envelope to Dr. J. A. Lawrence, 199 Dean St., Brooklyn, New York, will receive the receipt free of charge. THE BEATTY ORGAN AND PIANO CO. The liberal and widespread advertising that has appeared of the Beatty organ has made it

Page 108

110 OUR ARM CHAIR. known to the majority of the people of the United States. Owing to a disastrous fire in 1881, and the want of sufficient capital, com- bined with a lack of business methods, Mr. Beatty failed ; and has been obliged to dispose of his factory—the largest and most complete of its kind in the world—to a company formed by his creditors, of which Mr. I. W. England, publisher of the New York Sun, is President, Mr. W. P. Hawden being his manager. The gentlemen composing the directors and stock- holders are well known business men, and it is understood that the company has ample capital to conduct the business on such a basis, that superior instruments can be furnished at mod- erate prices free from agents’ commissions. The first step of this company toward securing the public confidence, is to fulfill as far as possible all the obligations of Mr. Beatty, giving pre- ferences to the purchasers of organs and pianos whose goods are still undelivered. High-toned business methods of this character will certainly achieve for this new company the great success which they deserve. «>> > BOOK TABLE. Atmost A Ducuess. No Name Series. Boston: Roberts Bros. One vol., cloth, 302 pp. ; price, $1.00. Perhaps this book is a little more sensational than the average novel of the No Name Series, but it is not bad in its way. Leila Cavendish is engaged to an honest, homely fellow whom she doesn’t care for, when she meets a brilliant young French duke and falls desperately in love with him. There is the proper amount of re- morseful suffering and self-abnegation, and then the homely lover, John Chandos, discovers the state of his lady-love’s heart, releasing her forth- with in the most magnanimous way. Leila then becomes betrothed to the Duc de Wardes, and the opposition of the ducal family only hastens the event which they wish to avert—Leila’s marriage with Maxence. After this has been consummated, several years of happy married life follow, and the young couple live quietly in England. The young duke is then called to France, and his mother finds out that his English marriage has not been solemnized in such a way as to render it legal in France. She accordingly sets about to entrap her son into another alliance there, urging him to repudiate his English wife. By force of various circumstances, the weak young duke is lead into a second union, and Leila is deserted. Then follows a tragic pas- sage wherein both are miserable, and the death of the young duke is the only way out of the Leila then marries her faithful old lover, John Chandos, and the story ends in the usual way. situation. TureeE Visits To America. By Emily Faithful. One vol., 400 pp.; price, $1.50. Fowler & Wells Co., 753 Broadway, N. Y. The reader of this book need not fear invid- ious comparisons or unjust criticism. Miss Faithful has applied herself conscientiously to her self-imposed task of studying our society, our industrial methods and organizations, for the purpose of ameliorating the condition of poor and unfortunate English women, and in giving her views to the public she does not seek to gratify any personal motives, or force ‘‘ my impressions of America’’ on the public. Her courteous and intelligent treatment of the subject under consideration, suggesting as it does to the industriously inclined women, voca- tions according to their capabilities, will serve as a positive incentive for good, while her re- mark that ‘‘girls are girls in America as well as elsewhere,’’ is a fitting rebuke to Edmond Yates’s unjust criticism of ‘‘ An American Girl- in London,’’ some months since in an English periodical. Miss Faithful’s spicy remarks on such persons as Charles Sumner, Julia Ward Howe, Maria Mitchell, George W. Childs, John Taylor, the Mormon President, and many others that she met will be found decidedly interesting reading. Festivat Poems. Boston: Roberts Bros. One vol., cloth. 400 pp.; price, $1.25. This little volume will be appreciated not only for its fine selection of poems from the best authors at home and abroad, but also because the collection is classified under the headings, ‘*Christmastide,’’ ‘‘The New Year and Easter- tide,’’ thus constituting it a reference book of poetry suitable for the seasons indicated. Countess oF ALBANY. By Vernon Lee. Famous Women Series. Boston: Roberts Bres. One vol., cloth, 303 pp. ; price, $1.00. A life like that of the Countess of Albany affords ample material for a brilliant biograph- ical sketch. It would behard for even a clumsy pen to rob the incidents of such a career of their pregnant interest; and, on the other hand, the charm of a really fine style is an added grace of high importance. Vernon Lee, the author of this volume, is a writer who has become well known as the author of certain finished essays on men and books in the English reviews. For our American public this present work will make her favorably known to many new ad- mirers. It is not only that the life of this famous woman is sketched with such effective- ness, but it is illuminated by side-lights thrown

