Godey's Magazine 1889-12: Vol 119 Iss 714

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VoL. CXIX. No. 714. ODEYS | ADYS BROOK. PHILADELPHIA, DECEMBER, 188g.

The Fires of Mule. A CHRISTMAS STORY. BY MAX VAN DER WYDE, f UNT AMY!” Flossy shout- ‘¢From Mr. ed, as she burst into the | Pus Langdon,’’ A room with her apron VE Se ditiy Y} ie said Flossy, fullof Hospital doll hepa’ 27m); dumping her babies and toys of various ‘3 mii ® f: H apron load kinds. ‘« Just see what Be gr \ 2 ff « WU down alongside Mr. Langdon has given Vs (eee Ps ip of a Christmas me !”” Pt See SMF box which the She held up a 4 .. = : girls were pack- beautiful piece Ve) BON SS i, ing with cast- of holly laden & PS mi off clothing, withscar- ; ASS ‘2g vee) books and toys let ber- iS Z a =v) for the Child- ries, and iS ‘ae Jean ren’s Hospital. being eX : AM | ‘«Is Mr. city girls, Bernice and Amy both gave voice to an ecsta- Kae SARA Re r »-3) 2 tilly tic ««Oh!” . ie” > Bo ‘ alt plied on ; ‘Why, I was i v7 dpe! UO oS ay ai her own own town this (\« Lfy)) my canal i ay WA, morning and I A\ i: Ne tndly oo eee =. INNRA\ — bit, _. Fai a Ri, NOARRA sea FE Wy BY NN oh it,’ sai m NWP AA? pe .. \NA VY P| eer 10 tha ‘not like that xt ye y V7, Ae MARY Flossy! any rate. There 47 PAS, Say. eee!) i) Those were some little F@ \ =" ee < yf dolls are withered red berries 43 sx er Ur, not to go that were not holly @2e = wee of MEAN G7! 2A in there. berries at all, and “w=” = Se 1 1 want a few frost-bitten leaves = ben. 4 ff ‘W the books first.” tied into ugly little wreaths VS Fa » **Heis down stairs that were about as graceful as a Sy Gy Z £ \i, muffin-ring " A Al announced, abandon- in Where did you say you got 4 ing the dolls to pin’the it?” said Bernice, rathersharply. sprig of holly on her

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462 shoulder. ‘‘ That is what I came to tell you.” ‘‘Then why didn’t you tell us right away?’’ said Amy crossly. Bernice got up off the floor where she had been on her knees packing, and her face grew quite stern. ‘*T am not going down stairs, Amy! ”’ she said. ‘* You needn’t ask me.’’ ‘‘Nonsense! You must go down. Edith will think it. very strange.”’ ‘* You might have told me he was com- ing!” ‘¢My dear!” cried Amy. ‘‘ How was I to know it? Cousin Rorie’s movements are as uncertain as the weather.”’ ‘‘He’s got a sleigh down sstairs,”’ Flossy volunteered; ‘‘a regular Kriss Kingle sleigh, all full of bundles.’ Amy glanced at Bernice. Just then Mrs. Lloyd’s voice -was heard in the hall. ‘*Amy!” she called. ‘* Why don't you and Bernice hurry? Rorie’s horses won’t stand.”’ ‘*Bernice, you must go!’’ said Amy hurriedly. ‘*To ride—with him? Never!” ‘« He’s going totake you somewhere to get holly and mistletoe, and a lot of things for the church,’”’ Flossy disclosed. ‘‘Take me, too, Aunt Amy—won’t you ?” Amy did not reply. She went down stairs alone and sawher cousin. Bernice would not stir. When she came back Bernice was sitting in a rocking-chair with the placidity of a sphinx. ‘« Well !’’ said Amy impatiently; ‘‘ what do you want me totell him? You are awfully silly, Bernice! I’m sure Rorie has forgotten all about it, or else, I have no doubt, he is as much ashamed of it as you are.”’ ‘IT have got a woclly sheep, Aunt Amy,”’ Flossy broke in. ‘It is quite good, only it hasn’t any tail. I have got a rubber baby you can have, too. It won’t whistle, but mamma says it’s all the better for that. There are some tin soldiers, and a wash tub and a rolling pin, I ‘¢ There, there !’’ cried Amy nervously. ‘¢Run away, child! Bernice, are you coming or not?”’ Flossy cleared out in good time, but, THE FIRES OF YULE. for a few moments, Bernice continued to tap her foot on the floor and say nothing Her face was flushed. Two bright rej spots burned on her cheeks. ‘*If I had known this, Amy,” she bury forth, ‘‘I would not have come. Yq know why I don’t care to meet Rorie— Mr. Langdon, I mean! It is ten yeas since I have seen him—just think of it! I was only fifteen and he was twenty. 4 precious pair of fools we were, too!” ‘* All boys and girls are fools at that age,’’ said Amy patronizingly. ‘I was myself. I suppose you both fancied you were in love, and now that you have found out differently, you are ashamed of ~ “<A man does not mind such things,” said Bernice, ‘* but a woman—it is al. ways a mortification to think that there is someone who is not and never will be your husband, someone who has won from you the privileges of alover. Amy!” she cried in a passion of shame. ‘‘If] had a daughter of my own, I would bring her up in the French fashion. She never should see her lover alone until she was safely married.’ Amy burst out laughing. ‘*I should like to see the American girl who would submit to that!’’ she said, buttoning up her coat. ‘‘ Here, Bernice! Put your wraps on. You must come. It is all for the Church you know, and—” *€ Amy !”’ called Mrs. Lloyd impatient- ly. ‘* What on earth are you doing ?” ‘Yes, Edith! In aminute! Come, Bernice.”’ ‘¢Well!’’ said her friend desperately; “if I must—” They came down together, and Roder- ick Langdon stopped poking the fire, which Mrs. Lloyd had graciously allowed him todo, to look at Miss Doane. When he saw her he started. ‘‘Good Heavens !’’ he cried sotto voce. ‘¢Is that Bernice—that beautiful woman? She was a pretty girl, I know, or you might say sweet, rather, with a kind ofa frou-frou look about her. But now—”’ He rose and bowed. Mrs. Lloyd had presented them as though they had never met. Bernice merely glanced at the tall, broad -shouldered figure and went on but toning her gloves in a nervous way, while the spots on her cheeks glowed like scarlet.

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THE FIRES OF YULE. “Tt was real good of you to come, Cousin Rorie!’’ Amy said graciously. ‘‘I hope you know where we can get a lot of evergreens. ‘The ladies of the Guild say the Church will look quite bare this year, unless there are some private donations.” ‘«] have sent a wagon on ahead of us,”’ he said lightly. — carry off the entire forest. ‘¢We shall probably You don’t 463 ago that seemed! Bernice remembered that it was sunset and that the snow was tinted like 4 sea-shell, while the faint shadows of the naked elms lay across their path. Langdon remembered it,too ! He could see Bernice now as she looked then, with some soft white fleecy thing wound around her head and neck; one hand was resting on his arm—a little ‘‘ THEY HAD WALKED THIS WAY FOR A MILE OR SO.”’ know what a woodsman Iam, Amy.”’ “‘T should like to see you chop down a tree!’ she said, smiling. Bernice looked up involuntarily and met the eyes of her old lover. They both remembered one day before Christmas ¢oming across the old church yard and back by the way of Teynham woods, where the Scotch firs grew. What ages white-mittened hand which he held un- der the pretext of keeping it warm. They had walked this way for a mile or more in quest of a Christmas tree for the Sun- day School Room. Langdon sighed when he thought howeasy it was then to swing an axe, and level the tree that Bernice pointed out to him! ‘¢ There is one thing I want you todo,”

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464 said Mrs. Lloyd, breaking in uncon- sciously upon this retrospect. ‘‘I want you to get me a nice yule log for the li- brary fire. The yule log has a charm, you know. It brings joy and happiness at Christmas-time.”’ ‘Certainly, Edith !’’ said Langdonas he stepped out the front door. ‘* You shall have a whole log-cabin.”’ The jingling of the sleigh-bells accom- panied Bernice’s thoughts as they whirled away, out of the city limits to the woods, where holly and mistletoe grew in such profusion. Langdon talked to her agree- ably yet formally. Never once did he betray a remembrance of their previous acquaintance, save when he leaned over and tucked the fur robe around her. ‘« Are you warm enough, Bernice ?’’ he asked in a matter-of-fact way, and did not even notice what he had said. The woods were beautiful and Amy was in ecstasies. They found the wagon there waiting. ‘* How lovely this is! ’’ said Bernice as they got out of the sleigh andstood for a '?? few moments in the crisp, frosty air. ‘I did not know mistletoe grew around here.”’ ‘*Lot’s of it!” said Langdon, point- ing to some boughs hanging froma neigh- boring tree. ‘It is not quite like the English mistletoe, you see. The berries are smaller, and there are not so many of them; but it is very pretty and itis gen- uine mistletoe. Half that issold in New York as coming from England, grows right here.” ‘¢ It is a curious thing, isn’t it?’’ Ber- nice observed, as she and Amy walked under a tree on which a beautiful piece was growing. ‘‘It seems to thrive on air, when the old tree itself is forced to hi- bernate.”’ They were both standing together ‘‘under the mistletoe,’’ and Langdon, who was near, took in the situation at a glance. A merry twinkle came into his brown eyes. Amy was his cousin, and Bernice—before she knew it he had kissed them both ! Bernice’s face grew white and red again. ‘¢Rorie, you impudent fellow!’ Amy cried. ‘* How dare you!”’ ‘¢ Well!” he said, glancing audaciously at Bernice’s angry face; ‘‘ you were THE FIRES OF YULE. standing there under the mistletoe, and it would have been very queer, you know, if I had not exercised my prerogative, You could not ask a man to forego such a precious opportunity.” ‘«T have halfa mind to box your ears,” said Amy. ‘* What will Bernice think of you ?” ‘‘If Isaid I was sorry, it would be a lie,’’ said Rorie coolly. Bernice moved quickly away. She could not trust herself to say anything, she was so angry, hurt and mortified. ‘‘Don’t mind him, Bernice, dear,” said Amy soothingly; ‘‘ He can behave very badly when he has a mind to.”’ Rorie looked at her with his merry eyes half full of apprehension. ‘‘Don’t be cross,’’ he pleaded. was only a joke, you know.” Bernice bit her lips. There was a hol- ly bush near and she began picking little sprigs unmindful of the thorns that pricked her so cruelly. “‘ You have done it now,” said Amy to her cousin in an undertone, and Rorie Was wise enough to let her alone. The work of gathering greens went forward the more quickly because there was a studied silence among the party. Mrs. iJoyd’s yule log was purchased at a neighboring farm-house—the trunk of a lately deposed oak. ‘‘We mustn’t forget Flossy’s Christ- mas tree,’ said Amy. ‘Poor child! She deserves a great big one. She has given away half her possessions to the Hospital children.’ ««T have picked out a beauty for her,” said Langdon. ‘‘ Here, Ben! give me the axe. I’m going to see if my h. 1d has lost its cunning.’’ ‘‘Woodman, don’t spare that tree! said Amy laughing. ‘‘ Take off yout overcoat, Rorie! You can’t chop trees in an English ulster.” ‘«Never mind! Just wait and see!” He swung the axe gaily over his shoulder and the ringing blows soon made the young tree totter. ; ‘‘ Why, I believe you can do it !’” said Amy approvingly as the tree fell, but im the same instant Langdon staggered back with an exclamation of pain. ‘«Lor’, sir!’’ cried Ben in_ horror. ‘¢ You ain’t cut yerself?”’ “lt

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THE FIRES OF YULE. A gush of blood that dyed the snow be- trayed the truth before Langdon, sinking down on the ground, said faintly : «I’m afraid I have.”’ Amy uttered a scream of terror when she saw the blood spouting from a gash in Langdon’s leg. ‘Ben!’ he said weakly; ‘‘ get the nearest doctor or I will bleed to death.”’ «Qh, Rorie!’’ Amy cried wringing her hands. ‘‘ What shall we do? Does it hurt you very much ?”’ h He was growing very white now, and Bernice sprang forward with a sudden ap- preciation of the danger. ‘«‘Give me your shawl, Amy!’’ she cried as Ben sprang into the sleigh. ‘Quick, tear it in strips like that. We must stop this bleeding right away.” Bernice’s hospital work had not been for nothing. In a few moments she had put a tourniquet on Langdon’s leg, and the blood ceased to flow—only a little ugly red ooze was visible. He had sunk back feebly and Amy was holding his head in her lap. ‘You would make a good doctor,’’ he said faintly as he met Bernice’seyes. The anger was all gone from her face now. ‘‘ Don’t be frightened. If Ben gets there in time—”’ He closed his eyes. ‘‘He has fainted, Bernice!’’ cried Amy. ‘Oh, what shall we do?’”’ ‘Sit still !’? said Bernice promptly. ‘* Don’t move on any account.” She knew he would do very well for awhile. It was three-quarters of an hour when Ben came with a doctor. Langdon had opened his eyes again. ‘* Well, sir!’’ said the physician when he had made the necessary ligatures. ‘‘What were you trying to do? Chop your leg off? You were lucky to have this young lady here, I can tell you! If it had not been for this ’’— he held up the tourniquet—‘‘ you would have been tuning your harp by this time.’’ ‘“‘Ben,”’ said Amy nervously; ‘ you bring all the things home. Doctor, you must drive home with us?” _ “Certainly, certainly !” said the physi- clan, ‘The sooner we get there the better, too.”’ Langdon had to be put to bed at once. The cut in his leg was aterrible one. One 465 artery was severed and a score ot aangers threatened to follow in the train of the accident. It was two days before Christmas when the accident happened. On Christmas eve Flossy’s tree was lighted and Mrs. Lloyd had a children’s party. Langdon could not come down, of course, but he would not have it postponed. As he lay there in bed he could hear the happy children’s voices as they laughed and shouted around thetree. The odor of the pine came floating in through the half-open door. Hecould hear Amy at the piano playing the Mother Goose quadrilles, and the children singing all out of tune, but none the less gaily, ‘¢ Mary, Mary, quite contrary.”’ ‘<I don’t wonder Charles Dickens wrote such beautiful things about the Christmas tree,’’ Langdon mused, as he lay there looking into the wood fire that was blazing cheerily onthe hearth. There was no light in his room save that ruddy glow, and yet it was warm and pleasant. Langdon sighed. There was a tap on his door. ‘¢Can I come in?” said Bernice, and Langdon lifted himself eagerly to greet her. ‘‘T have brought yousome ice cream,”’ she said, setting the little tray down on the edge of the bed. ‘‘ The doctor said you could have it. Flossy sent you this,”’ she added with a smile as she held upa candy reindeer. ‘‘Of course you won’t eat that, but you can have it in bed with you if you like. Flossy seemed to think it would comfort you.’’ ‘*It is very sweet of her, I’m sure!”’ said Langdon, glancing from the toy to Bernice who stood in the full glow of the fire. ‘* What a pretty gown that is you have on!’’ headded. ‘* You look lovely, Bernice.”’ She drew back a little and glanced down at the soft folds of the white dress she wore and at the downy bands of snowy fur that adorned it. ‘‘T am glad you like it,’’ she said. ‘* But aren’t you going to eat your ice cream ?”’ ‘«Sit down and talk tome,”’ he plead- ed. ‘*I—I want to ask you something.’’ Bernice obeyed. ‘‘I_-I do want to know, if you have

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466 forgiven me ?’’ he went on; but she made no reply. ‘I am sorry I offended you.” Bernice kept smoothing the white fur about her wrist, without a word. ‘*T don’t think you ought to be so hard on me,”’ he said half plaintively. ‘¢ Why will you insist upon my saying anything about it?” she said. ‘‘I am sorry for you, and I do not want to be unkind, but I cannot tell you what isn’t true. I have not forgiven you down in THE FIRES OF YULE. as that tome!’’ she burst forth, and the angry tears started from her eyes. ‘It ig mean of you! No gentleman would do it!” ‘«Bernice!’’ he said. ‘I did no mean that! I swear, I had no such ay idea! ”’ He almost sprang up in his eagerness, but Bernice had rushed out of the room, and sped along the hall to her own little chamber. An hour afterwards, Amy came ‘“WHY, BERNICE, DEAR! WHAT AILS you?” my heart, and I~I don’t think I ever can.”’ ‘* Well,’’ said Langdon, disconsolately, ‘*I know I had no business to do it, but somehow I could not resist the tempta- tion. I wish’’—he looked up into the fair face beside him—‘‘I wish you would be as lenient with me as you were once, Bernice ! ”’ Her face flushed suddenly. She looked at him in mingled anger and astonishment. ‘*You have no right to say such a thing in search of her, and found her in her wrapper, lying on the couch, weeping bitterly. ‘‘Why, Bernice dear!’’ shesaid gently. ‘¢ What ails you?”’ ‘‘Tam going away to morrow!’’ Ber- nice sobbed passionately. ‘‘I will not stay in the house with Rorie Langdon another day.”’ ‘¢Bernice!’’ said Amy, rather sharply. ‘¢ You are growing positively morbid on this subject.”

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THE FIRES OF YULE. «Qh, it is all very well for you to talk! You are his cousin. But you know, he would not have dared to do it, if he had any respect for me. I have no doubt, he will boast of it to his friends. He has, probably, told everybody about— about me, already !’’ ‘¢Rorie is not so mean as all that, Ber- nice!” ‘He is mean enough to cast it all up in my face. Yes! that is what he did, to- night. Oh, the shame of it all is unen- durable! Don’t talk tome, Amy! Iam going away.”’ «Not on Christmas morning ?”’ “Yes! I would goto-night, if I could.’ Amy gave up. Someone was calling her to play a Virginia reel, and she left Bernice crying herself into a head-ache onthe couch. The poor girl was in a terrible state. ‘‘Oh, how I hate myself!’’ she said savagely. ‘‘To think that, after all, I am fool enough, to think of him twice! I thought it was all over, long ago; but I cannot help it! The old days have come back again, and—and I love him more than ever!”’ The music down-stairs kept jingling on till after tea. Then she heard the children going home. Their merry voices were still heard echoing through the frosty air: ‘* Merry Christmas, Flossy! Merry Christmas, Mrs. Lloyd and Miss Amy! We have had lots of fun!” There was a tinkle-tinkle of sleigh- bells, a crunching of snow under the horses’ feet, good-nights were exchanged, and the clock in the church-tower struck eleven. Bernice got up then and packed her things. The next morning, in spite of all they could do, she declared her intention of going home on the very first train. ‘You mustn’t think of it!’? Amy in- sisted. ‘‘Rorie has a high fever, this morning, and Flossy was taken sick in the night. I knew she would be with all that fruit-cake. Edith sat up half the night with her. You can’t go away and leave us in this plight.’ Bernice hesitated. ‘‘ There comes the doctor now!”’ said Amy. “I will wait to hear what he says,” Bernice conceded. 467 Langdon was worse, it seemed. ‘¢ His temperature is very, very high,’’ said the physician, gravely. ‘‘I don’t like this at all. He will need the most careful nursing. There ought to be some one with him all the time.” Amy glanced at Bernice. ‘¢You will stay, won’t you?” she pleaded. ‘‘None of us know anything about surgical cases, and you have had so much experience.”’ Bernice winced. ‘¢ Yes !’’ she said after some hesitation, ‘*T will stay—till Flossy is better.”’ Langdon was very ill that day—ill and delirious. He did not know Bernice when she came and sat beside him. He talked incessantly. ‘¢ Tell her to come back !’’ he said. ‘‘I didn’t mean anything. I want Bernice —not that Bernice! I want the other Ber- nice who used to love me.”’ A dry sob came up in Bernice’s throat. She reached out her hand and laid it soothingly on the rumpled brown curls. ‘¢Lie still, Rorie!’’ she said softly. ‘¢ You mustn’t toss so! It isn’t good for you.”’ ‘IT won’t lie still!’ he said fiercely. ‘I’m going across to Teynham’s after holly. Yes! Holly and mistletoe. Who was it I kissed under the mistletoe? It was Amy and somebody else—somebody —I don’t know!” It was days that he went on like this. Christmas was a dull, sad day at the. Lloyds. Flossy was ill till the following Thursday and it was not until the second day before New Year’s that Langdon be- gan to improve. Bernice had given up going home for the present. It was on New Year’s eve that Amy came to Bernice in a state of worry. ‘*‘Do you know?” she exclaimed. ‘‘Edithis going to let Flossy have her tree lighted to-night. I never heard of such folly ! If her father was home, I know he wouldn’t allow it.”’ ‘¢Oh, well !’’ said Bernice soothingly. ‘¢ The poor child has been sick all through the holidays, and she hasn’t had much pleasure out of her tree. I don’t see why she shouldn’t have it lighted to- night.”’ Amy shrugged her shoulders. ‘« Edith is going to do it herself,” she:

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468 demurred, ‘‘ and I know there will be an accident.”’ ‘*Il hope not!”’ said Bernice cheer- fully. ‘‘Only there mustn’t be too much noise, you know. Your cousin can’t stand it.”’ Amy’s eyes grew quizzical, but she said nothing. When nmght came, Flossy’s tree was lighted, but Bernice did not go down. Her head ached and she went to bed early. Amy had gone out to the theatre, so Mrs. Lloyd had the Christmas tree all on -her hands. Langdon was bet- ter, and, for the first time in a week he was left alone. Bernice went to sleep about ten. When she awoke it was past midnight and the house was absolutely still. Presently the church clock struck one and Bernice sat up in bed. What was that queer smell in her room ? She coughed. Her room was full of smoke. Springing up, she rushed to the door and opened it. A burst of dense smoke almost smothered her and she saw a bright glare in the lower hall where the crackl ng of flames was distinctly audible. ‘‘Fire!’’ burst from her lips in ac- cents ofhorror. ‘‘ Edith! Amy! Quick! The house is on fire !”’ She flew to their rooms and roused them. The corridors were filling with smoke so fast that she could hardly breathe. Snatching her wrapper and bed-room slippers, she ran down to a window and screamed ‘Fire! Fire!’ In a few moments some one in the street had sounded the alarm, and Bernice was in Langdon’s room. ‘¢ Rorie !’? she cried frantically. «‘ Get up! The house is on fire! Don’t stand on your sore leg! Can’t youhop? No, no! You will hurt yourself !’’ He was utterly helpless. ‘*T can’t take a step, Bernice, he said dispairingly. ‘‘ Save yourself! Send some- one back to me.”’ ‘<I will not leave you,’”’ she said hero- ically. ‘‘Sit down in this chair. It has rollers. I can wheel you to the back stairs. The front stairway is all ablaze.’’ ‘¢ Bernice !’’ cried Amy’s terror-strick- en voice. ‘‘ Come, quick! Edith has Flossy, I am going to wake the servants.”’ Bernice was dragging Rorie to the THE FIRES OF YULE. back stairs. He looked up at her white face in despair. ‘‘T cannot help you at all,’’ he said ‘« Let me stay here, Bernice !”’ ‘* Never !’’ she answered. ‘ Amy will be here in a minute to help me.” She managed to drag him thus to the back stairs. A burst of smoke almost stifled them both. ‘¢We can do like children,’’ she said chokingly. ‘* We can sit down and slide down to the foot. I'll send the chair down ahead. Rorie, put your arms around me.”’ He obeyed her mutely. The smoke was sickening and his leg pained him terribly. ‘‘ Bernice, darling!’ he whispered faintly. ‘Don’t burden yourself with me !”’ She clasped her arms around him. “] will die with you,”’ she said passionately, ‘¢ Rorie, my love! Don’t ask me to leave ou.” She heard Amy’s voice shouting to them both, but it sounded afar off. Out- side the noise of the engines grew louder and louder. Shecould hear the firemen’s shouts and the ladders flung against the house. ‘‘Help! Help!’’ she shouted with all, her strength, and with her arms tightened about Rorie she slid to the bottom of the stairs. Then everything grew dark and uncertain. She remembered nothing more. * * * * * a It all came of poor Flossy’s Christmas tree. When the child was safely in bed at a neighboring hotel and they told her that her pretty home with all the Christ- mas treasures was burned to ashes, she cried bitterly. ‘¢Don’t dothat, Flossy !’’ her mother said gravely, ‘‘Get downon your knees and thank God we are all safe. Think of poor Bernice who was so nearly burned to death and your Cousin Rorie—so dreadfully ill! He may die yet, Flossy, and it was all the fault of your poor Christmas tree !”’ New Year's dawned brightly and Lang- don did better than was expected. Bern- ice was badly burned, but luckily her fair face was uninjured. Langdon did not see her for two weeks, and then they

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JOY TO THE CHRISTMAS TIME. allowed him to hobbie in on crutches and sit with her awhile. He went to her bedside and sat down beside her. Her eyes bore the trace of suffering, but she smiled at him as he Jeaned over her and took the one hand that had escaped the fire. ‘Bernice!’ he whispered. ‘* Have we both been mistaken? or is it only Ito whom the old love has come back ina new and nobler guise ?”’ She smiled again. ‘‘T love you, Bernice !’’ he said. ‘* Will you take me back again ?”’ ‘‘Gladly,’’ she whispered, ‘* if you will come !”’ He looked in her eyes a moment and then he stooped and kissed her—this time without offense. ‘Darling !’’ he said. Year !” ‘¢T will try and make it so,” she said in a voice that trembled slightly. ‘‘For me there is but one way. You must be my wife, Bernice.’ She smiled her consent. ‘« A happy New 469 ‘¢And you have forgiven me?” he said suddenly. She laughed. ‘¢Oh, Rorie!’’ she cried. ‘‘ You know the only reason I was angry was because I thought you didn’t care for me.” He kissed her again and then both laughed joyously. Amy came in and found them together in a very suggestive attitude. ‘¢ Ahem!’’ shesaid roguishly. ‘‘ Shall I go out or come in?” ‘*You may as well come in,” said Rorie, drawing Bernice’s head down on his shoulder, ‘‘I guess we can stand it if you can.” ‘*Well!’’ said Amy. ‘I’m glad to see you two have come to your senses, if we had to burn the house down to bring it about.” From that day Bernice and Langdon both got well rapidly. When Christmas came around again they gathered greens for their own house, and Rorie kissed his wife boldly under the mistletoe.’ Jon to the Ehristmas Time, BY L. R. BAKER. AKE glad to-night, O hearts, O hearts, 2) (6 Beat to the glorious song, {2 That over the wintry hilltops Is surging and sweliing along. That down in the depths of the valley Throbs out all its wonderful tune, Tis a dream that will never be over—- Told again ’neath the silent moon, O mother, draw closer your wee ones And whisper in each tiny ear, The angels’ sweet, musical story Ringing out so triumphant and clear, O tell of the white light shining Far brighter than radiant morn, How it fell on the wondering shepherds When the little Lord Jesus was born. O tell of the wise men’s journey How afar from the East they came, To offer their gifts and to worship, And to call the blessed infant by name, How they bowed their heads in the brightness, O softly the angels now sing, They were masters of truth and of wisdom, And they knelt to the baby King, The stars shone pure in the heavens, There was gladness and peace on earth, There was bliss in that midnight hour O’er the little Lord Jesus’ birth. And to-night we hear the bells ringing With an echo in every chime, Just a whisper of love o’erflowing, And joy to the Christmas time.

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$5,000 For A WIFE. By the Author of « Wedded to Misery.” ing cheerily, andit didn’t need any poking, but Leigh Llew- ellyn was prod- ding it with the tongs in an ab- sent minded fash- ion till the luminous logs rolled over each other in a sulien way emitting showers of sparks. ‘* You might as well tell me plainly that you do not care enough for me to marry me,’’ he saidabruptly. ‘I would much rather you would be frank with me, Antoinette.’’ ‘¢ But—I don’t mean that exactly,’’ the girl replied, shifting her hand screen un- easily. ‘‘I do like you—a very great deal. I have often thought that some day, perhaps, if we were ever in a posi- tion to marry, I might learn to love you as you desire.” Llewellyn sprang up with a gesture of disgust. The tongs fell rattling on the hearth and he turned upon Antoinette with angry, passionate eyes. ‘*You call that love!’’ he cried scorn- fully. ‘That sentiment cooked up to suit the occasion! Do you think I would be satisfied with that? No! I will have all or nothing. You must love me for myself, freely, rich or poor, sick or well, young or old! If you do not care enough for me tobrave poverty and all the world besides, bearing its taunts and misfor tunes gladly for my sake, I do not want yourlove, Antoinette. It would not sat- isfy me,” **Come here and sit down,” she said, laying her hand coaxingly on the chairhe had just vacated. You are utterly un- reasonable. How could we marry if I promised a thousand times? Once papa might have helped us, but now —you know I, he has lost every dollar and everything depends on me.”’ ‘*I do not ask your father’s assistance,” Llewellyn broke in hotly. <I wouldno accept it if he were worth as much as he ever was. I only ask for your love, Ap. toinette. Iam poor, it is true; but my pruspects are good and some day—” ‘«Well,’’ she rejoined with a smile, ‘* when that day comes, it will be timeto talk about marriage. Just now—” The front door opened. There were voices in the hall, and then Mr. Eyres footsteps were heard approaching the drawing room. ‘«Step right in here, Mr. Taunton,” he was saying in the cheerful, buoyant tone one uses to a welcome guest. “We haven’t much of a place here, you see, but my wife and daughter will be delighted to see you.”’ Llewellyn turned sharply as the portiéte was swept aside and Antoinette’s father, followed by a gentleman in evening dress, entered the room. Antoinette rose pre- cipitately and her face took on a most radiant aspect. ‘¢ Why, Mr. Taunton !”’ she exclaimed holding out her hand ina frank way. “It is a long while since I have had the pleasure of seeing you!”’ The new comer bowed profoundly over the hand she gave him, and mur- mured : ‘<It is very kind of you to remember. It has seemed very long tome, I’msure.” Llewellyn looked at him with a brist- ling sense of dislike. Between the two men there passed fora moment a glance of mutual antipathy. Taunton’s eyes rested for an instant on his face in a half- quizzical half-scornful way, and then he turned again with a smile to Antoinette. A cool, polite bow passed between Llew- ellyn and Mr. Eyre, who showed very plainly that he thought Llewellyn in the way. My dear,” he said suavely address- ing his daughter, ‘‘ I knew you would be glad to see Mr. Taunton. You must not forget what a good friend he has been to 470

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our father in a time when friends were so much needed. He is the one man among all the men whom I once employed, who has not forgotten his old chief in the midst of his fallen fortunes.”’ Asmile which Llewellyn could not in- terpret curled Taunton’s rather thin lips. He saw under the half-closed lids of the young broker a peculiar look which bore in some incomprehensible way upon the words Mr. Eyre had just uttered. ‘‘Your father overwhelms me with gratitude,” he said lightly. ‘I have never forgotten that it was he who gave me my first start on the road to prosper- ity, and I am sure it is very little that I have done in giving him the position of assistant bookkeeper. I wishit were more.” Again that peculiar glance came into Taunton’seyes, and Llewellyn felt a fierce desire to throttle it out of him. What did he mean—this cool-headed, money- making gambler in stocks? What was he doing there? Why was this extravagant eulogy heaped upon his head? Surely it was somewhat strained, for Mr. Eyre had taken a step toward the fire, and nowthat his back was turned towards Taunton, his face wore quite a different look. Llewellyn dropped a common-place about the weather, but Mr. Eyre stared absently into the fire and then said: ‘beg pardon ! But—did you speak ?”’ ‘¢ Evidently I am not wanted here,”’ said Llewellyn to himself, and crossing the room, he bade Antoinette good night. Her eyes followed him somewhat uneasily as he left the room, but she felt that Taunton was looking at her, and her face became suddenly suffused with crimson. ‘‘Ah!’’ said Taunton to himself as he kept his eyes fixed on her blushing face. ‘‘ That is how matters stand—is it? Llewellyn’s in love with her, and she— pshaw! A woman’s heart is like a shut- tle cock ; it goes to the skilful player.” Mr. Eyre came forward with his former suavity, and laying his hand lightly on his daughter’s arm, he said: “You will entertain our friend, An- toinette. Taunton, you will excuse me. I must leave you for half an hour.” ‘‘Do not stay on my account, I beg you,”’ said the broker quickly. ‘¢.I shall be only too happy to ch&t awhile with Miss Eyre.”’ $5,000 FOR A WIFE. 471 His lithe, slender hands were toying with the carved handle of Antoinette’s peacock screen—a souvenir of happier days and fairer fortunes in the Eyre fam- ily. Yet Taunton was not thinking of that. His memory had leaped over the barrier of years, and he was thinking of the time—he had never once forgotten it —when the man who was excusing him- self so politely had turned upon him and said : ‘¢Here, Taunton! What the devil do you mean by coming here at this hour? I am going to dine with Judge Allison. Go away and don’t bé&ther me.”’ A thousand dollars had slipped through Taunton’s fingers for the lack of that in- terview, and in those days a thousand dollars meant almost the wealth of Gol- conda. Taunton had never forgotten it. “We have changed all that!”’ he said with a certain flickering of the eyelids. ‘¢ Why, what can you be thinking about so profoundly ?’’ Antoinette exclaimed. ‘« T have spoken to you twice.” ‘IT beg your pardon ! I—I haveacold, and [ think I ama little deaf to-night. I was thinking—about these peacock eyes, and then I was saying over to myself those lines : The night has a thousand eyes, The day but one, I am very fond of that poem.”’ Mr. Eyre’s footsteps had died away. He was walking down the street with a quick, nervous step, and as the light of the street lamp fell on his face he looked so changed that one might have stopped to look after him. ‘*My note falls due to-morrow,” he said to himself; ‘‘ and if Taunton does not let me have the money, there is noth- ing for it but a protest. Taunton! he repeated bitterly. What does he care? I sometimes feel that he glories in my downfall, and yet I dare not offend him. I am too old a man to find a situation easily, and Taunton—if he were to dis- charge me—if Taunton were to betray—”’ he caught his breath and walked on faster. It was beginning to snow and the wind was whistling shrilly in advance of a com- ing storm. ‘‘I was a fool to put myself in his power! he groaned aloud. ‘‘I am tied

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472 $5,000 FOR A WIFE. hand and foot. If he should come to me and demand my daughter’s hand in mar- riage, I should not dare refuse. Good Heavens! How low I have fallen! I cannot even defend my own child. I would marry her to a man whom I would not trust at anything short of murder!” It was cold, but great beads of perspi- ration were standing on his forehead. His steps grew faster and faster. Where he was going he hardly knew. In the dusk and the falling snow he passed rapidly out of sight. e I. Taunton’s office on Wall street was as dingy as any other stronghold on that old battle ground; but inside it had an ap- pearance which was altogether sumptuous. The tiled floor was strewn with costly rugs, a jewel basket shed its parti-colored light from the open chimney, and the walls were hung with rich drapery and costly paintings. Taunton came in a little before ten. There was a card already lying on his desk. ‘‘Mr. Leigh Llewellyn!’ he read with some surprise. ‘It must be pressing businessthat brings him so early. Ahem!” He took off his overcoat and sat down with the card in his hand. ‘* This is the gentleman who preferred to see his sister dead to having her marry me!’’ hesaid with a short laugh that was anything but musical. ‘‘ Well! She is dead—poor Josie! And yet, I swear she was the prettiest girl I ever saw. If she had lived, ten chances to one I’d have married her in spite of Mr. Leigh Llew- ellyn!”’ He gave thecard an angry toss till it skimmed over his desk and fell into the waste-paper basket. ‘*If Lever loved a woman,”’ he said in a low, suppressed voice, ‘‘it was she. I shall never come so near to the ‘ divine passion’ again, nor shall I forget,’’ he added with special emphasis, ‘‘ that be- fore death came to rob me of my hearts’ desire, it was Le gh Llewellyn who came between me and the only woman I ever cared to marry !”’ He rose up suddenly and began to pace up and down the room in a restless way till his excitement slowly abated, and, stepping to his desk, he touched a by which brought an office boy. ‘*Tell Eyre I will see him now,” gaig Taunton sinking into his seat, and in q few moments the poor bankrupt entered the office. ‘¢ Well?”’ said Taunton without look. ing at him, ‘‘ you said you wanted to se me.”’ ‘ ‘*T am sorry to trouble you,”’ said poor Eyre with embarrassment. The—th factis, I wanted to ask you, Mr. Tauntog —I have a note that falls due to day, matter of five-hundred dollars and som one has disappointea me. I went out last night expecting to get the money, but was unable to do so; and I thought that if you could take the note up for me, it would be a great favor and—_ hope to make all right in the course of a few weeks.” ‘* You have been speculating again, | suppose ?’’ said Taunton coldly. ‘¢ Just a little matter of five hundred dollars in B. and L. You know, Mr. Taunton, when a man has lost everything as I have, he grows desperate. He must do something to retrieve his fortunes.” ‘¢And in hisefforts to do so, he usually involves himself still more. I should think, Eyre, that a man of your age who had been bitten so often, would let that dog alone.”’ ‘¢But you are making money every day,’’ said the bankrupt. ‘* Why shouldn't I ? %? “Simply because you can’t—or you don’t. It is quite the same. There is one thing I want to speak about, Eyre. If you are going to stay in my employ, you must give up these little operations. I cannot have a book-keeper in my office who dabbles in stocks.’’ The color rose suddenly in the older man’s face. ‘¢ Taunton !’’ he said bitterly. ‘‘ You are very hard on me. You forget that I am not used to the post I occupy, and ” Taunton looked at him steadily for a moment. ‘¢ | know,’’ he admitted, ‘‘ but you have shown extraordinary talent for book -keep- ing. I knowa great many experts who cannot keep heir books as you do.” Mr. Eyre’s face grew suddenly white.

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$5,000 FOR A WIFE. «‘ For God’s sake !’’ he said hoarsely «why do you delight to torture me? I was a fool ever to touch the helping hand ou held out to me. And now—now that you have me in your power, you are grinding me under your heel!”’ Taunton took up his knife and began to trim his delicate nails in a fastidious manner. ‘‘] admire gratitude,”’ he said slowly. « You save a man from State’s Prison and he accuses you of injustice! You give him the means of earning a fair living and he talks of being crushed by your se- verity! You trust your own fortune in his hands, in spite of everything, and he says—” ‘‘Taunton, in Heaven’s name! Let us talk no more of this! It has been all settled between us — quite settled — at least I thought so,—long ago. I have no right, it is true, to upbraid you, but I cannot forget entirely my old independ- _ence, and sometimes I go too far—I know.” ‘‘ We are all liable to err,’’ said Taun- ton inasoftertone. ‘* But—I think you wanted me to lend you five hundred dol- lars—on no security, of course ?”’ ‘“‘T wanted you to take up my note,” said Eyre humbly. ‘Well! I'll see about it. I—I’ll let you know by one o’clock. ‘That will do, I suppose ?”’ “It must do. source.”’ Eyre turned to go. ‘Wait a moment !’”’ Taunton said af- ter a little hesitation. ‘‘I have some- thing to say to you. Sit down. I—I want to speak to you about your daughter.” An almost perceptible shiver passed through Eyre’s frame as he sat down. ‘Antoinette ?”’ he said faintly. , «« My daughter.”’ ‘¢ Ves, I am very much pleased with her. She is certainly a charming girl, and if I thought I could win her affections, I would like very much to offer her my hand in matriage.”’ Eyre began fumbling his pocket hand- kerchief in an absent way. Taunton’s eyes never left his face. It was like some animal which fascinates its prey. ‘Antoinette is absolutely penniless,” said Eyre, nervously. VoL, CXIX—No, 34. I have no other re- 473 ‘Oh, as to that! said Taunton, clos- ing his penknife with a snap, “‘I am fortunately quite able to ignore such con- siderations. 1 want to marry your daughter, Mr. Eyre.” ‘* Have you spoken to her yet?” ‘“No. 1 do not intend to do that for some time. I do not think she cares any- thing for me as yet.’ Eyre heaved a sigh of relief. ‘‘Well, you know,” he said gaining courage, ‘‘ we Americans never constrain our children to marry. It must be as Antoinette says. to marry anyone.”’ ‘‘ Not even me !’’ said Taunton with a laugh. ‘‘ Well, I don’t want you to do that, Mr. Eyre; but I thought you ought to know my wishes, and I want to under- stand whether, in my effort-:o win your daughter’s heart, I would have your ap- provaland codperation.’’ He looked sharply at Eyre. The words were smooth enough, but it seemed to his listener that they harbored a threat. He shuddered. ‘‘If Antoinette loves you,” he said, ‘¢T am sure I ought to be proud to have her marry a man who can gratify every wish of her heart. 1f my daughter wishes to marry you, Mr. Taunton, I shall not interfere.”’ ‘¢ But I want a little more than that,” Taunton persisted. ‘‘ Suppose she should have at the same time another suitor. I do not know that she has, but suppose, for the sake of argument, that she has. I want your word for it, Mr. Eyre, that you will favor my suit. I donot ask you to compel your daughter to anything ; but I want you to throw the weight of your approval on my side.” Eyre’s face grew strangely livid. Once he had hoped and schemed for just what this man was proposing, but that was be- fore—’’ ‘¢T promise you I will do what I can for you,” he said wiping his forehead nervously. ‘‘ But it all depends on An- toinette. You see that.” «Oh, yes! But I am very much obliged, and if Iam successful,’’ he added rising from his chair, ‘‘ I will try to bea dutiful son-in-law. Perhaps sogether we may be able to fix up matters in a little better shape for you.” I would not compel her

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474 Eyre’s face brightened again. He was like a drowning man who catches at straws. ‘* If I only had a little capital,’’ he be- gan. ‘*QOne doesn’t need capital if one has good backing,’’ said the broker, and just then the office boy entered. ‘‘The gentleman who was here this morning early, would like to see you sir,’’ he said. ‘¢ Mr. Llewellyn ?”’ Taunton asked. ‘¢ Yes, sir.”’ ‘¢ Show him in. excuse me—”’ The two men brushed each other in the office door, but the merest nod of recog- nition passed between them. ‘*Ah, Mr. Llewellyn! ’’ Taunton be- gan ina smooth way. ‘‘ You were here this morning, I believe.’’ ‘*Yes! Icalled—lI want one thousand shares of Y. and C.”’ ‘¢ Buy or sell ?”’ asked Taunton, rather sharply. «¢ Buy—at 28.” ‘Taunton’s face wore a strange look for ‘a moment as he turned aside to reach for his tablet. Buy Y. and C. fora rise at ithis time! Hesmiled to himself. ‘*You are going to bull the market,” ‘he observed as he began to fill out the musual blank. ‘‘ Well, there’s nothing like iit. ” He was writing rapidly in an odd, intricate hand which was not very leg- ible. ‘< This will be Mr. Llewellyn’s quietus,”’ he thought, as he blotted the contract and rang for a clerk to witness the signature. Llewellyn signed and laid down a thou- sand-dollar bond. ‘‘Is this your first operation?’’ said Taunton, eying him with some curiosity. Llewellyn nodded. «« One must begin sometime,’’ he said carelessly, and without discussing the matter further he left the office. When Taunton was alone he laughed outright. ‘* Let me see,’’ he said, as he took his hat and prepared to go on ’Change. «« Was it one or ten he asked for? I’ve made it ten. If he can’t read it isn’t my fault.’’ Y. & C. dropped that day to 26 and Mr. Eyre, if you will $5,000 FOR A WIFE. Taunton had bought for Llewellyn je, thousand shares at 28. At three o'clock he called for more margin and Llewellyn was back in his office. ‘*T said to buy one thousand,” he said excitedly. ‘¢ You said ten.’’ ‘*T said nothing of the kind.” *¢ You signed forten,” said Tauntop producing the contract. ‘IT can’t read your abominable writ. ing,’”’ said Llewellyn angrily. ‘*You should have said so. Well! What are you going to do about it?” Llewellyn took several turns up and down the office. ‘¢ Like as not you’ve ruined me, Taun- ton,” he said setting histeeth, ‘‘ but I’m going to hang on if I lose every cent | have—and Heaven knows they’re few enough? ’”’ Taunton shrugged his shoulders. The next day Y. & C. opened at 27%. III. Mrs. Eyre was sitting by the library fire while her fingers flew nervously over a bit of lace-work, and her eyes glanced from it to the clock on the mantel every few minutes. ‘‘Oh!”’ she cried out at last, “if Theodore does not come soon I shall go frantic !’’ Almost in answer to her nervous excla- mation, the portiére was brushed aside and her husband entered the room. ‘¢ Well?” she said sharply, half rising from her seat. ‘‘ Did you get it?” Mr. Eyre sank into a seat like one who is exhausted by a great effort. Then by way of reply, he took out his pocketbook and drew from it an old note for five hundred dollars. ‘‘There, Edith! ” he said with a sigh of relief. ‘‘You can throw it in the fire.”’ Mrs. Eyre seized the scrap of paper and in a few moments it was curling in a black ash upon the hearth. ‘‘Thank Heaven!’ she exclaimed. ‘¢ Thave not slept a wink for two nights. But now—lI breathe freely again. Theo- dore, I beg of you, do not attempt any- thing like that again. It will only com- plicate our misfortunes, and there are plenty of other ways—I’m sure there must

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$5,000 FOR A WIFE. be other ways,”’ she added, with the con- fidenceof a woman who knows nothing about business. “Well!” said poor Eyre with a sigh, ««Jwish to Heaven you’d tell me what they are.” «Oh, well! You know I am nota business woman ; but a man like you—I am sure you could make money somehow. Theodore, if you would only try in some other way.” «‘Try!”’ he said hoarsely. ‘‘ Edith you talk like a fool.”’ ‘‘ Well, if I do,’”’ she retorted angrily, ‘you need not insult me. Iam sure its nothing to me whether you make money or not. I can live on bread and water; it won’t be many years that I shall have to burden you. But Antoinette, poor child !—” She burst into tears. ‘Edith !”’ cried her husband spring- ing to his feet. ‘‘ You will drive me mad. I have tried my best; I have laid awake night after night scheming and planning ways and means to remedy our condition, but I am past the age of busi- ness success. Everything I attempt isa failure. I am worn out; I can do no more.”’ ‘¢ Well !’’ said Mrs. Eyre, hysterically, ‘¢ Then there is nothing for us, I suppose, but to go to the poor house.”’ He made no reply but continued walk- ng up and down till suddenly he said to er: ‘‘ Taunton wants to marry Antoin- ete.” ‘¢ What !’’ she almost shrieked. ‘‘ Why didn’t you tell me that right away? That is just like you, Theodore! Oh, to think that after all—_my poor child! Theo- dore,”” she went on excitedly, ‘do you know that Mr. Taunton has bought Bon- nybrae—our old home? And Antoin- ette—to think she will be mistress there !’’ ‘But Antoinette has not accepted yet,”’ said Eyre slowly. ‘Taunton has not even asked her. He merely spoke to me about it. He said that if he could win Antoinette’s affection—”’ _ “Of course! But she cannot help lik- ing him. He is a splendid fellow !” ‘“‘IT am not so sure of that,’’ he said doubtfully. «*To be frank with you, Edith, I do not like Taunton. If I were 475 free to show it, I would not be long in telling him either. I am not sure that I ought to allow him to come and see An- toinette as he does.”’ ‘‘ Theodore!”’ cried his wife sharply. Are you mad ?”’ ‘No!’ said the poor man turning upon her, ‘‘though I sometimes fancy I shall be before long. It is true I am no longer a free man. There are conditions that force me to do many things that grate upon my conscience. I have even gone so far as to promise that I will do all I can to prejudice Antoinette in favor of Taunton; but I cannot do it. I doubt him too much. I will not say a word to her.”’ ‘¢Then I will !’’ said Mrs. Eyre with determination. ‘‘Do you want to ruin the child’s only chance of escaping from a life of drudgery and poverty ?”’ Mr. Eyre covered his face with his hands and groaned. A girl’s gay young voice called just then from another room : ‘¢Mamma! Where are you?” Mrs. Eyre rose hastily and went out. She met her daughter on the stairway and carried her off to her bed-room. ‘¢T want to talk to you, ’Toinette,’’ she said, patting the girl’s soft cheek. ‘¢ Your father has just been telling me something agreeable about you and Mr. Taunton. He wants to marry you.” ‘¢Who said so?” cried Antoinette in a startled tone. ‘¢Hetold your father. He went about it in the most delicate way, and there are so few young men who ever think any- thing about asking the parents, now-a- days.”’ ‘¢ But I haven’t said I would marry him, mamma,’’ the girl interposed. ‘‘He hasn’t asked me, and—and— I-don’t know—”’ ‘¢So he said. But he intends to some day. Not, however, until he feels sure he can win my little daughter’s heart. He merely asked, you know, for permission to try.” ‘¢ Oh,” said Antoinette, with evident relief. ‘¢ But lam very much pleased about it,’ said Mrs. Eyre, drawing her daugh- ter down on a stool beside her. ‘‘ I hope you will think kindly of him, Antoinette. He is certainly worthy of your love, and,

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476 $5,000 FOR A WIFE. if you could accept him, I should be very much gratified.”’ Antoinette hid her face on her mother’s knee. ‘¢I don’t know, mamma,”’ she said tremulously. ‘‘Idon’t understand Mr. Taunton. Sometimes he is very pleasant, and quite fascinating, and then again he looks at me in such a strange way, and, when he laughs, he makes me quite un- comfortable.” ‘*You are shy, dear. That is all.’’ ‘*No, I don’t think itis. I have al- ways tried to be nice to him, because I knew he had been good to papa; but he is so different from the other young men I know. He is not a bit like Leigh Llew- ellyn.”’ ‘*No!’’ said Mrs. Eyre, sharply. ‘I should say not. He is greatly his superior, Antoinette. He is a man of position and wealth. He can give you what none of the others can,”’ ‘¢ Oh, I don’t care so much about that,”’ she answered thoughtfully. But it seems to me such a terrible thing to marry and then not to have it turn out well.’”’ ‘¢ You are timid, child. Of course it is natural. But you must set such things aside. You must make your own future, ’Toinette. A great deal depends on you. If you marry Mr. Taunton, you will get back your old home, and your father, who is worn out with anxiety about money matters, would have a great deal less to worry about. Whoknows? Mr. Taun- ton might make him his partner, and then—”’ ‘¢ But I could not marry him for his money, mamma!’”’ Antoinette exclaimed in alarm. ‘*No, dear! Of course not. But why should you not try to love him? You can do that. Say you will, my darling, for my sake and your poor father’s.’’ The girl’s face had grown pale and ap- prehensive. ‘‘T can try—yes! But you must not make me, mamma,”’ she said in a low tone. ‘‘ If anyone tried to make me, I should only dislike him more and more.”’ Mrs. Eyre bent over and kissed her. ‘** No one is going to make you. dear,” she said sweetly. The front door closed heavily just then and Mr. Eyre went out. ‘¢ T must walk somewhere !”’ he said to himself. ‘‘ Oh, if I could only get away for awhile from every thing! Antoinette poor child! What a poor miserable excus you have for a father !’’ He walked on in a nervous, hurried manner, yet not knowing where he was going. “<If I were not so wretchedly poor,” he reflected, ‘‘and yet—how would tha affect me? Taunton will hound me dow to my dying day, unless—if I only hag money enough ! ” he broke in irrelevantly, ‘¢Whyshould I not? Other men make money easily. If I only had a littlecap. ital! There isY.& C. now. If I wereshor of that, I venture to say I could make—” ‘¢Mr. Eyre!’’ someone said at his elbow. ‘‘ Which way are you going?” ‘©Oh!”’ he replied with some conft- sion. ‘Isit you, Llewellyn?” ‘*Why have you stopped calling me ‘Leigh’?’’ said the young man. “J used to fancy we were good friends. My father used to talk about you so much, Mr. Eyre.’’ ‘¢ Yes, yes! I know,’’ said the bank- rupt hurriedly. Poor Don! I missed him a great deal. We were always good friends —never had a quarrel as I remember.” ‘*Yet you seem to have forgotten his son altogether,” he said reproachfully. ‘¢ You hardly speak to me nowadays.” ‘‘Oh, I guess not! I’m quite sure I speak to you, Leigh. You mustn’t imag- ine anything like that.” ‘*T can’t help it. You seem so wrapped up in Geoffrey Taunton that you can’t look at poor me! ”’ ‘‘ Appearances are deceiving some- times,” said Mr. Eyre briefly. ‘¢T hope so! ” was all Llewellyn said. Then he said hurriedly: ‘Mr. Eyre, how would you like to change your posi- tion? I have been talking with Mr. Sny- der, of the Transatlantic, you know, and he says there may be something open for you in a little while.” Eyre started eagerly like a man who had heard of his own respite. ‘¢ T should like it—of all things!” he cried, and his face changed as quickly as it had lighted. ‘‘ But I could not leave Mr. Taunton,” he said miserably. The salary is almost double what you are getting now.”

i Pty oom = A. A,

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THREE SCENES. Eyre shook his head. ‘T could not go unless he were will- ing,” he said, and then, realizing that such severity was hardly becoming, he added quickly : ‘¢I owe Taunton so much. He has done a great deal for me. Besides—I don’t know, but—in confidence, I don’t mind telling you—he is paying attention to my daughter.” Llewellyn recoiled as though he had been struck. ‘«Is it possible, Mr. Eyre,” he said bit- terly ‘‘ that you have fallen so low as that ? Would you scheme for a man’s favor, bear his insults—for he has insulted you, I have heard him. That is why I tried to get you this position. I thought Taunton did not treat you right. But—’’ he con- cluded, ‘‘I see I was wrong. Mysym- pathy was quite out of place.” Eyre winced a little, but he straight- ened up with an affectation of pride. 477 ‘You take a little too much upon yourself for a young man,’’ he said. ‘I am greatly obliged to you, but—’’ Llewellyn made a gesture which ban- ished the whole subject. ‘There is only one thing I want you to tell me,’’ hesaidin a low tone. ‘Is Antoinette—is your daughter, going to marry Taunton? ” ‘*As to that I can’t say, but I—I rather think so.’’ ‘*God pity her!’ said Llewellyn and he walked quickly away. Eyre stood still for a few moments. He started several times and then turned and looked back. The human heart is a strange thing. Eyre’s eyes were full of tears, now, and, as he looked back, he said : ‘*That is Don’s boy—God bless him! ” (TO BE CONTINUED.) Three Beenes. BY MRS, R. G. TYLER. HITE and tender and solemn, “the snow flakes flutter down,’’ DAY Touching alike the beggar’s rags and the heiress’s silken gown— Y While out from the dusky shadows, swift o’er the soft, white shroud The horses’ feet are rushing, and the reveller’s laugh is loud. Two brown eyes are dancing to the sleigh bells’ merry tune, And out from beneath the storm cloud, peers the sleepy moon. White and tender and solemn, the snow flakes fall to-night, The sweet brown eyes are shining before the altar’s light ; The marriage bells are ringing, and the world seems all in tune With the dancing eyes, whose happy light will fade out all too soon. While the pure white snow is draping, alike the rich and poor, There stalks a dark, grim spectre, through the open door. White and tender and solemn, “ pure as an angel’s breath, The fluttering flakes of falling snow, rests on the scene of death ;”’ The muffled bells are throbbing out o’er the snow clad earth, The sweet brown eyes are hidden in the bosom which gave them birth ; But the hand which fashioned the snow flakes, has closed the beautiful eyes. God knows best, we trust him, while he breaks our dearest ties.

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Che Story of Agnes. MRS. NORA MARBLE, OUR and thirty years ma’am, four and thirty years have I been a-goin’ ’twixt the livin’ and the dead,” said the sexton, as he paused in his work of mounding a newly made grave. ‘‘ Most of ,em that you see a-restin’ here-abouts hed their beds made by these here hands of mine, they did ma’am for a fact.”’ The last sentence was spoken with an air of pride, I thought, suchas a builder might wear when viewing a house of his own construction. The fancy was grotesque enough to make me smile even as I shuddered, so, for the want of something else to say, I suggested that he tell me the troubled his- tory of some one of the many for whom he had fashioned, most likely, so welcome a pillow. ‘¢ Something of the one yonder for in- stance,’”’ I added, ‘‘whose headstone bears but the simple word ‘ Agnes!’”’ The old man glared at me for a second angrily, then with something like a mut- tered oath, fell to his work again. ‘«¢ Excuse me,” I said, noting his shak- ing hands, and feeling that in some way I had offended him, ‘‘ but——”’ At this juncture achild somewhere be- tween three or four years of age, ap- proached, bearing in her hands a white flower. ‘¢ Grand-pa,’’ said she in a half whis- per, ‘‘ Aunt Marthy says I am to put this on her grave, her grave, grand-pa,”’ desig- nating the one marked ‘* Agnes.”’ Again that muttered oath from the old man. ‘< A lily for—for such as she,”’ burst from him at length, and viciously in his passion _ did he thrust the spade into the yielding gravel. ‘A lily for such as she!” The child looked at him inquiringly ; such large preternaturally grave eyes, I had never before seen in so young a face. ‘‘Sh—h,” said she warningly, ‘‘she might hear you. To-morrow is Christmas, you know, and aunt Marthy is lookin’ for the good Lord to send Aer down ‘mong the angels who come to hear the good tidings, and I’m to put this on her graye so she’ll know we didn’t forget her, and A groan from the old man made her pause. ‘¢Go,’’ said he hoarsely, almost harsh. ly, ‘* go and put your lily on the outcast’s grave, and—Christiana’”’—he added as the child was moving off, ‘‘ keep away from here in the future—away from fhaj grave—do you hear?’”’ ‘¢ Yes, grand-pa,”’ said the child meek- ly, the while smiling into my eyes through fast falling tears, ‘‘I hear.” With the sweet confidence of childhood she took my extended hand, and together we approached the grave. ‘Aunt Marthy loved her,’’ said the little one as she hollowed a place in the centre of the mound. ‘*‘ She was her sis- ter, you know,”’ and very gravely she ad- justed the cheap earthenware pot in which flourished the no less coarsely painted muslin lily. With great pride she viewed it, then feeling something in the way of words were needed to com- plete the offering, she remained upon her knees, evidently struggling with the de- sire to wish the slumberer beneath a ‘¢ Merry Christmas.”’ She hesitated a second, gave one troubled glance in the direction of the frowning sexton, then joining her tiny hands, said solemnly: ‘‘ Here I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep But those two lines of the childish prayer—which, in the light of that word ‘¢ outcast,’’ I felt none could have been more fitly spoken—then a final look of ad- miration upon her gift, a shy good-bye to me, and she was gone. It was, in the point of weather, a most unusual day for the 24th of December. No wintry storms had as yet visited this region, and nature wore still her dress of green, albeit a trifle faded. The sun- beams played about the gravestones and danced upon the graves themselves, with something of the ardor reserved for early summer days, and the trees, rejoicing in hy 478

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THE STORY OF AGNES. this respite from Winter’sicy clutch, with bowed heads and swaying branches, added their soft murmurings of delight to the other voices of glad nature. «“J’d like to tell you, ma’am, about— about—her,’’ said the sexton, pointing to the grave by the side of which I still stood. ‘The tellin’ of it might make me tenderer, as it were, toward one what was my pride and joy when she was a lit- tle slip of a gal like ’tother one,”’ motion- ing toward the little figure disappearing in the distance. ‘¢ She was then—”’ ‘My darter,’’ he concluded, as I seated myself in the sunshine, and then leaning upon his spade the old man told this story of Agnes : ‘¢Humble folks like us, ma’am,’’ he began—‘‘and I don’t know none no humbler than them as earns a livin’ by diggin’ graves for the dead—humble folks like us don’t ginerally hev histories to tell of fallin’ fortins, and ruin of great names and sich, but all the same we hev our prides of place ’mongthem as is hum- ble along with us, and we feel sore with the best of ’em when somethin’ more’n poverty comes to make its home under our once honest roofs.” I thought of the father of poor mis- guided Effie Deans, as the man spoke, and in the rugged countenance before me fancied I saw the embodiment of that stern, implacable, yet suffering old Cam- eronian, as the immortal pen of Sir Walter loved to draw him. ‘*She were a likelier lass than Marthy, my eldest gal, was Agnes,”’ continued the sexton, ‘‘ and her gay voice and springin’ step allers made me think of a bird re- joicin’ in its freedom. I laughed, too, ma’am, in them days, and I would have give my heart’s blood, I would, to hev spared her—misfortin.’’ That word drove the tremor from his voice, and the hard look, which thoughts of her innocent childhood had banished, returned to the weather-beaten face and made him stern again. ‘‘ We are enjined agin’ makin’ idols for ourselves, ma’am,’’ he said after a pause, ‘‘and for that reason, I reckin—’’ hisglanceat the grave finished thesentence. ‘*Well,”’ he continued, ‘that purty face, dancin’ step, but more specially 479 that voice like a lark’s, was the undoin’ of her—and me. No’m, her mother died in givin’ her birth, which were a blessin’, you see, unbeknown’st to us at the time. It was her voice, as I said, which was the undoin’ of her, for you see she led the singin’ in the Sunday meet- in’s, and sometimes she sung alone, and when she’d give us ‘I would not live al- way,’ ma’am, or ‘ Jesus of Nazareth pass- eth by,’ why you could hear sobs all over that church, ma’am, you could indeed! It was her singin’ of ‘Come, sinners, come,’ to the revival meetins, what brought her old pop to the anxious bench, and not only me, but a score of old gray-headed sinners besides, ma’am, a score besides.”’ Pride and grief struggled with the old man’s utterance here and it was some time before he resumed. ‘It was a Sunday mornin’ in June five years ago that a stranger from the hotel up yonder dropped into our church, a city chap, with fine clothes, and a big mustache and—a little soul,” he added bitterly, his hands clutching the spade handle with anervous grip. ‘' The man never took his eyes off’n Aggie from the minute she begun to sing, and purty soon her eyes were fastened onto him as he too jined in with one of the beautiflest voices I ever heard. The hull congregation stopped to listen, and him and Aggie jes’ carried the tune like as if they was to a concert. I recollect the smiles what was onto most the folk’s faces when they see’d the man loiterin’ at the door ’till Aggie come out, and how blushin’ and smilen’ she was, and how silent all the way home. When evenin’ come she couldn’t a’pear t> wait with patience fer meetin’ to begin, but hurried off afore the first bell had done ringin’, and somehow I did feel a most powerful rizin of anger when I see that city chap a-settin’ close up to the choir. Yes, it were her voice that done it all, and you bein’ a woman, ma’am, can most like understand how she made the feller’s acquaintance unbeknown’st to me, and how she took a most uncommon like’n for fresh air, and long walks, and how she growed all to wunst from a play- ful child into a woman.”’ ‘“ But why,’’ I interrupted, why did he . not come and—? ”

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480 ‘* Ask to keep company with my darter like aman?”’ he finished, as I hesitated. ‘‘Well, most like that he didn’t was my fault, ma’am, for you see I hed young farmer Woods in my eye as a likely hus- band fer my little gal, and I did goon most oncommon severe about the city chap a starin’ simple lassies out of coun- tenance, and I pictered him as a gambler most like,and arascal anyway. No’m—”’ reading the question in my eyes—‘‘he were only a singer, and the wuss’ that could be said about him was his dressin’ up in velvets and feathers and all sorts of tawdry things, and passin’ hisself off onto the stage, up in the city, for a king or a prince or somethin’ else what he wasn’t nor ever could be.” ‘An opera singer,’’ I said, smiling at the old man’s simplicity. ‘¢ Yes’m,that’s the word,a opery singer, and so Aggie was afeerd to mention his name knowin’ I held theaters and sech to be the Devil’s own work-shop, you see. Well, ma’am, as you aire surmisen’ most like, there come a mornin’ when there was no youngest darter under my roof, and no opery singer up to the hotel, and —and—no more happiness for me! The sun had gone down howsomever agin’, afore ever I knowed they had gone off to- gether, ma’am, though me and Marthy ’peared like to be the onliest ones in the town what hadn’t been a lookin’ fer it. Religion didn’t stand in the way that night, you kin beelieve, of my curses on *em both, and I prayed to be spared the sight of her face ever again, ma’am, Idid indeed! Marthy ‘lowed as how Aggie would be a-comin’ home some day with her husband and asistifikit, but I know’d better, seein’ as how I had read scoundrel in his face from the first, and know’d the waysof the world better’n poor Marthy did, you see.”’ ‘* Never let me hear her name agin,” says I, ‘‘and until this day I have neither heard nor spoke it.” I understood now why it had been **her’’ and ‘‘she,’’ from both his and the child’s lips in the beginning. ** Well,’’ he continued, ‘‘ Marthy one day got aletter what she cried and cried over, but she was too dutiful a darter to mention the name I had cursed. All the same on Sunday mornin’ I finds the same | THE STORY OF AGNES. a-layin’ under the old bible, and I seehoy nervous and ’spectant she looked when | picked it up—no’m, you’re reckonin’ the same as she done, most likely, for without one word or look to Marthy, I flung it into the stove afore ever I opened the Word to read the mornin’ lesson.” ‘¢ The Word ! ’’I repeated significantly, He understood the reproach and said doggedly : ‘‘ There hev been times when the Lord hisself was angered agin his people, de. stroyed them he had made because they disobeyed him, and as I said afore,, re. ligion is one thing, and—and—”’ ‘¢ Pride another,’’ I finished. He nodded, straightened himself upa bit, and went on. ‘« Time was a-healin’ of the hurt a lit- tle, when, the night afore Christmas, more’n a year after she had gone away, Marthy and me were settin’ gloomy-like afore the kitchen fire, we heard a step comin’ slow, hesitatin’ like, up the path, a-crunchin’ the snow. what lay thick onto the ground that year. Nothin’ in the footstep stirred me, but I see Marthy turn pale, and kind of gasp a little. Thena faint wail of a baby come next, and we waited for somebody to knock. But no knock come, and presently the steps was heard goin’ back over the snow agin; the gate opened and shut, and whoever it was went on toward the village.” ‘«Marthy burst intotears! ‘‘ I thought it might be—be—’’ but one look into my stern face froze the name onto her lips.” Presently she went over to a little work- stand in the corner, and from one of the drawers took out a little wax doll, with all it’s hair gone, and only one arm, and a bit of pink calico for a gown—Aggie al- ways liked pink, you see, ma’am.”’ ‘‘It was your Christmas gift to—to— her,’’ sobs Marthy. ‘‘ Just fifteen years ago. You remember how she—” and then she broke down, and I—well, I felt like fallin’ onto my knees and askin’ the good Lord to send her back to me, even if she weren’t my innocent, light-hearted darter no longer ; but pride stood in the way, ma’am, and shut my heart to all love’s pleadin’s. I was just goin’ to say somethin’ harsh to Marthy when agin come that cry of a baby.” ‘¢ The doll fell from her hands—break-

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THE STORY OF AGNES. in’ a big piece out’n it’s skull this time— and in another minute she had in her arms a livin’, breathin’ baby all wrapped up in ’broidered flannels and a handsome travelin’ rug, and apiece of paper pinned onto its breast with somethin’ writ onto ~~ ‘« For my sake; ’’ reads Marthy aloud, «for my sake, Marthy, be kind to the lit- tle one ;’’ but no name, nonothin’, but that flimsy bit of paper. 1 was tremblin’ like a leaf, and so wasshe, for we know’d then whose footsteps had crunched the snow about our very door-sill one moment ago, and which we had listened toas they, perhaps, departed forever.’’ ««* Bless me,’ says I, a-starin’ at the paper, ‘why it’s a bank-note,’ and a bank-note it proved to be for a hundred dollars, with that message writ across it in red ink. ‘¢¢From that opery-singer,’ says I wrathfully, ‘the wages of sin and Satan,’ and I flung it into the fire, all my old hate and scorn, ma’am, revived. ‘«¢Carry that brat out into the snow agin,’ 1 said firmly, ‘ and let it perish by frost, as this unclean money has by fire. Do you hear? Carry it out agin!’ ‘‘For the first time, in all her born days, Martha looked at me with darin’ eyes. «¢ «T shall lie beside it if I do,’ she said steady and quiet, ‘ be sure of that! I have nothin’ to live fer, should 1 lose—what— what is left to me of her.’ ‘* The baby’s dimpled hands were out- stretched to the glowin’ fire, and a gurgle of delight, jes’ here, broke from its lips. ‘«* Her eyes,’ says Marthy, the tears streamin’ down her cheeks; ‘her beauti- ful eyes. Thank God for this gift, this Christmas gift to me.’”’ ‘* And that little one to-day,’’ I said, as the sexton paused, ‘* was—”’ ‘‘That baby, ma’am, that very baby, what Marthy hed christened the very next day. She called her Christiana, somethin’ sad-like about the little one’s expression recallin’ pictures and stories of saints and the like, you know.” I nodded my head in approval, and the old man continued : ‘* Well, after that, ever once in awhile, papers come to us with somethin’ marked about a Mdlle. Senga, agreat primer-donn, 481 as they say in the city, and we puzzled over ’em quite a bit, until all of a sud- dint, one day, I see’d Senga was only Agnes spelled backward, and then I know’d, and so did Marthy, that she, too, was a opery-singer ; and we know’d, too, that Mdlle. were not Madame, and so—’”’ I shook my head in dissent, knowing, as I did, that the exigencies of success so often depend on the title of Mdlle., but the old man seemed so entirely past com- fort in any way, that | refrained from any expression. ‘She must a made plenty o’ money, for every month come a bank-note, jes’ like the first. I don’t know as I would hev’ burned them asI did the ’tother,”’ he said reflectively, ‘‘ but for fear, Marthy tucked ’em away somewheres, ’lowin’ they was to be used in Christiana’s eddication. Well, all to wunst, ma’am, them papers stopped a-comin’, and no more bank- notes come—there was never a word writ onto any of ’em—and Marthy begun to worry and fret, fearin’ somethin’ hed happened to the one she loved better’n some women loves their own children. She would look wistful like at me, as we set before the fire alone of evenin’s, hopin’ I would share her trouble, but hedn’t I prayed never to set eyes onto her agin, and could I insult the Lord by re- pentin’ and takin’ back that entreaty? No’m. So we talked on every subject but that, and Mdlle. Senga was asdead to me, as was her other self, Agnes. ‘¢ Then, one day, comes a letter from —from—that scoundrel, askin if my dar- ter hed ’rived home safe, and inquiren’ about the child, and somethin’ about dis- tinguished considerations, and endin’ with his address up to York. For the first time it come over me, ma’am, that God’s vengeance must, natural-like, be reached most time through human agen- cies, and I fell to lookin’ at my horny palms and muscular fingers, and picterin’ of ’em about the white throat of that rascally warbler, so that, well, so that I went, as you are expectin’, ma’am, no doubt, to the great city the very next day. ‘*I kalkerlate,’’ his hands gripped themselves cruelly about the spade handle, ‘‘I kalkerlate God's time hedn’t come, fer when I axed fer him at the big white- marble hotel, says they °

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482 «« «Seenor Campi? Oh, he was accident- ally run through by a rapeer, last night, while singin’ in the opery of—of Faust,’ or somethin’ like that, ma’am—‘ and he’s layin’ now in the hospital in a critical condition.’ ‘To the hospital I went, but nobody was ‘lowed to see him. For days I waited—he did hold onto life most tena- cious, ma’am—and then—well, for some reason the Lord saw fit to take good old Deacon White from our midst, and Marthy wrote I was needed for the bury- in’, and so I had to leave my vengeance arter all to a higher power and come home. The next thing we read into the paper as how Seenor Campi had recov- ered but would never be able to sing any- more, and how it was suspected that he hadn’t been run through accidental at all, but that—that it was all about a woman-—and—and how as he had gone abroad somewheres, and that’s all we know of him from that day to this.” ‘¢Never be able to sing anymore,”’ I repeated. ‘‘Vengeance was His after all.”’ The old man stared at his hands for a moment, then continued: ‘¢ Well, ma’am, Marthy was always a searchin’ of the papers, and one day she read onto a scrap of paper what had been wrapped round a bit of goods from the store, somethin’ about a poor outcast found dead onto the streets in a big city, and as how the only dainty thing about her was a little mother-of-pearl portmon- nie with ‘ Agnes’ scratched onto it, and a ‘Merry Christmas’, from Marthy on ’tother side. We knowed then why we hadn’t heard nothin’ more from Madlle. Senga, ma’am, for that was the only treasure that our unfortunit little gal had carried away with her, so we—so we went to town to fetch my — my — darling home.” At this point of thestory the old man’s firmness forsook him, and sobs, such as can only be wrung from a strong man, shook his bony frame. With fast falling tears he related their sad experience in the great city, the difficulty in tracing their unfortunate among the many un- fortunates in Potter’s Field. By the pearl portmonnaie theyat last found her, and though well nigh unrecognizable by suf- fering and decay, they had brought her THE STORY OF AGNES. home, and—’’ a gesture toward the a solemn uplifting of the hat, and the old sexton turned to his work again, Before I slept that night, dull laden clouds had spread themselves over the sky, so that I was not unprepared for the new dress which nature had donned ere morning. As I lay and watched the softly falling flakes, I pictured that eve when Christi. ana came as a gift to the sorrowful Mar. tha, as another babe once came to a hope. less world. The child’s sad eyes had haunted me, and I felt an irresistible im. pulse to look into them again, so witha few simple gifts I made my way to the sexton’s home. No response came to my knock, and I was soon informed bya neighbor that I would find the family at- tending service in the church adjoining. I made my way thither resolved to at- tend the service also. As I approached, a woman of striking appearance, with traces of tears upon her cheeks, entered the enclosure through the cemetery gate, hesitated a moment, then swiftly passed into the church and up the isle to the place assigned the singers. In the shadow of the small organ she sat, her beautiful countenance half cancealed by the veil she wore. The church was well filled, yet the min- ister delayed his coming. Presently the stranger leaned toward the lady whose fingers rested on the key- board and whispered a few words. A startled glance, a stifled cry on the part of the organist, then a struggle for com- posure, and finally a few notes struck by way of prelude—and then-- Only the lark at Heaven’s gate could rival the voice which broke upon our listening ears in the divine strains of ‘I Know that My Redeemer Liveth !” Spellbound we sat till the last sweet note had died away, then acry of an- guish, hope, joy, and fear combined, rang through the simple edifice. «¢ Agnes!” The singer raised her veil, and turned toward the place from whence came that cry. ‘¢ My darter, my Agnes,” repeated the bewildered old sexton as with outstretched arms he hurried up the isle by the side of Martha.

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MY SHIP. 483 Menand women wept,and such ascene of Christiana looked about with wide eyes rejoicing as followed cannot be told in for a glimpseof the babe in question, won- words. dering why aunt Martha laughed and Before many hours, every villager knew cried, and why the old man groaned at that the woman who slept inthe church- _ the pretty lady’s story. yard was a one-time maid of Mdelle. ‘¢ And the Senor,” hoarsely asked the Senga, their Agnes, the indisputable wife sexton, as his daughter paused, ‘‘ where of the great tenor Campi. kin I find the Senor?”’ ‘¢ Martha wrote that you had cursed ‘‘In his grave,’’ was the answer. ‘‘ He me,” said she, by the fireside,later, ‘and never recovered from that wound, and when I found that my marriagelines were uponhis death-bed retracted the story of but a mockery indeed; whenI learned his former marriage, and plead for my from my husband’s own lips, that another _ forgiveness. I then hastened to you, and woman in another clime bore hisname, ——”’ as well as I, then I vowed never more to His shaking hands were upon her head look upon your face or Martha’s again.- ere she had finished, and that eve when Nothing wasleft but ambition ; towinfame his quavering voice joined hers in the an- .and money. The babe Isent you bythe them; ‘‘ Peace on Earth; Good-will to- maid, who is yonder in the churchyard, ward men,’’ those who listened, knew that bidding her to place the portmonnaie in all was well again under the humble roof Martha’s own hand, that she would know of the Sexton. it was in truth from Agnes.”’ Hy Ship. BY ADA MARIE PECK. waits,” Then my ship, well laden with bales Of costliest goods, guided by the fates Through adverse winds and softer gales, Will sail into port with its merchandise : Loaded from the deck to the hold With cloths far rarer than Indian dyes— With fabrics of silver and gold. T in truth, “all things come to him who Most wonderful cloths ! wrought by deft fingers Worked in bright figures with a cunning skill; With warp of friendships unbroken, Are all of my trusts unbetrayed,— And weft of love, whose memory lingers Flowers with odors that cling to them still, Through all these years, though unspoken. And blessings for which I have prayed, Wrought with the good deeds I meant to have So with true treasures weighed down to the brim, done— Delayed by the wind and the tide, The forms of the loved and the lost— What wonder my ship looks distant and dim And al! the honor I hoped to have won, Over the water-way so wide ! But never computed the cost. And then if the ship should a mirage prove, Or just touch port and sail away Not.stopping to unload my treasure-trove ! What then would be left but to pray For her anchorage—freed from bond a In the harbor of heaven’s gates, Where (God only grant I may enter in), All good things come to him who waits.