Page 109

———— | old | the iful. r & vid- Miss y to aty, for . of in eek my he lv st se 3, ’ of 1s iv h- y OUR ARM CHAIR. upon the times and politics of a period most interesting to the student of history and litera- ture. One could hardly find a more interest- ing book in the series. Ovrown Set. A novel, by Ossip Schubin, trans- lated from the German, by Clara Bell. New York : Wm. 8. Gottsberger. One vol., cloth, 280 pp.; price, 90 cents. In spite of its somewhat frivolous title, this book has acharacter worth considering. Zinka, a beautiful German girl of the middle class, is throw by chance into a highly aristocratic circle. She is not regarded with much favor naturally, but nevertheless two counts, Sempaly and Truyn, fall deeply in love with her. Sempaly woos and wins her, but Truyn has already married (for a consideration) and cannot think of her. Zinka loves Sempaly, but he, with a cowardly fear of offending his family and friends, by a mésalliance, persuades her to a secret be- trothal, foolishly thinking that delay in declar- ing his intentions may help his case. After he and Zinkaare engaged, in a thoughtless moment, he compromises her by taking a moonlight stroll with her in the garden, contrary to the propriety of his ‘*‘set.’? Then he goes away to see his elder brother, leaving Zinka to face a scandalous story which some one had started about her. He hears it, but does not hasten at once to clear her reputation, lingering to further his own ends, which his cowardly delay really defeats. Hts brother is more incensed at his unmanly treatment of Zinka than by the fact of his marrying beneath him. After much tardiness, Sempaly returns at last and declares his engage- ment to Zinka, but Cecil, Zinka’s brother, meets him before the announcement has reached Zinka’s friends, slaps his face, and a duel fol- lows in which Cecil is killed. Zinka then re- nounces Sempaly, of course, and Truyn, who has become a widower, marries her at last. The strong point of the story is made in the demon- stration that Zinka and ker brother, belonging to the middle classes, bore themselves much more honorably than the representative of the aristocrats who thought so much of position. This story has a distinctly English flavor in spite of its German authorship, and is rather new in its way. Tue CREOLES oF Louisiana. By George W. Cable. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. One vol., 320 pp.; price, $3.50. The popularity of this story makes special comment unnecessary. If anything could - be added, the publishers have certainly succeeded in doing so by presenting it in such elegant and substantial form—printed on heavy-toned paper, profusely illustrated with fine cuts, and bound 111 ina unique and attractive cover. As a holiday token and to Mr. Cable’s many admirers the book will certainly commend itself. Stories Iv Ruyme ror Horipay Time. By Ed- ward Jewitt Wheeler. TD[lustrated by Walter Satterlee. New York: Funk & Wagnalls. One vol., cloth, 102 pp. This is a book that will particularly delight the heart of the small boy, as he always delights in the humorous, and especially so when it is in ballad form. The book is nicely produced with illustrated cover, heavily lettered and ornament- ed in gilt. One stanza from its contents will suf- fice to whet the appetite for more. Schoolboy, tired of being questioned by the master, says : ‘¢ So I think it’s about my time, I do, To ask a question, or so, of you. Can you tell what ‘ phen-daubs can. Can you say all off by heart The ‘onery, twoery, hicory ann ?’ Or tell ‘commons’ and ‘alleys’ apart ? Can you fling a top, I would like to know, Till it hums like a bumble bee ? Can you make a kite, yourself, that will go Most as high as the eye can see, Till it sails and soars, like a hawk on the wing, And the little birds come and light on the string ?”’ > means? I By Edward §S. Ellis. Phil- One vol., cloth, NED on THE RIVER. adelphia: Porter & Coates. 300 pp. As a writer of boys’ books, Edward Ellis has made for himself a name of note. This new story, issued in the popular ‘Boy Pioneer Series,’’ is in his usual vein, and will doubtless spread his fame still wider among the young folks. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS. The following received too late for review this month :— On a Maroix. New York: Fords, Howard & Hurlbut. One vol., cloth, 416 pp- Tue WaGoner or tHe ALLEGHANIES. By T. Buchanan Read. J.B. Lippincott. Onevol., cloth, gilt-edge, 74 pp. : price, $1.50. Seven Aces oF May. Shakespeare. One vol., cloth, gilt-edged ; price, $1.59. Dorcas: DAvGHTER OF Faustina. By Nathan G. Kouns. New York: Fords, Howard & Hul- bert. One vol., 255 pp.; price. $1.25. From GREENLAND’s Icy Mountatys. By Bishop Foster. Philadelphia: Porter & Coates. Dairy Streneru ror Dairy Ngeps. By Mary W. Tileston. Boston: Roberts Bros. ; price, $1.00. Our Youne Fotx’s Josepuus. By Wm. Sheppard. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. ; price, $2.50.