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Ralph of Ashmead. A TALE OF VIRGINIA. BY OLIVIA. ie T'was the close of a gloomy day, December the twenty-third, anno domini, 1676. Night was closing in over the Virginia forest, and alow sobbing wind, with a tingling of frost, whirled the first snow: flakes among the deaddry leaves. Through the forest, with slow steps, rode two horsemen, stop- ping ever and anon, to determine the bet- ter path, in the gathering gloom. The horseman somewhat in advance, was astalwart youth, clad after the fashion of aman of considerable importance; his cloak of dark blue, thrown jauntily over one shoulder, while the plume in his hat bespoke him a gallant of no mean lineage, either in his own esteem, or in that of others. He was armed with sword, dagger, and small light carbine, and his keen glance was watchful and exceed- ingly alert, although his head appeared sunk upon his breast in deep thought. His companion, a darkey of strongstat- ure,and armed as heavily as his master, rode just the length of his horse behind, and ever and anon cast fearful glances behind him. «« Massa,’’ he ventured ina gusty whis- per, riding a littlecloser. ‘* Massa Ralph, don’ you reckon you he’ yr nothin’ now ?”’ ‘‘T hear the wind in the trees, Sam, nothing else. Get you back and disturb me no more.”’ He spoke sadly, rather than sharply, and Sambo took courage to make a few more remarks. ‘‘ Does ye reckon there’ll be any Yule-tide dis ye’yr, Massa Ralph ?”’ ‘¢ Christmas must come, Sam, even if we have little heart for it. But I trow my father will not deprive me of the usual frolic, despite these sad times.’’ ‘¢ Sakes !”” ejaculated Sambo, with a grin of anticipation, ‘‘’pears as if I couldn’t wait to set my teef in de Christ- mas shoat. Dar’s old Aunt Sukey, an how she ken cook it. And now de Gov- ernor is at the top agin, I spects Massa Ashmead will be mighty pleased.”’ ‘‘Hold thy tongue, Sambo,” growle the young master savagely, ‘¢ fall back and keep thine eyes at work, rather thay thy tongue.”’ Sambo obeyed, casting a glance of sur. prise and doubt at the figureof his master, and more firmly convinced than before that Ralph Ashmead was not as loyal tp England and Governor Berkeley as his father, the master of Ashmead. Sadly rebellious, indeed, were Ralph Ashmead’s reflections that. night as he rode toward his father’s house, and knew what welcome would be his with the intel. ligence he brought thither. The smoke had scarcely died down from the ruinsof Jamestown ; the little colony of Virginia had barely raised the banner of victory over their tyrannical and despotic gover- or, when the suddendeath of that noble leader, Nathaniel Bac _ strucka thrillto the hearts of his stauncu followers. Dur- ing all this period of warfare, the master of Ashmead had held loyal to the King of England, and his representative, Governor Berkeley, the hot- blooded, cruel old royal- ist. Not only had the eldest son of the house of Ashmead held office under this choleric old man, but Allyn Ashmead’s only daughter, Lady Morey, held a high place in the court of Charles II., and Allyn Ashmead himself was too real a Jacobite to sever from the loyalty of years. Not so young Ralph. Through his veins coursed the blood that a hundred years later was to rise up and cry out for liberty and arepublic. In him thrilled the spirit born of the new land, and while he, too, had gloried in Governor Berke- ley’s staunch adherence to the young king in exile, he was equally quick to recognize the tyranny that decreed pro- tection for the towns, and left the frontier to the cruelties and outrages of the In- dians. Nathaniel Bacon committed no treason in the eyes of the youth of Vir ginia when he claimed his right to pro- tect women and children, commissioned or non-commissioned by king or governor. 484 i ee ek le Oe eee ee ee Ce

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RALPH OF ASHMEAD. But Ralph had never dared avow his patriotism to what he considered the right cause. One whisper of his intention had brought the iron will of his father to bear upon him, and before protest could avail, Ralph found himself enrolled in the household of Governor Berkeley, under bond to follow his fortunes even unto death. Dazed and troubled at thus finding himself placed where inclination and duty were so little in harmony, the youth en- deavored to conduct himself as befitted his father’s son, and he won the esteem of the Governor’s household, and was but now bearing a triumphant message to his father from the Governor. Bacon dead, Berkeley had plucked up his scattered courage, and grasped the helm, and al- ready Ralph had witnessed scenes that sickened hisyouthfulheart. Only thatday he had heard the wife of Major Cheese- man plead for his life, and later had been an unwilling witness to the execution of Captain Wilford and that young coura- geous nephew of his, Thomas Hansford. Perhaps because Ralph Ashmead had been imprudent enough to breath forth his real sentiment, the old Governor forced these scenes upon him to remind him of the penalty of treason. Ralph felt this to be the case, and his hot blood ran riot, to proclaim against the outrage. He had barely strength to turn away from the sight of Thomas Hansford’s quiver- ing form, so overcome was he at the sight that wrung his heart. For he had been a playmate of Ralph’s in his boyhood, and there rose before his tear-dimmed eyes a vision of a lovely face full of woe and unutterable loneliness, weeping aloud the death of her only brother. And in that hour Ralph Ashmead cursed in his heart the Governor, and renounced the King. _ Right gladly did he receive the commis- sion to return to Ashmead, through Glou- cester Wood, bearing some despatches to various places, and remaining at Ashmead for the Yule-tide. He secretly resolved never to return to Jamestown and the Governor’s household. What Allyn Ashmead would say, this youngest son knew full well. What mat- tered it? Better to lose heritage and birth-right than live the hypocrite and coward of the last few months. 485 But breaking in upon these dreary re- flections, Sambo once more rode to his master’s side. This time his tone was one of genuine alarm. ‘¢ Massa Ralph, shu’ar as yo’ live, I see de light ob a torch through dem trees.’ ‘‘Halt! Sambo, keep close. We will ride toward it. It must be some traveler belated like ourselves.”’ ‘¢Lor’ just listen, massa Ralph ! I been a-hearin’ it all along. Just a whang, whang, like de sound ob a shovel ina grave. Reckon it’s a ghost.” ‘¢ A fig for thy nonsense, I too hear the sound now, and there is a faint glimmer of light yonder. Do you keep at my side. Wewillsee to it.” He plunged into a side path recklessly, Sambo following, but keeping pretty well behind, and muttering an old charm, while he crossed his heart, and rolled his. eyes nervously. Ralph drew in his steed, as he neared the faint glimmering of a single torch, and the scene he dimly observed brought a smothered exclamation to hislips. Be- side anewly-made grave knelt several dark figures, while one slender woman bent over the form of a dead man laid by the grave, and sobbed aloud. A low voice was solemnly pronouncing those words that have served so many years, the con- signing of the beloved dead to mother earth. ‘¢ Thou, knowest, Lord the secret of our hearts ; shut not thy merciful ears to our prayers, but spare us, Lord most mighty.” Ralph motioned Sam to a standstill, and bowed his head to those grand words, keeping his horse as still as if carved in bronze. Sambo curious now, peered over his master’s shoulder, and fell back appalled at the sombre shadowy group. But as the body was consigned to the rough grave, and the dark figure at the head bent to raise the woman who still knelt, Ralph’s horse stepped back and crushed against a log. A frightened half-smothered cry fol- lowed, and the torch was extinguished, leaving them in utter darkness. At the same moment a hand seized Ralph’s bridle, and a stern voice de- manded ;— ‘¢ Who goes there !”’

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486 ‘¢ A friend,’”’ replied Ralph firmly. ‘¢ Give the countersign.”’ ‘¢ Versus Rex,’’ rejoined Ralph prompt- ly, making Sambo’s wool vibrate with as- tonishment. He knew it to be the rebel Bacon’s countersign, for it had been be- trayed since Governor Berkeley had learned the virtue of torture among his prisoners. In a moment the torch was re: lighted, and its light swung in Ralph’s face. He sprang from his horse. ‘¢ Drummond,’’ he cried breathlessly. ‘* And here, at this hour. What does this mean ?”’ ‘¢ Ralph of Ashmead, thou hast betrayed me. Stand guard, dastard, 1 will never yield to thee.”’ ‘God ! Will! dost think I’d ever be- tray thee. ‘To-day has made me Bacon’s man, be he in Heaven or hell. Put up arms. Iam more for weeping than fight- ing. To-day I’veseen brave Tom Hans- ford pay his debt to Heaven—”’ ‘¢ What mean you?” ‘« He died at twelve to day, hung like a dog, while he only craved to be shot like a soldier.”’ A cry of grief at these words sent a thrill through Ralph's heart. Drummond turned and caught the slen- der girl as she flung her arms upward in an agony. ‘« Poor girl, I had forgotten thee.’’ ‘It is Lule?’’ Ralph’s voice was sunk toan awed tone. ‘‘ Yes, his sister. She would follow us, altho’ I begged her to remain away. She has no home or shelter. Uncle, brother, all are taken and I —am a fugi- tive, knowing not where to turn.’, A moment’s silence fell, broken only by the bitter weeping of fhe woman. Then Ralph said: ‘¢ Who bury ye yonder ?”’ Drummond drew nearer that the others should not hear. ‘Nathaniel Bacon. Hist; no word of it as I trust thee, Ralph of Ashmead. On his dying bed I promised no indignity should reach him after death. There he lies, in an unmarked grave. The bravest, worthiest man Virginia ever loved. Would I were with him.’’ ‘‘Say notso. Is there not hope in ye yet?”’ RALPH OF ASHMEAD. ‘‘None. Thou knowest the Governor, and his restored power. How Cheeg. man lies dying in prison; Wilford and Hansford hanged, and I is He broke off, checking a gesture of de. spair, to press tenderly the head of the girl, who leaned upon his breast. ‘¢ Thou sayst there is no home for this poor bird?’’ Ralph touched the hem of the girl’s garment reverently. ‘¢In truth, Ashmead I scarce know where to turn. Every hour threatens my arrest. Icannot abandon this young charge, yet should I be taken——_”’ ‘* Governor Berkeley wages no war on the women of Virginia,’’ said Ralph with a little scorn for the only blemish on Na- thaniel Bacon’s career. ‘I would not give a rush for the chances were he to seize Tom Ransford’s sister,” replied the other, sharply, ‘but we parley too long. I doubt me even now I am putting a vain trust in one of Berke- ley’s vipers.’’ *¢ Thou liest !’’ retorted Ralph, hotly, and at his tone three carbines were quick- ly leveled, behind Drummond and the girl, covering the frightened Sambo, and his master. ‘Ralph of Ashmead, Iam in this forest with but three faithful followers. I know not how many thou mayst call to thy com- mand, but I charge thee move not, or I'll send thy soul to wander soever it listeth. Hand over thy arms.”’ A bitter smile swept over Ralph’s face. He unbuckled his sword and dagger, and calmly passed the carbine to Drummond. Then he threw open his mantle and dis- played on his breast a white cross, dashed with scarlet. ‘¢Shoot me if thou wilt,’’ he quoth, slowly. Drummond started back. ‘¢ How came you by that sign?” he murmured. ‘‘ Two hours before his death Hans- ford’s hand pinned it over my heart, and while there still throbs beneath it one spark of life, I keep the oath I took from him.” In a moment the other’s arms were about him, and earnest words of regret followed, ali of which Ralph hastily put aside, and kneeling at the feet of the maiden who had watched thescene, he said:

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RALPH OF ASHMEAD. «Lille, oh my sweet, fair child mate, take my allegiance, to preserve thee from all danger, to guard thee in the name of Him we trust, and for the sake of thy brother and my friend. Lille, wilt thou trust me ?”’ Trembling, but with the light of hope in her dark eyes, she let him clasp her hand. ‘¢ And wilt thou love me, Lille, as thou promised me long ago?”’ he whispered. Evenin that solemn hour youth awoke to claim its prerogative, and her reply was only heard by the eager youth, and the stray young breeze that drove a flurry of snowflakes between them, like a ghost of coming trouble. Drummond turned aside. He knew now why Ralph of Ashmead had but half aheart for Governor Berkeley’s cause. If he doubted his patriotism, he was too wise to doubt the love, that forsaking all others, clings only unto one. When he turned to them again, Lille Hansford was leaning on Ralph’s arm, and with her slender hands, was endeavoring to press the dagger to its ring in his belt. Tears hung upon her lashes still, and her quivering lips had hardly learned to smile, but peace seemed to have stolen through her sadness. Drummond spoke to Ralph somewhat sternly : ‘“‘And thy father? How canst thou think he will accept this woman of thy choice ?”’ ‘*Ask me no more,’’ said Ralph, with some hauteur, ‘‘ I will protect this maiden with my life. If thou still doubtest me—”’ ‘* Nay, I place all in thy hands.” ‘‘Then follow by another road to the Ashmead estate. Take thou thy men and skirt the northern side of the country until reaching Ashmead. There find a deserted hut, ashelterfor thee until I can aid thee further. My hand upon it, Wil- liam Drummond, I’ll sooner die than be- tray thee.’’ ‘* And this maiden—Lille ?”’ ‘She goes with me. Hast thou not among ye one who read the burial service ? Bid him here.”’ William Drummond hesitated a moment and then drew forward asmall dark man. ‘I am but a deacon,” murmured the man in confusion. ‘‘I cannot marry ye.”’ ‘‘Thou canst hear us plight our troth, 487 and we need no priest if thou bear wit- ness.’’ As he spoke Ralph, with his dagger, twisted two of the steel rings from the chain that held it to hisside. The smaller he put on the girl’s hand, and fitted the other on his own. Then he handed them back to the young man, who took them in embarrassed silence. But it mattered lit- tle to the trembling girl and eager youth that the young deacon stammered over the service, and got woefully mixed in the vows. Ralph placed the steel ring, a fitting symbol of the hard and bitter needs and relentless generation in which they lived, and then he clasped the hand closely and pressed. it to his lips. Sambo, who had watched all in dumb surprise, was now told by his master to carry both the carbines, while Ralph made a change or two in his saddle straps. A new vigorseemedin hisarm. He moved quickly and lightly. ‘‘How came you hither?’’ he asked suddealy of Drummond. ‘‘This good man,’’ motioning to the small deacon, ‘‘and one other have a wagon some two miles distant. Our horses are concealed ina ravine. I bore Lille on a pillow.” ‘¢J, faith, must do the best I can for thee, sweet life,’’ said Ralph turning to the girl tenderly,’’ and lifting her to his horse, he sprang once more to his seat, holding one arm about her while he wrapped his mantle over herslender form. It was so dark now that they were turned from the dim torchlight that they could not see each other, but the girl clung to him trustfully. Drummond detained them a moment. ‘¢ Thou wilt shield and guard her ?”’ ‘As I love her!’’ replied Ralph ear- nestly. ‘And as I love her, I will meet thee to-morrow and conduct thee to a safer refuge.”’ At this moment the small deacon came to the other side the horse and touched Ralph silently on the arm. ‘*T know thee, Ralph of Ashmead,”’ he said in a low voice, ‘‘and as I hate thee, thou shalt swing for this.’’ But Ralph was too quick for him; shielding Lille with one arm, he sent his dagger with unerring aim into the heart of the reckless deacon.

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ae ae : —" Ser ae ee ai : eke has Sede ees eT te th HAS NTS TR NOR BEEPS eink He reeled back with a scream, and fell at Drummond's feet, while with a quick turn of his startled horse, Ralph of Ash- mead sped away in the darkness, holding fast against his breast the woman he loved, and leaving part of the same steel that had served to plight their troth in the heart of his rival and enemy. Il. Ralph’s horse was one of the best the Ashmead stable could afford. A light- footed, spirited mare, with fond love for her master, and a delicate ear for the sound of his voice. Like a bird the good mare ‘‘ Reneé”’ sped through the somber forest, bending to the slightest check on the rein, and seeming in earnest sympa- thy with her rider and his burden. Fin- ally Ralph drew rein. He _ heard the slower beat of hoofs behind him, and knew Sambo had followed him. He bent his head over his companion who had ut- tered no outcry but clung courageously to him through the mad gallop. ‘¢ Sweetheart, these are sad times for suchas thou. Was’t brave not tocry out when I know thou art trembling with fright. I fear me Drummond is betrayed if my dagger failed in its errand. Where didst thou chance on that black sniveling deacon ?”’ ‘«My cousin grieved that my uncle should be laid to rest with no word read over him. We chanced on this man, and seeing he was in holy orders, my cousin Drummond took his word of peace and he came with us, Oh, Ralph, if thou thinkest my cousin in danger let us re- turn. He has braved so much, to meet a felon’s death. I beseech thee——’”’ ‘¢ Dear heart, it would be madness to return, even if I had not thee to first consider. Whence are the other compan- ions of your cousin ?’’ ‘«Two faithful servants and followers of Bacon.”’ ‘¢ Then rest easy, for I do believe my dagger made a clean gap in that ugly body wide enough to let the soul escape.”’ At this moment Sambo joined them, panting and puffing. ‘¢ Follow a yard behind,’’ commanded Ralph to the gasping servant, ‘‘ and speak not until I give thee leave to open that wide mouth of thine.”’ 488 RALPH OF ASHMEAD. And Sambo, still aghast at all that had occurred, obeyed him, stretching his ears to catch the murmur of that gentle voice in reply to his master’s low-toned conver. sation. ‘¢T little thought, Lille, when I gay thee last, Ishould bear thee thus and wear thee next my heart. How thou didst flout me, thou coquette.”’ ‘¢ But I loved thee even then,’’ she con- fessed. ‘‘I only feared thee because} thought thee too assured. Butoh! to- night I could withhold no longer. Thy voice was music to mine ears, thy touch upon my hand, strength to my fainting courage. I am glad ’tis night, else would I blush for very boldness, but it seemeth now the time for truth, and I right wil- lingly confess it.’’ ‘¢ Every word is balm to me, my life. I cannot still the joyous beating of my heart. Canst not feel it beneath thy head. Good ‘Reneé’ guide us, I prythee, for now of a surety I have lost my head, and care not whither thou goest. All ways lead to Paradise for him that loveth not in vain ! !”’ In good sooth the mare had it her own way for a short space, and all the wintry winds and snowflakes of December could not dim the rapture of that moment. The young have elastic spirits, and under the staunch assurance of protection from her lover, Lille Hansford grew hopeful, and shut out with his caress the horror of her brother’s death. But Ralph must fain bethink him of safe shelter for his fair charge, and in the weary hour or two of travel yet before them, he had ample time to turn over per- plexedly many plans. He placed a firm reliancein Sambo’s fidelity, and indeed he had good reason to believe not a darkey on his father’s estate would betray him, should he bid them keep silence in his cause. Ralph, with his hasty imperious nature, was well beloved notwithstanding, and he felt that besides Sambo, his especial ser- vant and ally, Aunt Sukey and Uncle Ben would be no mean upholders of his seem- ingly untoward conduct in thus bringing to Ashmead a rebel bride. He knew he must not venture boldly to Ashmead with the girl, for all the countryside would be ringing tomorrow

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7S oes FT on TF with the execution of Thomas Hansford. He felt his father would little brook his hasty espousal, even could he call it such, since he felled the traitor villain that had pronounced the words of the service between them. Yet it went hard with Ralph to leave Lille that night, even in Sukey’s neat quarters. It looked like rank cowardice, and a desertion of the girl, to secrete her thus, while he passed toa hearty welcome, anda probable gathering ofthe the kin, at the Hall. He finally broached the subject gently to the girl, and she seemed to readily un- derstand his dilemma, but she thought of an obstacle that had not arisen in Ralph’s mind. Aunt Sukey’s quarters, although remote, were much frequented by the other darkeys, and when she asked if many others would not see her besides Ralph’s faithful old foster-mother, he was silent with dismay. Finally he said : ‘There is but one way that I can see, tothy entire safety. It leads metoa gloomy haunt. I fear thou wilt be sadly frightened.”’ “Oh, no; but Ralph if thou thinkest thy father would refuse shelter to me, thou hast indeed done wrong to espouse my cause.”’ ““Tespouse ¢hee, sweetheart, and the cause is mine.as well, since I wear upon my breast the cross of rebellion. But ’tis more others than my father that I fear. My brother Roland and wife who is niece to Berkeley, are gathered at Ashmead for the Yule tide. Others also may be there ready to cry out on thee, even could thy sweet sad eyes, brook the merriment of a festival at Ashmead.”’ “Ah; Ralph, what hast thou not risked for me?’’ _ “Nothing that I would not risk ten times again. But we must ride faster, see yonder light? It is the first Ashmead torch. Now God forgive me, I never saw those towers less gladly. Sambo! turn off to the south lane, and down past the hermit’s cave.’’ “For de land ob lub, Massa Ralph, what yo’ go dar fur?” f Ask no questions, but do as I bid ye.” _ Turning away from the welcoming lights, Ralph rode along an un-used lane, Vol. CXIX—No. 35- RALPH OF ASHMEAD. 489 patting ‘‘Reneé’’ to soothe her disap- pointment at. leaving the homeward path. He drew up before a rude grating built in the side hill, and bade Sambo light the torch he carried at ‘his saddle bow. Sambo obeyed in silence, but his teeth chattered when he saw Ralph de- liberately set his strong young shoulder to the grating, and bring it open with a clang. ‘¢ Massa Ralph yo’ don’t mean to goin dar? ye don’ mean me to goin dar? De ghost ob old Sells will hev you suah!’’ whispered Sambo. ‘‘ Hold your tongue,’ replied Ralph with a quick cuff that sent Sambo back against his horse, and threat- ened to annihilate the slight glimmer of light vouchsafed by the torch. Then snatching the latter from the affrighted darkey’s hand, he bade him begone and await him with the horses at the turn of the road. ‘¢ Breathe no word to any living soul of this lady, Sam, as thou lovest me and val- uest thy skin. Be careful with “ Reneé’ and await me.’’ And then with one arm about the girl, Ralph plunged into what proved a rather gloomy cell dug out of the hill-side, but so concealed from the ‘entrance that the light could not be dis- cerned. ‘¢ Dear heart, this is all the comfort I can afford thee now. This was an old hermit’s retreat, and the darkeys still be- lieve he haunts the spot. There is a pas- sage by which we can reach this cave from Ashmead. I, and one other alone know the way hither. In boyish sport we hid our knowledge from our cousins and com- panions, and oft used to hide here. He perchance hath forgotten the way. Here thou art not far from the house- hold, and here can I reach thee, and in meantime will send to thee one to be thy companion. You may trust her, Lille, as you trust me. She was my foster-sis- ter—old Sukey’s daughter, and she is my own property. She would sooner die than betray me.”’ ‘¢ She will not be long, Ralph ?”’ said Lille, looking about the dreary little cel- lar faintly illumined by the torch. ‘*Scarcely time for me to ride ‘ Reneé’ to Sukey’s quarters. See, Lille, this is the passage.’’ He pushed aside a net-

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49° RALPH OF work of rough tree boughs, and discov- ered a long narrow dark passage. It looked- very grim. Lille drew closer to him ‘« Cover itagain, Ralph. Icannot fancy thee coming through that gloom.” He threw the sticks back again, and proceeded hastily to make a small fire on a roughly hewn hearth from a store of sticks he found in a corner of the cell, so that when he turned to leave her they crackled right briskly, and she bade him go cheerily, wrapping his long cloak about her, and striving to smile. Ralph rode directly to Aunt Sukey’s quarters, and ina reasonably short time the handsome young mulatto girl, accom- panied by Sambo, stood before Lille Hansford, with a basket of provisions, and a pleasant smile of welcome, that sent a warm assurance to the loneliness of the young woman; and while she ate, Sylvia told her stories of Ralph’s boyhood, and daring, and how she had played with him as a babe, and was now his slave, with Sambo. AndtrulySylvia wasa goodly sight to dwell upon, with her neat, slim figure, her great black eyes, and many-hued head- dress. Large gold loop ear-rings hung from her ears, and about her neck was a string of yellow beads. She was evidently a house servant, and indeed she told Lille as much—that she must miss the merry gathering at the Hall to-night to hasten to do Ralph’s pleasure. «¢ And de Lord knows Miss, dat I was dat skeered wen he tole me where he leave yo’. But it ain’t so bad, now I’se he’yr, and Massa Ralph won’t stand no nigger foolin’ wen he says go, soI jist git right down here. And now honey, who is ye ? ” It was an embarrassing question, as Lille was not quite sure herself whether she was Ralph’s wife, or still Thomas Hansford’s fugitive sister. She therefore said gently : ‘‘Sylvia, do not ask that. Master Ralph will tell you when he thinks you should know. Iam so weary now, I will try and sleep. Will you keep guard?” '4¢Dat I will, Miss, and ’lowin’ ole Sell’s ghost don’t eat me.’’ And Sylvia took up Ralph’s light car- bine where it lay across the inner thres- hold, and held it ready to shoot any spectre that might present itself. ASHMEAD. Meantime Ralph, hastily concealing the cross of Thomas Hansford, presented him- self at the Hall. According to his expec. tations, his kinsmen were gathered hither, and much to his chagrin, also Roger Templeton, one of the Berkeley house. hold, and a close friend of Roland Asb- mead, Ralph’s elder brother. _Ralph detested Roger Templeton. He had more than once provoked the impetuous youth to an avowal of his rebel principles. He had little expected to find himself fore- stalled by his presence, at Ashmead. But Ralph must fain put aside these troubled thoughts, and join the memy sport going forward. Among the throng of cousins, first to greet him was that dare-devil Oswald, claiming as usual his role of lord of misrule. And as the gay maskers gathered about Ralph, glad to torment him for his late arrival, and his brother asked the reason for delay, Ralph fancied he saw Roger Templeton fathom the secret of his heart, in the blood that mounted to his forehead. Oswald gave him a smart rap with his sceptre. ‘‘We have waited for thee long, good cousin, and we have now a task for thy laggard legs.’’ At which a clamorarose from the group of maskers, and more than one pretty hand was held out to Ralph invitingly. Sohe yielded, but danced with none of his usual spirit, while Miss Dornida Ashmead, the spinster aunt who reigned at Ashmead in lieu of that fair lady who was now Lord Morey’s wife, said to Roger Templeton that Ralph had changed much since she saw him last ; she wondered whence the cause. ‘‘These are changeful times, good madame,’’ said Roger shortly, and fol- lowed with astern eye the broad, stalwart figure of the younger man. As he didso, Oswald, with mischevious intent, snatched from Ralph’s shoulders a broad blue sash he wore, and in doing so something fell to the floor, unobserved by the youths who engaged in a friendly contest. Roger Templeton lifted it with a grim smile and thrust it out of sight. And while the mirth waxed highest, the lord of Ashmead also observed his younger son’s seeming abstraction, and feeling so well content himself at the turm

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RALPH OF ASHMEAD. of affairs; having so strong a faith in the overnment, he could not understand it. He therefore spoke in a chiding tone to Ralph, as he stood near. ‘| prythee, dear father, chide me not. Jam very weary with the journey, and in little harmony with so fair a scene. Per- mit me to withdraw, an thou wilt.’ ‘It is scarcely fitting, Ralph. Nor is it like thee to prefer such a request ‘Art in debt—or in love, that thy counte- nance is so heavy ?”’ ‘I am worn with the day’s riding,”’ he returned shortly, never heeding that as he spoke his busy brain was intent on concocting an escape that very night for himself and Lille. ‘Reneé’ would carry .the slender maiden, while he would take the larger horse. He would go to Mary- land, and perhaps gain aid to favor the escape of Drummond hither. He felt vaguely Lille was not safe,nor was the es- tate of Ashmead, did Governor Berkeley think it harbored one traitor. And he knew Roger Templeton’s presence boded little good. Before they could visit his rebellion on his father and his house, Ralph would make his escape and hence- forth an exile, bear alone the stigma that otherwise might carry with it disgrace and confiscation of the entireestate. He was hastening from the room choking back the emotion that naturally arose, when he reflected that he should never look upon this scene again, that his father would spurn him if he knew what determination filled his breast, when he was confronted by Oswald. “Ralph, I dare thee to gratify this company by showing them we know where lurks a secret passage to Old Sells’ ghostly cave he cried. Ralph caught his arm like a vice. ‘‘ For God’s sake, Oswald, have a care. Thy—promise, hast forgotten ? ’’ ‘‘Oh! those days are past, cousin mine. We can no longer hide a store of nuts in the cave. Come, the darkeys say old Sells’ ghost lingers there, and mine uncle has given me leave to exorcise his hermit-ship. Thou wilt help me lead the way?” ‘‘Oswald—no, thou art not traitor enough to forsake a compact made in youth___.”’ ‘Who talks of traitors? ’’ asked Roger 4gt Templeton at Ralph’s elbow, making him start with anger. But Oswald was deter- mined. In vain Ralph sought to say a word in quiet. Oswald was in a wild mood, and took his remonstrance in jest. Allyn Ashmead laughingly urged the en- terprise, and all the merry company shrieked in chorus their courage to fol- low their leader, and face the ghost. Ralph, stung to thequick at Roger Tem- pleton’s sneering countenance, snatched a mask from his aunt, and catching Oswald with a firm grip held him to his side as they went down the stairs leading to the basement of the Ashmead house. ‘*Wilt ruin me, thou foolish boy,” he whispered to the now frightened Oswald. ‘What would you? Why should you care? Ralph thou art crushing me.”’ ‘¢ Then pretend thou turnest coward at the last moment. Obey me!”’ ‘¢Not I! and be laughing stock for others. Tush! I will not gratify thee. Let go.”’ ‘«]’ll twist thee to hell if thou movest in this matter,”’ fiercely cried the other, when Roger Templeton put a cool hand between the youths. ‘¢ What trouble is this? Good people, they do quarrel asto which shall personate the ghost.”’ A roar of laughter drowned Ralph’s oath of rage, and as the company were now provided with torches, Oswald pushed aside some heavy boards, and calling on all to follow, sped with a cry down the dark passage. But not before Ralph had distanced him with long strides. Emerging from the boughs into the lit- tle cell, he tramped the fire down with a desperate foot, lifted the sleeping Lille to her feet, and bade her don the mask he thrust upon her. Then he bade Syl- via speed out into the night and rushing with Lille into the dark passage, they joined the throng that were coming very slowly now, many of the torches having failed, and more than one guest being sorely frightened at this last piece of dare-deviltry on Oswald’s part. Lille, half awake, had obeyed Ralph. She now felt him shake off her clinging hands as he whispered : ‘* Appear as if one of us, or I fear all is lost.”’ (TO BE CONCLUDED.)

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fay Jem. AN OLD-TIME STORY. BY EMILY READ. | HEY were a merry set, the three of them, ready for asport or an adventure; and my cot- tage was a home to them. My father was bailiff for old Sir John, for over twenty years; and he, Sir John, I mean, got my brother Jem a berth as midshipman in the Royal Navy. There was nothing but fighting then ; which Jem said gained him promotion. But he also gained his death, poor lad ! for he was killed by a cutlass wound. He lived long enough to send his love to his young wife, and to say he died content, since he had seen De Grasse give up his sword to Admiral Rodney, on the quarter-deck of the Formidable, Jem’s own ship. A fine sight, no doubt; but I would rather have seen Jem well and hearty, since he was the only one of kin to me, His wife did not tarry long behind him, and when dying, she put into my empty arms another Jem to fondle and love. Jem was very proud of his father’s brave death ; and so was Master Brydges, who by his father, was a far-off cousin to the great Admiral. For myself, I had been Lady Ann’s play fellow, and then her humble friend ; though she often called me proud and pertinacious. After her marriage, Lady Ann was much in London, Sir John being in Parliament ; and Master Brydges was left to my care, at the cottage. As for Mistress Lois, Lady Ann’s niece, she, like my Jem, was motherless, and given into my keeping, Lady Ann, not caring for the trouble of a baby. Jem was three years old then, and a sturdy lit- tle villain, never quiet indoors ; so I was not sorry to have a bonny girl for a play- thing for him. But of the three, she gave me the most trouble, since there was no form of pox she did not take, as well as chin-cough and rashes of all sorts. But she battled with them all, and grew into as sweet and comely a lass as the dear Lord ever made; and the two lads just worshiped her. It’s poor pay bringing up other folks’ children, as I found. For, Sir Geor, dying—he was killed by a fall while hunt. ing—Lady Ann came to the Hall to liye and being a young widow, and Master Brydges a mere lad, she was too wise to risk a second marriage, since she liked her freedom, and knew a patch is likely to make a bigger rent. So Master Brydges did not stay at the cottage more than a few weeks at a time when Lady Ann went to visit London. When Mistress Lois was old enough to learn books, the two left me, and yet as I said, the cottage was always home to them. As to Jem, they were never willing to do without him. I remember the day as if it were yes- terday, when Mistress Lois came to tell me she had coaxed Lady Ann to let her have her birthday feast at the cottage. She would be seventeen ; and her next birthday was to be kept by a great ball at the Hall, when all the gentry of the country were to be asked. So Lady Ann let her have her way with this lesser feast all the more freely since only Master Brydges and my Jem were to share it. The lass had taken a wish to borrow my kitchen, and with Master Brydges’ and Jem’s help she was to cook the dishes. Poor cooks they proved to be, which added to their merriment; and I, poor fool, was as gay as they were, since I did not see a finger’s-length before me. But such blindness may be a mercy, for often if we saw the ending of the day we would have no heart to begin it. But I am wandering from my merry lambs, who would make a joke of every- thing, even of the dull business of clear- ing away all tokens of the feast. Mistress Lois had her sleeves well tucked up, showing her fine shapely arms, as white as lambs’ fleece, and with two dimples in each elbow. She did a deal of joking at the lads, who were uncommonly awkward, methought, because they had only eye for her prettines:, so were of small help. 492

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ge They were a trifle noisy, for the rafters of the old kitchen sent back their laugh- ter—when suddenly there came a flash of lightning that made all three look pale as ghosts ; and then a crash of thunder thatseemed to bring the roof about our heads. Afterwards the rain came down likea second deluge. But though violent, the storm passed quickly by, and the sun came out to set royally in purple and old. ‘ But the storm ended the frolic, and Mistress Lois was in haste to go, as she would fain cross the ford by daylight, so that they, might see the stepping-stones. ‘For, I care not for a wet foot,’’ she said. Jem promised to carry her over dry- shod ; but she said she was no longer a baby, being seventeen. I would have kept them at the Cottage all night, reminding them it would not be their first sleeping under the old roof. But Master Brydges was sure Lady Ann would look for them; and so—well, why should not I own the truth that I saw no danger, never having known the stepping- stones at the ford to be covered, save af- ter a long spring rain, when the snow in the hills melted and did its part to swell the river. And as to danger, it had been a long day since any one had been drowned at the ford; not since I wasa wee one, and then it was a stranger, who knew naught of the stepping-stones. I stood watching them crossing the place. My Jem was leading the way, and Mistress Lois, so lithe and bonny, came after him, then Master Brydges. I could hear their voices long after they were out of sight, the evening was so still. I went back to my snug parlor, calling to Jenny to bring a log tocaston the fire, for I was chilled standing in the open doorway. Afterwards I was glad of the fire blaze, though at the time I was think- ing only of my own comfort. It was cheerful as I sat there spinning by the fire-light; the kettle boiling mer- rily, waiting for Jem to come back fora cupof tea; and a cricket singing now and then, as if ashamed of its‘shrill song. Soon it was too dark. for me to see the fine thread ; so I put aside the wheel, and went to the house door, looking for Jem. The moon had risen full just over the MY JEM. 493° river, so there was a moon in the water as well as in the sky, and I could have read in the big Bible, by its light. As I stood looking, there came a cry ; or were there three cries in one? I didn’t stop to think ; but ran over the fields, towards the ford, whence my heart told me thecry came. Iran, though cruelly ‘ hindered by trees that caught my gown; but I tore myself away, not thinking of rents ; and so at last—for to me it seemed an age—lI stood panting by the ford. Usually the water was not ankle-deep, and by the high stepping-stones one could cross dry-shod ; but then there was not a stone to be seen, but only the seething water, with an uprooted tree or bush, scurrying down the stream. Nothing else to be seen! Ah me! there were three heads above the water that looked white in the moonlight. I, safe on the bank, could guess well enough how it all had chanced. Jem had gone first, fearing nothing, but, as it were, to feel the way. He had called a warning to Mistress Lois, and she, always ventur- ous, had laughed at him and gone her wilful way, while Master Brydges, who had on his best velvet coat in honor of the day, had been slower to risk the spoil- ing of it until he saw a danger. I stood there helpless, but glad to think there was a good fire at the cottage to dry them by, and the kettle boiling to make them a hot drink, for a chill was the worst I feared. Mistress Lois had only to turn to Master Brydges, who could safely bring her to shore in a moment, and my Jem was such a brave swimmer I had no fear for him, even if he were beyond his depth. Whether it all had a different look to them in the swift current, it is hard to say, as Mistress Lois, feeling her footing going, may have lost her head; or per- chance she thought death had come, and —well, I cannot tell, save that I saw her turn away from master Brydges to Jem, who was struggling in the current. Even then I was not frightened, know- ing how good aswimmer Jem was. Alas! I knew also—something told me, or I saw it in the eager way he turned—that my lad thought death a small price to pay for the bliss of knowing that she turned to him for help. I saw Jem battle with

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494 the currents to reach her supplicating arms. Ashe didso Master Brydges gave a sharp cry of warning, for he only saw the tree whirling in the stream as if it were a straw drifting toward them. I dared not see them sink— ‘¢’Fore heaven, he has saved her !’’ It was Lady Ann’s voice. How she came there I never asked, though I opened my eyes quickly to see Jem at my side with Mistress Lois in his arms. He laid her head on my lap, and then he went away, Master Brydges going with him. The lass had only fainted and soon came to herself, and though I’d fain have taken her to the cottage, I found Lady Ann opposed me, and was keen to get her to the Hall. I let her have her way, not knowing what she saw whilst my eyes were tight shut ; besides I was anxious to go to Jem. So Ihurried home and found Master Brydges had persuaded Jem to go to bed, and had himself gone for the doctor, at which Jem laughed and said he was only tired, battling with the current, and wanted me to doctor him up a day or so. But I did not like the looks of my lad’s white face, and I wished he’d make more ado, as is natural to his sex, and not beso lamb-like. Besides I could only find a bruise or two he would not have cried over when aboy. The doctor said some- thing of inside hurts, and that time would tell, and much more foolishness that gave me no comfort. It was near a week when Jem asked if Mistress Lois had been to the cottage. When I said no, he did not seem offen- ded. But after he had been a long time quiet, hesaid :—‘‘ She cannot know my state. Ican’t go away without asight of her, nor would she like me to. There- fore, dear aunt, will you not go to the Hall and fetch her?” I wondered where he thought of going, but he looked so wistful I did not ask, but promised to see Mistress Lois, and say he wished tosee her. But how I was to see her I could not tell, for I knew very well Lady Ann would not be friendly to the visit. The lass must have been looking for me, for when I went by the kitchen gar- den wall, so as to enter at the back door, I heard her calling me. ‘‘Tell me of Jem,’’ she said at once. MY JEM. ‘« They say it would be bold in me to go to the cottage and hear for myself.” ‘‘They say: ’’ so I knew Lady Ann was ‘* They.” «« But Master Brydges comes every day ; could he not tell you of my lad ?” ‘« My cousin does as he is bid, so we ‘must not blame him. Jem is not hurt; only taken a chill,’’ she said, as if she knew it. But when I told how ill he was, and that he had sent me for her, she broke into bitter weeping. I never could bear to see her cry, even when a baby; and though I knew I could never mend the world or make Lady Ann see as I did, I could do no better than take her to the cottage. I was afraid Lady Ann would find me out and stop us, and though she did not, yet I breathed freer when I had led the lass to Jem, and closed the door onthem. Then I sat down in my am- chair for a rest which I needed. After that, I had not the heart to dis- turb them, though it was near an hour be- fore Mistress Lois came to me. Her eyes were a-shine with tears,and yet she looked strangely happy. She would not let me leave Jem, but took Jenny to walk to the Hall with her. I found Jem restless and inclined to talk, and I was some time quieting him. When he fell asleep I went back to the parlor fire, which Jenny had mended,and where she brought me acup of tea. I would not let her light thecandles, liking the fire-light better; and being weary, | closed my eyes. When I opened them, Lady Ann was sitting in Jem’s chair, on the other side of the fire. I roused myself at once, and offered her a cup of tea: which she refused, say- ing stiffly, she did not need it. Iknew she was angry, and in her stiffest mood, for she always said my tea was of the best. Something had displeased herI knew well enough, and the sooner she had it out, the better. Somehow all my dread had van- ished. I did not fear even Lady Ann by my Own ire. os ‘¢ You are a lucky nurse, to be sleeping over the fire,’’ she said sharply. 5 ‘«¢ A wise nurse sleeps when her patient does,’’ I answered. ‘‘ Besides, Jem is not one to be over-troublesome.”’

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MY JEM. “Jt isa boast you can make for very few of his sex.”” «He is unlike the most of them,” I d. «« And being your crow, of course he is white.” I made no answer, and she sat for a few moments staring in the fire; Then she said in her sudden way: ‘* You were at the Hall to-day.”’ ‘‘]’m not sure that it was wise in me to go,” I said, thinking of Jem, and how he was upset by seeing Mistress Lois. ‘‘Tt was most unwise ; in fact you were afool;’’ and finding I did not speak, she added: ‘‘ There are some things best killed out at once, and others that can die out slowly.’ “Would you kill Jem?” I asked sharply. ‘‘Not the lad, but his love. I blame myself for not looking after my niece bet- ter; but Jem was always a favorite of mine, and, to own the truth, I never thought of anything of the kind, and I do not think you did.”’ ‘<I don’t know why I didn’t, since old hearts are never in young bodies,” I said. ‘“‘T fancy it was because you learned your catechism in your youth, and thought Jem knew his duty in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call him. But all this is neither here nor there ; for itis the present, not the past, we are to deal with. You must think of Jem, and I of Lois; though I confess she’s past my patience. [I am sure Jem would have held his tongue if she had.”’ “Yl not answer for the lad. Jem is his father’s son,’’ I said. But Lady Ann did not seem to hear. ‘‘I know the world better than you do, at least my side of it,’’ said Lady Ann. “My experience is that a girl likes a lover to look up to her, but a husband to look up to. Ido not mean to say Jem is one for any girl to look down on. But he is not one to like his wife to appear ashamed of him, nor of the kind to pick out his phrases to please ‘her nice ear _ ‘Jem will never pick out anything but his duty to please anyone,” I said, for I Ost my patience, in truth was angry. “And as for Master Brydges ’’——I can’t 495 tell what ailed me to bring in his name, for Lady Ann had not mentioned him; only I knew what her heart was set on— ‘¢ Master Brydges will never stand be- tween Jem and what he wishes most for.’’ A fine red came into Lady Ann’s face. ‘‘ We will not mention my son,’”’ she ‘said in her proudest way, so I knew she had heard something before. After that we both sat staring into the fire, fashing our brains with many a thought we could not at once put into words. I knewshe was thinking of Mas- ter Brydges, and my heart was full of Jem, but I was so angry with Lady Ann I would not tell her of his condition. So there we were, both waiting for the other to speak. Jem must have heard our voices, for he had risen and dressed himself, and before I knew it, he was in the room—he was standing between us. I could say noth- ing, though I saw Lady Ann was looking at him in a scornful way. ‘¢ T suppose there is no need in my tell- ing you my errand here.”’ ‘«¢ I think I know it,’”’ he said quietly. ‘¢ You think, Lois,’’ (he did not call her Mistress Lois, as had been his wont for a year or two) ‘‘ will be better off for the loss of me, and you are right, perhaps, yet I do not believe this sweet dream of our youth will be altogether lost, for love is meant to make us better. So my dear play- fellow will find in time that I have done him no wrong, but have only been before him in teaching Lois her own heart.’’ Lady Ann sat staring at him. At last she said: ‘‘ Do you mean you give up Lois ?”’ ‘¢ Not altogether willingly ; and I can’t say that I would have done so, if—’’ He stopped there, and then began again— ‘‘T can’t say what I would have done if sorely taxed, for it sounds like boasting, and maychance, knowing me better than I know myself, the dear Lord has taken the matter into His hands and given me no choice. I am sure it is best so, for, dear Lady, what can be grander than for God to act for us?” But Lady Ann did not follow him, for it’s easier to understand the small, pitifal ways and losses we give each other than the dealings of God.

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496 Jem saw in time that she did not take in his meaning, for he said, in his low, weak voice, so unlike his old hearty one that I wondered she did not see the dif- ference : ‘¢ Dear Lady Ann, has no one told you that my days on earth are not only num- bered, but have dwindled to a very few? If it had not been so, do you think I would have sent for Lois? And now my strength has gone. I can say no more, only you will let Brydges come to see me ?”’ I went with Jem to his room scolding him for rising, as we went so slowly; and I did not leave him until he had fallen asleep from weariness. I found Lady Ann still sitting over the fire. ‘* Why did you not tell me?”’ she asked ‘‘Tell you what?” I said; for I was not inclined to forgive her for shortening the little time left me with my Jem.”’ ‘‘That there was no hope. I never thought that such a bold swimmer as Jem would find danger to his life in the river.”’ “ And neither he would have if it had not been for the tree.’’ And then I told her how Jem was hurt. ‘¢ And he was saving Lois’ life and I so hard on you!”’ she said with a sort of sob in her voice. ‘*Ah, Lady Ann!’’ I cried, breaking into tears; ‘‘ is it not always best to give kind judgment? I never minded what you said of me, but I did mind you mis- trusting Jem.” ‘You should have told the ending at the beginning,”’ she said shortly. And I said nothing, knowing her wont to have the last word. Master Brydges came next morning. I told him not to stay long for my Jem was weakening fast, but he was with him near an hour, and when he came to send me DECEMBER THIRTY-FIRST. to Jem, his eyes were red with weeping. But Jem was calm and quiet, smiling up at me as he used to do when a baby, Tender with me too; for he saw how cast down I was at parting from him. ‘‘Don’t fret,”’ he said, ‘‘ for when the Lord Himself leads, if we follow He’lj give strength to bear all that is on my heart,, dear aunt, for Lois will be happier in Brydges’ care than she would haye been in mine. Lady Ann isright. 4A wife should look up to her husband—not down; should follow—not lead him.” And I knew he had heard our talk by the fireside. Yet I have always grieved that my Jem saw Lois’soutstretched arms that evening, and wish Master Brydges had saved her, rather than my lad, whom I miss so much in the midnight of my life. _As for the young, their darkness is only for an hour or so; at least I think so when I see Mas- ter—I should be used to the ‘‘Sir Brydges” now—and his wife. I don’t think Lady Ann cares to be a grandmother, she never did take to children—so they have my cottage for a second home, as Sir Brydges and Lois—she will not let me call her my lady—had in the old days. The children (there is a Jem amongst them) dropping their voices to a whisper, asked me to tell them of uncle Jem, who saved mamma from drowning’ “and do Ithink the river will ever rise so high again ?”’ Sir Brydges always thinks of my com- fort, and a day seldom passes that he does not stop at the cottage to ask what I need, in his hearty way. He is growing stout and is as fond of hunt as Sir George was. And Lois sits with me over the fire— for I am old and chilly now—and we talk of the past days, and of our Jem. I find he is no longer my Jem, since they all claim him. December Chirty- first. BY MRS. A. GIDDINGS PARK, 5 cate a — . . 4 sate 3 " lat tipi — — . . Festi 3+ 1 Pb atens OS eM 0 ibe cei OP ag NP th ne ving a) we For we know though soon in thy snowy shroud Thou wilt rest with thy kindred dear, The stroke of thy knell Will the tidings tell Of the birth of the glad New Year! That have wedded the Old Year gray! There’s a sigh and a smile On our lips the while, As we herald this parting day ! ® last of thy race of the queenly twelve, ae vd ee es on™

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A Wheel of Fortune. aby BY OLIVIA LOVELL WILSON. = Author of « A Legal Fetter,” « A Social Dagger,” « Luck of Ashmead,” etc., etc. 1 the « Smile, and we smile, the lords of many lands ; Je’l Frown, and we smile, the lords of our own hands, For man is man and master of his fate.” 1. It was a beautiful morning early in September. The sun was making long shadows through the trembling veil of purple light that lingered over hill and Jem valley. ng, In the old-fashioned garden of Grey- ier, tower, that reached from the back of the uch grey stone mansion to the entrance of the the park, bloomed the blush and crimson our roses, eglantine and sweet mignonette, las- candytufts, coxcomb, and dahlias; Eng- 3” lish ivy fell from iron vases, and the dy prim paths were bound by flowering bor- ver ders. A fountain trickled its song, the my basin filled with slow-moving gold- Bcs fish, and not far from the fountain was a my summer-house covered with clematis, while over one side near the door, a late gst rose clambered, shedding its glowing er, splendor on the path below. ho Pacingup and down the quaint box hedge do in thoughtful mood was a tall, well-built gh youth of some five and twenty years of age, and ever and anon he glanced toward the n- house as if anticipating an interruption cs that promised to be pleasant, and also d, much desired. There was no impatience ut in his calm brown eyes, or in any of the se lines in his firm bright face, but now and then some untoward thought would send - afrown across his brow, and make him k compress his lips in annoyance. In truth d Mr. Walter Denmead had felt his eyes to I have been opened of late to a most un- pleasant truth, and was debating his duty in no very enviable state of mind. Mr. and Mrs. Myddleton had been kind friends to him for many years. When Walter was quite a lad Mr. Guy Myd- ; dleton had become quite interested in his career, and having both wealth and in- fluence, he had succeeded in placing him in an advantageous position, from which, being a clever mechanic and having a wonderful instinctive genius for —TENNYSON. machinery of all kinds, Walter Denmead had steadily worked his way to where he stood to-day. He had never known hisown father, and when ten years of age his mother had married asecondtime. The fruit of this marriage was one little sister, born to be the care and joy of Walter’s life, The step-father proved an idle, and al- together ornamental family burden. As Walter grew to manhood his contempt for this hanger-on grew apace. His mother died, however, blessing her son for his patience, and placing the lit- tle Faith entirely in his hands. Walter took the charge with the solemn earnest- ness of his nature, and he had tried to fulfill every obligation of his trust up to the present moment. Faith had grown up between the shift- less good nature of her father, and the sterner conscientious exactions of her brother,to bea strange anomaly of woman- ly faults and perversities, Walter feeling only too often his utter inability to com- prehend her, and longing for counsel himself in order to guide her. He made one great mistake in all his dealings with her. Having detected many traits resembling that easy-going father, he attributed to her more of the father’s nature than was her birthright. While Faith loved him devotedly, she felt he of- ten misunderstood her, and rebelled, and then would follow asceneof pain and bit- terness for both. 'Fiually, Mr. Carstone, Faith’s father, died suddenly, and despite all his daughter comprehended of his parental weakness, she felt keenly bereft and alone in the world, having leaned upon his weak affection. All went well for a time, Walter’s tender- ness for her grief being beyond reproach. But a misunderstanding soon arose, and Faith, full of indignation, resolved to throw off this allegiance to the yoke that so galled her, and be independent. 497

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Like the girls, whose friendship Walter deplored, she too, would earn her living, and no more depend on this brother for support. Full of this purpose, to her brother’s dismay, she went into a large knitting mill, in the town of Brompton, was promptly granted a situation, and worked all day next to the very individ- ual whose friendship had led tothe breach between the brother and sister. Mortified and grieved, Walter was held in check, by fear of the result of further interference, and also by the knowledge that remonstrance now would be incon- sistent with all his professed theories of the honest worth of labor. For with all the struggles Walter Denmead had en- countered in his life, he had heartily es- poused the questions of the day, the La- bor problem, and also other wide, but not altogether practical tenets, as shall be seen hereafter. However, Faith had failed, and finally sickened, but not before the poor girl had seen the error of her rash step, and the discomfort it wrought the brother whom she really loved devotedly. The prick of conscience at the barren home-life ; the unhappiness of his saddened face, had hastened the fever that laid her low for seven weeks. On her slow recovery, Mrs. Myddleton had come likean angel of light,and insisted upon taking Faith to Avon,to become once more strong, and after that, if she wished to be useful, to fulfill the function of gov- erness to the only daughter of the Myd- dleton household. Walter had not seen the Myddletons for some time, when they came to the rescue of his sister, but there was no one to whom he so willingly trusted his sister as to Florence Myddleton. Her gentle influence was the most desirable for Faith at thistime. But alas; Walter had for- gotten the sons of the Myddleton house, and therein lay the history of his frown- ing annoyance to-day. More at ease re- garding his sister than for months, when called to New York to filla very desirable position, he had gone with a light heart, and become very much engrossed in the perfection of a patent by which he in- tended to make his fortune. The winter, and summer passed swiftly, and then a curious wind of fortune, struck across his 498 A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. path, which had led him at once to Avon, and the counsel of his friend and lawyer, Louis Marchant, and the advice of his kind patron, Guy Myddleton. He had found Guy absent and Marchant having explained the case fully to him, he found he could only .await devel. opments patiently. He had been made very welcome at Greytower by Mrs, Myddleton, when he arrived Saturday evening, and had been much surprised at the maturity of her sons Robert and Fred, whom he had relegated to the hobbledehoy school-boy condition, nor dreamed of finding them youths of eighteen and twenty. Robert, tall with his father’s proud carriage, but his mother’s tender eyes, startled Denmead into a sense of danger he had never realized for his pale, pretty sister, and his heart sank after watching them together, one afternoon. He saw Mrs. Myddleton was wholly un- conscious of what was apparent to him ata glance. The young people were pre- paring to ‘‘dree their own weird,’’ and Denmead was appalled. He knew too well how Guy Myddleton would view such a mesalliance for his son, even if their youth did not cry out against it. This beautiful morning Denmead was awaiting Mrs. Myddleton, to whom he had promised to relate the strange cir- cumstances that threatened to alter his whole future career, yet his mind was dwelling sadly and anxiously on his sis- ter, and the few painful stammering words she had brought forth the night before, when he had tried to gently approach her on so delicate a subject. Her humble but honest confession of love for Robert Myddleton had left him speechless and heart sick. ‘They had parted for the night in silence. He was roused from his reflections by the approach of Mrs. Myddleton. The acknowledged social queen of the county, she seemed scarcely to have passed the first blush of youth, save for rounded matronly proportions, and something of sadness in her dark eyes, that told of a life grief, never wholly finished. ‘¢T am sorry to have kept you waiting, Walter,’’ she said, ‘‘ but a tiresome com- mittee meeting is the cause. I am long- ing to hearall you have to tell me of this strange inheritance of yours. Iam glad

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Mr. Marchant thinks it can be so advan- eously settled. But tell me all about it now that we have the opportunity, and little chance of interruptions.’’ She put her hand lightly through his arm and they paced up and _ down as they talked. » “It looks now as if Faith and I were to enjoy wealth at this late date. Mr. Eldridge was my uncle. Aunt Rosa had her own fortune when she married him. My father unfortunately lost all mother had in a fruitless speculation. My mother’s second marriage was not a suc- cess in any way. Hence I have been thrown upon my own resources.”’ In your case they are without number,”’ smiled Mrs. Myddleton. ‘My dear friend, what is even genius without capital. Nothing, positively nothing! Here I am with my patent complete, and no means of pushing it further. But to return to uncle Eldridge. Inever knew or saw him. They have lived abroad for years, Only once when Iwas quite young was I brought to their fine old place here in Avon. ‘Rose Lynn’ do they call it?’”’ ‘Yes, and Guy has so often lamented not being able to purchase that property asit adjoins Greytower on the North.” ‘““My uncle and aunt were both drowned six months ago. They had been fairly around the world, and were on their way hither to open Rose Lynn. I was hopeful of assistance from my uncle, when I heard of the wreck of a steamer on Lake Superior during a frightful storm. The body of my aunt was iden- tified as soon as recovered. Of the body of my uncle there was some doubt, as it was weeks before any trace was found. I should display more feeling could I re- member either of them v’ cy well. 1 am the heir on the wife’s side. Onthe other hand I learn that a young girl named Wendell was Mr. Eldridge’s only living relative, being an own cousin’s child. Now it stands thus: if my aunt survived my uncle by only a few mo- ments, I am the lawful heir to the whole estate, and I understand it is immense. If Mr. Eldridge died first this Miss Wen- dell isthe heir. Of course there is no way of proving which death occurred first. Mr. Marchant thinks it can be A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. amicably settled by a division of the es- tate, and to that end I am here.”’ ‘* Little Sylvia Wendell; poor child, itseems so strange to hear of her under these peculiar circumstances,’’ mused Mrs. Myddleton. ‘‘ Then you know Miss Wendell ?’’ queried Walter Denmead. ‘*Only slightly. She came here two years ago upon her father’s death, to live with old Uriah Maythorne, who is her great uncle. She is most unhappy there, as they treat her harshly, and I fancy she was a spoiled child. Sheis a very pretty girl. My boysknow her. Fred once in speaking to her used some boyish slang, that led to blows between he and Robert, so I inferred she was a little fast. Rob and Fred are so totally different in their taste. Robert seems very fond of Miss. Wendell, but he is too often charmed with a pretty face,”’ sighing softly. I am to meet the young lady,to-morrow at any hour she may designate. Mean- time Marchant gives her the facts in the case. I am much averse to settling it by law. Ihope Miss Wendell will gladly share with Faith and me. I can not thank you enough for your kindness to Faith, Mrs. Myddleton.”’ ‘¢Do not thank me Walter Faith has. been a most delightful member of our household this last year. My big boys need just such a taming influence.” “ Your boys are fast approaching man- hood. Iconfess Robert’s well-developed physique, and manliness makes me feel that Time is placing his mark upon us all. I have been turning over various plans regarding Faith. I—I—think I must take her back with me.”’ ‘¢Oh, Walter! Not until this matter is all comfortably arranged. Then if Rose Lynn falls to your allotment in the divis- ion, Ishall have Faith as a neighbor and superintend her house-settling.”’ ‘¢T think Faith wishes to return with me,’’ he said, frowning a little. ‘‘1 fear I must touch upon something painful to us both, little as I like to do so.” ‘‘Nothing that Faith has suffered through being with us ?’’ she said quickly and anxiously. ‘¢ Faith is young and—pretty. Ithink she had better return with me to New York.” Mrs. Myddleton looked at him stead-

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500 A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. fastly a moment, her lip caught under her white teeth, and her breath came quick- ly. ‘‘Walter, I beg you will tell me. My son ‘« Dear friend, thereisno real harm done yet. But I must take my sister with me. I trus* you understand me.” He felt as if dealing her a blow as the lovely face quivered and blanched before him. Thenthe one small daughter of the house sped toward them. ‘¢Mamma, mamma,”’ she called. Miss Sarepta Ann Carson wants to see you right away.” ‘* You must be right inthis, Mrs. Myd- dleton said, laying her hand on his arm. «‘ Forgive me if I have been blindly im- prudent. Take your sister away.” There was something almost stern in her tone as she turned, swiftly following the child. In the meantime in a remote corner of the garden, facing the park, Robert Myd- dleton had sought and found Faith Car- stone and his little sister. A second rus- tic summer-house made this a favorite haunt for Kate Myddleton and her young governess, because from hence Faith could see Robert returning across the park. To day Robert had little trouble in be- ing free from Kate’s bright glances. He peremptorily dismissed the child and turned to Faith, with a masterful air that became him, and said :— ‘* You refuse to go to the Fair-grounds with me to-day, and give me no reason- able excuse for a change of purpose. You prefer to go with Walter and mother ?”’ ‘*T did not say that,” she murmured. ‘<_-said that Walter desired me to go with him.” ‘*Pshaw; I’ve heard nothing but Wal- ter, Walter, Walter, ever since last Sat- urday, I’m sick of him! ”’ ‘* You are polite. Heis my brother,’’ said the girl. ‘*He is only your half-brother, and I declare since he came you have absolutely avoided me. Ygu are very selfish, Faith.’’ ‘* I, selfish, Mr. Myddleton!”’ ‘¢ There it is again. You never called me anything but Robert, even Bob, as as others do, before he came, and now you Mister me. Come Faith, what has changed you?” ‘IT have not changed,” she murmured, in a troubled tone. ‘©Yes you have. Is it because | walked home with Sylvia Wendell last night?’’ with eagerness, I only went with her because I saw you turn away with Walter and I was vexed, when I had beg- you to gowith me. ‘Tell me, was not that the reason ?’”’ ‘¢Oh—no—no”’ said Faith, “ what right have I to question your preferences, Mr. Myddleton ?”’ She burst into quiet weeping, and with a hasty glance toward the house, Robert drew her within the summer- house. ‘« What is wrong, dear one ?”’ he said gently, ‘‘that I have learned to love you, during these months you have been in my mother’s house? Come, there can be no harm in honest love, even if we should not let others know our secret, I must com- plete my college course, but = ‘¢ Robert !’’ she drew away from him, striving to regain her composure, ‘let me tell you what Walter said.’ ‘* Well,” impatiently. ‘¢He saw at once that—that we cared for each other, and—and—he accused me of flirting with you. I—J——” ‘*You told him you loved me. Well— go on,’’ said Robert reassured, and half smiling, as he secured her hand. ‘« He said [had done very wrong ; had outraged your mother’s kindness. She brought me here out of pity, because I was so weak and miserable in my conva- lescence; she made me a place in her household, nominally to teach Kate, but you know how she has made my life glad, and full of a home influenceand guardian- ship, I never knew before.”’ ‘‘ That I know, but you are so lovable and mother is very fond of you, Faith—” “Yes, yes, I know it, and that makes my conduct all the worse. Oh, why have I listened to you; I am going away with Walter. I would rather de than to live to wrong your sweet mother.”’ ‘¢ But Faith,” cried the youth, turning pale, ‘‘what do you mean! you have taught me day by day to love you—do you, do you think ‘my mother would—’’ ‘Robert, I now your mother and father could not approve of your words just now. You have no right to say them to a foolish girl, with hardly enough edu-

mia ei ee Oo.

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Id

cation to teach your little sister Kate.” «But my mother is not a proud, hard woman ; she loves me too well_—_”’ «And your father, Robert? What would he say?”’ Astrange expression swept over Rob- ert’s face, at the mention of his father’s name. His eyes were filled with defiance. ‘My father chose a wife to suit him- self, and so will I,” he replied. ‘‘ Faith, if you love me——”’ ‘Do not speak thus again; you only make it harder for me.”’ ‘‘Hard for you? Yow can feel a great deal when you calmly talk thus. I begin tothink you ave the heartless flirt your brother pictured you. I see now, how lit- tle you cared for me. My love for you weighed no nice distinction of social prestige. I am ready to give up a//, while you fence yourself in with petty ex- cuses.’”’ ‘‘Robert, do not, oh, do not you re- proach me!’’ cried the poor girl, but the youth was merciless and dashed on im- petuously, ‘‘I shall not speak of this again, but shall remember that you have not only spurned my love, but attributed proud, harshthoughts to my mother, who is an angel on earth if there ever was one. Continue to confide in your prig of a half brother and let him wreck your life!” With which boyish thunder Robert Myddleton strode away, but not so fast that he failed to hear the faint, sweet voice cry— ‘‘Oh! Rob, Rob!” He paused, and one sob was enough to bring him swiftly back, and in another moment he was kneeling with his arms about her, and his harsh words were with- drawn by every possible soothing caress within the philosophy of his love and vo- cabulary. In the meantime, coming toward them, was a slender, prim-looking woman, neatly clad, wearing a broad hat with fluttering purple ribbons, from under which her thin face looked like a pale new moon. She carried a purple sunshade, and made her way directly to the summer- house with a brisk step. Miss Serepta Carson had seen Robert’s hasty departure and return, and also caught the faint voice that recalled him, and although eschewing useless curiosity, she felt im-

A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 50E pelled, as she afterward remarked, to go toward the summer-house. - Upon the threshold, however, she paused, and low- ering her sunshade, stood with it fixed between her gaze and the tableau made by the young couple. Robert Middleton sprang to his feet with an exclamation, releasing Miss Car- stone, whose pallor was lost for a moment in painful blushes. Faintly from behind the protecting parasol, Miss Serepta Ann ventured to say: «< If you can conscientiously affirm that I am not intruding upon pledges of mutual affection, I will lower my parasol. But, Robert Myddleton, I did not antici- pate this revelation. Your adolescence is in that category which renders the com- prehension of your entering upon a con- nubial attachment, astonishing, if not to say improbable !”’ And here she overcame her scruples, and gazed keenly at the confused flushed faces before her. ‘¢ We— were —that is, no intrusion, Miss Serepta,’’ stammered Robert, speak- ing desperately after a guilty pause, ‘‘ we were rehearsing a little pantomime, that was all. You know these amateur affairs. require much rehearsing.”’ ‘¢Yes? And I presume it is very necessary to i//ustrate, and demonstrate every portion essential to the delineation. I trust you may perfect your several rdles. I suppose you will attend the cattle show to-day, Miss Carstone?’’ Ihear it is un- paralleled in the county chronicles.” ‘‘Yes,”’ said Faith, making a brave struggle to regain composure. ‘¢Is your maternal parent at home, Robert? I desire to confer with her.” ‘If you will ask the butler, Miss Car- son, he is better informed than I am in such matters,’’ said Robert shortly. , ‘¢Thank you. But permit me to in- quire is your engagement announced ?”’ ‘“‘Oh! Miss Serepta! gasped Faith. ‘¢ Miss Serepta I beg you will say noth- ing of our’affairs. I am—” ‘¢Oh! I only meant your engagement to give that interesting pantomime I inter- rupted in rehearsal. I thought Sylvia Wendell might like also to witness a spectacle. Good-day.”’ For a moment after she took her way

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502 A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. to the house, Robert stood glowering be- tween dismay and anger, when Faith with spirit enquired if Miss Serepta’s mention of Sylvia Wendell had not some founda- tion in his former attentions to her, and from a profound reconciliation this fool- ish young couple picked up as pretty a lover’s quarrel as could be made, and Robert strode out of the garden across the park, sore at heart, doubting the whole world, yet sure that if Faith’s love did so battle with his peace, Sylvia Wen- dell would have a soothing word of com- fort, and to her he would go. In the meantime Miss Serepta went to the house, laughing a little in her sleeve at the consternation wrought by her un- timely presence in the summer-house. Miss Carson was the school teacher at Avon, a prim, didactic spinster who never used a small word when a long one could be substituted, and she held it most im- portant to diffuse knowledge, and kept up very strenuously with all the issues of the day. At the same time she had a warm kindly heart, and if she told you that ‘‘her physical incarnation felt the pro- found emotional sway of spiritual spheres and mental progress,’’ she only meant that she comfortably enjoyed thrilling under every new idea brought under her mildly spectacled eyes. Now asshe tripped along she rapidly reviewed her late experience and concluded Mrs. Myddleton must be warned, realizing, as did all Avon, how kind Mrs. Myddleton had been to Faith Carstone. That Mrs. Myddleton had not realized how fast her sons werestriding past youth to manhood, was but too evident. Miss Serepta did not like the task of awaken- ing her. She had recognized youth’s prerogative in growing older, for some- time, in fact ever since Sylvia Wendell first came to St. Andrew’s Church in de- fiance of her great-uncle’s Methodist pro- clivities. Sylvia was a favorite of Miss Serepta’s, and she had been quick to see Robert Middleton’s appreciation of her beauty. But since Faith had arrived at Greytower Robert had forsaken Sylvia’s shrine, and Miss Serepta was a little jeal- ous for her favorite, since she fancied Sylvia held young Robert’s friendship as the one bright spot in her dull life. Mrs. Myddleton looked pale and anxi- ous when she came to Miss Serepta in the wide hall, and her visitor hesitated stil] more about her delicate task, for she felt it was unusual to see that fair sweet face clouded in this manner. She, however, stated her errand, which proved to bea message from the rectory, then proceeded to her next more cautiously. ‘«T was proceeding to the Maythorne farm for a word with Sylvia Wendell, so I told Mrs. Murray I could step around this way,’’ she began, then paused. **I did not know, Mrs. Myddleton, that you contemplated having theatricals at Greytower.”’ ‘‘Theatricals, oh, no!’ said Mrs, Myddleton with a surprised glance at her black dress, for she was in mourning for Mr. Myddleton’s uncle, and her son’s god-father, Robert Cairn. ‘¢Well, to make a long matter short and relieve my mental agitation, I must impart to you that chancing just now upon Mr. Robert and Miss Carstone in the summer-house, I beheld him holding her in an osculatory embrace, when—ahem —when Robert told me they were re- hearsing for a pantomime.” Mrs Myddleton dropped her gloves, and stooped to reach them before she re- plied. ‘¢ Probably it is some little surprise in store for Kate,”’ she said carelessly; ‘you will not mention it, Miss Serepta? Rob is thoughtless, and people would think strangely to hear that we were arranging for festivities while still a house of mourn- ing. Did you leave my son in the garden?” ‘¢ Yes, I left him with Miss Carstone,” replied Miss Serepta. Then she met Mrs. Myddleton’s glance, and made her adieu hastily, full of pity for the mingled grief and pride of her motherhood. Left alone, the mother stood a moment in thought. How careless she had been, how foolishly blind to what was apparent to others, What would Guy think of her upon his return ? She called her little girl Kate to her side, and sent her to look for her brother, but the child brought back a short note scribbled on a card. It ran thus; “ Dearest Mother: I cannot go to the fair I am off for the day, Do not R. C. M.” this afternoon, wait for me.

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II Sylvia Wendell stood near the old well- sweep, watching with eyes full of min- gled pain and anger, the family rock- away that bore Mr. and Mrs. Maythorne from the door on their way to the County Fair, or as Miss Serepta had termed it in the vernacular of that part of New Eng- land, ‘the Cattle Show.”’ From one year to the next, this fair was the Mecca of many desires, the whole country gathering’ for a gala week. Now at the last moment, Mrs. Maythorne had decreed that she should remain at home. Sylvia’s whole figure drooped with disap- pointment. She was not agirlto weep at such anoccurrence ; but she looked scorn- fully down at her fresh white gown, so carefully prepared, and tossed the roses she wore in her belt away ; then she drew off her broad white hat and sent it to the ground, to the intense discomfiture of an ugly white bull-dog, that sat watching her in wistful sympathy. She made a charming picture, with her sunny hair caught in a bunch of rippling curls; aface of roses and cream, and dark blue-grey eyes, that’ looked frankly at the world; of slender form, medium height ; even in the simple white gown, she looked graceful and comely. But what was all this to Sylvia, since she must stay at home and work in the dairy! Miss Serepta would look for her; Junior Bolter would miss her, and more than all else, she should lose the balloon ascen- sion. ‘* It is too bad ; I won’t stand it another day. They treat me like a dog!”’ she cried, then as the bull-dog stirred un- easily, got up, whined and sat down again, she added: ‘* Worse than a dog, Peter, old boy, for you get your bones ; yes, I know you are sorry for me, but you can’t help me. Oh; if I was only a boy! But I won’t work a stroke to-day, so there !’’ She snatched up her hat, and followed by Peter, she went through the orchard, and perching on the stone fence, ina shady nook, Sylvia mused with a gloomy countenance, Peter once more a sympa- thetic auditor. _Up toa year and a half ago, Sylvia’s life had been an ideally happy one. The A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 593 only daughter of an indulgent father, sur- rounded by every comfort, and closely watched in every development of mind and physique, she had grown like a beauti- ful flower. Then came her father’s sud- den death, and she found herself alone in the world, and learned to her dismay, through Mr. Maythorne’s representation that she was dependent upon him for her support. She had known little of these relatives of her mother, and had not realized that they were the only people upon whom she had even a slender claim. Her father had never told her of any contingencies arising at his death. He was still a com- paratively young man, deeply buried in scientific research, and using his lovely little daughter as his rest and comfort in hours of recreation. He had never known much of his wife’s relatives, since she had been so wrapped up in her love for him, as to give up all her own family, and fol- low his fortunes, dying upon the birth of Sylvia, and leaving him the child as the one bright reminder of her brief wife- hood. Sylvia was roused from her first bewilderment of grief, by Mrs. May- thorne announcing there was to be no drones in her hive, and that she must earn her salt. She was even denied wear- ing her mourning garments the usual time, since her uncle thought it a foolish expense to replenish, as she had a large wardrobe already. One by one with dismay Sylvia had in the first six months yielded meekly toall they thought best, too heartsick and lone- ly to rebel. But she was too spirited and independ- ent to remain long in abeyance. Theold resolute will asserted itself, and constant struggle followed and had she been less young, her present life would have been unbearab'e. But youth is ever buoyant. Sylvia began to make friends in Avon. The trying position in which she found herself caused her to throw aside the apathy of grief that at first threatened to overwhelm her. She buried the love of her father, and her grief for him deep in her constant heart, and eagerly strove to make the best of her life. She had even striven vainly to be patient and overcome the reproach and apparent dislike of her aunt and uncle. But to-day she was sadly

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504 A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. discouraged, and her temper rose. ‘I believe I will run away,’’ she mused ‘¢but if I should, Uncle Uriah would bring me back. I save him hiring aser- vant; therein lies his fondness for my presence. I wish I was somebody else! if I’d been born a boy how nice it would have been. I should run away, and be- fore I ran I should—yes, I'd ¢hrash Aunt Maythorne! Oh, I wish I was ad A N/ ? This wish breathed with deep empha- sis, met not only with a sharp yelp from Peter, but a voice behind her said: ‘* You might have the grace to wish for aman, Sylvia. Iam here at any rate. I thought I should find you when I saw the Maythorne rockaway and its load.”’ Sylvia did not stir, she looked calmly into Robert Myddleton’s face. ‘‘What brings you here?’’ she asked gloomily. ‘¢T came over to see you.” ‘*¢ Yes? how did you leave Miss Cars- tone ?”’ ‘‘ Very disagreeable, thank you,’ Robert, regarding Sylvia. ‘¢ So as she will have noneof you, you come to me. I suppose one must receive kindly the gifts the gods bestow.”’ ‘¢ That is true,’’ said Rob. ‘I mean both as to the gods and my presence.”’ ‘« Have you quarreled ? too bad! How is Duke?”’ ‘« His leg isa little stiff, but he will limber up before father gets home, and mother don’t know he is hurt. The old horse behaves like a Trojan. Aren’t you going to the fair?’”’ ‘Are you?” ‘*No!”’ his face darkening. ‘¢ You had a serious quarrel then ?”’ ‘*Well, yes. She wouldn’t go with me, so I wouldn’t go at all, I think I was kind of a fool though,”’ he said flip- ping Peter’s nose with a stick. ‘*Sodo 1! said Sylvia, cheerfully. ‘I always am a fool,’’ quoth Rob savagely, and Peter yelped as his energy carried the stick with more vigor. ‘‘ Don’t abuse Peter. Let him alone, and tell me about it. It can’t be bad enough to call that ugly frown into your forehead. Stop it this moment, you are uglier than Pe- ter!” ‘I wish I’d told mother about it all, said long ago,’’ said Robert, and then he re. counted ti. history of the morning, Sylvia lissened in silence. She asked no questions, and showed no Curiosity, She was not in the least feminine in her reception of this confidence. ‘Yes, you were foolish,’’ she said when he had finished. It was a smal] matter to set her free of jealousy of me, and now she has gone to the Fair sore and hurt. Women are queer creatures, Rob!” ‘*T know it’’ said Robert, quite forget- ting she was one of them. ‘A fellow stands no chance with them.”’’ ‘‘TIt is just because you do stand a chance that they trouble you so,’ said Sylvia. ‘‘ Besides if she knew as much about men as / do—well, I’ll never make a goose of myself to please them.”’ ‘¢ You do not have to, you can’t help pleasing men. It is because you don't try, Sylvia. Why! I forget sometimes that you are not just as good a companion as Fred.” ‘¢ But men do not like me. I am not enough of a woman, I guess, I’ve wished myself a boy so often.’ ‘¢ Nonsense, Sylvia. You know that is not true. You are very attractive. There’s Junior Bolter—”’ ‘‘And old Perry Halsted, and the blacksmith at Four Corners, and the three little Pecks, and that’s an end to my ad- mirers.”’ ‘* You are very pretty, Sylvia.” ‘Well, I can’t help that. Iam as God made me.”’ ‘« But a thing of beauty, Sylvia—” ‘‘Is a joy forever, yes, but the beauty of a thing lies in the way we look at it. ‘‘ If you think so poorly of the men, Sylvia, what do you think of your own sex ?”’ ‘¢Don’t mention it; but as one of George Eliot’s women says, ‘God Al- mighty made them to watch the men,’ and that settles the matter. But, Rob, I do so want to see the balloon ascension, and I do want to go to the fair.”’ ‘* Well, you cannot walk the distance, Sylvia, and 1 do not know how else you can get there.”’ ‘¢Qh ! think of a baloon going up—up —up into the sunny air—so free. wish | was a balloon.” le mmlUmmlC OlC OCU eee lUelClC eS lke et SL

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A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. « Anything more ? You were modestly sighing to be that despised creature, a man, awhile ago. Now you want to go up higher. : «« Robert, do you know Uncle Uriah’s colt is in the stable, and if we hitch him to the buck-board we can drive to the fair, see the balloon ascension, and be back before the others return !’’ ‘‘ But wouldn’t your folks see you ?”’ ‘‘] don’t care if they do, but we can easily avoid them, and Rob, I do so want togo. You are not afraid to drive the colt?” ‘‘Not I, it won’t be a stylish rig, how- ever. But no matter, if you want to go Sylvia, you shall go. It will be quite a lark.” There was enough daring in the project to please them both in their present mood, and in less time than it takes to tell it, the gaunt colt that had been driven but three months was in the buck-board, and Peter trotting contentedly after them, Sylvia and Robert drove to the County Fair. The fair was a scene of business and Men, women, children, and pleasure. dogs were reveling in the noise and fa- tigue of a real New England holiday. Here were caroussels,’’ shooting contests where rag babiesserved as goals; weight- lifts, booths selling all manner of dyspep- sia condensed in tough pies, dough- nuts and pop-corn balls. And within the building was the endless display of home- ly bed quilts, and fancy-work in yarns and embroideries, and the best preserves and bread, making goodly show in glass cases. Out in the middle of the race- course was the balloon, inflated, and pull- ing impatiently like a live thing, at the rope that held it, and the grand stand was filling rapidly, while a host of car- riages and wagons were driven just with- out the ring, the horses hitched to the fence and expected to behave with more decorum than their masters. Robert and Sylvia secured a place for the colt, and for a time she kept close to Robert, rather startled after all to find herself in such a scene with only one friend close at hand. Junior Bolter, a youth of Robert’s age, and Sylvia’s slave, soon spied them, and Robert left her with him in order to take a surreptitious peep Vol. CXIX—No. 36 5°5 at his mother’s carriage. He could not see Faith, and had decided the morning’s scene had kept her home, when he spied her chatting gaily with his brother. Disgusted at her happy face, he turned away to once more seek Sylvia. Meantime Sylvia had coaxed Bolter to take her through a building containing a display of machinery. Near the door was an engine turning a patent grain cut- ter. It proved fascinating as she was much interested in machinery. An old friend, Mr. Perry Halsted, strolled up to them and commenced exchanging com- ments with her. Mr. Halsted was a cu- rious old bachelor of sixty-two summers, with asad history. He had been a bach- elor because of some unnatural care always having been thrust upon him. His last disappointment had been through a young step brother, his junior by thirty years. Jack had rewarded old Perry’s love and care by a reckless life, and a year ago had finally made off with all the slen- der savings of the elder brothers. Jack was now reported drowned off the coast of Florida. Perry was too old to recover lost ground and ‘‘the farm,’’ ashe styled his two acres of land, was mortgaged. He would soon be an exile from the farm, his old horse Trot, his cow, and _ his pig. He had a cheerful nature, but when he got ‘‘low”’ as he was wont to express it, one was sure to see him, with an immense jack-knife, and ashort stick sitting be- hind the barn door, ‘‘ whittling it off.” Sylvia knowing all this was glad tofind him cheerful. As they stood chatting Walter Den- mead paused near them. He had glanced casually over the machinery, amused at the meagre display, and then his atten- tion was caught by the lovely face of Syl- via. With the incongruous surround- ings she made ‘‘sunshine in a shady place.’’ The old building and the clash of steel seemed brighter for her pres- ence. ‘¢Oh! Sylvia, but I’m proper glad to see you,”’ said Perry Halsted, ‘‘an’ how’s your health? and have you had good success to-day in finding beaux ?’”’ with a sly nudge of Bolter’s elbow. ‘¢ Oh no, Mr. Halsted, beaux are never in my line. Mr. Bolter is trying to con- vince me he is by nature, my brother.”