Page 110

RECIPES. Frencu Rotts. Ingredients.—One and a half pints of milk, Half a pint of yeast, Quarter of a pint of warm water, Half an ounce of salt, Two ounces of butter, Flour to make a thick batter. Take the milk and let it get quite warm, but not hot; stir into it the yeast, and add enough flour to make a thick batter. Put it into a pan covering it over, and keep it in a warm place. When it has risen as high as it will, add the warm water, butter, salt, and enough flour to make your dough not toostiff. Let it stand for three-quarters of an hour, and it will be ready to make into rolls. Let them stand till they have risen, and bake them in a quick oven. Piarn Rouis with WATER. Ingredients.—Three and a half pounds of flour, One dessert spoonful of salt, Two tablespoonfuls of yeast, Half a pint of warm water. Mix the salt with the flour, make a deep hole in the middle, stir some warm water into the yeast, and pour it into a hole in the flour; stir it with a spoon just enough to make a thin batter, and sprinkle some flour over the top. Cover the pan and set it in a warm place for several hours. When it is light add half a pint more of lukewarm water, and make it, with a little more flour, into a dough. Knead it well for ten minutes, then divide it into small pieces, and knead each separately. Make them into round cakes or rolls, cover them, and set them to raise about an hour and a half. Bake them, and, when done, let them remain in the even, leaving it open for about ten minutes. Potato CROQUETTES. Ingredients.—Six potatoes, A piece of butter the size of an egg. Three teaspoonfuls of minced parsley, One and a half teaspoonfuls minced onion, White of egg, Breadcrumbs, Pepper and salt. Rub the potatoes, which have been boiled, through a sieve, add the ingredients, roll into balls, and, when cold, dipin the white of an egg, and cover with breadcrumbs, well seasoned, ‘Dor fry in boiling lard. Ham OMELETTE. Ingredients.—Two tablespoonfuls minced ham, Two eggs, A breakfast cup of milk, A heaping teaspoonful of parsley, The sarhe quantity of onion. Beat the eggs well, stir all together. Pour into a small frying pan that is hot, and has a piece of butter melted in it. Stir until it begins to set. When cooked hold before the fire to brown, but do not let it get hard. In this way the omelette has not to be folded, but ought to be thick. Serve. Friep Meat CaKEs. Ingredients.—Raw meat, Seasoning and onion, Breadcrumbs, igg and dripping. Chop lean raw meat as you would for sausage ; any meat may be used for this dish, but it is particularly nice of beef, and the finest por- tions need not be used. Season with salt, pep- per and onion ; shape into flat cakes, dip the cakes in egg and breadcrumbs, and fry in drip- ping. Drain on a strainer; have ready a dish of nicely mashed potatoes, on which put your beef cakes, and serve. CHEESE Pyrrs. Ingredients.—Three ounces of butter, One gill and a half of milk, Three ounces of flour, Six eggs, Seasoning, Three quarters of a pound of ’armasan cheese. Put the butter and milk in a stewpan over the fire, stir them together with a wooden spoon. Directly it boils gradually add the flour, and continue stirring until it separates from the sides of the pan, forming a ball of paste, then add by degrees the eggs well beaten, the cheese and seasoning. When thoroughly mixed, make the paste up into little balls no larger than a pigeon’s egg, and fry them in hot lard ; it must not be boiling or they will be too dark a color; they take a very short time to fry, and should be a light golden brown. Let them drain on paper for a minute or two before the fire, and serve in pyramid on a folded napkin garnished with parsley. Haif this quantity will make a small dish. (112)

Page 111

Page 112

THE LOUISE HOME, WASHINGTON, D. C. © M,. bi 7 lente? , ZA Ss Z é V4 / Y yew V2

Page 113

a 2 S a S'. a ape a ————==s = + id aa ee [SS at 2 mi z © ¢ D S ° 4 # s > Q a Z 9 g ora Cost e3ed veg) *

Page 114

GODEYS FASHIONS. FOR DESGRIPTION SEE FASHION_DEPARTMENT.