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506 ‘¢ All men are brothers by nature, I am sure,’’ affirmed Bolter. ‘¢ But all natur’ don’t make us brothers, unless we take to one another, Junior, ’’ quoth Perry chuckling, ‘‘ at least 1 mean human natur’”’ ‘‘ Have you seen Miss Serepta here, Mr. Halsted ?”’ ‘* Yes, she was yander, a minute ago, a-hefting them huckabuck towels, and talkin’ similitudes.”’ At this moment, Robert come up be- hind Sylvia saying: ‘* Quick, or your uncle will catch us. He is coming.’’ As she started, suddenly she felt her sleeve drawn violently, just as she was caught in a strong firm grasp,and heard her dress tear and rip, and a face with horri- fied brown eyes bend over her. ‘¢ Thank God !”’ breathed Walter Den- mead, examining her arm and wrist. ‘©O my sleeve,” cried Sylvia, looking in adazed manner at her torn sleeve. ‘‘It might have been yourarm. You were about to be drawn into that wheel,’’ he said. She saw then that his hand bled. ‘You have hurt yourself,”’ she cried. ‘No, only a scratch. I struck the teeth as I reached to catch you. It is nothing; you are not hurt? ”’ ‘« She ain’t laid upas fur as I can see,”’ said Perry, ‘‘ but you better let me tie up your hand.” At this moment Robert fearing Walter would see him, drew Sylvia away. ‘¢T did not even thank him,”’ she cried, distressed at her stupidity. ‘¢ Never mind, let Bolter and Halsted do the polite; I don’t want him to see me. Let us get to the trap, and keep quiet until the balloon ascension. You cannot go with only one sleeve, pretty as yourarm looks. Besides we must split for home, the moment the balloon is up.’’ Something in Robert’s manner, and her late accident, made Sylvia feel a sudden sense of the indecorum of her position. Shame crept over her, that she, Sylvia Wendell, who up to a few years ago had A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. had the tenderest care, should be amid this crowd, with only only a youth like Robert to protect her. She followed Robert to the vehicle Both were out of humor, and conscious of the folly of their conduct—Robert wags in an absolute bad temper. Poor lad! it was the last he indulged in for manya day. ‘There was some delay about the ascen. sion, and a rumor was circulated that owing to the high wind the balloon would not go up until the next day, whereat a murmur arose. Shortly afterward, how. ever, the crowd about the balloon denoted the anticipated moment had arrived, People stood on the green and dodged in and out amonzthe vehicles. Robert had some ado keeping the colt quiet. He chafed at delay, being unhitched. A long oh! of delight and a cheer broke from the spectators as the balloon arose. At the same moment Robert saw just ahead of him Faith Carstone walking with his brother, and Walter Denmead. He watched, hoping now she would see him with Sylvia, when a wail of horror seemed to burst forth about him, followed by aloud explosion. The balloon had careened against a tree and burst and half collapsed, dragged the basket about forty feet from the ground. A wild shouting, screams of women and children arose. Then Robert felt the colt dash forward, rearing and plunging, and knew one careless moment had lost him his control. He set his teeth hard and put his strength to the task, but the frightened horse dashed through the crowd. Robert saw a flash of white under the horse’s feet, and with horror lending strength to his arm, drew the horse back, then the bridle was caught in an iron grasp, and Walter Denmead held the quivering horse while several others lifted from the ground with reverent hands the slight senseless form of Faith Car- stone. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

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Nodvlekine’s Christmas Dinner. IN THREE COURSES, BY T. H. FARNHAM, COURSE I. || HE revelation I am about to make I have regarded as of so peculiarly painful a nature, that I have hitherto been reluct- ant to take the pub- lic into my confi- _. derce. But as the =z. grimmest tragedy “AS=—2+- may sometimes have ; its comical aspects, and as the lapse of time has softened, if not entirely obliterated, in my memory, the purely tragic element in the matter, and brought out in bold relief—now that I can take a perfectly calm and dispas- sionate view of the whole affair—its pre- dominantly ludicrous side, I have con- cluded to impart to others the secret which has been hitherto shared by com- paratively a very few, with the hope that it may afford them as much amusement as —albeit at my own expense—the retro- spect does me. I will confess firstly that I am an ex- cessively bashful man, and naturally be- ing very retiring in my habits, I go very little into company, and consequently possess but a very limited knowledge of what are termed the usages of polite society. Perhaps my name has some- thing to do with it, and it certainly does argue a high order of mental imbecility or moral cowardice in that misguided an- cestor of mine who first chose the name, or allowed the stigma of such an appella- tion to be fastened upon him. No one laboring under the weight of such an in- cubus could ever be expected to hold his head very high in the community. On the contrary it would tend inevitably to make of him just such a wretched, shamefaced creature as I—Theophrastus Noddlekins—feel myself to be. I received last Christmas an invitation to partake of the festive meal at the house of a friend. I politely, but firmly declined. And why? For the good and sufficeny reason that my painful experiences upona former occasion of the kind had filled me with a grim determination to indulge in that pleasure in the future only in the strictest seclusion. At my mother’s earnest entreaty, who was perversely bent on every possible oc- casion upon ‘‘ bringing me out,’”’ as she called it, but whose efforts in that di- rection, I must confess, were attended with no very gratifying success, I ac- cepted an invitation to make one of a small and select Christmas dinner party, the year before last, at the house of a Mrs. MacGusher, a bloomingly buxom matron with two young and matrimonially eligible daughters, and an inconsequential appendage, seldom mentioned by the rest of the family, and only known in a vague and general way to the outside public as Mrs. MacGusher’s husband. Not wishing to appear in the least respect outré among so ¢e/ite an assemblage, I arrayed myself in one of the ‘‘swellest’’ and tightest fitting suits that any mortal, by dint of the most determined efforts and unflagging perseverance, ever succeeded in squeezing himself into. I went, but with an instinctive foreboding of some impending misfortune as the result of my rash undertaking. I arrived late pur- posely, in fact just as the company were sitting down to dinner. I was forthwith presented by my hostess to her other guests, and stiffly bowing my acknowledg- ments of their polite salutations—I was too much embarrassed to open my mouth —I dropped into my seat at the table under a vague impression that my trousers had parted at both knees. After I had recovered some degree of coolness, and was in a sufficiently composed state of mind to take my surroundings with toler- able clearness, I perceived that there were just ten of us atthe table. On my right sat Miss Araminta MacGusher, tall and angular of form, and of a severely majes- tic air, her head adorned with a profusion of dark corkscrew ringlets, out of which 5°7

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508 NODDLEKINS’ CHRISTMAS DINNER. shone forth a pair of bright black eyes ; and on my left Miss Euphrosyne MacGush- er, fat, fair, and as 1 judged about sweet sixteen. At the further end of the table sat a Mr. Algernon Fitz Maurice in gaudy attire, but which I must describe as simply izdescribable. Solomon himself could scarcely have been more multifari- ously or gorgeously arrayed. Directly opposite to me was seated an elderly spinster of rigid and attenuated form, the dominating acerbity and acridness of whose features and expression inevitably impressed the beholder with the idea that her chief dietary sustenance from her birth upwards had been a compound of vinegar and gall. A stout military gen- tleman—Major Lucius O’Dowd—came next, with a fierce looking black meus- tache, frizzled gray hair, and a flamingly red nose which had evidently been present at many a gathering where corks had been far more plentiful than bullets. The remaining guests consisted of a pale- looking, weak-eyed young gentleman, who, in a feeble and hesitating way, would venture occasionally upon a remark and then look dreadfully frightened, as if he felt himself guilty of having said some- thing exceedingly silly ; and a young lady by the name of Miss Euphemia Simpkins, red-headed, fair, freckled, and enorm- ously fat; a giggling, simpering sort of creature, evidently bent on making a con- quest of Mr. Fitz Maurice, upon whom she constantly lavished her sweetest smiles and most tenderly expressive glances. Mrs. MacGusher presided at the head of the table with‘a grace and dignity majes- tically grand, while the aforesaid ‘ in- consequential appendage,” with an utterly crushed air, and looking as if in a per- petual state of apology for presuming to be present at his own table, dispensed that part of the hospitalities falling to him as well as any one could beexpected to do who labored under an overpoweringly oppressive sense of his wife’s intellectual superiority, and who, between the frowns, the reproving glances and indignant looks that were cast upon him by both his wife and daughters at such times when, in his pitiable state of mind, he so far forgot himself as to put his knife in his mouth, wipe his hands and mouth upon the table cloth instead of his napkin, knock over his glass, or otherwise violate any one of the other numberless little convention. alities of good breeding and strictly po. lite society, looked with allso utterly and hopelessly miserable that my heart went = in very sympathy and compassion to im. Having thus briefly introduced the members of our little party to the reader, I will now proceed to the less agreeable part of my narative. COURSE Il. ‘¢Would Mr. Noddlekins be so kind ag to carve the ducks?’’ Thus, in sweet and bland tones, spoke Mrs. MacGusher. In a highly flushed and nervous state I rose to my feet, stammering out something to the effect that it would afford me the greatest pleasure to be of any service to her; glared at the dish before me in a half dazed way ; took up the knife and fork—a pretty situation truly for a person who had never before had a carving-knife in his hand—and, with a desperate resolve to succeed or perish in the attempt, I fell upon the obnoxious poultry, and hacked and hewed away at them in a manner that must have astonished the company vastly. The stuffing flew in all directions over the immaculately clean table-cloth; one re- fractory legsprang up, striking me squarely in the face, and almost putting one of my eyes out ; another deposited itself in Ara minta’s lap, while one of the wings went appropriately soaring into the air, and, just grazing the top of Mr. Fitz Maurice’s head, fell upon the floor behind his chair. The young ladies tittered audibly, the major scowled, while a grimly sardonic smile passed over the features of the elderly spinster. Stammering my apologies as well as my mortification and confusion allowed me to do, and having dispensed around the mutilated and unrecognizable remains to those of the company who took duck, I sat down, flushed and exhausted, and proceeded in gloomy silence to satisfy what little of my own appetite remained tome. (I may as well, perhaps, here re- mark that I afterwards discovered that this was only the beginning of a plan, as Mrs. MacGusher herself confessed, con- cocted between my mother and herself, for the purpose of ‘‘ bringing me out.’’) Some five minutes afterwards the wal- ao ae Gh eters 0O Ug CU SlCUw!lUelCU CUR ee

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¢ of on- ind ent 1 to the er, ble a. & — 2 OQ _ oe SP OO Mw Fe mS SO tress placed a bottle of champagne before Mr. MacGusher, and when that gentleman, after gazing at it in a helpless and absent minded sort of way for a few moments, was just upon the point of inserting a corkscrew, his wife exclaimed tartly: «‘MacGusher, leave that bottle alone; you know you never opened one in your life. Perhaps Mr. Noddlekins would be so kind as to relieve you,’’ she added, throwing a sweet and gracious smile upon me. Not having the moral courage to admit —poor, weak imbecile that I was—that I knew no more how to extract a cork from a champagne bottle, than I did about carving ducks, I feebly muttered how willing and pleased I was to be of any use, etc., and lifting the bottle (Act 1, in her laudable effort to ‘‘ bring me out’’) I finally succeeded in untwisting the wire, though at the sacrifice of nearly two fingers, and was about to cut the last string, with a hope that by the masterly manner in which I should achieve this performance, I might efface any unfavora- ble opinion they might have reasonably entertained of my capacities as a carver, when the cork was discharged with a loud report, and, taking the direction towards which the neck of the bottle was inclined, struck the major squarely between the eyes, while the liquid foamed out in a torrent over the table cloth, and, in my frantic endeavors to divert it into a glass, I succeeded in emptying the remaining —— of the bottle into Euphrosyne’s ap. The major swore like a Turk; Euphro- syne screamed and jumped off her chair, while Fitz Maurice cast upon me a wither- ing look and flew to her assistance. Mrs. MacGusher was kind enough, however, to say that it was a mere trifle, that acci- dents would happen, that I must not allow such a little thing to worry me in the least, that such mishaps must often occur, etc., etc. I have only the most confused recollection of what followed ; but a dim impression that the color of my face must have been reflected in the dishes around me, that I was profuse in my apologies, and that the major gradually quieted down, and that, finally, we all had a hearty laugh over it. The commotion thus happily ended, NODDLEKINS’ CHRISTMAS DINNER. . 509 the company now gave themselves up to the full and unrestricted enjoyment of the festive hour. The conversation, en- livened by the wine (another bottle of champagne having been produced and its uncorking prudentially entrusted to the deft and practised hands of the major), circulated freely round the table, and in the general good feeling and _ hilarity which ensued, even Mr. Mac Gusher him- self began to manifest, in his mild and feeble way, a few faint signs of incipient cheerfulness, while even I, gradually yield- ing to the influences aboit me, was be- ginning to feel much less constrained and uncomfortable. The major—rather a coarse and blustering sort of person, I thought— regaled us with a numer of amusing ane dotes and blood curdling military reminiscences; the elderly virgin opposite to me had unbended somewhat from her spinsterial rigidity—-even she could not entirely escape the surrounding contagion of high spirits and enjoyment—and the weak-eyed young man before mentioned, had become emboldened to carry on a somewhat connected and not altogether inane conversation with the hostess, who was all graciousness itself. I actually found myself chatting quite pleasantly with MissEuphrosyne; saying whatI considered quite a clever thing occasionally to the more intellectual and dignified Araminta, and I was actually just upon the point (this was after my fourth glass of champagne) of indulging in a sly joke with the elderly spinster, when all at once I experienced a peculiar sensation in the region of my knees. That they were certainly giving way this time was the horrible conviction that dashed through my brain. I involunta- rily darted out my legs with such force that my feet came into violent contact with those of the elderly spinster. She uttered a loud shriek, jumped up from her chair, shook her fist at me, exclaiming, ‘¢ you ungentlemanly vil ”” when her words were suddenly cut short. There was an ominous rattling sound in her throat ; she gave three or four convulsive gasps, and with wide open mouth and fixed, stony 1 oking eyes, fell over in an alarming state of rigidity on the floor. ‘*Gracious Heavens !”’ exclaimed the Major, ‘‘ she has swallowed her teeth !’’

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510 NODDLEKINS’ CHRISTMAS DINNER. It was but too true. The violence of her action had detached her upper row of false teeth, which had found lodgment somewhere in her larynx. The company all jumped to their feet in the wildest consternation—with the exception of the weak-eyed young gentle- man, who had fainted dead away from sheer fright and excitement. The ladies screamed; some one cried out, ‘‘ run for a doctor,’’ while Mr. MacGusher in the bewilderment of the moment, poured the contents of a large ice-water pitcher over the inanimate form of the unfortunate spinster. The Major raised her up into a sitting posture and began thumping her vigorously on the back, when Mrs. Mac- Gusher, the coolest and most self- possessed of all in the room, suggested that ‘she should be lifted up and her head held downwards, as pounding on her back in her present position would only tend to send her teeth further down into her throat. With united effort we raised her up upon a side table, and letting her head hang down over the edge,the Major re- newed his vigorous assaults upon her spi- nal column. Mystate of mird during these terrible moments may be more easily imagined than described. All was confusion and excitement; some of the younger ladies were crying, others were again shouting out in a helpless sort of way for a doctor, the weak eyed young man had as yet given no signs of returning animation, and Mr. MacGusher, probably dreading his wife’s wrath at his imbecile perform- ance with the water pitcher, had, during the turmoil, stolen quietly and unobserved from the room. But we were soon hap- pily relieved from our terrible suspense by seeing theteeth fly out of her mouth and scatter their fragments over the floor. A moment after, the elderly spinster sat bolt upright on the table, and regarding me with a peculiarly venomous expression, exclaimed, at the same time pointing her long and bony forefinger directly at me, that villain was almost the death of me !”’ The company all seemed petrified with astonishment, and silently regarded me with the most curious and wondering looks, at this extraordinary and most un- expected announcement. (Grand tableau, and close of Act III in the comedy—but which was rapidly assuming the propor- tions of atragedy—of Bringing Him Out, I had however, this time, succeeded in bringing myself out in the most masterly manner. ) COURSE Iil. «¢Sir,’’ said the Major impressively, ‘¢as the natural protector of the weaker sex, I call upon you for an explanation of this lady’s remarkable and startling asser- tion.’’ He regarded mesternly, and fold- ing his arms with an air of military dignity across his breast, awaited my re- ply, while the others looked either annoyed or amused at this unexpected change in the situation of affairs. ‘I am sure I—I beg a thousand par- dons,’”’ I stammered out confusedly; ‘« but it was quite unintentional I—I as- sure —Miss Scroggins.” ‘¢ What was’ Sir ?”’? demanded the Ma- jor shortly. ‘‘T thought—that—I was under the— impression that they—they—were giving way,’’ I replied, becoming more confused every moment, and I—I—”’ ‘¢ You thought what were giving way, Sir? ’’ said the Major sternly. ‘¢ My—my trousers,” I replied, blush- ing to the roots of my hair, ‘‘and I kicked—invol—”’ ‘«What,kick alady! exclaimed the major fiercely, while Miss Simpkins muttered below her breath: ‘‘Shame, shame!” and Mr. Fitz Mauricecastupon me a look of withering contempt, while the words, ‘‘assaulted me; yes, actually assaulted me,’’ fell indignantly from the lips of the elderly spinster. Despite the excessive embarrassment and sense of mortification under which I la- bored, which, even for a man not consti- tutionally bashful, would have been sufficiently painful. I was becoming quite desperate under these unjust reproaches, and nota little angry, too, at the thouglit that I should be considered capable of in- tentionally committing the offense with which I had been so wrongfully charged, so turning toward Miss Scroggins, Isaid, controling my mingled emotions as well as I could, and endeavoring to speak calmly. ‘¢It was purely accidental on my part, I—I—assure you, Miss Scroggins, and if ae ee et” it, ee ee =~ ze on

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you—you will kindly permit me, I will explain the—the unfortunate occurrence, which I assure you I deeply regret, and for which I offer you my—my most hum- ble apologies.”” After I had with stammering tongue, and painful blushes, explained the matter to the elder spinster—for I had to do so in just so many words—the company burst into such roars of laughter (the E. S, of course excepted), that despite the stillsour and venomous looks of the latter, I could not help joining in, though to be sure somewhat feebly, myself ; all of which provoked the elderly spinster to remark in the most raspish tones, that it ‘‘ was no laughing matter for her.”” And no doubt she was quite right. ‘‘Ha! ha! ha!” again roared the major, of whose innate coarseness and vulgarity I was now fully convinced, ‘thought your breeches had given away, eh? ‘Pon my honor, the richest thing I’ve heard for some time;’’ and he laughed until he grew fairly purple in the face. ‘* Think of that, Miss Scroggins ; his breeches; ha! ha! ha!’”’ ‘¢ Clarissa MacGusher,’’ cried the el- derly spinster, trying hard to blush at the mention of the word breeches, ‘‘ am I to be insulted by this vulgar creature ; and in ‘your own house ?”’ This was turning the tables upon the major with a vengeance. He paused in his merriment, stared at her in stupefied astonishment for a moment or two, and then exclaimed in a half-blustering and apologetic sort of way, ‘‘ Believe me, madam, no offense intended; but some people are over-sensitive, to be sure.”’ ‘* Over-sensitive ! Do you intend that for me, Sir; and after whatI have under- gone?’’ almost screamed theelderly spin- ster. ‘Clarissa MacGusher, I will no longer sit here to be insulted by any of your ill-mannered and—and—despicable guests. Nodoubt Mr. Noddlehead, or whatever the fellow’s name is, thinks it very manly to assault a respectable and inoffensive woman, and a coarse, vulgar, blustering military braggadocio imagines that it is very heroic to add insult to in- jury. Bah! nice company indeed, fora virtuous and estimable mother of a family to introduce into her house ! ”’ She rose majestically from her chair,

NODDLEKINS’ CHRISTMAS DINNER. 511 and with one last look of ineffable scorn and contempt upon the assembled com- pany, she strode out of the room with an air of outraged dignity, that was simply overwheiming in its impressiveness. A dead silence fell uponall. The ladies turned pale; the major looked silly and confused—even he, the hero of a hun- dred battles (by his own account), quailed before the wrath he had evoked in the bosom of outraged feminality; while the weak eyed young man appeared as if about to faint again. | Mrs. MacGusher, not forgetting her position as hostess, had remained calm, dignified and self-pos- sessed throughout it all; though how her poor husband, who had returned to his seat at the table, had managed to weather the storm, will ever be known only to him- self ; but strange to say, he seemed to be the most unconcerned of all. Nay, more —TI actually detected in his eyea faint, but unmistakable gleam of satisfaction, if not of absolute pleasure at the turn af- fairshadtaken. Could it be possible, I wondered, that he derived any gratifica- tion from the thought of his wife’s sense of chagrin and mortification? Presently he looked up, glanced slyly at Euphro- syne and muttered under his breath: ‘Good riddance of- bad rubbish.”’ The words, however, unfortunately did not escape the keen ears of his wife. That lady, who, although to outward appear- ance was perfectly serene and self-con- tained, was inwardly boiling over with wrath and vexation at the untimely con- - tretemps which had fallen like an extin- guisher upon the spirits of her guests, had now found an available object upon which to expend the full force of her pent-up feelings. ‘¢MacGusher, you mean-spirited and contemptible creature !’’ she exclaimed, ‘<how dare you speak in such a way of a worthy and estimable lady? You cow- ardly and unfeeling brute, it is just like your low, sneaking, and pusillanimous nature to insult an aged and defenceless woman! Leave the room, sir!’’ She rose from her seat and pointed towards the door with a lofty and com- manding imperiousness which might have even lent a heightened dignity to the brow of Lady Macbeth herself. The poor, dejected being slunk quietly

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512 out of the room without a word or look of protest, while his wife, begging the company to excuse her absence for a few moments, followed him out and closed the door after her. So awfully profound was the silence which ensued that one might have liter- ally heard the proverbial pindrop. This distressing domestic scene had put an effectual end to the festivities. The knowledge that her poor, inoffensive hus- band, for whom we all really entertained feelings of profound respect not unmixed with that of sincere commiseration, was to be offered up, as he usually was upon such occasions, as a kind of expiatory sacrifice upon the altar of his wife’s wrath, stirred up within us the most painful and depressing sensations. I had often laughed when one or another of the more intimate friends of the family had remarked in a rather slangy but expressive way that whenever anything had moved Mrs. Mac- Gusher to an unusual degree of wrath, COURAGE. she invariably soothed her aggrieved feel. ings by ‘‘ taking it out of the old man;” but not even a smile passed my lips now that I had been brought face to face with the dread reality. As if by tacit agreement the guests rogg silently from the table and, one by one quietly departed from the house; I with the painful consciousness that I had been albeit unintentionally, the means of break. ing up a happy dinner party, and of bring. ing to an inglorious termination what might otherwise have been an altogether enjoyable and delightful occasion. (So ends Act IV. and last. The cur- tain has been rung down and the actors have dispersed ; while. you, gentle reader, whom I may perhaps not inaptly class as one among the, spectators of this comedy, farce, or tragedy—by whichever name you may elect to call it—are now in pos- session of the secret why I invariably de- cline invitations to dine out.) Eourage. BY NELLIE T. GRANT. desolate waste ? The cup that is thine seeming bitter and brackish to taste ? Is the world filled with gloom—the blue of thy sky overcast ? Courage, weak heart, for surely light cometh at last. DQ" . thou only see ’round thee a dreary and Does the rain-fall unceasing, the sobbing and sough of the wind, Bring naught that is peaceful, but only despair to thy mind ? Look up and beyond, let thy gaze pierce the shadows that fall; Duty ever is stern, but thou must respond to the call. Life may be hard, but try to look on the bright side ; Raise the banner of Hope, and troubles may thus be defied ; If we strive with our might it is all that we mortals can do, The dark clouds will part, and the sun’s golden rays will shine through. Look forward, not back, the present and future are thine; Let thy watchword be courage, do not sit down and repine ; Shed kindness around thee, ’though it may seem all in vain, Some day thou shalt know a returning, and list to the sweetest refrain. Then courage, dear heart, for others have been tried as thou; Keep a brave spirit, prepare thee to do battle now ; Battle ’gainst evil and weakness, battle for truth and the right, All that now is in darkness shall one day be plain to thy sight.

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T was a stormy night in December. The = _ wind blew the hail alipes f~. against the panes, ~ eS: and howling, rush- ed past the leafless trees in the garden. Inside it was cosy. The room was our sitting-room, furnished with books as Darby often jokingly said, and truly it should have been called library. But, as the books came a few at a time, we had not dared to say library when first we were married, and I presume it will ever be known as sitting-room. The fire burned a little lazily in the grate, yet bright enough to be cheerful, and at the express wish of my guest I had not lighted the gas. She sat—my honored guest—on a low chair at my side, a little, graceful crea- ture, with eyes brown and bright, and hair a wonderful mixture of brown and reddish gold. Stella was not beautiful—at least her features would not bear criticism as to regularity— but her countenance, by grace of its happy, expression, was very pleas- ing. One hand she rested on my knee; the other, her left, lay in her lap. The flickering fire-light now and then caught and directed to my eyes the gleam- ing fire of a diamond which, set in a slender gold hoop, rested upon a marriage ring, so heavy as to look almost a fetter on the little finger which bore it. She had returned but a week ago from her bridal tour, and we had prevailed upon them to pay us a visit, while their home was being furnished. They had decided to leave most of the furnishing until their return, as they had expected to gain a great deal of informa- tion regarding interior decoration while traveling as well as ‘‘ find out which takes what,”’ as Mr. Darrell laughingly said. Merrily the time sped on, and Darby and I grew young again as we listened to ~ True for false, BY FRANCES BURTON CLARE. “How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves By taking true for false, or false for true ?” —TENNYSON. the discussions on house-furnishing, think- ing with 2 lingering tenderness of those blissful days in which we had sought to buy as much for so little, and tried to make the consideration of comfort supe- rior to that of display. Thad only known Stella since August, but I had learned to love her very dearly. She was spending the summer in a little country town. Darby and I were there for a fortnight, and one day strolling contentedly along a grassy lane which ran to the lake, we came across Stella, seated beneath a tree sketching. t her side lounged he who was now her hus- band, and Darby who counted Jack Dar- rell among his intimate friends, greeted him with a surprised look. He rose and came toward us, present- ing us amoment later to Miss Clark. We met her uncleand aunt too, and all being at the same hotel, we had merry times during our stay. Now Jack and Stella were married and were going to live quite near us. Darby and I were glad—for it had al- ways seemed strange to us that a man of means—a handsome man like Jack Dar- rell, had never married. So now I have told you how we came to be together this January night, seated in the grey twilight, thinking half sad twilight thoughts, as we basked in the ruddy glow of the fire, and listened to the beating of the storm outside. I must have been gazing with unwonted ardor into the shaded coals in the grate, for Stella, pushing my kneea little, said ; «¢ Are you gathering material for a story, Frances ?’’ Istarted as she spoke, then replied, half- laughing at her quaint little interrogation meant to lure me from troubling memrory —¥‘‘ I was thinking Stella, of the long ago, but not for a story.”’ ‘¢Shall I tell you one?’’ she asked, looking up into my face. Her great brown eyes were glistening 513

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514 unbidden tears, and there was a plaintive little droop about her mouth that told me she too had been dwelling on the past, and I answered softly: ‘‘ If you will, dear, I shall be pleased to hear it.”’ In her low, sweet, rounded voice, she began. ** My story opens with a farm-house ; a large square brick one.”’ In front of the house is a+ lawn, on either side a row of pine-trees. An old fashioned round flower-bed, lies in the graveled walk which sweeps up to the front door. At one side is a similar bed filled with fragrant spring flowers; and all along the fence enclosing the yard behind the house, are cherry trees. The time is spring—blossom-time, and the air is perfumed by the fragrant prom- ises of plenty. In one of the cherry-trees, whose irreg- ular growth of branches had combined to make a rustic seat, was a young girl, four- teen years of age. She was a little dark-haired girl, small for her age. Her head rested against an upright limb, and, crooning an old song, she stroked with one hand the head of a large cat which lay in her lap. Puss was very still; purring her soft accompaniment to her little mistress’ song. That fair spring-day now smiles from grateful nature. But the sad-faced child in the old cherry-tree, was not enjoying the beauties of the earth and sky ; she was not think- ing of the cat, which she still stroked me- chanically; she was thinking of the quiet farm-life which was so irksome to her; against whose bonds she chafed, while wild heart-cries of its monotony, printed themselves upon her face, making it re- pellant with discontent. She longed to escape it all; to enter the city, whose pulsations reached her through the books and papers, which she read with avidity ; she wished something would happen—and something did. Leaning there, half-hidden in the mass of white, she heard a cry—acry for help. She started, held up her head and lis- tened. Again it came. She leaped to the ground—flung poor TRUE FOR FALSE. puss from her arms, and darted toward the wood-shed door. A cloud of smoke met her, and through its blackness came again and again that cry for help. She ran towards the field, summoning the men who were there at work. They hastened to the house ; they fought well, but without avail. Most of the furniture was saved; but the building was de- stroyed ; the cherry-trees were singed ; the flower-beds trampled ; the lawnstrewn with household effects; and worse than all, the child’s mother was injured— fatally. A beam in falling struck her; all was done that could be, but she passed away in a few hours, and the child was motherless. The next three years she spent ina boarding school, then her father died. The farm was sold, and with very lit- tle money, she went to the city to live with her mother’s sister; a kind, good aunt, who warmly welcomed the orphan, and whose husband was indeed a father to the friendless girl. A talent, little heeded before her at- tendance at school; had there been fos- tered and developed, and when she saw that her little income was insufficient for her support, she set to work to augment: the little by the use of her one talent. Fair success attended her venture. Fame was not won, but she received recognition and toiled bravely on. Two years after her father’s death, she became acquainted with a young man from a distant city. They were friendly, be- came very dear to each other, and were engaged to be married. It was first love, all-absorbing love, ever-present love. The strong bright face of her lover intruded in fancy upon the busy hours of the girl’s life. Her one thought was to be true to him; her one wish to be worthy of him, for she trusted him with a perfect trust, and considered him almost incapable of wrong- doing. One day a letter came from him. In haste she tore off the cover, with joy- trembled fingers, while the heart color painted her face. But her countenance changed speedily. In the place of the joyous sparkle in her eyes, a dull dazed look appeared; in

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of the rosy hue of exquisite happi- eg a greyish fora fell on cheek and brow; for, instead of her own name she read another’s—another’s name com- bined with the same endearing terms in which her lover in his privileged tender- ness had been wont to address her. In- stead of ‘‘ My Darling Stella,’’ she read «My Darling Emma.” «Frances, dear friend, Iam talking of myself—my own life. I was that miser- able girl.” I started at the sound of her name— Stella—realizing then that it was her life- story, my lately married friend was telling 2. She had promised I should hear it, but I had no conception of its sorrow. Poor child, it pained her, for she dropped her little brown head on my knee and sobbed out such mournful little sobs, falling with a lovely cadence upon the perfect still- ness of our fire-lit room. «« Frances,’’ she continued, raising her head after a few minutes interval, ‘‘ did you ever feel as if all you depended upon had failed you?” Then, rot waiting for a reply she went on—‘‘ I could never explain to you how I felt that morning when my air-built castle full of glowing hope tottered and fell into dust, and I could see nothing through my tears but a cloud-rocked sky. That letter I can repeat to you. My Darling Emma: — Yours of the 12th reached me duly, but my dear girl I am so Sorry you cannot come. I am disappointed that the mother cannot see how much better it would be for both of you. Perhaps ‘she will yet yield to us, and re-con- sider my proposal, I will write to her myself to-morrow, Let me know as soon as she decides finally. Your Loving FRED, Miss Emma Norton, C- » Mass, That letter rang its loving familiar words in my ears over and over again. It burnt itself into my heart. It imprinted itself upon my brain. It shaped itself be- fore my eyes even when I closed them. I understood it. The, letter had been enclosed to me through mistake. It was his own writing, even to the final curve on the last letter of his name. The same to her as to me—the thought came to my TRUE FOR FALSE. 515 brain, and as I realized that my letter had gone to her, whoever she was, and tella similar story to other eyes, I laughed maniacally and tore the letter in two. I read his inconstancy in such a letter. I drew his ring from my finger. I wrote - him a note, telling him simply that I wished our engagement broken; that I did not wish to see him again; then dropping the ring into a box I sent it and the note to the office, and sat down to build some other castle on a foundation less sandy than—a man’s constancy. ‘¢T was very hasty, but I was also very proud, and had been very trusting. ‘« Before, I could never understand how, when a woman had played him false, a man could lose faith in womankind, but I understood it then. ‘I realized that we deck our heart’s treasures with garlands—denying the right of any other to be so worthy ; that we hide the clay feet, almost forgetting they exist, and then, when the wreaths are torn loose, we forget that we made them, and we say in heart- bitterness, he was the best in the world; he is false; then must all the rest of man be even more untrust- worthy. ‘‘T was mad with jealousy, and I suf- fered more, I think, than I ever did before. ‘Fred wrote me; I returned his letter unopened. He wrote again; I burned his written words without a misgiving. I was burning my happiness, but [ did not know it. ‘‘ He called me to the telephone, but, immediately upon recognizing his voice, I rang off. ‘« His conduct seemed so heinous to me that I was unwilling to hear him try and excuse himself, being certain that I could not concede that a letter so familiar was in accordance with our engagement. ‘‘ Frances, you cannot wonder I was indignant, can you?’”’ She had appealed to me, but I—lost in the maze of her tangled life-skein—said hastily: ‘‘Go on, Stella; I am anxious to know how the hurt healed and how you came to love your husband. His name is not Fred, I know.”’ She smiled half-sadly, seeing me so interested, and went on a little more joy- ously, I thought.

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516 ‘‘It was a long time after,’’ she said. ‘‘Girls do not forget that kind of thing very easily, and I was really unprepared I thought I knew my own to ever marry. heart too well. ‘No one guessed what had parted Fred and I. It was, I knew, not to be thought of that Auntie should know, for she would tell Fred directly, and that was just what I nad determined should never be. ‘I did not wish to allow him the satis- faction of discovering how I was made cognizant of his perfidy, and I communed with myself thus: ‘If that other girl is anything like I am she will act in a simi- lar manner, and he will be doubly re- warded. So I shall keep my secret, and hope she will, too.’ ‘¢ Fred called on Auntie once, and told her I had treated him very unjustly ; that he knew of nothing which could have angered me; that he thought me either childishly fickle, or, with himself, the victim of some schemer against our hap- piness. ‘‘T told Auntie that I wished never to see him again; that he was untrue to me ; that I had his own handwriting to prove it. Soshe sighed a little sigh of forced resignation, remained silent on the sub- ject, and the months rolled by. ‘« Spring came, and Fred’s mother died. I saw the notice in a paper. She was a dear, patient woman, many years an in- valid, and she and her daughter lived in a little town about a hundred miles from the city where Fred was in business. ‘¢ Auntie and I were passing through the town one time, and, by some lack of connection, were obliged to wait there. ‘Fred knew it, and had telegraphed his mother to send for us to come and visit her. ‘‘She did so, and we so enjoyed our few hours’ stay. ‘*Her daughter was away from home for the day. I was disappointed, for I wanted to meet her. ‘«Their home was very comfortable, and the invalid was so patient in speech and manner with her nurse. ‘«Fred wanted her, she told us, to come to the city, so he could be with them, but she declared herself unable to be persuaded to leave her home, where she knew where the sun would shine at each particular hour, and where she had TRUE FOR FALSE. everything that a life of suffering hag taught her was necessary or convenient. She spoke of our marriage ; told me she was so pleased to have seen me, and wished me all happiness in my wedded life. You may be sure I was shocked to read of her death, which was very sudden. The next summer uncle wanted us to go to some small town, and strange to say he mentioned the same one that Fred had spoken of the year before. He had wanted Auntie to go out to it, but she had decided to goto a sanitarium to have advice about her eyes, and I felt it my duty to go with her, or else | might have gone with Mrs. Richardson, a friend of Auntie’s. This summer the very same place was decided upon and we went. The air was delightfully fresh and pure, and the lake—oh, that beautiful blue lake —was a never ending source of delight to us. We boated on it, sailed on it, fished and bathed in it. We almost lived on, in, or beside it. During the sultry afternoons we would sit in the shade of the trees and read, en- joying the breeze, and the splendid view from the high bank. The little town was swarming with sum- mer residents. The hotels were filled to overflowing. The private houses had a full complement, while many families rented furnished cottages. We soon be- came acquainted with a number of peo- ple hitherto strangers to us, and besides several of our town friends were there, so you may know that the time passed very merrily. Uncle declared that he would never recommend such a pleasant place again, for it was almost impossible to get Auntie and I home. One afternoon I was sitting on the beach. It was late, for the sun was set- ting. ; Kastie had gone up, while I intended to follow her as soon as I finished the book 1 was reading. After closing the book I lifted my eyes and the exquisite beauty of that sunset scene held me bound to the place. Idid not move. I sat quite still while its beauty seemed to fire all my soul.

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; had Do you know, Frances, I think we are ‘nt. near our Creator when the glory of id me his handiwork wakens our admiration, » and out reverence and our awe.

The lake was perfect in its calm. The winding pebbled beach with its tree-lined banks stretched oneither hand. The op- ite shore was dimmed by the mist of distance. The sky was flushed, and far out where the red light touched the water the lake’s tranquil face was rosy in its appreciation. The details of that summer sunset are burned into my very soul—I can never forget it. Finally 1 roused myself, thinking I must go in order to dress for dinner. My seat on the stones had been quite near the water’s edge. 1 had been very still for a length of time, and when I moved my left foot I discovered it to be

re, ake in that lifeless condition called ‘* being zht asleep.” Thinking it would in a few moments return to its normal state, I es- nd sayed to use it. Immediately it gave way or beneath my weight, and 1 neared the ground without abruptness. Id I was dazed, and knew nothing until n- I felt a pair of strongarms about me. In Ww a moment I found myself seated on a piece of driftwood near. My face crim- D- soned as I thought of my undignified to position, while a sensation of pain in my a left ankle told me I had twisted it in my S fall. - As I raised my eyes to my rescuer’s )- face, I recognized Fred, and, standing at $ his side, was a young girl with a pale z face. d He bent down as he saw my look of

surprise and annoyance, and raising his hat said simply : ‘<T could not see you in need of aid. Excuse me, it was necessary, you were rolling directly into the water.’’ I en- deavoretl to express my gratitude as icily as I could, and he presently asked me if we were staying in the town. I replied affirmatively, giving him the name of the hotel. ““You have injured your ankle,’ he said, as he saw an expression of pain cross my face when I moved my foot. I assured him it was very painful. He walked swiftly to the top of the hill, called a hack which was coming

TRUE FOR FALSE. 517 down to meet the boat, assisted me with the young lady’s help into -it, motioned her to enter, gave directions to the dri- ver and seated himself opposite us. We were soon at the hotel. Very gently he aided me; and having frightened poor Auntie into a terrible excitement. Ifound myself on the sofa in our room, the pale young girl by my side. Fred had gone for adoctor, and before leaving had said to his companion: ‘Emma, will you stay fora while, Mrs. Thorne is so nervous? ,’ Then to Auntie, as she approached him with a questioning look on her pale face. ‘*Do not be alarmed, Mrs. Thorne, it isonlya sprain, I think, and I will send a physician up at once.”” I caughtthe young girls’ name— ‘¢Emma.’’ The same Emma, no doubt,, whose letter had fallen into my hands; and I wondered, as that thought crossed my mind, if she had read my letter— surely not—I argued else she would have seen he was unfaithful to her as well as to me. With closed eyes 1 lay there, suffering from that unlucky wrench, while my mind wandered back upon that past which I thought I had locked so securely. Fred had been so gentle, so delicate in his kindness, that I could not abuse my mind-of the feeling that I had been al- most rude in my coldness. He could not be accused of wrong doing in loving her, certainly, for she was quite pretty, I decided, as I viewed her sympathetic face through half-opened ‘lids. I tried to see her left hand and at last L did, and there on her third finger flashed a diamond. I shudderingly closed my eyesagain. They were engaged, without doubt. The doctor—a fussy old grey-haired man came at last. The fat a week’s rest for the injured member,”’ had gone forth, and I was an established invalid, with some very bitter haunting memories of past gladness, for my companions, when all were resting save me, from whom those racking tweaks and twinges drove the gentle poppy-laden maiden—sleep. The young lady had promised to come next morning, but I,assured Auntie that I felt unable tosee anyone. } knew I had a battle to fight before I could meet her unmoved. I was determined to come off

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518 victor in it, and I did—thus far.—lI brought myself to talk with her; to jest, and to hide the bitterness of my heart, under a mask of seeming gaiety. My joyous glance, my smile-wreathed lips, were no indicators of heart anguish, and I prided myself on my success. How eagerly I listened the morning she came to the door. Auntie’s gentle excusing voice, in reply to her inquiry, then her pleasantly worded hope for my speedy recovery, and a mes- sage for me—then she said laughingly— ‘‘but you do not know my name—Miss Norton—I was not introduced to you in the confusion yesterday.” Now I had the other name—‘‘ Emma Norton ’’—she was the girl who had won my lover. Well I could not wonder at her loving him, and as for her—men al- ways admired pretty faces. She had one, I had not. She came up another day, and brought me some flowers, but, Frances, I never touched those flowers. They stood where Auntie, at my direc- tion, had placed them ; at the far end of the room, and there they faded and died, without a word or a touch from me. I hated that pretty gentle creature, though she was so graceful, sweet-faced and kind. We had several conversations, for she often ran over to our rooms ; but she never mentioned Fred. He has probably told her all, I thought, and perhaps she pities me. I'll none of that. So I exerted myself to be particularly joyous in her presence. Like Rosalind, I showed ‘ more mirth than I was mistress of.” Fred might have come, I thought, or sent to ask after me ; but of course I could not be surprised that he did not, after the extreme hauteur I had displayed in the face of his gentleness towards me. He evidently wished me to understand that even our friendship was at an end; and I resolved that I could be as much at ease as he. My ankle grew stronger; I limped around the room; fhen down-stairs ; and one day as far as the beach. Enjoying the freedom and freshness I had been denied, for what seemed to me TRUE FOR FALSE. so long a time, I sat there, absorbed i contemplation of the various hues which tle wind and the shifting clouds gave ty the lake’s surface. There appeared to be a storm brewi for the east wind drove the pretty little ripples in fleets to the shore, and the cried and moaned as they fell upon the pebbles. Two or three yachts skimmed over the wind-roughened water. All day the ** stone-hookers”’ had been idly standing, their crews drawing up the large stones, which fell with a peculiar grating sound upon those before taken. Now the coming storm hindered them, for the water was no longer clear, as the sails were flung to the breeze. The moving of pebbles to my right, caused me to turn my head, and I sawa party of three approaching. It comprised Miss Norton, Fred, anda man who was a stranger to me. On coming up to me, Miss Norton ex- pressed her pleasure at finding me able to he down on the beech. Fred spoke a few precious sentences, but the smile accompanying the wonder- ful punctilious words, was a shadowed one. The stranger, who was presented to me —Mr. Hurst—spoke with sympathy of the accident, congratulating me upon my recovery; and then—ina very natural way, he and Miss Norton resumed their walk, leaving Fred, grim and pale, stand- ing before me. I looked up into his face, and feeling that I was losing, in his presence, the command I had striven so bravely to hold over my feelings, the worst of me came to the front, and in a taunting; bitter tone, I asked almost insolently, «‘ Why do you not follow your fiancée ? ”’ He looked at me with a half-angry, half-puzzled expression in his blue-grey eyes, and then abruptly, as if a light had just dawned upon him, he exclaimed: ‘¢ My fiancée, Stella! are you mad? my fiancée! did no one tell you—did you not know she is my sister? ”’ «« Sister! ’’ I echoed, ‘‘ her name is Nor- ton.” Yes, the daughter of my mother’s sec- ond marriage, My only orphaned sister, who is very dear to me.” “ But,’ I wenton, ‘I do not under-

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TRUE FOR FALSE. stand you, your mother’s name was not No rt on.” «Yes it was, Stella,’’ he went on, ‘‘ Mother noticed that you called her by my name, that of her first husband, but she rather enjoyed it and did not correct you. ; A mist came over my brain. A rare sense of happiness filled my heart, and 1 lifted my tear-flooded eyes, and said, brokenly, ‘‘Oh, Fred, then that letter was to your sister. How wickedly hasty I was, and I have suffered so.” ‘What letter,’’ he asked; and I told him. ‘Stella, dear girl,’”’ he said, ‘‘ if you could only have trusted me and writ- ten, it could have been all explained. I wrote to you that night, and also to Em ma.” She did not receive it, of course; not since you did; and I thought it must have miscarried in the mails. And her letter— written as lovingly as possible to my grief- burdened little sister, sorrowing over mother’s declining healfh—fell inte your hands, and you believed me false. Then he sat down beside me and told me his invalid mother had grown worse and weaker; and he had written try— ing to persuade her and Emma to come to the little lakeside town for a change ; but the sufferer could not decide to jour- ney so far from home; and he had writ- ten this letter urging his sister to yet try and induce the invalid to come, having had medical authority for saying that the change would be beneficial; she had come and improved during the autumn and winter, and then, worn out, had passed away in the spring; that his half- sister had come this summer to stay for a few weeks with a cousin, and he had run up to see her for the first time the after- noon I had sprained my ankle; to- day her lover had come, and he felt so lonely and desolate, as he contrasted their happiness with his misery; and though he had forbidden his sister to mention him to me, he could not refrain from remaining a few moments, when Mr. Hurst, so innocently left him standing beside me. 519 We had both suffered, Frances, though my hasty action and obstinate refusal of explanation had made the trouble; but he forgave me with all his old-time noble patience, and I wept more tears for joy than my rebelliously determined nature would ever allow me to shed for sorrow. The day you met me first, I was supremely happy. I was sketching, I remember, and Fred was beside me. We each wanted a sketch of the beach where Fred found me, hastily, and ina very undignified manner nearing the water. She stopped a moment and I exclaimed, ‘¢ But I do not understand you; Fred is not your husband. His name is Jack. What did—”’ ‘‘Ah, Frank dear,’’ she laughed, merrily. <‘‘I forgot to tell you that my husband’s name is John Frederick Dar- rell. He always called himself Fred to me, although everyone else calls him Jack, and I call him Jack now, too.”’ ‘¢ That is all—except,”’ she added with a sweetly grave expression, ‘‘ I do not de- serve to be so happy, and I almost shud- der when 1 think of my hasty action, which, in taking ‘ true for false,’ came so near forging ‘ a life-long trouble.’ ”’ She had finished. It wasonly a tale of a girl’s love quarrel, but oh how forcibly it showed that hasty judgments are often- times productive of bitter fruit. Mrs. Darrell sat beside me verystill, her brown eyes fastened on a half-burnt lump of coal. The story which presented her a little maiden perched in a cherry tree, left her a sweet-faced child-woman seated ona low chair before an open fire, every part of her face showing a sweet content. I sprang up and lighted the gas, as I heard foot-steps in the hall, and a moment later Mr. Darrell and Darby entered the room. Stella and I made merry over the din- ner table, forgetful of the story in which there was so much sadness, though I trust we each learned a lesson from the great book of patience. She in the telling, and I in the hearing of the story related in the deeping dusk.

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| Santa Claus in Our Village. FROM THE GERMAN. URS was a small village which boasted of but a single shop, this was not very attractive in appear- ance, but of the usual kind, small, low, and dark, with gas in the one window that was anything but bright, and a door- way that was far from lofty. In the window there was usually a plateful of rosy-cheeked apples, near to a little heap of nuts, two or three jars of sweets, making a tempting display to the little folks, while a few lemons, tapes, buttons and pins completed the display. Inside the shop good old Mrs. Hollyberry kept a very small stock of useful things required by her neighbors, who were as poor as she was herself. But when Christmas Eve came there wasagrandtransformation. The window was cleaned, and Mrs. Hollyberry re- moved all the tapes, buttons and pins, and filled their places with toys of the most wonderful description. There were brilliant red dogs, looking as fierce as lions; black cats with two wide yellow stripes down their backs; brown and dapple grey horses on wheels with stiff hairy tails standing straight out ; dolls clothed in marvellous costumes; boxes of tin and wooden soldiers ; mew- ing cats, tops, penny trumpets, tea sets; and, in short, toys of all kinds. There never had been such a gorgeous display of toys in the village before, and their gay colors shone forth in happy con- trast with the snow that covered the ground and roofs, until they looked as if they were bearing great white pillows on their heads. Everybody stopped to look at Mrs. Hollyberry’s window, it was the one event in the village. But the children stood before it the whole day long, with their feet cooling in the melting snow, their ears crimson with the cold, and their hands thrust into their pockets, or under their cloaks and shawls. Even when it grew dusk they still lingered, knowing Mrs. Hollyberry would be sure to light her lamp, and then the toys would look prettier than ever. Finally the lamp from the ceiling was lighted, and a brilliant glow was sent over the toys and fruit in the window. The children pressed up closer and closer, coughing, sneezing, chattering, and stamping their feet to keep them warm. The toys seemed to feel their importance, and were as proud and pleased, these common little toys, asthe finest wax dolls and the largest rocking-horses in any large shop inatown. They looked out on the little round faces lighted up by Mrs. Hol- lyberry’s lamp and thought what a pretty sight they made. Meanwhile the boys and girls gazed on, until their mothers appearing at the open door of their houses, suddenly put an end ~ to their pleasure by calling them in to bed. Slowly they went off, one or two at a time, with many backward glances, the last of all having gently licked the glass in front with his tongue to clear away the vapor, which concealed the largest and 520

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ROUNDS. wy if aN 1) ni Y oey » Vp i i) ”] J) Nan May) nn i] i ¥ = © ra =) © ’ Ss SANTA CLAUS VoL, CX IX—No. 37. =

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522 most tempting of all the horses from his view. Soon the children were all safe in bed, then the mothers started out with their baskets in their hands to the shop, where the toys were still locking out for pur- chasers. Mrs. Hollyberry showed her toys one by one, and the mothers made their choice and paid her, some with sil- ver and others with very worn, battered copper coins, and all went away with one or more toys in their baskets. By degrees the dolls disappeared from the window, until at last only two were left, but they were so dear that no one could be persuaded to buy them, Then came the turn of the tin and wooden sol- di ind the brave little fellows, as they = to the bottom of the baskets, felt as if drilling were at an end for them, and they were all commanders in-chief at last, and decorated with medals and rib- bons all over their little chests. The gingerbread, apples, nuts and oranges, also found their way into the baskets, and left empty plates behind them; the bottles of sweets, all new this evening, were now only half full, and al- most the only toys that remained to keep company with the dolls, were a donkey with panniers and a nodding head,a beautiful wooden horse with a real saddle and bridle, a barking dog, a cat witha group of little kittens, a drum and a danc- ing Punch. All these toys were too costly for Mrs. Hollyberry’s customers, and as she shut the door on the last of them she shook her head mournfully, put up the shutters and went to bed to dream of the ’Squire coming in a carriage and four to buy up all the toys she had left. The shop was quiet now, and all the toys commenced to dream. The cat imagined it was purring in front of a hot fire, and at the same time, scratching up a tender little mouse; the dog dreamed he was gnawing a delicious bone, and the dolls dreamed sweetly of the deft little hands of girls dressing and undressing them, and giving tea parties in their honor. The rejected toys had dreams as sweet as those that had been carried off in the baskets, for Christmas eve is the time when they speak and move; they throw off their coverings of cardboard and THE CHILDREN’S CORNER. wood, and although for all the rest of the year they are motionless, sleepy and speechless, when midnight comes on that one night they rouse up and are alive at once. When the bells at midnight sang out gently, ‘‘ding-dong, ding-dong,’’ for fear of rousing the children, no words can express the delighted happiness of the toys. The trumpets were seized with a sud- den fit of gaiety, and blew long blasts; the cats squeezed their own bellows, and mewed Christmas greetings toeach other; the dolls shook out their skirts, and curtseyed; the dogs and horses sang carols together, and the donkeys joined in the chorus; even the tea sets rattled pleasantly as they shook themselves free of their boxes and took their places te dance a quadrille with the dinner sets. There was not a toy in the village that did not come to life, and show its happi- ness in some manner or other. Old Mrs., Hollyberry heard nothing of all this. She was wrapped up snugly under the blankets, and never dreamed that toys could dance and sing as they were then doing on the counter of her little shop, and in nearly every cottage in the village, but not in all, for in some the fathers and mothers were too poor to be able to buy even the very cheapest toys for their children. But although Mrs. Hollyberry was sound asleep, it was an odd thing that she could see as weli as she had ever seen in her life, and what she saw was this: The shop door opened, and Santa Claus walked in and gathered in his arms all the pretty but dear toys that were left in her shop, because no one could afford to buy them. Mrs. Hollyberry was not a bit astonished or angry, and only said to herself, ‘*Nothing is too dear for Santa Claus; he dearly loves good children, and is sure to leave the money in my drawer.’’ When he had collected all the toys she saw him enter his sleigh and skim rapidly over the snow-covered ground, stopping at the cottages where there were no toys for the children, dropping gently down the chimney a toy for each child, not one being forgotten. When Mrs. Hollyberry awoke she re- membered what she had seen in the night,

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ore SP ose OS GS eS ‘THE CHILDREN’S CORNER. 523 and was pleased to think that the very poorest children would have the nicest toys, and she was not at all frightened about her money, as indeed she had no reason to be, for when she locked in the drawer she found that Santa Claus had paid her honestly for all the toys he had taken to give away. But who can tell the surprise and de- light of the children and their parents at the unexpected gifts?’ The parents knew their children had been remembered by Santa Claus himself; the children did not question where the toys came from, but it was the happiest and merriest Christmas they had ever spent, for never before had they had such beautiful pres- ents given to them. The Children’s Time, Make them happy then. Sy Make them gladly welcome it When it comes again, Citic is the children’s time; Christmas is the children’s time; We of older years See the light of Christmas-tide Through a mist of tears. Christmas is the children’s time; ’Tis the birthday feast Of the Child whose star once led Wise men from the East, And let us, at Christmas-tide, Do our best to make All the little ones be glad For that Child’s dear sake. EC. Christmas Games for Little solks. LAST PAIR FORWARD. This is the name of a pretty rompihg game played as follows:—The children form pairs and stand in a row, one pair behind another, while one player (chosen by lot) places himself at the head of the line, claps his hands and says, ‘‘ Last pair forward!’’ At these-words the hinder- most couple must run to the front, one going right and one left of the line, and try to join hands at the top. The c/af- per endeavors to prevent this by trying to catch the advancing players before they can joinhands. If he succeeds, the one caught forms with him anew couple, and they take their place at the front, while the one not caught becomes catcher. If he fails, however, and the advancing pair sueceed in joining hands at the front they remain there while the catcher resumes his place at the head of the line, and the game proceeds as before. The catcher must of course remain catcher until he catches somebody. THE MAT. This is a game which may be played for stakes, or not, asdecided. The play- ers are divided into two opposing parties. They sit in two half circles at the same distance every way round a hat placed on the floor in the centre of them. Two differently colored packs of cards are then given, one to each party, and by them equally dealt out to each player. The aim is then for each player to throw a card into the hat in the centre—a by no means easy achievement. The cards have a way of flying over it, or round it,in a provoking way, even when thrown by good players. The floor is soon littered with failures. The game is played till both packs are exhausted; then those cards that have reached the hat are counted, and the side that has most of its own color in, wins the stakes, or at least is victor. This is a very amusing game for the evening. THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. This is a new form of some of the games of guessing which may be played at this season. The players may dress in turn as the mysterious stranger, coming with steal- thy strides into the room wrapped in a long cloak, with bonnet veiled, or hat pulled down over the forehead. This visitor in disguise sits on a chair in the middle of the room, seeming to be thinking deeply, never speaking, and no-

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524 ticing no one till the others guess the character represented. It may be that of a well-known person of the past or present, famous for something of which the mys- terious stranger is thinking—Tell and his apple, Columbus and America, Napoleon, etc. The others talk, trying first to guess the time and nation; the stranger’s man- ner guides them by groaning, weeping, doleful shakes of the head, when they are wrong ; joy, jumps, general delight when they are guessing well, and whoever gives the final guess, and names the character intended, becomes the next mysterious stranger. RUSSIAN SCANDAL. This is very amusing and can be played well by older persons, if desired. The players sit in a row; one is sent outside the room. The one at the head of the row goes out, and tells the outsider some anecdote, or any little news of which she can make a short story; then she returns. The next player goes out, and hears the same story from the lips of the outside player, who then returns to her seat. Another goes out and hears the story from its last recipient; then the one who has told it returns to the circle. Another goes out, and hears it from the late hear- ers, and so on till all have heard the story, then the last tells it. It must be written down, we should observe, by the first teller to insure accuracy, and the amuse- ment of the party will be considerable when they hear how different the version of the last hearer will be from that of the first speaker. Generally the two differ almost entirely. A Bandbox House. Little Marjorie’s face wore a look of sorrow, it wanted but a few days to Christmas, and her dreams of having a gay time were shattered. Her Mamma was poor and could afford .but little to spend upon the holiday season, but now she was sick, and even that little could not be spared ; no wonder as she was but eight years old, she looked so sorrowful. A dolls’ house had been a long coveted treasure, but one, she feared, her poor dolls would never possess, and when she heard that a distant relative had come to nurse her mother, she did not dream her wish was so soon to be gratified. THE CHILDREN’S CORNER. In a day or two things looked brighter, and little Marjorie had some time devoted to her amusement. One morning, when the snow was whirling around in every direction, her old Auntie questioned her about her wishes for Christmas; and the long desired house was eagerly talked over, «Suppose we make a dolls’ house; [ don’t believe you have ever seen one like I make.’’ Into Marjorie’s blue eyes there stole a look of wonderment, as she ex- claimed, with a little catch of her breath: ‘¢Oh, can you really?” ‘*Come and see,’’ said her Auntie, as she went up-stairs. First ‘*1 want a big square bandbox.”’ Little Marjorie’s eyes opened wide with surprise at this announcement, but after a moment’s hesitation she remembered an old one that had long been hidden away under the attic roof, and which she eagerly brought to her Auntie. After placing the box so that the open part would be in front, ‘‘Now,”’ said her Auntie, ‘‘we had better mark out the windows and doors. Two doors, I guess, will be sufficient for a small house—one opening into the kitchen, and one into the parlor, as we shall have no space for hall-ways;’’ and as she spoke, Auntie deftly traced out the openings with a lead pencil, then cut them with a pen- knife into proper shape, which was across the top and bottom, and through the ~ centre for the windows, opening them as if they were book covers. Then she drew windows and a front door: upon the lid. so it could be set up against the front of the house and taken down at pleasure. ‘¢ These,’’ observed Auntie, ‘‘are the shutters, which I shall paint green, but I must put up partitions first, to make a parlor, bed-room, dining-room, and kitchen.”’ This accomplished, Auntie sent Mar- jorie to her room, where she had left a small bundle of wall paper and mucilage. Then she set Marjorie to cutting the paper into the right length for papering the dolls’ house. When the whole of the inside had been neatly papered, Auntie remarked : ‘‘ Now, Marjorie, you must make the carpets.”’ ‘‘Me?” exclaimed Marjorie, ‘‘ how can I?”

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THE CHILDREN’S CORNER. Smiling, her Auntie tock up several sheets of different colored paper, as she remarked: ‘*Cream color and red will be pretty for the parlor carpet; then we can have green and white for the bedroom, and buff and black for the kitchen, while the dining room can be plain red.” The sheets of paper were cut the re- quired length and about a quarter of an inch wide, then they were woven basket fashion—the result being four pretty car- pets, over which Marjorie’s delight knew no bounds. While Marjorie had been busy over the carpets, her Auntie had painted the shut- ters green, and a knocker of oak upon the front door. The windows had isin- $35 glass put in for panes, with different colored tissue paper blinds, the parlor windows having the additional decoration of curtains, made out of white fancy lace paper, and at each door opening between the rooms were suspended portiéres of different shades of tissue paper. Then the carpets were laid, and the doll furni- ture, made from pasteboard, was set in order. And when the new tenants moved into Bandbox House, on Christmas morn- ing, there was not a happier girl than Marjorie to be found the whole country around; and the Christmas which had promised to be so gloomy, was the pleas- antest she had ever remembered. What Three Little Kittens Did. A FACT. HREE little kittens, so downy and soft, Were cuddled up by the fire, And two little children were sleeping aloft, As cosey as heart could desire ; Dreaming of something ever so nice, Dolls and sugar plums! rats and mice! The night wore on and the mistress said, “I’m sleepy, I must confess, And as kitties and babies are safe in bed, I'll go to bed, too, I guess.” So she went up-stairs just a story higher, While the kittens slept by the kitchen fire. «‘ What noise can that be ?” the mistress said ; “ Meow! meow!’ “I’mafraid A poor kitty-cat’s fallen out of bed! The nice little nest I made!” “ Me-ow ! me-ow!” “Dear me! dear me! I wonder what can the matter be !” The mistress paused on an upper stair, For what did she see below, But three little kittens, with frightened air, Standing up in a row ; With six little paws on the step above, And no mother cat to caress or love! s Through the kitchen door came a cloud of The three little kittens were hugged and kissed, smoke! The mistress, in great alarm, To a sense of danger straightway awoke ; Her babies might come to harm! On the kitchen hearth, to her great amaze, Was a basket of shavings beginning to blaze! And promised many a mouse ; While their names were put upon bonor’s list, For hadn’t they saved a house? And two little children were gathered tight To their mother’s heart ere she slept that night,

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q/OW prompt every one is to-day, for here we each are in a com- fortable chair, with fancy work in hand, and the clock has but just struck eleven ! ’’ ‘¢ And I shall fol- low this good exam- ple by also being prompt,’’ said Molly, ‘‘ and so will com- mence without prelude, and when our hour is concluded, will at once stop. Even if the topic is not finished, it will have to wait over, ‘to be continued in our next,’ as is so often the case with a magazine article when we are most deeply interested in it.” ‘¢] find first on my list of to-day’s talk the guest chamber. This should always look attractive, and be made as comfort- able as possible for the stranger or friend who for a while is to tatry underneath our roof. This room can be cheaply fitted up with oddsand ends left over from the other parts of the household, but with this furnishing it will never prove satis- factory, or give your friend the welcome hospitality that even inanimate objects can extend. So if but with a limited purse, I would advise a pretty and har- monious selection (and a few dollars will go a long way when thoughtfully ex- pended). My preference is always to fit up such a room 1n a fositive color, select- ing carpets, hangings and ornaments with this in view. My own taste would be to have for the pervading hue a soft Pom- peian red, with cherry wood-work, (or the imitation, which can easily be applied ) In a trifle lighter tint than the wood-work *I would have my walls calcimined, ex- tending to about twenty inches from the ceiling, when it should be separated from the frieze by a narrow cherry moulding. The frieze should be of the same warm color as the wall, but not more than half as dark, and the ceiling should be still brighter, scarcely darker than a rosy cream. Some people cover their side-walls with a Canton matting. This can be purchased The Beautiful Mome-Clud. BY EMMA J. GRAY. 526 in a deep shade of red or it can be painted to suit the taste. When matting is used, the frieze is readily fashioned by putting on, two feet from the ceiling, a narrow gilt or wooden moulding and painting the matting within this boundary a lighter shade of the same color as used on the walls. A room upholstered in matting has a very charming effect, and as it can be cleansed with impunity, it is far cleaner than paper or plaster. If paper is pre- ferred it is best to use one with two tints of red. For example: on a dark ground have twisted Moorish figures in a lighter shade. Stain the floor, and lay on an oblong or square carpet edged with bor- dering, and reaching within about twenty inches of the walls. Or, if you would rather, use one large rug or a number of small ones. We have now some lovely domestic rugs which are quite as pretty, and of course much cheaper than the real Oriental ones. By thus doing, your floor covering is readily shaken and your room thereby rendered both cleaner and health- ier. If the guest chamber is small, re- move the door going into the closet, and suspend from a curtain pole a jute hang- ing, which can be procured for a reason- able figure. Within the last year jute has been much improved, and will now be found to be more pliable and hang in a much richer and more graceful manner than when first introduced to our market. Of course, if you prefer it you may have flax velour for your door-hanging. In either case, be sure to purchase them darker than your room. Regarding furni- ture, I would advise, as most in harmony with a red room, a mahogany or cherry wood bedstead, with dresser and table to match, but a brass bedstead could be used. The prettiest covering for your bed would be a counterpane and shams of coffee-col- ored lace lined with a deep red silesia or sateen. And for your windows nothing will be found more effective than Madras curtaining, which should be in geometri- cal figures, of two shades of red, or red and green. Or you could have Turkey red curtains; or, what is both cheap and attractive, a fine, unbleached muslin cur-

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tain bordered with Turkey red circles and looped back with red ribbons; or, red cheesecloth fastened back in the same manner. Of course, girls, there are Jap- anese rooms, and blue rooms, and nonde- script rooms, but the suggestions of this morning are principally with reference to a red room. «¢ At a late visit to New York,” said Olive, ‘‘ 1 saw at a large decorator’s three pieces of chamber furniture valued at six thousand dollars. ‘The wood used was old oak, enamelled with a variety of al- legorical scenes painted and afterwards baked upon the surface.” ‘¢ Yes,’ sighed Molly, ‘‘ If only our pocketbooks were long enough, what antique grandeur and magnificence would adorn our otherwise simply furnished home.” ‘‘ Would you put a clock in your spare room ?”’ ‘*] think it a very important part of the furniture, Amy. You know guests do not always carry time pieces, and a good eight day clock may save some disagree- able experiences at the breakfast and other hours. An old Dutch clock will give your room the antique effect now so de- sirable; but some of the modern clocks are both inexpensive and ornamental. I would also suggest a plush corner cabinet, and fit this up with inexpensive bric-4- brac, and put a few etchings or engrav- ings on the walls with suitable draperies on one or two of the frames. Also twist one on the corner of your mantel, anc knot another t> the back of your rock- ing-chair. And have some magazine, or interesting books for the entertainment of sleepless nights and idle hours. Also see to it that there is an abundance of writ- ing material conveniently placed, and that the lamp in the guest chamber is in good burning condition, and that there are plenty of towels and abundance of soap as well as other accessories of the toilet. Place on the dresser or table a vase of flowers, or in some suitable posi- tion put a bloom:ng primrose, oxalis or a vine of Englishivy. And for all these little but thoughtful furnishings, your friend will give you constant gratitude, and will feel in your guest chamber the warmth and glow of home.”’ ‘* And now I must - pass,’ as they say THE BEAUTIFUL HOME- CLUB. 527 in euchre, and briefly talk on the subject of staircases. I would advise all such to be of stained or hard wood, and during the warm season left uncovered.”’ ‘*Don’t you think,’ asked Edith, ‘*they would require a great amount of cleaning ?”’ ‘‘ Yes, but it is quickly done, and be- sides being cooler will save at least six months of wear on the carpets.”’ ‘¢T would daily wipe them, step by step, with a soft cloth, as the dark surface readily shows dust, and once a week I would rub on linseed oil, or a preparation of which the greater part is oil, and when applied will dry rapidly. By thus doing the staircases will always look clean and highly polished, and will really be more easily attended to than you now think. Stair carpet should be bought in every instance to correspond with the hall cov- ering. What is known as the Venetian, is the cheapest variety, then follows the Tapestry, Body Brussels, and the thick, curable Moquette carpets, If each step is slightly padded it will render the foot falls entirely noiseless. Stair rods are generally made of twisted brass or metal compositions, or of black walnut and other dark woods. But a very nice way tc keep stair carpet in place is with what carpet men call a ‘ button.’ ”’ ‘* May we hear about screens now?”* asked Olive. ‘‘ Ves, I am glad to have reached so popular an ornament.” ‘*Why do you think screens are only in use for ornaments? I thoughtthey were of the most practical utility.” ‘¢ So they are,’’ answered Molly, ‘‘ but a large number are alone introduced for decoration, but besides, there is the read- ing-screen, the fire screen, and the door- screen.” “ Tell us about the reading screen,”’ said Amy, “ I don’t remember ever hav-, ing seen one.”’ ** It is generally made of a dark frame, filled with lustrous silk, and when placed on a table, in front of the book or maga zine you are reading, it will reflect a large amount of light, thus making the type much clearer. Iam sure you must have seen a great variety of fire-screens, Edith, will you not tell us about them ?’”’ “ Yes, indeed. One of the best kinds I

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Samara 2 i ‘ cF i A | di rT ee aa Bote Ss A ad aa cee Pe ere a II SAE aig 6 te 528 THE BEAUTIFUL HOME- CLUB. think for a grate fire, is made of fine cop- per or brass wire, with five or six panels, each framed and hinged with copper. It entirely encircles the tiles and fires so itively preventing any accident, and as they are not morethan two feet high, and each panel being like asieve, the fire can beseen both over and throughit. Another style is made of small pieces of onyx, separated by narrow strips of brass, and elegantly mounted in the same material. This stands from three to four feet high, and about three feet broad, including the frame. Still another, and very pretty one, is made of numberless pieces of stained glass and jewels, put together any way, without any particular design, and moun- ted in a gilded wooden frame. The fire- light striking through the screen, renders aslight rainbow effect. A large fire-screen is most beneficial. It makes those at the hearthstone comfortable, without being baked, or toasted until their faces are in pain with the burning, besides it acts as a reflector, to a small fire, and so in- creases heat.’’ ** Are screens something comparatively new, Molly ?’’ «‘Yes, with us, but in the East they are centuries old. Isaw a very novel one once, it was made of dark wood in three panels, each panel was divided within about four inches of the top, and each piece, large and small, was a succession of cancelled postage stamps, closely at- tached and simply pasted on to a large card-board. Each of the panels bore a different variety, Foreign, American, In- ternal Revenue, etc. The handsomest screen I ever remember seeing was made of Gobelin tapestry, framed in gold. Its value was fifteen hundred dollars, and it was entirely for ornament, and only suit- able for a very elegantly furnished draw- ing room. But screens are of every value. The cheapest are made from common - wood and paper, and the more costly are made of inlaid ebony, silver, and em- broidered silk. Those of you who can paint, girls, can make very pretty panels, and have them mounted in ebony or whatever frame you may desire. A door screen is fitted to the jambs, and when in use completely fills the opening. It is invaluable, hiding the servants and what. ever would otherwise be seen beyond, Screens are certainly of much positive use, besides giving both an aesthetic and artistic effect, and for these reasons should find frequent place in every home. And now for the candlesticks, left over from our last lesson. As this-topic rightly be- longs to you, Edith, will you not give us a few hints?” ‘-T thought that was coming. But as you say, itis my topic, and so I'll tell you what I would have last week had there been time. Candlesticks are a relic of the past, and therefore must be a part of the present furnishing. Of course we are not like our grandmothers, obliged to illuminate with this light alone. Buta tin or cheap china candlestick, and sperm candle, is often a useful adjunct to the kitchen cabinet, and a Worcester china candlestick, with its dainty violet candle and pretty shade, is to a lady’s dressing bureau a positive adornment. It is won- derful the result of a skilled hand in any room, and by so simple a thing as the quaintness of a candle, the effect of a boudoir or sleeping apartment undergoes positive change. Very elegant candle- sticks are made from ormolu and clois- sonné, others are made of Leeds pot- tery, wrought iron and fancy earthen- ware. Don’t you like candelabras, Molly ?”’ i ‘¢ Yes, I think they brighten dinner tables immensely, as well as making hand- some parlor ornaments. ‘There are some showy ones made of cut glass, but sterling silver or Vienna brass ones are rich and handsome. What about the candles and shades ? ”’ ‘‘ The candles come in endless variety of color, delicate or rich tints, which- ever you may desire, and either twisted or plain. The shades are of silk, muslin or paper, in the daintiest of designs, many of them in the form of a flower. I saw a beauty yesterday. It was rose pink silk, edged with narrow fringe, and wreathed with little marguerites; this attached to a candle of the same color, and resting in a Paris bisque candlestick. By-the-way, I saw it ina friend’s guest chamber.”’