Page 115

Page 116

ao

Page 117

mr \\) RAN ror ¢ YAN) ~ AVA \\A\ AVA RANAESS UNAATAASA NANAY Y) - -O n= Y) . Lin in \ I, Ga LQ ro rr oO

Page 118

Page 119

a ee ee ee Jit Aduns-

Page 120

Page 121

| : : : ' é

Page 122

MMe SOO —_— MMMM MMMM! WANA ARQ —/ NN Pe ly Uff} HOY)” iy ithe 4y For description see Fashion Department. jy, Yitton YEE ff . lly, y j y Z WY U3 7 i J JJyjwwF". hy Yj) dtl Yyyy ddd WI Wu) ——— tts GZ oe, Z y SZ, ZZ Li aad anaes a=. mans celia OO OO MN Ne IL Sa he A MM OG ttle ttt LG ALE DEE tia AA, AAA a LLPAMKANES, aac NEA AEE ALP AAEM gh AS ADD DNR ss WSs, OZ SERRE AEA AM RA Kb ey Pi Khe, aes

Page 123

: “ig i ae. SaaS ety ak 38%: Let $/ SAP aa Ff " E o = a & a 4 a © © a i=] °o 3 F a= | my {s) - saan ht;

Page 124

For description see Fashion Department.

Page 125

————- + Fig. 26. 149, For description see Fashion Department.

Page 126

For description see Fashion Department.

Page 127

\ SS S om CG W Wr SNS AY WY) a o a b& g a a ve 8 2 = 2 x le. @ o a ei ° S j =) 8 =

Page 128

Fig. 36. Fig. 37. Fig.38 Fig. 35. Fig. 34. For description see Fashion Department. Sy 152.

Page 129

oe "98 ‘31g For description see Fashion Department.

Page 130

wij AFB naa For description see Work Department,

Page 131

For description see Work Department.

Page 132

me, Queen’s Lace Handkerchief Waltz.

| < ow: eae alii Pee! ET Sis J ia _] i 6m - , PLA ia 1 aoa ia ee ==} — 1 ———_t+ o—_ +

ess =i Ses: ere

ste

Published in sheet form, 30 cts., by WM. H. BONER & CO., agts. No. 1102 Chestnut Street, Phila.

Page 133

a QUEEN’S LACE HANDKERCHIEF WALTZ. 20

Page 134

VELVE TEEN . a :

| -—___— Godey’s Lady’s Book, Sept. ’:4, says: * * ® To imitate a Genoa silk veivet so closely that only an expert can detect the difference ix rather difficult. The Arcudia Velveteen does this, however. Besides, its durability ani stylish appearance have made it a great favorite with ladies. The woven broche, combined with old material, is very effec- tive in brightening up a cos- tume. For these advantages, and for its rich coloring and variety of shades, we must place the Arcadia above all other velveteens These velveteens are also useful for children’s costumes, as they stand auy amount of hard wear and rough usage.

FOR WINTER COSTUMES. The great popularity of ARCADIA VELVETEEN and WOVEN BROCHE over all other goods for ladies’ costumes is, that it combines, in a greater degree than any other, the following qualifications, which are an absolute ne- cessity in all gouds that are applied to the use of ladies for winter dresses: First, WARMTH—the texture being very fine and elusely woven. Second, STRENGTH— the durability of the fabric being superior to any other known make of velveteen. Third, APPEARANCE—the finish of these goods being so superior that when made into a gar- ment, it requires an expert to detect them from Genoa silk velvet.

>REMEMBERcxK eC, QC BR \Y/ 5K ZC va 2 ly el a ~~) ¢ _ :