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Sitive C and hould The Fashions. y be- ve us ° . fi Monthly Resume of Practical Matters Relating to ut as tell ° ha Dress and Social Events. relic part si > we . «o HILDREN’S costumes are _- waist of these frocks are fitted smoothly to spring rm varied and attractive, and out below the waist line, but the fronts are full the the little ones cannot fail and lapped, or else they have a little square ina to look charming insome [Eton jacket, opening on a blouse of lighter dle of thebewitchingcostumes cloth, or of soft repped silk, or a fitted vest of ing designed forthem. The velvet. yn- Empire fashions remain in Cashmere gowns have a straight, full gathered ny favor, with their full lap- skirt, that may have rows of velvet ribbon around he ped waists, large sleeves, it, or else the edge is bordered with velvet, ra and straight skirts. straight at the lower edge and cut out in points eS Plaid woolens, bordered wools, and thick, soft, atthe top. Rows of plain or fancy braid may le- twilled stuffs are the materials for every-day follow the edges of the points. The bodice s- frocks, and for school use, while better gowns are may be full, with velvet vandykes around the Mt made of lady’s faced cloth or ofcashmere. Velvet collar, pointing downward, with a velvet ribbon n- in the piece is used for plastrons, yokes, girdles, edging the bodice, knotted on the left side. Or Ss; collars, and cuffs, and velvet ribbon an inch the bodice can havea shallow round yoke of wide or less, is used in rows for trimming velvet, with the full cashmere below coming up T the skirt, waist and sleeves. on it in a full frill, with full sleeves with velvet 1. For a school-frock for a girl of ten years,a cuffs, and also a velvet belt, . pretty plaid woolen can be chosen. This should Small children are still kept by fashionable | be made witha plaited waist, pointed in front, mothers in white muslin slips and frocks, with i straight behind, and buttoned in the back, with round “baby waists” until they are five years full sleeves, either plaited their whole length, or old, but more practical mothers put colored wool coat sleeves wrinkled along the top, and witha frocks ontheir girls when they are three years : plaited skirt that may be in wide kilt plaits,or old. These cashmere frocks have short round i else in very small close plaits pressed intoshape high waists with feather-stitched tucks down the . but not taped underneath, so that they will ac- middle,anda cashmere sash tied at the back; ’ commodate themselves to every motion of the thesleeves are full, and the straight gathered I wearer, in the fashion of accordion plaits. Three skirt is merely hemmed. . and a half or four breadths of double width goods Long cloaks are in great favor for both large 1 are in a skirt of these fine plaits. and small girls. Those for girls from one to six ; Cloth and cashmere frocks for dress occasions years reach down to their ankles, and are made for young girls have Empire waists, with gath- ered straight skirts. These cloth frocks are trimmed with braiding, embroidery, or passe- menterie, the braiding forming vandykes across the foot and at the top of the waist, or else taking the shape of a yoke. The back of the 529 with round waists—not too short—full sleeves, deep collar or a cape, and a full skirt plaited to the waist, For older girls_plain faced cloths in tan, elec- tric blue, and Eiffel red shades are made into long cloaks, with loose fronts lapped to the left

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j aingdh Amine 5 ee ee ee eee of < 4 ~— aed? areal mart, tate A ~ thie tee - ate A cir lie Pads « 8S Na i ee Sem soostintiena ie 53° THE FASHIONS. side, the back in fitted princess breadths, sleeves full or close as fancy dictates. Very plainly shaped long double-breasted ul- sters in princess breadths throughout are made ef checked or plaid cloth, trimmed with large smoked buttons. Dressy short jackets cf white, tan, or red tufted cloth for girls of twelve years are made with loose lapped fronts and fitted back, and trimmed with gray llama fur. Bonnets for girls up to three years of age are chosen to match their cloaks in color, and are made of velvet with a large crown and front, all in one piece laid in plaits toward the front, and finished with plaited silk around the face, and an inside cap of lace. The flat Chinese or Tonkin hat is a favorite for girls from four years old and upward. Cow- boy hats of écru or grey felt have their wide un- wired brim edged with fur felt, and similar shapes are in the bright red now in favor. Large velvet crowns, like those ofstudents’ caps, are on hats alike for misses, for small girls and for babies drawn about in carriages. Soft crowned felt hats in English \-alking shapes are worn by large girls with ulsters. Furs are to be especially popular this season, and a great variety of different kinds are shown. Long mantles for ladies lined throughout with squirrel or minevar will be the me plus ultra of chic for winter costumes. One model, which I thought especially pretty, was made of black silk matelassé and black velvet, trimmed with bands of skunk and black silk passementerie. The back, of the matelassé, is cut redingote fashion, fitting at the waist, and falls in full straight plaits at the back ; the side pieces are of black velvet; the fronts again are of matelassé, and fall in mantelet lap- pets, edged with a band of skunk, while the vel- vet parts are trimmed with a handsome border of silk passementerie. The neck is finished with a fur collar, The sleeves are of velvet. They form a deep puffing on the shoulders. The rest is quite plain, with a border of pas- sementerie down the outer seam, and a band of fur round the edge, This elegant model is lined throughout with quilted silk. Another is of blue-black velvet, tight-fit- ting at the back, with plain skirt. The fronts are fastened at the neck only. Tight sleeves, edged with similar fur round the shoulders and wrists. I have also taken note of a very distingué- looking mantle, something between a pelisse and redingote, of sparrow-brown plush, trimmed with undyed beaver. This mantle fits the figure at the back, but falls loose in front. It is trimmed all down the fronts with a border of beaver, ang trimmed round the neck with a collar of the same, The semi-tight sleeves are very much puffed up at the shoulders, and finished at the wrists with deep bands of fur. Carriage wraps, lined throughout with fur, are made much in the same style, but with wide sleeves hanging loose from the shoulder. Young ladies wear the very plain redingote of cloth or velvet, or the long, tight-fitting jacket trimmed wth fur. A new modification of the Figaro jacket is very much in vogue. It,is fastened with one but- ton in the middle of the chest, and slanted off both top and bottom quite at right angles; and at the back it comes down just to the waist line. It has very short sleeves puffed out upon the shoulders, and thence becoming so tight as to be obliged to be slit open over an under-sleeve ; it looks, in fact, like a very tight sleeve remaining unbuttoned. One button is placed on one side at the edge of each sleeve. This pretty jacket can be made either of plain velvet cloth, or cash- mere braided allover. It is worn over gowns of either silk or fancy woolen material. Skirts are still made plain, though some of our modistes are already predicting a return to draperies for dressy toilettes this winter. I have seen gowns @ disposition with printed border round the foot, the front of which is draped pep- lum fashion, while the back falls in loose plaits. That which seems certain is that trains will make their reappearance this winter for evening and dinner gowns. Square-toed shoes are once more coming into fashion, and with low heels, make most ugly looking feet. Shoes are of black kid or patent leather, low on the instep, with a small flat bow. Black silk stockings are fashionable, worn with gowns of any color, Gloves in grey and tan shades will remain in favor throughout the winter. Four-buttoned gloves of either dressed or undressed kid are worn with walking costumes. They are made with “drawn seams ” (lapped and sewed through and through) and have “ Paris points ” like cords slightly stitched, instead of broad rows of stitch- ing on the back. For full dress evening wear are similar Suéde gloves of greater length, that are worn without wrinkles on the arms, and meeting the sleeves ; these are very light tan,

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grey, white or black, the rule being to wear white gloves with white gowns, black with black, grey with grey, and tan with every color. For evening, bands of small flowers are worn in the hair, and bridal wreaths are now arrangcd thus, with an aigrette to match mounted on the left side. The buds of the orange flower are ysed for the bands. Little round wreaths of small roses or of velvet leaves and flowers, with an aigrette of the same, are greatly worn now, and placed far back at the side of the head. A small bouquet or a large buckle of the same flow- ers is usually wornon one arm. Bows of deli- cate tulle, especially pink, white, or red, withan osprey in the centre and mounted on pins, are fashionable. Alf sorts of fancy combs may be seen among the curls and coils. The hair is gradually descending from the top of the head to the nape of the neck again. Emeralds are much in request, and are worn with the shades of green that Fashion decrees shall be popular at present. Steel isalso 4 /a mode, especially for buttons; but costly old paste ones rank high in favor, for the Directoire coats. For evening wear, those fortunate possessors of numerous dia- mond stars wear them in the place of buttons on the gowns of that period. The large veils that come over the hats and cover the face without coming in contact with it will be preferred to the small veils, and all the old-fashioned veils of bygone times are being looked up for the purpose, also for scarfs and chemisettes. Wide falling lace collars and deep cuffs will be worn with indoor toilettes, and for morning wear and walking; starched white linen collars and cuffs are again appearing. FASHION, Lingerie. Gowns being flat, and clinging to the person, underclothing is made in the same way—that is, as flat as possible in front, and very full at the back, The trimmings on them are also flat, as lace insertions and plain rows of lace round the edge. Chemises are made of the finest linen cam- bric and China silk, and almost tightly fitting to the figure, with the neck, armholes and bottom of skirt trimmed round with lace, or embroidery edged with lace. The front of the bodice part of the chemise is also sometimes gathered to- gether in the centre, a little above the waist, giving it the appearance of a full bodice. Drawers are also made to match, flat and nar- rower than formerly. They are trimmed exactly THE FASHIONS. 531 like the chemise with which they are worn. Sometimes they are gathered under the knees by a colored ribbon run through the lace, or em- broidery insertion. Underskirts are still made of colored silk skirting or andrinople. The silks used for under- skirts are glacé, taffetas or Pekin. Many ladies use up the old silk dresses to make underskirts. The trimming of these skirts consists of bands of velvet or lace flounces, or picked out flounces of the same silk as the skirt itself. Skirting and andrinople skirts are trimmed round with plaited frills or embroidered flounces. Nearly all skirts, whatever be their material, are also flounced up to the waist at the back, in order to give the necessary fulness, that steels or any other kind of crinoline formerly did. Plainer underclothing is made of the finest percale, and is trimmed with small tucks, sepa- rated by insertions of embroidery or rich lace, lined with colored ribbon. Home-made lace is particularly in favor for underclothing, as it washes well, and is almost everlasting in its wear. House and table linen are being trimmed with rich lace, from five to six inches in width. Be- sides being edged with lace, house and table linen are also richly embroidered in colors. Irish lace is particularly adapted for trimming house and table linen. The most luxurious bedspreads are now used some lately seen were of pale pink, blue, and other delicate shades, richly embroidered in gold; these are perfect reproductions of the old world articles now so much in vogue, There are also a great many of the rich-colored silken rugs from Como, striped in red and olive green, and other shades, lately imported from the Italian lake silk-producing country being used. A.M. G. Description of Fashions. Fig. 1. House gown made of Faille Francaise, the skirt is laid in double box plaits. Plain jacket bodice, the whe'= gown bodice and skirt is trim- med with elegant passementerie made expressly for it. Fig. 2, Evening wrap made of Havana brown plush, th: ~**rt, front, sleeves, and neck are edged with fluted satin, with narrow loops of ribbon fast- ened with a gold button. The upper part of skirt and sleeves are very elegantly ornamented with embroidery in gold thread. Fig. 3. Cloak for girl of seven years, made of

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532 blue cloth, with long hanging sleeves and loose front, fitted back. Turban hat of velvet trimmed with a bird. Fig, 4. Cloth frock for a girl of twelve years, made with a skirt kilted in front, box plaited in the back. Jacket bodice with under bodice with revers. Broad sash. Felt hat trimmed with ostrich tips. Fig. 5. Cloak for child of six years, with kilted skirt, and cape kilted down from a round yoke and cut in points. Velvet bonnet trimmed with feathers. Fig. 6. Ulster for girl of twelve years, made of dark green cloth, with cape braided. Hat of velvet trimmed with bird. Fig. 7. Coat for little boy, with full body and skirt, finished with a belt across the back. Full sleeves edged with fur, fur boa. Hat of felt trimmed with cord passementerie. Fig. 8. Cloak for a girl of nine years made of striped cloth, trimmed with velvet revers back and front, forming a V. Flaring hat of velvet, faced with contrasting color of velvet and trim- med with satin ribbon loops. Fig. 9. Cloak for girl ef six years, with plain front and bodice back and kilted skirt. The front is trimmed across with rows of braid, and large buttons; ribbon Icops at the side. Hat of velvet, with full crown trimmed with feathers, Fig, 10, Fashionable hat for lady, made of dark brown velvet, trimmed with ribbom bows and long ostrich feathers of a lighter shade, Fig. 11, Fashionable collar and muff for a lady, made of sealskin; the muff is trimmed with a ribbon bow. Fig. 12. Bodice for evening gown, made of plain silk trimmed with striped fancy silk, em- broidered bands of silk and ribbons. The neck and upper part of the-sleeves are of figured net. Fig. 13. Bodice for evening gown, made of black satin with revers of velvet embroidered in gold. The edge and sleeves are finished with handsome lace, and the front is filled in with the same. Fig. 14. House jacket made of striped-surah silk, with front of plain surah, vest, revers and cuffs of velvet. Fig. 15-16. Back and front view of morning gown for young lady. The skirt is box plaited with fancy braid pointed at the ends, trimming each plait. Plain round bodice, with square THE FASHIONS. sailor collar of embroidery, full sleeves, Jabot of lace down the front from neck to foot, girdle around the waist. Fig. 17-18. Front and back view of ladiey wrap, made of striped velvet trimmed with rows of lace down the seams, and falling from the shoulders in the back. Velvet sleeves trim. med with lace. The lace can be omitted. Hat of pressed felt, trimmed with feathers and ribbon bows. Fig. 19. Bonnet of black velvet, trimmed with gold lace, wreath of gold leaves and ribbon bow, Fig. 20. Evening coiffure, arranged in puffs and long curls in the back. Hair in deepcrépes in front, with bow of ribbon and flowers at left side. Fig. 21. Evening coiffure, arranged in puffs and loose braid, with front hair slightly crimped, aigrette and gilt spray ornamenting it. Fig. 22. Bonnet of green velvet with front ele- gantly embroidered withcolors and gold. Trim- med with velvet and flowers. Fig. 23. Tea gown made of white satin bro- caded with colors, It is finished with shirring at the waist, sleeves full at the top. A band of swansdown trims up the front, neck and around the sleeves. Fig. 24. Tea gown made of striped surah, pale-blue and white with pink figures. The front is formed of a double fall of lace, the front of skirt is edged with narrow lace, and the sleeves. A deep lace forms the collar. Fig. 25. Street costume for lady, made of black cashmere, the bodice is partially of moiré, as is wiso the sleeves and sash. The underskirt is edged with a narrow plaiting, the upper skirt hangs straight, slightly draped upon the left side. Felt hat trimmed with high standing ribbon loops. Fig. 26. Cloth walking gown for lady, with plain skirt edged with fur. Jacket bodice with cape over the upper part of sleeve and also trimmed with fur, Cord passementerie trims the front. Toque of velvet trimmed with fur and birds, Fig. 27. Visiting gown for lady, the front is made of black brocaded satin cut in pinked out points falling over a plaiting. The long straight coat is made of black velvet trimmed with a rose quilling of silk and passementerie cords. Velvet hat trimmed with ribbon and feathers.

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g from $ trim. rs and d with 1 bow, puffs répes at left puffs aped, Foreign PARIS, November, 1889. OR winter wear, many women have adopted the Incroyable coat, which has virtually superseded the Direc- toire. *At some of the northern gatherings, and in well-filled country houses, coats in dark-colored cloth, with contrasting lapels, waistcoats, and cuffs, have become very popular. For instance, a dark green or brewn coat would have biscuit-colored, pale pink, or shot gold bro- cade waistcoat (the latter made separately, so that it can be varied at will), with plain lapels and cuffs; or a smoke-grey would have a velvet waistcoat of the same shade, and lapels and cuffs of creamy ivory brocade, Large handsome but- tons are used for the coat, and ofter:. a smaller set for the waistcoat. A few loops of inch-wide ribbon are attached to the left side of the edge of the waistcoat, after the old fob fashion, with occasionally, charms, or a short chatelaine hang- ing from them. The long coat tails reach to the edge of the skirt, and a shirt frill generally finishes off¢he waistcoat. Tea-gowns of printed delaines have been very popular during the season, and still continue to be so. _The designs in softly blended colors are all pretty, on cream, pale grey, or butter grounds. Lace is plentifully used on these gowns, and a length of the softest satin, Surah, or China silk, is frequently gathered on the right shoulder, carried down and across the bodice to the left side, where it ends ina large drooping bow,and end. The delaine is brought in little folds, from the'Tight shoulder, overlapping the silk, and gathered into small plaits, terminating where the large bow com- mences, or rather where top of the loop reaclies, The other side of the bodice is plain, or is occa- sienally ornamented with a piece of passementerie carried from the shoulder across the bust, losing itself under the folds of the silk scarf. If there isa high collar, the passementerie is sometimes carried round it. The “ Toby” collar of lace trims many tea gowns, as well as semi-high even- ing ones, for young girls.. The ruffles correspond in style. Printed pongee silks are also greatly in vogue. Some tea gowns are composed of a large meshed cream canvas net, very soft to the touch, arranged over color. This is especially adapted for slight mourning, and looks well over black or bright heliotrope silk or satin. For mourning, white silk, profusely trimmed with black lace; and pale grey, with cream lace and black ribbons, are fashionable. 533 Gossip. Some new morning peignoirs are in soft silk, with the fronts composed of finely plaited muslin, crépe de Chine, or silk, This plaiting, known as accordion, is so heavily pressed with irons that it never loses its folds, and looks very well, Cashmere peignoirs are trimmed in the same way, and the large turned-over collar and turned- back cuffs are in hemmed white muslin, A frill of the muslin is often carried downwards from the throat to edge of skirt. The fashionable colors are pale pink, grey, lemon and an orange shade, which, though somewhat startling, is be- - coming to some women, and looks well,at night. Lemon-colored silk underlinen, plentifully trim- med with Valenciennes lace, and with baby rib- bon run in and out, is the last new color for fashionable underwear, A petticoat to match, for wearing under smart evening gowns, is always supplied with the sets, This winter it is predicted that black will be much worn, and satin will again be in vogue. Velvet will also be popular, either plain or em. broidered with gold, steel, or jet, either separate or combined. Feather and fur trimmings will be used for dresses—the former for silk and velvet, the latter for cloth costumes, Sleeves will be either tight and plain, or else puffed in various ways according to the taste and style of the wearer; the tight sleeves being suitable and becoming to those who have good and well- formed arms, and the puffed sleeves looking well on those who are more slenderly made. The fashionable colors at this moment are pampas- green, emerald-green, bison-brown, and the shade known as prune de monsieur (re¢dish violet), I will now describe a few hats and bonnets. that I saw at Mme. Marguerite’s, Avenue de YOpéra. She makes for the best-dressed women in Paris, and is always a little in advance of the fashion. I noticed that the crowns were not so low as they have been worn lately, and the trim- mings arranged so as to give height, A grey plushy sort of felt, in the Lamballe form, was ornamented with along grey feather déchirée, which has a lighter effect than the curled feathers; this fell lightly all around the brim, and finished at the back like a fox’s brush; three large grey satiA rosettes were placed aboveit, A hat, in the shape called Cloche, was made of acajou velvet lined with vieux rose velvet; velvet strings at the back and acajou feathers. The capote or- dered by the Princess of Wales, and named after her, is made with a soft crown of puckered

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4 FOREIGN GOSSIP. canary-colored velvet, with sealskin at the sides; bow andstring ofloutre velvet. Marguerite is also making toque-capotes, very small, a flattish crown of folded velvet, and narrowstrings fastened at the back and brought round to the front. For in- stance, I saw one made of grey cloth, with ara- besque pattern worked in black beads, on the rim a network of black beads, outside two small black velvet bows, with just a bit of sulphur- yellow between them, and black velvet strings. A capote of sandal-wood-colored velvet embroid- ered with gold bullion, outside a bird of para- dise aigrette, vieil-or shade, and inside, resting on the hair, a pale gold-colored bow, At Laferriére’s Rue Taitbout, I saw some very pretty dresses, forming part-of a handsome trousseau. ‘The wedding dress was made of peau de cygne, which is a make of white silk, softer and more pliable than peau de soie. The skirt, which .had a long train, was made with three flat panels,‘not fastened down, which fell over an underskirt, and between each panel was a row en échelle ot five bouquets of orange blos- soms, mixed with white ribbon; bodice with plastron made of gauze arranged in plaits, but not fastened down ; tulle veil and orange flower wreath. Evening dress, Princesse shape, with train made of pale pinkish mauve Pékin, with flowers brocaded on the stripes, and edged around with feather trimming the same shade; open bodice with small revers on the shoulders, and opening over a long straicht tunic made of white gauze, with a Greek pattern in white silk .at bottom, Empire style, over mauve satin; wide sash of mauve crépe de Chine, drawing in the tunic at the waist, and tied at the back witha large bow, the long ends falling on the train; short sleeves made of puffed gauze. The dress for the ceremony of signing the contract was pink, of course; it was very pretty, and could easily be made in blue, green or lilac, so I will describe it, as it may serve as an idea for a din- ner or evening dress. It was made of white embroidered gauze over pink silk, the lower part dotted about with pink moiré bows; the half- high bodice was made as a casaque of pink Pékin, with narrow stripes broché with flowers ; this was opened over the embroidered crépe front, with ribbon straps across the front of bod- ice; the sleeves were short and puffed. In past years, brides when upon their wedding tours could generally be noticed by some article of their attire, some pale tint being adopted in gloves or something worn. Now, brides avoid attracting attention in every possible way, and have even been known to collect luggage from their friends, off which the first gloss of newness had been rubbed by travel, so that their newly- married condition might not* be guessed from their baggage. Conscientiously, too, they and their husbands enact, to the best of their abilities, the part of a pair married for years. If they, oc. casionally, fail to take in onlookers, it must be put down to their inexperience in such matters, which time will infallibly set right. Brides who become so in winter have one advantage over their summer sisters. They come to the home nest just when their charms are at their height, when the bright fire, the cheerfully-lighted home-like room, and rather more than congenial companionship, contrast cosily with the bleak and wintry aspect of the year, as yet young and cold, and cause thrills of congratulatory comfort in response to the wailings of the wind, as it shrieks past the home of human happiness like a restless spirit, happily, just then, *harmless, Moonstone jewelry, especially as a bridal offering, is quite as fashionable as it was at the beginning of the season, and pretty new designs are being constantly brought out, such as a cres- cent moon set in rose diamonds; a full moon surrounded in the same way in radiating points; a jockey’s face, in a colored enamel cap, the carving on the moonstone being most cleverly carried out in the expression of the faces. Studs, pins, mene and earrings, all set in dia- monds, are carried out in the same style. - One scheme of decoration, for a Christmas dinner, and I have done. Procure some of the newicicle glass, bamboo. shaped vases, and fill these loosely with scarlet berries, ferns, and mistletoe. Have a rich red slip, the color of the berries, loosely arranged on the table, and on this lay trails of moss, discol- ored blackberry leaves, haws, etc; and in the lower vases have here and there Christmas roses and the blossoms of the anemone fulgens, also blocks of ice, surrounded by holly leaves and berries. Tiny breastknots of the berries, etc., should be laid by each guest. The candle shades should be of red silk with lace, and the menu and name cards either painted with holly and mistletoe and frosted, or tiny painted cardboard banjos and tambourines: and have the fruit, pretty crackers, etc., decorated with the Christ- mas berries. MARIGOLD.

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Chat With our Neighbors on Wome Topics. BY LENA RIVERS, HRISTMAS is again drawing near, and girls’ thoughts naturally turn to the subject of choosing and making suitable gifts for that season. There has been so much said, and many able articles written on this subject, and such numer- ous hints given as to making pretty, inexpensive things for this purpose, that there is not very much left for one to suggest, and the present ar- ticle must, perforce, be but a short one. It is intended to be a practical aid to girls from eight or nine years old to any age, as the work can in each case be of the simplest—mere outlining, in fact—or it may consist of embroi- dery as elaborate and fine as anyone can desire. The materials also can be chosen to suit any purse, for while brown holland, coarse linen crash, and Madras muslin embroidered with either blue or red ingrain cotton, and fine twine, will suffice and be perfectly suitable for the dif- ferent articles I shall describe, the materials can in every case be those of a richer and more ex- pensive character. As choosing is almost always a matter of diffi- culty, and the cost of having materials stamped or made up is occasionally beyond the limits of slender purses, articles have been selected be- cause of their utility, and of the fact that they can be cut out, made and finished by any moder- ately good worker. + Too much stress can scarcely be laid on the fact that gifts and souvenirs from young people, particularly to their parents, should always be of their own handiwork. In the first place, the real value of sueh gifts would lie in the knowledge that their children have spent ‘bought, time, and trouble, in preparing them; and secondly, it is bad taste in the extreme to buy presents with the money, that in all probability came out of the recipient’s pockets in the beginning. But to buy material with which to make pretty, useful articles is quite another thing, and perfectly legitimate. Since such very elegant gifts have been ex- changed at Christmas, even children are losing their power of appreciating presents through an over-indulgence in good things, and have learned to despise all toys that are not of the most complicated and expensive kind. Sometimes this is carried so far that the little ones become sadly mercenary in their ideas, and one cannot but think that the scale on which things were done fifty years ago, when a Noah’s ark, ora copy of “ Robinson Crusoe,” was a treasure to gloat over by day and to dream of by night, was a better one than that which is now in vogue. Young people, whose sense of enjoyment or of privation is indefinitely keener than that of their elders, and whose lives do not embrace many pleasures, especially deserve to be remem- bered when present-giving is in question, Some dainty article of the toilette, a visit to a picture gallery, or an evening at a concert or theatre, even a basket of fruit or a box of dainty sweet- meats, may give more pleasure to a hard-working teacher or “ woman clerk” than an expenditure of ten times the sum required could give to one of her more fortunate sisters. The first article upon my list of home-made gifts is a tennis racquet case, This would be very acceptable to most lovers of tennis, who usually wrap their racquets as carefully as musi- cians do their beloved instruments. The one before me is made of good, fine, brown holland. Three-quarters of a yard of the widest holland will make two of these cases, and as the nar- rower widths are not wide enough to cut two, and are too wide for one, it isan advantage to get a friend or sister wishing to make one as well, to buy the materials at the same time and divide them. As racquets differ somewhat in size and form, it is better to draw a pattern of the one for which the case is required on a large piece of paper, and then to cut it out rather larger in every way, to allow room for the thick- ness which takes up additional space. The next proceeding is to cut out of the ma- terial two pieces, exactly the same as paper pat- tern, making the selvedge run lengthways, The two pieces may now be tacked together and the top left open so as to form a sort of bag, and into this we might slip the racquet to see if it fits prop- erly, If the case should prove a little too loose, it is quite easy to tack it a trifle deeper in all round, A flap is now cut the same shape, only of smaller size, and tacked to the top of one of the halves of the case, and the remainder of said flap bound round with narrow worsted braid, fine, and warranted to wash; red being the best and blue next. The top of the other half, which 535

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536 will be underneath the flap, is then either neatly hemmed or bound with the braid, a loop is made at the point of the flap, or a buttonhole and a button sewed on the case, so that it may be fast- ened neatly. To arrange the handle satisfacto- rily, the true balance of the racquet must first be found by pinning a piece of tape or braid the re- quired length in what appears to be the most suitable place, and then adjusting it, while the racquet is in the case, to the exact position that allows the whole thing to be carried comfortably, without tilting to one side or the other. The handle is made of rather thick twisted cord, or rather cotton, sold for similar purposes at a few cents per yard. A piece is cut of the requi- site length, allowing for turnings, and red braid twisted tightly round it; the ends are then firmly finished off, pushed through holes made in the side of the case for that purpose, and strongly fastened into position. Initials, or a monogram, may be embroidered or outlined in red cotton on the flap or below it, and now the case is com- pleted. A friend of mine lately worked a lovely little violin cover for her small daughter of eight, who plays very prettily; and as the birthday gift was almost entirely made on the afternoons we spent together, I will try to describe it in full. First, the size and shape of the violin were drawn on paper, when we found that the cover would be required a quarter of a yard wide by rather more than five-eighths in length. The ma- terial chosen was a very fine art serge of a par- ticularly delicate shade of gray. This being cut to size and shape, a wreath of apple blossoms and leaves was, with a tiny wren perched on a branch in the cetre, transferred from a stamping pat- tern with a warm iron, to the serge at the widest part, as seen by diagram. This was em- broidered in pretty tints of silk, and the child’s name, Marie, was written in a slanting direction across the centre of the cover, and then worked in cord stitch with the palest shade of pink, used in embroidering the wreath. A piece of very soft good silk, exactly the shade of that used for working the name, was chosen for the lining ; this was quilted on a single ply of white wadding, and the outside tacked very carefully to it, the wrong sides of both inside. After this the whole case was bound together with narrow ribbon to match the lining, and enough ruching of the same ribbon was made in double plaits, and only tacked across the middle of the ribbon. This ruching was lastly stitched CHAT WITH OUR NEIGHBORS. by machine all around the edge of the cover on the right side, and the tacking thread$ being carefully cut and drawn out, that piece of work was successfully completed. In pincushions, there are the acorn ones, with the cardboard cup covered with plush, and the acorn of satin, with a stalk and a few artificial oak leaves. They are of large size, of about 7 or 8 inches in circumference, as like nature as pos- sible, and hang from their stalks. Another kind is round, about the size of a small tea plate, with pins put in all around the edge, and a half-moon, with a comical facial profile painted on half of it, close to the edge, and a bat flying near it. The pincushion is of silk, stretched over cardboard, with two sides sewn together around the edge, A third novelty is a good-sized swan, made of white plush, having a yellow plush beak, with a touch of black paint above it, sailing proudly along, with the pincushion between its wings and on its back. Drawing-room dusters are usually appreciated t y house-mothers, and those desiring to make a gift of this kind, particularly elegant and rich, could invest in silk foulard for that purpose, If only one or even two were needed, the extrava- gance might be pardoned, because they help to adorn the room, and a soft silk duster is delight- ful to handle, and particularly nice to dust the keys of the piano with. It is not, however, at all needful to have such things expensive, but they should always be pretty, and dainty enough to match the tastefpl little pockets, or other recep- tacles generally provided for them in these times, There is also a kind of half-cotton foulard, which costs little, and can be had in very good tints, that answers admirably for these articles, while satine is also good. Economy, however, being my text, we will choose Madras muslin for those we are about to make, because the cost of a yard and three-quarters of that material, rather more than one yard wide, will make half a dozen, and probably will not be thirty cents. We divide this piece into two, straight down the centre of the width, and then tear or cut each piece into three equal lengths. We have now six dusters, almost if not quite square, which must either be machine stitched, or, better still, feather-stitched by hand, with red or blue ingrain cotton, as it washes well. The hem to be about one inch wide, The surname is then written in pencil, not with a copying one, nor ink, across one cor- ner,and Duster across the other, both of these should be outlined with red or blue washing cotton. cou twil pie

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CHAT WITH OUR NEIGHBORS. Those boys or girls who have learned to net could make nets for holding tennis balls, of twine, either plain or colored, at the cost of about threepence each. For one of these, a piece of netting worked on the round would be required, about half a yard wide, by three- eighths of a yard long. The lower end is gath- ered in and tied tightly with a piece of twine, to which a woolentassel, or balls may be suspended. A running string of plaited twine is then run into the upper row of holes and ornamented in a similar fashion. Little picture albums, composed of used post- cards, are easily made, and most acceptable in hospitals, or for invalid children, The cardsare laid down on a strip of sateen double the width, each card is glued on each side, and placed ata little distance from each other. The sateen is drawn over the front of the cards, so that both sides are covered, and the edges turned in. Fold up the cards like a pocket photo case, pass an elastic band round, and gum or glue any small pictures on. Seventeen cards require a length of one yard and a half of any material. This article on gifts must necessarily be scarce- ly better than a medley, as I wish to meet the re- quirements of many, and tosuit all tastes, so will mention next the pretty inexpensive bamboo work baskets just lately brought out, Three bamboos are crossed, so that a soft plaited straw, willow, or cane basket can rest on the top, This natty little standing work basket can find space in the corner of a small room, where a larger one would be out of the question. It can be trimmed in a variety of ways—with China silk squares, ribbon bows, Spanish ball fringes and tassels, or simply lined with China silk, ar- ranged so as to form a bag, with a draw-string The style of the affair does not allow of any rich, expensive decora- tions, such as heavy brocades, velvets, or thick silks. It is essentially unpretending, and to be and upstanding frill, in keeping, the trimming should be so also, An- _ other plan would be to fit it up prettily as a bon- bonniére for Christmas, ornamenting a false top with artificial flowers and ribbon bows, or with bunches of graceful grasses, among which a bird’s nest should be cosily tucked away, the birds being perched about on lichen covered twigs, In any case the interior should be lined ready for after use as a work case. Bambvo Square palm stands may be utilized as work stands by placing on the top slab a Chinese bowl- Shaped basket, lined and trimmed. The bam- VoL. CXIX—No, 38. 537 boo legs are wound round with two shades of Chinese silk, such as chestnut and coral, or shrimp-pink and apple-green, or apricot and silver-grey, and finished off with pompons. The lower shelf is fitted with a tray, lined with silk, either buttoned down, or with first a plain leyer of silk, and then the four corners have half squares, folded in plaits, laid across them, these, of course, of a contrasting color, A very pretty sachet is composed of two pieces of well wadded and quilted pale-blue satin, lined with white satin. Each piece measures eleven inches square, and they are sewn together on three sides, leaving one side unsewn. A stripe of embroidery is placed over the top; this has a Grecian key and vandyke pattern at each side, and a spray of flowers in the centre. The edge of the stripe is finished bya chenille cord. A quilling of ribbon is placed on the edge of sachet, and a bow at each corner. A neat work bag is made of peacock-blue vel- vet, with two cross-stitch stripes. The velvet is cut nine inches wide and twenty-four inches long; two stripes of canvas six inches long are placed over the velvet; these two stripes are worked with filoselle over the canvas ; any pretty design will do. When both are worked, the canvas threads are.drawn away, and the velvet is left as a ground. The outer edges of the stripes are finished with a silk trimming, The velvet is next lined with satin; it is then folded in half and sewn up the sides; the edge is turned down to form a frill, and has a slide of ribbon run in; the ends are finished with tassels. Silk cord is put on each side to form handles. Bows of ribbon are sewn to each of the outer corners of the stripes, A bag for soiled linen is very handy to hang in a dressing-room to put soiled handkerchiefs, laces, etc., in, The bottom of the bag is com- posed of seven sections of Turkey-red twill, em- broidered with écru flax thread; each section measuring ten inches long. After they are em- broidered they must be lined with very thick holland to keep them in shape, and edged with fine cord; when all are worked they are joined together down the sides. A bag of holland twenty-one inches long and twenty-eight inches in circumference is placed inside the lower part, and is sewn firmly; the bag is turned down two inches at the top, and a rurning slide of ribbon is put in; a tassel of wool or ingrain cotton is placed on the bottom of bag where the sections oin. Hoping that the ideas here given may meet the wants of some of our readers, we bid them adieu for 1889.

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Wouseholy Mepartment. EDITED BY MRS, I. D. HOPE, Teacher of Cookery in the Public Schools of New York. Dishes Seasonable and Palatable for Christmastide. CHRISTMAS dinner would scarcely be such without its turkey. The choosing and cooking of poultry is one of the most im- portant of the cooks’ art, and we will en- deavor first to assist those who are unacquainted with it. In selecting poultry choose those that are full grown, but rot old; the skin should be thin and tender, the feet limp and pliable, the eyes bright and full, and the end of the breast-bone should yield readily to pressure, Pin feathers indicate a young bird. The best turkeys have smooth legs with soft short spurs, and white, plump breasts. To Clean and Dress Poultry. Use a knife toremove the pin feathers. Singe the hairs by holding the fowl over lighted paper. First cut off the head, then slip the skin back, and cut the neck off close to the body, leaving skin enough on to fold over on the back. Re- move the windpipe and crop, being careful not to break the skin. Cut through the skin about an inch below the leg joint, break the leg at the cut, then pull out the tendons—they may be pulled out easily, one at atime. The leg is greatly improved by pulling these out, as they harden in cooking, Cut out the oil bag; make an incision near the vent, and draw out all the internalorgans. Keep the fingers close to the breast-bone and loosen everything before drawing out; be careful not to break the gall bladder, which lies close to the liver on the left side. When all is removed, rinse out the inside and wipe dry. To Stuff a Fowl, Fill the breast first, until plump, then sew the neck skin over on the back; fill the body and sew it up with a coarse needle and thread Cross the legs over the tail and tie firmly. Put a skewer through the thighs and another through the wings. Wind a strong string from the tail to the skewer on the thigh, then across to the oppo- site wing across the back to the other wing, down to the other thigh and tie firmly to the tail. Dressing for Roast Turkey. One quart of dry bread crumbs grated, one cupful of water; let it stand until very soft, then press out all the water, and add one teaspoonful of finely chopped parsley, one even teaspoonful of powdered thyme and Sum- mer savory mixed, one half teaspoonful of white pepper, one teaspoonful of salt, one table- spoonful of finely chopped onion, one half cup. ful of butter, and two well beaten eggs. Mix all together lightly. Rub the turkey well with salt and pepper, then with a little softened but- ter, and dredge thickly with flour. Put it ina hot oven, and when the flour is browned reduce the heat and add two large cupfuls of water, Baste with butter and water until well browned, then with the water in the pan. Allow three hours for a ten-pound turkey. Make brown gravy and add to it the giblets, which have been put in cold water and gently simmered until tender, then chopped fine. Garnish the turkey with parsley or celery. Cranberry Sauce. Put one quart of well washed cranberries, two cupfuls of sugar, and one cupful of cold water, onto boil ina porcelain or granite saucepan; cover closely and let them cook just ten min- utes after they begin to boil. Skim and tum into moulds to cool. They will jelly, be a fine red color, and the skins will be soft and tender, Do not stir them while cooking. Roast Pig. A pig to be eaten in perfection should not be more than four weeks old. Clean well and stuff with dressing prepared as for turkey. Sew up neatly and skewer the fore legs forward, and the hind legs backward. Rub all over with salt, pepper, and butter, dredge with flour, put in the pan with one cupful of hot water. Bake three hours in a moderate oven. Arrange in a bed of parsley and celery leaves, put a tuft of leaves in the mouth, and a garland of parsley around the neck. Serve with apple sauce and currant jelly. Rich Mincemeat. Three pounds of lean beef, two pounds of beef kidney suet, three quarts of pared and chopped apples, two cupfuls of molasses, four cupfuls of sugar, three pounds of raisins, three pounds of currants, one-half pound each of candied orange 538

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HOUSEHOLD DEPARTMENT. and lemon peel, two pounds of citron, one table- spoonful of ground mace, one of allspice, four of cinnamon, one teaspoonful of cloves, two grated nutmegs, one-half cupful of salt, grated rind and juice of two lemons, two quarts of cider, one pint of brandy. Simmer the meat slowly until very tender and chop fine. Free the suet from skin and mem- brane and chop it in a cool place until almost as fine as flour. Pare and chop the apples rather coarse, they should be tart. Wash and dry cur- rants, seed raisins and shred peel and citron. Mix all these ingredients together, add sugar, molasses, lemon and spice, then the cider. Mix all well together, then heat slowly to the boiling point and let it simmer one hour. Let it cool, add the brandy, press it into a stone jar and pour one-half cupful of molasses over the top. ‘This mincemeat may be used at once, but improves with keeping. It will keep all winter in a cool place. Plain Mincemeat. One pint of chopped meat, one cupful of suet, four heaping cupfuls of chopped apples, two cup- fuls of raisins, three of currants, two of sugar, one of molasses, one lemon grated rind and juice, one-half a pound of citron, three tablespoonfuls of cinnamon, one tablespoonful of ground mace, one of cloves, about one quart of hard cider. Follow directions given in preceding recipe. A little brandy is an improvement. This will also keep in a cool place. Pumpkin Pies. Pare and cut up the pumpkin, remove the soft pulp and seed, wash and measure these pieces and put them in a saucepan containing one- fourth as much boiling water as there is pumpkin. Cover and place on the fire. When it has boiled for fifteen minutes, set it back where it will simmer for five hours, When it has cooked three hours, add one cupful of molasses for every six quarts, Stir frequently to prevent burning. When done, rub through a sieve, For two large pies use three cupfuls of pumpkin to one quart of boiling milk, one cupful of sugar, two teaspoonfuls of salt, one tablespoonful of cinnamon, one-fourth of a nutmeg, four eggs, well beaten, three teaspoonfuls of rolled cracker. Mix salt, spice, sugar and cracker crumbs with the pumpkin, add the boiling milk stirring all the while; when cool add the eggs, Bake in a moderate oven about three-quarters of an hour. 539 Squash Pies, One pint of stewed and strained squash, one quart of boiling milk, two tablespoonfuls of powdered cracker, one cupful of sugar, one tea- spoonful of salt, three well beaten eggs, one tea- spoonful of ginger, a little nutmeg. Mix season- ing and cracker crumbs with squash, pour the boiling milk on the mixture, and when it cools, add well beaten eggs. Pour in deep shells and bake slowly about one hour. Doughnuts. Make a sponge over night with one cupful of scalded milk; one-halfteaspoonful of salt; one- fourth of a cupful of yeast and one and one-half cupfuls of flour. Beat well, and in the morning add flour to make a stiff dough; knead thor- oughly, Let it rise until light, then work in three-fourths of a cupful of butter and two cup- ful of sugar which have been creamed together ; add three well-beaten eggs, and work in just enough flour to keepit from sticking. Put it in a warm place and let it rise until very light; roll out lightly, cut in small squares or rounds and let them stand on the board until very light; then fry. These doughnuts are very fine. A little cinnamon or grated lemon rind is an im- provement, To cook doughnuts properly the fat should be very hot. When hot enough for frying it will cease bubbling and be perfectly still. Try with a little of the dough, if just right it will rise al- most immediately to the top, and the fat will bubble. The cake will brown on the under side very quickly, and should be turned often to pre- vent browning too much. Half lard and half clarified drippings are best for frying. Make the dough as soft as can be handled, If cut about one-half inch thick about five minutes will cook, but it is better to break one open as a test, When done drain thoroughly on brown paper. When through with the fat cut into it a raw potato and let it stand on the back of the stove until the potato is crisp, let it cool and settle, then strain into an earthen pot and keep in a cool place. Quick Doughnuts. Four cupfuls of flour; one and one-half cupfuls of powdered sugar; three-fourths of a cupful of butter ; four eggs; one-half cupful of milk; the grated rind of one lemon; one-half teaspoonful of salt; one-half of a grated nutmeg, and four even Sift dry ingre- Beat the teaspoonfuls of baking powder, dients together and rub in the butter.

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540 eggs very light, add the sugar, then the milk; then pour the liquid mixture slowly into the flour mixture. Turn out on a well-floured board, roll out lightly ; cut with a round cutter, then cut a small round out of the the middle, forming a ring. Fry about six minutes, drain on paper, roll in powdered sugar. Crullers. One cupful of sugar, one half a cupful of but- ter, three eggs, one teaspoonful of cinnamon, grated rind of a lemon, about three cupfuls of flour, one teaspoonful of baking powder. Cream the butter and sugar, add well beaten yolks, the spice and lemon, then the whites beaten stiff and dry, lastly the flour. Beat hard, turn out on a board, roll out about one half inch thick, cut with jagging iron in long, narrow strips, and twist them different shapes. Fry about six min- utes, Christmas Plum Pudding. One pound of grated stale bread crumbs, one pound of sugar, three quarters of a pound of finely chopped suet, one and a half pounds of rais- ins, one pound of currants, one-half pound of citron, one large cupfulof milk, one half cupful of brandy, one teaspoonful of cinnamon, one half a teaspoonful of mace, one fourth of a tea- spoonful of cloves, one teaspoonful of salt, the rind and juice of one lemon, nine well beaten eggs, flour enough to roll the frait in. the mixture into two well greased two- quart moulds, and steam five hours. Turn out on a platter, stick a twig of holly or bunch of red berries in the top. Just at serving time pour a wine glass of brandy over the pudding, set fire to it, and place upon the table while blazing. Serve with brandy sauce. This pudding may be made a month before using, and steamed for a couple of hours when needed. Pour Brandy Sauce. Beat one cupful of butter to a cream, add gradually two and one half cupfuls of powdered sugar, then add slowly one half cupful of brandy. Set the bowl containing the sauce ina basin of boiling hot water, and stir constantly until creamy. Salted Almonds. Blanch the almonds by pouring boiling water over them, then throwing them in cold water; dry them and rub off the skins. Put the nuts in a bowl and pour over them one tablespoonful of melted butter to each cupful of nuts. Stir them well and let them stand about an hour. Then sprinkle with salt, in the proportion of one table- HOUSEHOLD DEPARTMENT. spoonful to each cupful of nuts, Bake them in a moderate oven, until a delicate brown and crisp. It should take about fifteen minutes. Sugared Almonds, Blanch one pound of almonds, Put one cup- ful of sugar and one-half cupful of water on to boil in a porcelain saucepan; let it boil fifteen minutes then throw in the almonds and let it boil—stirring all the while—until the sugar grains, then turn out on a platter to cool. Coffee Jelly. One box of gelatine soaked in one cupful of water. Make one pint of very strong cuifee, using three-quarters of a cupful of coffee, ground fine; now pour one quart of boiling water over the gelatine, add one pound of sugar, then the strained coffee. Stir until all is dissolved, then strain into moulds and set in a cold place to harden. Serve with soft custard or whipped cream, directions for which have been given ina previous number. Iced Pudding. One and one half cupfuls of milk, one and one- half cupfuls of sugar, yolks of twelve eggs, a quarter of a pound of crystalized fruits, three tablespoonfuls of brandy, one small wine glass of wine; mix well together the yolks of the eggs, cream and milk, putit in a saucepan over boil- ing water, and stir constantly until the mixture coats the spoon. Remove from the fire and stir in the sugar; let it stand until cold. Pour it into the freezer, and when it freezes into a thick bat- ter, turn in the fruit, which has been prepared in the following way: Pour over it a little boiling water and drain off at once, then cut the fruit into small pieces, throw over it the wine and brandy, then stir all into the freezer mixture. Turn until stiff enough to mould. Wet a mould in cold water, stick some of the crystalized fruit around the sides and bottom of the mould, then work in the frozen mixture, being careful to pack evenly and firmly. Pack the mould in ice and in a couple of hours it will be ready to serve. O & O tea is now to be had at many of the leading grocer’s stores and is truly the choicest article ever offered to the public, It is perfectly pure and the quality never varies, It is also the most economical in use, as it has more strength than the lower grades. It is sold only in tins hermetically sealed and bearing the trade mark of the company. At last consumers of tea are to be protected bya responsible and well organized association of producers and importers.

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WORK TABLE. Fig.1. Crocheted Purse A pretty purse is always a useful and handsome Christmas gift, for a lady to give either to a lady or gentleman friend. The one illustrated is very easi- ly made, and most effec- tive when finished. It is worked in crochet in an open shell pattern with peacock blue silk. The ends are finished with knotted fringe, and two rings wound with the silk serve for fastening. To begin the work make a chain of 84 stitches, and join the ends with a slip stitch. Ist: round, — 14 times by turns 7 double crochet on the next 3d stitch and I singie crochet on the succeeding 3d. 2d round.—4 slip stitches on the first 4 stitches in the last round, * 2 chain, 1 double on the following 2d stitch, but keep the up- per loops of it open, 1 double on the 2d of the next 7 double, working off the upper loops of it together with those of the preceding double, 2 chain, a single on the following 2d stitch ; repeat from * 13 times, but bring the last double and the last single in the round on the 2d and 4th of the 4 slip at the beginning. 3d round.—Work 7 double crochet on every one of the stitches with which 2 separate double in the last round are worked off together, and a single on the middle one of every 7 double in the round be fore the last, working around the single above in the last round. From the 4th to the 26th rounds work by turns as in the 2d and 3d. From the 27th, to form the slit, work to and fro as follows: 4 chain, of which the first 3 are considered as a double, then by turns a double on the following 2d stitch and a chain; close with a double on the following 2d stitch. 28th round.—Turn, 4 chain, the first 3 considered as a double, then by turns a double around the chain between the next 2d double and 1 chain. 29th-46th rounds. -—Work as in the last round, and after these add 26 rounds like the first 26. Now fold the purse so that the slit will extend along the middle of the upper side, and then close the ends by work- ing through both edges a chain and a single on the next 2d stitch. Into each chain stitch across the ends knot a strand of 4 threads six inches long, and below the edge divide the strands and knot them again, MABEL WARE. Figs. 2-3. Pretty tidies are a great addition to the furnish- ing of a room, and novelties are always eagerly sought after. The one illustrated is made of felt in a deep shade of olive, the centre is perforated, Embroidered Tidy. 541

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ptt — achat 542 and is worked with tapestry wool in long stitches with the design shown in Fig. 3; the crosses are in electric blue, with straight lines of gold colored filoselle; the small crosses in terra-cotta, the rest of the pattern is in three shades of sage-green, The ends are finished with tassel fringe, with a rich head- ing comprising all the colors. The back of the work is lined with cashmere or silk. Fig. 4. French Tambourine. It is frequently difficult for a gentleman to decide upon a pretty receptacle, in which to deposit bon- bons which he wants to send toa lady friend. The tambourine fills the purpose admirably, for after the sweets are removed it can be hung upon the wall, and forms a pretty ornament. The part in the centre is decora- ted with a Watteau scene in water colors, whilst the rim is hidden under loops and ends of corded and velvet ribbons in two or three shades. The beauty is further en- hanced by the addition of a stuffed bird, ©. T. Fig. 5. Brush Pocket. This pocket is very useful to hang in the hall, to contain hat-brush, clothes-brush, etc. ; it is cut twenty- three inches square, and folded in the shape of an envelope; it is then covered with olive plush, and lined with olive moiré; it is em- breidered on one side with pink convolvuli and leaves, on the other with forget-me-nots, and at the bot- tom with poppies; the pecket is edged with a thick chenille and tinsel cord, finished at the corners with loops of the same. Fig. 6. Fan Lace. Make a chain of 16 stitches. WORK TABLE. : 2nd row: Ch. 3, shell in shell (3 dc, 1 ch. 34 Ist row: Miss 4, 3 dc in sth stitch. Ch. 1,3 c¢makea shell), ch. 2, 8d c between 2d c, ch. d cin same stitch, ch. 4, miss 4,1 dc in next, 2, sheil in shell, 1 d c at end of shell. ch. 1,1 dc in same, ch, 4, miss 4, 3 dc in next, 3d row: Ch. 3, shell in shell, 1 d c between ch. 1, 3d c in same. next 2 d c, ch. 1, 1d c between next 2 dc, 32 ie -4

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’ continue until 7 d c-have been made. Ch. 3, shell in shell, 1 d c under ch, of 3 at end. 4th row: Ch. 3, shell in shell. Work a little scallop of 1 s c, 2 dc, I s c under ch, of 1. Repeat, until 6 small scallops have been made. This finishes small fan. Shell in shell, » dc under ch. 3 at end. sth row: Ch. 3, shell in shell, ch. 4, 1 d c between 3d and 4th little scallop, ch, 1,14 ¢ in same place, ch. 4, shell in shell, 1 dc under ch 3 at end. 6th row: Like 2nd row. 7th row: Like 3rd row. 8th row: Like 4th row. gth row: Like 5th row. roth row: Like 2nd or 6th row. 11th row: Like 3rd or 7th row. 12th row: Like 4‘h or 8th, except ch. 5 instead of 3 at beginning. 13th row: Like sth or oth, except work i3 dc under ch. of 5 at end, and work I s c over 1 dcof preceding row. 14th row: * Ch, 1,1d c between next 2d c. Repeat from * 10 times, Shell in shell, etc., as in 2nd row. 15th row: Like 3rd row. *Then 2 dc between next 2d c, ch, 2, repeat from * Io times, Is c over dc along side of heading. 16th row: Ch. 3, * make a shell of 2dc, 1 ch, 2 dc under ch, of 2; repeat from * 9 times. Finish with shell in shell, etc., as in 4th row. 17th row like sthrow. * Then make a shell of 3dc,1ch., 3 dec in shell of 2dc, ete. Repeat from * 9 times, 1 s ¢ over dc along heading. 18th row: Shell in shell 11 times. The 11th shell is the regular shell in shell of heading. Finish as in 2nd row, Igth row: Like 3rd row. Shell in shell 10 times, in large scallop, 1 s c under d c along heading. 20th row: Shell in shell 11 times; finish as in 4th row, WORK TABLE. 543 21st row: Like 5th row. Then shell in shell 10 times in scallop. 1s c under ch. at end of Ist row. (The shells in this row will be 4dc 1 ch., 4d c each.) 22nd row: Make 10 shells for edge, each con- sisting of 12d c inshell, Then shel in shell, etc-, as in 2nd or 6th row. Fic. 3. Repeat, letting the heading follow regularly, and attaching the 1st border—shell of 2nd scallop to last border—shell of 1st by one slip stitch in the middle. Fig. 7. Wheelbarrow Cigarette Stand. This pretty little trifle makes a charming and useful gift for a gentleman, and a pretty addition to a library table. The shape of the barrow 1s made of stiff cardboard or plain wood not very thick. It can be painted some pretty pale or more decided color, and decorated with flowers. Or it can be covered with embroidered or antique material, and lined with satin. C. H.R.

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544 Figs. 8-9. Work or Bonbon Bag. A large square of satin, silk, or printed cotton is cut with four deep triangles, this is lined with some pretty contrasting color, and edged all around with silver braid and lace. A box or basket is plac- ed in the centre, and over it are fastened The up the four lappels tied with ribbons. outside can be embroidered or made up of the plain material as desired. The illus- trations show the bag tied up, and the shape before it is tied. M. T. Toilet Cushion and Watch Case. (See colored folded sheet in front part of book.) The cushion is made of alternate stripes of blue and white satin ribbon half an inch wide, one edge overlapping the other. One half of the cushion is made slantwise of these stripes, then comes one of the blue two inches wide, upon which a spray of flowers is embroidered in white silk with yellow centres, and green leaves, The corner of the cushion is finished with the narrow ribbon running opposite from the other side. Loops of blue and white ribbon trim the cushion all around, a frill of satin with a lace WORK TABLE. falling over it coming below the loops. Two birds upon one corner, and one upon the oppo. site one completes this exquisite cushion. The watch case is made to correspond to the size of the whole, being first cut out in cardboard, and the smaller piece for front afterwards. It is covered on the back with plain blue satin, the front trimmed as represented, A ribbon loop is attached to hang it up with at the side of a bureau, The illustration is full working size, A Christmas Sheep and How P to Make It. To amuse children at a Christ. mas party is one full of happy thought and preparation. Evenif a large party 1s not to be con. sidered, much novelty and pleas. ure can be given to our own little ones without the expenditure of much money. Now as Christmas is to many a very busy time, nothing that takes much time or trouble to prepare should be chosen for this purpose, The- atricals and charades are therefore out of the question ; a magic lantern is rather uninteresting,

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and a Christmas tree, though a very pretty object, does take a very great deal of time and trouble before hand. Something new is what is generally wanted, and it is often difficult to ob- tain, Notwithstanding that it has been invented this season, and early as it is, at several jovial parties the great excitement of the evening has been the Christmas sheep. aN Lota ees e Fic. 6. Before giving directions for the home manu- facture of these sheep, it wil) be best to describe their genera) effect and use when made. All the guests must be sent intoanother room while the sheep is got ready. Before it is brought in, a sheet of tin should be laid on the floor or on a smal] raised platform. This should be entirely covered with moss or with turf, some little evergreens or palms or branches of holly should be arranged as a back- ground, and should be frosted with glass frosting powder; tiny bits of cotton wool should be gummed on the leaves and thrown lightly on the moss or’ turf to represent snow, The sheep should then be brought in, and should be stood in the middle of the prepared field; a bright-colored ribbon should be tied WORK TABLE. cr ~s3> nad Lt Eig aa wa ar) i 13 : 545 around its neck, and should be held in the hand of a little shepherd or shepherdess, The shep- herd should be dressed in a brown or white blouse, with a soft crush hat, and with a crook in his hand; while the shepherdess should wear a plain blue or pink skirt, with a Dolly Varden polonaise and a little white straw hat turned up on one side and trimmed with bright-colored bows of ribbon or field flowers. She should aiso eR , x hold a crook, and stand as if she was in the act of leading the sheep. After the sensation created by their first appearance has__ subsided, some one should play the air of ‘*Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?” and the children dancing around the sheepshould all join in sing- ing that well- known nursery rhyme. Atacer- ean eR Fey the player at the piano, the little shepherd should come forward and say, “Let me see what my sheep brings for the fine ladies and gentleman, and for the little misses and masters.” He should then open a lid in the animal’s back and draw out parcel after parce! tied with colored ribbon and done up in white paper, neatly directed; there should be found a present for each person j tain sign from —

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545 WORK TABLE. in the room. The giving of the presents, to- gether with the music and singing, which of head firmly to it; use a large needle with a fine wire. Get a good drawing of a sheep, such OS + UP nt Store edeieeieaodl course can be varied according to taste and musi- cal skill, will take quite an hour to get through. The sheep will give the greatest satisfaction, and will have caused no great trouble to anyone, as the parcels can be tied up in a very short space of time. When Christmas time is over the sheep should be well dusted with camphor, tied up in a linen sheet, and put away in the box-room till next year. Kept in such a way it will last for years, and will never fail to give pleasure, Now there are several kinds of sheep to be had. The most expensive sort is that made by a fur- rier, which is a real sheep, with its head and legs stuffed, and its inside left hollow and lined like a box with satin, a lid being made out of its back, This, of course, cannot be made at home, as the wool must be cleaned and prepared. The Cheaper kind can be easily make by anyone who with care and pains will carry out the following directions :— First buy at a toy shop a mask to rep- resent a sheep’s head. These are very common, and can be got anywhere. Make aback to its head with linen, and stuff the whole with bran, fixing two pieces of black paper for the eye-holes, with two eyes painted roughly in oils; also be sure to sew red Turkey twill inside the mouth to prevent the bran coming out, Then buy a yard of paper, which is not so stiff as cardboard, and more suitable; make a neck for your sheep with a round of this paper, stuff it with wadding, and sew your prepared as you find in drawing-books, put this before you as a guide, and then make a large round of the paper in the shape cf the body, taking care that at the head end it is narrow enough to fit the neck, which must be sewn on to it It is best to put a piece of very thick wire to run up the neck, one end fastening in the mid. dle of the head, You must then cut a hole in the top of the back, and, making a cover cf the paper, fasten it on with fine wire. Then get four round willows, cut four very small holes in the sheep’s body, and fix these legs well in. This is the most difficult part of the work, for on their keeping in depends the whole success of your sheep. Itis best to fasten them with glue, a little bit of fine rope being added for a tail. The skeleton of the animal is finished, and only the coverirg re- mains to bedone. For this buy some sheets of white and yellowish wadding. Make the ears on a ground work of white flannel, cover them with the wad- ding, not putting it on very thick, and when they are covered sew them on. The wadding should be stuck on to the sheep’s face and body. To do this, little pieces of the wadding should be pulled out to as much as possible represent wool; then gum should be smeared over the cardboard and the wadding quickly put on. This shouldbe done very lightly, or the effect will be too flat to be natural. You will see from the picture-book some parts of a sheep’s wool are much thicker than others;

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this should be remembered in covering it. The Jegs and tail cannot be treated in this manner ; fine wire must be used, and the wadding must not be gummed. When all is well covered the color must be considered. A sheep is never white, and would Jook very unnatural were its dark shades forgot- ten, Two-pennyworth of saffron should be soaked in water till all is dissolved; this should be used instead of paint, and with a large soft brush it should be dabbed over the wool wherever a dark shade seems wanted. Great care must be used not to get the wadding too wet, and to pull it out again before it gets matted and spoilt. A little light grey wadding mixed with the white is a great improvement to the look of the sheep. The inside © its body can be lined or left plain ac- cording to taste. Such a sheep is not difficult to make ; and at the outside could not possibly cost more than one dollar; so it is within the means of most people. A Christmas Snowball. This can be made of cardboard and covered with cotton wool in the following manner: Cut eight oval pieces of card or millboard, according to the size required for the presents to be put in- side; for example, say 11 inches long and 3} inches wide in the middle. Cover each of these pieces with white calico, then sew them together, leaving the upper half of one or two of the sec- tions unsewn till the things are put inside, when cobble up this doorway with a few stitches of colored thread, which can be quickly cut when to be opened. Take a sheet of cotton wool, and if too thick, pull off some of the surface. Cut this in vandykes to fit the top and bottom of the ball, and fasten it on the calico with dabs of glue. Perch a robin on the top, with a flag put behind its wing through the little hole where the pieces join. Father Christmas might bring in the snow. ball at the top of a wheelbarrow loaded with evergreens and holly. Another way is to use two or three hoops for the framework ; for a very large one, children’s hoops do nicely, covered first with calico in longitudinal folds, and then with wadding, An aperture, easily opened, is left on one side, Sometimes the frame is iron, A snow man formed of the wadding might be placed outside. A Christmas Cave. As this was a successful diversion at a large children’s party last Christmas, our readers may be glad of full particulars. Everything was done WORK TABLE. 547 at home. We made a good-sized arbor of bent boughs and twigs at one end of our largest recep- tion room, at a little distance from the wall. We stuffed in cotton wool among the foliage, and we glued pieces on to the twigs and leaves, sprinkling plentifully with gum and powdered alum. -In- side we laid down moss on brown paper, and in the centre we heaped up the presents—all previ- ously neatly labelled, but not wrapped in paper, Over all we threw a covering of calico, covered profusely with cotton wool and alum. The bower was large enough for two or three children to stand upright in, We dressed a clever little girl as a snow fairy in a close-fitting suit of cotton wool over calico, with large glittering net wings, made over wire, and a pointed white cap, with a bunch of holly. The children were first told to examine the cave, which they did cautiously ; but they saw nothing but a heap of white “‘snow” in the middle, the snow fairy being beneath the covering with the presents. They were then all told to join hands and dance round the cave, singing as they went to waken the snow fairy, Suddenly there was a shout, the coverlid was lifted, and “up sprang the little inmate of the cave. Almost every child scuttled away in panic, but soon returned, laughing heartily. One of the elders, told off for the purpose, addressed her, and she commenced repeating a few sentences learned for the occasion, following it up with handing out the gifts, which had been prepared and were all {labeled with the names of the re- cipients, Much pleasure was derived from it. Catch-Alis. Very unique catch-alls can be made over bulg- ing, balloon-shaped Japanese lanterns. Makea bag large enough to take in the balloon easily ; draw it up at the bottom into a pasteboard hoop, made ofa size to slip over the round box for holding the candle at the bottom of the lantern. Make a second hoop to correspond with the one at the top of the lantern, and slip it over out- side the bag, pulling and straightening the ma- terial to make the fulness even. The bag should be almost plain over the bulging part, and long ehough to stand up in a frill at the top. Any kind of materal from silk to chintz can be used for the cover; the pasteboard hoops should be of a different material from the bag. A lovely cover would be of creamy pongee, worked in a Japanese pattern of flowers and butterflies, and the hoops covered with dark red, blue or black velvet worked in gold. No bows should be added, and for hanging the bag a gilt chain is preferred to a ribbon. The balloon lanterns come in all sizes and different shapes, but the round, puffy ones, with a diameter of eight or twelve inches, are the best suited to the purpose. MyRa.

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: s | F ‘ ‘ 5 # ‘aa ee ) ole WT, V 7 GAIN the Holi- day season draws near, and it becomes our pleas- ant duty to wish alj our readers a happy Christmastide. Old and young, rich and poor, as_ they gather around the family fireside, each come in for our good wishes, notone is for- gotten, and our sin- cere wish for one and all is that the past year has been to them full of blessings. We also hope that we have added to the pleasure of those who have followed our foot- steps during the year of 1889. We have tried, and our numerous patrons have most flatteringly showered upon us many letters telling us of our success, Each number of the magazine has been an improvement upon its predecessor, and yet, although we send out the December number full of attractions, we feel and hope to be able to make many improvements the coming year. And although with the closing of this volume we feel that our work has been well done, we are not weary, but feel inspired with the new year about opening upon us, that more can be done tomake “GopDry’s LADy’s Book” still more attractive. Let each one of our subscri- bers look at our prospectus for 1890, there is no home but what could be adorned with one or more of the handsome premiums we there offer. Early as it is, our club list is being largely added to, and each party raising their own club are de- lighted with the premium received. Begin work- ing at once and the result will please both yourselves and your friends, in the beautiful magazine you will receive each month for 1890. New and attractive features are to be given each month, a “ Childrens’ Corner,’”? commences this number, which cannot fail to please the little ones. Old and young are all remembered, and “Gopey’s Lapy’s Book” is the warm friend of all the household, besides being the best fash- ion magazine in America. Let each one aid u in our efforts to swell our list of subscribers to double for 1890. > Our Arm=-Chaivr. BELLE C, GREEN. This humorous and popular wpifti* will com. mence a series of sketches in the January num. ber, Her humor is always ‘of the purest, and articles ably written. No one can fail to enjoy a hearty laugh over the « Hawkins family” who make their bow to the readers next month. AUGUSTA SALISBURY PRESCOTT (JENNY WREN). Another monthly contributor for 1890 will be the above author, whose som de plume of “ Jenny Wren” has won for her such high praise from the readers of the ** New York World.” EpiTor, sapien aatett es BOOK TABLE. “Living Leaders of the World,” prepared by an able corps of distinguished authors. Pro fusely and elegantly illustrated. Hubbard Broth- ers, Chicago and St. Louis. This book is beautifully gotten up and care. fully prepared. The opening article is upon President Harrison, the last and ninety ninth one upon Hon. Russel A. Alger, Michigan’s favorite son. Kings, Queens, Diplomats, Statesmen, In- ventors, Authors, Millionaires, Divines, Popular Favorites, etc., all come in between, each having an interesting biography. It is a valuable addition to any library both for its deep interest, and also as a book of reference. ‘«‘ Mother, Nurse and Infant,” by S. M. Sackett, M. D. H. Campbell Co., 140-142 Nassau street, New York, N. Y. Price, $2.00 A book that every well-qualified nurse should possess, Frequently the.nurse is very much more important than the physician when he is not close at hand, her duties are clearly laid out; so that her and the mother cannot fail to gain much information from a perusal. This is an invaluable book and the crowning work of its gifted author. «‘Geneviéve or the Children of Port Royal,” by the author of « The Spanish Brothers.” J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $1.25. The book presents a very fair picture of life in rural France during the struggles of the Hu- guenots with the Church, It is grave, with many tender love passages, amid hard trials. These finally culminate in the marriage of Edward and Genevieve, before which many touching scenes are depicted. 548

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550 «+ “Nero,” a romance by Ernst Eckstein. Trans- lated from the German by Clara Bell and Mary J. Safford. Two volumes. W.S. Gottsberger & Co., Publishers, 11 Murray Street, New York. For sale by Porter & Coates, Philadelphia, Pa. This romance undertakes the task of describ- ing to its readers how, and by what circum- stances Nero, naturally so gentle, was trans- formed into the inhuman monster of whom the ancient authors relate tales so incredible. The author has succeeded admirably in his work, and has produced a book of the deepest interest. «The Rainbow Calendar,” compiled by Kate Sanborn. Houghton, Mifflin & Company, Bos- ton, Mass. For sale by J. B. Lippincott Com- pany, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $1.25. This is gotten up in attractive form, with a quotation from some popular author for every day in the year. The whole calendar complete forms a brilliant string of gems. “A Hardy Norseman,” by Edna Lyall. D. Appleton & Co., New York. Price, 50 cents. The author has here given us one of her best works. Hardy as Frithiof had been in his Nor- wegian home, it required all his strength and forbearance to succeed in the chequered career that opened before him. The different trials through which he passed,his sterling worth which shone through all, and a late love which came to crown his life with happiness, forms an attrac- tive book. “The Romance of Jenny Harlowe,” by W. Clark Russel, Price, 50 cents. Besides the title story, a score of recent mar’ time sketches and other papers are collected from the pen of the best of all living writers of ‘‘ Life on the Ocean Wave.” D. Appleton & Co., New York. «“ That Pretty Young Girl,” by Laura Jean Libbey.—American News Company, New York. Price 25 cents. “ Cliquot,” by Kate Lee Ferguson.—T. B. Peterson & Brother, Philadelphia, Pa. Price 25 cents. « Ready for Business, or choosing an Occupa- tion,” by Geo. J. Manson—Fowler & Wells Co., Publishers, 777 Broadway, New York. Price 75 cents. In this work, the author, a well-known jour- nalist and writer, presents what might be called an inside view of the various trades, businesses and professions which are attractive to the OUR ARM CHAIR. youth, considers the opportunities afforded by each, shows what is to be done in order tp acquire a knowledge of them, how much edu. cation is necessary, and how it can be ob tained, the opportunities for employment and the chances for success. It is just what parents need that they may be able to decide intelligently for their sons as to what shall be their life-work, and every young man should read and study it care fully. «Everyday Biography,” by Amelia J. Calver, Fowler & Wells Co, publishers, New York Price, $1.50. We have here another birthday book, but of a new and totally different model from those with which the reading public is familiar. This birth. day book is filled up as to its 378 pages, which comprise the 365 days of the year, sketches of the lives of eminent persons of all ages, giving, as is entirely proper, chief attention to the dis. tinguished ef modern times. This is in many respects a very useful volume, and the labor of its preparation must have been great. “Wives of Men of Genius,” Alphonso Da- duet. Translated by Edward Wakefield. With photogravure illustrations by Bieler, Myrboch, and Rossi. Worthington Co., 747 Broadway, - This book is written in a pleasing vein, and is beautifully gotten up in regard to paper and illus- trations. It shows that men of genius do not always choose women of corresponding culture for wives, and many humorous results are quoted. «“ The Wooing of Grandmother Grey,” by Kate Tannatt Woods. [Illustrated. Lee & Shepard, Boston, Mass. © Price, $2.00. A beautiful gift book, with handsome illustra- tions: The story is told in verse, and is very quaint and attractive. It is especially designed for the holiday season, and is gotten up so as to prove a most desirable Christmas gift. «The Parish,” by J. F. Anstey. J. B. Lippin- cott Company, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, 25 cts. A conventional tale, and very readable. « Recollections of the Court of the Tuileries,” by Madame Carette, Lady of Honor to the Em- press Eugénie. Translated from the French by Elizabeth Phipps Train. D, Appleton & Co., New York. Price, 50 cents. For sale by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, Pa. In this work Elizabeth P. Train has ably translated the original French into remarkably pure English, The work is written in a pleasing

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OUR ARM- CHAIR. style, giving historic facts clothed in a charming manner, without the heaviness so often found in works of a like nature. « Lora, The Major’s Daughter,” by W. Heim- burg. Translated by Mrs. J. W. Davis. Worth- ington Company, 747 Broadway, New York. The book is handsomely gotten up, with re- markably good photogravure illustrations. The story is told in a pleasing manner, interesting the reader in the heroine to the end. It well re- pays a perusal. WHAT THE PRESS SAY OF US. Gopey’s for November has reached Zhe Star office, stuck as full of good things as a Thanks- giving turkey. Persons sending their addresses and a two cent stamp will receive a cut paper pattern free.—Zvening Star, Harrisburg, Pa. Gopey’s Lapy’s Book isat hand bright and sparkling for November, unusually well filled with the good things that always characterize this most popular of the ladies’ magazines, Address Gopey’s Lapy’s Book, Philadelphia, Penn.— Souvenir, Jefferson, lowa. GoprEy’s LADy’s Book for November is like its predecessors, full to repletion of good things. Every number is original and attractive, and all its contents are worth studying. It is not only a lady’s book, but a book for the whole family.— Democrat, Hoopeston, Ill. The Thanksgiving number of GoDEy’s LaDy’s Book isa bookful of interesting reading mat- ter and the latest fashion intelligence. The opening chapters of a new serial entitled $5,0co for a Wife,” are promised for the December number.—Gazstte, Milford, Mass. GopgEy’s Lapy’s Book makes a handsome November appearance, with tales, poems, fashion news, illustrations and household information in abundance. For December a splendid Christ- mas number is promised, in which a serial novel will be begun with the taking title “$5,000 for a Wife. Published at 1224 Arch street.—Zven- ing Bulletin, Philadelphia, Pa. The November number of Gopgy’s LApy’s Book is here in time, as usual. Gopey is al- ways ahead in all its departments, and this month shows up an especially good number. The publishers promise a real Xmas number for December, when a new and powerful serial will 55! be commenced, entitled “$5,000 for a Wife,” This promises to be of rare interest, founded upon in- cidents in real life.—Z7he News, Shippensburg, Pa. GopeEy’s for November has reached us. This old favorite is always giving us some sur- prise; this month there is an extra colored fash- ion-plate, produced by a new process, which is a real gem. The story matter is all good, and this number takes the lead as being first-class in every department. Gopry’s LADy’s Book is one of the best fashion-magazines published. See the attractions offered for 1890 in the pros- pectus— Vox Populi, Lowell, Mass. Gobey’s LaDy’s Book is one of the best of the kind, being the Thanksgiving Number. The frontispiece prettily portrays Little Mischief. The colored fashion plates are nicely executed, while many other illustrations are scattered through the volume, which abounds in excellent stories and verse. The fashions and household departments are well considered and the maga- zine still holds its favored place in many homes. —Massachusetts Ploughman, Boston, Mass. * The latest number of GopEy’s Lapy’s Book is replete with valuable matter for the ladies, This favorite magazine contests the palm of superiority with all other fashion journals. It is full to the brim with timely interesting reading matter for the fire-side, kitchen and boudoir. Handsome and accurate fashion and work plates are given with each issue, together with a beau- tiful frontispiece illustration. It is the cheapest, because it is the best, fashion journal published —Home Fournal, Wilmington, Del. ITEMS OF INTEREST. For the complexion and for light cutaneous af- fections, Créme Simon, is superior to the “ vase- line” and “cucumbers;” it whitens and per- ¢imes the skin. J. Simon, Paris; Park & Til- ford, New York; Perfumers, Druggists, Fancy Goods Stores. Catarrh Cured. A clergyman, after years of suffering from that loathsome disease Catarrh, and vainly trying every known remedy, at last found a prescription which completely cured and saved him from death. Any sufferer from this dreadful disease sending a self-addressed, stamped envelope to Prof. J. A. Lawrence, 88 Warren street, New York, will receive the recipe free of charge.

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¢ t 3 i SGP 552 OUR ARM CHAIR. “Never scold your wife for crying,” says Dr. Agnew. “So long as a woman can weep she will never do anything desperate, and she will have much more patience than a dry-eyed wo- man.” Mrs. Damer, the eccentric and celebrated sculptor of the days of George III.,is said to have been the first female who wore black silk stockings in England. Ladies wore white stock- ings, even in mourning, as late as the year 1878, and white stockings are worn by twothirds of the English women of all classes to-day, the cost and trouble of washing notwithstanding. We call the attention of our readers to the special offer of Xmas cards made by Messrs. H. H. Carter & Co., whose advertisement appears on the inside front cover of this issue. By pur- chasing immense numbers of cards direct from the manufacturers, they are enabled to offer the wonderful value they do in their various packets. Messrs. Carter & Co. are thoroughly reliabie, and we are sure any one who may send them an order will be agreeably surprised at the choice selec- tion they give for the money, The rarest collection of old watches in the United States, if not in the world, is owned by Giovanni P. Morosini, at Irvington, on the Hud- son, He has from 500 to 1,000, worth about $30,000. Persons frequently desire to procure samples before they purchase a costume. The firm of Strawbridge and Clothier, Eighth and Market Sts., Philadelphia, will send a full line of samples to any one writing to them, with prices attached. This is an opportunity none should fail to em- brace. Tea came into use almost by accident. Some Buddhist priests, on a missionary expedition from Northern Indix to China, took with them the dried leaves and also some cuttings of an in- digenous shrub, which was said to have the power of correcting any injurious properties in the brackish water they might meet with on the way. The decoction thus made, pleased the missionaries so well, that they continued, as a matter of taste, to drink it after they reached . China, and to introduce it to their converts. The best short stories in the $5,000 prize com- petition will be published in the Youth’s Com- panion during 1890, besides many others by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, Judge Tourgee, H. H. Boyesen, C, A, Stephens, F. W. Calkins, “an Rebecca Harding Davis. Miss Marian Edison, the sixteen-yearol daughter of the famous inventor, speaks four languages, is a fair musician, and uses a peneij like a draughtsman. ‘S A The editor of a Japanese newspaper recently collected statistics of growth from all the Prote tant churches of Japan, showing their jig. crease during the last three years. From 8 churches they have grown to 151,and from 3,700 4 members to 11,600. To those who desire cheap dress goods for Christmas gifts, we can recommend the large and extensive stock of John Wanamaker, Their asssortment is varied and select, and all tastes and purses can be suited. The Laughing plant grows in Arabia, and has been given its name from the effects produced by eating its seeds. It is of moderate size with bright yellow flowers, and soft velvety seed-pods, each of which contains two or three seeds resembling small black beans, The natives of the district where the plant grows dry these seeds and reduce them to powder, a small dose of which has simil: effects to those arising from the inhalation ot laughing gas, It causes the most sober person to dance, shout and_ laugh with the boistreous ex- citement of a madman, and to rush about cutting the most ridiculous capers for about an hour. At the expiration of this time exhaustion sets in, and the excited person falls asleep, to wake after several hours with no recollection whatever of his antics. Look Here, Friend, Are You Sick? Do you suffer from Dyspepsia, Indigestion, Sour Stomach, Liver Complaint, Nervousness, Lost Appetite, Biliousness, Exhaustion or Tired Feeling, Pains in Chest or Lungs, Dry Coughs, © Nightsweats, or any form of Consumption? If — so, send to Prof. Hart, 88 Warren St., New ~ York, who will send you free, by mail, a bottle of Floraplexion, whichis a sure cure. Send to 7 day. . Mrs. Callie L. French, a Cincinnati woman, is — licensed asa pilot from Vicksburg to New Or © leans and on the Atchafalaya river and its tri- butaries, being registered at New Orleans. Mrs. French has acted as pilot on the Mississippi river — for twelve years, under the direction of her hus- 3 band, Capt, A. B. French. 4

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